Calendar Girl

by Stella Duffy

  Saz went to call while Caroline got dressed. She was just finishing the last doughnut when Saz came back.

  “I called the phone company and that’s OK, you’ll have a new number by the day after tomorrow – money’s on the hall table. And there’s a flight from JFK to Heathrow at six thirty this evening. So if you think you can get the photos done by then, I’ll book a seat.”

  “Just. They won’t be ready by the time you have to leave here, you’ll need to go early to pay for the ticket. I’ll come out to the airport with them, I should make it by about four.”

  “Good. Just one other thing and I’ll start packing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To make double sure that you get no hassle from Simon James, I’m going to leave him a ‘Dear John’ letter. Tell him I’m off travelling again or something.”

  “Thanks. I mean, I do want to get to know some New Yorkers but he’s not exactly top of my list of locals to get friendly with.”

  Saz put the envelope in a postbox at the airport. It was carefully worded and just crass enough to sound believable.

  Dear Simon,

  First of all let me apologize for not seeing you

  in person, but I honestly couldn’t bear to say

  goodbye. I’m so sorry last night ended the way

  it did. It was certainly something I’d been

  hoping for and I hope you had too. But I guess

  it just wasn’t meant to be. I haven’t been

  entirely honest with you Simon. To tell the

  truth I do have a boyfriend, but I let my

  attraction to you blind me to my

  responsibilities to him. Our relationship hasn’t

  been good for some time now and I guess I was

  just using you to see how I felt about him. Well,

  the truth is, that I’ve discovered I love him.

  There. I’ve said it. And I guess I owe that

  knowledge to you. I’m going back to him now to

  try to get things right. Thank you.

  With love,

  September.

  She’d wondered about the “with love” but decided he was probably arrogant enough to accept it at face value and it was certainly common for girls to leave without giving any notice at all.

  The Tannoy was just announcing the last boarding call for her flight to London when Caroline ran in. Saz grabbed the file Carrie held out to her.

  “Is this them? What took you so long?”

  “I had to wait ages to get into the darkroom.”

  “Thanks hon, you’ve been brilliant. Tell your dad that at least the photography course was worth his hard earned cash! Well sweetheart, it’s been great, but I’ve got to get

  “Wait!”

  “I can’t Carrie, I’m late already. Call me if you just have to tell me you now know you loved me all along.”

  “No, Saz. Wait! One of the photos.”

  “Didn’t it come out?”

  “Yes but …”

  “Well, what’s the problem then? Quick, I’m late.”

  “I know her!”

  “You know who?”

  “The girl in the photo –I mean not personally.”

  “Well what’s her name? Do you think she’s September?”

  “Hold on.”

  “I can’t. The bloody plane’s about to go. What’s her name for God’s sake?”

  “I don’t know her name. I only ever met her once for about five minutes. She knows Annie.”

  “Annie Cox?”

  “Yeah. She goes out with Maggie. You know, Annie’s friend Maggie. Maggie what’s-her-name. The stand-up.”

  “Stand-up? You mean Maggie Simpson?”

  “That’s it. She’s Maggie’s girlfriend. Your Simon James has got a photo of Maggie’s girlfriend.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Team sports

  Saz flew into Heathrow in the early morning and put the precious photos in her bag. She’d spent the past five hours staring at the one of September. Or at least the only September Caroline had recognised. She’d read the file notes – probably as fake as her own and then stared at the photo trying to get the answers from that. The photo was black and white so while she could see the short dark hair, the eye colour was less certain, that they were dark was obvious, but they could also have been hazel or even dark green. And anyway, just because Carrie recognised her didn’t mean that she was also John Clark’s September. She changed her money, damning “them” for charging so much commission and then made her way home by bus. Her flat, when she finally got home was freezing so, fully dressed and ignoring the insistent light of her answerphone, she climbed into bed and went to sleep, a last glance at all four Septembers arrayed against her dressing-table mirror.

  In the late morning when she woke, her first thought went to them. “OK girls, today’s the day! We’re going to have lunch with Mr John Clark.”

  She listened to her messages – three from her mother demanding to know where she was, one from Cassie wanting her to babysit again and one from Helen telling her that John Clark was as clean as a whistle from her point of view.

  “He’s exactly who he says he is Saz. One wife, two kids and no job.” Her faith in John Clark’s law abiding nature confirmed, she called him at his home number, hoping that Mrs Clark wouldn’t get to the phone first.

  “John Clark speaking.”

  “John, it’s Saz Martin.”

  “Oh … er …ah …”

  “Don’t worry, is your wife there? Just answer yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “OK, I’ll ask the questions. Any news from your end?”

  “No. No news at all.”

  “Right, well I’ve got a couple of photos I want you to have a look at. When can we meet?”

  “Today? I could meet you for lunch.”

  “Where we met before? How about two o’clock?”

  “Yes, that would be fine. I’ll see you then.”

  Saz put the phone down wondering just what lie he’d use for his wife and then with a heavy sigh called her mother.

