Something Blue

by Rosie Orr

  rosie orr

  For Polly and Joe, with love and gratitude

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  KAREN KING

  OTHER ACCENT PRESS TITLES

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks to everyone at Accent Press, especially my brilliant editor, Rebecca Lloyd. Also to Oxford Writers’ Group, for all their support and encouragement, and to Matt Fitton for his endless patience when explaining technical matters.

  Last – but never, ever, least – to Michael, for always laughing at the funny bits, and for the unfailing supply of Maltesers.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Anna Hardy pushed her way through the crowd of lunchtime shoppers thronging the aisles of the menswear department in Marks & Spencer’s gleaming Brighton store, wishing she had a double buggy, or at least a wheeled shopper to assist her progress. As she glanced at her watch – twenty-five past twelve already! – an enormously fat woman trod on her foot. Anna smiled at her to show no harm had been done; the woman swore loudly and steamed on her way. Mentally adding a pair of whirling scythes with extremely sharp blades to the axles of her imaginary buggy, Anna pressed on.

  Footwear … hosiery … at last – lingerie. Rack upon rack of stockings, slips, night-dresses and housecoats faced her – no sign of bras, let alone suspender belts. Ah, there they were, beside the thermal vests, which were actually rather pretty, especially the coffee-coloured ones with the … Not now, vests weren’t what she was looking for. She smiled; they definitely weren’t what she was looking for …

  She flicked quickly through the rails of lacy underwear. The black? Or maybe she should go for the champagne. Would that suit her complexion? Better check. Seizing a set of each colour in 36B and the thongs decorated with elaborate lace flowers, she headed for the nearest mirror.

  As she tried to separate the hangers, which seemed to have mysteriously welded themselves together as she took them from the rail, she realised she’d unwittingly taken an extra set. This one was a deep carnation red, with delicately scalloped straps and richly embroidered flowers highlighting strategic areas. She held one of the flimsy scraps up to her face. She’d run all the way from Avant Art’s coffee bar; her cheeks were pink, her brown eyes glowed, her black curls had escaped from their combs and tumbled over her shoulders. The deep crimson suited her perfectly. Hell, she’d buy it.

  She was about to put the unwanted sets back on the rail when she hesitated. She’d never worn red underwear in her life. Maybe champagne – or the black, it really was very nice – would be more suitable? She caught sight of herself once more in the mirror. Was she mad? Today was no time to be playing it safe; today was a day for throwing caution to the wind – for celebrating. Today was a carnation-red day if ever there was one.

  She hurried to the pay desk where the elderly assistant was crouched motionless over the till like a giant spider, watching her suspiciously. She placed her purchase on the counter and found her purse. With agonizing slowness the assistant lifted the bra to within an inch of her rakishly diamantéed spectacles and scrutinized the washing instructions on the tag. She frowned. ‘Course, you seen this is non-iron, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s fine –’

  ‘Only you wouldn’t credit the number of customers who run amok with a hot iron then come running back complaining the underwire’s melted.’

  ‘No, really, it’s –’

  ‘I always make a point of saying to them –’

  Anna glanced at her watch. Twenty-five to one. God, that only gave her forty minutes before Jack …

  ‘Please don’t think me rude, but I really am in a terrible hurry –’

  The elderly assistant reared back as if Anna had spat at her, pursed her lips and began a lengthy examination of the price tag. Tough measures were clearly called for. Anna drew a small black notebook from her bag. It was last year’s diary, but only she knew that. Placing two twenty-pound notes on the counter, she leaned forward. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but –’

  ‘Euro this and euro that! If you want my opinion –’

  Anna flipped the diary open officiously. ‘I’m part of a team of time-and-motion inspectors vetting the southern branch – er – sector.’ She ran a finger down the list of last year’s bank holidays, and suddenly drew in her breath sharply. ‘Oh dear. I’m very much afraid Lingerie’s got three black stars beside it.’

