Something Blue

by Rosie Orr

  ‘Attagirl.’ Roxy winked at her. ‘Give us a shout if you manage to get it on.’ She sniffed. ‘Though if you ask me, it’ll make the Sherpa gear look positively daring.’

  Anna made a face at her, and headed for a changing cubicle. As she slipped inside and drew the curtain behind her, she heard Roxy asking the stick insect innocently if they had any bedroom slippers, she was particularly keen on them tartan ones with pompoms on …

  Grinning, Anna dropped her bag on the floor, shucked off her clothes and slipped into the skirt, not even bothering to look in the mirror. Beige really wasn’t a colour she could get excited about and suits had never been her thing. Still, it was worth a try, and there were a couple of other places left to visit if this didn’t work out, there was no point in panicking yet. She fastened the buttons and glanced up. She moved closer to the mirror. The narrow jacket fitted perfectly, the cream collar set off her light tan to perfection, the horn buttons added a touch of simple elegance. The skirt flared gently above the knee.

  She drew in her breath.

  Then stepped back quickly, frowning at her reflection. Wasn’t the skirt a bit short? She twisted round, craning to get a glimpse of her back view. God, her bum looked enormous. Tina would look her up and down as if she was wearing a bin liner and say it was a pity she’d given up on that diet … She turned back again, scrutinizing the jacket. Didn’t the sleeves pull ever so slightly under the arms? The assistant would say …

  Suddenly the curtain was pulled back with a jerk. Roxy stood looking at Anna, eyes wide. ‘Bloody ’ell, vicar – I think we just hit the jackpot.’

  Anna tugged at the skirt. ‘I don’t know, Roxy – it’s a bit short. And don’t you think the jacket’s rather tight?’

  ‘Give us a break, girl, it fits you like a glove.’ She brushed a piece of lint from a lapel, fluffed the hem. ‘Could’ve been made for you.’

  ‘But Tina’ll say –’

  ‘Sod flippin’ Tina. Believe me, girl, that cow’ll take one look and faint dead away from sheer bleedin’ jealousy. You look gorgeous.’

  Anna’s heart lifted. ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Honest.’

  ‘OK. I’ll take it.’

  ‘Yesss!!’ Roxy clenched both fists and raised them in the air, then disappeared through the curtains once more.

  Anna took off the suit and hung it carefully on the hanger. A pale blue price tag dangled from the skirt zip. The scrawled figures had been crossed out and rewritten so many times they were almost illegible. She half-closed her eyes and concentrated hard. No, it couldn’t be! The suit was in a sale, for God’s sake, she must be imagining that zero on the end … She checked again, willing it to come out different this time. It came out different, all right: the ‘0’ she’d thought was a smudge on the card was in fact a second zero, making the price even more astronomical.

  Trying hard not to cry she got dressed and joined Roxy at the counter, where the assistant received the suit with a supercilious sneer. Anna smiled at her. ‘Thanks so much – it’s sweet, but I’m afraid the buttons simply aren’t me.’

  As Roxy opened her mouth to protest, Anna grabbed her arm and propelled her towards the door. Once they were outside she told her about the price. Roxy’s expletives caused an elderly lady to scoop up her tartan-jacketed corgi protectively and make what Anna was pretty sure was an unscheduled sharp left turn into Rave Records. Grinning, Anna checked her watch. ‘Five to one. Come on, we’d better hurry. Alastair’ll have a fit if we’re late back again.’

  The lunchtime rush was just beginning when they returned. At two o’clock, Susie and Trish finished their shift and returned to college to face the ire of their tutor, who had not been pleased that the model of the Pompidou Centre they’d presented as the centrepiece of their term’s coursework was constructed mainly from old cornflakes boxes and toilet-roll tubes. Anna and Roxy got down to tackling the washing up. By three, order was restored; the pots and pans were scoured, the plates and mugs were drying in the racks, the counters were wiped over; baskets of cakes and scones and fresh piles of yellow paper napkins had been set out ready for the tea-time crowd. A few customers – two plump matrons and a couple of leather-clad lesbians – lingered over the remains of their Dutch apple tart and fruit cake.

