Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Anna Cheska

  Imogen leaned closer. ‘What’s up?’ Jude had been very quiet tonight. All three of them were, by agreement, dressed up to the nines, but Jude – blonde hair in a French plait and sporting a slinky black dress with deep side slits and a low neckline – did not seem in the mood.

  ‘It just hit me.’ Jude sighed as the house lights went down, the red curtain opened and black and white images of the Gershwin brothers (Ira the lyricist seated at a bridge table; George the composer at his piano) were projected on to the white backdrop.

  Hazel appeared on stage with two other women. A different Hazel – seeming taller, more elegant and striking in her long sparkly frock and stage make-up. And copper-coloured hair, Imogen observed.

  The orchestra struck up Rhapsody In Blue, the saxophone drawling out its first bluesy notes.

  ‘What hit you?’ Imogen hissed.

  ‘I’m about to lose my mother.’

  In a way, they both were. Imogen reached out and squeezed Jude’s hand. Their mothers had succeeded where they had failed. Was that a sign that they should stay single until they hit sixty? Despite herself, Imogen smiled as Hazel began to sing.

  * * *

  ‘It’s time we had a chat.’ The door to Marisa’s room had been open and Naomi was in a determined mood.

  ‘Not now.’ Marisa was seated at her dressing table. She gave her strawberry-blonde hair a last brush and surveyed the effect. ‘Alex is coming round.’

  Ah, Alex. And what had been resolved? Naomi wondered. ‘Is he going to marry you?’

  Marisa shot her one of her looks, its derision not in the least diluted by its being a mere reflection. ‘I only said he was coming round.’ She laughed softly.

  ‘Marisa…’ Naomi tried again. This was her daughter, it was her duty to try. ‘Do you love him?’ As she spoke, she placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Love?’ Marisa was staring into the mirror as if transfixed by the sight of her own face. ‘He’s right for me – that’s all I know.’

  Right for her? She knew nothing. It was there in her expression – Naomi could see it as she watched her. Marisa was a butterfly, a flitter. Maybe she wasn’t even capable of love. Some people weren’t. They loved themselves too much for even the smallest sacrifice.

  ‘I don’t want you to do something you can’t live with. Something you’ll regret.’ She wasn’t sure if she meant the baby, Alex, the other thing (she couldn’t think too much about the other thing – Marisa’s work, of which she knew so little), or all three.

  ‘Oh, don’t you?’ Marisa’s scorn radiated from her reflection once more.

  She had learnt to be oh-so-scornful at an early age, as Naomi knew to her cost. She persisted. ‘I don’t want you to be unhappy, to make a mistake…’

  ‘Like you did?’

  Naomi had to move, had to get away from her. She walked to the bay window, tweaked the curtain, looked out into the darkness outside. The moon was almost full, there were street lamps on Chestnut Close, houses lit with cheerful squares of brightness. Although the night sky was now clear, it had been raining and the road shone. No clues there. Naomi turned. ‘Of course I’ve made mistakes.’ The sharpness of it surprised even her. ‘I’ve never pretended that I haven’t.’ And Marisa had made damn sure to point out any she’d missed. ‘It’s called learning from experience. And I want to—’

  ‘Give me the benefit?’

  How could she compete with such scorn? Naomi sighed.

  ‘Save it.’ Marisa turned her attention back to her reflection.

  As Naomi wandered back past her, she caught a sight of herself in the mirror: brown dress, ginger hair, pale complexion, a study in middle-age. Nothing to offer, her daughter must think. Strange how their roles had reversed over the years, how the child eager to please – but had Marisa ever been that? she wondered – had become she who must be obeyed.

  ‘Please yourself,’ she said. Because it was pointless. And because she would anyway. Naomi had no authority; it had drained away under the onslaught of teenage years, teenage rebellion, teenage confidence that had never died. And yet she still loved her daughter. Mothers always did.

  ‘Oh, I will.’

  Naomi’s eyes narrowed. She made her voice brisk. ‘And there’s something else.’ She told her about the partnership. It had been simmering away inside her, the pleasure of it. It felt like the right thing to do.

  ‘You’re going into partnership?’ Marisa had turned from the mirror. She was giving Naomi the whole force of her darkest look. ‘With Imogen West?’

