The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting

by Angela Marsons

  Kit was sure that the delicious aromas that had tormented the already empty space in her stomach would combine to produce another of Mark’s culinary masterpieces but by the time the food landed on the table she had silently left the house.

  Kit walked into her office to find a clutch of yellow miniature roses, arranged in a small wicker basket, perched on the edge of her desk. The sheer brightness of the petals gave the surroundings a little sunshine. She read the card with anticipation.

  A little something to brighten your office, Tyler.

  Kit placed the card in her drawer and enjoyed the feeling of warm honey that filtered through her body. She’d never received flowers before.

  Trevor entered the office with a smile on his face that she could just make out beneath the heavy beard.

  ‘Good news and bad news, which one first?’

  Kit sat back in her typist’s chair that had a screw missing so the back support rested against her bottom. ‘Good news, please.’

  ‘Well, it seems for once they’ve had a decent idea upstairs and they’re putting me on permanent early shift.’

  Kit began to open her mouth and then closed it.

  ‘My missus will love that. She’s always being offered overtime at the supermarket and she can never take it because of the kids coming back from school. The bad news is that you’re being lumbered with the stock control once I’ve left for the day.’

  He was waiting for a response. She was being silly. Why should it be known that it was her idea? Probably best it wasn’t, she decided. The engineers might not take too kindly to a woman who’d been here five minutes sticking her oar in. That must be why Tyler had kept her involvement quiet.

  ‘Yeah, great,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Trevor, who am I to stand in the way of your kids getting their jam sandwich on time?’

  He smiled back. ‘But the good news is I’ve been instructed to make a hole in your wall.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘More instructions from above. I’m to knock a hole into the plasterboard and fit a piece of UPVC so that you have a window.’

  His look said that obviously someone upstairs liked her. ‘Oh, whoopee!’ she cried in mock excitement. ‘Now I’ll be able to see the roller-shutter door all day. How ever will I cope?’

  Hmm, she wondered, was this so that she could serve as a lookout for any missing stock items or was it really just a thoughtful idea? She pushed the suspicion aside and chastised herself for being so jaded.

  Trevor glanced at her roses. ‘Nice.’

  ‘From Tyler, to brighten the office,’ she said, raising her eyebrows.

  Kit caught the concern that flitted across his features.

  ‘Listen, Kit, he’s all right as far as that lot go.’ Trevor looked around as though Tyler might walk in any moment. ‘But… just be careful,’ he warned before closing the door.

  Kit stroked one of the smooth sun-coloured petals and consciously discarded Trevor’s warning. She no longer had anything left to lose.

  10

  Fran

  Fran usually loved Saturday mornings; the beginning of the weekend. Until recently she’d used it as an opportunity for some uninterrupted work. Time when she could get her head into legal problems without meetings, telephone calls and court appearances. But not today.

  The briefcase lay where she’d thrown it on the smoked-glass kitchen table. Normally she would sit at that table wading through papers. Today she couldn’t. Each glance towards the offending object curdled her stomach. It also made her think of Keith. She took the briefcase and hid it under her bed – she didn’t need reminding of that episode.

  In fact, she didn’t need reminding of anything to do with work. The barely concealed smug expression that had collectively formed on the faces of most of her colleagues told her they knew what was going on. They were revelling in the fact that she’d fallen from her pedestal, thrilled that she was not immune to the steely discipline with which the company was run, and that she was not perfect. But one question remained refused to be muted. If she was no longer Frances Thornton, Lawyer Extraordinaire, ferocious lion in the justice arena, then who was she?

  A stray pencil peeking out from under the sofa reminded Fran of her impulsive act the previous evening on her way home from work. She’d seen a gentleman closing up his arts and crafts store for the night. Impetuously, she’d stopped the car and rushed in. The tart smell of linseed and oil paints greeted her. She drank in the aroma that was the one childhood smell that had stayed with her forever. The expanse of white that stretched over the canvasses thrilled her.

  The owner fuming, with not-so-secret looks at his watch, was ignored as Fran, with a building excitement, fingered lovingly the sketchpads, rows of watercolour pencils, oil paints and charcoal. She had grabbed as much as she could carry – she’d wanted it all.

  That had been yesterday. The anticipation of creativity had been overwhelming. The promise of discovery by her own hands had urged her to lay out all her purchases in methodical order in her spare bedroom where the light was at its best. She’d already been in the room twice, circling the equipment with the quiet reverence normally reserved for libraries. In the cold light of practical day she didn’t know what to do with the materials that demanded her respect.

  The threatening glare of the empty canvas intimidated her, as it stood proud but empty on the easel. How could she release herself to explore? How could a mind so used to being analytical free itself to catch a moment? Her brain was conditioned to process data methodically and accurately. Irrelevancies were not allowed, so how could she remove the constraints that would enable her to receive creativity, ideas and stimulus?

