by Anna Cheska
‘Why you weren’t enough for him?’
Imogen turned huge accusing eyes on her. ‘If you want to put it like that, yes.’
Jude took a deep drag, balanced her cigarette on the side of the ashtray and began sweeping. She hadn’t meant to put it like that, only to put Imo off. Because this could only hurt her even more. Bad enough to find out your husband was involved with another woman – especially a younger one. But to have him die as well so that he wasn’t available for recriminations, apologies, cross-examinations … that must be hell.
‘Imo, I know it’s hard for you.’ She propped the broom against the wall, came closer, put an arm round the narrow shoulders.
‘I want to talk to her,’ Imogen repeated. ‘Don’t you see? I can speculate till the cows come home and I still won’t know what it was all about. Why Edward was seeing her. Why he was giving her money…’
Jude straightened up. ‘But you can’t just go charging round there.’ Marisa Gibb might (though granted, this seemed unlikely) be even more upset than Imo.
Imogen propelled herself out of the chair, slammed her mug down on the ledge in front of her. ‘Tell me her address.’ In two strides she was at the reception desk, leafing through Jude’s client book.
‘I can’t just stand by and watch you doing that…’
‘Then close your eyes.’
Jude did as she was told. In any case, now that she knew her name, Imo could just as easily have looked up the address in the phone book. The mood she was in, she would have called up every Gibb within a fifteen-mile radius.
Jude only opened her eyes when she felt the touch of Imogen’s hand on her arm. ‘Thanks.’
‘Are you going to phone her first?’
‘I think…’ Imogen looked more cheerful than she had for ages ‘… I’d rather have surprise on my side.’
‘You’re going round there now? On the day before Christmas Eve?’
‘I am.’ To Jude’s surprise Imogen plonked herself down on the chair again and stared at her reflection in the mirror. ‘But first, you’re going to make me look beautiful.’
That was a turn up. Despite her tiredness, Jude grinned. Now this she was good at. ‘You’re on.’
‘And second, we’re going to have a couple of very large drinks.’
‘We are?’ She thought of Roger. But this wouldn’t take too long. Roger would wait. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘we might as well make that the number one priority. I’ll go upstairs and get a bottle right now.’
Chapter 12
‘Tonight?’ Alex wasn’t exactly in the mood. He only had one more Santa-day left (thank God) and then he’d be on the train heading north faster than Elvis Presley could have sung ‘In the Grotto…’
‘Yes, tonight.’
Alex shifted the receiver to his other ear. He was thinking with longing of a bath, a glass of red wine and a slice of Sylvie’s Battenberg. He knew he should see Marisa but …
‘I’ve got a present for you.’ Being Marisa, this was said matter-of-factly without a trace of sexual teasing.
‘Yeah, me too.’ Actually, this wasn’t true. He had nothing to give her apart from the hyacinth in his room upstairs. And it felt quite wrong to give her that because … well, because he’d become absurdly fond of the thing, waiting for it to blossom – any day now – watering it, treating it to as much wintry sunshine as it could get on the window sill of his small room.
Alex leaned back against the dark brown and cream flock wall that made Sylvie’s hallway appear more narrow than it really was. It was also very draughty and thus not conducive to long telephone conversations.
‘Something exciting?’ Marisa murmured.
‘Hardly.’ Alex had originally taken Richie’s advice and bought lingerie, purchased during his lunch hour in Kirby’s from Trixie who had smirked and raised the perfect half-moons of her eyebrows. But the ivory silk had seemed too personal and intimate for Marisa somehow.
He noted a patch of wallpaper in the corner by the door, that was curling and damp. It was almost as if he’d bought the silk underwear with someone else in mind. So he’d taken it back. In Kirby’s he had also toyed with perfume (but which did she use?), silk scarves (not her style) and handbags (she never seemed to use one). And the result was that he’d bought her nothing at all.
‘It’s the thought that counts.’ He heard her sigh as if she guessed all this. ‘It’s Christmas, isn’t it, Alex? Time to exchange gifts rather than just bodily fluids, hmm?’
