by Sarah Duncan
'Have you got a free appointment?'
'When for?'
'Now.'
The receptionist looked surprised. 'I'll check the book. Let's see.' She ran a perfectly manicured finger over the appointments book. 'I suppose Karl could do you a cut and blow-dry in about twenty minutes. Any good?'
'Okay,' Isabel nodded, hoping her nerve would last. 'I'll wait here.' She sat on a squishy black leather chair, and nervously flicked through a copy of Vogue. She was halfway through House & Garden when Karl, a willowy young man in trousers that matched the chair, collected her.
'And what can I do for you?' he asked, combing through her hair.
'I want it all off.'
'All of it?' He looked so horrified that Isabel backtracked.
'Well, perhaps not all. But most of it. It's too long. I feel it's dragging me down.'
He started to play with her hair. 'Well, we could take the weight off here and here and...
- ooo -
Isabel bounced up Sloane Street towards the tube station, watching her reflection bounce along with her, tossing its head and running its fingers through a mass of short curls. She felt as though a huge weight was off her shoulders, literally. Her hair had dropped to the ground of the salon in great hanks, more hair than she realised she had. It felt strange to feel the wind tickling the back of her neck, the way her fingers went through her hair so quickly. She was light-headed and light-hearted, young, free and sexy.
At the entrance to the tube she hesitated and checked her watch. She had a few minutes to spare. She ran down to the shop.
'The red dress I tried on,' she panted. 'Have you still got it?'
'Wow. Your hair.' The assistant did a gratifying double-take. 'Looks good.'
'Thanks. The dress?'
'Sure. Here it is.'
Isabel ran her fingers over the silky fabric. 'It's beautiful.' Why shouldn't she look attractive? If she could change, why shouldn't Neil? She gave the assistant a big smile and nodded. 'I'm going to take it.'
- ooo -
'Pretty Mummy!'
'Your hair. It looks amazing. Where did you go?'
'Ugh, what have you done, Mum? It looks awful.' Michael pulled a face, but both Katie and Helen were open-mouthed.
'Tough. I like it.' And she did. Like a girl with a new engagement ring that she keeps on spotting on her hand, Isabel kept tossing her hair. She supposed it was a rather coquettish gesture but she enjoyed the feeling of it swirling against the nape of her neck. And the fringe made her feel she was peering out of a jungle, a sexy wild animal with big eyes. Helen and Katie had been approving, Michael's comment was only to be expected. She had been a little nervous of Neil's reaction; after all, he had once said he would divorce her if she ever cut her hair, but he seemed to like it, walking round her, making appreciative noises.
'Just you wait until you see my new dress,' she promised. She chucked a ready-made meal from the freezer into the oven, laid the table for their supper adding a couple of candles as an afterthought, then got the children to bed. She slipped on the red dress. It seemed very bare about the shoulders now her hair wasn't there to cover it up. She thought of putting on a cardigan, but that seemed to be missing the point of the dress. It was meant to be revealing. She came downstairs and leant against the door to the sitting room where Neil was watching television.
'Dinner is served.' He turned, and his face told her what she had wanted to know.
'That's some dress.'
'D'you like it?'
'Very much.' He got up and followed her through to the kitchen. She could feel his eyes watching her back and swinging hips. She bent down to get the food out of the oven and one of the straps slipped down her shoulder exposing even more breast. She held the hot dish in the oven mitts and went to Neil.
'You couldn't put that up for me, could you? My hands are full.'
He hesitated as if reluctant. His fingertips lightly touched her skin as he pulled the strap up.
'Thank you,' she said politely, and he bowed slightly and said, 'It was nothing.' But she had scented his interest, and the knowledge made her feel powerful. It could work. She could make it work.
They ate the food and drank their wine and talked, Isabel teasing Neil with jokes and pretend misunderstandings. At the end Neil patted his lap.
'Come here, you.' Isabel sashayed over to him. Instead of perching demurely on him she swung her leg over so she straddled him, hoicking the swirling skirt of her dress up over her thighs. Neil ran his hands up under her dress.
