by Anna Cheska
The lights went on inside the house as they shut the door behind them, not seeing her approach. It felt odd, as if it were no longer her house at all. Was Marisa in love? This man didn’t look as if he was about to take her anywhere – at least not in an upwards direction. So why had she brought him here?
Naomi reached the gate. It was still open and she pushed it wider with one knee. All she wanted was for her daughter to be happy. But no, that wasn’t all, was it? She would be lonely if Marisa left – when Marisa left. But then, in the future there might be grandchildren. They said grandchildren heralded a new relationship between mother and daughter. She could do with that.
She balanced her lilies on one arm and groped in her bag for her key. What was she thinking of? Grandchildren … Marisa was nineteen, barely more than a child herself. And when you had children then up was not the direction that came to mind.
But still … Naomi smiled as she prepared to meet him. She would hear something soon – she had to. And in the meantime, she was very glad that she had bought the lilies.
* * *
‘How was it?’ Imogen asked.
‘It?’ Jude shifted the phone to her other ear. She knew exactly what Imo meant. Last night’s date had been uppermost in her mind all day – while she cleaned the kitchen and watched Daisy playing weddings with half a dozen kiwi fruit, while she painted her daughter’s fingernails bright purple with gold glitter on top, and even when she agreed – with some trepidation – to let her loose in the beauty salon downstairs. That was where Imo had caught up with her.
‘Or should I say how was he? Tall? Dark? Handsome?’
Jude watched Daisy’s ghoulish expression as she dipped one of her fine brushes into a pot of liquid black eyeliner. ‘Not exactly, no.’ She could easily have overlooked the polka dot tie and the pink shirt (some men needed a woman to manage their clothes for them) and she knew that flares were supposed to be back in fashion. She could even have helped him with his problem skin – a tea tree facial for starters, plenty of water and cucumber, and a Chinese skin cream that was an absolute wow.
‘Looks aren’t everything,’ Imogen said.
Jude recalled the way his gaze had been fixated on her cleavage. ‘Talking of looks, he had some trouble looking me in the eye,’ she told Imo. ‘And he sells vacuum cleaners.’ Daisy had drawn black circles on each cheek. She was filling them in with yellow and creating an interesting marbled effect.
‘Someone’s got to do it, I suppose.’
Imogen was far too nice to be single, Jude decided. ‘Yes, but they don’t have to talk about it all night.’ At least, looking on the bright side, she could now tell a suction hose from a no-nozzle output tube. It could be useful one day, but she doubted it. Her mother had always assured her that she and vacuum cleaners were not a match made in heaven.
‘He didn’t sweep you off your feet then?’ Imo asked.
‘Hardly.’ Jude watched Daisy painting her lips bright yellow and silver. Her daughter’s perfect elfin face was beginning to look like a luminous milky way. Rod had made it clear what he was looking for and Jude had made it clear that sex was not on the agenda. ‘I like to get to know a man really well before I can relax with him,’ she had told him. The poor man had probably wondered how many more dinners like this he’d have to sit through, how many more bottles of house red he would have to buy, before he got the cup of cocoa, so to speak. Never mind. Jude sighed. Someday her prince would come.
When you came to think about blind dating, she reflected after she and Imo had said goodbye, it was so unlikely, wasn’t it, that you would meet a potential soul (or even bed) mate. There were a lot of clowns out there.
You could weed out the obvious horrors – like any man over thirty who lived with his mother, any man who had fathered more than three children, anyone who mentioned Kafka or Jung in their first letter/phone call, or anyone under five feet ten inches tall. But after that it was just a matter of luck.
Daisy waved the silver mascara wand that, after two blinks, deposited a constellation of starry freckles under each eye. Jude swiftly swept the ravaged make-up trolley out of reach. ‘Let’s start again, Dais,’ she suggested.
When you were answering ads, you were one of many. Even if you did get to meet the man of your dreams, how would he recognise you with all those other hopefuls milling around? She plonked Daisy into the nearest chair and got to work with make-up remover and cotton wool.
‘Are we going to do some face-painting, Mummy?’ Daisy asked hopefully. ‘What shall I be?’