  Anna and Roxy were taking advantage of the lull to relax with a couple of feta cheese baguettes and hot chocolates, which was all the new coffee machine would produce since Alastair lost his temper with the foam-production system. Roxy had been forced to call him down from his eerie to deal with the unstoppable torrent the day Anna went to London. Roxy passed Anna a brimming mug.

  ‘That’ll put hairs on your chest, love. Still, shame the cappucino wotsit’s broken. Told his nibs not to keep hitting the lever with his shoe, but would he listen? Nah. I said to Ron …’

  ‘Hi, Anna Bandanna. Lo, Rocksoff. Awright?’ Alastair sauntered past the counter, looking pleased with himself. Anna returned the greeting, vaguely including the heavy-set blond man who was with him in her smile. The pair began to examine the exhibition of photographs at the other end of the gallery. Anna returned to her baguette, while Roxy read choice snippets from her Daily Clarion aloud to her.

  ‘“She cut the arms and legs off sneaky husband Geoff’s (42) suits. Then wronged wife Jeannie Havens (56) seized the strimmer from the garden shed and …”’

  ‘Ace shit, innit?’ Alastair stood near the counter, talking earnestly with his companion and gesticulating towards the photographs.

  Anna sensed the blond man staring at her. His skin was tanned, his eyes pale blue, his suit crumpled black corduroy with smears of paint on the trousers. ‘Indeed - pared to the bone.’ He continued to look at Anna as he spoke.

  ‘“… said neighbour Mrs Doris White (78). ‘I was shocked, they always seemed such a nice …”’

  ‘Yeah. Gets you here, dunnit.’ Alastair punched himself savagely in the solar plexus. ‘No bullshit.’

  Still staring at Anna, the blond man nodded. ‘It’s very fine.’

  He and Alastair discussed the composition of several of the photographs, then Alastair slapped him on the shoulder. ‘So, let’s grab a coffee, take it upstairs while we kick a few ideas about re-installing your shit in the Upper Gallery in December. Wow, is this show going to be hot or is it going to be hot? Probably get you a slot on Late Night Review, and I’ll be giving Januszczak a bell – Sunday Times art critic, capisce? Anyway, so far my thinking goes suspend “Sperm Zone” from the central girders, maybe light the scrotum with a couple of strobes –’

  The conversation became alarmingly specific. Anna got up and carried her plate and mug over to the sink and washed them up, trying not to think about the implications for anyone standing beneath a monster stalactite entitled ‘Blood Shit Tears and Sweat’ …

  Alastair leaned over the counter, clicking his fingers impatiently. ‘Hey, couple of coffees here pronto, yeah?’

  Roxy folded her newspaper, tossed it in the bin and got up, grinning.

  ‘Fuck.’ Alastair turned to his companion. ‘Just remembered. Coffee no can do.’

  The blond man raised a quizzical eyebrow at the gleaming coffee machine.

  Alastair ran his hand through his shock of green and pink striped hair. ‘Kaput at the moment. Japanese make, see.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Better make that two teas, then.’

  As Roxy made the most of reeling off the list of herbal brews available, the blond man moved quietly along to the end of the counter where Anna was filling a basket with shortbread and began to study the menu.

  ‘… And then there’s Rose Souchong. Lovely pink colour, that is, tastes like scent. Dead good for PMT.’

  ‘Give us a break. Two builders’ brew, awright?’ Alastair slouched over to his companion. ‘Just going to take a wazz. Be right back.’

  ‘Jawohl.’ The blond man returned his attention to the menu. ‘… It is a most interesting list. Though I feel that something is missing.’

  Anna
glanced up. ‘I’m sorry?’

  He held her gaze. ‘We are at the seaside, yet there are no oysters on the list.’