'What a sexy girl you are.' They kissed, Isabel cradling his head in her hands. It was like Saturday afternoon again. Perhaps this was the answer, not wait until they were in bed, laid out side by side like medieval effigies on a tomb, but catch him unawares, before his Protestant angst could react. The phone started ringing, and she pulled away from him.
'Let it ring. If it's important they'll call back,' Neil mumbled, his voice thick as he kissed her shoulders.
Isabel paused. The ringing tones were urgent. She knew it was Patrick.
'It's probably a wrong number,' she said. She put her mouth to his again, willing herself not to listen to the phone as it rang on and on, determined and insistent.
Chapter 16
'But I love this,' Isabel said, holding the dress up to her and hugging it.
'Is it your size?' Justine said.
'No.'
'Your colour?'
'Mmm. Not according to you.'
'Is it your colour?'
'I suppose not. Oh, all right, no.' Isabel pulled a face.
'Have you worn it in the last two years?'
'No.'
'Five years?'
'No.'
'Ten years?'
'Help. No.'
'So is it out of date?'
'Yes. But it might come in again,' Isabel added brightly. Justine ignored her.
'Do pleats round the middle do anybody any favours? And are you ever going to fix that missing button?' She pointed an accusing finger and Isabel looked down as if she hadn't noticed it before. Which she hadn't.
'No.'
'So where does it go?'
'The charity-shop pile?'
'Or the chuck pile. Whichever.'
Isabel started to put the dress on top of an already large heap of clothes on her bed, then paused. 'Can't I keep it just because I like it?'
'No.'
'Gosh, you're tough,' she said, impressed by Justine's decisiveness as she laid the dress down.
Justine laughed. 'You'd keep everything otherwise.'
'But I'm going to have nothing left.'
Justine sat down on the bed and leant back on her elbows. 'You had plenty to start with. Don't worry. You'll have less, but what you have will suit you and you'll wear it all the time. All I'm doing is getting rid of the clutter that drags you down and stops you seeing what you really do have.' Isabel looked at the pile of clothes. Justine said, her voice sharp, 'After I've gone, you can shove it all back into your wardrobe if you like and carry on as you have before. Or you can move forward and -'
'I know, “buy less, buy better”. I can see it makes sense, it's just -'
'Hard to get rid of perfectly good clothes?' Isabel nodded, fingering the belt of the discarded dress. She could remember buying it on the last trip to London before she was pregnant with Michael. They'd gone to the theatre.
'But they're not perfectly good clothes,' Justine said. 'They're out of date, they don't fit, they may not even have suited you in the first place.'
'But what about memories?' She couldn't remember the play, just remembered laughing until it hurt. They'd been so happy.
'Cut a bit out of each dress and make a patchwork quilt or a collage. Or get someone to do it for you,' Justine added. 'That way you have the memory without cluttering up your wardrobe.'
Isabel looked at the piles of clothes, some for charity, some destined for the dress agency. She flicked through the clothes left in the wardrobe. It was e
mbarrassing how many clothes she had that had only been worn once, or sometimes not at all. Things bought in the sales because next month she would have lost the weight and would fit into them, but now she could fit them they were out of date. Or dull, respectable clothes bought on the grounds that they would be useful one day, except that they still languished unworn, the labels hanging from buttonholes. She didn't like respectable clothes very much, she decided, looking through the things that were left. From now on she would only buy clothes she liked, not ones she thought she ought to have.
'You're not working for Patrick anymore, I hear.' Justine's voice cut across her thoughts.
'No, that's right.' Isabel was glad Justine couldn't see her face. 'It was too much hassle and as I don't really need the money...' Her voice trailed away. What money? She had finally put Patrick's cheque into her bank account, where it had promptly bounced. She wished she'd torn it up instead.
'How are you doing?' Justine stood up and went to Isabel. Her voice was pleasant. Professional. Just as it should be.
