Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Anna Cheska

  ‘Cut it off!’ Hazel shrieked. Three hours she didn’t have. And she didn’t want to be copper, damn it. Copper was ridiculous at her age.

  ‘If I cut it short, it’ll only enhance the two-tone effect,’ Jude began. ‘It’ll be more obvious.’

  ‘Cut it off.’ All Hazel knew was that there would be less of it.

  The cut was good. And the hot sweet tea Jude made had allowed her to recover a little of her equilibrium. But it had still been one of the worst days of Hazel’s life.

  She began on her eye make-up – one had to compensate. Jude, of course, though apologetic had no conception of the seriousness of the situation. Declarations didn’t appear out of the blue. They required the projection of a certain image, the maintaining of certain standards and a degree of manipulation. Romance was about the unattainable, as Byron knew – the poet, that is, not the husband. He understood; hence his success with women – any woman, even relatives, she’d heard. And if a woman played the game, in return she might expect a degree of security. It was a question of adopting a basic survival technique. You’d think in Jude’s business she’d understand that.

  Hazel sighed. Her taxi was due in twenty minutes and still no Imogen. But on cue the doorbell chimed and Hazel hurried to let her in.

  ‘Hello, dear.’ How nice. Imogen had brought a friend. A man. Tall, ungainly – and dressed in jeans. How long has this been going on? she wondered in true Gershwin style.

  ‘You don’t mind, Hazel?’ Imogen’s gaze was momentarily transfixed by her hair, and then rapidly it flicked away, shooting some sort of warning to the man by her side. ‘Me bringing, er, someone?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She beckoned them into the bright hallway and squinted at him. Tall, nice smile, she noted.

  ‘Alex, Hazel.’ Briefly, Imogen made the introductions. ‘Are you going somewhere nice?’

  Anywhere so long as it was out, with no risk of Italian hands wandering towards her breasts, Hazel thought. This rose was not an easy picking, and in her experience men rarely stopped at breasts. ‘“It ain’t necessarily so,”’ she sang.

  ‘Pardon?’ Imogen glanced at her friend and then looked quickly away again.

  ‘Gershwin, dear,’ Hazel told her. ‘There’s a charming Italian restaurant in Little London. Giorgio knows the owner.’ There would be champagne, no doubt, and hopefully the little something that Giorgio had hinted at last night.

  ‘Lovely.’ Imogen didn’t seem quite all there tonight. Was she drunk? Or was it some sort of delayed grief?

  As Hazel ushered them into the maroon sitting-room Daisy appeared in her nightie. ‘Auntie Imo!’ They hugged. ‘Can we play Jenga by candlelight? And can I stay up really late? Till midnight even?’

  This time, Hazel noted, Imogen did not look at her companion. ‘Of course, darling,’ she said.

  The man called Alex only grinned. He said, ‘You can’t run away forever, Imo.’ Or something like that. Whatever could he mean?

  Hazel glanced at the mirror in the hallway and winced. Still, it was New Year’s Eve and, despite her hair, she had never felt so hopeful.

  Chapter 20

  They were sitting in a circle on the floor of a draughty hall talking about stones, runes and ley lines. Jude stifled a yawn. Any second they’d be entering the realm of the occult – ouija boards perhaps, or some other form of knocking on heaven’s door. What then? she wondered. Black cats? Sacrifices? Blood? On a more practical note, she hadn’t had a cigarette for an hour and she wasn’t used to sitting on hard floors.

  She adjusted her long black velveteen dress with the gold stars, shifted uneasily and sneaked a look at Mattie. He was just as attractive under the garish lights of the community hall. But the poetry that had been appealing after a few glasses of wine the night before was not quite so appealing tonight.

  A drink of the alcoholic variety and a bit of action would be more appropriate. Jude stared at the magnolia walls and bare floor and wished she was in a pub. A crowded pub with noise, laughter and a glass of wine. Whatever had happened to fun? They certainly hadn’t heard of it here.

  ‘Anyone for more camomile tea?’ asked an apparition entitled Suki. Pale face, yellow hair, no make-up, and with a name like a poodle. ‘It’s very cleansing.’ She directed this at Jude – possibly because she’d been the only one brave enough to request an alternative. But Jude didn’t want to be cleansed – she’d rather get legless.

