Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Anna Cheska

Vanessa let her hand rest for a moment on her daughter’s arm. ‘And you can cope with that?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ Couldn’t she? It wasn’t as if she had really loved him, was it?

  ‘I’m glad. You know, marriage is never easy. Your father and I … Well, despite everything, we did love one another. For a while at least.’

  Imogen knew. She watched as Vanessa got to her feet, straightened the scatter cushions on the sofa and chairs, pushed the russet curtains to one side to look into the night. It was pitch black outside. She’d heard the stories: that Vanessa had been caught trespassing, wandering across one of the Vaughan fields one day (My best crop of barley, Tom Vaughan had said), that she was lucky she hadn’t been shot at, that she’d stayed to tea and ended up marrying the eldest son six months later. She knew that her mother had tried … Up to my eyes in nappies and they didn’t have disposable ones then, darling … but had found herself unable to be a farmer’s wife. She knew that they had loved one another still, and yet that her mother had taken a lover. She knew because she had crept down the stairs and seen them kissing one night when her father was away. Vanessa had left. She always left. Look at her now, she couldn’t wait to be off.

  Only when her mother had gone up to bed at last did Imogen take the photograph out of her pocket. She handled it gingerly, as if it might bite, not wanting to look properly at the face she’d so far only glanced at. Had she been too complacent about her own marriage, so satisfied with something that had never been more than second best? The comfort zone – that’s what Jude called it. The tolerance that replaces love because it seems too hard to break away. Only what love was ever perfect?

  She stared at the young girl pictured there, absorbed every detail of that face. And she wondered – oh, God, how she wondered.

  Secrets …

  Chapter 6

  The next day, Vanessa Vaughan called Ralph. It was a relief simply to hear his voice. Just good friends was a phrase that couldn’t begin to describe her relationship with Ralph Preston. No way. It didn’t say the half of it.

  ‘How’s the little one bearing up?’ he asked her.

  She smiled. Little? At five feet ten? ‘The little one, as you call her, has had a none-too-pleasant surprise.’

  ‘You mean apart from the obvious?’ His voice was as velvety as his eyes. He had always sounded romantic to Vanessa. Hot chocolate on the telephone line. She could listen to him for hours. Oh, yes … Ralph’s voice had always had quite an effect on her.

  ‘This is more of a revelation.’ Should she tell him? Vanessa sat down on the small chair Imogen kept in the hall by the telephone table. She decided not. It was her daughter’s secret, not hers. And rather a surprising one, she had to admit.

  To his credit, Ralph didn’t enquire further. ‘How’s she taken his death?’

  ‘Badly.’ It was never a good sign, Vanessa thought, when a girl like Imogen bottled up her emotions.

  ‘Poor child.’ Ralph sighed. ‘So you’ll be staying on for a while then, my love?’

  Ah, if only she was. His love, that is. Though hopefully she was past all that now. Vanessa shifted in the chair. She might be feeling more tired than usual but the energy she still had to spare was mostly thrown into travelling, into dreaming up new schemes with which to hook her editors, into persuading those of 60-plus that brains and bodies did not have to deteriorate. Brains could acquire wisdom. And bodies … well, a spot of yoga could work wonders.

  ‘I’d like to stay with her a little longer,’ she told Ralph. ‘You probably think I should. I would stay if she needed me to.’ Of course she would. Even she was a mother … ‘Though it’s a bad time for me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So when are you leaving?’ She could hear the smile in his voice. Being Ralph, he would never accuse her of maternal neglect. Being Ralph, he understood. And being Ralph, he got to hear the unembroidered truth.

  ‘My flight’s next Wednesday.’ She inspected a burgundy finger-nail. Where she was going there would be no need for nail polish. ‘There are things I have to do. Contracts to meet. Deadlines…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  Yes, she could picture his smile. Vanessa held the receiver closer. The humour in those brown eyes … She’d first spotted it as she walked down the aisle on her father’s arm towards Tom. She remembered what had gone through her mind. God, who was that man looking at her as if he thought marriage was a joke? As if he thought her marriage was a joke?

