‘It is nice,’ I tell her. ‘Thank you.’
‘Now you’re hot to trot.’
‘I think so.’ Although I’m not entirely sure what that involves.
‘Your turn,’ she says to Sabina.
Before I can insist that my daughter is too young for make-up, Crystal winks at me. Expertly she waves the brushes over my child’s cheeks and eyes and slicks her lips with a clear gloss. ‘There you go.’
Sabina’s delighted, even though she’s been given the barest minimum of colour.
‘Very pretty,’ I tell her, and she preens in Crystal’s small mirror, thoroughly pleased with what she sees.
Crystal applies some more gloss to her own lips, this one bright pink and not subtle at all. She puts away her make-up, clearly happy with a job well done. ‘Right, now that we’re all gorgeous, come and help me pick some more flowers, Beanie,’ Crystal says. ‘I’ve got two more jars to fill.’
I glance at my watch. It’s nearly six o’clock. ‘I’ll check on our supper.’
‘Need any help?’
‘I think that I can manage, thank you, Crystal.’
She grins at me. ‘You don’t lack confidence in the kitchen,’ she laughs. ‘I couldn’t knock up a dinner like that. You’re right at home there.’
I blush. ‘I love to cook.’
‘Can’t wait to tuck in. It smells heavenly.’ She grabs Sabina’s hand and pulls her away down the garden.
Turning back to the kitchen, I put on an apron to cover my new outfit. Everything is coming along as I want it to. I stir the chicken and taste the dhal before adding a little more seasoning.
Crystal and Sabina return with more flowers and arrange them in the waiting jars. My child has a crown of flowers fixed to her hair and she smiles like a little princess.
‘You look very pretty,’ I tell her. ‘Did you make that yourself?’
Sabina nods towards Crystal. Please say her name, I think. But she doesn’t.
Joy is the first to join us in the garden.
‘I’ll slap your hands if I catch you picking my flowers, Christine Cooper,’ Joy grumbles.
‘Take a chill pill, Joy,’ Crystal counters. ‘That’s what flowers are for. Don’t they look fab?’
‘They’re very pretty,’ I agree. ‘But I don’t know what any of them are. The house I lived in before didn’t have any flowers.’
‘No flowers?’ Joy looks as if she can’t comprehend such an omission.
‘None at all,’ I confirm.
‘Well, these are tulips,’ she says, touching a pale pink head in the nearest border. ‘You must know those.’
I shake my head and she tuts her disbelief.
‘These purple ones are called snake’s-head fritillary. The delicate yellow ones are Narcissus pipit and the arching white stems are Spirea ajuta.’
‘You know a lot about flowers.’
Joy shrugs, but I can tell that she’s pleased by my observation. ‘Some.’
‘Get a drink down your neck, Joy. Loosen up.’ Crystal thrusts a glass of wine at her. ‘Want some, Ayesha?’
I shake my head. ‘A soft drink for me, please.’
She pours out mango juice for me and Sabina.
‘A cocktail for the birthday girl,’ Crystal says, and lifts her glass in a toast to Sabina.
‘Oh, it’s your birthday is it, little one?’ Joy says.
Sabina nods.
‘Tomorrow,’ I say. ‘She’ll be nine.’
‘She’ll never speak if you always answer for her,’ Joy notes, and I take a step back from the sting.
‘Give her a break, Grumpy Knickers,’ Crystal says.
‘I’ve brought up two children,’ Joy counters. ‘I do know what I’m talking about.’
‘Yeah, and you’ve got half a dozen grandkids too, but when do you see any of them?’
‘I have five grandchildren and I’d see them regularly if they didn’t live on the other side of the world.’
‘Or if you’d get on a bloody plane.’
‘I don’t like to fly.’ Joy gulps her wine.
I feel my chest fluttering with panic. I don’t like it when people argue. One wrong word and it can escalate so quickly.
‘Look, we’re freaking Ayesha out. This is supposed to be a welcome party and a celebration of their new life and Beanie’s birthday. We’re spoiling it by bickering like fishwives. It’s just a bit of banter,’ she assures me. ‘Don’t let it bother you.’