  The assistant’s watery eyes bulged. ‘Black stars?’

  ‘Urgent action required.’ She shook her head regretfully. ‘I can see what a keen interest you take in your work, and I’d hate to be forced to mark you down. However, the pace of modern life being what it is, speedy service is of the essence.’ Frowning, she scribbled happy birthday, Jesus in the space for Christmas Day and looked up. ‘The absolute essence.’

  The result was gratifying; the underwear was shoved into a bag and the change thrust into her hand before she had time to blink. ‘Excellent. That’s exactly the kind of response we want to see.’ Anna grabbed the green plastic bag and dropped the change into her pocket. She made a show of scanning the name badge pinned to the woman’s meagre bosom. ‘I shall make a point of mentioning you in my report, Evadne.’

  Leaving Lingerie at a run, she sprinted downstairs to the Food Hall, seized a wire basket and sped to the sandwiches and snacks, praying it wouldn’t turn out to be one of those days when the Powers That Be had amused themselves by decreeing that all the produce be moved to entirely new locations on the shelves. Anna always wondered if the staff took turns to watch on the security monitors, laughing uproariously as the bemused customers trailed about desperately searching for their prawn cocottes and ocean pies. Thank God; she was in luck. A pack of roast beef and horseradish sandwiches and another of ham and Swiss cheese, and she was off to desserts. Pushing in front of a couple of nuns deliberating between cherry cheesecake and tiramisu, Anna grabbed a pecan pie and headed for the self-service checkout.

  Three minutes later she was outside; by twelve forty-five she was at the bus stop. Six minutes later, her bus still hadn’t come. Anna glanced at her watch again, sick with impatience. Three buses lumbered past in convoy and stopped at the next bus stop, closely followed by two more which, though they idled provocatively to a halt beside her, proved to be Out of Service.

  She began to run.

  Ten minutes later, she turned into Hanover Terrace, a narrow row of wafer-thin late-Edwardian houses. Her throat burning, the carrier bag containing the pecan pie banging painfully against her hip, she put on a final spurt to reach number twenty-eight. With a cursory wave to Mr Simwak, her Thai lodger, as he did something scientific to the herbs in his basement window box, she sprinted past the area railings and up the steps to her own front door. Flinging the food bags down on the hall tab
le, she took the stairs two at a time, peeling off her velvet waistcoat and unbuttoning her blouse as she went. One o’clock. With a bit of luck she might just make it. They always made love in the kitchen at lunchtimes, so there was no need to tidy the bedroom. Thanking God for small mercies – the patchwork quilt lay crumpled on the wooden floorboards, underwear spilled from the open drawers of the old pine chest of drawers, a mug containing the bluish remains of last night’s cocoa sat on top of the pile of paperbacks on the cluttered bedside table – she yanked off the rest of her clothes, dropped them on the floor and headed for the bathroom.

  Twelve minutes later she was in the kitchen, teeth cleaned, legs shaved, hair brushed, make-up freshened and body spritzed liberally with the Diorissimo Jack had given her for Christmas. As yet, only she knew that beneath her outer layers of clothing she wore the sexiest underwear she’d ever seen. She glanced round, checking that the place was reasonably tidy. With its blue-green Shaker units and picture window overlooking the walled back garden, the kitchen was Anna’s favourite room. She’d washed up her breakfast dishes in the morning, and given the table a quick polish. Yup; everything looked fine. Flinging a Nina Simone CD onto the player, she ripped the wrappings off the sandwiches, put them onto a plate, turned on the oven at mark nine (making a mental note to remember to lower the regulo as soon as it had heated up) and thrust the pecan pie into its cavernous depths. She was setting out wine glasses and cutlery when she heard the sound of a key in the front door.

  Her heart leapt.

  Jack.

  She took the jug of daffodils that stood on the windowsill and placed them in the middle of the table, smoothed her jeans over her hips with one hand and fluffed up her curls with the other.

  ‘Hello, angel.’ Jack stood in the doorway, carrying a bottle of wine.

