Too Beautiful to Dance

by Diana Appleyard

  ‘This is like having my own personal psychiatrist. Catherine does keep leaving messages on the answerphone but, oh, I just can’t be bothered to call her back, I know it’s awful but I don’t want to talk about how I feel. It seems such a long time ago, almost a different life. What I’m worried about is that if I go to London it’ll all get stirred up again and I don’t want to feel like that . . . it took me such a long time to feel even remotely normal.’

  ‘But you have to face things,’ Lottie said impatiently. ‘Dad is always going to be my Dad, even if I think he’s been a pillock. And I think you need to have at least some kind of relationship with him, if only for our sakes.’

  ‘You’re getting awfully wise, Lottie. It’s a bit worrying. Who is the parent here?’

  ‘It’s being the victim of a broken home,’ Lottie said dramatically. ‘I have been forced to grow old before my time.’

  ‘Enough already,’ Sara said. ‘All right. I’ll come.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sara could not rid herself of the feeling, as she sat on the train heading towards London, that she was travelling from Arcadia into Hades. She had risen that morning, very early, to walk Hector before they left, having arranged with Helen that she would come and let him out at lunchtime. She promised him, as she held his big head between her hands and his whole body drooped with the realization that he was being left behind alone, that she would be back soon.

  She had taken the path leading down to the cove just as the sun was rising, and the air was very still. The rooks were beginning to flap from tree to tree, their glossy black bodies silhouetted against the pale sky. As she had stepped out of the front door she had found a black feather lying in the grass. Turning it over in her hand, she marvelled at the beauty of the colours – rather than being uniformly black, it shone with flashes of iridescent green, turquoise shimmering at the tips. She held it against her cheek as she walked down the path, avoiding the little brown and yellow spiders which scuttled away across the pebbles.

  Reaching the point where the path became stone steps, she looked down at the sea. Twenty feet below her, the early morning tide surged against the rocks at the base of the cliff, breaking into a spray of foam as the waves met the land. The sea was very clear today as the wind was relatively low, and just beneath the surface of the water she could see submerged rocks, gleaming ghostly white, like bare bones. Overhead, the gulls languidly rose and fell in the air currents, calling to each other. Sara smiled, thinking of another notice she had seen on the board at Polperro. It was a photocopied picture of an extremely cross-looking gull with a message below it, ‘This is the enemy! Do not feel the gulls – they WILL bite!’

  Which was rather unfair, she thought – they were hardly the enemy, more opportunistic creatures who were extremely partial to a sandwich or an ice-cream cone. She’d had to stop herself laughing, a couple of days before, when a particularly large gull had swooped down by the harbour in Polperro and swiped an entire baguette from the hand of a large woman misguidedly wearing shorts. She couldn’t laugh out loud because the woman had been genuinely frightened by the great bird swooping down towards her with its wings outstretched, but the raid had been so flawlessly timed and executed it was all Sara could do to stop herself clapping and shouting, ‘Bravo!’

  She was becoming much fonder of the little town – at first, like Lottie, she’d thought it was rather touristy, with too many pasty and ice-cream stalls and shops selling tat like plastic sandals and key-rings. But the last time she had walked there with Hector, she had taken the time to wander the quieter narrow streets which led up the hill, away from the harbour. There, she had found much more interesting shops selling beautiful paintings by local artists, antiques, pottery and unusual clothes such as brightly-coloured ethnic skirts and flip-flops decorated with shells and beads. At the time she had wished she had brought more money, so she could have bought a pair for Lottie and for Emily. She had returned, yesterday, and bought them each a pair. She would give Emily hers today – as a token, a small peace offering.

