Made in Heaven

by Adale Geras

Isis looked into the dressing-table mirror, and wished she’d brought her face-painting kit on holiday. It was nearly a month since school had broken up but they’d only come here, to have their proper holiday, this week. This wasn’t so much a hotel room as a kind of flat called a suite. There was a lounge, and a bedroom for Mum and Adrian and on the other side of the lounge, a much smaller bedroom for her. There was also a white and blue bathroom, with very sparkly tiles all over the walls and lots of little bottles of shampoo and body lotion in a basket near the washbasin.

  It would have been cool to dress up as a princess but there wasn’t that much to get dressed up in. Pyjamas weren’t royal. Isis sighed. She shouldn’t moan though, not when she was on holiday. This was a great hotel and she was lucky. Not many people had two holidays. Next week Dad was taking her to the Lake District. He’d promised they could go and visit Otto, her very own owl, who lived in a special bird sanctuary. Last year, when she turned seven, one of Dad’s presents had been a certificate saying that she was now sponsoring a barn owl. There was a book about the sanctuary and a photo of Otto, who was beautiful. He had a notice on his cage now which said: Otto is sponsored by Isis Ford and she felt proud about that. She was longing to see him. Dad was going to take a photo of the two of them together.

  Meanwhile, though, she was at the seaside with Mum and Adrian. There wouldn’t be any bombs at the seaside, Isis was sure. Mum had said that even in London they were safe now and the police had caught a lot of the bad men, but there were times when she still felt worried and she tried not to go on the Underground too often. Adrian hadn’t wanted to come on this holiday, Isis could tell. He’d grumbled all the way up to Scarborough in the car, and whenever she’d asked for anything, like a tissue or a fruit gum, he’d frowned. And he made a huge fuss when she wanted to play one of her story CDs.

  ‘Won’t music do, Isis?’ he’d said and Mum had been on his side.

  Isis sighed and said, ‘I’m going to sleep. You two can play whatever you like.’

  They’d put something on, opera. Mum liked that best. Adrian didn’t, you could tell, but he couldn’t say anything because he’d already made one fuss and asked for music. Isis hadn’t really gone to sleep. She’d listened to them. It wasn’t a proper row, what they were saying, but they sounded cross.

  ‘I don’t see why we couldn’t go to the South of France or Spain or somewhere abroad,’ Adrian said.

  ‘Because we’re going abroad for our honeymoon.’ That was Mum.

  ‘Not till next year, though. We could’ve taken a cheap flight. Isis could’ve gone to your mum’s. We could have got in a bit of practice for our honeymoon.’

  Mum had laughed at that. ‘We need to economize, though, don’t we? There’s the wedding … ’

  ‘Well, this is taking economy a bit far, don’t you think? What on earth are we going to do in Scarborough in August? It’s sure to rain. There’ll be crowds of people everywhere. And Isis’ll need entertaining, won’t she?’

  Isis, pretending to be asleep, thought, I don’t need entertaining. I’m eight.

  Mum said, ‘Oh, stop grumbling, Adrian! We’ll have a great time. It’s a wonderful hotel.’

  ‘Let’s hope they have a good babysitting service. At least we can have our evenings to ourselves.’

  Mum and Adrian were downstairs right now, having dinner in the room with the chandeliers. She’d had her supper earlier: a pizza from Room Service. Mum said she didn’t need the babysitter, because they weren’t going out and Isis could come and find them if she needed to, and it wasn’t late, and when they’d finished eating they would come straight upstairs. They all had to get up early tomorrow morning to go home.

  Adrian’s cufflinks were on the dressing-table. They were really pretty. If I put them through the button-holes of my pyjama top, Isis thought, they’d look like jewels. Yes, that was good, but she needed something else. She looked round and caught sight of a silk scarf lying over the back of the chair. Adrian had given it to Mum last Christmas, and it was gorgeous: a lovely, dark red. She picked it up and wound it round her head like a turban, tying the ends in a knot at the nape of her neck, with the fringes hanging down. Cool! She paraded in front of the mirror for a while, did a bit of a dance and looked at the way the light from the lamp on the dressing-table made the cufflink-jewels glitter like stars.

