Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Anna Cheska

  ‘Mmm.’ Imogen didn’t have to look at her to sense the girl’s small smile. ‘I’ve seen him since he got back, of course.’

  Of course. The tap continued to gush. The watering can filled, overflowed, and still Imogen stood there, as rooted as one of her perennials.

  ‘Hadn’t you better turn it off?’ Marisa swished over and twisted the tap.

  Imogen blinked. First Tiffany and now her – both trying to flood the shop.

  ‘Something the matter?’ Marisa asked. She unzipped the cream fleece to reveal a matching sweater of soft lambswool.

  ‘No, nothing. I was miles away.’ Imogen wished she was. ‘I was dreaming.’ Yes, dreaming of a better life. One in which people were honest and men had values. Where women had no right to look as good as Marisa Gibb and still get the man, damn it.

  She began a tour of the shop, providing fresh water for her flowers. Anything to keep moving. Alex had seen Marisa since he’d been back, that was all she could think. Before or after she’d gone to bed with him? Did it matter? Yes, actually. It mattered a lot.

  She straightened. ‘Why are you here?’ It was time to be direct with this girl. Edward’s daughter she might be, but with or without Alex, there could be nothing between them. Imo didn’t want there to be anything between them. She didn’t even like her.

  ‘Because I like you,’ Marisa said.

  Oh, hell.

  ‘As soon as I met you…’

  Imogen gulped. This wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. And it was certainly not what she wanted to hear. She repressed a twinge of guilt. She’d never considered herself a boyfriend snatcher, particularly when it was from someone sixteen years her junior and beautiful to boot. But it hadn’t been, had it, a case of snatching? More – as Jude had hinted – a one-night stand.

  ‘I sensed a sort of bond between us.’ She flicked back her strawberry-blonde hair.

  ‘You did?’ Imogen sat down on the chair next to the counter. Was that the sort of bond that meant they liked the same things, the same men? she wondered.

  Marisa nodded. ‘My mother and I…’ Her voice trailed away. ‘We don’t get on.’

  Imogen considered this. She could see that this girl had problems that had never been resolved, and having heard the story, could even understand some of her bitterness. But despite everything Imo had been drawn to her husband’s mistress and found herself disliking their daughter.

  ‘She’s allowed us to be left with nothing,’ Marisa continued.

  ‘Nothing?’ Imo tried to focus on the meaning behind the words, the emotions under the cool exterior. She got to her feet and began tidying the counter. Anything to keep busy. To stop thinking, though that was impossible.

  ‘So although it’s been awful for you too…’

  Imo watched her warily. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Finding out about me and my mother. Missing my father…’

  ‘Yes?’ Imogen frowned. Was it so heartless of her to find comfort in the arms of another man when she’d only buried her husband a month ago? Was it so heartless when she’d found something that Edward had never been able to give her in ten years of marriage? Oh, Alex …

  ‘And although everything of my father’s is yours by right…’

  ‘Yes?’ Imo braced herself, knowing there was more to come.

  ‘I’m not asking for money.’ Marisa paused. ‘What I want more than money, more than you’d imagine possible…’ she smiled ‘… as I said to Alex only this morning, is for you and me to be friends.’

  * * *

  ‘A wig?’

  Vanessa flinched. Hazel obviously didn’t realise how well her voice carried. It must be all that rehearsing for the Gershwin show that had made projection an unconscious part of her daily routine. The elderly ladies and the middle-aged man all looked curiously around in the direction of Hazel’s black hat. Even the fifty-something’s eyes flickered.

  ‘Or a hair extension,’ Vanessa whispered. ‘Jude must have…’

  ‘Judith…’ Hazel spoke sternly ‘… is never coming near my hair again.’

  Vanessa realised that this was like a jigsaw puzzle to which she needed all the pieces to comprehend the whole. ‘Can’t you just tell Giorgio about the hair gaffe?’ she asked Hazel. ‘Have a bit of a laugh about it?’

  ‘A bit of a laugh?’

  Vanessa sought the sanctuary of her tea-cup. So Hazel and her Italian couldn’t even laugh together? Inwardly, she despaired. Why did she keep up with Hazel? Was it simply force of habit? She was fond of her but never ceased to marvel at her priorities. ‘Still, it’s only a holiday.’ She wondered whether or not to say what she’d like to say. In the end, she couldn’t resist. ‘And it’ll grow out.’

