Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Anna Cheska

‘I have no idea what you mean.’ Imogen flounced away, shutting her bedroom door with a sharp click.

  Very well. If that was how she wanted to play it … Vanessa deposited her things in the understairs cupboard and went into the kitchen to make coffee. She’d bought Imogen a percolator in silent rebellion at the excuse for coffee she drank – how could anyone half-civilised not have one? But she knew that her daughter never used the thing. When Vanessa was out of the country it got tucked into a cupboard; the rest of the time it was left out to gather dust.

  This was an instant generation, Vanessa thought. And yes … the jar of instant was out, without a lid – Vanessa clicked her tongue as she screwed it back on – with a dirty teaspoon beside it. A small puddle of stale milk completed the tableau. Vanessa sighed. She herself had never been so overcome with lust that she couldn’t even make a decent cup of coffee at some point in the proceedings. But she supposed that this was a good sign.

  She went as far as the open doorway. ‘Coffee?’ she called up the stairs.

  More indeterminate noises.

  ‘Please,’ Imogen shouted down at last. ‘If you’re making some.’

  ‘One or two?’ And she wasn’t talking lumps of sugar. Vanessa tapped her foot on the kitchen’s quarry-tiled floor. It was a shame, she thought, that Imogen had always been so conventional. She took after Tom, of course.

  ‘Pardon?’

  She’d heard. Vanessa sighed. ‘One or two cups, darling?’

  ‘One,’ Imogen snapped. ‘Really, Mother.’

  Ah, well … She wasn’t to meet him then. Vanessa retreated and closed the kitchen door to allow her daughter to say goodbye to her visitor in private.

  It was all very well, she reflected, having a key to this cottage and coming and going as she did. But Imogen was far too old to have a mother interrupting her every move. Besides, Vanessa wasn’t cut out for the role. She rinsed a cloth and wiped the work surface clean of milk and coffee stains. What Ralph had said yesterday – with a certain look on his kind face that she hadn’t seen before – made a lot of sense. She had felt tired in India. Maybe she was getting too old for all this travelling, at least of the third-class variety. Maybe she should even have that check-up he’d nagged her about. She would still travel, of course, whenever the urge overtook her. But she would slow down.

  * * *

  Imogen came into the kitchen ten minutes later. By that time the coffee was poured and already cooling. ‘Why did you shut the door, Mother?’ she asked suspiciously. She looked charming – flushed skin, bright eyes, a bruised look to her mouth – far more beautiful than Edward had ever made her look, Vanessa observed. She had the feeling that at last her girl was finding her wings.

  ‘For the sake of privacy,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yours.’ She added milk to Imogen’s coffee.

  At this Imo crumpled rather. ‘How did you know?’ She sank down on to the nearest chair, her huge grey eyes desolate.

  Did she think her mother was born yesterday? Vanessa shook her head in despair. ‘It’s a question of atmosphere, darling,’ she said. ‘This cottage has acquired that lived in and loved in feeling all of a sudden. Very pleasant, actually.’

  ‘Mandarin and sandalwood,’ Imogen said, for no apparent reason. ‘I think I’ll take a bath.’ She cradled the mug in her hands, but instead of drinking, she sniffed, long and hard.

  ‘And talking of cottages…’ For there was no time like the present and Vanessa had made up her mind. ‘I’m thinking of buying a flat myself. Maybe in Brighton.’

  ‘Brighton?’ Imogen made it sound like a hot-bed of vice.

  ‘I’m going to cut down on all this rushing around,’ her mother said by way of explanation. ‘I think at long last I need a home rather more than I need a base.’ She wouldn’t mention tiredness and check-ups. No need to worry her daughter unduly.

  ‘You’d live alone?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, no,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve been propositioned – in a manner of speaking.’ She smiled, remembering that certain look of Ralph’s. She had never felt quite like this before. Ralph had always been special. She had thought it would never happen. And for it to happen now, after all these years … But why not? They had always got on well, shared similar interests and the same sense of humour. And he had always understood her. Why not indeed?

  ‘Propositioned?’

  ‘I’m going to share my home with a friend. A man friend. As a matter of fact, I’m going to live with Ralph Chambers.’

  * * *

  ‘Ralph Chambers?’ Imogen heard herself asking. She rose to her feet.

