by Ros Carne
Her son was fixing her with his big eyes, ‘So, you’re always on at me for keeping silent. But I don’t have secrets like that. It’s true, isn’t it? The guy’s married.’
Mel would lie no longer. ‘I’ve been seeing Paul, yes. He’s married, yes. And no, he’s not leaving his wife if that’s what you were wondering. And yes, I’ve decided to stop seeing him.’
Had she? This was not the first time she had made such a decision, only to respond with humiliating alacrity to Paul’s pleading after a break of a few weeks when he called to say he missed her.
A son could never understand how the mother he relied on might need support of her own. She could not explain to Jacob how Claude’s departure had floored her. How difficult it had been to pull herself upright, to have the confidence to start meeting other men. How none of them had been right. How introducing another man into their flat felt like a travesty. How she could never trust they would not hurt her or Jacob. How being with Paul, keeping that part of her life separate, enabled her to feel safe with her son. Paul would never be a step-father, would never intrude on the most important person in her life who was standing in front of her now with a cracked heart.
But there was something she needed to know.
‘So, did she just come out with it? I mean you don’t even know Natasha. You never met her before.’
‘Not really.’
‘What does “not really” mean?’
‘Mum, if I tell you, promise me you won’t ask me any more questions.’
The music upstairs had stopped, and now there was only the occasional rumble of a tube train deep below them. City nights were full of growls and rumbles.
‘Jacob, I can’t promise anything like that. But you don’t have to answer everything. Just tell me what you can.’
‘OK.’
He paused and his expression softened. He spoke slowly, haltingly and she could sense the mingled relief and awkwardness of his unburdening. ‘Me and…’ He paused again. ‘Natasha’s got another name. Lola. Me and Lola. We’ve been Facebook friends.’
Lola? A Facebook friend? It was one shock too many. All she could say was, ‘I thought you didn’t use Facebook.’
‘I don’t. Mostly. But I’ve got a profile. Everyone has. That’s how she found me.’
So, she had looked for him. Why? And what made him respond?
‘And she just asked to be your friend? Out of the blue?’
Like most people she knew, Mel had toyed with Facebook for a while, until she became bored with the exotic holidays and ranting political pronouncements of people she would barely class as acquaintances. Scrolling Facebook could send you to sleep on a wakeful night. But did any sane person actually look for friendship there?
‘More or less,’
‘And you accepted? You didn’t even know this Lola!’
‘Like you said, Mum, I don’t have to answer everything.’
‘But what did she say? What did she want?’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s stupid. I’ve no idea why she contacted me. Maybe it was a coincidence.’
‘That’s absurd. How could it be?
‘Or, like, maybe she was curious.’ He was speaking faster now. ‘Or maybe she was pissed off with you. I don’t know, Mum, and I don’t care and I don’t want to talk about it. OK?’
His expression was fierce and she knew he would not back down. Instead it was she who backed down.
‘OK. I get it. I won’t ask you more now. It’s late anyway. I’m going to bed. We’re both too tired. We’ll talk tomorrow evening after court. Thank you for being so open with me.’
It sounded strange and formal. He nodded. The blazing eyes looked calmer now. His body was no longer poised for action.
‘There’s one thing, Mum.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t want you saying anything. To anyone. Especially not Lola… Natasha…, whoever she is.’
‘You haven’t told me much. Did she ask to meet? What did you talk about?’
‘Please, Mum. It’s private. Like, I know it was stupid. I was messing around.’
‘She wasn’t. She deliberately targeted you.’
‘Yeah maybe, but I don’t want it coming out. I don’t want you winding her up.’
‘What did she make you do, Jacob?’
He looked like he was about to explode. ‘Nothing. You’ve got to promise, Mum.’
‘How can I promise when I don’t know what I’m promising?’
He walked out without answering. She heard the tap running in the bathroom as he cleaned his teeth. Minutes later she followed and, after another too long day, went to her room and climbed into her pyjamas. It was then she remembered she hadn’t mentioned Meet the Stars. Perhaps Jacob would go alone. He was still on police bail, but no one seemed to be checking up on him and there was nothing to stop him travelling down to south London for an evening.