  Hazel glared at her as she swallowed a mouthful of eclair. ‘It’s not only a holiday. It’s more of a…’ She fiddled with her teaspoon. ‘A reluctant sojourn.’

  Vanessa had never seen her look so embarrassed. ‘Don’t you want to go to Italy?’

  Hazel pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘It’s not Italy I object to,’ she said. ‘It’s what Giorgio will want to do in Italy.’ She sighed. ‘Italians are very hot-blooded, you know. It must be all that sun.’

  ‘Ah.’ Vanessa considered this. ‘Has he proposed? Why didn’t you say? We could have gone to a restaurant and had champagne.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘The proposal was not one of marriage.’ Hazel seemed to be struggling to recover her poise.

  Vanessa smiled, took a sip of her tea and placed the cup carefully back in the saucer. First Imogen, now Hazel. ‘Then what was it? Nights of passion on Lake Garda? A naughty weekend in Venice?’ Hardly Hazel’s style, she thought.

  Hazel gave a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Hardly. But one has to move with the times. Perhaps marriage is a touch outdated. What do you think?’

  What Vanessa thought was that she didn’t believe her. And sure enough Hazel’s expression was wistful as she glanced down at the third finger of her left hand. ‘He said he had a little something for me,’ she said. ‘I had hoped … nothing gaudy, a solitaire perhaps. You know where you are with a solitaire.’

  ‘Perhaps that will come in time,’ Vanessa soothed.

  Hazel did not seem convinced. ‘He told me that Italy is perfect for lovers,’ she said, as though that settled it. ‘I could see the meaning in his eyes.’

  The waitress – dressed in black with a frilly white apron, red lips and a big smile – brought another eclair. Vanessa thanked her, removed some surplus cream with her little finger and licked it off. ‘You could just let yourself go and think of Italy.’

  Hazel frowned. ‘It’s dangerous to do any such thing without the security of knowing one is looked after,’ she said.

  ‘Is it?’ Vanessa raised an eyebrow.

  Hazel wasn’t the most sensitive of women, but even she seemed to catch a whiff of disapproval. ‘I don’t have a lot,’ she reminded Vanessa. She wiped her mouth with her ivory linen napkin. ‘And I can’t afford feminist ideals. I’m not in a position to pick and choose.’

  Vanessa refrained from saying that one could always pick and choose. That when you lost the ability to do that, you may as well lie down and die. But she understood now about the hair. It was all so – thank God – different from her relationship with Ralph.

  She bit into her eclair, enjoying the texture of the pastry as it gave way to thick cream. How refreshing not to have to pretend, she thought again. Ralph had seen her during some bad times, and yet he still wanted to spend time with her, he still found her interesting. Tom had always been the one for him, they both knew that, but he would be happier with Vanessa. There would be no angst, no jealousy or frustration. He even loved her in his own way. Not with passion, but Vanessa had experienced her fill of that. The time had come for something more stable, more lasting, more reliable.

  ‘Though of course…’ Hazel was still speaking ‘… who knows what the future will hold?’ Once more she projected with ease
and the middle-aged man on the table next to them cleared his throat, as if about to tell them.

  ‘And is it a flying visit to Italy?’ Vanessa pressed.

  ‘It might be longer.’

  If Hazel were to play her cards right. Vanessa nodded as another piece of the jigsaw fell into place. ‘How did Jude take it?’

  Hazel became very interested in the teapot. ‘More tea?’

  ‘No, thank you. Well, Hazel?’

  ‘I haven’t exactly told her yet,’ Hazel muttered, refolding her napkin into its neat rectangle and placing it by her cup and saucer.

  Vanessa had thought as much. ‘And when exactly are you planning to go?’

  Hazel brightened. ‘After the show.’ Her eyes grew soft. ‘“The man I love…”’

  ‘Giorgio?’

  ‘Gershwin.’ Hazel looked over Vanessa’s shoulder into a land no doubt peopled only by Gershwin and Giorgio. ‘Giorgio wouldn’t leave before the show’s finished its run.’

  Vanessa sighed. She made it sound like the West End. ‘You must let me have some tickets. I’ll bring Imogen along.’ Amateur dramatics, operatics, musical comedy had, after all, been Vanessa’s scheme in the first place. Though she’d had no idea Hazel would get so involved, let alone meet the man of her dreams and be whisked off to hot nights of passion in Italy.