  ‘Where are you off to this time?’ he asked. She heard the rustle of a paper. Knowing Ralph, he had one ear on their conversation and both eyes on the Telegraph.

  ‘Delhi.’

  ‘A long way.’

  Vanessa knew what he meant. ‘Yes, but Imo’s digging deep. She just needs to find some of that inner strength I’ve always said she has.’

  ‘So your departure from the scene might even be a good thing.’ As usual, he followed her train of thought perfectly.

  ‘For Imo, yes.’ Why not? Having a mother around – even one like her – would cramp Imogen’s style, give her too much to lean on.

  ‘Well, come to London as soon as you can. I have something to ask you. Something that needs to be said face to face.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Now what would that be? Vanessa chuckled. It was typical of the man to leave her hanging. But it would certainly be something to wonder about in Delhi.

  ‘In the meantime, I shall look forward to reading the article. What will it be? “Discovering Delhi in a Wheelchair?”’

  ‘Good idea. It would save the legs.’

  He laughed. ‘And give the little one my love.’

  ‘I will.’ Despite this weariness that she couldn’t seem to shake off, Vanessa was smiling as she put down the phone. Love. What an all or nothing sort of a thing it was when you were young. Thank God it could slide into the background of your life as time went by. Thank God indeed for that.

  * * *

  LET ME PLAY FAIRY GODMOTHER TO YOUR FACE.

  As a gust of wind caught her by surprise, Imogen pulled her black, woollen coat around her more closely and stared through the Georgian panes at the sign in the window. Why not? She didn’t know what Jude was up to but Imo could do with a touch of magic – especially now that her mother had flown off again. She walked in and couldn’t help grinning at the spectacle in front of her. ‘Is that it?’

  Jude was alone in The Goddess Without, which was probably fortunate since she was staring into one of the many mirrors, tapping her face with the pads of the middle fingers of each hand. Sharp and light – as if she were testing the heat of an iron. ‘Is what what?’ She delivered a sharp slap to her lower jaw.

  Ouch. Imogen winced. ‘The fairy godmother bit.’

  Jude shot her a brown-eyed glance of scorn. ‘’Course not.’

  Imo wondered if it confused Jude every time she looked in a mirror. The colour transformations certainly confused her.

  ‘Everyone forgets to exercise the face,’ Jude went on, ‘and it’s dead important, Imo. Facial exercises get the circulation going. Wake up a tired skin. All that stuff.’

  ‘A bit like cold water then.’ She hung her coat on the hook by the door and slumped into the nearest black chair. It wasn’t just her face that was tired. It was her imagination too. Since finding her – because in her mind, this was how she thought of the girl in the photograph – Imogen had not been idle.

  She had talked to a couple of Edward’s closest friends, a colleague at work, and to his brother who lived in Leicester. She had watched their faces for a hint, a look, a clue. She had sat in Edward’s study, gone through the rest of his papers and pondered. She had made an appointment to see the bank manager – bank clerks were always so damned cagey about giving out information. She had gone to work as usual, tended the flowers as usual, served the customers, smiled, said ‘Good morning’, locked up, gone home to an empty cottage. And still everyone talked about everything taking time.

 
; Imo brought the fist of her hand down hard on the arm of the chair. She didn’t have time. She wanted to know now.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh … nothing.’ Imogen let her gaze wander from the contortionist beside her, around the interior of the salon. The Goddess Without’s black and chrome was supposed to say ‘No messages’ according to Jude, blank canvas, anything goes, sort of thing. But today the make-up trolley was in the front of the salon, providing a promise of colour – from pots of eye powders, creams and gel, to tubes of lip gloss and face glitter. And there was more than a little colour in Jude’s hair, Imogen noted. Still blonde today but six inches longer and sporting startling streaks of what she could only describe as geranium red.

  ‘Cold water doesn’t stop sagging,’ Jude informed her. ‘And it does nothing for lines.’

  ‘Unless they retreat in shock.’

  Jude clenched her fist, but not in anger; she was moving it in a circular motion just above the jaw line. ‘Gum stimulation,’ she said. ‘For glowing gums.’

