Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Anna Cheska

  ‘Art college if I can get in.’ Tiffany surveyed the kingfisher tattoo on her arm. ‘They do everything. Body painting, textiles, the lot.’

  Art college … Alex. ‘And nudes,’ Imo added. Was everything from this moment on going to remind her of him?

  ‘Well, yeah.’ Tiffany looked confused – as well she might.

  Imo stuck out her hand. ‘No hard feelings, Tiffany? Keep in touch.’

  ‘No hard feelings, Imo. You did what you had to do.’

  Police 999 had moved seamlessly into The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. They shook on it and Tiffany headed for the door, tattoos, multiple body piercing and all.

  Imo sighed. She would miss her. Tiffany was sparky and fun. OK, she was also a liability. And a criminal, if you wanted to be picky. But Say It With Flowers would be a duller place without her.

  In the doorway, she turned. ‘You’re blatantly right about Warren,’ she said. ‘He is an animal. Well shot, aren’t I?’

  Imogen smiled. ‘Blatantly.’ Tiffany would learn. Maybe she already had.

  ‘And good luck with that guy with the nice bum.’ She nodded towards the phone.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’d recognise that voice anywhere.’ She gave Imogen an admiring look. ‘Who would have thought it, eh? All that time I spent here with you and I never realised you were such a fast worker.’

  * * *

  ‘A Slow Delicious Screw with a side twist, please,’ Jude said to the young hunk behind the bar.

  ‘Certainly, madam.’ He threw ice into a tall cocktail glass and began with vodka.

  ‘Honestly…’ Jude threw a despairing look at the man in trendy baggies and loose dark jacket by her side.

  ‘The names they think of,’ he agreed. ‘I’m Philip, by the way.’

  She knew; she had recognised the rolled-up Independent, so much more subtle than a carnation. ‘Jude.’ Though she had to admit, few would recognise her tonight. She was wearing a plain black top and long skirt. Her hair was light brown (she’d washed out all the remaining colour mousse yesterday), its normal length (two inches below the ears) and brushed lightly back from her face. And that face … well, apart from a light dusting with powder foundation and a slick of mascara and lip gloss, it was naked. Even her eyes were pale blue, though she had drawn the line at specs. For Forty-five but looks younger, great sense of humour and average IQ as described on her tape, she had laid herself bare. Testing out some of Imo’s theories perhaps? Beauty is as beauty does? Could someone love her for herself alone?

  ‘What do you do?’ he asked her. ‘You said you were a career woman.’

  Jude watched the barman deposit the side twist of lemon on the rim of her sugar-frosted glass. ‘I own a beauty salon.’

  ‘Really?’ He seemed surprised.

  Understandably, Jude thought, considering her appearance tonight.

  ‘That must be, er, fascinating.’

  ‘Mmm, it is rather. I have themes,’ she elaborated. ‘A kind of thought for the day.’ It had originally been intended to attract passing trade, but over the months had become a joke between her and Imo. Every time Imogen visited the beauty shop she tried to dream up a new one for next time. And she hadn’t run out yet.

  As Jude had expected, he was interested in this. ‘What’s today’s?’

  She smiled at him and took a tentative sip. Not bad. This place was flashy and overpriced, nothing but chrome, glass and black imitation leather, but what the hell? Sometimes a girl had to slum it. ‘Is your skin falling apart?’ she asked him.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘That’s today’s thought.’

  ‘Ah.’ He twirled his umbrella cocktail stick. ‘Skin damage. I see.’

  Jude nodded gravely. She’d known from the moment she first spotted him at the bar that he’d be on her wavelength.

  ‘Bad diet perhaps?’

  ‘Or lack of sleep.’

  ‘Emotional stress,’ he contributed.

  ‘Sensitive? Dry? Oily?’

  ‘Mine can’t seem to make up its mind.’ He retrieved an ice cube and crunched noisily. ‘So what’s your professional opinion?’

  Jude peered more closely at his face. ‘Nothing aggressive,’ she said. ‘A gentle facial perhaps. I do a special. First aid for faces.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ he said.

  ‘Here, I’ll give you my card.’ She thrust a hand into her bag. ‘Ring me.’