  Approaching Polperro on foot via the high, winding mountain path was the best way to fully appreciate the charm of the old town, she thought. Turning the headland, the town lay before you, a picture-postcard jumble of white, pale blue and pink-washed cottages, stacked in higgledy-piggledy rows up the steep sides of the inlet. The moss-covered stone walls of the harbour formed a small lagoon and brightly-painted fishing boats bobbed on the dark green water. When Emily and Lottie were young they had loved a book called The Mousehole Cat. The story told of a cat who lived with a fisherman in a Cornish town which looked very much like Polperro. Every night the local people would come out of their cottages to hold up lanterns, guiding the little fishing fleet home into the safety of the harbour walls. She remembered the charm of the illustrations. One night the fisherman’s boat had been all but engulfed by a huge grey Storm Cat, which curled its dangerous grey paws around the fisherman’s little boat, tossing the boat about on the violent sea and preventing it from reaching the security of the harbour. Eventually the Storm Cat was driven back by the lights of the villagers, who would not leave their posts until the boat was safe. The girls, snuggled down in their pyjamas in bed, demanded she read it again and again, loving the sensation of being scared for the fisherman from the comfort, safety and warmth of their own beds.

  Sara leant back against the rough material of the train seat. In front of her lay a glossy magazine, unread, and a particularly nasty chemical-tasting cappuccino, which tasted nothing like real coffee. They had left the cottage just after half past seven, Hector staring forlornly out at them through the kitchen window as Sara backed the Volvo into the lane.

  ‘I wish dogs could read,’ Lottie said, looking at his mournful face. ‘What will he do all day?’

  ‘Sleep sporadically, turn repeatedly in circles, lick himself and quite possibly chew the leg of one of the kitchen chairs in retaliation at being left,’ Sara predicted with a fair degree of accuracy.

  She was astonished at how much of a wrench leaving had been and realized, with a start, this was the first time she had travelled more than ten miles from the cottage in months. Maybe Lottie was right – maybe she was in danger of becoming a hermit. She must get a job, if only to force herself back out into the big wide world.

  Next to her, Lottie was sitting slumped against the window, fast asleep, exhausted by such an early start, a small trickle of transparent saliva tracing its way down the golden skin of her chin. How brown she was, and then she looked down at her own hands, realizing she was equally tanned. The pleasure faded, however, when she looked at them more closely. Hands did reveal your age in the most brutal fashion, she thought. Whereas Lottie’s hands, currently cupped under her chin, were smooth and beautiful, hers were creased with hundreds of tiny criss-crossed lines, the skin pouching over her knuckles when she flexed her wrist. On the third finger of her left hand was a white band – odd that the sun hadn’t filled in the gap. Perhaps the skin was too deeply indented.

  Her wedding, engagement and eternity rings lay in a little jewelled box on top of the chest of drawers in her bedroom. She had taken them all off, that first night in the service flat, and there they remained, amidst a jumble of earrings. Hidden, but not forgotten. Occasionally she thought about giving them to the girls, or even throwing them, symbolically, into the sea. Then she thought that would be an absurdly over-dramatic gesture, and besides, they were rather beautiful. Both Emily and Lottie, she knew, would not want her to throw the rings away and they did hold, if she was honest, a great deal of sentimental value. Still a part of her, if not worn next to her skin.

  This morning she had chosen what to wear with a great deal of care, while consciously trying not to envisage possible scenarios. Even so, she couldn’t help herself. How would she feel when she saw Matt? She pictured him turning, seeing her . . . How would he react? Would he look hunted, nervous, guilty? Lottie had said he had behaved quite differently towards her before she h
ad left London, far less confident and take-charge. Sara tried to picture a humble Matt, and failed. She decided he was much more likely to be businesslike and detached, and hoped they would be able to treat each other politely and calmly in front of the girls. But oh, what would he think of her? Would he see a frumpy, plump middle-aged woman and immediately compare her to Karina, counting himself a lucky man? No, she said, firmly, looking at herself in her bedroom mirror as she slipped on a discreet pair of pearl earrings. I am not going to ‘go there’, as Lottie would say. Who cares? Who cares what he sees? I am comfortable in my own skin and I do not care what he thinks of me. I no longer need his approval to feel good about myself.

  Taking a sip of the vile coffee and grimacing, she glanced down at the blue ruffled linen shirt she had bought with Lottie, and her pale grey linen trousers. It was certainly a different look, more relaxed and up-to-date. Gazing at herself in the full-length mirror behind her wardrobe door, she’d been pleased. She did look slimmer and the sun had not only tanned her skin but turned her hair a lighter shade of gold. The grey wisps looked less obvious and she liked the way her longer hairstyle framed her face. No one’s going to take me for thirty, she thought, but I could get away with being in my forties. Above all, she thought, I look happy.