Now I’m unable to find my own voice, and simply nod.
‘Is supper ready yet?’ Crystal wants to know.
‘I think so. I’ll check.’
‘Is His Lordship joining us?’ Joy flicks her head towards the upstairs of the house as she always does when she refers to our landlord.
As I turn to go back into the kitchen, Mr Hayden Daniels appears at the French doors.
‘He certainly is,’ he says to Joy. ‘Hope I’m not late.’
Hayden grins at Crystal, who looks relieved that he’s come downstairs to be with us.
‘Perfect timing.’ She hands him a bottle of beer. ‘Ayesha is about to serve.’
Hayden turns to me and does a double-take. His eyes widen and he rocks back as if someone has punched him. I don’t know what to do with myself, I’m so embarrassed.
‘You look so different,’ he manages eventually.
‘I hope that’s a good thing,’ I offer, but he makes no reply and continues to stare.
Perhaps Crystal has put on too much make-up after all and I look like a silly girl, not like a mother of a nearly-nine-year-old child. Perhaps he thinks my clothes are too young and don’t suit me.
I feel myself flush furiously under his scrutiny. ‘I’ll get the food,’ I say, and am glad to be able to rush indoors.
Chapter Seventeen
I carry the dishes from the kitchen to set on the table while Crystal, Joy, Sabina and Hayden seat themselves.
‘Sabina,’ I say, ‘have you washed your hands?’
She nods at me, but stands up and goes to cleanse them at the sink.
When I’ve laid out all of the dishes, I explain what each of them is.
‘Looks fab,’ Crystal says, already picking up a serving spoon.
Joy wrinkles her nose. ‘Is there anything here that I can eat?’
‘Don’t be such a fussy cow,’ Crystal admonishes her. ‘It all looks wonderful.’
‘I don’t eat foreign food,’ she says.
‘Then you don’t know what you’re missing,’ is Crystal’s conclusion as she tries the chicken curry. ‘This is well tasty.’
‘I haven’t made it too spicy, Joy, but I can cook something else for you if you don’t wish to eat it.’
She sighs with resignation. ‘I’ll give it a go. If I don’t like it, I’ll get myself a sandwich.’
‘That’s another one of the reasons she won’t go to see her grandkids,’ Crystal says to no one in particular. ‘Because she won’t eat “foreign” food.’
‘It doesn’t suit my palate,’ Joy insists.
‘Get over yourself,’ Crystal says. ‘It’s delish. What do you reckon, Hayd?’
‘Excellent.’ He looks up and his eyes meet mine. I lower them quickly.
‘And that’s from a man who’s happy to live on nothing but sandwiches,’ Crystal adds.
When I risk a glance up again, Hayden’s attention, thankfully, has returned to his food. Today he’s wearing a black T-shirt and baggy jeans that sit low on his hips as, I understand, is the current fashion. He’s wearing a black wool hat pulled down on his head even though it’s warm out here. Outdoors, it’s easier to see how pale he is. Sabina sits next to him and his skin looks very white against the creamy chocolate of hers. I don’t think that Hayden can go out in the sun too often. I believe, though, that he’s a very handsome man. I’m shocked at myself as I haven’t thought like this since Hinni and I were silly girls giggling at the village boys at home.
I’m not sure if Hayden’s enjoying th
e food or not. He’s gripping the fork so tightly that his knuckles are white with tension and he seems to be eating automatically, his jaw tight. Hayden is very slender and I wonder if eating isn’t a pleasure for him.
‘Is it to your taste?’ I venture.
He pauses with his fork to his mouth and seems suddenly aware of what he’s doing. The next mouthful, he really seems to savour. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s fantastic.’
‘I’m not looking for praise,’ I say. ‘I’m looking for your enjoyment.’
‘You have it,’ he assures me.
I may be mistaken, but I think that he releases his grip on his fork ever so slightly and his jaw relaxes a little.
‘Give it a go, Joy,’ Crystal urges. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘It looks a little spicy for me,’ Joy says, wrinkling her nose.
‘How can you tell until you put it in your gob?’