  ‘He’s always been very dear to me,’ Vanessa told her.

  That was no surprise to Imogen. ‘Do you love him?’ she asked. She was still immersed in the sensual pleasures of the night before, still feeling Alex, smelling him, loving him.

  ‘As much as I ever loved any man,’ Vanessa said, looking up at her. ‘More, in fact.’

  ‘I see.’ That hurt rather. What about her father – always Imogen’s rock, her stability? To distract herself, Imogen turned to search in the terracotta bread bucket for something that would pass as supper.

  ‘It’s not exactly what you think,’ Vanessa went on. ‘We love one another, yes, in a way…’

  Was there more than one way? After the night and day that Imogen had just made love through, it didn’t seem possible. There was only one, all-consuming way.

  ‘And although it’s a very creative and … energetic relationship—’

  Imogen pulled a face, not sure if even her own recent experience allowed her to dwell on images of her mother being energetic with a man. She sawed a slice of bread from the stale offering in front of her and chucked it in the toaster.

  ‘But actually he’s gay.’

  ‘Gay?’ That was something Imogen had never considered. She had, she realised, been way off beam. ‘You’re going to set up home with a man who’s gay?’

  Vanessa tucked her neat dark hair behind her ears. ‘Why not?’ She smiled almost dreamily. ‘Like I told you, darling, I love him.’

  The toast popped up and Imogen absent-mindedly removed it, spread butter and then jam, sat down opposite this amazing mother of hers. She had always, hadn’t she, loved to be different?

  ‘Have you known for a long time?’ she asked, mouth full.

  ‘No. He kept it very quiet until after your father died,’ Vanessa said. ‘It was a shock.’ She paused. ‘I always had a bit of a thing for Ralph.’

  ‘Did Dad know?’

  ‘About my feelings for Ralph?’

  ‘About him being gay.’ Imogen took another bite, suddenly realising she was ravenous.

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t suppose it occurred to Tom.’ Her mother seemed very cheerful all of a sudden. ‘Ralph is gay and unlikely to reform.’ She leaned over and poked her daughter in the ribs. ‘So don’t worry, darling,’ she said. ‘No hanky-panky to concern yourself about.’ Her smile was wicked. ‘That’s apart from your own, of course.’

  * * *

  A brand new year … Imogen selected some fern for the wreath she was preparing. Although it was Sunday, she’d decided to come in for a few hours because there was so much to do. She’d neglected the shop and she’d neglected Jude. Imogen wove the greenery around the paraphernalia that would, she hoped, hold everything in place. Jude had phoned at least four times yesterday. The first conversation ran:

  ‘What’s going on, Imo?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘No one.’ Sorry, Alex.

  ‘God, he’s not still there?’

  And he was.

  He was still there for the other three phone calls and still there until Vanessa had swanned in at five in the afternoon – what passed for breakfast, lunch and other things besides, having all been enjoyed in bed.

  And, ‘I think I’m falling in love with you,’ he had said at one point in the night or morning, Imo wasn’t sure, it had all blurred in
to glorious Technicolor oneness.

  Wow. ‘You can’t – it’s much too soon.’ But it didn’t feel too soon. And how could she stop that huge smile spreading through all her bits?

  ‘“Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,

  Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time”,’ Alex said, grinning all the while.

  ‘Gosh.’ No one had ever quoted John Donne to her before. And it was one of her favourite poems too. That had to be a good omen.

  But then her mother had shown up, and Alex had left Imogen with nothing but a warm glow of heat somewhere in her very core. And a super-sensitivity of touch, so that when she pulled on her silk underwear she felt a frisson of excitement, when her lambswool sweater brushed against her arm she felt a play-back of the last … oh-my-God, that was so good, and when she thought of Alex, she was lost completely. It was hard to retrieve any kind of reality. The only reality that she was interested in contained the man she’d had in her bed all night and all day.

  * * *

  Imogen jumped as the phone rang. She scrutinised the wreath with mounting horror – it looked more like a wedding bouquet. She’d have to start all over again. ‘Oh, hell.’

  She reached for the phone. ‘Say It With Flowers?’

  ‘Got you.’ It was Jude.

