The Best Contemporary Women's Fiction: Six Novels

by Jenna Blum

  There was a silence in the room. Her grandmother glanced up at her son. Kitty glanced at their mother, then looked back at her work. What was it she was making again? Some ridiculous piece of lace and ribbonry for 'her trousseau', as she called it, with the affected French accent that made Esme want to scream. The maid had said recently, you'll be needing to find yourself a husband first, hen, and Kitty had been so upset she had run from the room, so Esme knew better than to criticise the growing heap of lace and silk in their cupboard.

  'No,' her father had said.

  'Please.' Esme stood. She clasped her hands together to keep them still. 'Miss Murray says I could get a scholarship and after that perhaps university and—'

  'There would be no profit in it,' her father said, as he settled himself back into his armchair. My daughters will not work for a living.'

  She had stamped her foot – crack – and it made her feel better, even though she knew it wouldn't help, that it would make everything worse.

  'Why ever not?' she'd cried, because she had felt something closing about her of late. She couldn't bear the thought that in a few months she'd be here in this house with no reason to go from it, watched over by her mother and her grandmother all day. Kitty would go soon, taking her lace and ribbons with her. And there would be no escape, no relief from these walls, from this room, from this family until she married, and the thought of that was as bad, if not worse.

  They are at the car. Iris unlocks it and Esme sees that an orange light flashes on its side. She opens the door and climbs in.

  It had been only a day, maybe two, later when she and Kitty were sitting in their bedroom. Kitty was again sewing stitches into whatever it was – a nightdress, a slip, who knows? Esme had been at the window, watching her breath flatten and whiten on the glass, then dragging her fingers through it, hearing them screech against the pane.

  Their grandmother swept into the room. 'Kitty,' there was an unaccustomed smile on her face, 'stir yourself. You have a visitor.'

  Kitty put down her needle. 'Who?'

  Their mother appeared behind the grandmother. 'Kitty,' she said, 'quickly, put that away. He's here, he's downstairs—'

  'Who is?' Kitty asked.

  The Dalziel boy. James. He has the newspaper but we mustn't be long.'

  Esme watched from the window-seat as her mother started fiddling with Kitty's hair, tucking it behind her ears, then releasing it.

  'I said I would come to fetch you,' Ishbel was saying, her voice cracking with delight, 'and he said, "Marvellous." Did you hear that? "Marvellous." So, quick, quick. You look very nice and we'll come with you, so you needn't—' Ishbel turned and, catching sight of Esme at the window, said, 'You too. Quickly now.'

  Esme took the stairs slowly. She had no desire to meet one of Kitty's suitors. They all seemed the same to her – nervous men with over-combed hair, scrubbed hands and pressed shirts. They came and drank tea, and she and Kitty were expected to talk to them while their mother sat like an umpire in a chair across the room. The whole thing made Esme want to burst into honesty, to say, let's forget this charade, do you want to marry her or not?

  She dawdled on the landing, looking at a grim, grey-skied watercolour of the Fife coast. But her grandmother appeared in the hall below. 'Esme!' she hissed, and Esme clattered down the rest of the stairs.

  In the drawing room, she plumped down in a chair with high arms in the corner. She wound her ankles round its polished legs and eyed the suitor. The same as ever. Perhaps a little more good-looking than some of the others. Blond hair, an arrogant forehead, fastidious cuffs. He was asking Ishbel something about the roses in a bowl on the table. Esme had to repress the urge to roll her eyes. Kitty was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, pouring tea into a cup, a blush creeping up her neck.

  Esme began playing the game she often played with herself at times like this, looking over the room and working out how she might get round it without touching the floor. She could climb from the sofa to the low table and, from there, to the fender stool. Along that and then—

  She realised her mother was looking at her, saying something.

  'What was that?' Esme said.

  'James was addressing you,' her mother said, and the slight flare of her nostrils meant, Esme knew, that she'd better behave or there would be trouble later.

  'I was just saying,' the James person began, sitting forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, and suddenly there was something familiar about him. Had Esme met him before? She wasn't sure, 'how beautiful your mother's garden is.'

  There was a pause and Esme realised that it was her turn to speak. 'Oh,' she said. She couldn't think of anything else.