‘The chicken curry isn’t hot,’ I promise her, but she grimaces at the word ‘curry’ and I realise that I’m not winning the battle. ‘I’ll make you something more mild next time,’ I offer.
‘I’ll make myself a sandwich,’ Joy says, and she wanders into the kitchen.
Now I feel embarrassed that she doesn’t like my food. I hoped when she saw it and inhaled the aroma that she might change her mind.
‘Take no notice of her,’ Crystal whispers. ‘One of the reasons she won’t go out to see her sons is that she’s convinced she’d starve to death. Can you imagine?’
‘That’s a great shame.’
Crystal shrugs. ‘She’s too set in her ways by half.’
When we’ve finished eating, I clear the plates.
‘Look what I’ve got,’ Crystal says as she follows me in, bearing dishes. She opens the cupboard and inside is a birthday cake for Sabina. It’s pink, with a picture of a little girl on it plus the word Princess in yellow icing.
‘That’s lovely. How kind of you. Sabina will be very happy.’
‘Thought she’d like a surprise. It’s only from the supermarket, but you’ve seen what I can do to a pizza. You wouldn’t want to taste my baking.’
‘I could show you.’
Crystal holds up a hand. ‘My talent lies in opening packets. I’ll leave the fancy stuff to you.’ She lowers her voice. ‘You might not have won Joy over yet, but that’s the first time in two years I’ve seen Hayd eat a proper meal. It’s nice to see. Well done.’
That gives me a warm glow of pride.
‘I bought some candles for the cake too. Now, if I can find the matches, I can light them.’ She rummages in the drawers until she finds what she’s looking for.
Crystal fixes the candles in the cake with an inordinate amount of attention and then lights them. ‘Ready?’ She goes to hand me the cake.
‘You take it outside. Sabina will like that,’ I tell her.
So Crystal holds the cake aloft and carries it into the garden.
Sabina’s eyes light up when she sees it.
‘Happy birthday to you,’ Crystal sings. ‘Happy birthday to you! Come on, you lot, join in.’ She waves her free hand at me, Joy and Hayden. ‘Come on. Don’t let me sing on my own.’
Crystal starts again. ‘Happy birthday to you!’
I manage to squeak out an effort, though I think it’s terribly off-key. I’ve had very little reason to sing in a long time.
Joy also sings along, although her voice is croaky.
Hayden looks very reluctant to join in. Crystal glares at him. He opens his mouth but at first nothing comes out. Crystal pauses in the song and waits for him.
Eventually he sings out, ‘Happy birthday to you!’
The sound is pure and clear.
I gape in surprise and, when I look around, Crystal, Joy and Sabina are doing the same thing. This is why he was a popular singer. His voice is strong, soaring, and I realise that the skin on my arms has risen to goosebumps in delight.
‘Happy birthday, dear Beanie,’ Crystal continues, wavering slightly.
Then she falls silent as Hayden finishes alone: ‘Happy birthday to you.’
We’re all still staring at him, agog, and now he looks embarrassed.
‘Wow,’ Crystal says eventually. ‘You’ve not lost it, Hayd.’
‘No,’ he agrees, shyly. ‘Apparently not.’
‘You can have a big slice of cake for that!’ Crystal starts us clapping and, under my guidance, Sabina blows out the candles.
‘You know, I think I’ll go back to my room for now. Leave you to it.’ Hayden pushes his chair away and stands. ‘Bit too much excitement for one day.’
‘Don’t —’ Crystal starts, but he holds up a hand to stop her speaking.
He turns to me. ‘Thank you, Ayesha. Dinner was very good.’ Then to my daughter, ‘Happy birthday for tomorrow, Sabina.’ Giving a self-conscious wave, he leaves.
Suddenly, the garden feels a little cooler, and I shiver. We all watch Hayden walk inside and head straight up to his room.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ I ask, concerned.
‘I really hope so,’ Crystal says. She sighs and then turns to me. ‘That’s the first time he’s sung a single note since his girlfriend has been gone.’
