Sally

by Freya North

  ‘Bob! It’s completely wonky. Up on the left, up on the left!’

  ‘Stop flapping, would you? Is that better?’

  ‘Up on the bloody left!’

  ‘There.’

  ‘Now the streamers, now the streamers!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Door frames, door frames!’

  ‘Leave me to it, you old bag! Go and get yourself ready and then lie down for half an hour.’

  Catherine obeyed. Their parties were always a success, but if she didn’t fret and if certain things weren’t left to the last minute it could surely be a bad omen.

  I must try and calm down. I really must. Just in case.

  Catherine’s period should have come the previous morning so she was hoping and praying, silently and desperately.

  If I am, then I must keep calm. Just in case.

  She lay down on their bed and wondered if the faint nausea was due to pregnancy and not pre-party nerves. Bob woke her half an hour later and she had no recollection of falling asleep. Deeply too. His usual kiss on the nose had been ineffectual, a good shake was required. She clambered into her rich violet silk two-piece and gave him a twirl. He marvelled at her elegant beauty. Dark and sinuous like a willowy, giant anemone. Bob put on a loud Hawaiian shirt and a pair of garish Bermuda shorts. The ensemble clashed violently.

  He looks quite revolting, marvelled Catherine, but he looks the part!

  Catherine breezed around, placing bowls of nuts and nibbles on every available surface. Bob stuck himself at her dressing-table mirror and wrestled with his diving goggles, trying to find a way to make them fit snugly without forcing his lips and cheeks into a rubbery and uncomfortable contortion.

  Well, I’ll just have to suffer for my art until all the guests have seen it on, then I’ll tip it up on to my head. But that bauble clonks me in the eye, so I’ll just adjust it – slightly. There.

  ‘Catherine! Where’s the string?’ She appeared with the errant string and a piping hot canapé, a dazzling smile beaming from a cloud of purple-blue silk. Delicious.

  ‘You are a treasure, darling. Belle of the ball.’

  ‘And that’s a hell of a bauble clonking your eye, Bob. Here, let me help.’

  The beauty of a fancy dress party, although everybody initially moans wondering where they’ll find the time and inspiration to make their costume, is that enormous effort is inevitably made by all and such parties have great atmosphere before the doorbell is even sounded. Bob and Catherine’s parties were talked about for years: The Bad Taste Party for Bob’s big three-o, The Flowers and Flares Party on their third wedding anniversary, Catherine’s Sinners and Saints Party; all went down in the annals of record-breaking party history. And now the New Year’s Masked Ball. They had transformed the ground floor of their home into a magical grotto. Black net, sprinkled with glittery stars, had been draped over and across all the ceilings. The long wall of the living-room was covered entirely with silver foil, the other walls adorned with burgundy crêpe-paper bows and swathes of steel-grey shiny material (Sally knew of the shop, £2 a metre).

  The hallway leading in had been turned into an avenue of six-foot weeping figs (hired for the night). In the kitchen, reams of dark red velvet swagged the doorway and masked the cupboards that were not to be opened. The long, rustic beech-wood trestle table was covered with a starched white sheet and adorned around the edges with black crêpe-paper rosettes. On it, a glutton’s wildest fantasy met the eyes. Bowls of new potato salad, sprigged through with wisps of dill; an enormous shallow dish heaped with leaves of ruccola, radicchio and oak-leaf lettuce, coloured exquisitely with borage flowers and dressed to perfection with Bob’s famous vinaigrette. In between sat two mounds of Catherine’s home-baked herbed bread but the eye was drawn compulsively to the centrepiece, a twelve-and-a-half-pound wild Scotch salmon lying pink-peach and fat on a bed of transparent-thin cucumber slithers. The fridge hid from view the two Pavlovas, one raspberry, one strawberry, both a foot high. The oven warmed the canapés, Catherine’s forte. Mouthfuls of ecstasy; puff, filo and shortcrust pastries enveloped creative fillings of spinach (fresh), chicken (spiced) and mushrooms (wild), all treated to proportionately extravagant doses of cream, fresh herbs and the ubiquitous garlic.

  (‘Bit anti-social, darling?’

  ‘Bob! You know everyone’ll eat ’em!’)