‘What do you want to be?’ Jude chucked the cotton wool into the black bin with perfect aim. She would not join a dating agency to be catalogued, indexed, fixed up by someone un-single with a superior smile. And as for friends who had dinner parties and invited Jude and one conspicuous spare man – that was pure hell in a sitting-room.
‘Anything?’
‘Anything … within reason.’ Jude arranged some colour palettes on the trolley beside her and pulled on a plastic apron to protect her mohair sweater and tartan mini-skirt from the fall-out of beauty.
Daisy was deep in thought, blue eyes troubled, fingers twiddling with a strand of her pale blonde hair. ‘Mummy, what’s your favourite animal?’
‘A snow leopard.’ She couldn’t remember what they looked like. Only that she’d seen some at a zoo one time when she was holding hands (and later legs, but that was another story) with a rather tasty man called Michael who sadly turned out to have a wife, five children and a council house in Bognor Regis.
‘Mine’s a flamingo.’ Daisy leapt up from the squidgy black chair, stood on one leg and folded her arms, hands and purple-varnished finger-nails behind her.
Oh, dear. Jude had no idea what flamingo faces were like – only that they were extremely pink. ‘Tigers are nice and dramatic,’ she said. ‘And they roar very loudly.’
But why shouldn’t she do the advertising? It wasn’t dangerous – not these days, when you could use a box number or screen a tape. That way she would be the one doing the interviewing too. She could pay for a tape on Heart to Heart, ignore the messages that were in gorilla-speak or sounded dodgy, and interview the rest. Woman management … power …
A low tigerish rumble emerged from the black chair. Slowly, it gathered momentum. Jude grabbed some pale yellow foundation and began smearing it on to her daughter’s eager, upturned face. Choice and control …
Chapter 5
‘Bank statements,’ Imogen said, rifling through the contents of the locked drawer. She’d put it off, scared of what she might find, not wanting to know any of his secrets. What was the point? Edward wasn’t here any longer, was he, to defend or explain himself? Wasn’t it better to keep her picture of him intact? It was bad enough not to have loved him as she should, it was bad enough to have lost him before she’d taken the chance to change anything about them. Without this. She dusted her hands on her jeans.
‘Bank statements?’ Vanessa sounded disappointed. She flicked a cobweb from the magnolia-painted wall and came to peer over Imogen’s shoulder. She was wearing a simple blue dress, cut to show off her slim figure and falling to mid-calf, tights but no shoes. ‘A separate account?’ She scrutinised the figures through half-moon glasses. ‘And a regular transfer of funds?’ Over the bifocals, she looked at Imogen. ‘Darling?’
Imo had already noted this, already placed a huge mental question mark. She pushed the whole pile of papers to one side. ‘I’ll ask about it at the bank sometime.’ There was no hurry. Everyone knew the paperwork surrounding a death took an age to get sorted.
Vanessa reached over to give her a quick squeeze. ‘But first you have to take a proper look at these. Forewarned is forearmed, darling.’
She was right. Again. Imo nodded, picked up one of the statements, absorbed the account number, name, the bank, the figures. A fairly large amount had been transferred elsewhere halfway through the month. She grabbed another. The same thing applied. What did it mean?
‘
It might not be what you think,’ Vanessa said.
But Imogen wasn’t sure what she thought. What did her mother think?
‘But whatever it is, you have to deal with it.’ Vanessa got to her feet and retrieved another piece of paper, still lodged in the drawer.
Imo could see that it was a photograph. She tensed.
‘You must finalise all his affairs.’ Her mother passed it to her. ‘You owe it to yourself. And to him.’
To him? With impeccable timing, the doorbell rang, the knocker was crashed simultaneously against brass, and Hazel’s voice rang out. ‘Only me! Anyone at home?’
Vanessa touched Imo’s hair. ‘Buck up, darling.’ She closed the study door behind her.
Imogen listened to their voices – Hazel talking too much in a semi-musical flow of long, unfinished sentences; her mother firm and monosyllabic. Only as many words as was necessary. Was that how it had been between Edward and Imogen too? Only as many words as was necessary?