'Oh. I'm fine.' Isabel made herself smile. 'You're right, of course. It all needs to go.'
'Look on it as an opportunity to go shopping.'
'And now I know what to buy. Thank you so much, it's been good. If a bit traumatic.' It felt strange, going through all these old clothes that had ended up at the back of the wardrobe and at the bottom of drawers, carted around in bin liners from one country to the next.
Strange, but good, she thought. Liberating, even.
'Is that your doorbell?' Justine said, her head turning.
Isabel frowned. 'Probably someone collecting for the RSPCA or something. Hang on, I'll be back in a second.' And Isabel went out, leaving Justine in the bedroom.
Isabel skipped down the stairs. First her hair had gone, now all those old clothes. Excess baggage, she thought. Got to get rid of it all. She grabbed her bag, ready to give some money to the collector, and opened the front door.
'Oh.'
Patrick stood in front of her. She had been so deliberately not thinking about him that to see him in the flesh was shocking. He looked equally surprised.
'What have you done to your hair?'
Without thinking she touched it. 'Cut it.'
'You look different.' He frowned. 'Older.'
'Thanks.' You look older too, she thought. His face was strained and for the first time she noticed lines of white in his hair. He'd always been elegant, despite his dishevelled house, but today his jacket looked crumpled and his shirt wasn't properly ironed.
'I didn't mean it like that. More sophisticated. It suits you.' He cleared his throat. 'Aren't you going to invite me in?'
'What do you want?' She could feel her heart thumping.
'I don't want to discuss it in the street. Ask me in.'
'No.' She clutched her bag in front of her, as if he was a bag-snatcher. It had never occurred to her that he'd come to her house. 'Go away.'
'That's not very friendly, is it?' He smiled at her as if she was welcoming him in.
'I don't want to be friendly. I want you to go.' She started to close the door, but he pushed it open. She caught the scent of stale alcohol.
'Don't you want to hear what I've got to say?'
'No.'
'It's a shame you've cut your hair.' He put his hand out to stroke her head, but she turned away from him. He sighed. 'I thought we were going to be friends.'
'No. It's not possible.'
'I don't want us to finish on bad terms. We have to talk.'
'There's nothing to talk about,' she managed to say. 'Go away.'
'Make me.' His voice teased, but his eyes were hard. She suddenly thought of Justine upstairs, Justine possibly listening. She closed the door as far as she could without shutting it completely.
'We can't talk here,' she said quickly, trying to conjure up a way to be rid of him as soon as possible. 'Somewhere else. Wherever you like, I promise I'll be there.'
'I'm afraid it has to be here, right now. I don't want you standing me up again.'
She dropped her eyes. 'I'm sorry about that.'
'Let me in.'
'No.'
'What do you think I'm going to do? Rape you?' The question hung in the air. He reached out as if to touch her cheek but she twisted her head away. He dropped his hand.
'Why did you cut your hair off?'
Isabel said nothing.
'You look different. Sexy.'
Isabel bit her lip. She wondered what Justine was doing upstairs, whether she was aware of Patrick's presence.
She checked the front door was on the latch then stepped outside, closing the door behind her.
'Say what you have to say, right here, then bugger off. I'm not interested in playing games.'
'Makes a change.' His attitude changed from playful to businesslike. 'So. On the doorstep it is.' Patrick pulled out of his jacket pocket a brown manila envelope. 'Now this is the sort of deal I really like,' he began confidently. 'Everybody wins. You, me, Neil. Everybody.' Isabel folded her arms in front of her, trying to look as uninterested as possible, so any casual onlooker might think he was trying to sell her life insurance or washing-up liquid.
'Now, what do you want?' Patrick continued. 'You want your nice house, your nice children and your nice husband. It's all a little dull of course, so you also want a bit of excitement. A lover. But then your lover asks you to come away with him, and you discover that you're not really brave enough. Or, you don't love him enough.' He paused, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. 'But I think you do love him. I think that if he hadn't asked you to leave your husband you'd have been happy to carry on. Isn't that so?'
