by Jo Malone
He took an avocado, peeled it, removed the stone and started slicing it.
‘Wh-what are you doing?!’ I said.
James looked confused, probably because the answer was obvious.
‘Why are you putting that out to eat?!’
‘It’s an avocado, Jo.’
‘I know what it is – it’s for your face, not to eat!’
James couldn’t stop laughing. When I think about it, I must have seen avocado used in salads at the deli but, in that moment, all I saw was an ingredient for a face mask, to be mixed with sandalwood not lettuce leaves and tomato.
Within six months, Mum and Tracey followed me to London. Mum had decided finally to leave Dad. ‘I can’t do it any more,’ she told me over the phone. ‘I can’t live this way – he’ll never change.’ Emotionally spent, she had already rented a flat from a client in Holland Park.
Of course, my first thought was Dad. I couldn’t bear the idea of him being alone. ‘I’ll be fine, love,’ he said when I called, but that was typical him, telling me what I wanted to hear, what he should say. Ironically, I would now spend more weekends going home, because someone had to check in on him. But his days would largely tick along as before: still working for English Heritage, still painting, still playing poker. He bumbled along just fine in his own erratic kind of way.
The truth that he’d never admit, and never show, was that Mum was his base camp and he was lost without her. Indeed, in the following weeks, she couldn’t totally be without him, either – Dad would visit her regularly at her new address in Airlie Gardens. She rented a basement flat just big enough for her and Tracey in a five-storey house. Its quirky layout – you had to walk through a bedroom to reach the drawing room – meant that they could live at the rear, and keep the front free as a treatment room for the business. Tracey enrolled at a Catholic school, and Mum took full advantage of her city location by cramming more appointments into her day.
Her proximity meant that we saw more of each other. There were no memories or tensions to avoid in Airlie Gardens, and Mum seemed buoyant, enjoying a new lease of life. One weekend, I noticed a sporty-type car parked outside – a blue, two-door Honda Prelude coupé. I assumed it belonged to a new client, until I walked in and overheard Mum telling my sister about ‘Emmy’, the name she had given her new set of wheels. Her extravagant taste was no surprise, but this seemed to be a stretch even for her – that brand-new car must have cost around £9,000. It baffled me. I knew she was doing well, but not that well. Over the following weeks, she’d also buy expensive new clothes and shoes, spending money like there was no tomorrow, and at Harrods of all places. I’d spot those green and gold bags lying around and dread to imagine the price tags. I can’t say that it didn’t bother me but I figured that she deserved to enjoy her new-found freedom, assuming that she had some savings squirrelled away. Besides, it wasn’t my business any more, so I told myself to push the worry away.
I attended more services at the Holy Trinity Brompton, eager to learn more about God, the Bible, and the Christian faith. One Sunday, the vicar David Watson spoke about the importance of Bible schools, referring to their close-knit communities and volunteer programmes, not to mention the diplomas in religious studies that each student walked away with. I hadn’t made any friends in London and certainly wasn’t part of the capital’s vibrant youth culture – I didn’t go to pubs, clubs or concerts – so the thought of entering a ready-made community of like-minded people sounded appealing.
I joined the Bible school at the beautiful Kennington Church, close to Oval tube station, where around sixty people of different ages met three evenings a week, between 6 and 9 p.m. It was a huge commitment but, at the end of a two-year course, I’d graduate with that diploma – the only qualification I would ever accomplish.
On my first evening, I knew it was a place that would inspire me as we read the Scriptures, discussed how the Bible applies to everyday life, and reflected on how certain meanings helped us in our own lives. In the coming weeks, I would also get involved with the community a lot more, whether it was volunteering to do washing up at restaurants, litter collections, or working the ‘Crisis for Christmas’ drive to help feed and clothe the homeless – this time, I couldn’t get into trouble for giving a tramp a sandwich!
