Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Anna Cheska

  ‘About tonight’s event…’ he began.

  ‘Yes?’ Jude tried not to sound too eager.

  ‘It’s at the community hall in Ross Street. Do you know it?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ It was a couple of miles down the road, and not very promising. She’d encountered it previously in its mother and toddler days, and heard a rumour once about line dancing. But Jude had never been one for following a trend and even when Daisy had toddled, she’d avoided other mothers and toddlers like the plague.

  ‘So, are you coming?’

  Jude eyed her mother. She wanted – needed – to see Mattie. She shifted her weight on to the other clogged foot and thought cold showers and stone floors. (Ouch!) ‘Is it a party?’ she asked hopefully. No one had parties any more – too much money for too much mess, she supposed. There would always be some joker who threw up or stubbed cigarettes out on your best rug.

  ‘A session of liberation,’ he said.

  Jude reached in her shift pocket for her cigarettes, lit one and took a deep drag. She had no intention of being one of the millions who tried to give up tonight. ‘Liberation from what?’ It sounded even less promising than the community hall as a fun venue. Did she want to be liberated – or just chucked to the floor in the throes of passion? Did she need to be liberated on New Year’s Eve when other less enlightened people were simply getting drunk and enjoying themselves?

  ‘It’s a real letting go sort of experience, you know? Meditation and expression. Freeing the soul.’

  Jude took another drag. It didn’t sound quite her. But she mustn’t be hasty. This man could still be the one of her dreams. ‘What happens exactly?’ she hedged, sitting down, crossing her legs and slipping her feet out of the clogs. ‘When you get liberated?’ And what would he say if she asked him to come round to the flat for some good old liberating hanky-panky instead?

  She noticed her mother reach for a magazine and start flicking through the pages. Jude wanted to go on talking to Mattie but if she didn’t get back to her soon, God knows what other bright ideas she might come up with.

  He laughed. ‘You’ll see. It’s a commitment thing.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jude wondered if she should add Mattie to the list of people going loopy around her. She decided not. She still had high hopes, and an even higher level of frustration. Last night she had coaxed, teased and seduced till she was blue in the face. And then she’d fallen asleep. Goodness knows what time Mattie had left the flat. Jude inhaled deeply and decided she needed more black coffee. It was ironic really after Roger. Perhaps Mattie did need liberating after all.

  ‘The event evolves from the dynamics of the group,’ he said.

  Group dynamics? It sounded worse by the minute.

  ‘Some poetry, music, maybe some yoga.’

  ‘Will there be any booze?’ Jude tucked a stray strand of hair back into her pony-tail. It was all a bit Girl Guides gone New Age to be honest. A slow-burning camp fire and Bob would be their close relative. ‘It is New Year’s Eve after all,’ she added, just in case he thought she was an alcoholic.

  ‘Sure.’ She could eat that marshmallow caress in his voice. ‘It’s just a group of like-minded people…’

  Hippies ’n’ drugs, thought Jude, who had experienced her fill of stoned zombies sitting around, all too paranoid to share their thoughts let alone any other part of themselves. If that was liberation, she was stuck in prison doing life. ‘Sounds cool. I can’t wait,’ she said gamely. She whispered goodbye, put out her cigarette and returned to her mother’s hair. She should open up her life to new experiences, she reminded herself. She mustn’t be shuttered and cynical. Mattie was different from any man she’d met before – and since most of them were rats, that had to be a good thing. He was sensitive and sweet and, let’s face it, she could do with some poetry in her life.

  ‘Black and platinum streaks?’ she murmured to her mother, her mind not really on the job. ‘Coal and ash?’ She fetched the book and flipped through. Thick streaks, had she said? A thought occurred to her. ‘You can baby-sit tonight, can’t you, Ma?’ It was selfish perhaps but she was treating her mother to this tint. And at Hazel’s age surely New Year’s Eve wasn’t crucial?

  Because this could be special. Once again Jude felt hopeful. This could be the start of the romance she’d been looking for. A new year, new opportunities. She pulled on her plastic apron and gloves, mixed the colour with hydrogen peroxide, working quickly from the trolley, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible. Daisy would be back from her friend’s house in an hour, and besides the smell of the bleach was making her head throb.