Trust Marisa to come right out with it. ‘It’s just that tonight’s difficult.’ Any night was difficult if he was honest. Because he shouldn’t be with Marisa at all.
‘Difficult?’
Alex longed for the simplicity of Nottinghamshire, Christmas dinner with the family, a Boxing Day hike in Sherwood Forest. ‘Oh, you know. I’m busy and tired and pissed off being bloody Santa Claus.’
‘Just come for a quick drink,’ Marisa said swiftly. ‘For Christmas.’ You owe me that much, her voice seemed to add.
‘All right.’ Had she heard his sigh? It wasn’t her fault that Christmas brought out the worst in him, that he had got involved and now wanted out.
He could pick up chocolates and a bottle of liqueur in the offy on the way, he decided. Easy, impersonal gifts. He replaced the phone in its cradle. But after Christmas, in the New Year when a guy got to make resolutions – about doing half an hour’s exercise every day (not including sex), drinking no more than three pints of an evening down the pub, and obeying his conscience because man must not live according to libido alone – yes, then, in the New Year, he thought, as he loped back up the stairs, it would be different.
* * *
Marisa was thoughtful as she put down the phone. Why was he backing off? Had she come on too strong? She leaned back in the rose-patterned easy chair with the plumped up cream scatter cushions and lacy upholstery protectors. Her mother’s taste: old-fashioned and twee.
With the exception of Edward, Marisa had always been in complete control as far as men were concerned. Though Edward, of course, was another matter entirely.
She had never known a man who hadn’t jumped to attention whenever she lifted a finger, she had never known a man who hadn’t been intrigued by her, who hadn’t showered her – and bothered her – with phone calls, concert tickets, flowers and attentions of one kind or another. If they got the chance.
Marisa stared at the phone. Didn’t Alex Armstrong appreciate that? Didn’t he realise that he was the only one she had invited into her life, into her home?
She heard her mother’s key in the lock, the soft step in the hall, and then Naomi was there, standing in the doorway, face flushed from the cold. With that waiting look in her eyes again. Marisa knew what she was waiting for. But she wouldn’t comply, damn it. Why should she?
‘Cup of tea, love?’ Naomi asked.
‘OK.’
A pause.
‘Has anyone phoned?’
Has he phoned? she meant. Marisa stretched, lazy as a cat, and glanced up at her mother. She looked dowdy and apologetic with her cloche hat pulled down over her ears, the green scarf wrapped around her throat, her complexion at once pasty and flushed. ‘No.’ And who could blame him? Look at her, just look at her.
Naomi pulled off her outdoor things as if aware of her daughter’s disapproval.
‘And before you ask, no one’s called round and there’s no post. Not even a Christmas card.’
Naomi did not comment on this nor on Marisa’s bitterness. ‘Will you be in for dinner?’ she asked instead.
As usual down to practicalities, Marisa thought. One meal following another, leading to sleep, leading to more meals and then the Big Sleep. Well, that was not enough for Marisa.
‘Yes.’ It would save her the bother. And she wouldn’t be getting dinner out of Alex. Marisa got to her feet and wandered through to the adjoining dining-room. She selected a satsuma from the glass fruit bowl on the table, dug in a perfect thumb nail and peel
ed the fruit. She let the peel drop on to the polished mahogany veneer, knowing that it annoyed her mother. Alex …
She had given him acres of space to begin with. From the beginning, she had known, felt, that he was part of where she was going. Alex had no idea of his full potential. Artists didn’t think like that. They were another breed. They had to be nurtured.
Deftly, she separated the segments of the satsuma, removed a strand of pith with another perfect finger-nail and bit into the fruit. A drop of juice squirted free and landed on the table, alongside the peel. Marisa chewed thoughtfully, allowing the fruit to slip down her throat. But now … everything had changed, the gears must be shifted. She smoothed her free hand over the flatness of her stomach. Alex was still very much a part of her plans. The hand crept to her mouth. She chewed the thumb nail – already ragged and torn, down to the quick. The gritty taste of the acrylic was on her tongue. Now she must move more quickly than he might like. The time had come to reconsider her options.