  ‘I will.’ He smiled as if he’d made a friend for life. ‘Another Slow Delicious Screw?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ A girl could have too much of a good thing. Jude slid down from the bar stool. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’

  Sometimes, Jude reflected, you just knew it wouldn’t work out. She leaned closer to him for a second as he helped her with her coat. He smelt of citrus with an undertone of pear. He was taller than she and his blond hair was immaculately layered, gelled and slicked away from his face. But: ‘I’d cut down on the bronze highlighter and eyebrow tinting if I were you,’ she whispered in his ear.

  Ah, well. Life was full of such ironies.

  * * *

  Outside Say It With Flowers it was mild, damp and already dark, though South Street was illuminated by street lamps, pubs, cafés and clubs, not to mention the Christmas lights that were still up, Imogen noted. She took huge gulps of air. She was suffocating – at least on the inside. Her blood was pumping, her heart was thumping and she couldn’t breathe. Was this heartache? Was this a panic attack? Was this merely the severe stress that followed a romantic interlude?

  Pulling her black, woollen coat more tightly around her, she loitered briefly outside The Green Man. A drink would be nice but it was only 5.15 – forty-five minutes before her personal watershed – and anyway, she didn’t much like drinking alone.

  ‘Are you all right, Imogen?’ It was a gentle voice.

  She spun around. Naomi Gibb. The entire family was haunting her today. ‘I’m fine. You?’

  ‘I’m fine too.’ Equally a lie and Naomi’s faint self-parody of a smile acknowledged it as such. In truth she looked pretty terrible. Her face was washed free of colour, her pale ginger hair was lank, and her eyes were red-rimmed and sad. Edward … could he have inspired all this? Imo wondered.

  She made a sudden decision. ‘I was just about to go in here for a drink. Would you join me?’ She wanted to talk some more with this woman. She felt a rapport with her, sympathy, and to her surprise no hint of jealousy.

  ‘Well…’ Naomi glanced at her watch.

  ‘Please?’ Imogen took her arm. To hell with watersheds. She was being power-woman today, wasn’t she? ‘I need a drink. Don’t make me go in there on my own.’

  Naomi made no further protest and together they walked in. The Green Man was one of Chichester’s small, rather arty wine bars. The decor was predominantly purple, the furniture old pine. Tonight it was, as Imo would have predicted, very quiet.

  ‘Have you had a bad day?’ Naomi asked.

  ‘The worst.’ Imo considered telling her, but thought better of it. She could hardly mention Alex, and Naomi might well be shocked at the cannabis story. Imogen was shocked at the cannabis story.

  So she played almost-safe. ‘I saw Marisa,’ she said when they had taken off their coats and were seated in a small alcove nursing a big glass of red wine (Imo) and a small shandy (Naomi). ‘She came into the shop.’

  ‘Oh?’ Naomi fiddled with the sleeve of her bottle-green cardigan.

  ‘She’s looking…’ Imogen hesitated ‘… well.’

  Naomi’s glance was a perceptive one. ‘You know then?’

  ‘Know?’

  ‘That she’s pregnant.’

  Didn’t she just? Imogen ran her finger round the top of the wine glass. All right, she had been angling for information, though she wasn’t exactly sure what. But it struck her that very little would get past Naomi Gibb. There was a lot more to her than she’d thought. Had Edward seen that? She supposed that he must have.

 
‘Is she pleased?’ Imogen asked.

  ‘Oh, my dear, like a cat that’s got the cream.’

  Imogen looked up in surprise. And yet Naomi was right. That was exactly how Marisa had seemed. ‘But surely it wasn’t planned?’ she blurted.

  Naomi sipped her shandy and eyed Imogen thoughtfully. ‘Not by Alex, I’m sure. I’m certain that he wants something quite different.’

  A rush of heat began in Imogen’s toes and – inch by inch – suffused the rest of her body. She shifted in her seat. They could do with some air conditioning in this place.

  ‘But let me tell you something about my Marisa. There isn’t a single thing she does that isn’t planned.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You might think me disloyal?’

  ‘No.’ Imogen sipped her wine. She strongly suspected that Marisa would drive anyone to disloyalty – even her own mother.