  ‘I thought you liked her?’ Naomi couldn’t resist that. Well, Marisa had used Imogen’s looks, Imogen’s status, Imogen’s youth to taunt her since Christmas Eve. No wonder he married her. I mean, just look at her.

  Marisa’s lip curled. ‘I like her money.’ So matter-of-fact, so damned pragmatic. ‘But I hate everything else about her. And now you’ve let her insinuate herself into our lives, we’ll never be able to get away from her. She’ll always be there, always be—’

  ‘Part of my life,’ Naomi corrected.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My life.’ She too could separate herself. ‘And that’s what I want.’

  ‘Tell her to stuff it.’

  For the first time Naomi noticed a hunted look about her daughter, and for the first time she felt no need to protect her. ‘I will not.’ She needed this. This was her chance to make some changes in her life.

  ‘What did you say?’ Marisa, she knew, was not used to being contradicted.

  The doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be Alex,’ Naomi said. ‘I’ll tell him you’re just coming, shall I?’

  As she went downstairs to open the door, Naomi felt free. It was a good feeling. If she were twenty years younger she’d slide down the banister, she really would. She could love Marisa, she realised, and not be responsible for her. She could let her go and watch from a distance. She could let her learn for herself.

  Naomi opened the door. ‘Don’t let her bully you,’ she said to Alex’s surprised face. ‘She will, you know.’

  Marisa tripped down the stairs, all honey and cream but with a small frown of worry on her brow.

  Did she recognise a turning point when it slapped her in the face? Ah, well … Naomi left them to it. Their life. She had her own to think of now.

  * * *

  In the interval, Jude and Imo made a dash for the bar while Vanessa found a table.

  All of a sudden, Imo felt Jude’s body stiffen beside her.

  ‘Miss Lomax. Hello.’ Some tall, dour, broad-shouldered stranger was giving Jude the full force of his piercing dark eyes. And from their expression he rather appreciated what he saw.

  ‘Mr Dean.’ Jude was equally formal. Until she added, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  The man raised one dark and bushy eyebrow. He too was dressed up, in a dark charcoal suit and pale grey shirt, enlivened by the splash of colour that was his scarlet tie. ‘The same as you, I imagine,’ he said dryly.

  ‘Hmph.’ Jude tried to squeeze past him but he stayed with her. ‘Well, my mother’s in the play, you know.’ She turned to Imogen. ‘What d’you think of it so far?’

  ‘It’s great. Hazel is really good.’ Imogen could see Jude was proud. Hell, even she felt proud.

  ‘She certainly is,’ the stranger – who was clearly no stranger, Imo thought – agreed. ‘She was a strong voice. Carries well.’

  ‘Must be all that practice she’s been putting in.’ Jude, Imo sensed, was softening. ‘Are you on your own? I suppose you could join us for a drink,’ she added ungraciously.

  The man almost smiled, but not quite. However, Imo would swear those eyes warmed up a bit and the mouth definitely twitched. ‘I should have been delighted,’ he said, ‘but I’m with a friend.’ From his expression, Imo concluded he didn’t want the friend to see them, or didn’t want them to see the friend.

  ‘Oh, I bet you are,’ Jude snapped back, with what Imo considered to be unnecessary acidity. ‘I think I spotted
you both the other day in town.’ She squeezed further into the crush at the bar, not giving the poor man a chance to reply, magically got served, and when Imogen turned around again, the mystery man had melted into the background.

  Imogen nudged her sharply in the ribs. ‘What’s going on? Who was that?’ She had never seen Jude quite so offish.

  ‘My landlord,’ she hissed. ‘Can you see who he’s with? I don’t want him to know I’m looking.’

  Curiouser and curiouser. Imogen craned to see, but the man had disappeared. ‘No sign of him,’ she told Jude.

  She pretended indifference. ‘You’d never have guessed Ma was capable of it, would you, from all those sessions in the shower, hmm?’ She grabbed their drinks, green eyes still looking from left to right. ‘“Stairway to Paradise” was brill.’

  It was true. Imogen agreed that the number that had closed the first act, with all the singers dressed in black climbing a silver staircase, had looked like something out of Broadway. Trident Musical Comedy Society had done themselves proud. ‘And what did you think of Giorgio?’