  ‘You’ll be here then? Not zooming off somewhere?’ Hazel sounded as excited as a girl at the prospect of this show of hers. A spot of pink appeared in each cheek.

  ‘Not zooming off at all. My zooming days are over. I’m settling down.’

  ‘Really?’

  Vanessa shrugged. ‘After a few days in its company the zebra is only a donkey with stripes, darling. And when you’ve seen one mosque, you’ve seen them all.’ Of course it wasn’t as simple as that. She was tired. Her eye no longer as fresh as it once was. There was her health to consider, too, and wasn’t travel writing best left to those who were seeing something for the first time? Sometimes she felt so jaded. As if she’d not only seen it all, but from every blessed angle.

  But Hazel had the scent in her nostrils. ‘Settling down with Imogen, you mean?’

  ‘No. With Ralph. You remember him?’

  ‘Goodness.’ Hazel looked her up and down as though wondering how anyone who didn’t bother with foundation on a regular basis could possibly have found herself a man. ‘You too?’ She began humming ‘Love Is Here to Stay’.

  Really, Vanessa thought, the sooner this Gershwin show was over, the better.

  ‘Do you love him?’

  Women the world over, Vanessa concluded, would always ask the same question. ‘He’s very special,’ she told Hazel. Would she understand? ‘And he has always interested me.’ That was much more to the point. ‘It isn’t a sexual relationship…’

  ‘Lucky you,’ Hazel said with some feeling.

  ‘But not a dependent relationship either.’ How could dependence be a good thing, when it gave one a tendency to turn into Mrs Blobby? Vanessa had never been so glad in her life as she had been when Tom left Imogen enough money to become independent.

  ‘And have you told Imogen?’ Hazel teased, quite cheerful now.

  ‘Oh, yes. But she doesn’t need me.’

  The waitress brought their bill and Vanessa scanned it briefly before reaching for her purse. ‘My treat,’ she said, as she always did.

  ‘Is it your turn? Well, thank you, dear,’ Hazel said as she always did. She collected her things together. ‘But as for Imogen, I met her young man, you know, dear. And he’s very young.’

  Vanessa shrugged. She had wondered how long it would take Hazel to get round to that subject. But who cared how old he was? ‘If he’s enough for her,’ she said firmly, ‘that’s all that matters.’

  * * *

  ‘Friends?’ Imogen repeated in a daze. How could they be friends? And this morning? Marisa had seen Alex this morning?

  ‘Alex wasn’t so sure…’

  ‘This morning?’ she repeated. No wonder he wasn’t sure.

  ‘He didn’t want me to come and see you.’

  I bet he didn’t, Imo thought. The rat. Playing one off against the other. Pretending it was for real.

  ‘He said you’d probably tell me where to go.’

  Imogen drew herself up to her full height and looked Marisa straight in the eye. ‘But you came anyway?’

  ‘I persuaded him…’ the expression in Marisa’s green eyes left her in no doubt of the kind of persuasion involved. ‘… that you were the perfect person to confide in.’ She beamed.

  ‘Confide in?’ If Alex had been around, Imogen would have throttled him. He had touched her more than she’d thought possible. And now this. Marisa wanted to confide in her. Marisa! Her almost-step-daughter. The girl whose boyfriend she had gone to bed with. It was all ridiculous. Whatever the confidence was, she didn’t want to hear it. But Imo couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t say a word. If she opened her mouth – other than to play Miss Echo – she would say it, she would tell Marisa what she’d done. But if she really concentrated … ‘I’m not the right person,’ she said. ‘I’m not a nice person—’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want a nice person.’ Marisa grabbed her arm. ‘The thing Alex had to tell his parents…’ They were so close now, Imo could feel the softness of the cream fleece as it brushed against her skin. And she could smell her perfume. Crisp and dry. Not the vegetable oil but Estée Lauder.

  ‘… is that I’m pregnant,’ Marisa said.

  Chapter 25

  The next couple of hours passed in a blur for Imogen. She switched on the answerphone and was tempted to close the shop. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t admit defeat.