  Imogen laughed. ‘You got me yesterday – at least four times I seem to recall.’

  ‘Ah, but then you were otherwise engaged.’

  Imo flushed.

  ‘And I bet you’re blushing.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Jude laughed. ‘I presume this Alex chappie isn’t with you now?’

  ‘No.’ At the mention of his name she could feel herself getting hot and bothered again. This was insanity. This was wonderful. ‘Unfortunately not.’ She had a brief but hectic vision of deflowering in the greenhouse, and had to sit down rather abruptly.

  ‘Then stay there. Don’t move.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m coming right over.’

  Imogen laughed. ‘Okay.’ Jude was bound to get it out of her sooner or later.’ Besides, she couldn’t go on hugging it to herself like a special secret. If she didn’t tell someone soon, she would explode.

  Chapter 22

  Before heading off for Say It With Flowers with Daisy, Jude decided to pay Florrie a visit. She had only come home last night and Jude wanted to check she was OK.

  They found her clearing out her cupboards. ‘Spring cleaning,’ she told Jude. ‘Never too early to start.’

  Jude couldn’t pretend to agree. For her, too much housework was any housework, and this sitting-room of Florrie’s was so stuck in time, with its sepia photographs, delicate china ornaments and assorted paraphernalia cluttering every surface, that any kind of spring cleaning seemed impossible – unless Florrie was planning to sweep the whole lot into black bin bags.

  ‘Take it easy,’ she advised.

  ‘I’m bursting with energy.’ And Florrie certainly looked well. Her white hair was brushed and shining, her cheeks were pink and her faded blue eyes held the distinctive gleam of health. ‘I’ve been sitting around for days being waited on hand and foot as if I were an invalid.’ Carefully, she removed a wooden box from the shelf and wiped it lovingly with her duster. ‘And now I’m ready for action.’

  ‘Are these dressing-up clothes?’ Daisy had discovered a pile of garments on the bottom shelf. She held up a sparkling, black sequinned number, her eyes like dinner plates.

  ‘I can just see you in that, Florrie,’ Jude giggled. ‘And those,’ as a pair of high-heeled evening shoes were exposed to view.

  ‘Happy days.’ Florrie held the fabric of the dress close to her breast before passing it back to Daisy. ‘Try it on, dear. Anything you want from this pile is yours.’

  ‘Florrie,’ Jude remonstrated, ‘Daisy will trample all over your memories.’

  ‘Oh, no, dear.’ Florrie opened the wooden box to reveal a stack of shining grey metal balls. ‘Bagatelle,’ she murmured. ‘My memories are mine alone to trample on. These…’ she gestured towards the clothes, the carrier bags full of treasures she hadn’t even opened yet ‘… are just things. And if your Daisy can get some fun out of them, I’ll be content with that.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’ Jude watched her daughter struggle to get the sequinned dress over her head. It would look a picture with her orange joggers and lime-green trainers, she thought. ‘I’m going out this afternoon,’ she told Florrie. ‘So I wondered if I could get you anything? Tea, coffee, biscuits?’

  Florrie gave her a knowing look. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ she said. ‘But I’ve been well provided for. I’ll show you.’

  Intrigued, Jude followed her back into the kitchen. Florrie opened her old-fashioned larder door to reveal a hamper stacked with goodies. Bread and crackers, cheeses and jams, a bottle of sherry and tins of salmon, tuna, pineapple. Next to the hamper was a basket of fresh fruit.

  ‘Lovely.’ Florrie was certainly being looked after by someone, and Jude was thankful for that. If she knew who it was, she might contact them and warn them about James Dean and his plans to evict her poor neighbour. A picture of his dark, brooding face flew into her mind and she brushed it irritably away again with a mental broom. Cool, calculating, unsmiling. And then pretending to be concerned for Florrie’s welfare. Well, he needn’t think she was so easily fooled. ‘A Christmas present, was it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it was.’ Florrie turned away with an enigmatic smile.

  It was funny, Jude thought. Florrie could talk for hours about the old days – the dances she’d attended, the beaux whose attentions she’d enjoyed. But when it came to the here and now, she was surprisingly reticent.

  ‘Why don’t you leave Daisy with me for an hour or two?’ Florrie continued as they returned to the sitting-room.