  'Perhaps you would show me round it?'

  From her chair, Esme blinked. 'Me?' she said.

  Everyone was looking at her suddenly. Her mother, her grandmother, Kitty, James. And her mother's expression was so disconcerted, so appalled, that for a moment Esme thought she might laugh. Her grandmother's head was swivelling from James to Esme, then to Kitty, and back again to James. Some realisation was dawning there as well. She was swallowing rapidly and had to make a grab for her teacup.

  'I can't,' Esme said.

  James smiled at her. 'Why is that?'

  'I...' Esme thought for a moment '...I've hurt my leg.'

  'Have you?' James sat back in his chair and surveyed her, his eyes travelling over her ankles, her knees. 'I'm sorry to hear that. How did it happen?'

  'I fell,' Esme mumbled, and pushed a piece of fruit cake between her teeth to signal that that was the end of the conversation and, luckily, her mother and grandmother came to her rescue, falling over themselves to offer him the company of her sister.

  'Kitty would be happy to—'

  'Why don't you go with Kitty, she's—'

  '– show you some interesting plants in the far corner—'

  '– terribly knowledgeable about the garden, she helps me quite often there, you know—'

  James stood. 'Very well,' he said, and offered Kitty his arm. 'Shall we go, then?'

  As they left, Esme uncurled her ankles from the chair legs and allowed herself to roll her eyes, just once, up to the ceiling and back. But she thought James caught her because she realised too late that, as he went out through the door with Kitty, he was looking back at her.

  And Esme doesn't remember how many days passed before the time when she was making her way under the trees. It was early evening, she remembers that. She'd stayed late at school to finish an essay. Fog was sinking over the city, gluing itself to the houses, the streets, the lights, the black branches overhead, making them seem blurred and indistinct. Her hair was damp under her school beret and her feet icy inside her shoes.

  She hefted her satchel to the other shoulder and, as she did so, was aware of a dark shape flitting through the trees on the Meadows. She tried not to glance back and increased her pace. The fog was thickening, grey and wet.

  She was blowing on her frozen fingers when, from nowhere, a figure loomed up beside her in the gloom and seized her arm. She screamed and, grasping the leather strap of her satchel, belted the person round the head with all the combined weight of her books. The spectre grunted then swore, staggering backwards. Esme was off down the pavement before she heard him calling her name.

  She stopped and waited, peering into the fog. The figure appeared again, materialising from the grey, this time with a hand held to his head.

  'What did you want to go and do that for?' he was growling.

  Esme stared at the man, puzzled. She couldn't believe that this was the horrid spectre from the gloom. He had fair hair, a smooth face, a good overcoat and a well-bred Grange accent. 'Do I know you?' she said.

  He had flipped a handkerchief from a pocket and was dabbing at his temple. 'Look,' he was exclaiming, 'blood. You've drawn blood.' Esme glanced at the white cotton and saw three drops of scarlet. Then he suddenly seemed to hear what she had said. 'Do you know me?' he repeated, aghast. 'Don't you remember?'
r />   She looked at him again. He summoned up a feeling of constriction in her, she noticed, of stillness and boredom. Something clicked in her head and she remembered. James. The suitor who'd liked the garden.

  'I came to your house,' he was saying. 'There was you, your sister Katy, and—'

  'Kitty.'

  'That's right. Kitty. It was only the other day. I can't believe you didn't recognise me.'

  'The fog,' Esme said vaguely, wondering what he wanted, when she could decently walk off. Her feet were freezing.

  'But I first met you over there.' He gestured behind him. 'Do you remember that?'

  She nodded, suppressing a smile. 'Uh-huh. Mr Charming.'

  He gave a mock bow, took her hand as if to kiss it. 'That's me.'

  She pulled her hand away. 'Well. I must be going. Goodbye now.'

  But he took her arm and looped it through his and set off with her down the pavement. Anyway,' he said, as if they were still talking, as if she hadn't just said goodbye, 'none of this is the point because the point is, of course, when are you coming to the pictures with me?'

  'I'm not.'

  'I can assure you,' he said, with a smile, 'that you are.'

  Esme frowned. Her footsteps stuttered. She tried to wrest her fingers out from under his but he held them firm. 'Well, I can assure you that I'm not. And I should know.'