For half an hour she lay listening to an audiobook to calm her mind. It was only when something jolted her awake that she realised she had drifted off. She pulled herself out of bed. She needed one more look at him.
The LED glimmered red at the side of his computer screen. He was in bed, asleep, curled on his side beneath the duvet, facing the wall. As she drew close she could hear his breathing, soft and regular. She placed a kiss lightly on the top of his head. His hair felt silky on her lips. He stirred but did not wake.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Natasha
It only took a bit of googling to find out the details she’d missed. It was a fundraising event for the local theatre group and Isabel Goddard had star billing. Luke took a little persuading.
‘Not my thing.’
‘Come on, Luke. When do we ever go out?’
‘It’s a week night.’
He was finishing the Sudoku in his free newspaper. ‘Wake up, buddy. You sound about fifty years old. Get living. It’ll be fun.’
The entrance hall was bleak and unpromising with brutalist concrete walls and a small corner table serving as a ticket office. Drinks were sold over a kitchen counter in plastic glasses which could be taken into the show. Luke bought a fruit juice for Natasha and a beer for himself and carried them into the auditorium. And now expectations were raised. The walls were adorned with blown up photographs of the stars in their former glory, the spaces between them adorned with satin drapes.
Soundtracks to the old soaps were playing on a loop. A huge screen took up most of the stage, while in front of it, to one side, a red velvet armchair and a long sofa were strategically placed. Natasha and Luke edged their way down an aisle packed with grey-haired women in their sixties and seventies and beyond, interspersed with a few ancient men.
‘Not your usual scene, Tash,’ muttered Luke.
‘Just wait,’ she whispered, surprised by the degree of her excitement. The soaring orchestra was a memory jogger for the twice weekly fix that had lifted her out of the gloom of her early teenage years. She owned several box sets but this was taking her passion to another level. The sound system was brilliant, a cascade of strings taking her back fifteen years, filling her body with thrilling apprehension.
And not just the music, not just the big screen, but the chance to see her idol in the flesh. So what if the rest of the audience were forty years older? Canada Row had been special and still was.
She hadn’t explained the connection with her pupil supervisor whom Luke simply knew as Mel. And indeed, Mel was far from her mind as Natasha sat waiting for the lights to go down. It was Darcy Black she had come to see. Darcy with her brilliant repartee, her effortless charm, her ruthless ambition, had been a role model to the young Natasha. There was one moment when she wondered if Mel would turn up to see her mother, whether Jacob would saunter in. Too bad if they did. It was a public event. She had every right to be here. And having Luke beside her was a reassurance. Gentle soul as he was, she knew he would lay down his life for her if necessary.
The presenter introduced himself, cracked
a few lame jokes, and promised them a night of nostalgic wonder. The lights went down, the music soared again, and they were into Canada Row. Immediately Natasha was back in the glittering world of cut-throat fashion. The designers, the buyers, the models, the financiers and directors. It was dated of course, a pre-internet dream of retail success. But the struggle for the top, the ruthless pursuit of money and fame were as timeless as ever. And through it all strode Darcy Black, arch manipulator, trampling her male admirers, outshining all the women.
The clips were of the most famous encounters. Natasha was relieved they didn’t show the terrifying episode when Darcy got killed in a car accident. But when the lights went up and Isabel Goddard walked in, Natasha’s first reaction was disappointment. How old she looked. Her long-sleeved purple suit would once have been a glamourous outfit, but its flowing lines were now slack on the shrunken body. However, disappointment faded as Isabel Goddard moved slowly across the stage. She trembled a little, the old swagger was gone, but the gait was stately, the presence undeniable. Isabel had the indestructible majesty of a true star.
And as she sat down on the sofa, head high, back straight, legs crossed, as she smiled to the audience, Darcy Black was reborn.
Natasha glanced at Luke who was staring into space. Not his thing.