  A few murmurs and the pot (of tea, no sign of drugs as yet) was passed ritualistically around the circle. Could this be the start of a pagan ceremony? Jude wondered. OK, she had no particular religious leanings, but the closest she ever got to paganism was incense, aromatherapy and therapeutic massage oils. And that was plenty close enough, thank you. She didn’t need to incur the wrath of anyone. She already had enough wrath in her life. Mainly from her mother right now.

  ‘And next…’ A tall scrawny individual called Magic rose to his feet and flapped the sari-like thing he was wearing for silence. ‘Let’s talk about loneliness.’

  Bloody hell. Jude sighed. This lot sure knew how to enjoy themselves.

  On a rear end that was crying out for mercy, she slid closer to Mattie and placed a hand firmly on his thigh. She hoped this might lead him to consider alternative options to their current pastime.

  If it did, he didn’t show it.

  ‘We’ve all been lonely,’ Magic told them. ‘But how many of us have admitted it to our innermost souls, to our loved ones, to the members of the group?’

  Voices demurred, agreed, whispered … And one said, ‘Are we going to stay here all night?’ That voice was Jude’s.

  Mattie moved fractionally away. Not a good sign. She sighed and let her palms rest on the cold floor.

  ‘Now that we are cleansed, we are able to admit our private thoughts…’

  Gimme a drink. That was Jude’s.

  ‘Our private weaknesses…’

  Should she admit to a need for male penetration in her life? Probably not. The feminists in the circle would attack her mob-handed and the men wouldn’t understand.

  ‘And personal vulnerabilities.’

  For the right man, Jude reckoned she could be as vulnerable as the next woman. But was Mattie the right man? She was beginning to doubt it. It seemed, rather, that he was the only man. At least … she shifted uncomfortably … he was a man.

  Loneliness was not a subject that had concerned Jude up to now. With the salon, her mother, Daisy and her multiple personalities, it was pretty hard to be lonely. Life and work seemed to get in the way. In fact she wouldn’t mind a little more time alone.

  ‘Poetry,’ Magic said, closing his eyes and beginning to sway, ‘has long been a vehicle for the expression of loneliness.’

  Wordsworth. Jude nodded. She tried to remember the first verse of the lonely cloud sonnet. Something about daffodils dancing in the breeze? She wished she could dance right out of here but she was a long way away from the door and if she ran for it she might bring out their pagan tendencies and end up as a sacrifice on the fire. She tried to catch Mattie’s eye, but his gaze was fixed on Magic as if he were the new Messiah.

  One by one, the New Year’s Eve revellers stood up to reveal painful moments of misery, loneliness and intense embarrassment. It was awful. If Jude had ever been lonely, the last thing she would do was tell these drongos about it. She’d rather drown in camomile tea.

  So what in God’s name was she going to say when it got to her turn?

  * * *

  It was five minutes to midnight and Alex and Imo were playing drunken Consequences. On the other side of Imogen, on the maroon sofa, Daisy dozed fitfully, blissfully unaware of her role as chaperone.

  ‘Please let me stay up till midnight,’ had progressed to, ‘Lemme stay up?’ by nine, ‘Lemme stay?’ by ten, finally reduced to a heart-rending, ‘Stay?’ at eleven – by which time she’d already fallen asleep twice.

  ‘Of course you can, darling,’ Imo had repeated, ignoring Alex’s mouthed �
��Running away.’ What did he know? Quite a lot apparently.

  The Consequences had been to amuse Daisy when they all tired of Jenga and TV. Adjective, noun, verb, adjective, object noun, adverb and so on, first having to explain to Daisy, ‘It’s a doing word, darling,’ and, ‘A describing word; it’s a word that tells you something about a thing and how a thing is doing something.’ Clear as mud.

  Daisy fell asleep (again) and Alex opened another bottle of wine, although the champagne thoughtfully provided by Jude – who had no doubt been feeling guilty and expecting Imo to be drinking it alone – was staying cool in a bucket full of icy water. The Consequences became more risqué. A rampant lesbian seduced some huge mussels desperately … They must be on the same wavelength, Imo thought. And they became threaded through with conversation. It had been half an hour since the last one and the format had changed.