  Imo decided she could live without glowing gums. She had come here to confide in Jude, to ask her advice. How do you find out a woman’s identity from a photograph? Put up a wanted poster? Has anyone seen this girl? ‘Sounds like something out of Alien,’ she said.

  Jude responded by opening her mouth as if about to give vent to a huge yawn, pulling in the sides to a perfect O, and gradually closing it.

  ‘Mouth exercises?’ Imo enquired.

  ‘Mmm-phwah.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re rehearsing the perfect kiss.’

  ‘And you sound like you’ve had a bad day.’ Jude closed her eyes. ‘What you need is my fairy godmother treatment.’

  ‘Suppose you tell me about it?’ She wasn’t committing herself – yet.

  ‘It’s a facial.’ Jude blinked her eyes open again. Ready to do battle, Imo thought. ‘I’ve got half an hour to spare. And I want to run my new idea past you.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Half-price to you.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘Good.’ Jude began assembling towels and oils, humming the tune of ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair’ as she did so. ‘No work today?’ she asked.

  ‘Half-day closing.’ Imogen leaned back in the chair.

  ‘You’re not going to give up the shop then? Now that Edward…’ Jude’s voice trailed off. Vigorously, she shook a bottle of oil.

  ‘All the more reason to work,’ Imo retorted crisply.

  ‘Too right.’ Jude removed the cap, wafted the bottle in front of her nose and pulled a face.

  Imogen watched her in the mirror.

  ‘If I didn’t work, I’d go crazy.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Imo felt the heat on her face as Jude draped warm, sweet-smelling towels around her throat and head. At least work enabled you to forget. The black squidgy chair was soft and comfortable. Imo sank further into it. Photograph? What photograph?

  Jude bent to light a candle. The fragrance was lavender – strong and sweet. Imo sniffed deeply.

  ‘It’s supposed to be stimulating,’ Jude said.

  ‘Work is?’ In the mirror, Imo scanned the shelves opposite. Potions and promises …

  ‘Lavender is.’ Jude grabbed a chart from her facial and massage trolley and glanced at it briefly. ‘I’m using peach kernel for your base. Nourishing and recuperative.’

  Stimulating, nourishing, recuperative. What more could a girl want? Imo closed her eyes, only dimly aware of Jude’s preparations – the mixing, the warming, the oiling of hands. Until she felt the fingertips begin their work. Soft and insinuating, gentle yet probing. ‘So what’s your idea?’ she asked somewhat reluctantly.

  ‘No more answering the personal ads.’ Jude’s voice seemed to be coming from far away as she smoothed her fingers over bumps and into crevices.

  ‘You’re giving up on men?’ Imo was so surprised she almost sat bolt upright.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Jude’s fingers continued to stroke Imo’s throat – upwards and out. ‘If you want to acquire something, what do you do?’

  ‘Go out and look for it?’ She – tucked inside Imo’s bag – came into mind. The tension was being massaged from her face, but her brain was still working overtime.

  Jude’s fingers become infinitesimally less tender. ‘You advertise for it,’ she said. ‘And that’s what I’m going to do – with your help of course.’

  ‘My help?’ Imo asked weakly. She would much rather relax back into the pleasures of the senses. Lavender and peach were in her nostrils, in her pores – hopefully unblocking all the clogged ones – and doing their recuperative bit at the same time.

  ‘I’ll be doing the advertising, the guys’ll be queuing up, I’ll interview them, and get to pick the best of the bunch. Elementary. Foolproof.’

  Foolproof? ‘You might have to go out with an awful lot of men,’ Imo pointed out.

  ‘Exactly.’ Jude looked smug.

  That wasn’t quite what Imo had meant. But she was drifting, and Jude was droning on.

  ‘It’s all a matter of communicating,’ she told her. ‘Getting the message through to the right man.’

  ‘Yes, but what’s the message? And how do you recognise the right man?’ Not that Imo really wanted to know. She was drugged. She was floating on the verge of an other-worldly experience. She didn’t want to have to think – she wanted to forget. Thinking was Jude’s bag. She could never be an ordinary anything and so she’d never be an ordinary beautician. She was probably the only one in the world who provided a homespun philosophy lecture along with your eyebrow tidy or shoulder massage.