  ‘But she is a law unto herself. Always has been. And sometimes…’ Naomi’s voice faltered ‘… sometimes she frightens me.’

  Imogen frowned. So Marisa had decided to have Alex’s baby. Oh, Alex … ‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Does she love him?’ It was odd, she thought, that it seemed so natural to be having this conversation with Naomi Gibb.

  Naomi shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know about love. But she wants to marry him.’

  ‘I see.’ But it was so old-fashioned. Heavens … Imo would have thought the concept of the baby trap to have gone out with the advent of the contraceptive pill. And why did Marisa want to marry him anyway? He had no money so it must be love. This time she gulped her wine.

  Naomi seemed to be reading her mind. ‘Getting yourself pregnant can still be an effective way of getting a man,’ she said. ‘Guilt is a powerful weapon. And not usually connected with love.’

  ‘I know.’ Imo didn’t need lessons on guilt. But Alex … She was bewildered. He had told her that it was over with Marisa, a message that was a million miles away from the one Marisa was sending. A thought occurred to her. ‘D’you think she’s told Alex she’s pregnant?’ she asked Naomi. The words tipped out in one breathless shovel-full.

  Naomi nodded. ‘I thought so.’

  ‘So she has?’ Imogen was desolate.

  ‘No, my dear.’ Naomi patted her hand. ‘I don’t know if she’s told Alex. What I meant was … I rather got the impression that you and Alex had become … friends?’

  Imogen stared at her. What on earth must she think? ‘How?’ she whispered.

  ‘When you were with us on Christmas Eve. I thought I was imagining things – it was rather a dramatic evening, to say the least.’ She looked down at her lap. ‘But sometimes you sense a spark…’

  Imogen nodded. There had been a spark all right.

  ‘Then you left together. Marisa didn’t like it. And…’ she smiled ‘… you’re not terribly good at hiding your feelings, my dear.’

  Imogen thought of Jude. I can read you like a book. ‘There was something. Or I thought there was.’ She forced herself to be brisk. ‘But it doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’

  ‘What matters is Marisa and the…’ she swallowed hard, ‘… the baby.’ She thought of the papers at home. Bank statements. Money. Her own feeling of guilt about this woman. And now there would be a child too. Another one. ‘I’ve been thinking, I know it must be hard for you to manage without…’

  Naomi raised her eyebrows. ‘Edward’s money?’

  ‘Well, yes. And so, to be blunt…’ Imogen took a deep breath ‘… I’d like to go on paying your mortgage.’ There, she’d said it. It wasn’t so hard. Jude would create but this had nothing to do with her. This had to do with Imogen’s sense of responsibility, with doing what Edward would have wished.

  For the first time tonight, Naomi seemed flustered. ‘Oh, no,’ she said quickly. ‘I couldn’t possibly let you do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It isn’t right.’

  ‘But I want to.’ Imogen wasn’t giving up that easily.

  ‘Because of Marisa’s baby?’ Naomi shook her head. ‘No, no. She’s brought it on herself. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Not because of Marisa’s baby,’ Imo told her. Though she had to admit that was part of it. ‘Because of Marisa. She’s his daughter. He neglected her enough as it was. So this is what Edward would have wanted.’ She had thought long and hard about it – even before Marisa’s bombshell. This was what Imo had to do to make things right.

  Naomi laid her hands flat on the table in front of her. ‘I don’t think I ever knew,’ she said, ‘what Edward wanted.’

  Imogen smiled. ‘Me neither.’ A tidy life, she had thought once.

  ‘No, I can’t let you do this.’ Naomi was firm, stubborn even. ‘And you mustn’t mention it again.’ She finished her drink. ‘Let me get you another.’

  Pride, Imo thought. How could she get round that one? Ah, well, one more drink and then … what the hell? She’d take a taxi home and collect the car tomorrow.