  John Clark walked into the cafe looking even more tired than when Saz had last seen him. At first he didn’t recognise her because of the hair. And when he did he was more than a little taken aback – Saz realised she should have warned him that she’d be sitting there with the same blonde locks as his very own September. After they’d ordered coffee he sat down beside her. He was obviously worried.

  “It’s the money you see Ms Martin, I’m going to need it soon, I never expected the loan to be out this long. She said she’d only need the money for a couple of weeks – she expected to sort everything out.”

  “Have you told your wife?”

  “No, I don’t want to worry her.”

  “I would have thought just looking at you would worry her enough. Anyway, you don’t have to think about paying me for the time being.”

  “But what about your flight to New York?”

  “I made a little while I was there. Let me explain.”

  Saz told him about Calendar Girls, especially the part about the brown-eyed blondes but leaving out the more sordid details and presented him with the photos. He looked at all four of them quite closely and seemed about to dismiss the two with dark hair until, with a sharp intake of breath, he grabbed one of them and looked at it very closely.

  “This is it. This is her.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, see that scar?”

  “Where?”

  “A tiny scar just there, under her left eye.”

  “I can’t see anything.”

  “It is her. It’s there all right. That faint line just under her eye. I mean, I know she’s got dark hair in this photo – but it’s her. It’s a dog bite. The scar. She got it years ago. We used to joke about it. She loves dogs you see. And this time her dog was sleeping – she was only young – and she went up and cuddled it and it reared up and bit her. Right across the face. She was luc
ky not to lose an eye.”

  “And you used to joke about it?”

  “Let sleeping dogs lie. After she’d told me about the dog, that’s what she always used to say if I ever asked her anything she didn’t want to tell me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the scar before?”

  “Well, as you said yourself, you couldn’t really see it. Only once you knew it was there, and even then you’d have to look for it. I didn’t think it would help.”

  “I asked you to tell me everything.”

  “I’m sorry. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? Not now that you’ve found her? Did you meet her? Is she living in New York? Did you speak to her about me?”

  “Hold on. No, I didn’t meet her. I actually think she’s here in London. As it turns out, she may be the friend of a friend of a friend. I’m not sure yet, but if she is, then we should have this little mess cleared up within the week.”

  John Clark looked visibly relieved.

  “But I wouldn’t count on getting your money back John. Strikes me, that a girl who does secret part-time work as a very well-paid hostess might have some quite good reasons for getting rid of sixteen thousand pounds pretty damn fast.”

  “No, Ms Martin. It’ll be OK. Once I see her. Just give me a chance to talk to her.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Saz left the cafe wondering about the sort of man who could be so besotted as to believe the stories of this “September”. She decided that despite his grey exterior, John Clark must be possibly the most romantic man she knew. Or just plain stupid.

  That evening she rang Judith and Helen and Claire to invite them all for dinner the next night. Leaving messages on both phones she gave them little choice but to be there.

  “And like the loyal friends you are, you will cancel all previous engagements in order to eat my delicious food and hear about how I narrowly escaped death while breaking and entering in New York.”

  All three women turned up promptly at 8pm.

  Over the guacamole Saz filled them in on the basic details up until she went to New York. As she filled the taco shells she told them about Caroline. As she opened the third bottle of wine she told them about Calendar Girls. And how it feels to have a gun pointing at your head.

  Claire declared her completely mad and Helen and Judith put on WPC faces as they tut-tutted, but all three greedily grabbed the photo of “September” when Saz produced it. Unfortunately none of them knew Dolores and only Claire had seen Maggie Simpson performing “funnily enough, without her girlfriend”, so none of them could confirm Carrie’s belief. September’s true identity still unknown, they went back to discussing the events in New York.

  “And you believe it was good coke?”

  “Yes Jude. I do.”

  “And you’d really know?”

  “Well, I’d have a better idea than you! Remember the party we all went to in that really flash warehouse, a couple of years ago?”

  “In Camden?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t remember it, are you sure I was there?”

  “Yes Claire, you were there and the reason you probably don’t remember it is because someone there had some similarly “good” cocaine. I remember Helen and Jude both discreetly left the room.”

  “So we didn’t have to face the old ‘Oh no! My friends are taking drugs!’ dilemma.”

  “And left me to fry my brains. Right, I do remember now. Thanks a lot girls!”

  “But as I was saying, that was the best I’d ever had. The guy that had it couldn’t stop bragging about it. A soap star or something like that I think. Anyway, I gave the stuff in Simon James’ desk the barest whisk around my gums, because of course, now that I’m a fitness bunny, I don’t do anything as airhead as that – and believe me this was just as good, if not better. And there had to be eight or nine ounces, just sitting there, in an unlocked desk drawer.”

  “No wonder you didn’t put him to sleep for long.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “Open another bottle of wine and get detecting girl. Only a bit more carefully this time – I don’t fancy defending you in an American court when you get extradited for burglary.”

  Saz opened the wine and the four women formed a plan of action.

  “I’ll check out Mr James – I’m sure it’s not his real name but I’ll run it through and see what we can come up with.”

  “He might be James Simon, darling.”