  ‘Isis? What are you doing?’

  Adrian was standing in the doorway of the room, glaring at her.

  ‘Nothing. I was just … I was dressing up.’

  ‘Right. Well … I think it’s probably time you were in bed, isn’t it?’

  Isis knew he was really, really cross, and trying not to show it. He’d gone white and he was smiling, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. ‘Are you cross because I’m dressing up?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no, that’s okay,’ he said, and he didn’t mean it, you could tell. He frowned. ‘But I think you should take all the dressing-up stuff off now and put it away, right? Make sure you put it back exactly where it was before, yes?’

  Isis nodded. ‘I’ve finished now. I will. I’ll put everything back.’

  ‘I’ll wait, then. Till you’ve done it.’

  Isis could feel him watching her as she put the cufflinks back on the dressing-table and laid the scarf over the chairback, looking, just as it had before she’d picked it up. She heard him let out his breath as soon as everything was back to what it was before. ‘There you are,’ she said.

  ‘That’s fine. I’m going downstairs again now, then. I just came to see you were okay. You get into bed. We won’t be long. Good night!’

  He was trying to be jolly. Isis squeezed out a smile, even though she didn’t feel smiley.

  When he’d gone, she got into bed and looked at the ceiling. Sometimes she wished that Mum didn’t love Adrian so much, and then she wouldn’t want to marry him and then there’d be just the two of them, and Em, and Dad visiting. But if there was no wedding, she wouldn’t be a bridesmaid, and she really, really wanted to wear a pretty dress and a headdress and carry a basket with flowers in it. And Mum had said that Gemma could be a bridesmaid, too, so she’d be upset as well if there was no wedding. Isis turned on to her side and stared at the wall. She wondered what would happen if she told Mum about Adrian being cross with her and not admitting it. He’d say he wasn’t cross and she’d probably believe him. And maybe Mum would say she shouldn’t have dressed up in Adrian’s things without asking. Isis hid her face in the pillow. Adrian hadn’t been very good at hiding his crossness. He doesn’t really like me very much, she told herself. He keeps telling Mum he’s fond of me, but it’s not true. You could always tell if someone really, really liked you, and Isis knew that Adrian didn’t. She could feel it.

  Just before they came away to Scarborough, he’d found her reading one of her Malory Towers books. ‘Not Harry Potter?’ he asked her. ‘Thought all kids liked nothing but Harry Potter.’

  ‘I like lots of books,’ Isis said. ‘I like … ’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ he said, interrupting her. Isis turned away. Adrian kept on talking to her. ‘That’s a bit old-fashioned, isn’t it? Enid Blyton. I read those when I was a boy. Some of them, anyway, but Malory Towers was too soppy.’

  ‘This used to be Mum’s book,’ said Isis. It was rude of him, she thought, to call Malory Towers soppy. How did he know anyway, if he’d never read one? ‘It’s about a boarding school.’

  ‘Would you like to go to boarding school, Isis?’

  ‘People don’t really go to boarding school,’ she said. ‘It’s just in books.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Adrian said. ‘Lots of people do go to boarding school. I did when I was a boy. So did my brother. How would you like to go to a school like that?’

  Isis thought about this for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No, I like it here with Mum.’

  Adrian had snorted and turned his attention to the newspaper. When Mum came in and asked how they were, he said, ‘Fine. We were chatting about boarding school
s.’

  He hadn’t told her that he’d asked Isis if she wanted to go.

  I bet he’d like to send me away, she thought. But it’s not up to him because Dad’s the one who decides about stuff like that. And Mum. She wondered whether she should tell Mum what Adrian had said about boarding school and then thought she’d better not. Perhaps he was sort of joking. It was hard to tell with him sometimes. Maybe he’ll like me better when they’re married, when he gets to know me more. I’ll be so good, he’ll have to. It’ll be okay.

  Isis tried to think about something that didn’t make her feel gloomy. Otto, she thought. I’ll think about seeing Otto. I won’t think about Adrian.

  SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER

  Thursday

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you, Graham? It’s only a bloody book when all’s said and done. Anyone would think it’s the Crown Jewels!’