  Anna turned – and the question she’d been waiting all morning to ask died on her lips. He looked as handsome as ever: his dark hair with its stripes of grey falling into his eyes, and the lopsided smile deepening the worry lines etched on either side of his mouth. But today he was grey with exhaustion; his tie drooped at half-mast over his crumpled shirt and one of the buttons on his grey tweed jacket was hanging by a thread. It was obvious that things hadn’t gone well. Better not to ask him anything until he had some food inside him.

  ‘Jack? You OK?’ She went to him and put her arms round him.

  ‘Wasn’t.’ He nuzzled her neck. ‘Mmm. Am now, though …’

  They kissed, and when he held her away from him to look at her he looked a lot happier. ‘Angel …’ He kissed her again.

  Heartened, Anna took a deep breath. As she opened her mouth to speak, he let go of her.

  ‘Hell of a morning.’ He dropped his briefcase and threw himself down into a chair.

  Anna closed her mouth again. This clearly wasn’t the moment. She took the bottle opener from the drawer and handed it to him. ‘Fourth years playing you up again, hon?’

  ‘Little bastards.’ He yanked the cork from the bottle. ‘Made a start on Romeo and Juliet. Christ, Anna, the only one of ’em who’d admit to having even heard of Shakespeare was Hayley.’

  Anna tried to think of something encouraging to say. ‘Well, I suppose one’s better than nothing.’

  ‘Not when that one thinks Will Shakespeare is a character in a film played by Joseph Fiennes.’ He splashed wine into the glasses. ‘Or “that wicked dark bloke with the sexy bum”, to be more precise. I dunno. Sometimes you wonder why you bother.’ He pushed one of the glasses towards her. ‘Anyway, enough about me. How was your morning, love?’ He pulled off his tie and threw it over the back of the chair opposite.

  Anna sat down at the table and passed him the sandwiches, considering her morning. Actually it hadn’t been bad as mornings went at Avant Art, ‘Brighton’s challenge to Tate Modern’, as Alastair, the gallery’s whizz-kid young director, liked to put it. Anna had worked in the coffee bar for the last fifteen years, and been supervisor for the last nine. The work was often tiring, but never dull. She and her assistants, Roxy, Trish and Susie, were always too busy to be bored. Their customers ranged from matrons making a daring foray into the world of espressos and croissants because the café at BHS was full, to students from the local art college who came with the express purpose of talking loudly about their own work’s superiority to that currently on show in the coffee bar, where smaller installations were displayed. Most of the customers were polite, and as far as Anna was concerned, all of them were interesting. ‘Not bad. Had that bloke in again, you know, the art-history tutor from the uni –’

  Jack raised his glass, and drank deeply. Anna stared at him, dismayed. He hadn’t made their usual toast. They always clinked glasses and drank to their future – it had become a ritual. Did that mean …? No, of course it didn’t; he was just distracted because he was upset. She wouldn’t push: let him tell her about it in his own time. She took a sip of her own wine, and carried on. ‘–versity, the one with the lisp who always changes his mind at least three times about the kind of tea he wants no matter how long the queue is. You remember – the one who wouldn’t let Trish serve him because he said her eyebrow studs made him feel faint?’

  She handed him the plate of sandwiches. He took one. Anna smiled, relieved. Everything must be all right if he was eating.

  ‘Well, this morning Roxy’d had enough, so she got some of the fancy teas down and asked him if he’d mind reading out what it said on the boxes, because she hadn’t got her contacts in and she wanted to be sure to get his order right.’

  He bit into his sandwich. ‘I didn’t know Roxy wore contacts.’

  ‘She doesn’t, that’s the point. Anyway, I know it’s cruel, but honestly, if you could have heard the way he said the names – “Lapthang Thouchong”, “Aththam”, “Jathmine”. I mean the whole queue just –’

  ‘Mmm, beef’s good.’