  'Why?'

  'Because it's up to me.'

  'Is it?'

  'Of course.'

  'What if,' he said, applying heavier pressure to her hand, 'I were to ask your parents? What then?'

  Esme snatched away her hand. 'You can't ask my parents if I'll go to the pictures with you.'

  'Can't I?'

  'No,' she said. 'And, anyway, even if they said yes I still wouldn't go. I'd rather...' she tried to think of something extreme, something to make him go away '...I'd rather stick pins in my eyes.' That ought to do it.

  But he was grinning as if she'd said something extremely flattering. What was wrong with the man? He readjusted his glove and twitched his cuff, looking her up and down as if considering whether or not he should eat her.

  'Pins, eh? They don't teach you many manners at that school of yours, do they? But I like a challenge. I shall ask you one more time. When are you going to come to the pictures with me?'

  'Never,' she retorted. Again, she was amazed to see him smile. She didn't think she'd ever been as rude to anyone as she'd been to him.

  He stepped up close to her and she made sure to hold her ground. 'You're not like other girls, are you?' he murmured.

  Despite herself, she was interested in this declaration. 'Aren't I?'

  'No. You're no drawing-room shrinking violet. I like that. I like a bit of temper. Life's dull without it, don't you think?' The white of his teeth gleamed in the dark and she could feel his breath on her face. 'But seriously now,' he said and his tone was firm, magisterial, and Esme thought this was how he might speak to his horses. The thought made her want to giggle. Wasn't the Dalziel family famous for its equestrian accomplishments? 'I'm not going to waste any pretty words and persuasive phrases on you. I know you don't need them. I want to take you out, so when will it be?'

  'I already told you,' she said, holding his gaze. 'Never.'

  She felt him catch her wrist and she was surprised by the insistence, the power of his grip. 'Let go,' she said, stepping away from him. But he held on, fast. She struggled. 'Let go!' she said. 'Do you want me to hit you again?'

  He released her. 'Wouldn't mind,' he drawled. As she walked away, she heard him call after her: 'I'm going to invite you to tea.'

  'I won't come,' she threw back over her shoulder.

  'You damn well will. I'm going to get my mother to invite your mother. Then you'll have to come.'

  'I won't!'

  'We've got a piano you could play. A Steinway.'

  Esme's steps slowed and she half turned. 'A Steinway?'

  'Yes.'

  'How did you know I played the piano?' She heard him laugh, the noise bouncing along the wet pavement towards her. 'I did a little research on you. It wasn't difficult. You seem to be rather notorious. I found out all kinds of things. Can't say what, though. So, you'll come to tea?'

  She turned towards home again. 'I doubt it.'

  Iris is turning the car off the coast road and on to the bypass for Edinburgh, Esme in the seat next to her, when she decides that maybe she should call Luke. Just to check. Just to make sure he hasn't done anything stupid.

  As they accelerate down the sliproad towards the bypass, she takes her phone out of her pocket with one hand, keeping her eyes on the road and her foot on the pedal. She had told Luke in the past that she would never call at the weekend. She knows the rules. But what if he has told her? He can't have. He won't have. Surely.

  Iris sighs and flings the phone on to the dashboard. It may be time, she reflects, to excise Luke from her life.

  Esme shifted in the armchair. It was covered with a heavy brown fabric, balding on the arms. The sharp ends of feathers poked through it, needling her thighs. She shifted again, making her mother glance at her. She had to stop herself sticking out her tongue. Why had she made her come?

  They were having a conversation about the imminent party, the difficulty about invitations in Edinburgh, the best dairy from which to obtain fresh cream. Esme attempted to listen. Maybe she should say something. She hadn't spoken yet and she felt it might be time for her to open her mouth. Kitty, on the sofa with their mother, was managing to put in a few comments, though heaven only knew what she had to say about the purchase of cream. Mrs Dalziel made some remark about the cut on Jamie's face and how he'd walked into a low-growing branch in the fog. Esme froze, all possible conversational gambits dying in her throat.

  'It looks terribly painful, James,' Esme's mother said.

  'It isn't,' he said, 'I assure you. I've had worse.'

  'I hope it's healed in time for your party. Would you be able to identify the tree? Someone should maybe tell the authorities. It sounds dangerous.'