  ‘I ordered it!’ He was shouting at her. He was red in the face with fury. ‘My name’s on the packet. Doesn’t take a genius to know not to open it.’

  ‘WHY NOT?’ Maureen was screaming now. ‘It’s a book. Why shouldn’t I open it? Since when do people order private stuff on Amazon, for God’s sake? I’ve got a book on order too, and that’s why I opened your stupid package. I wasn’t looking at the name. Grow up! Anyway, now that I’ve seen what it is, the fuss you’re making is even more ridiculous. It’s Joss’s book. I’m about to become related to the bloody woman. Why shouldn’t I have a look at it? Not that I will again. It’s totally boring and you’re more than welcome to it.’

  ‘Don’t throw it!’

  Too late. Maureen had taken the offending volume and hurled it at her husband. It caught him on the side of the head and he picked it up from the floor.

  ‘I’m the one who orders from Amazon in this house. Not you,’ he said.

  ‘How dare you say that? Why not me? I’ve got just as much right to order books as you have. Can’t imagine why you did order it, as a matter of fact.’

  For a moment, Graham seemed confused. Maureen felt a rush of triumph. He hasn’t got an answer, she thought.

  ‘I’m interested in the Madrigal Prize. I write poetry, remember?’ he said, sounding a little less furious. She hadn’t seen him so put out for years. He muttered something about waiting for it for ages. And now, she could see he was about to make a fuss. Okay, the cover was bent back a bit, but that wasn’t the end of the world, was it? She sighed. ‘I’ll let you open the next Amazon packet. All right? It’ll be for me and you can open it.’

  He didn’t bother to answer and went up the stairs to his study. Maureen wished he was still within kicking distance. He was beginning to drive her mad. He was taking no interest whatsoever in the wedding. Whenever she brought up the subject, he either changed it or wandered off somewhere. He was doing very long hours at work and all she was good for, it seemed, was to put the meals on the table and provide sex when he needed it, which wasn’t as often as she’d have liked. It was lucky she had other things on her mind. The dress. The food. She was in email contact with various catering firms and wrote to Zannah quite often with her thoughts on wedding-related matters. To be fair to her prospective daughter-in-law, her replies were always prompt but she didn’t go in for long, chatty, enjoyable emails. She was always to the point: not a good communicator. Never mind, Maureen told herself. Some people just are like that when they’re on the computer. They think they have to write in a kind of telegram-type style: as short as possible. Boring.

  Maureen sometimes found herself wondering about Zannah. She was very attractive, if you liked the beanpole look, with not much in the way of a bosom, and hair that verged on ginger. Nice blue-green eyes. Tall, too, which would be useful when it came to wedding dresses. But there was a kind of reserve about her which she obviously got from her mother and that meant she wasn’t the kind of prospective daughter-in-law Maureen would have preferred in an ideal world. She allowed herself to conjure up a plump blonde who’d have gone round the shops and wedding fairs with her endlessly, comparing samples of this and that and discussing the merits of fruit versus chocolate for the cake. Zannah was too much like Joss: another one who came over all tight-lipped in emails.

  She wished that Adrian was in touch more often. There was the matter of Charlotte and the women she lived with to discuss and no one else would understand her feelings. She wasn’t happy about that household. Since she had found out that Charlotte had been suspected of fraud and served six months, she’d also discovered that Edie – the sweet-looking dumpy one – was involved with one of those refuges full of women running away from abusive husbands and had once actually had an article in the Daily Telegraph. Maureen wondered how she’d cope if the media brought Edie to national attention while they were all involved with the wedding. The other woman, Val, was even worse. Apart from looking like an elderly and not very well-dressed scarecrow, she’d served six years for killing her husband with a kitchen knife. She’d never denied it, apparently. Maureen imagined a man’s body slumped over a Formica table, the scarecrow cowering with bloodstained hands in the corner, shivering.

  Charlotte had told her all this over lunch a few weeks ago. Maureen had practically invited herself to the house, telling the old lady that they had a great many arrangements to go over together. Actually, there wasn’t anything that couldn’t have been done on the phone, but Charlotte was not very forthcoming about the marquee, so she’d gone there to find out the details for herself. One thing had led to another and Maureen prided herself on being good at extracting any information she wanted from whoever it was she wanted it from.