  Anna drank some more wine. The fourth years had clearly got to him more than ever this morning. He’d been pretty low last Thursday, now she came to think of it. He’d been teaching Lawrence’s poetry and some bright spark had asked if ‘this was the same bloke what wrote Cunts ’n’ Lovers what had been on telly’. No wonder the poor man was down; she mustn’t start reading things into his behaviour. He took another sandwich, cheese and ham this time, and topped up their glasses. ‘Young Alastair still having tantrums because Damien Hurst refused his invitation to show?’

  She grinned. ‘He’s moved into “Huh, See if I Care” mode as of this morning. Susie overheard him saying that he reckons Hirst simply doesn’t feel ready for Brighton yet. Actually “Bugger can’t get it up sarf of Watford, right?” is how Susie said he put it.’

  She was fond of Alastair, despite the Cockney accent he affected in a vain attempt to disguise his upper-class origins and Cambridge education, and the savagely ripped rainbow-striped dungarees and purple tattoos he wore in the fond belief that they were the garb of the working-class artisan. He was constantly engaged in art-world feuds, and loved nothing more than a good fight with the press, as a result of which the little gallery was frequently the subject of headlines in Brighton’s Evening Argus. But he had an excellent eye for new talent, and since his appointment last year the gallery had enjoyed a steadily increasing reputation.

  Jack grinned back, and Anna relaxed. Maybe she’d have a sandwich herself.

  ‘So.’ Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘Here’s to getting it up.’ He set down his glass. Got slowly to his feet, and moved to stand beside her chair.

  Anna put down her sandwich.

  He stood looking down at her, then reached out and touched her hair. ‘“Come, madam, come …”’

  Thank god. It really was all right. The John Donne poem had been a prelude to their lunchtime lovemaking ever since that first time Jack had arrived full of despair over the kids’ response to his efforts to interest them in poetry of any kind. When, in an attempt to cheer him up, Anna had asked him about his own favourite writers, he’d launched into the Donne
, which had speedily led to other things.

  He took her hand and drew her to her feet. ‘“… until I labour, I in labour lie.”’

  She smiled, and for the first time since he’d arrived, allowed herself to relax.

  He trailed his finger slowly down her breast. ‘“Off with that girdle, like heavens Zone glistering …”’ He began to unbutton her waistcoat.

  Anna closed her eyes. At last she could allow herself to think of the future. Maybe he’d be able to move in straight away. Well, not tonight, obviously, there’d be things he’d have to do, stuff to sort out …

  ‘“Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear …”’ He fumbled clumsily with the fastening at the high collar of her blouse.

  She imagined them going to bed together every night, instead of Jack having to rush off at midnight like Cinderella. Waking up together. Breakfast in bed on Sundays with the papers. No, forget the papers, they’d be too busy making –

  He’d finally got the hang of the hooks and eyes and was unfastening the tiny pearl buttons at record speed. ‘“Off with that happy busk …”’

  She opened her eyes as he slipped the blouse down over her shoulders. She wanted to see his expression when he saw the –

  He drew in his breath sharply. ‘Jesus Christ, Anna.’ He was gazing at her breasts as they spilled over the artfully sculptured cups of her red bra. Her carnation-red bra. He swallowed hard, and ran his hands over the gauzy fabric, lingering over the delicately embroidered flowers. ‘You look … you look …’ As they kissed, he undid her jeans. ‘“Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals …”’

  The first thing they’d do was repaint the bedroom, make it theirs, not hers. Maybe Indian Red – it needed a shade with real warmth. As Jack slid her zip down slowly, she shivered. Forget warm, hot was more like it. Indian Red, that was the colour; she’d seen it in a book of Indian miniatures once, used as a background against a couple making love on a heap of striped silk cushions. Maybe she’d make some cushions, and a new cover for the bed. It would look fabulous. And they could make a start on the herb garden it turned out they’d both always wanted but never had; she’d seen some huge terracotta pots for sale in the flower shop at the bottom of the hill, they could…