  Please don’t let today threaten that. Don’t take away my self-confidence and make me feel insecure. Leave me be, Matt. For what felt like the hundredth time, she wondered why on earth she had agreed to this meeting. I was fine as I was, she thought.

  She had also chosen to wear a new pair of shoes, raffia wedge sandals, with a brown and orange flower above her toes. Hmm. She leant back to look at them under the train table. Maybe they were a bit too hippie-looking. They had looked pretty when she had tried them on in the shop in Fowey, but now she wondered if they looked rather – well, girlish. A bit too much as if she was trying to look young and she really did not want to give that impression. She had kept her make-up light, as she always did if she even bothered with make-up at all, just pale pink lipstick, a little eyeliner around her eyes and a quick flick of mascara.

  ‘D’you want anything from the trolley?’ A woman wearing a stained overall stopped by her seat, and Sara’s head jerked up from the magazine she’d been gazing at without taking in a word.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘No thank you.’ Should she wake Lottie? She nudged her. ‘Darling,’ she whispered, ‘do you want a drink, or anything?’

  Lottie moaned, opening her eyes slowly, extending long, tapered fingers, ending in bitten nails, out in front of her. ‘No, thanks,’ she said, looking out of the window. ‘Are we nearly there? I was like totally asleep.’

  ‘I know,’ Sara said. ‘There’s about two hours to go. No, we’re fine, thanks,’ she said, to the woman, who clattered her trolley away down the aisle.

  Lottie slumped back against her seat. ‘God,’ she said. ‘It is such a long way. Why didn’t we drive?’

  ‘Because that would have taken longer and . . .’ Sara didn’t want to admit that the thought of driving in London frightened her, because that sounded rather pathetic. After all, she had driven around London for nearly thirty years. ‘We might not be able to find anywhere to park,’ she added a touch lamely. ‘I’m terrified of getting clamped, and there’s the congestion charge to pay as well. It just seemed much less hassle to come on the train.’

  ‘Where are we meeting Dad?’ Lottie asked sleepily.

  ‘A restaurant near the station,’ Sara replied. The meeting had been arranged initially between Lottie and Emily, and then Sara and Matt had finalized the details via brief text messages. Sara gave thanks for texting – it meant she hadn’t had to speak to him directly on the phone. No matter how terse the conversation, she would have been able to gauge so much from the sound and inflection of his voice, by what he didn’t say as much as the information exchanged. He had even managed one, brief, joke – ‘Glad 2 c u r texting,’ he said, in reference to the fact she’d never mastered the art before.

  ‘And what am I going to do while you go to see the solicitor?’ Lottie asked.

  They had arranged that after lunch they would go on to see Matt’s lawyer. He’d been Sara’s lawyer too, not that she had ever needed him, and she supposed now she’d have to get her own family law solicitor as she doubted the sleepy practice she’d used to buy the cottage in Liskeard would welcome taking on a divorce case. If it came to that, she told herself.

  Having made the difficult decision to agree to meet Matt, Sara thought she’d rather get everything over with in one day.

  ‘You can shop?’ Sara suggested.

  ‘Yeah, right, what with? As if I have any money.’

  ‘I can lend you ten pounds.’

  ‘Yay. I’ll go completely mad in Topshop with that, won’t I? Why do you have to see the solicitor, anyway? Why couldn’t you and Dad talk about all that stuff over lunch? You’re bound to have rows if you start talking through lawyers.’

  ‘Because I don’t want to discuss things like that in front of you and Emily,’ Sara said, rather primly. ‘It’s private.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Lottie said, looking out of the window, at the countryside flashing past. The sky, which had been a clear duck-egg blue at home, had turned pale grey, the clouds overhead threatening rain.

  ‘What are we going to talk about?’ she said, turning back to her mother.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sara replied, picking up her magazine. ‘It was you who insisted we all have lunch together,’ she pointed out, flicking over the pages.