* * *
Shivering, Imogen pressed hard on the doorbell. It was cold and it was dark – not a night for visiting strangers. When she – the other woman – came to the door Imogen would say … oh, hell, what would she say?
She heard footsteps. The door opened.
‘Oh.’ She found herself staring at a woman with reddish hair, a woman she thought she knew. She was wearing a plain brown dress and an expectant expression. Imogen frowned. This wasn’t the first time today that she’d experienced an unexpected sense of familiarity.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Gibb?’
‘Miss.’
‘Sorry.’ However, this was not the woman in the photo. This woman, frowning at her as if she too were trying to place her, looked old enough to be Marisa Gibb’s … ah, her mother. Imo shifted her weight on to the other foot. That did rather complicate the issue. It had never occurred to her that the woman engaged in adultery with her own husband might live at home with a mother.
‘Oh, hello there, it’s you.’ The woman in the doorway beamed and held out a hand in greeting.
Imogen felt she might be approaching an identity crisis. ‘Me?’ But she took the hand since it seemed impolite not to.
‘You’re the lady from the flower shop, aren’t you?’ She peered closer. ‘Though you do look a bit different in this light.’
‘Am I? Do I?’ What had Jude done to her face? Was she unrecognisable or disguised? Stronger, stranger or just a painted lady? Imogen put a hand to her hair. It wasn’t where she expected it to be at all. It was swept up and to one side, fastened with a tortoiseshell comb. Jude should never have brought that gin down to the salon. And Imogen should never have drunk it.
‘Well, yes.’ The woman laughed. ‘Say It With Flowers, isn’t it?’
Imogen nodded. This was one of her customers, for heaven’s sake. Not at all what she’d prepared herself for. She was ready for confrontation, not small talk.
‘Do come in, won’t you? It’s such a cold night.’ The woman shivered. ‘What can I do for you?’
What could she say now? She hadn’t done too well so far. Can I see your daughter? I believe she was having an affair with my late husband? ‘I came to see Marisa,’ she said with some difficulty. ‘Is she in?’ She hovered, still on the doorstep, half hoping that the girl would be out, unavailable, that all this had been in vain.
‘You know Marisa?’ The woman almost seemed not to believe her. Was it so unlikely?
‘Well, um, not exactly.’
‘Those lilies were wonderful by the way.’ She didn’t seem to notice Imogen’s reticence as she gestured once more for her to cross the threshold.
How many times had Edward crossed it? Imogen wondered. Had he ever met Marisa’s mother?
‘Almost three weeks they lasted. I only threw them out this morning.’
‘That’s nice.’ It was surreal to be discussing lilies in these circumstances, but now at least she remembered the woman, one of the many customers accused by Tiffany of being not all there. And if Tiffany could see Imogen now, she was pretty sure she’d say the same about her.
‘Let me take your coat.’ All smiles, she helped Imogen out of it. ‘Can I get you something? A drink?’
Could she smell Imogen’s breath? ‘Well…’
‘Coffee, perhaps?’
‘That would be lovely.’ Politeness got the upper hand. But when precisely was Imogen going to drink it? When she’d introduced herself? When she’d asked Marisa about her relationship with Edward?
‘Come through. Marisa’s in here with her boyfriend.’
‘Boyfriend?’ Imogen stopped in her tracks, assailed by a vision of a ghastly ghostly Edward hovering by the fireplace. ‘A new boyfriend?’ she asked weakly.
‘Newish.’ The woman smiled. ‘You haven’t met him then?’
‘No.’ Goodness, but she was a fast worker. It was beginning to look as though Imogen would be conducting their chat in front of an audience of interested parties along with the coffee and cakes, God help her. She took a deep breath and walked in.
* * *
Thanks to Imo, Jude was running late. But this made her feel virtuous. After all, her friend had always been there for her. And it had been worth it – if only to get her hands on Imo’s wonderful bone structure.
Jude climbed over the double bed and flung open the doors of her wardrobe. It might be small but this was her own space, painted in pollen-yellows and grass-greens to cheer her up every morning – whether the sun was shining or not.