  Jamie cleared his throat. 'It is dangerous. I think I will alert the authorities. Good idea.'

  Esme, her face hot, looked about for somewhere to put down her teacup. There was no convenient table or surface nearby. The floor? She peered over the arm of the chair at the parquet. It seemed an awful long way down and she wasn't sure if she could balance it on the saucer at the angle the drop required. Imagine shattering one of Mrs Dalziel's teacups. Kitty and their mother had placed theirs on a small table in front of them. Esme was getting desperate. She twisted round once more to see if there wasn't a table the other side of the enormous chair and suddenly Jamie was there, his hand outstretched. 'Will I take that for you?' he was saying.

  Esme put the teacup into his hand. 'Oh,' she said, 'thank you.'

  He winked at her as he took it and Esme saw that Mrs Dalziel was looking at them with a gaze sharp as a knife.

  'Tell me, Mrs Lennox,' Mrs Dalziel said in a slightly raised voice, 'what plans do you have for Esme when she leaves school?'

  'Well,' her mother began, and Esme felt a flush of indignation. Why not ask her directly? Did she not have a voice of her own?

  She opened her mouth without the faintest idea of what was going to come out of it, until she heard: 'I am going to travel the world.' And she was rather pleased with this notion.

  Jamie, from the chair opposite, snorted with laughter and had to smother it, coughing into a handkerchief. Kitty was regarding her, stunned, and Mrs Dalziel brought up a pair of spectacles, through which she took a long look at Esme, from her feet all the way up to a point above her head.

  'Is that so?' Mrs Dalziel said. 'Well, that should keep you busy.'

  Esme's mother replaced her teaspoon on a saucer with a clash. 'Esme is...' she began '...she is still so young ... She has some rather ... extreme views on...'

  'So I see.' Mrs Dalziel shot a look at her son, who turned his head towards Esme and Esme saw, at the same moment, her sist
er. Kitty's eyes were cast down towards the floor but she lifted them to Jamie for a split second and then dropped them again. Esme saw her change in that instant, red staining her neck, her lips pressing together. Esme sat motionless, in shock, then she sat forward and got to her feet.

  All faces in the room turned towards her. Mrs Dalziel was frowning, reaching for her spectacles again. Esme stood in the middle of the carpet. Might I play your piano?' she said.

  Mrs Dalziel put her head on one side, pressed two fingers to her mouth. She glanced again at her son. 'By all means,' she said, inclining her head.

  Jamie leapt up. 'I'll show you where it is,' he said, and hustled Esme out into the corridor. 'She likes you,' he whispered, as he shut the door behind him.

  'She does not. She thinks I'm the Devil incarnate.'

  'Don't be ridiculous. She's my mother. I can tell. She likes you.' He put a hand round her arm. 'This way,' he said, and led her towards a room at the back of the house, with leaves pressed up against the windows, giving a peculiar greenish glow to the walls.

  Esme seated herself on the stool and ran her hands over the black-wood lid, the gold letters that spelt out 'Steinway'.

  'I don't see that it matters anyway,' she said, as she lifted the lid.

  'It doesn't,' he said, leaning on the piano, 'you're right. I can have whomever I like.'

  She shot him a look. He was gazing at her, lips curled in a smile, hair falling into his eyes, and she wondered for a moment what it would be like to be married to him. She tried to imagine herself in this big house with its dark walls, its windows crushed in by plants, its winding staircase and a room upstairs that would be hers and one that would be his, close by. She could have this, she saw with surprise. It could be hers. She could be Esme Dalziel.

  She stretched her fingers into a soft chord. 'It doesn't matter,' she said, not looking at him, 'because I'm not going to get married. To anyone.'

  He laughed. 'Are you not?' He moved round and seated himself next to her on the stool, right next to her. 'Let me tell you something,' he murmured, close to her ear, and Esme fixed her eyes on the rivet on the music stand, on the curling y of 'Steinway', on the knife-crease of his trouser leg. She had never been as close to a man as this before. His hand was pressing at her waist. He smelt of something sharp, some kind of cologne, and of fresh leather. It was not unpleasant. 'Of all the girls I've met, you seem the one most suited for marriage.'