  Alex left two messages that she erased immediately. The sound of his voice gave her a play back that she’d better start erasing too. Only she couldn’t erase the longing. She sorted her flowers, checked tomorrow’s orders, swept the floor three times and paced it more like twenty. What did Alex think he was doing? Didn’t he realise he had a pregnant girlfriend? Didn’t he know that this changed everything?

  And then Tiffany turned up. It was four o’clock. She sloped in, dressed in black bootleg jeans and a ribbed polo-neck that made her look more skinny than ever.

  ‘Recovered, have you?’ Imo snapped. Any more acid and she’d be nicknamed Vinegar Features.

  ‘I’m blatantly sorry, Imo,’ Tiffany said forlornly, twiddling her nose hoop. ‘For getting so out of it, I mean.’

  Apart from red eyes and smudged make-up, she didn’t look too much the worse for wear, Imogen thought. She stood the broom up against the far wall and folded her arms. ‘I found the plants,’ she said. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’ Cocaine hidden in the plant food perhaps, ecstasy tabs hoarded in the bottom drawer under the counter?

  ‘Warren dumped me.’ From Tiffany’s expression it was at least the end of the world.

  ‘Good riddance,’ Imogen said tartly. She stalked to the sink, rinsed out the cloth and turned to wipe the counter. She knew about being dumped. She’d been dumped practically before she’d been taken on – in a manner of speaking. Alex might keep calling but having a pregnant girlfriend in the background didn’t help his bachelor nice-guy image. And besides her sympathy levels were at an all-time low.

  ‘I know you never liked him.’ Tiffany shrugged and stretched in one typically teenage movement that lifted the polo-neck and revealed her jet black belly stud.

  Imogen shuddered. Nails, noses, belly buttons, what next? ‘He was an animal.’ She decided to start packing up. She’d had enough for today. Grabbing her mist spray, she began on the carnations in the corner. Warren was bad news. For all of them as it had turned out.

  ‘It was his idea, you know? To plant the seeds.’

  Imogen could see she’d have to explain in words of one syllable. ‘I don’t doubt it, Tiffany.’ She adopted her responsible, I am an employer face, though she wanted to go home, get drunk and scream – not necessarily in that order. ‘But I employed you, not
Warren. I trusted you, not Warren. You had a responsibility to me.’ She misted the roses and freesias.

  ‘And I blew it.’

  Imo nodded. ‘End of story, OK? I’m not calling the police,’ she wouldn’t have the energy, ‘and Jude’s got rid of the stuff.’ She rolled her eyes. God, she sounded like a character out of Police 999.

  ‘Got rid of it? What, all of it?’ Tiffany’s eyes became saucers. ‘You mean…?’

  ‘Chucked it out, not smoked it. Yes, the whole lot.’ She didn’t care if Tiffany’s high-as-a-kite routine had been due to losing Warren, an attempt to get back at him or an experiment she intended to repeat. It didn’t matter now. She liked Tiffany, but the girl had let her down.

  To Imogen’s surprise, Tiffany giggled. ‘Warren’ll go ballistic. He said he was coming for the rest of the gear tomorrow.’

  ‘Warren can go to hell.’ Imo was surprising herself. She slammed the mist spray back on the counter. Assertive? She was verging on the aggressive. She might want to burst into tears, but they would be powerful tears.

  ‘Are you OK, Imo?’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine.’ She pinged open the till and started cashing up. It had been a quiet day – in some ways. ‘And if he says anything to you about it – anything at all – you can tell him to have it out with me. I’ll deal with him, no problem.’ And, yes, right now she felt that she could deal with anything.

  The phone rang. The answerphone picked up. ‘Imo?’

  Anything except Alex. She sighed.

  ‘You’re not at home. You’re not at the shop. Have you gone into hiding? Don’t. And call me.’

  Tiffany’s eyes became dinner plates.

  ‘Anything else you forgot to tell me?’ Imogen asked her, pretending she hadn’t heard the message. How could a man’s voice keep giving you goose-bumps, she wondered, even when he had become King Rat?

  Tiffany shook her blonde and pink head. ‘So I’m fired then?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’ Already Imo half-regretted it. Then she caught a flash of Tiffany’s studded tongue as she yawned. It was all too much. And this was the best way. ‘You’ll be finishing school soon anyway.’ Though God knows she was hardly ever there. ‘What are you going to do after that? Not work in a florist’s, surely?’