Between work, Bible school and the volunteer programmes, I didn’t have time for much else, and I very much kept to the straight and narrow, a lot of which was due to my new-found faith.
When it came to my beliefs, I didn’t have any kind of lightning bolt epiphany; it was something that developed gradually. The more you stand close to something, the more you sense its familiarity and that’s what finding God felt like: a faint voice in the distance that grew louder until it became sure and clear. To this day, my faith remains an important part of who I am, though it is part of me, not all of me. But I didn’t only find God at Bible school. I found my future husband.
Gary Willcox, a bank clerk’s son from Beckenham (ten miles from where I grew up), was the charismatic, handsome guy who often sat near me in class, and seemed to be permanently happy, wearing a smile that accentuated a strong jawline and a set of pearly white teeth.
Whenever I heard someone laugh aloud, I’d turn around and trace its source to Gary, either as the person doing the cartoon-like guffawing, or as the joke-teller holding court. Imagine the looks of Robert Redford and the humour of Bill Nighy – that’s how I saw him. He was a constant ray of sunshine, and it soon became evident, from his gentle manner and the way he spoke, that he was a decent, kind bloke who held solid-as-a-rock Christian values. Listening to him, I often felt that he had the wisdom of a vicar. As it turned out, I wasn’t too far off the mark: he was attending Bible school with a view to going into full-time ministry, somewhat of a diversion from his day job as a building surveyor.
Up until then, I’d had maybe two boyfriends, although calling them ‘boyfriends’ is a stretch; it would be more accurate to say short-lived dates, going to the movies, parties or restaurants. Beyond that, no one had really shown interest in me, so my experience of relationships was limited. But I knew this much: I was looking for the real thing from a young age.
I remember being aboard Thalassa one weekend when Vivian’s niece and her boyfriend, both in their twenties, came along. I watched them sit on the deck, with the wind in their faces, as they snuggled into one another while holding mugs of tea. I felt the pang of wanting what they had – closeness and the warm glow of love – even if I was only interpreting what they shared from the outside.
My first date with Gary was on 15 June 1984. I was twenty; he was twenty-four. He invited me to watch him compete in a swimming competition where he won his race doing the butterfly stroke. We celebrated with pizza, a stroll on Wimbledon Common and our first kiss on a park bench. That night, I knew I had met the man I was going to marry even if, like most men, it would take him a while to catch up with my dream.
There was only one small snag in my mind. If he really wanted to go into the ministry, I was pretty sure I wasn’t cut out to be a vicar’s wife – the prospect of a life of jumble sales, church bazaars and parish business gave me nightmares. As things turned out, I needn’t have worried. He ultimately realised that this was not his calling, which was a relief because that had been the only potential obstacle standing in our way.
Mum heard all about my excitement over Gary, and she would meet him soon enough. She had not been used to boys being in my life, so I think she was initially wary of our relationship, not because she had anything personal against him but because, in my opinion, she didn’t want anyone else coming between us. She never said as much; it was more a feeling I had.
Our attachment was strong based on our closeness in my early years. Ever since then, she had almost grown used to depending on me, whether that meant keeping Madame Lubatti occupied, looking after the house, babysitting Tracey or running the clinic when she was ill. At this time, I started to sense that she still wanted me to be around – a
n intuition that would prove to be correct.
One evening, I had gone to Airlie Gardens for dinner and she gingerly broached the subject of us working together; she said how nice it would be and explained how she’d train me up to be a beauty therapist. But as she spoke, there was a vulnerability behind the happy picture she painted.
Just by looking around the flat, I could see that life was beginning to get on top of her. The kitchen was a mess, with unwashed cups and dishes on the side; there was a pile of unopened bills on the table where we were seated, and, in herself, she seemed stressed.
‘Is everything okay, Mum?’
She sighed. ‘If I’m honest, the business is starting to feel a little too much,’ she said. ‘So would you consider coming back?’
