by Anna Cheska
‘Maybe I’ll come back for it then. When is it?’ Vanessa looked down. The Italian Set. She thought of Hazel who was certainly hooked on her Italian and laughed.
‘What?’ Ralph was heading towards the kitchen.
One could never keep him from the kitchen for long, Vanessa thought. He was a wonderful cook; he loved to be stretched by visitors and Vanessa was happy to oblige. She didn’t think she’d ever been served the same meal twice, though that could be because Ralph made things up as he went along, and by the time he’d finished, he’d drunk too much red wine to remember the recipe.
‘Hazel’s got herself a man,’ she called out.
‘No!’ Ralph reappeared in the doorway, now sporting a William Morris print apron and holding a wooden spoon as if about to present some Pre-Raphaelite cookery programme. ‘What can he be like?’
Vanessa grinned. Hazel and Ralph had met only once but neither had understood the other in the least. The only thing they shared was a bafflement that Vanessa could possibly be friends with them both. ‘The smooth and slippery type.’ She pulled a face. ‘Italian and charming.’
He raised an eyebrow that was bushy enough to be called forbidding, but had never seemed so to Vanessa. ‘And what does your Hazel have to offer a man like that, may I ask?’
‘He says she’s his English rose.’
‘Wishy washy. More like alyssum, I’d say. Cotton wool pretty.’ Ralph looked Vanessa up and down appreciatively. ‘Something you absolutely are not.’
Was that a compliment? She decided to take it as such. He retreated once more to the kitchen and Vanessa leaned back into soft grey leather and closed her eyes. He hadn’t been quite so forward in the past.
She remembered the second time she’d tried to seduce him – at a friend’s wedding, during a slow waltz played by the band. Imogen was a bridesmaid, Tom had gone home early with a headache, saying, ‘Look after the girls, will you, Ralph?’ And Vanessa was trying to keep him to his word.
She wasn’t so much attempting a seduction as telling him how she felt. Beginning with, ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea how I feel about you, Ralph darling, have you?’
‘Friendly?’ His mouth had twitched at the corners. He was enjoying her discomfort, she realised.
‘Very friendly.’ By now, Vanessa was fairly accomplished in the art of taking a lover. Since she’d been married, she’d managed three, all discreet, all hidden from Tom. She never intended to hurt him. He had always been dear to her. But sometimes she felt she was dying of boredom. And worse, she was becoming reckless; she almost wanted him to find out, so that she might be free.
Ralph narrowed his brown eyes at her. ‘What’s happened to the last flame then? Have you blown him out? Has he done a runner or has Tom shot him at dawn?’
‘You knew?’ She could feel his hand, light on the small of her back. Other couples (not married – or at least not to one another) were allowing a head to rest on a shoulder here, a hand to linger on a waist or hip there. And why not? Married life needed to be spiced up a little if it were to stay alive. Not by Ralph, though. He maintained a respectable distance, damn him.
He laughed. At her? Vanessa couldn’t say for sure. He led her into a different step and the chiffon pleats of her yellow dress flared out into a fan. ‘I know when you go out man-hunting,’ he teased. ‘And I know Tom hasn’t a clue, poor sod.’ His expression changed.
Vanessa pouted. ‘You don’t understand…’
‘Ah, but I do.’ Lightly he touched her hair. ‘But it’s not Tom’s fault he’s not enough for you, lovely.’
She moved an inch closer. ‘You’re the one I want,’ she whispered. ‘You always have been. You know that.’
He looked sad. ‘I couldn’t, my lovely,’ he said. ‘I just couldn’t.’
And Vanessa couldn’t see how she could change his mind. Loyalty … pah!
She opened her eyes now to see Ralph standing in front of her. Familiar and dear. That wedding could have been yesterday.
‘I have a proposition for you, lovely,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes?’ She reached for her sherry.
‘But first of all, I have food for you. Lemon sole with roasted peppers, a kind of dill sauce and a rocket salad. How does that sound?’
‘Like manna from heaven,’ Vanessa said. And as for love … Thank God they had remained friends instead.