  “Yeah, Jude, and he might be Andrew Lloyd Webber, we can but try.”

  “Now girls,” Claire butted in, seeing that the excess of alcohol was promoting a little inter-relationship rivalry, “I’ll call my friend who works in New York. She works for the city government and might have some access to building or ownership papers or whatever they have there. It’ll probably cost you though. America’s supposed to be the land of perfect civil liberties – unless of course you can afford to buy the opposite.”

  “Or if you’re too poor to buy those liberties in the first place. Don’t worry, I can afford it, I made a lot of money in the Big Apple remember?”

  “Yeah and nearly got your pips blown out in exchange.”

  “Thanks Helen, I needed reminding.”

  “Thought you might. And I’ll see what I can find out about our missing girl. I’ll take a copy of her photo and check it against those in our missing persons.”

  “Great. In that case I’ll go to sleep for a couple of weeks while you all do my work for me!”

  “Oh no you don’t. You’re going to a few cabaret places to see Ms Simpson performing and then you’re going to find a good excuse to visit this Annie and Dolores. Sounds like you’ve got a lot in common.”

  After Helen and Judith had gone, bickering as usual, Saz put Claire to sleep on her sofabed. Not so much putting to sleep really, more like lifting a sleeping person from a chair and lying them down. She then went to bed herself, having set her alarm for 6am.

  “Four hours sleep Saz Martin, a good run and then a nap. After that you’d better look out Blondie, because I’m gaining ground!”

  CHAPTER 19

  In the gingerbread house

  I stayed with Dolores and Annie – and all the family – for nearly six months. At first she called every day. Two or three times a day. I’d hear the phone and crawl under the covers of the bed. Hide in the dark.

  It’s safer in the dark. I always keep the curtains drawn now.

  I stayed in bed for a week and by then the calls had dwindled to one a day. At the same time, seven o’clock every night the phone would ring and I would attempt to stifle the sound with pillows and blankets. Annie always answered the phone and every time she gave the same reply.

  “I’m sorry. Maggie doesn’t want to speak to you. She can’t come to the phone. She’s sleeping.”

  My friends and my misery were combining to make me narcoleptic.

  I stay awake now as long as I can. I’m keeping a vigil.

  For the first time in my life I discovered the “I can’t eat” syndrome. Food made me feel sick, the smell of cooking made me retch, the thought of eating made a dry lump rise in my throat. My body was going through withdrawal. It lasted for about five days and then Keith made me porridge. Porridge is like mashed potato – comfort foods, soft and warm and bland and easy to swallow. Hot, sweet, sticky porridge, made with milk and smothered in brown sugar and cream. Actually, it was too rich and made me throw up, but at least the vomit got me out of bed.

  Eventually I got up. I had to. The sheets needed changing and I hated the pictures in the spare room. I cleaned my teeth and discovered I’d lost ten pounds – even grief has its own tarnished silver lining. I went downstairs on the unsteady legs that invalids always descend staircases with – just to make it easier for Mrs Danvers to push them down. Only this time there was no Max to scream at me, just Keith and a fresh pot of coffee. He poured me a cup, passed me the paper and some toast and then went out into the garden.

  “
There’s sunshine out here. It’s not such a bad thing.”

  But it is, sunshine gets into the corners and lets you see the dust motes. I keep the curtains closed and the lights off.

  After the coffee I followed him out. I left the toast and The Independent on the table, I still had little interest in food and even less in the affairs of the world, mine were more than enough to handle. Besides that, the affairs of the world turn quite slowly, and my life had been turned around in less than two minutes – it takes the earth at least twenty-four hours to do that. Keith was right, not only was there sunshine, but there was also a gentle breeze and birdsong and the sound of children playing in the school yard at the back of the house. It was too much for me and I burst into tears. Keith handed me his huge hanky.

  “It’s not quite as healthy as tissues, but it always looks good in the movies. I’d light your cigarette for you, only you don’t smoke. Do you want to talk about it?”

  I snuffled a little into his handkerchief, then a little more into his shoulder and told him what I knew, which obviously wasn’t that much, but enough to convince him that my hypothesis was right – she was having an affair. He maintained a respectable pause and then started saying those sensible things that people always feel obliged to say, when really the only thing to do is to say nothing, but they can’t bear the silence in case you see it as an opportunity to start crying again:

  “Maybe it was only a fling.”

  “There is a chance they only had dinner.”

  “Perhaps you should talk to her about it?”

  And finally the banality to end all banalities –

  “Well, they do say that time heals all wounds.”

  “I know that Keith, I’m the one that told you that, I’ve been half an orphan for years now, remember?”

  “Only trying to help, and anyway you know it’s true.”

  “I don’t care if it’s true or not. I don’t want it to be true. I don’t want to heal. I want to fester. I want it to grow and spread until it bloody well kills her too.”

  “Hey! Brilliant! She’s up and expressing her anger!”

  Dolores and Annie strode into the garden from the back door, Dolores carrying shopping bags and grinning her approval of my return to the world and Annie tactfully extricating herself from Dolores’ grasp, presumably so as not to remind me of my recent “loss”.