  When Naomi returned from the bar, the atmosphere between them seemed to lighten, and Imo found herself telling her about Tiffany and the marijuana plants. They both laughed, Naomi told her a few stories about Marisa as a teenager, and Imo began warming to her even more. Naomi, she discovered, wasn’t as shockable as she’d first appeared. Already they seemed almost friends. What would Edward say, she wondered, if he were looking down on them? It would, she supposed, surprise anyone, and yet Imo didn’t care. She would take friendship wherever she found it. And no one could say they had nothing in common …

  ‘So I’ve lost my assistant,’ she said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind one ear. ‘I’ll have to advertise, I suppose. Jude says stick a card in the window, but I need more than a schoolgirl.’ The shop was gradually getting busier, and without a full-time assistant she had no time for the part of the job she liked best: the planting of seeds and cuttings, the creation of wreaths and wedding bouquets that were, she hoped, that little bit different.

  ‘I’m sure lots of people would love to work in a flower shop,’ Naomi said.

  Inspiration struck Imogen between the eyes. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Oh.’ Naomi blinked. ‘Yes, but I wasn’t trying to—’

  ‘I know. But you have to admit, it’s a great idea. We get on. I like you. You like flowers.’

  ‘Edward…’

  ‘He’s gone,’ Imogen said firmly. ‘You should be practical. We both should. You need a job. I need an assistant.’

  Naomi clapped her hands together. ‘I’d love to work for you.’ She beamed.

  ‘With me,’ Imogen corrected. She’d cracked it. She’d had another idea. Red wine, she decided, must be good for her creative juices.

  ‘Well, yes, with you, of course…’

  ‘As a partner.’

  Imo could see Naomi was about to object again, so she rattled on. ‘I’m not saying there’s much money in it but you won’t need to put any in either. And it’s some security at least.’ She glanced at Naomi. No, that wasn’t enough. ‘I need more than an assistant,’ she explained. ‘What I really want is someone to share the responsibility with, someone to understand, someone who can take over when I need a holiday. I need…’ she grabbed Naomi’s hands ‘… you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She still seemed doubtful.

  ‘Never been surer.’ It was the perfect solution for them both, she felt. ‘Besides,’ she said, tongue very firmly in cheek. ‘it’ll keep Edward happy, knowing we’re looking after each other.’

  * * *

  An hour later, back at home, the telephone rang and the answerphone picked up. ‘Imogen?’ Alex … again.

  Fortified by the wine, she grabbed the receiver. ‘You know Marisa’s pregnant?’ she said into it.

  She put it down before he could reply. If he hadn’t known before, he knew now.

  And as she’d expected he didn’t ring again that night.

  Chapter 26

  She wouldn’t let Alex say goodbye.

>   Marisa stretched out her feet until coral-varnished toenails were almost touching the bedroom wall. This conviction had been drumming in her head since yesterday. All night it had hovered on the edge of her dream-consciousness, a frayed refrain of: I won’t let Alex say goodbye.

  Since she’d rung his doorbell and seen it in his eyes … the goodbye look … Marisa allowed her gaze to drift around her bedroom. Her mother had given her the biggest and best room when they’d moved in, talked about young people needing space in which to breathe, feel free in. But Marisa didn’t feel free, only hemmed in by this lifestyle to which she’d never believed she belonged. But now – the goodbye look?

  She got out of bed, stared out of the big bay window that looked out on to Chestnut Close, wrapping her arms around herself though the heating was up high. Someone had sung about that once. Not someone from now but someone from the sixties or seventies, her mother’s era. It was so frustrating, she thought, watching the postman swing a leg over his bicycle, pedal off down the street, that so many of those crap lyrics and naff tunes from some bygone year had stayed in her head – jumping into voice every now and then as though her mother had force fed her from cradle on.

  And so she had in a way, Marisa recalled. The transistor radio had always been playing until Marisa had got so bored with it, she’d flung it in the sink one day, smiling as some prat of a DJ (they might be presenters now, but on the stations her mother tuned in to they would always be DJs) lost his voice at last.

  Of course, Naomi had said nothing, merely replaced it with an updated model – twin speakers but still tranny in nature, Marisa thought, with a curl of the lip. Her mother had never blamed, merely excused her actions. The single parent, only child, thing.

  Anyway, Marisa had rung Alex’s doorbell, waited an age for him to let her in. And seen it in his eyes … The goodbye look. But maybe she’d seen it before that, because it wasn’t unexpected when it came.

  And she wouldn’t let him do it. This was her script, her meticulous planning. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that someone had stepped in. So when had they stepped in and why? And more to the point, who?