How was Imo getting on? she wondered. Had she tackled Marisa Gibb about Edward? And if so, how had the Living Doll reacted? Jude began to strip off her clothes. She wasn’t a doll though, was she? Hardly Miss Compliant. Her heart was steel, not soft rubber. But Imo had passion on her side. ‘Go, Imo, go,’ she muttered.
Luckily, her favourite black top never needed ironing. She pulled it on, grabbed her black pencil skirt, climbed into it and turned to inspect her profile. OK to middling. The skirt was slimming even without the lacy ‘medium control with tummy-flattening front panels’ knickers she’d bought in Kirby’s last week from a twiggy shop assistant with the name TRIXIE embossed on her badge. A passionate encounter might not be on the agenda, but a girl should be like a boy scout – always prepared. Because princes didn’t wear crowns any more and most of them weren’t tall, dark or handsome. They didn’t ride horses and bikes weren’t quite the same. So how were you supposed to recognise one when he came up and grabbed you? By being ever-ready, Jude smiled to herself, that was how.
She brushed her hair, added spray at the roots and a fine mist to keep it in place. No time for extensions tonight. She checked her make-up – matt, pore-minimising and marvellous at deflecting the light from imperfections – had a final slurp of G&T and traced in her lip lines with a fine brown pencil. Being single meant always looking your best, even for trips to the supermarket, because you never knew who you might meet …
And besides … Jude filled in the colour (Black Toffee Treacle) and grabbed her coat … minimalist make-up, less is more and all that jazz was a bare-faced lie. With make-up, a girl could be who she wanted to be. Sexy, glam, confident. In Jude’s opinion, the only women who willingly laid their faces bare were those lucky few who looked good in just a scrap of Vaseline and a smile.
She glanced up sharply as the doorbell rang. It was too late for double-glazing salesmen or the meter man. Her mother wasn’t expecting company – hardly, since she was flat out on her bed having a rest, recuperation and revitalising session. Might it be Imo perhaps, returned from her mission and needing a shoulder to cry on? Selfishly, Jude hoped not. She loved Imo, but she had a mission of her own tonight.
She opened the front door to be confronted by the dark unsmiling features of her landlord. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said ungraciously, noting the elegant cut of his grey jacket. It was easy, she told herself, when it came to clothes, to buy a classy look. His dark hair was still brushed back but now almost touched his
collar. ‘The rent’s not due, is it?’ she asked.
He raised one eyebrow. ‘I’d expect someone as organised as you to know exactly when your rent’s due, Miss Lomax.’ He managed to make the word ‘organised’ sound like an insult, and she’d swear he was eyeing her up and down. Damned cheek.
His brown eyes were inscrutable. ‘Going out?’
‘I’m not dressing up for dinner with my mother, Mr Dean.’ Jude leant on the door jamb. Was he expecting her to invite him in? If so, he was in for a long wait. She was not some old biddy charmed by that intense, hungry look of his, more than ready to produce tea and sympathy at the sight of that scar. ‘So what can I do for you?’ Deliberately, she stuck out one hip. Men like him deserved to be teased. Might make them smile occasionally too.
But he didn’t. ‘I’ve brought you a small gift.’
‘A gift?’ What was he on about? Then she realised he was holding a carrier bag and looking … embarrassed? She must be imagining things.
‘For you and your mother.’ From the bag, he extracted a bottle.
Despite herself, Jude peered at the label. Hmm. A good claret by the look of it and tied with a red and glittery festive bow – a feminine touch if ever she saw one. ‘How kind.’ She took it. ‘Have you given Florrie one too?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He blinked.
Did he want her to spell it out? ‘Well, I presume this is a landlord to tenant gift, and I’m touched naturally…’
‘Naturally.’ The dark eyebrow rose again as the sound of ‘Embraceable You’ wafted down the hall.
‘But I was just checking that you hadn’t forgotten her.’ James Dean might want her out but Jude wanted Florrie to get her new heating and a bottle of claret.
His eyes hardened. ‘Why should my relationship with the tenant upstairs be any of your concern?’ he asked.
‘Because I don’t approve of landlords taking advantage of their tenants’ frailties.’ Jude glared back at him.