  ‘Menu, love, not list.’ Roxy threw three teabags apiece into two mugs and added hot water from the Ascot.

  He ignored her, continuing to stare at Anna. ‘Oysters … they are so …’ he ran his tongue slowly round his lips ‘… sexy.’

  Anna looked away, trying to remember if there was enough plain flour in the stock cupboard for tomorrow afternoon’s griddle cakes.

  ‘You want to go up Wheeler’s, love.’

  ‘Wheeler’s?’

  ‘Restaurant down the town. Dead pricey, but the fish is fab.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Anna could tell by his voice that he was amused. She risked a glance at him; he was waiting for it, and smiled as their eyes met. She blushed. Damn. Despite the paint stains, and the aggressively muscular build, and the arrogance, he wasn’t entirely repulsive. In fact, in some ways – the tan, the blond hair, the strong, calloused hands – he was rather … The piece of shortbread she was holding slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.

  ‘Bitte.’ He came round to her side of the counter. ‘Allow me.’ He knelt down beside her and gathered up the fragments of shortbread. Rising to his feet, he put the biggest piece in his mouth, closed his eyes and ate it with extravagant sounds of enjoyment, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and opened his eyes. Looking at Anna, he put the rest of the shortbread into his mouth.

  Anna looked away quickly and concentrated on fitting the lid back on the tin.

  ‘So. This Wheeler’s your colleague mentioned – where is it to be found, please?’

  While Roxy enthusiastically gave him directions Anna busied herself hunting for the plain flour, and tried not to think about Wheeler’s. She’d been there several times with Luke, the art history lecturer, and had fond memories of the trout with dill mayonnaise, and shared desserts, and amorous chats over the brandy and coffee … Damn, there wasn’t enough plain flour for griddle cakes; she’d just have to make flapjacks instead and send Trish to cash and carry in the morning.

  ‘… Cod ’n’ chips from Bert’s van by the pier. Ron’s never been a one for oysters, see.’

  She couldn’t remember when she’d last been out to dinner with Jack. She stood clasping the plastic container of oats. Stupid. They’d never been out to dinner.

  ‘I wonder?’ The blond man was beside her. ‘Might I invite you to accompany me there?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘To eat oysters.’

  He took the oats from her and set them down on the counter; Anna tried not to notice the musky smell of his cologne as he leaned towards her. She wiped her hands on her apron, trying not to like the way he just did things without asking anyone’s permission. She didn’t think he’d let her tie him up for a minute. In fact he’d probably …

  Roxy heaped sugar into the builders’ brew, muttering out of the side of her mouth as she stirred vigorously. ‘Go on, girl. You know you want to.’

  ‘No really, I …’

  Roxy flashed a dazzling smile at the blond man. ‘Excuse my friend a minute.’ Grabbing Anna by the elbow, she hustled her over to the fridge. ‘What you waiting for, Anna, Prince bloody Charmin’? Do you the world of good, a night on the town would. Go on, girl – have a bit of fun while you got the chance. Jump at it, if I was in your shoes. What the ’ell’s stoppin’ you?’

  Anna thought of Jack. It wasn’t his fault they never went anywhere, or did anything – they simply couldn’t risk being seen. But soon all that would change. OK, so the right moment to tackle Ruth hadn’t come yet, but he’d said only last week he was sure it would soon. And then they could go to Wheeler’s every night, if they wanted to. She darted a look over Roxy’s shoulder at the blond man. So what if he was the art world’s latest big shot? She’d bet he’d never heard of John Donne, and he’d definitely never bring her roses – more likely a giant box of condoms and a light-up dildo. In fact, if she really thought about it she didn’t care for blond men, and now she looked more closely she could see his hands were none too clean …

  She blinked. What on earth was the matter with her? How could she have been so horribly flighty, even for a moment? So hideously fickle? Anyone would think she wasn’t looking forward to seeing Jack this evening.