  ‘Ma?’ She would even try out her new, never let them see you shine base coat in honour of the occasion, she decided. If there was dancing she wouldn’t even glow. She wasn’t sure how it fitted in with liberation, but what the heck.

  ‘Well now…’

  ‘Well now what?’ Standing here over her mother gave Jude a sense of power that was probably an illusion. A quick flick of the wrist, a grab for the scissors, the make-up tray, the bleach … The possible transformations were limitless.

  ‘You did say that you and Imogen might just stay in and…’ Hazel paused. ‘How did you put it? Get plastered to high heaven was the expression, I seem to recall.’

  Jude remembered. She teased out a strand of her mother’s hair, put it on the foil and painted on the tint. ‘But that was before I met Mattie,’ she said, pressing down the foil.

  ‘Ah.’ Hazel wagged that irritating finger once again. ‘But we can’t let one man change our lives just like that, can we? We can’t run every time he whistles.’

  That was rich, coming from her. A more sudden switch to Italophile Jude had never encountered. She adjusted her mother’s black gown. ‘I think they’re showing a double episode of Streetlife tonight,’ she wheedled, easing out another strand. ‘And afterwards your Giorgio could come round and…’

  ‘No!’ Hazel sounded quite vehement. ‘We want to go out. It’s all planned. Giorgio is not coming round to the flat tonight.’

  ‘And Streetlife?’ Jude slapped on the tint. To think that she had once tried to persuade her mother to retune to Melvyn Bragg.

  Hazel sniffed. ‘It’s only a TV programme,’ she said. She turned the page of the magazine on her lap. Looking Spritely at Seventy ran the headline. ‘And it doesn’t pay to take television too seriously.’

  Grrr! Who could Jude get to baby-sit? The only person who sprang to mind was Imo, but how could she ask her friend when she’d half-promised to meet up with her tonight? Jude continued to plaster the thick glutinous mixture on to her mother’s crowning glory and wondered how to get out of the hole she’d dug for herself. Was she being selfish? Should she forget about seeing Mattie tonight?

  ‘I want to seem independent and decisive,’ Hazel was telling her reflection. ‘But not obvious. That wouldn’t do at all.’

  No, she couldn’t ask Imo. Jude gritted her teeth and weaved another foil.

  In no time at all, Hazel’s head was covered in rows of foil squares. Jude checked her watch, waited for the required processing time – and a bit more because she was desperate for a quick smoke – and then took her mother over to the basin to rinse off.

  Hazel was still wittering on, apparently not noticing Jude’s silence as she rinsed – and rinsed, and rinsed, but it made no difference – as she swathed her mother’s head in a towel, patted and patted and patted her hair dry. She began to panic. Heaven knows what she’d been thinking of. Ash on ash allowed the undertones to come through. And the undertones of ash were … oh, hell.

  * * *

  Imogen parked the Nova near the little downland church of West Stoke, changing into her thick socks and walking boots while Alex got out of the car and watched her through the passenger window. Uncomfortably aware that she was all thumbs this morning, Imo finished the lacing, got out, locked the car and led the way out of the car park.

  She climbed over the stile first – thus not running the risk of h
is holding out a hand to help her – and they started down the farm track that led to Kingley Vale. It was certainly brighter than it had been all Christmas. The air held a crispness that made Imo catch her breath, and the sun kept glinting through the clouds, irritatingly accurate at picking out the lighter strands of Alex’s thick brown hair. Imogen concentrated on the trees bordering the track.

  ‘Where did you and Edward used to go?’ he asked as they stomped on towards the Vale. ‘When you went away for holidays?’

  Imo thought of Hereford. No, he had never taken her there. ‘To France,’ she told Alex. ‘Gîte holidays in France. Every year.’ It sounded terribly conservative. And the more she thought about it, the more she realised that conservative was exactly what Edward had been.

  ‘Ever go further than France?’ Alex asked. ‘To … I don’t know, India? Africa? Australia?’ With his boot, he scuffed at the chalk on the path.