* * *
‘Then where is he?’ Marisa was trying to keep calm, but this woman was nothing if not irritating. Why ever did Alex want to live with a landlady? Not for long, she told herself. Oh, no, not for long. But why didn’t he just get himself a flat? She clicked her heels together. She would suggest it. They needed somewhere else to go, an alternative to that draughty studio of his.
‘I couldn’t help you there, I’m afraid.’ The woman facing her folded floury arms and stared right back. She had on one of those wraparound pinny things that Marisa remembered her own mother wearing. Afraid? She didn’t look in the least afraid. ‘I’m not his keeper,’ she said.
But she’d probably like to be. ‘He came back from Nottinghamshire last night, though?’ Marisa persisted.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘When exactly?’
‘Nineish.’ She’d swear the woman was smiling as if she were glad Alex hadn’t picked up the phone, rushed round to Marisa’s straight off.
She straightened her back, focused on Alex’s landlady. She had always been able to make people do what she wanted, and she’d realised from an early age that this was a gift. A girl with her start in the world – a girl with no father, no money, no hand to help her up the ladder of life – had to use every gift as a weapon if she wanted to get on. ‘And he didn’t go out again?’
‘He was tired, poor lad.’
She was old enough to be Alex’s mother but probably had a king-size crush on him, Marisa thought. Women of a certain age. Nothing better to do. Look at her own mother …
‘All he wanted was a hot meal, a bath, then bed.’
Okay, but why hadn’t he at least rung? Marisa averted her eyes, took in the flaking paint around the front door, the flocked wallpaper within. What a dump. And as for Alex … Next to no contact over Christmas and now not even a phone call. The problem was he didn’t appreciate any of the sacrifices Marisa had made for him. She turned her attention back to his landlady who clearly had no intention of inviting her in although she must be cold standing on the doorstep without a coat, despite the winter sun. Oh, yes, Marisa had made sacrifices aplenty. Half of which he knew nothing about, and some he’d never know …
She pulled her jacket more closely around her and eyed the woman over her designer sunglasses. There were changes to be made if Alex Armstrong had any hope of achieving what she had planned for him. And she would tell him so.
‘Never you mind, lovie.’
What? Marisa’s thoughts might have run away with her but she recognised pity when it smacked her in the face. And this old bag’s ‘lovie’ she most definitely was not. Marisa drew herself up to her full height. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said crisply, pushing the shades back up again. ‘But I do need to find out where Alex is now.’ She was repeating herself, she knew. She’d lost track. But where was he? Not in his studio, she’d already checked.
‘All he said was he’d be out all day.’ Patience of a saint, I had, she’d say to him later, the old cow. Oh, yes, she was enjoying herself, Marisa could tell. ‘He said not to do him any dinner. He said…’ she smiled once more and Marisa noticed the web of fine lines around eyes and mouth, the well-worn creases on brow and cheek ‘… to expect him when I saw him.’ And then she softened. ‘They don’t know how important it is to us women.’
Us women? She had some nerve.
‘You know what men are like.’
Yes, Marisa did. She knew a lot more than Flour-fingers here. And she also knew she had two choices. She could insist on waiting for him here. Or she could go and look for him.
Marisa turned on her heel. She
had no intention of being left alone on New Year’s Eve. It was unthinkable. She would find Alex Armstrong if it killed her. And then she would make him pay.
* * *
‘So you just let things happen,’ he said again. It seemed to Alex that they were all alone in this place. Woods and fields, chalk and winter grass. Bleak, bleak farmland, the yews behind them; just fields and a dirt track that led (she’d told him, peering at the map) to the pub. But before they got there … Jesus, how he’d like to sketch her here al fresco. Should he suggest it? It would scare her, he knew. Perhaps better not.
‘Well…’ She hooked a stray strand of nut-brown hair behind one ear and it immediately flew out again.
He loved her uncertainty, the way she had of chewing her bottom lip when she worried and wrinkling her nose when she laughed. And those eyes – they told him nothing and everything at the same time. God, the woman had got to him. Over Christmas he’d thought of nothing else. He must see Marisa, he knew, to make it right between them. He’d never meant to behave badly; he’d just lost sight of his own intentions, taken a while to realise that where Marisa wanted to take him, he did not want to go.
