by Sue Margolis
As she stood making foam-capped puddles on the new ceramic floor tiles, she realized that, despite her worries about Melvin and her ongoing guilt about the affair, she was feeling distinctly chirpy. The last twenty years with Melvin had been bloody tough. She’d never really considered just how tough until now. Now, after the endless financial struggle, and the lying-back and thinking of Artex, she wanted some fun. Even if it did mean being more than just a bit wicked. Rochelle was right. She had changed.
What Beverley failed to acknowledge, however, was that Tom Jago had started to mean far more to her than mere fun.
Still dripping, she stood looking at herself in the full-length mirror and smiled. In almost four months she’d put on no weight at all. Turning to the side she detected a hint of a bump, but she was months off a huge swollen belly. It would be ages before the baby moving inside would feel like a family of ferrets hell-bent on escape.
Her breasts, on the other hand, had, even in the week since she’d slept with Tom, gone up at least one more cup size. Her spirits sank for a moment as she remembered the hideous thirty-eight F mammary hoists she’d ended up wearing at the end of her last two pregnancies. Yet she had to admit that big tits were the best part of being pregnant. She could have done without them being smothered in a network of blue veins to rival a map of the Mississippi Delta, but on the whole she thought they looked pretty excellent.
She took a bath towel off the heated rail and began drying herself. She’d arranged to meet Tom at his flat in a couple of hours. Although they’d spoken on the phone every day - often for hours at a time - they hadn’t been able to see each other since they’d made love. Beverley could only get away during the day when everybody was out of the house and she wasn’t required to make excuses. Tom, of course, was still tied up all day filming The French Lieutenant’s Woman. (The good news was that the shoot had now moved from Lyme Regis to London.) In the end their mutual horniness had become so intolerable that Tom decided to do something he’d never done before. He would throw a sicky so that he and Beverley could spend the day together.
‘Tom, you can’t possibly do that,’ she’d said, utterly horrified. ‘You can’t not turn up. You’ll be letting down the crew and the actors.’
‘Don’t care,’ he said simply. ‘I have to see you.’
As she sat on the bed blow-drying her hair, replaying his words in her head, Beverley felt overwhelmingly sexy. Melvin had never said anything like that to her, even when they first started going out.
She finished her hair, spent ages putting on her make-up and then went to the wardrobe. At the back was a black bin liner full of her old clothes waiting to be taken to the Oxfam shop. Hidden halfway down was another tiny bag. Inside this was a brand-new and exceedingly expensive black lace suspender belt and black stockings. She’d been shopping in Fenwick’s in Brent Cross the day before and wandered into the lingerie department. For some reason, the suspender belt had caught her eye. She’d walked over to the rail and begun fingering the lace. Melvin always said there was nothing he found more off putting than women in tarty underwear. It was then that she remembered Tom saying how much he liked her trenchcoat because it made her look like a French whore. He clearly had a thing about tarty clothes. That decided it. She took the suspender belt off the rail, marched straight up to the counter and bought it and the stockings. The moment she got home, she secreted them in the Oxfam bag. Although she was unaware that her husband occasionally went rifling through her underwear drawer searching for signs of her infidelity (as irony would have it, he hadn’t done this for months), she had no wish to rouse his suspicions.
Beverley pulled on the suspender belt and stockings, went back to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. As a forty-two-year-old Jewish mother, she knew very little about the contents of porn magazines, but even she knew enough for the phrase ‘readers’ wives’ to spring instantly to mind. She began to panic. She didn’t look like mutton dressed as lamb. She would have paid money to look like mutton. If she added a whip and a pair of thigh boots she could have passed for some seedy middle-aged dominatrix who dispensed discipline from her semi in Bexleyheath.
She was about to pull the whole thing off and get dressed, but something stopped her. She looked at herself again. It wasn’t that she looked old. She didn’t. People kept telling her how great she looked since her make-over. She knew damned well that in the right light she could easily pass for thirty-five. Her make-up was just right. Heavy enough to give the desired effect, but not so heavy that if it fell off it would kill the cat. Her crimson nails, which had taken her nearly an hour to get right, were now perfect. And even she had to admit that her hair (newly bobbed and streaked, this time by Rochelle’s West End hairdresser) looked dead trendy.