  The guests arrived in a flurry and whirl of cloaks, coats and good cheer. At the doorstep bursts of laughter, coos of admiration and peals of excited chatter as the masks met. Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, the men for the most part went for the wildly eccentric and humorous, while the women opted for demurely bejewelled intricacy and opulent glamour. There were two Batmen and two stocking-headed bank robbers. Marilyn Monroe arrived with Margaret Thatcher. And while the bought masks were entertaining, those that were home-made were infinitely more impressive and deceptive. All manner of objects had been coaxed and teased into face-concealing devices. Friends with children had studied their comics, made fact-finding trips to Hamleys and plundered the dressing-up boxes. And nearly everyone admitted to having watched the odd Blue Peter programme hoping for ingenious ways to transform a cereal packet, a yoghurt pot and polystyrene egg cartons into the mask of their dreams (with a little help from double-sided sticky tape and that globby white glue).

  Andy Dalken had taken it one step further. A partner of Bob’s, at work he was famous for his waste-paper, paper-clip and used biro sculptures. For the party, he had taken a cereal packet, two sizes of yoghurt pot and a host of cardboard tubes from toilet and kitchen rolls, constructed them into a towering and intricate head-dress and sprayed them evenly with gold and silver paint. But he had also strategically added fairy lights and propellers. For the first half-hour he hardly spoke but flashed, whirred and twinkled when spoken to. Robert Tobias, an old rugby chum of Bob and Richard’s, wheezed his way through the party, intimidating and unrecognizable behind a Second World War gas mask. Douglas Christian (also an old First Fifteener) arrived masked beyond recognition, delectably coiffured by a foot-high, Marie Antoinette wig, his face powdered white, his lips painted into a pert and very scarlet rosebud. Only his jeans and trade-mark tennis pumps gave him away. Alex Daniels, Catherine’s errant younger brother, turned up on his motorbike in an enormous glitter-gold crash helmet and a slinky black catsuit adorned by a Groucho Marx jockstrap.

  ‘Masked Balls, Cath, Masked Balls.’

  ‘Marxed Balls, Alex, Marxed Balls!’

  Richard arrived and looked gorgeous, like a grown-up little boy in his Lone Ranger outfit.

  ‘Catherine, is that Richard S.? I haven’t seen him for years. What a dish! I’m feeling exceptionally frivolous tonight, might just get my net out.’

  ‘No hope, I’m afraid. He’s well and truly spoken for.’

  ‘You’re joking! Richard? Never! Who by?’

  ‘Sally Lomax. Oh, funny! Look, that’s her just arrived, over there with Bob.’ The women watched her, one with fondness and pride, the other with inquisitiveness laced with envy. Catherine swished over to her.

  ‘Sally! Magnificent!’

  ‘Happy New Year, Catherine! The mask looks brilliant – mind you, I don’t think we could have dreamt up Bob’s in a million years, it’s a masterpiece!’

  ‘Richard’s here, or somewhere!’

  ‘Mmm, is he?’

  ‘Douglas, tell me about your move then. Manchester, isn’t it?’ Richard had found Douglas whom he had not seen for many moons.

  ‘No, Sheffield. I’m looking forward to it. Fed up with the Old Smoke. Jane’s already found a house. And a job. And she’s pregnant! Bob was saying that, er, you’ve found yourself a, um, partner?’

  ‘Mmm. She’ll be coming later. You’ll like her. She’s very natural. And absolutely beautiful.’

  ‘She the one, then?’

  ‘The one? Where? Oh, the one! Ha! Oh! Hmm.’ Richard fiddled with his waistcoat and fumbled with his words.

  She is the one, thought Douglas.r />
  ‘Playing any rugger?’

  ‘No, not for years. I run a fair bit, and thrash Bob at squash.’

  ‘Do you remember that last season at college? Invincible or what! If BJ hadn’t been injured in the semis, we’d’ve won the lot without a doubt. Boy, could he kick! You and I, what a second row we made. Wow, look there!’

  They looked and watched her move, catlike and languid, over to the table to swoop up a glass of champagne. Her black cocktail dress whispered against her, revealing now and again a curve or line of the body beneath. It ended just above the knee; shapely calves and dainty ankles delineated by the sheerest of stockings. Her arms were bare and slender, and every time she moved her head, her neck was kissed by locks of glossy hair. Her face was pretty – the parts which the mask did not hide. The darkness of the mask itself, the richness of its decoration, accentuated the milky softness of her skin. Her lips shone red, full and defined under the puffs of black feathers which adorned her brow. Richard oozed with pride.

  ‘That, Douglas, is Sally.’