‘It’s easier to let things happen,’ Imogen said.
Too right. An almost-invitation.
He kissed her. Easy, because she was close beside him, uncertain with cold lips and warm eyes. And because …
He tasted her. Wanted more of her too, but she jumped back from him like some startled animal.
Had he gone too fast? He grabbed her hand, not wanting to lose her, feeling that she mustn’t get away. ‘Did you just let that happen or did you want it to happen?’ It was important to know.
‘We must get back.’ She pulled her hand away from his, hurried on down the track.
She might not have feminine wiles, Alex thought as he followed her, but she was bloody good at avoiding awkward questions.
* * *
Driving – too fast – back to Chichester, Imogen asked him if he wanted to be dropped off anywhere. Everything seemed so strange – as if the world had been turned upside down. She almost didn’t know what to do with him.
‘Your place will be fine.’
Her hands tightened on the wheel. She should say something, do something. Her place wasn’t fine, damn it. She hit the dash and he jumped.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Was that the best she could do? Nothing?
She swung the Nova into the drive, got out of the car and heard the phone ringing. A lifeline? She fumbled for her keys. Don’t stop, don’t hang up …
‘Hello?’ She sank on to the chair by the phone, saw him come in the front door behind her. Oh, hell …
‘Imo?’ It was Jude, thank God. Imogen shrugged off her waxed jacket.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been trying to get you all day.’
‘Oh?’ She watched as Alex walked straight past her and into the kitchen.
‘I wondered if you wanted to come round to the salon this afternoon. For coffee and a chat?’
‘Er…’ Imo heard the sound of water running. He was filling the kettle, making a cup of tea in her kitchen. She pulled off one shoe with her free hand. ‘The salon?’ It seemed like another planet. She was still stuck on the farm track in Kingley Vale where Alex had kissed her this morning. She was in a time warp. She pulled off the other shoe, kicked them under the telephone table.
‘Yes, the salon.’ Jude sighed. ‘What’s going on, Imo?’
‘On?’ He walked back into the hall, glanced across at her, took off his own shoes …
‘Imo, why are you talking like a zombie?’
She tried to pull herself together. For goodness’ sake, he was only a man. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘But I don’t think I can make it right now.’
‘Hmm.’ She could almost hear Jude lighting a cigarette. The click of the lighter, the inhalation. ‘I’ve been phoning the shop all day.’
‘The shop?’ She watched as Alex strolled into her sitting-room. Through the open door she saw him sit down on her sofa. He shrugged off the fleece jacket. Underneath he was wearing a dark red shirt, she noted. Any moment and he’d switch on the TV, he seemed so much at home.
‘Your shop, sweetie. Flowers? Remember? That’s what you do usually? Only, I thought you said you were opening today?’
So she had. That seemed like centuries ago. ‘I changed my mind.’ Jude, more than anybody, would understand that.
‘Playing hookey?’ There was laughter in her voice. ‘Well, I don’t blame you. I’ve had to contend with my mother all morning.’ Her tone changed. ‘God, what a disaster.’
‘A disaster?’ Imogen tried to concentrate.
‘I’ll tell you later. She wanted her hair done to impress Mr Pasta. Seems to be playing some sort of mind game with him. I can’t get my head round it at all.’ She drew breath. ‘So where have you been all day?’
‘I went walking,’ Imo told her. They had gone walking … But she wouldn’t tell her friend that. Not yet.
‘Oh, you and your walks…’
Despite herself, Imo grinned. Typical Jude, dismissing her day in one clean sweep. ‘It was good,’ she protested, watching the long, lean, crumpled figure stretch out on her sofa. More than good. She felt the wonderful tiredness that followed a long hike on a winter’s day. All she wanted now was to settle into the sofa next to Alex, with maybe some tea and crumpets to follow that marvellous lunch at the Hare and Hounds.
‘Now about tonight…’ Jude became brisk.