  ‘A bit like Gershwin.’ Jude grinned and handed Imo her wine and Vanessa’s gin and tonic. ‘Very slick, very dapper, very sure of himself.’

  ‘A womaniser?’ Imo had never realised George Gershwin was such an interesting character. Yes, he was arrogant – apparently, as soon as he wrote a song, the first thing he did was show it off at a party. But there was also a melancholy side to this man who’d managed to make the transition from popular songwriter to serious composer in such a short life. According to the programme, she saw that his Porgy and Bess opera would come in the second half of the show. She found herself looking forward to it.

  ‘He might be,’ Jude conceded, leading the way towards the table Vanessa was saving for them. ‘But don’t worry, Imo. My mother can run rings round a man like him, no problem.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ They clashed glasses.

  Jude peered at her. ‘Have you seen him yet?’ she whispered before they joined Vanessa.

  Imo knew who she meant – and it wasn’t the landlord. She shook her head. She didn’t even want to think about it.

  ‘Can’t put it off forever, sweetie.’ Jude squeezed her arm. ‘I tell you what. When Mother’s taken herself off to the Land of Linguini, I’ll throw a shag party, just for you.’

  ‘You’ll throw a what?’ Jude was, Imo thought, getting more outrageous than ever.

  ‘A shag party. SHAG. Only men who conform are allowed to darken the doorway. Single, heterosexual and gorgeous. That’ll soon make you forget him.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ They joined Vanessa, and Imo handed over her mother’s gin and tonic. Forget him? Somehow, Imogen didn’t think it was going to be quite that easy.

  Chapter 28

  There was no physical contact between them at all as they walked down the street. Alex was struggling with his emotions, Marisa could tell. And he was angry. She pulled her fleece jacket closer around her as if it could protect her from more than the cold night. It was dangerous, she reminded herself, to care.

  ‘Is it true?’ he asked her.

  Marisa listened to the sound of her own footsteps on the pavement. So she’d told him then. Suspicions confirmed. Imogen West was the enemy – and her mother’s new business partner, it seemed. ‘Yes.’

  He exhaled as if he’d been waiting for this but she could see in the band of light from the street lamp that his face was clenched. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’

  As they approached the Market Cross, illuminated yellow in the darkness, its clock shining white as the moon, Marisa was only too aware that they weren’t walking in step. Far from it. There was an arm span between them. As usual, he was dressed in jeans and his battered leather jacket, hair curling around the collar. His step was long and ungainly – as if he had a lot of space he needed to cover; every few metres she had to half-run to catch up. ‘What would you have done?’ she taunted.

  ‘We could at least have discussed it.’

  ‘You haven’t been around,’ she reminded him coolly.

  Alex was silent as they approached the pub – one she knew was busy enough to be anonymous in. He marched up to the glass-fronted mahogany bar, ordered drinks, led the way to a far corner table.

  She began to breathe more easily. ‘I haven’t known for very long,’ she said softly, watching his hands as he lifted his glass, wondering what passed between the artist’s eye and those hands, and whatever he held – pencil, brush, charcoal. What it was that made the vital difference.

  ‘You knew yesterday.’

  ‘It wasn’t the right time,’ she said. ‘You were too busy talking about how things weren’t working out between us, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, well…’ He took a slug of the light frothy beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand almost viciously. ‘If I’d known…’

  ‘You know now.’

  He blinked straight back at her. ‘Are you sure it’s mine?’

  ‘Alex!’ She was surprised. For a moment she even thought he knew about the others. And then she realised it was one of those things that men said at these times. Some men at least. ‘I’m surprised at you, Alex,’ she said mildly, sipping her tomato juice. ‘Why on earth would I be having sex with anyone else?’ Because she did it for money, that was why. Or at least she did escort work which sometimes amounted to the same thing. But not any more. And why should he ever have to know?

  Alex only shrugged. ‘You’ve always made it clear that ours isn’t exactly a committed relationship. I was hardly expecting you to get pregnant.’