She looked at the path, refusing to answer him.
'Isabel. Forget Rome. If I stay here, will you come back to me?'
'I can't.'
'I'll ditch Victoria.'
'It doesn't work like that, Patrick,' she cried. 'I don't love you.'
He flinched. 'You're lying.'
She wanted to tell him about promising a stable home for the children, how she'd felt when Michael disappeared. She wanted to tell him how Neil had provided stability for her, the safe haven she had needed, her feelings of obligation to him. How all these things mattered to her, were intrinsic to her sense of self. But it was impossible.
'It's too late. I can't go back.'
'I see.' He licked his lips as if nervous. 'So, you think you can't have the lover and continue to have the nice house et cetera.'
'That's not what it's about.'
'No? I think you're wrong there, but we'll come to that later. Now, what does Neil want? Well, he wants the nice house scenario too, and he likes the idea of having his wife all to himself. Yes, the last thing he wants is to know he's having to share her with someone else.' He looked at her, his expression serious. 'Trust me, I'm a man, I know this. I don't want to share you either.'
Isabel's mouth felt dry. 'And what do you want?'
'Let me tell you what I don't want. I don't want to be stood up, I don't want to be dumped by a pathetic note, I don't want to be pissed around, I don't want to be treated as if I don't matter, as if I have no feelings.' His voice rose until he was almost shouting at her. 'I don't want any of this shit you've been giving me.'
Isabel leant back against the door to stop her legs giving way. 'I'm sorry -' she started, but Patrick cut her off.
'I'm sorry,' he mimicked. 'I'm sorry.' His face was contorted with rage. 'Well I'm sorry, but it's not bloody good enough.'
Isabel pressed herself into the door. All she could think of to say was I'm sorry, which she didn't think would go down very well a second time. If I scream, she thought, Justine will hear and come and help me.
'So, what do you want?' Her eyes challenged his. He took a few steps away from her, breathing heavily, gaining control over himself, smoothing his hair away from his forehead, the normal Patrick, sleek and controlled, reasserting himself.
'I hope I didn't frighten you. I find these constant apolo
gies somewhat ...irritating. And intrinsically untruthful. But never mind.' He looked at the envelope as if the next words he was to speak were written on the blank face. Suddenly Isabel was really frightened, chilled to the bone. 'What I want is for you to come back to me, of course. That's what I want; if you are honest with yourself, it's what you want. We both know that. All this,' he gestured at the house, 'however nice and cosy it is, is never going to be enough for you.'
'That's not true,' she whispered.
'You might kid yourself for a bit, but you need more. If you had been happy you'd never have come to me at the start.'
'It is enough,' she cried, spoiling it by adding, 'and there are other things.'
'Like what?'
'I could get a proper job. One where I got paid, for a start. Or do a degree.'
'Isabel,' Patrick snorted. 'Why sublimate all that sex drive when you could be having the real thing? With me, preferably.' He fingered the flap on the envelope. 'Don't lie to yourself; if it's not me it'll be someone else, sooner or later. Now you've woken up, you can't go back to sleep. It'll be one man after another.'
'It won't.' He looked at her, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. 'It won't because I don't want to. I am happy, and this is enough for me. I love Neil and I don't want anything more. And certainly not you. Patrick, it is over. I can't pretend it's been easy for me, but I've decided what I have to do. And today has just confirmed that it's the right decision. I'm not coming back.' She stared at him defiantly, but was surprised when he just shrugged.
'We'll see.'
'Is that it?' She couldn't believe that he was going to leave it at that and, strangely, felt almost disappointed.
'You said you didn't want to play games anymore. So, no more games. I had hoped that it wouldn't come to this.' With one hand he lifted her chin so she had to look him square in the face. 'I would never, never hurt you. You know that, don't you? But I can't let you destroy what we have. Here's the deal.' Tucking the envelope under his arm he pulled from his inside breast pocket a scrunched-up bundle of cloth. He spread it out and she recognised -