  ‘No.’ That wasn’t Edward’s style at all. And to be fair, she’d never suggested it. Even before Edward, when friends were back-packing various trails around the world, Imogen had stayed in Sussex, drifted from one office job and nice but ordinary boyfriend to the next. Travelling was her mother’s forte, as if Vanessa had done all Imo’s exploring for her.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Alex push back his hair with one flick of the wrist. He was an angular, graceless man – he was taking the farm track in huge, leggy strides that she could hardly keep pace with. And yet his hands … They moved constantly, as he talked, as he walked. His hands, she thought, were strangely compelling. ‘And you?’ she asked. So far, so good. Polite small talk seemed safe enough.

  ‘I’m in limbo,’ he told her, stuffing those hands into the pockets of his fleece as if that was the only way he could stop them moving. ‘I’ve got a friend called Richie who promises me work as a graphic designer that should keep me happily drowning in mortgages and dishwashers for the rest of a very sad life.’

  She couldn’t imagine that somehow.

  As the track narrowed they moved fractionally closer together. Whereas Edward and dishwashers were more interchangeable, Imo reflected. Both were reliable, efficient and predictable. She smiled. Both had neat compartments; everything with a place. Both removed clutter and mess, were clean, and created a look with polish (if you used the right rinse aid). And both could apparently be turned on by someone other than Imogen.

  Alex was still talking as they approached the nature reserve and the yews. He was young but good therapy, she decided. ‘And sometimes all I want to do is make it as a painter.’

  That would be the bit Marisa liked, Imogen guessed. How long before she got him in Armani suits and Calvin Klein underwear? Or was the bohemian artist look more appropriate to her plans?

  ‘Santa Claus is being dumped then?’ She could still see him in that ridiculous red coat and white beard. Still smell the mandarin and sandalwood …

  ‘You bet.’ Alex laughed. ‘Other times I just want to get out of here. To travel. To explore the world a bit.’

  They passed the wooden shed providing information on the reserve. Imogen had followed the trail once, answered such questions as: Are the two large yew trees male or female? Today she had not dissimilar things on her mind. ‘Can’t you paint and travel?’ It seemed pretty obvious. ‘You’re young.’ Yes, far too young for her. ‘No ties.’

  He shot her a dark look. Which bit had he objected to? she wondered. In silence they tramped along the path. The yews were dark and brooding, their sweet scent damp in the air. How many species breed here?

  Alex trailed his hand (no, she wouldn’t look) along the bark of one of the oldest yews. As squat as a toadstool itself, she saw that a ring of fungi was growing around the vast circumference of its trunk. Like a magic circle.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked.

  ‘Me?’ Imogen turned, took a breath in as the path began to slope upwards, climbing the side of the great natural amphitheatre that housed the yews and grassland of Kingley Vale. ‘I go on with the shop, with my life. I may not have a husband any longer but I have my friends and sometimes my mother.’ She sounded a right twit, she realised, and pulled a packet of mints out of the pocket of her green waxed jacket to offer him one.

  ‘And you’re free.’ He took one, put it in his mouth.

  Imogen looked away. Was she? They walked on in silence until they reached the top of the Vale. In the distance she could make out the coastline, the dark stretch of sea, the farmland spreading out below them, and Chichester itself – almost invisible today except for the cathedral spire. Was she free? Was it as simple as this man seemed to think?

  He touched her hand. For a moment she allowed herself to take a quick tiptoe towards those blue eyes. Then back again – even quicker. No way, Imo.

  ‘You are if you want to be,’ he said.

  She shot him a quick look as they headed left towards the wood, leaving the few other walkers in the Vale way behind them. ‘Tell me about you and Marisa?’ She didn’t trust the silence between them, and small talk no longer seemed appropriate somehow.

  ‘I’m not proud of the way I’ve behaved.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He told her briefly and unemotionally about an open invitation that had turned into something more. ‘One minute it was an uncomplicated diversion…’ Alex held the gate open for her.

  ‘You mean sex?’ She didn’t look at him. Dangerous word, sex.

  He nodded. ‘And before I knew what was happening…’ The gate swung back behind him. He secured it, looked at her, shrugged.