Imo never liked it when Jude became brisk. She sat up straighter. ‘Tonight?’ she asked weakly.
‘New Year’s Eve, Imo, you know.’
Alex had his feet under the coffee table. What was she going to do with him? He was young. He was a bohemian artist with a sense of adventure to match her mother’s. He was her almost-stepdaughter’s boyfriend. What was she doing? ‘What about New Year’s Eve?’
‘Mattie’s asked me out.’
Oh, yes, Mattie. She’d almost forgotten. Imo made a big effort. ‘So how did it go last night?’
‘I can’t remember much about it, sweetie.’ Jude laughed but she was being evasive, Imo knew the signs.
She recalled their vague plans and sniffed. Surely she could smell something cooking … ‘Then you must go. I’ll be fine.’ She didn’t acknowledge Alex who was shooting her an inquisitive look.
‘Well, the thing is…’ Deep drag of the cigarette? If they brought in video-phones she’d know for sure. ‘Ma was going to baby-sit. But strangely she doesn’t seem to want Mr Linguini in the flat. I tell you, Imo, she’s behaving very strangely.’
She wasn’t the only one. Alex got up, came into the hall, raised his eyebrows at Imogen and disappeared into the kitchen again. She heard fridge-type noises and he must be pouring the tea. ‘Shall I baby-sit?’ she asked. Jude was offering her a straw and she must grab it – though she’d prefer to drown.
‘Baby-sit?’ Jude shrieked.
‘Yes. It’s not as if I’m doing anything else tonight.’
Alex came back through with a tray. He’d even found the tea cosy, and the hot buttered toast smelled divine. ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he mouthed at her as he passed.
‘Oh, Imo, I couldn’t possibly ask you to. Not on New Year’s Eve,’ Jude said in a tone that suggested that indeed she could – if pressed.
‘I don’t mind.’ She did, she did!
‘Oh, Imo, sweetie! I’d love you forever.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Imo shifted the phone to her other ear.
‘What time can you come?’ Jude – being Jude – quickly got down to practicalities.
Imogen looked at Alex who had put the tray down on the carpet and was now shifting magazines from the coffee table. ‘Any time,’ she said. She had the feeling that despite all this activity, he was listening closely.
‘Eightish? And Imo—’ A brief pause. ‘Don’t say a word to Ma about her hair. Just pretend you haven’t noticed.’
‘Running away?’ he asked her, patting the seat beside him.
‘Doing a favour for my best friend,’ she corrected. But he was right. She sat down in the chair opposite. ‘Can I have some tea?’
‘Imogen.’ His eyes were to fall into. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you can have whatever you might desire.’
* * *
In the flat above The Goddess Without, the doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it. And will you please stop apologising?’ Hazel’s fury was spent. She knew the damage done by her daughter had not been intentional. Tentatively, she put up her hand. Her hair now fitted her head like a skull cap. And it still looked terrible. Every time she passed a mirror, the sight of her reflection made her jump. She plucked a tartan scarf from the hook by the kitchen door, draped it over her head and round her neck, and opened the front door with a flourish, managing a plaintive hum of ‘Somebody Loves Me … I Wonder Who?’ as she did so.
The eyes of the man she’d last seen kissing her daughter in the hallway widened at the sight of the tartan scarf, and then Jude brushed past in a haze of Opium.
‘Have a good time,’ Hazel said, shutting the door thankfully behind them and whipping off the scarf.
She had known from the expression on Jude’s face in the mirror, as she stood there inanely patting the towel turbanning Hazel’s head, that something was very wrong. But nothing had prepared her for the thick black and purple streaks that grew more prominent the drier they became.
‘Get it out,’ she had told her daughter, refusing to listen to her garbled explanation about the undertones of ash being purple. ‘Get it out, right this minute!’
‘Gold would counteract the purple,’ Jude was muttering as she consulted that horrid book of hers. ‘But that’ll make the black even darker.’ She bit her lip. ‘I could bleach out the black, do an overall tint and bring it up to a warm colour…’
‘Like red?’ Hazel snapped.
‘More of a copper really, but it’ll take at least three hours and…’