Chapter Eighteen
Hayden drew the curtains even though it was still light outside and lay on his bed. He was shaking inside after his impromptu performance, brief as it might have been. It had been a big deal for him and he was shocked and surprised at hearing the sound of his own voice after so long. Crystal was right. It was still there.
There was no denying that he’d felt backed into a corner. How could he refuse to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the kid? Perhaps Crystal knew that. Perhaps he’d have words with her. Then again, perhaps he should be grateful to his friend.
Crystal had stuck with him through thick and thin. In the early times, there’d been some very dark moments. Moments when he’d thought it wasn’t worth being here at all. Moments when he wanted to do nothing more than swallow some pills and down a bottle of Scotch.
He’d been with Laura since they were both sixteen. They’d met at sixth-form college when they were both studying art and he was spending every Saturday busking in Oxford to earn some extra money. They’d been inseparable ever since. Laura had been with him all the way as he’d clawed his way up the slippery ladder of his music career. She’d stood in pubs every weekend while he played to twenty, thirty, fifty people. She’d handed out flyers and taken email addresses to try to build up his following. When he’d had to work as a van driver or in a warehouse to supplement his income from playing, she was the one who never lost faith. Laura had been his one, his only love. Childhood sweethearts. Which, of course, the press lapped up. The fact that one of the hottest men on the planet – their description, not his – was a one-woman man sent them into a feeding frenzy. Of course, as a consequence, every time he was within ten metres of another woman, there’d be stories about him being unfaithful. Laura bore it all stoically. She accepted it as part of his life possibly more than he did. Hayden hated the attention. He’d wanted to be a singer, a musician, appreciated for that talent and that alone. It didn’t seem long after he’d auditioned for The Fame Game that everyone – even him sometimes – had lost sight of the most important thing. The music.
There’d been a relentless round of interviews – This Morning, Lorraine, Jonathan Ross, Graham Norton. He’d been on all of their chat shows a dozen times. Every time there was a new single released he was wheeled out, smile plastered firmly in place. If you want to sell records, it has to be done, he was told.
Then he’d been pressured by his management company into doing an aftershave campaign. For months he’d appeared, barely clothed, in glossy magazines, on billboards and in every conceivable ad break on the television, spouting some pretentious nonsense. Even he’d got sick of seeing his moody, airbrushed face everywhere. Now, after all this time, the ads still popped up at Christmas and made him cringe. It had earned him a lot of mo
ney, there was no doubt, and Laura had found it amusing when the deluge of fan mail inevitably followed. He’d had to employ two people simply to reply to them all, which meant he found it less so.
Their simple life, which until The Fame Game had involved nothing more complicated than long walks in the fields of Oxfordshire and nights curled up on the sofa watching movies, had been transformed overnight. He’d been required to go to film premières, red-carpet events, the opening of clubs, restaurants, shops. At first it was fun, but it soon became tiring to spend every night of the week with a glass of warm champagne, talking to people who he didn’t know but who nevertheless wanted a piece of him. Laura enjoyed buying the dresses to wear and soon she was sent samples from designers, to be seen in them. She liked that.
Then they’d moved to this house because he felt it was the thing to do, convinced that he needed a London base. So they’d waved goodbye to the countryside and swapped it for city life. He’d had it renovated while he was on tour, ready for Laura to put her own stamp on it, to turn it into a home. Some of the rooms hadn’t been started, some were still half done, and he doubted they’d ever be finished now. He’d just closed the doors on them all and never looked inside.
He and Laura had loved it here, until the paparazzi became permanently camped by the gates and they couldn’t go out without being chased down the street by flashing cameras. They couldn’t go for a walk, a pizza, a drink without being followed. Every private occasion became gossip-page fodder for glossy mags and internet chat rooms. Sometimes the lenses were a distance away, but they still recorded every detail. Sometimes they were pushed right under your nose. Whichever way, they were intrusive. Now he couldn’t even walk to get a newspaper. If he ever went out, it was under the cover of darkness. It was no wonder Elvis Presley had, in his last years, lived an upside-down life, sleeping all day and going out at night. As Crystal had noted, he wasn’t very far away from that himself.
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