  Imogen thought of Marisa. ‘She is beautiful.’

  He seemed to brush this aside. ‘Pretty, yes. Perfect, even. But, God, I was a stupid bastard.’

  Imogen risked another quick glance. ‘Men are so innocent,’ she teased.

  ‘And that makes them susceptible to the wiles of women?’ he countered.

  ‘Not all women have wiles.’

  At this he paused, taking her arm, linking it with his as they walked on.

  Imogen flinched but in fact it felt natural; it was easier to leave it there, she decided.

  ‘Do you?’ he asked. ‘Have wiles, I mean.’

  ‘I’m better at just letting things happen.’ Imogen smiled. ‘I’m not too hot in the wiles department.’ Didn’t have the brains for it, Jude would say.

  He stopped walking again. At this rate they’d never make it to the pub. And she could almost taste the tension between them. It was in the dryness of her mouth, the cold air around their bodies, the compelling fierceness of his eyes.

  ‘Is that right?’ She couldn’t read his expression as he spoke, slowly, every word measured. ‘You just let things happen, do you?’

  Chapter 19

  It was New Year’s Eve and Vanessa was feeling hopeful as she took off her gloves and rang the bell of Ralph’s flat. Gosh, it seemed cold after India, she thought. ‘It’s me,’ she said into the intercom. As always, she was so looking forward to seeing him, and waiting to hear what it was that had to be said face to face.

  ‘One moment, my love.’

  Vanessa’s overnight bag was light, so she took the stairs. It was silly to be tired; there were only two flights and one had to keep fit.

  Ralph was waiting by the lift when she emerged. She tapped him on the shoulder, aware that she was more out of breath than she should be.

  He kissed her cheek. ‘You always did try to surprise me.’

  ‘And succeeded more than once.’ Vanessa allowed him to take her bag though it was only a few steps to his front door, and remembered the first time she’d tried to seduce him. He’d come round to the cottage one wet night when Tom was away and she’d been so desperate for the company that she’d practically dragged him inside. God, those days … Imogen was a baby, Vanessa was finding her feet as a mother and discovering they were chained to the kitchen sink.

  Ralph had teased her, she remembered, said, ‘What did you expect – that something magical would turn you into a real moth
er overnight?’

  She had laughed, offered him a drink, and when he left, tried to kiss him. But Ralph, of course, would never have taken advantage. Vanessa smiled.

  Inside the flat, the decor was grey and white, minimalist and yet soft. Ralph took her coat and she sank into one of the grey leather sofas that always reminded her of elephant hide. She slipped off her shoes and smiled up at him. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Dull without you.’ He fetched them both a glass of sherry. He hadn’t changed much over the years, she thought. The humour was still there in the dark eyes, though his hair was greying and his shoulders slightly stooped. ‘How long can you stay?’

  Vanessa hesitated as she took her glass from him. ‘Only overnight, I’m afraid. But do you feel up to Trafalgar Square?’ This had become a tradition for the two of them and she realised she’d never questioned it before. Perhaps it was her growing sense of her own mortality that increased her concern. But she had always worried about him. She remembered his voice when he had told her that Tom had died. Our Tom – he’s gone, my love.

  It didn’t matter that she and Tom had been separated for years. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t seen him for longer than she cared to remember. Tom was what had brought them together and Tom was what had kept them apart.

  ‘I’m game if you are,’ Ralph said now.

  ‘Of course.’ Though now she was here, it was rather tempting simply to stay in this sofa. To relax with the one man with whom she felt able to. But no, she’d come here to celebrate in grand style with Ralph, and celebrate she would. Vanessa tucked her hair behind her ears. Trafalgar Square at midnight made her feel young – people, pigeons and all.

  ‘Pity you can’t stay longer.’ Ralph fiddled around with some papers on the bureau in the corner and tossed a broadsheet on to her lap. ‘There’s a new exhibition on at the Courtauld – looks interesting.’ He was wearing baggy grey corduroy trousers, so that he blended in with the room somewhat, Vanessa thought with a smile. And a dark crew-neck sweater, with the customary neckerchief tied loosely around his throat.