  Marisa smiled faintly. ‘Neither was I.’ In fact, she and contraception were old friends. It was easy with the mini-pill to take control – though of course she’d always used condoms with clients; they even found them sexy if you put them on the right way. It was funny, because she’d miss it. Not the condoms bit, the whole thing. She didn’t think of it as prostitution but as providing a service, selling a valuable commodity, taking control. And Shelley, at least, had always understood the appeal of that. But if you started to care, well, forget it, you could kiss control goodbye. Marisa had no intention of doing that again.

  Behind Alex, the bar with its low amber and green lighting, rush matting and lacquered mirrors was beginning to fill up with the theatre crowd. She spotted an occasional familiar face. A neighbour of theirs from Chestnut Close, the woman who ran The Goddess Without, and …

  She grabbed both of Alex’s hands. He looked surprised but didn’t withdraw. Perhaps she was holding him too tightly. Perhaps he realised that he owed her. ‘Think what it’s like for me, Alex,’ she urged. ‘Imagine how I felt when you told me to get lost the other night. With your baby growing inside me…’

  His expression changed. It grew softer and his blue eyes were kind. ‘I didn’t think. Sorry … I know it’s difficult for you too. But, Jesus!’ He looked pleading.

  What did he want her to do? Wave a magic wand and take the baby away? Marisa didn’t release his hands. And she didn’t look over towards the bar. She kept her gaze firmly fixed on his face. ‘You know now,’ she said again. The next move was his.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked at last – a little grudgingly under the circumstances, and sadly she noted the you.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to keep it.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  As a reaction to news of prospective fatherhood, it wasn’t ideal. Marisa sighed. There was still an awful lot of work to do.

  * * *

  ‘Stop it, Imo,’ Jude ordered as they entered the bar.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re humming “My Man’s Gone Now” from that Porgy and Bess sequence.’

  ‘Was I?’ Well, he had. And Imogen was beginning to wish she’d never met him. She had no desire whatever to go to a SHAG party (or any other party). She needed Alex. Edward had called her the Snow Queen once. It had hurt, the implication behind the words. But Alex … He’d unlocked her free
zer cabinet – she shivered – and surprise, surprise, the sell-by dates were within reach, just iced up a bit. And now that she was well and truly thawed – even HOT, God help her – her temperature simply wouldn’t go down. She felt as if her entire body were on hold, waiting for him, ready to dissolve into a squelchy puddle at his feet. This was worse than mixed metaphors. This was serious stuff.

  She woke up to the fact that Jude was standing right in front of her, blocking the bar. Not very sociable of her when a girl needed a drink. ‘What’re you doing?’ She looked kind of fierce too. Fierce and protective.

  ‘Alex,’ Jude said.

  Imogen got a pain as sharp and insistent as indigestion. ‘Yes?’ she squeaked.

  ‘Has he got messy dark brown hair and a tatty ginger-coloured leather jacket?’

  ‘Untidy hair,’ Imogen corrected. ‘And the jacket’s sort of golden tan.’ Wild hair. Ideal for running your fingers through sort of hair actually. ‘Why?’

  ‘Big mouth? Sort of lean and hungry-looking?’

  ‘Mmm, yes.’ Imo had heard enough. ‘Why?’ She pushed past her.

  ‘Because Marisa Gibb is sitting over in the corner,’ Jude hissed. ‘With a man. A man who…’

  A man who…? Imogen was past her before you could say baby boom. Her mouth went dry. Yes, it was Alex. And, ‘They’re holding hands,’ she said.

  * * *

  At five minutes past midnight, Imogen was in her nightshirt (big, baggy, unappealing and due for the wash) and halfway through cleaning her teeth, when the doorbell rang.

  She stood rooted to the white bathroom floor tiles, almost swallowed the toothpaste, spat, stared at herself in the mirror. Her face was white and greasy – thanks to soap and a large dollop from the tub of aloe vera moisturiser Jude had unloaded on her the other day. Her hair was damp and in that half-up, half-down state that looked as if she’d been dragged upstairs by it. And her eyes were red and pinched in their sockets. She looked about ninety and she had a spot. Worse, the only person she could think of who might ring the doorbell at midnight, was Alex.

  Hell’s bells. She couldn’t ignore it because her mother would eventually wake up and answer it anyway. But she couldn’t answer the door looking like this.