She carried on looking. After a moment or two she got it. It was simple. She needed heels.
She went into the bedroom and fetched the black satin stilettos she’d bought years ago (with some help from Queenie) for a family wedding. She slipped them on in front of the mirror. Her legs suddenly looked like they’d gained six inches, not to mention two rather slim, sexy feet. She thrust out her tits, put one foot up on the loo seat and moistened her scarlet lips with her tongue.
‘Hi,’ she purred, pouting at her reflection. “The name’s Bondage. Beverley Bondage.’
It was then, the strumpet effect complete and her body image higher than it had been since she was a teenager, that the idea occurred to her. She immediately started to giggle. It was absurd. She didn’t care. Then again, maybe she did dare. No she didn’t. A woman of her age - a pregnant woman of her age. Suppose she got run over? Or arrested? Although why on earth she should get run over or arrested driving to Tom’s, she had no idea. She dithered for another minute or so.
‘Oh, stop being such a wuss all your life,’ she said eventually. ‘Just bloody do it. It’s a bit of fun. He’ll love it.’
She went to the wardrobe, took out her black PVC trenchcoat and put it on over the suspender belt and stockings. Quickly, before she had time to change her mind, she did up the buttons, tied the belt and ran downstairs. She collected her handbag and keys and walked briskly down the path.
Knowing Beverley had a date with Tom, and knowing Melvin needed the Passat to get to work, Rochelle had lent Beverley her 4x4.
‘That’s really sweet of you, but I can easily get a cab,’ Beverley had said when she mooted the idea.
‘Why waste money? Mitchell’s in the Algarve for a few days playing golf. It’s no problem. I’ll drive the XJS.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘Sure I’m sure.’
As she climbed into the Jeep and turned on the ignition, Beverley giggled with childlike excitement. This was the flashiest vehicle she’d ever driven. As she pulled away - to her surprise relatively smoothly - she felt like a cross between a Jewish princess and a high-class whore. And she had to admit she was loving every second.
After ten minutes or so, having got the measure of the four-litre automatic, she started to relax. As she pulled up at traffic lights on the Finchley Road, she began hunting around under the dashboard for cassettes. Rochelle’s collection appeared to begin and end with Barbra Streisand’s Greatest Hits. Grimacing, she shoved it into the tape player. First she started humming along. Then she began mouthing the words. In the end she was so busy belting out ‘The Way We Were’ that she was starting to lose concentration on her driving.
She was slowing down as she approached another red light when she realized she was being pulled over by a policeman. She stopped, wound down her window and looked on utterly terrified as the huge burly officer came striding towards her in his black boots and motorbike helmet. Suppose he suspected her of something other than a traffic offence and insisted on searching her? Even if he didn’t think she was a drug pusher or car thief, maybe he would still want to search her. Just for fun. Beverley’s heart was beating so fast she thought it might stop at any moment. She almost hoped it would. Death was inf
initely preferable to the excruciating humiliation she was about to experience. Finally he reached her. He poked his head through the window.
‘Now then, madam,’ he said sarcastically, ‘do you have a bus hidden somewhere about your person?’
‘My bust?’ she blurted, pulling the trenchcoat tight across her front. ‘With the greatest of respect, Officer, I can’t quite see what my bust has got to do with you.’ Any second she thought he was going to insist she get out of the car, bend over the bonnet and spread ’em.
‘No, madam,’ he said patiently. ‘I’m enquiring as to whether you think you are driving a bus - a passenger vehicle. In case you hadn’t noticed, you are in a bus lane.’
‘A bus lane,’ she exclaimed, laughing with relief. ‘Oh God, is that all? A blinkin’ bus lane.’
‘I’m glad you find it so funny, madam,’ the policeman said solemnly.
‘Oh, no,’ she blustered. ‘I’m sorry, Officer. No. I don’t find it funny at all. I realize it’s very, very serious. Very serious indeed.’
‘Are you taking the mickey, madam, because if you are...’