I almost felt the plea in her voice and, having lived through one breakdown, I worried about what could happen if she felt she wasn’t coping. I didn’t want to see her struggle and, yes, I felt the tug of an old obligation to step in and help out. But it wasn’t only that. I did miss making face creams. In the same way that some girls develop a passion for music classes, netball or ballet, I had loved my time in our old kitchen, aware that I was contributing to the business.
Gary rightly pointed out that I had said I felt freer when away from home. That may have been true, but circumstances were different now: Mum and Dad were separated so there would be no constant friction, and I would be at Vivian’s, affording me the space that I needed.
It actually didn’t take much thinking about, so I handed in my notice at Pulbrook & Gould and started working for Mum. As things turned out, I wouldn’t only be an employee – she would also invite me to be her official partner in business.
Her lawyer had turned up one afternoon after our last appointment and, while we sat together in the living room, a conversation began about my future, and Mum seemed keen on the idea of making me her partner. ‘We can now build a great business together and, think about it, Jo – one day, this will be yours.’
I didn’t really know what being a partner meant but the fact that she was offering me a future in the business excited me, too.
The following week, and after talking it through with Gary, I signed the legal paperwork that Mum and her lawyer placed in front of me, making me an official partner in her skincare business.
She trained me up as promised, meaning that I could share the workload and start doing treatments, in the same way that she had been schooled by Madame Lubatti. I’d earn no official credentials or certificates but none of that would matter if I mastered the technique, and Mum was the best teacher.
As she carried out a facial, she directed me to sit at the other end of the bed and massage the client’s feet, imagining that I was working on someone’s face. I sat in a chair, kneading the sole and toes with my thumbs and fingers, and mimicked the movements she did with her hands. The acid test came at the end of the day when she lay on the bed and asked me to give her a facial, guiding me as I went, telling me what oils to use, when to apply the towel, and when to exfoliate. But she wasn’t my only teacher.
I have a distinct memory of a short, bald-headed man wearing a white lab coat and dark glasses that shielded his eyes, and all I can smell is camphor. Try as I might, I cannot place this memory and yet I can vividly recall the knowledge and technique he imparted. And what made him particularly special was the fact that he was a blind masseur, which explains why, when I practised a face massage on him, the first thing he told me to do was close my eyes. ‘Do not trust what you see,’ he said. ‘Trust what you feel.’
Guided only by touch, and assisted by his prompts, I mimicked the movements I’d seen Mum do, only the technique felt more intense when practised in the dark. I moved my hands, palms down, as the thumbs worked in synchronicity, over the arches of the eyes and cheekbones, covering the pressure points. ‘See how much more you feel with your eyes closed?’ he said.
I would keep on refining my technique year on year, performing a facial that only my clients will truly remember. But what they perhaps may not realise is that when it came to giving a face massage, I would often sit there with my eyes closed, led by my senses, as taught by the blind man.
It didn’t take me long to realise that I was really good at treatments. Mum would come in, like the grand inspector, and provide her seal of approval with a nod and a compliment. I also perfected my own style, not necessarily following her instructions every time. She may have half-suspected but never complained because as long as the clients were satisfied and the business was coming in, she was happy. And so was I, because increased turnover meant increased take-home pay.
Mum also trusted me to handle the administration. She was an exceptional beauty therapist but no businesswoman so, every Friday, I’d go to the NatWest to cash our salaries, draw the housekeeping and pay the rent. In handling the finances, I knew exactly how much money was coming in and going out. I wasn’t surprised to see that she regularly dipped into her account for personal items, but I was disconcerted to see the imbalance between how much we owed suppliers, and how many of her oldest customers had a ‘slate’ that was never cleared. Many housewives on our council estate had a ‘slate’ at the local shop or with John, the man who ran the mobile grocery business, but Mum’s clients were well off and I couldn’t understand why she afforded them the luxury when we had outstanding bills. From then on, each client I treated had to pay – there was nothing ‘on account’, trusted friend or not. Business was business.