  Douglas watched as Richard sauntered over, unnoticed, behind her. He watched as Richard encircled his arms around her waist, one hand resting gently on her stomach, the other grasping her wrist. He saw her tilt her head back and Richard make sweeping kisses from behind her ear down her neck, feathers touching his hair, his Stetson casting aesthetic shadows over their faces. Douglas watched as Sally turned her body towards Richard, so lithe and balletic so that he could keep his face buried in her neck as she turned. Douglas felt his mouth dry and his groin stir as Sally wrapped her arms around Richard’s neck, held his face in her hands, slipped one hand through his hair, the other over his ear, and drew him close so she could kiss him deeply. They remained like that, glued and tongue-tied, for minutes. Then Sally laughed; Douglas could hear it above the music, melodic, excited. He saw her twang Richard’s mask and then he saw Richard lift hers, place his thumbs just below her eyes, return the mask and then kiss her. Sally grasped Richard close with all the strength in her body; they were pressed against each other and folded into one another. Douglas watched, mesmerized, turned on. Envious.

  ‘You recognized me!’ Sally pouted.

  ‘It could only have been!’ Richard replied.

  Had Bob and Catherine owned a chandelier, it would have been swung from. But the party was swinging regardless. The dancing was lively, the chatter was animated. The food was excellent and plentiful, the drink flowed extravagantly. Everybody mixed and mingled. Sally was enjoying herself thoroughly. She was charming and she was charmed by Bob and Catherine’s friends. It was wonderful to catch sight of Richard in earnest conversation over the other side of the room. To catch his eye. To watch him unnoticed. To brush against him, accidentally on purpose. They found each other in the corridor, they shared a mound of Pavlova. He sucked the cream from her chin, she held her glass for him to sip from. She was happy, she was high.

  Later, in the loo queue, Sally nattered with Alex.

  ‘What on earth is Catherine doing in there?’ questioned Batman. And then it became clear just what she was doing. Catherine was being violently and vociferously sick. It did not take long for most of the queue to disperse, for most to decide that they did not need the toilet all that urgently after all. Alex and Sally stayed.

  ‘Crikey, do you think she’s all right? Cath? Catherine?’ Alex implored. They heard her moan and then retch again.

  ‘Should I get Bob? I think I will. Sally, would you, could you stay? I’ll just find him.’ Of course Sally would stay.

  ‘Catherine,’ she cooed gently. ‘I’m here if you need me.’ Catherine chucked up her reply. It went on and on and on. She really was being desperately ill. Finally the toilet flushed and Catherine emerged, frighteningly pale, her eyes bloodshot. And an enormous grin on her face. Sally stared, puzzled. Catherine took her hand and squeezed it, giving her an odd, indecipherable smile. Bob had arrived.

  ‘Sweetness, are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine, darling, just fine.’ With that, she waltzed down the corridor and back into the midst of her party. Bob shrugged at Sally and jogged after Catherine, baubles and wooden figurines dancing out the Nativity on his head. Sally went into the bathroom but despite what Catherine’s racket had suggested, there was absolutely no indication of it at all. She found some air freshener and gave a liberal spritz anyway. Is she, isn’t she? she wondered as she looked at the plughole and envisaged a stack of redundant contraceptive pills beneath it. She washed her hands and looked up to see the Lone Ranger standing silent and strong behind her.

  ‘Evening, Cowboy. Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?’ Sally chuckled at her clichéd corniness. The cowboy remained silent, locked the door, closed the toilet seat, sat on it and pulled her towards him.

  It wasn’t a gun.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘Come on, everyone, fill up your glasses, it’s almost time! Bob? Bob! Switch the telly on. Shit, where’s my glass?’ Catherine had made a remarkable recovery.

  The music was turned off, the television on. People stood, excited and to attention. Big Ben was in close-up, the camera and all the eyes in the room fixed to the clock face, the minute hand just two notches away from New Year. Richard stood behind Sally and could see and feel her quivering with anticipation and delight. Andy Dalken’s mask flashed and buzzed, Douglas cooled himself camply with a lacy fan. Almost there, almost. Any minute. Any second. Doyng! Cheer! One! Doyng! Hurray! Two! Richard squeezed Sally as she bounced on her tiptoes as she had at the penguins. Doyng! Eleven! And then the whole room shouted in unison: ‘Doyng! Twelve! Happy New Year!’ Champagne corks hit the roof and spirits soared. Hugging was liberal and kisses were free. Douglas was quite keen to embrace Sally but Richard was hogging her to himself. ‘Auld Lang Syne’ was briefly launched but when tra-la-laing replaced unknown words, it was abandoned in favour of more hugging, kissing and champagne guzzling. Richard and Sally were still on last year’s kiss, their celebratory drinks untouched and spilling.