  ‘Talking to you is like…’ Alex began, reading the first line ‘… watching paint dry?’

  Imo giggled.

  ‘Well, what’s yours?’

  ‘If I’d met you when I was eighteen, I would have spent my time…’ she unfolded the paper ‘… drinking Buck’s Fizz?’

  He grabbed hold of her hand. ‘Talking to you is like drinking Buck’s Fizz,’ he insisted, looking both wild and serious at the same time. Imogen suddenly found it quite difficult to breathe. ‘Somehow you know that part of it’s gonna be good for you,’ he went on. ‘It might make you into a better person—’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ But Imogen found she was touched. Touched in the head probably, to believe it. ‘And the other part?’ She wasn’t sure she should even ask. But then, she wasn’t sure that she should have brought him here in the first place.

  ‘It’s fizzy, frothy, exciting.’ He drew her closer to him. Mandarin and sandalwood assailed her senses.

  ‘And it gets up your nose?’ she whispered.

  ‘Strangely, I’ve never had that problem with champagne.’ He held her face. Closer, closer. Mouths almost touching. Imo could feel the warmth of his skin, his face close to hers, his hands holding her still. Then …

  ‘Boom!’ The clock struck once, twice … They had left the radio on for Big Ben’s chimes.

  His mouth was only centimetres away, Imo closed her eyes and Daisy sprang, as if pre-programmed, into action. ‘Champagne,’ she demanded.

  Imo jumped. She couldn’t speak and her heart was hammering louder than Big Ben itself.

  ‘Ready and waiting.’ Shaking his head in disbelief, Alex did the honours, up-ended the bottle, sent the cork flying, gave the sleepy Daisy her own small glass.

  ‘To 2001,’ Imogen said with what she knew was hardly sparkling originality.

  ‘And to us.’ He spoke so softly that afterwards she wondered if he’d even said it.

  ‘God be with you,’ Daisy contributed. She took a gulp and almost choked.

  ‘Steady…’ Imogen slapped her gently on the back. ‘And now – bed.’

  ‘Already? Lemme stay…’

  ‘No.’ This time Alex and Imogen were united.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Imogen was back on the sofa next to Alex.

  ‘If you had met me when you were eighteen,’ he began, ‘what would you have done?’

  ‘Not a lot.’ Imogen felt relatively sober now that she had done the teeth and loo routine with Daisy. ‘You would’ve been a baby, for starters.’

  ‘I was always mature for my age.’

  ‘Not that mature.’

  He spread his hands. ‘So what’s a few years between friends?’

  A few years? Imo refrained from looking at his mouth. A decade, more like. Practically a generation. And friends were one thing, lovers something else again. Lovers … She shivered.

  ‘If it feels good…’ His voice was like a silk stole being draped over her senses. Imo could feel the tantalising touch of it. Help …

  He moved closer. Dangerous proximity. She could drown in mandarin and sandalwood, she thought. Dispense it into her bathwater and while away the hours. But in the meantime, his fingertips were doing something addictive to the nerve endings in the shoulder area.

  She glanced – briefly – at that mouth, and had a wild, fleeting urge to throw caution to the wind. He was right. What did it matter if he was a decade younger than she? What difference did it make that he was a bohemian artist who wanted to travel the world while she owned a flower shop in Chichester? So what if they’d boogied to different music and used different slang when they were teenagers? And was it really that important that he was her almost-step-daughter’s boyfriend?

  After a bottle of wine, it didn’t seem that important at all, Imo decided. She deserved to live a little. What were a few barriers in the high-barbed-wire obstacle course of life?

  She snuggled closer. ‘Oh, Alex…’

  Another sound broke the spell. This time it wasn’t the radio. It was the sound of a key in the door.

  * * *

  ‘How could you do that to me?’ They heard the plaintive cry from the hall. Definitely not Jude’s voice, Imo decided. Jude couldn’t be plaintive to save her life. A door slammed and once more Alex and Imogen moved apart.

  ‘Maybe I should be asking you that question,’ Jude snarled. ‘How the bloody hell could you take me to a dump full of crazy people – and on New Year’s Eve too?’

  That was more like it. Imogen knew Jude very well and she could almost feel the passion rising. Passion … Hers had been cut off in mid-flow, though their hands were still touching as if they couldn’t quite let go.