‘Oh God, no,’ she said, starting to gabble nervously. The adrenaline rush had clearly affected her brain and turned her into a gibbering idiot. ‘I’m sorry about going into the bus lane, I truly am. I just wasn’t concentrating. Women’s trouble. You know how it is. Bloating, loss of concentration, irritability. Last month was much worse. I broke into the Cadbury factory and murdered my husband and six kids.’
‘You did what? I’m sorry...?’
‘Not really. Just trying to lighten the atmosphere with a bit of PMT humour, that’s all. So you won’t be wanting to search me or anything?’
‘Is there a reason I should want to search you?’
‘No, no, Officer.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Absolutely none, I assure you.’
‘Right then. You will wait here with me for three minutes in order to lose the advantage you gained by your illegal use of the bus lane. Then you may carry on.’
‘I can? God, that’s great. I mean, I’ll stay for five minutes if you like. Ten even. Or twelve. How about twelve? Then you can really make an example of me.’
‘It’s all right, madam. Three will do nicely.’
***
Queenie’s desperate hope of a tender and emotional reunion with her daughter was shattered the moment they came face to face in the hotel lounge. Although Naomi had no trouble feigning fondness towards Beverley, she found it impossible to do the same with her mother. While Queenie stood before her, beaming, her arms wide open to receive her long-lost daughter, Naomi responded by giving her a weak smile and a perfunctory peck on both cheeks. She then shook hands with Lenny, whom she addressed as Kenny, before turning back to her mother.
‘My God, Mum,’ she hissed, eyeing Queenie’s navy nylon slacks, lilac padded coat and multicoloured knitted beret, ‘nothing bloody changes, does it? I mean, couldn’t you have made some kind of effort, just for once? I mean, this is a five-star hotel. I tell you, if you make matters worse by asking the waiter for “a nice schmaltz herring bagel”, I’m outa here, story or no story.’
As they sat down Queenie did her best to put on a brave face. But Lenny could see she was upset and he gave her a couple of affectionate and supportive pats on the knee.
What Queenie didn’t know - and it was probably best she didn’t - was that Naomi had finally arranged to see her not because she was desperate to be reunited with her mother, but because she hoped against hope that the day centre story might save her career. She’d never needed her career quite as much as she needed it now. Her master plan, the details of which were still in the envelope hidden in her underwear drawer, depended entirely on her continued media fame. If she lost her job, stopped being the nation’s most loved talk-show host, the deal would be off. And she could kiss goodbye to a fortune.
Despite Plum’s warnings, Naomi had insisted on including in the Naomi! Christmas special the virgins - all fakes Plum had reluctantly hired from an agency - who claimed to have been groped by vicars. When he found out, the usually avuncular Eric Rowe had been beside himself with fury. So outraged was he that he had called her on her mobile on Christmas Day.
‘I want you to know,’ he shouted down the phone, ‘that you have ruined Christmas for Audrey and me. That broadcast was nothing short of gratuitous, prurient filth. Audrey had the chairwoman of the local WI on the phone complaining at eleven o’clock last night. I will not have it, Naomi. This flagrant disregard of my wishes will not continue. It is only because this is the season of goodwill that I am prepared to give you one last chance. But it is on the strict understanding that you fall in with the station’s new, wholesome image. Now do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Eric,’ she mumbled, ‘loud and clear.’
‘Very well. You will continue with Wicca’s World as planned. On top of that you have four weeks to find and film a battling grannies story. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Crystal, Eric’
‘Any deviation from my instructions and you will be given your marching orders, my girl. By way of punishment your parking space in the staff car park will from immediate effect be moved to the far end. What is more, Ee-laine in the canteen informs me that your tea and cherry Genoa chitties are still not in order. This is utterly unacceptable and I will be issuing you with a formal company warning to this effect.’
With not even a sniff of a new job in the offing, Naomi finally realized she had no option but to submit to Eric’s demands.
If it hadn’t been for Fallopia’s endless compassion and support, Naomi would have been feeling truly distraught. During the Christmas filming in Cornwall the two women had begun to develop a strong friendship. Since they’d returned to London, Naomi had been to Fallopia’s house for dinner a few times. She’d gone again a couple of nights ago. Standing in the pleasingly shambolic stripped-pine kitchen putting together a green salad while Fallopia chopped olives and anchovies for the puttanesca spaghetti sauce, she’d poured her heart out about Eric Rowe’s plodding provincial ideas, the ever-increasing pressure he was applying to her to put them into action - and the disastrous effect both were having on her career.