The content of the interview was unremarkable. Yet Isabel was riveting. It was not what she said, but the way she said it. The deep tones, the full-throated consonants and purring vowels, the perfectly timed pauses. She used her hands with graceful emphasis and, from her seat near the front, Natasha could make out sparks of colour as the spotlights caught the precious stones on the rings that adorned her idol’s long thin fingers.
‘Tell us more about those amazing costumes,’ urged the presenter.
‘In Canada Row we lived and breathed elegance,’ replied Isabel. ‘Do I mourn the decline of true sophistication? Of course I do. It’s a concept that seems of little interest to the young these days.’ She paused and looked out across the audience. ‘With notable exceptions of course.’ Then she smiled. Was it Natasha’s imagination or was that smile aimed at her? Impossible. From the brightly lit stage Isabel wouldn’t be able to see Natasha’s perfect French plait, nor the neat blue dress that matched tonight’s azure eyes.
When Isabel spoke of the car accident which ended Darcy’s career Natasha was sure she could detect a tear.
‘Shall we sneak off?’ asked Luke when the presenter introduced the next clips. ‘You’re not interested in these other two are you?’
‘No, but I want Isabel Goddard’s autograph. And he’ll give her the last word. You’ll see. We have to stay.’
Luke didn’t complain. Natasha suspected he was amused by what he saw as her childish enthusiasms. Well, she put up with his football and political protests.
Isabel was sitting on the sofa, smiling blandly as other actors joined her, a villain from EastEnders, a beloved matriarch from a Liverpool soap which Natasha had not bothered to watch. The smile didn’t falter. Yet it never failed to appear genuine. There was nothing obviously fixed or false. Isabel Goddard was a true professional.
* * *
‘It may sound daft to you,’ Natasha whispered to Luke as they waited at the stage door. ‘But this show kept me alive. It’s like my life was totally grey. And there was this flash of scarlet and gold twice a week.’
Other fans were standing by, programmes ready, pens poised.
Isabel emerged, her purple outfit hidden under a light summer coat of mauve silk. A matching scarf was draped loosely around her long neck. Natasha waited for the others to have their programmes signed. She would go last. That way they might linger.
‘Who shall I say it’s to?’ asked Isabel in her warm contralto.
‘Natasha.’
‘That’s a pretty name,’ said Isabel. Leaning against the edge of the stage door, her writing hand a little shaky, she wrote: To Natasha, with kind regards Isabel Goddard.
They hovered at the door a little longer. Isabel’s glance darted from side to side as if she were looking for someone.
‘I was expecting my daughter to come. She said she might be late, but I hoped she’d be here by now.’
‘She’ll be sorry to have missed it,’ said Natasha.
‘Can we give you a lift anywhere?’ asked Luke.
Darling Luke. He was brilliant.
‘Please don’t trouble yourselves. I’m sure I can find a taxi,’ said Isabel.
‘Oh, you can’t rely on taxis,’ said Natasha quickly. ‘You could wait all night. We’ll give you a lift.’
‘That’s very kind. But I don’t want you to go out of your way.’
‘No problem at all,’ said Luke. ‘We’d be happy to help. Where do you need to get to?’
Her Luke. So tactful. Not even, ‘Where do you live?’ but ‘Where do you need to get to?’ As if Isabel were spending the night in a hotel with a youthful lover. The old lady’s anxious expression melted as she took in Luke’s movie star looks, his cool assurance.
‘How very kind.’
‘I’ll get the car. You wait with Tash.’
They waited at the back of the building. Isabel was easy to talk to. All Natasha had to do was tell her how much she had enjoyed the show, how she had watch Canada Row as a child, and she was unstoppable. Natasha asked about her fellow actors, her co-star. There was so much to tell. When Natasha admired the purple outfit, Isabel told her she had a near complete set of costumes in her house.
‘I’m thinking of organising an exhibition,’ she announced.
‘That sounds amazing!’
When Luke turned up with the car, Natasha suggested sitting in the back with Isabel so they could carry on chatting. Luke was happy to act as taxi driver and they set off for Dulwich. He asked for Isabel’s address and tapped it into Google maps.