  She forced herself to reach for a sketchpad and retrieve the pencil. She enjoyed the feel of the hard lead between her fingers. Her right hand itched to move across the page. There was something inside her that wanted to escape, to become. Something needed to be liberated from her mind and immortalised on to the paper: a look, a smile, an expression. A face that she could not forget and ached to see again. A face that haunted her dreams and had last registered bewilderment as she had run away. But this was not the subject she wanted to draw. To do so was too intimate. The action would admit too much. Maybe more than she wanted to face.

  She began to sketch the view from the window, focusing on the shapes and angles of the varying buildings. She could see it with her eyes, even her mind’s eye, but her fingers refused to get the message. She looked at the lines on the paper. They were too soft, too curved. She scribbled it out harshly, causing the lead of the pencil to rip through the page. It had to come out. Before she could move on it had to come out.

  Involuntarily her hand moved across the paper. At first it could have been the face of anyone but as the hair appeared, then the patrician nose, the knowing eyes, the strong chin and high cheekbones, it all fell into place. Fran stared at the haunting image of Martine.

  The ringing of the telephone saved her. She dropped the materials to the ground, disturbed that her memory could recall every feature of that face perfectly and so easily.

  ‘Fran, it’s Kit. How are you, fine, good, enough about you, I need your help. I’ve got a date.’

  ‘Calm down, calm down! Who with?’ asked Fran, pleased with the distraction.

  ‘A bloke from the office. He’s been really nice to me and he’s asked me out tonight. Fran, I’ve, umm… never been on a date before.’

  Fran thought for a second. ‘I have a wonderful idea. It’s a surprise. Just be outside your flat in twenty minutes.’

  It took less than five minutes for Fran to grab her coat and handbag but the Saturday morning traffic made the journey ten minutes longer. She smiled as Kit hopped from one foot to the other as she waited.

  ‘Am I being kidnapped?’ she asked, getting in.

  ‘If that’s what sails your boat.’

  ‘Come on, where are we going? I have to get back to make myself beauti
ful for tonight.’

  ‘No effort will be required.’

  ‘So sweet of you to notice, darling, but you’re not my type!’

  Fran laughed heartily. With Kit she could be herself. No layers, no pretence. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type either.’ Fran negotiated a sharp bend. ‘I meant that no effort will be required because of where we’re going.’

  ‘Where, to see a plastic surgeon?’

  ‘No.’

  Kit crossed her arms. ‘Okay, you carry on playing your little games…’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so miserable, it’s a surprise.’

  A few minutes later they pulled up outside the Birmingham branch of Images.

  She won’t be here, Fran thought, with a churning stomach. She’ll be in London, or somewhere else, but she won’t be here.

  ‘Umm… I don’t mean to rain on your parade, but I can’t even afford the free coffee they give in there.’

  ‘My treat.’

  ‘Now hold on—’ Kit protested.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Kit, take a chill pill! We’re friends, so stop being so damned stubborn.’

  Kit’s eyes opened in amazement. ‘Well, slap my mouth and rip my tongue out, why don’t you?’

  Fran pulled into a parking space near to the entrance. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’

  They entered the salon and Fran breathed in the mingling smells of shampoo, hairspray and undertones of camomile, cajeput and the spicy, warming fragrance of cardamom. It had the aura of Martine.

  As Kit quietly began to shake at the prices, Fran’s eyes performed a surreptitious sweep of the salon. The rich wood panelling was the same, the shiny brass finish was also the same, but there was no Martine. She buried her disappointment. This was for Kit anyway, not herself.

  ‘I’m sorry but if you’re looking for appointments today, we’re fully booked, but Monday…’

  Fran leaned forward on the imposing reception desk. ‘We plan on spending a huge amount of money. Are you sure there are no cancellations?’

  Fran watched as the brunette struggled between company policy and the promise of good revenue. The profit margin won and they were asked to remove their coats.

  They decided on massage, manicure and hair.

  ‘Ooh, I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman then!’ remarked Kit.

  They were led to dressing rooms to change into pure white luxurious terry-towelling robes.

  ‘Hey, Fran,’ whispered Kit. ‘Do you think this is like those posh hotels?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, they actually expect you to nick the robes and stuff.’

  Fran giggled. ‘Don’t you dare!’

  Their clothes were neatly folded and placed in a cubicle. The attendant slipped a nameplate on to the door before guiding them into a room with three waist-high trolleys. Fran once again inhaled the pleasing aromas that leapt from the numerous small bottles that stood next to tiny individual mixing vials.

  A second attendant entered the room. ‘Could you remove the robes and lie face down, please.’ The attendants then covered Kit and Fran’s middles with warm towels.

  Kit turned her head sideways as her masseuse stood at the bench mixing a massage oil. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  The girl seemed surprised. ‘Trudy…’ she said with a hint of a question in her voice.

  ‘It’s okay, no one runs their hands all over my body unless I at least know their name.’

  Fran reached across and slapped her arm.

  ‘Do either of you suffer from epilepsy, high blood pressure, or are you pregnant?’

  ‘No, no and damned no,’ replied Kit. Fran shook her head.

  Fran closed her eyes as the warm oiled hands met with the taut muscles in her neck. The mixture of the oils gave her a heady sensation. The camomile soothed in conjunction with the expert hands that worked together in rhythmic sequence, alternately picking up and squeezing her tense muscles.