  The point of the party had come and gone but the festive air remained and the party rampaged along. Sally danced with Douglas. Lucky Douglas. And Richard helped Catherine to mop up a bottle’s worth of spilt red wine. Bob had his goggles back on and danced a merry jig with Robert who suddenly had to throw off the gas mask, puce-faced and spluttering for breath. Margaret Thatcher and Marie Antoinette were in earnest conversation in one corner while Andy wrestled to release himself from his mask so he could taste the lips that Minnie Mouse was offering to him. Douglas had spun Sally off her feet. She was hot and ruffled and disappeared to reorganize her dress and mask and recompose her being.

  In Catherine and Bob’s bedroom, she sat on the bed and listened to her quickened breathing. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and smiled. She lay back on the bed in between the two piles of coats, listening to the thud and boom of the merry-making downstairs. She felt cosy on the soft bed with the silent mounds of other people’s coats surrounding her.

  I could quite happily either doze off right here and now, or I could party through the night and well into the morning.

  She stared at a mark on the ceiling and soon lost the focus to gaze on at nothing in particular. Her body relaxed and her mind wandered. She made plans to service her car before she went to France. She mentally packed her suitcase and tried out a few sentences in French. She wondered just what that warm, cloudy herb was in the vinaigrette. Sage? Tarragon! She thought of the film Jules et Jim and was frustrated at being unable to remember the theme tune.

  No, not like that, that’s not it, that’s the tune that Moreau sings. The theme is softer and sadder. Damn. Now, what was Moreau’s character called? Catherine! How is Catherine? When will she know for sure? Will she tell Bob? Tonight? I’ve got it! I’ve got the tune. Yes, yes! Da da Da da Da da, mmm mmm mmm. Lovely.

  Sally closed her eyes and let a head full of violins take over the bare notes she’d remembered.

  Richard found her, shoele
ss and maskless, half-asleep, humming brokenly. He leant over and kissed her. Her eyes opened slowly and looked at him with a sleepy loveliness.

  ‘I love you, Sally Lomax.’

  The silence was startling. Richard waited for her smile to break. But watched instead the shine in her eyes evaporate and felt her whole body stiffen. Her eyes stuck to him but he no longer knew them. She said nothing.

  ‘I love you, Sal.’

  It was a pleasure to hear his own voice, to hear himself saying Those Words out loud. Slowly Sally pulled herself up and sat. Still staring flatly. Still silent.

  ‘Sally, I …’

  ‘I heard, I heard,’ she said in a horribly quiet voice. Something else now laced her eyes. Richard brought his face closer to hers for a better look. It was terror. He made to kiss her. With her whole hand she pushed him away. One finger caught and scratched the side of his nostril, the other pressed into his left eye.

  ‘Sally!’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’

  ‘Sally!’

  She leapt from the bed and fumbled into her shoes, her ankles twisting. She was shaking, she was racking her brains visibly, almost audibly. Richard, though, could not tell what she was thinking. He grasped her tightly, to steady them both.

  ‘Sally!’ She turned her face away. He brought it back in his hands. He felt like a vet examining a reluctant pup as he scanned her face and sought her eyes. Probing. Needing a clue. Needing to know. He managed to bring her eyes into line and focus with his. The terror he had seen previously had subsided. Now there just seemed to be unbridled sadness.

  ‘Sally,’ he murmured. Good, she held his gaze. ‘Sally, I have never felt before what I’ve felt with you. I have never felt for anyone what I feel for you. I love you and I want to share life with you. You mean more to me than anything. Sally.’ He held her, silent and broken. He felt her tear, warm, fat and oily, splash on to the side of his finger and then course its way down his hand. He looked at her face. Her left eye was hazed and fuzzed by the tear that welled, impossibly large for the lower lid to contain. It fell, fast, smooth and horribly wet on to her neck and down through her cleavage. He kissed it away, tasting Sally’s sad salt. He looked up and again into the face of the woman he loved and saw her eyes replenished with fresh, devastated, ready-to-fall tears.