I also started trying to manage the stock more efficiently – Mum tended to order, say, four kilos of avocado oil when we only needed one. The more I saw, the more incredulous I became. Had she and I actually sat down and properly discussed our philosophies and vision, I think we would have seen how ill-suited we were as partners. ‘Mum,’ I would say, ‘you have to pay your suppliers on time because if they stop supplying, we’ll all be up shit creek!’
But instead of seeing the common sense in my point, she’d see it as interference, reminding me that it was her business, not mine. I wasn’t a partner whose voice held much sway. So I said nothing and kept clocking in and clocking off, trying to ignore the nagging doubt that none of this would end well.
Gary and I were by now inseparable. When it came to dating, we had little money between us so we’d only ever go somewhere that was as cheap as chips, sharing a starter, a main course, and a pudding. One evening, while in a little pancake restaurant called Ambrosiana on the Fulham Road, we decided it would be a good idea to spend a few days in Cornwall. I hadn’t been back there since my last family getaway and I wanted to show him all the places I loved as a child, from Port Isaac to Padstow. But our first night would be spent in Constantine Bay.
The fact we couldn’t afford any of the hotels there wasn’t going to stop us. We grabbed our pillows and duvet, drove to the seafront and slept in the car. Gary had budgeted for us to stay in a B&B further up the coast for the following three nights and we had a great time, taking walks on the beach, enjoying seafood snacks, and talking about our dreams for the future. Those dreams pretty much centred around being together and one day affording our own house. Neither of us entertained any world-conquering goals. With his ministry pretensions consigned to childhood, Gary was keen to make his mark in the construction industry and I was content working for Mum. I didn’t look too far into the future in those days.
On the final day of our mini-break, he and I had arranged to spend the night at his grandmother’s in Somerset. We had only been there for three or four hours when the phone rang. It was Vivian, calling to tell me that Mum had fallen, hit her head and been taken into hospital.
‘How serious is it?’ I asked.
‘I think you should come back,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. I could tell by her voice that I wasn’t being given all the details, so Gary and I hightailed it east along the M4.
It would turn out to be an awful but pivotal moment.
Mum had been admitted to St Stephen’s Hospital – th
e same place I was born – and as we drove down Fulham Road and approached the A&E, I saw my sister up ahead, spotting her white cotton skirt patterned with strawberries. She was walking Jodie, our new golden Labrador. As soon as we pulled up, Tracey ran into my arms, utterly distraught. ‘Mum’s going to die! She’s going to die!’
On the inside, I panicked, wondering how bad Mum’s injury was, but, for Tracey’s sake, I kept my composure. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ I said, stroking her hair as Mum used to stroke mine, and offering reassurance without knowing the details. Gary decided to take Tracey home while I went to see Mum on the ward.
I found her in a comatose state, under sedation, with curtains pulled around her bed. Dot was by her side and explained what had happened: Mum had been taking medication to control high blood pressure while simultaneously starting a bizarre diet that involved eating only goat’s yoghurt and greens. Apparently, these combined factors had adversely affected the potassium and sodium ratio in her body, and she had fallen or fainted, knocking herself out. I don’t remember the complexities of the fuller diagnosis that a doctor went on to explain, but she had suffered a bleed on her brain and had effectively had a stroke.
Her face was swollen and she had stitches from between her eyebrows to the bridge of her nose. Paralysed down her right side, she lay there motionless, in some unreachable place, with hands that were twisted, resting on her chest, as if chronic arthritis had set in.
I pulled up a chair and sat on the opposite side of the bed to Dot, and held one of Mum’s contorted hands in between mine. I felt heartbroken for her. First the breakdown, now this. She couldn’t seem to get a break. All she’d ever wanted was peace and yet she’d been running around spinning plates ever since I was a kid. She had given everything as a mother and wife, and this was where she had ended up. Life seemed bloody cruel.