Methodically, she sorted the bank statements into date order. For some reason it seemed important. And she had to do … She had to summon up all her strength. Jude was right. Her mother was right. She couldn’t wallow guiltily in this empty cottage. Especially not now.
In time, when she had cleared this room, sold this furniture – the glass-fronted bookcase, the desk, the leather chair – she would redecorate, she decided. So what if they were antiques that had been in Edward’s family for generations? What did that matter to her? She wanted – no, needed – change. And she needed it now. This room could be so different. It could be a spare bedroom, a place for her mother to stay when she was in the country. Imo liked the idea of having her firm, monosyllabic mother close to her from time to time. She was infuriating – but she had always been so strong.
Imogen picked up the photograph. Whatever his secrets, Life Without Edward was beckoning more urgently than ever.
* * *
In the sitting-room of the cottage, Vanessa and Hazel were tucking into lemon sponge cake as Imo came out to say hello. She felt dry, dusty and burned out.
‘Imogen, dear.’ Hazel – as pink and frothy in a pastel puff-sleeved jumper and A-line skirt as her mother was red-lipped and vital – got up to kiss her. ‘You look tired. Are you sleeping properly?’
‘What Imogen needs,’ Vanessa declared, before she could reply, ‘is for her life to get back to normal.’
Imo sank on to her cream sofa with a soft sigh. She had chosen the decor of this room – peaches and cream with a thick, oatmeal carpet and rich, russet curtains. Impractical, perhaps, but with no children, why shouldn’t she be? She pulled up her knees like a child and regarded her mother. Normal? What was normal? She wasn’t sure she knew any more. And as for children, she and Edward had discussed it, of course, but the time had never seemed right and they’d agreed to leave it for a while. To enjoy each other, as he had put it. Imogen repositioned a peach-and-cream-checked scatter cushion behind her head and leaned back, remembering only her feeling of relief. Sometimes she had looked at Daisy and Jude and wished things had been different. But mostly Say It With Flowers – begun with the money her father had left her – had been enough. And now … Thank God there were no children now.
‘It’ll take time for that to happen,’ Hazel was saying in a tone steeped in experience and wisdom. She was sitting very upright in the cream armchair, as if afraid to give it her all. ‘Time is a great healer.’
Vanessa passed the plate around and Imogen took a slice, more because Hazel looked as if she were warming up for a lecture about eating properly than because she was hungry.
‘And time you had your house back to yourself.’ Vanessa handed her a napkin and hooked her perfect dark bob behind one ear.
‘Is it compulsory?’ Imogen was only half serious. Her mother was a breath of fresh air. She had a knack for getting things right. In the summer she was the kind of person you longed to go out with for the day. She would arrive with goodies in hampers, chilled white wine, and a perfect picnic spot in mind.
‘I shouldn’t like to outstay my welcome,’ Vanessa murmured, pouring more tea from the pot on the coffee table.
‘Fat chance of that.’ Imo put another cushion under her feet. She was never here long enough. Even in Imo’s childhood, before her parents were divorced, she had been aware of her mother’s restlessness, her inability to sit still, her eagerness always to be out, always to be doing. And after her parents’ divorce she had half-suspected her mother to be biding her time, impatiently waiting for her only daughter to fly the nest so that she could make good her own escape. Perhaps that was another reason for Imogen’s marrying Edward – she had at least never worried that he would leave her. She remembered the photograph and winced at the irony. Perhaps it served her right.
‘So I’ve booked a flight to India for next Wednesday,’ Vanessa continued, sitting down again in the other armchair. ‘There’s a guru there I want to do a feature on. In Delhi.’ She stirred her tea. ‘So many senior citizens are doing yoga these days, it will strike a chord.’
‘I’m sure it will.’ Imogen liked the idea of all those senior citizens – complete presumably, with arthritis, rheumatism and dodgy anatomical bits – being urged into head and shoulder stands by Vanessa Vaughan and her guru. She nibbled at the icing on her cake. It was pointless to try and persuade her mother to stay. She had been here longer than usual as it was. She must be itching to move on.
‘So as long as you can manage without me, darling…’ Vanessa’s blue eyes were concerned.
‘What Imogen needs,’ Hazel put in determinedly, ‘is to find new interests. That’s the way to take one’s mind off one’s troubles. And I should know,’ she added.