  When the story of Val’s crime emerged, Charlotte had been careful to emphasise how cruel her husband had been. A brute. A rapist. Well, yes, Maureen thought privately, but still. Kitchen knives were not the answer and whenever that household came into her mind she felt a kind of sharp irritation bordering on distress. Imagine her son’s wedding actually being held in that place! Her grandmother used to say: What can’t be cured must be endured, but where was the sense in that? What can’t be cured must be changed as quickly and efficiently as possible. That was Maureen’s philosophy. But in this case, Zannah had set her heart on a marquee at her great-aunt’s house and there was nothing to be done.

  Where was that number for Dreamdress? Maureen picked up the phone and keyed it in. She’d managed to get Zannah to commit to a date for looking at wedding dresses and was about to confirm this with the shop: the Saturday after next. If it weren’t for me, she thought, and to some extent Charlotte, this wedding wouldn’t get off the ground. True, Joss had organized the invitations, which would be beautiful, she had to admit, but she was busy, apparently, next Saturday week. A reading in the local library. How could that possibly be more important than helping your daughter with one of the most important decisions of her life? Maureen had actually said something along those lines in one of her emails and Joss had written back to say that she trusted Zannah’s taste. Not a word about my taste, Maureen reflected. Never mind, I’ll be there when the dress is chosen, which is what counts. She could hardly wait to see what Dreamdress had to offer. The article in the Daily Telegraph had been full of praise for the individual care lavished on customers.

  ‘Is that Dreamdress?’ she purred into the phone. ‘It’s Mrs Ashton … Thank you.’

  As she waited to be put through to the lady in charge of appointments, she made a mental note to visit a few designer websites and begin thinking about her own outfit. Something in periwinkle blue, perhaps, but not too bright and vulgar. Or possibly pale coral.

  Friday

  ‘Okay. Update, please,’ said Claire, taking another poppadom and breaking it into smaller and more conveniently sized pieces on her side plate. She, Louise and Zannah were sitting at the back of the Monsoon Nights restaurant round a table they regarded as their own. They came here about once a month, usually on a Friday evening, to do what Louise called ‘putting the week behind us’. Zannah had thought about inviting Hazel, her best fr
iend from art school, to one of these meals. Or perhaps Marie, who’d been at school with her, but Hazel had a toddler who didn’t do babysitters, and Marie was a doctor whose leisure time had shrunk to two hours a month. Thank heaven for email, she thought, and picked up the menu.

  They’d been back at school a week and the first few days of term had been spent discussing every possible aspect of Hurricane Katrina and the terrible aftermath of the storm. The children had asked a thousand questions and some were easier to answer than others.

  ‘First the bombs and now this,’ said Louise. ‘I don’t know if I’m cut out for so much reassurance.’

  ‘Isis wanted to know if her daddy was going to be sent there,’ said Zannah, ‘but thank goodness his paper decided to send someone else. And can you believe Cal was disappointed?’

  ‘You must be so relieved. It’s nightmarish even on TV. Imagine if you had someone you knew actually in New Orleans. Awful.’

  ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ said Claire. Zannah took out her wedding notebook and laid it flat next to her plate. It fell open to a page in the middle headed ‘Master List’. Louise peered across the table. She was, like most teachers, very good at reading upside down.

  ‘I don’t see anything there about transport. Flowers? Make-up? Hair? Photographs? Admit it, you haven’t thought about those, have you?’

  ‘I have, actually,’ Zannah said quickly. ‘No transport will be necessary. The church is near enough for us all to be able to walk from Charlotte’s house. There and back. If Edie can do it, so can everyone else. It’s literally round the corner.’

  Claire and Louise were scandalized. ‘No posh white cars with ribbons all over them? Whatever are you thinking of? And what about your dress, dragging through the dirt?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that. I shan’t be wearing a long dress and neither will Isis and Gemma. Calf-length, more likely. No long trains, either. And I like the idea of a procession, just like the olden days, in some village, with the bride leading the others to the wedding … ’