  ‘The message can be whatever you want it to be.’ Jude seemed clear on this point and Imo wasn’t about to disagree. ‘It’s like beauty.’ She smoothed back Imogen’s hairline.

  ‘Beauty?’ Imo was trapped inside her warm cocoon with the scent of lavender hanging in a haze, hot and heavy around her. Her mind was supposed to be cleansed of all thoughts. She was looking for release. OK, escape even.

  Jude adjusted a towel. ‘The beauty business is about finding the real me.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You.’ Jude paused. ‘And me.’

  Imo regarded her in the mirror once more. She was wearing her usual black one-piece shift and her make-up was simple but stark – green eye liner with a streak of orange to the brow bone and a muddy sort of lip colour, carefully drawn. And then there was the hair. It was certainly true that Jude had made beauty individual, no losing the sense of self for her. And as for communication? Imogen smiled. She would shout her messages from the roof-tops and declare them in geranium red if necessary.

  * * *

  All too soon it was over and now Imo didn’t want to escape at all. Her face tingled with a pleasant sort of sharpness – as if she’d just splashed cold water over it actually – but deeper. Clearly the oil had penetrated into her dermis just as Jude had promised. She was stripped bare.

  Jude was examining her reflection with a critical eye. ‘So what’s up?’ she demanded. ‘This isn’t just about Edward, is it?’

  The photo was in Imo’s bag. She could get great shock value by whipping it out, by telling Jude the story she’d invented in various forms over the past few days. And it was why she’d come here today. Jude had always been her partner in speculation. But now, Imo wasn’t sure that she was ready to hear Jude’s probably cynical views on the subject.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she heard herself saying instead. ‘I feel loads better.’ What else could she say? Have you seen this woman? And, Why do you suppose Edward was transferring money from one bank account to one belonging to someone else? Every month …

  ‘Really?’ Jude looked unconvinced.

  ‘Really. How much do I owe you?’ Money … She wouldn’t think about the money.

  ‘Forget half-price. Have it on the house.’

  Did she look that bad? ‘No way.’ Imo grabbed her bag and dug inside for her purse. ‘You’ve got a business to run, don�
�t forget.’

  Jude shrugged. ‘And don’t you forget you promised to help me with the wording of the ad.’

  Had she? Imogen touched her – the photograph in her bag. She had to get to grips with this thing and fast. But it was scary. And most scary of all was the growing conviction that the man she’d married was actually someone quite different from the one she had always thought him to be.

  Chapter 7

  At Say It With Flowers Imogen slid open the large greenhouse door. The location of the shop had seemed perfect when she’d first viewed it with Edward eight years ago, particularly because the property included a back plot on which she could easily install two greenhouses. Imo had never wanted just to sell flowers; she wanted to grow them too.

  Edward wasn’t over-enthusiastic about it, but for Imo it was her chance to get away from a job that had become a complete drag. And she felt in her bones that her father would have approved of her spending his money this way. Her mother certainly did – to Vanessa, Say It With Flowers spelt independence for her daughter and she had lost no time in telling her so.

  Imo called out to her assistant. ‘Tiffany!’ Turning, she was momentarily distracted by the sight of the neat rows of hyacinth bulbs – opening out nicely, they would be perfect for Christmas. Christmas…? God, she pushed the thought away.

  ‘Yeah?’ The voice came from the far section of the greenhouse – obscured from view by a row of tall shrubs.

  They needed a thorough clear out, Imo reminded herself. Could Tiffany be trusted to do it properly? Certainly it would have to be tackled before spring; from February she would need every inch she could find for the new cuttings. This was a far pleasanter thought – new growth, new beginnings, a whole new life … ‘We’re almost out of ivy. Can you bring some through?’ What on earth was she up to in there?

  As Imo moved forwards to investigate, Tiffany emerged from behind the wintering potted leylandii. There was one bright spot of red on each cheek – the second time in a week Imogen had caught her looking guilty.

  ‘What is it?’ Imo thrust her hands into the pockets of her indigo jeans. She’d discarded black since last Sunday; it no longer seemed appropriate somehow.