  ‘They’d better not wake up Daisy,’ Imo whispered. She raised her free hand and touched his face, tracing the line of his eyebrow, her thumb caressing his cheek.

  Alex caught her hand, kissed her fingers. ‘If they danced on her bed it wouldn’t wake up Daisy.’ They both smiled.

  ‘And with no booze, for Christ’s sake,’ Jude continued.

  No booze? Imogen chuckled. Gosh, no wonder she was angry.

  Irate, Jude-like footsteps thumped into the kitchen. ‘Where’s the bloody corkscrew?’ Her language had really gone down the pan tonight. Imogen coughed loudly to remind her that she and Mattie were not alone.

  ‘Oh, Imo, are you still here?’ she called, obviously sharing Alex’s view about the likelihood of Daisy waking. ‘I’ll be right in.’

  ‘But how could you say that?’ the plaintive voice reiterated.

  ‘What? Imo have you got the corkscrew?’ Jude called.

  ‘Yes.’ She found it on the floor next to two empty bottles of wine.

  ‘How could you say that the worst moment in your entire life was in that hall tonight when you discovered the only drink available was fucking camomile tea?’

  Imogen looked at Alex and Alex looked at Imogen. The silent laughter bubbled up within her and spread to him, until they were clutching one another for support.

  ‘Because it was fucking true!’ Jude was well away.

  ‘But it trivialised the whole purpose of the event, the cleansing, the expression…’

  ‘I don’t give a shit.’ Jude stomped into the sitting-room. ‘Something amusing you, Imo? Oh.’ She stopped in her tracks, eyes narrowing as she surveyed Alex.

  Imogen managed to regain some control, though tears were streaming down her cheeks. She introduced Alex without looking at him once. Instead, she smiled sympathetically at Mattie who looked exhausted. Jude – in her black and gold strapless dress – just looked angry, as only Jude could. From lilac eyes she was also giving Imo a look. A Who the hell is this, why didn’t you tell me about him and isn’t he rather young? look.

  ‘Good time?’ Imo asked, to distract her.

  ‘I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.’

  ‘Er … We’ll be off then.’

  ‘Hang on a sec.’ Jude looked torn between wanting to get both sloshed and Mattie into bed as soon as possible, and wanting to find out everything (and she always meant everything) about Alex.

  Imogen would not give her the
opportunity to choose. ‘I’m exhausted.’ She yawned very loudly. ‘Sorry, Jude, gotta go.’

  * * *

  They walked back through the wide pedestrianised streets of Chichester city centre, past the pubs that had now closed up for the night, past Market Cross which was lit up, the stone almost yellow, the light gusting up the centre of the edifice and providing an illuminated background to its small spires. Gangs of people were still clustered around it, in front of the clock face that now showed almost one a.m.

  They walked on arm in arm past County Hall. Talking, laughing, stopping every few minutes to kiss, until they reached the City Wall, until they turned into Imogen’s street, along and up the drive that led to the cottage. She felt about sixteen.

  She had strung fairy lights outside. They lit up the greenery of the clematis and Virginia creeper that wound and interwove their separate ways up to the roof of the cottage and beyond. Until they became one. ‘I’m mad,’ she said as she opened the front door.

  ‘But I still like you,’ Alex reassured her, shutting it firmly behind him.

  And he must have. Because before ten minutes had elapsed, they were in bed. And she was loving every last bit of what was happening to her there.

  Chapter 21

  Vanessa was humming to herself as she put her key in the lock. It had been a pleasant – not to say illuminating – New Year’s Day. ‘Only me,’ she sang out. ‘Imogen, darling?’

  Noises from upstairs. Muffled and surprised and hurried noises from upstairs. Vanessa sniffed and raised a delicate eyebrow. Well, well, well. She knew those kind of noises. She moved through the hall past the telephone table, noted the coats hung carelessly over the banister. The cottage seemed different.

  ‘Mother…’ As Vanessa stood at the bottom of the stairs, Imogen appeared on the landing, looking what could best be described as déshabillé. She was barefoot, wearing only her towelling robe, her hair was tangled around her shoulders and her colour was high.

  Vanessa smiled. About time. ‘Am I interrupting something?’ she asked mildly, taking off her own red coat and cashmere scarf.