‘What would you suggest, Hazel?’ Vanessa and Imogen exchanged a look, and for the zillionth time Imo wondered what on earth her mother and Hazel could possibly have in common.
‘An evening class perhaps?’ Hazel ventured. ‘That dreadful thing they do at the Leisure Centre. What is it now? Ah, bums and turns.’ She squeezed her lips together in an expression of distaste. ‘Or line dancing? That’s all the rage.’
Vanessa laughed. ‘Imo’s got her hands full with Say It With Flowers,’ she said. ‘But what about you, Hazel?’
‘Me?’
‘It’s high time you did something more with your life than baby-sitting.’ Vanessa frowned. ‘Now, what shall it be?’
‘Heavens!’ Hazel exclaimed with an extravagant wave of fluffy, pastel arms. ‘I’m sure I’m far too busy to—’
‘Amateur dramatics!’ Vanessa clapped her hands in triumph. ‘Perfect.’ She put her cup down on the table and regarded Hazel quizzically. ‘Either that or come with me to India.’
Imo choked on her tea. The thought of Hazel and headstands was much too much. She made a mental note to tell Jude. It was priceless.
* * *
Hazel returned home to find the first-floor flat empty and in darkness. But the lights were on in the salon so she went down to investigate.
There was nobody in the kitchenette, but as she opened the door to The Goddess Without a blood-curdling roar made her shriek in terror. Something on all fours – but humanish and vaguely familiar despite its yellow-and-black-striped face – leapt out of the black and chrome fitments towards her. Hazel took a step back and clung to the door handle. ‘What in heaven’s name…?’
‘Hello, Ma.’ The yellow and black features materialised into those of her daughter. And she recognised the tartan mini-skirt.
Hazel closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm herself. Just as a similar – but much smaller – animal launched itself towards her with a horrible growl. This one wore acid-green leggings. ‘Daisy…’ She was sure her voice was shaking.
Jude held the smaller tiger at bay. ‘We’re scaring Granny,’ she said. ‘Hush, now.’
‘But we’re playing Hide and Roar,’ the smaller figure objected. ‘How can we do that if we can’t roar?’
‘Well, I’m all ro
ared out.’ Jude turned around and Hazel saw her jump as she caught sight of herself in one of the numerous mirrors.
She shook her head in despair. ‘I don’t know which of you is the most childish. All that yellow and black stuff is going to have to be scrubbed off tonight. And that won’t be so much fun, you mark my words.’
‘It’s only face paint, Ma.’ Jude rubbed experimentally. ‘We won’t need to scrub.’
‘We were doing a show, Granny,’ Daisy explained. ‘Hide and Roar was the main game show.’
‘A show, hmm?’ Hazel smiled. ‘Talking of shows, you’ll never guess what a brilliant idea Vanessa came up with this afternoon.’ She waited, but both tigers looked blank. ‘I’ll give you a clue.’ She filled her lungs, sang, ‘Laaa,’ and threw her hands dramatically out in front of her.
Jude blinked. Daisy – not quite so tactful – put both fists to her ears.
‘She told you to go the opera?’ Jude asked.
‘She told you she had a tummy ache?’ This was from Daisy. Mother and daughter collapsed into tigerish giggles.
‘Very amusing.’ Hazel decided to leave them to their puerile goings on. Perhaps it was a good thing that Jude was so occupied with the salon; she wasn’t always the best influence on Daisy – despite being her mother. ‘I’m going to join an amateur dramatic society,’ she said. ‘And you’ll both be wiping those horrid yellow smirks off your faces when you see me on the stage … Oh, yes, indeed you will.’
A new life, she thought to herself, as she let herself out. And who knew what would be waiting round the corner?
* * *
After Hazel had gone, Vanessa joined Imogen on the sofa in the sitting-room of the cottage. ‘Do I take it that Edward might have been a more interesting man than I ever gave him credit for?’ she asked, lifting her feet on to the soft fabric in a gesture that mirrored Imogen’s.
That was one way of putting it. ‘Perhaps,’ Imo hedged. The photo was burning a hole in the pocket of her sweatshirt.