  ‘You’re not going to make this really weird, are you?’ Lottie turned to look at her accusingly.

  Sara put the article she had been glancing at down. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know. Sit in silence, or start an argument, or bring up . . . you know.’ Her brows furrowed at the thought.

  ‘Well, what can we talk about?’ Sara asked patiently. ‘The weather? The cottage? The flat Dad intends to buy? How much money he wants to give us? Whether he has any plans to marry Karina?’ As soon as she said this, she wished she hadn’t. She had meant it to sound facetious, but in fact it made her sound bitter. No! That was absolutely not what she intended. She was intending to be mature and gracious and relaxed – and just a teeny bit patronizing towards him. She was, after all, the injured party – the person with moral rectitude on her side. She would be patience on a monument, she thought, perfectly able to deal with whatever transpired.

  Lottie sighed. ‘Please, Mum.’ She lifted a hand and put it over her mother’s. ‘Just chill. I know this isn’t easy for you, but it isn’t going to be easy for Em and me either – or Dad.’ She looked down at their hands. ‘And I don’t quite know what to expect, to be honest.’ She snorted suddenly. ‘What if he asks me to start calling him Matt rather than Dad? Last time I spoke to him on the phone he kept saying “cool” – most off-putting.’

  Sara laughed.

  ‘Just don’t ask me to call you Sara,’ Lottie added, shuddering. ‘I don’t want you to be my friend. I’ve got enough friends. I need you to be my mum.’

  Sara gently slipped her hand out from under Lottie’s and, putting her arm around her thin shoulders, hugged her. Lottie let her head rest against her mother’s shoulder. ‘I will try to make sure it is perfectly civilized,’ Sara said. ‘Dreadful cliché, but it is important we all try to be adult about this. Raking up the past and bickering isn’t going to make a scrap of difference and will only make the situation much worse. We’ve all moved on, haven’t we?’

  ‘It’s been less than eight months,’ Lottie reminded her, quietly. ‘Since Dad walked out on the night of his birthday.’

  Sara looked at her for a long moment. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to sound insensitive. It’s just that I’ve had to really wind myself up for this and I don’t want to think too deeply about how I will feel, in all honesty. I think we just need to keep things fairly calm and yes, a little superficial. I’m not sure any of us are ready for confrontation.�
��

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Lottie mumbled, sliding her chin down to her chest, pulling the ends of the sleeves of her jumper over her hands. Sara thought how sore her bitten nails looked.

  ‘You must stop doing that,’ she said. ‘I’ll buy you something from the chemist in Fowey.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Lottie said.

  Sara’s heart was beating unnaturally quickly as they stood in the taxi rank outside the railway station, and she had to tell herself to breathe slowly, thankful they had escaped from the crowds on the platform. She had accidentally stumbled and almost fallen to her knees amidst the rush of people heading towards the ticket barrier when she had got off the train. Several trains had arrived at the same time and there were so many commuters talking urgently into their mobile phones, a sheer, suffocating weight of humanity, pushing relentlessly forward. No one stopped to help her – Lottie was a few feet ahead and had not noticed she had tripped.

  Standing outside in the street, Sara breathed in the hot, arid smell of traffic. Around her rumbled the constant sound of voices, car horns, brakes squealing, car alarms and in the distance a police siren wailed. Her senses felt so assaulted, she thankfully climbed into a taxi and slammed the door on the cacophony of the city.

  As Lottie sat beside her, texting a friend, Sara gazed out of the window. So many people flowed along the pavements they became less distinguishable individuals, more a homogeneous mass without discernable characteristics. The buildings towered over her oppressively, blocking out the sky.

  Suddenly overcome by nerves, she plucked apprehensively at the ruffle on the front of her linen shirt. ‘Do you think this looks OK? Not too girly?’

  Lottie looked up, briefly, from the screen of her phone. ‘Will you stop fussing? No, Mother, trust me. You look lovely. You do look lovely, actually,’ she said, with some surprise, examining her more closely. ‘You’ve really caught the sun. Have I?’ She turned her face to Sara, closing her eyes and pursing her lips, sucking in her cheeks in the impression of a model.