Fallopia had put down her spoon, come over to Naomi and hugged her.
‘To be honest, I thought he was a navigator short of a squadron as soon as I got talking to him,’ she said with a wicked laugh. ‘Only pretended to like him because both of us were so damned desperate get this bloomin’ series off the ground. Come on, don’t let the bastard get you down. Things will pick up. Just see if they don’t.’
As the Cricklewood Crone continued to hold her and pat her back gently, Naomi couldn’t help noticing how comforting she found both Fallopia’s physical presence and her sympathy. People tended not to hug Naomi, on the whole. Tom did occasionally, but it never felt quite like this. Before letting her go, Fallopia kissed Naomi briefly on the cheek. They exchanged a glance which lasted a fraction of a second longer than either might have expected it to. What passed between them in those few moments, Naomi found oddly confusing. Later she couldn’t get the incident out of her mind. Neither could she forget the way Fallopia had blushed, cleared her throat, and darted back to the pasta sauce.
***
‘Right, let’s see if Tom’s given me all the facts,’ Naomi barked, getting out her notebook and at the same time ordering Jamaican Blue Mountain and biscuits for three with no reference to her mother or Lenny. ‘You Say Lorraine and this Posner character have been palming you off with substandard food, stealing cash and taking money for days out which never happen?’
‘Yes, but there’s more. That’s not the half of it,’ Queenie said, her upset suddenly turning to excitement. ‘Quick, put this down in your book. They’ve started stealing people’s watches and jewellery while they’re snoozing.’
‘This is quite good, actually, Mum, very much the kind of story Channel 6 has been looking for lately. It’s a shame there’s been no violence or abuse... or sudden dea
ths. I mean, that would be the dream ticket. Still, I suppose you can’t have everything... But surely somebody’s gone down with the trots?’
‘Now you mention it,’ Queenie said, ‘a couple of people were complaining of stomach cramps last week.’
‘Ah-ha, that’s more like it,’ Naomi said, beaming. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’
Mass outbreak of E coli, she scribbled into her notebook.
‘Now then, while I’m getting my team to check this lot out, it’s essential everybody at the day centre carries on as normal and does nothing. I’ll need a couple of weeks to decide exactly how and when I’m going to approach these jokers. What I don’t want is some old biddy buggering everything up by going to the police or the papers. Of course, the vital thing is not to spread panic among the old people. You lot can bring sandwiches to the day centre if you want, but on no account must you stop the rest of them from eating. This Lorraine and Posner pair will instantly smell a rat and scarper before you can say salmonella.’
‘Right, Naomi,’ Queenie said eagerly. ‘Whatever you say.’
‘Look, I’ve got to dash,’ Naomi said, standing up and putting her notebook in her bag. ‘I’ve got a meeting in Cricklewood in an hour. But I’ll be in touch. Promise.’
‘OK,’ Queenie said, looking more than a little crestfallen that her daughter was having to rush off. ‘It’s been lovely to see you, darling. But Naomi, please do your old mother a favour. Try and put on some weight. In that black suit you look like a stick of liquorice.’
***
As he sat in the greasy spoon, staring into his mug of tea, Melvin’s nonentity crisis was about to enter its final, not to say decisive phase.
He’d set off for work at eight, got to the end of the road and decided he couldn’t face it. Going to the shop meant confronting his failure. He’d done it for two decades. Now he’d simply had enough. What was more, the moment he opened the door, he would be greeted by a sea of furious letters demanding cash refunds on the snoring devices. Instead he’d taken himself off to the caff just off Muswell Hill Broadway, and spent the morning drinking mugs of tea. Every so often he would pick up his mobile in a vain attempt to reach Vlad the Impala. Once again he’d been trying to phone him for days, and as usual all he got was the answer machine. Melvin didn’t know why he was bothering. This time the bastard had clearly done a bunk. ‘Doing the Knowledge, my arse,’ Melvin muttered. ‘Yeah, him and the Queen Mother.’