Natasha had to hold back telling Luke where to stop as he drove slowly around the crescent looking for the house. Isabel herself seemed uncertain, but eventually she told him to pull up outside the unlit dark house with the overgrown garden. It was some distance to the nearest street light and remembering the state of the garden Natasha was worried Isabel might trip over in the dark.
‘I’ll see you to the door,’ said Natasha. ‘There’s a light on my phone.’
As they approached the house, Isabel’s confidence appeared to falter. For the past few hours she had relived her years as Darcy Black. Natasha could sense that the role of Isabel Goddard might be much harder to play. The woman was a curious mixture of confidence and vagary. Natasha held her arm as they negotiated the narrow path to the front door and there was momentary panic as Isabel tried to locate her key in the bottom of her handbag. Natasha decided that if she got to know her better she would suggest tying the key to one of the zips with a long piece of string. It was such a simple tip she was surprised Mel hadn’t suggested it. At the sudden thought of Mel, she felt a surge of rage. Not only had this cheating woman gone out of her way to make trouble for Natasha, she clearly neglected her mother. She hadn’t even bothered to come to her show. As for Jacob, he obviously couldn’t care less.
The key was found. The door pushed open. It was time to say goodbye, always a difficult moment. Natasha was thinking about the possible costume exhibition. Might she offer to help? Just as she was wondering what to say, she felt the touch of Isabel’s hand on her arm. The long thin fingers felt cold. Two lovely rings glittered in the hard, artificial light of Natasha’s mobile phone.
‘Come and see me. Any time,’ Isabel’s voice was breathy, a stage whisper.
‘Oh thank you. That would be lovely.’
‘You might like to look at the rest of the costumes.’
‘Please. And I could help you sort them out. When should I come?’ Work was busy but she could always find an afternoon or evening.
‘Whenever you like, dear. I’m always here.’
Natasha wondered about a phone number, but it wasn’t offered. Isabel was of a generation when people simp
ly called at the front door. Well, she would do just that.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Mel
The trial went well. To Mel’s amazement and her solicitor’s delight, her client was acquitted. Her advocacy had never been better, and she strode out of Canterbury Court Centre at 5:30 p.m. with a light heart. If she took the fast train she might make it in time for Isabel’s performance. But on reaching the station, the platform indicator informed her there would be delays on all London trains. Her train, when it arrived, was more than twenty minutes late and when they pulled into Clapham Junction it was already half an hour past the show’s start time. Mel could visualise her mother’s sour expression as her unreliable daughter walked in. It was not what she needed after a brutally early start and a long and draining session in court.
What she did need was to be home with Jacob. Preferably on the sofa with a large glass of red. They needed to talk. She remained on the train until they reached Victoria and jumped on the tube.
Music thrummed out from the kitchen as she entered the flat. Jacob was sitting at the kitchen table staring at his laptop, a packet of biscuits on the side. The room was filled with the sticky aroma of supermarket pizza.
‘Hi, Mum. I’ve been waiting for you.’ A wave of appreciation washed over her. He had bothered to read her texts about the train delays, had taken the initiative and put the pizza in the oven himself, even remembering to lower the temperature to stop it burning.
‘You’re a star,’ she said. At the word ‘star’ she realised she had forgotten to tell him about Gran’s comeback. When she told him now, he laughed and said he reckoned Gran would slay any audience. He promised to go and visit her soon. There was a lightness in his tone, but as Mel caught his eye he looked quickly away.
He stood up and put cutlery and plates on a tray, still not looking at her. Yet he was here, he was safe, and he had thought of her. That was enough. Usually Mel would insist on salad or at least something green on the side, but tonight she wouldn’t criticise. She opened the tap on the wine box. So much cheaper than bottles and no waste. Jacob was still hooked on Coca Cola. No amount of sugar seemed to add an extra pound to his long thin body. But as she filled her glass he opened the fridge and took out a can of beer. She couldn’t remember buying it. Did his pocket money stretch to alcohol? He had mentioned a couple of older friends. Might they have bought it for him? She decided not to say anything. The last thing she wanted now was an argument about underage drinking. If he wanted alcohol he would get it somehow. At least he was home. A can of beer wouldn’t kill him.