  ‘Please?’ Daisy begged. ‘It’s magic in here.’ She had found the old bagatelle board and was rolling the shining metal balls with her fingertips.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Florrie drew her fawn cardigan closer around her thin shoulders. ‘And a bit later, I’ll make us some tea and toasted scones.’

  As Jude left, she heard the unmistakeable notes of Gershwin’s ‘Sweet Embraceable You’. Clearly, Hazel’s singing had sparked off some memories. What was she going to do with them all?

  * * *

  ‘Tiffany!’ Imogen hadn’t seen her assistant for a while. A long while. In fact she’d last spotted her heading purposefully towards the big greenhouse in order to restock the greenery in the shop. So where was the greenery?

  ‘Tiffany … Jude’s coming over. Can you look after the shop while I take a break?’ she hollered from the back door. No answer. No sign of her.

  With half an eye and ear still on the shop, Imogen ventured further outside and found her – lolling against the greenhouse door. ‘Tiffany?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Tiffany straightened – but slowly. And smiled. It was not, Imo thought, a sensible smile.

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you OK?’ How long had she been out here alone? This was what Alex was doing to her already, Imo thought, making her forget her responsibilities.

  Tiffany twirled a strand of bleached blonde hair around her little finger. ‘Er, yeah, I’m um…’ She didn’t seem sure what she was. But she did seem happy about it.

  Imogen peered at her more closely. Her pupils were dilated, her eyes bloodshot and her luminous pink lipstick smudged. ‘Tiffany, have you been doing something you shouldn’t?’

  ‘Nah! As if…’ With a sudden burst of energy, Tiffany headed back towards the shop. She was grinning from ear to ear. ‘You want me to look after things, yeah? That’s cool.’

  Imogen was having doubts. As she caught up with her, she sniffed. A sweet, smoky scent clung to her assistant’s Say It With Flowers overalls. ‘Have you been smoking?’

  ‘Smoking?’ Tiffany flushed, giggled, fiddled with her eyebrow hoop and went pale.

  ‘I thought you
didn’t – that’s all.’ But if she wanted a quick ciggie outside, that was fine. Only …

  ‘Um…’

  Young people today were so vague, so inarticulate. As Imogen shut the back door and hurried through, an awful thought occurred to her. Did that include Alex? He was pretty young – compared to her anyway. ‘These carnations need shifting and sorting,’ she said.

  ‘Shifting and sorting?’ For some reason, Tiffany seemed to find this hilarious.

  Imogen frowned. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Whaddya keep on asking me that for?’ Tiffany rolled her eyes and managed to stop grinning for about five seconds. ‘I’ve blatantly never felt better.’ She located a chocolate bar in her overall pocket. ‘A bit hungry p’raps.’ That was nothing new – Tiffany was always hungry.

  ‘And a bit unco-ordinated too.’ Imogen watched with concern as Tiffany – having demolished the chocolate bar in three bites – grabbed a vase and began filling it under the tap. Water splashed over her hands, her overalls and the shop floor. Tiffany smiled happily, rolling up her sleeves to reveal a flock of butterflies heading for a palm tree just above her elbow.

  Imogen wasn’t sure what to do next. The girl looked drunk, but how could she be? It was only midday, there was no tell-tale smell of alcohol on her breath and she didn’t appear to have a vodka bottle stashed about her person. So what exactly had she been up to?

  * * *

  It was one of those glorious, unclouded winter days that Jude loved. When the sky was brittle and blue, the wind sliced into you like a knife, and yet the sun continued to shine, drawing people out in their hundreds, she noted, to Chichester’s sales, to the restaurants and cafés that were doing a brisk lunchtime trade.

  She walked quickly, hands tucked in her coat pockets because she had forgotten her gloves, her new green and purple scarf wrapped around her neck, her feet cosy in her black suede ankle boots. She was about to cut through the Pallants to avoid the crowds when she glimpsed a face through the window of a restaurant. A Thai restaurant, she registered. James Dean.

  She lingered, watching him as he smiled at his companion. She was dark and pretty – young too. Jude bit her lip. His wife, maybe? But what was it to her? Nothing at all. Only, it wasn’t somehow the sort of place she’d envisaged him frequenting. Rather bohemian in fact.