  She smelt a woody, smoky aroma work around from her shoulder blades as the hands switched between stroking and kneading. The thumb pressure released knotted muscle and she thought, ‘Please don’t stop’, then she became aware of the heel of the hand or the fingertips working their magic and she thought, ‘Don’t stop that one.’ Each movement was as deliciously relaxing as the last. Her eyes remained closed. Her mind focused and concentrated on the soothing, revitalising experience.

  Every muscle responded to the manipulation of the hands that worked their way down her body, leaving flaccid, yet awakened muscles behind them. Fran thought of nothing but the experience of total relaxation as she felt palm pressure on either side of her spine. The hands bore down and then rotated outward towards her ribs as though the tension was being banished from her body. By the time the massage ended she was aware of her body like never before.

  ‘Whatever you’re paid, it’s not enough,’ Kit complimented, echoing Fran’s sentiments.

  It was during the manicure that Fran became inquisitive. ‘So, where are you going tonight?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied Kit, totally relaxed as the manicurist massaged lemon into her nails and cuticles. ‘He’s just a bloke at work who’s been nice to me. He’s just a friend. I mean it’s not like every man and woman who spend time together have to end up knocking boots.’

  ‘Knocking what?’

  ‘Hazard a wild one. No, he really is a nice guy. We just get on well.’

  ‘Okay, Kit, enough! Quality of words gets your point across. Quantity makes you sound like a liar.’

  They were guided gently into the salon, where they were offered every concoction of the word ‘tea’ possible. Both settled for coffee.

  They were placed with heads leaning backwards into marble washbasins. Their hair was cleaned and conditioned and their scalps massaged. Fran breathed in the comforting aroma of freshly washed towels.

  Her natural curls bounced halfway down her spine. Tight perfect circles gathered together. She settled on a trim.

  The stylist asked Kit if she’d like to see pictures. ‘No, I’ll leave it to you. I am follicles in your hands.’

  The stylist contemplated the length of her hair, the shape of her head and face and her bone structure. Even though Kit’s hair was quite short, Fran could see that when the woman separated a portion on the top and held it upwards to check for length and texture, her eyes signalled that she had ideas.

  Fran’s stylist was busy running her fingers through the mass of deep red curls. ‘The way to control this wonderful hair is not to tie it back and suffocate it. Let it be free and nurture it.’

  ‘It’s the frizz,’ defended Fran.

  ‘There is no frizz. The hair is silky, not dry. I think a trim and then a soft style to form the curls into loose waves. What do you think?’

  Fran agreed. She knew that no matter how it was styled today, the curls would return to haunt her tomorrow.

  The stylist caught her expression. ‘It’s not a curse. You have beautiful hair.’

  Fran caught Kit’s amused expression in the mirror, and then froze. The face that she had worked hard to forget was set in deep concentration at the reception desk. The face that haunted her dreams and now filled her desires. Desires that she buried in the cold light of day and pretended didn’t exist. The beating within her chest confirmed that they were real. She watched with bated breath as Martine surveyed the register. A puzzled expression formed on her face as the blue eyes started to search the salon. They were just about to glance in her direction when the stylist blocked the view while reaching for the scissors. She moved away but it was too late, Martine had gone.

  ‘Fran, are you okay?’ Kit asked. ‘You’re as white as a nun’s knickers!’

  ‘I’m f… fine,’ she stuttered, still searching the one-dimensional glass that remained empty. Suddenly Fran realised that for a split second the sun had come out. And now it was dark again.

  She stared unblinking into the glass wishing for Martine to reappear
, yet terrified she would. She wanted the stylist to hurry up, take her time. She didn’t know which.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked the stylist, holding a mirror behind her head.

  ‘That’s lovely, thank you very much,’ mumbled Fran as she darted out of the chair and headed towards the reception, eager to pay and get out.

  Her hands shook as she signed the receipt and wondered if they’d accept the payment. It looked nothing like her signature. She almost ran out of the salon.

  ‘Was that her?’ asked Kit incredulously, as she tried to match Fran’s stride.

  Fran nodded dumbly.

  ‘Christ, she’s gorgeous! But she doesn’t look…’

  ‘Oh thanks, I suppose I do then.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just… Bloody hell, Fran, will you just slow down?’

  Fran ran as though the devil himself were chasing her. Only when she was seated in the driver’s seat of her BMW did she allow herself to breathe. Her hands gripped the steering wheel and her head fell on to it as she tried to stop her mind from spinning.

  Kit waited patiently in the passenger seat.

  ‘Kit, there’s something I haven’t told you. I tried to seduce a man,’ Fran admitted.

  ‘You did what?’ asked Kit, her turn to be shocked.

  ‘It had been another rough day at work. I was trying to come to terms with myself and I suppose I wanted to prove that I was… well, normal, I think.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, Keith is very good-looking in a virile, athletic sort of way. He asked me out for a drink and I went. Two espressos later it seemed like a good idea. We tried but neither of our hearts were in it. He’s happily married and I’m gay. So that was that.’