  She disengaged herself from Roxy’s grasp.

  ‘Put some scones on the tray with the tea, could you? Thanks.’

  She returned to the counter.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I meant it. I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t?’ His eyes opened wide with astonishment; clearly the art world’s latest hot shot wasn’t used to being refused.

  ‘No, honestly, I –’

  ‘But warum, Liebling?’ He grabbed her hand. ‘After the champagne and the oysters, we could …’

  She pulled her hand away.

  He grabbed it back.

  Oh God, this could take hours, and she still had the flapjacks to make. Suddenly there was a burst of laughter from the lesbians as one made a joke to her friend about the departing matrons.

  She looked earnestly at her admirer. ‘Honestly, I’m terribly flattered, any girl would be. It’s just you see, the thing is … I’m gay.’

  He looked back at her, eyes wide. ‘You mean …?’

  She nodded solemnly.

  ‘Mein Gott! So you bat for the other team!’ His face cleared. ‘It is not that you are rejecting Liebermann?’

  ‘Gosh, no.’

  He nodded, satisfied. ‘So – you are happy together? All three?’

  ‘Tremendously.’ She eyed the lesbians’ greasy leather jackets and watched as one spat out a lump of pink bubblegum and pushed it into the other’s mouth. Anna looked away quickly. ‘Oh yes, we have some very jolly times.’

  ‘Wa-hey! Wunderbar!’ His eyes, Anna noticed, sparkled at the mere thought.

  ‘Bruno!’ Alastair hurried up. ‘Awright, cock? ’kay, let’s vamoose back upstairs and kick a few ideas about your “Mad Menses” piece. Thought we might install it in the men’s john for a laugh, wotcha reck?’ He seized the tea things and set off.

  Giving Anna a lingering look, the blond man followed him. As he passed the lesbians, he winked at them and tapped his nose. They looked confused.

  Her cheeks pink, Anna crouched down behind the counter and spent more time than was strictly necessary clearing up the shortbread crumbs; while she was emptying the dustpan into the bin, her eye fell on the discarded Clarion. She hadn’t been listening when Roxy read out what ‘wronged wife Jeannie’ had done with the strimmer once she’d ‘seized it from the garden shed’, and she realised that she was quite keen to find out – it might give her an idea what to expect when Jack found the right moment to tell Ruth he was leaving. Roxy was busy explaining to a customer exactly why there was no cappuccino, and miming Alastair’s attack on the machine in graphic detail. Anna took the opportunity to slip the newspaper into her bag.

  Reading the article on the bus on her way home, she learned that Jeannie had ‘savagely strimmed’ all the blooms off her husband’s prize rose bushes and ‘dementedly decapitated’ the scarecrow that stood guard over his soft fruit. She was ‘hysterically heading’ for the goldfish pond when the local vicar (Reverend Miles Sobers, 79) arrived on a routine pastoral visit and dissuaded her from further carnage. According to the final paragraph, illustrated by a blurred photograph of Jeannie (165, though hopefully that was a misprint) that made Myra Hindley look like Princess Diana, Jeannie had quickly seen the error of her ways and now not only attended church regularly but was a mainstay of the Sunday School. ‘WOW!!! Happy Ending or WHAT, Readers!!! – ed’, screamed the article’s last line.

  Well, it could have been worse – though maybe it would be a good idea to suggest to Jack that he hide the shears and any other dangerous tools before he broke the news of his departure. Anna was about to stuff the newspaper back in her bag when her eye was drawn to an article on the opposite page
entitled ‘Sexy Sindy’s 50 – YES, 50!!! WAYS TO PEP-UP YOUR SEX LIFE!!!’ Hell, she might as well read it – there were still two more stops to go, and who knew, maybe she’d learn something. She might even be able to persuade Jack to give the silk scarves a miss tonight …

  She began to read.

  ‘Fantastic cannelloni, angel. Great idea of yours, having separate nosh, though I can’t say that rocket salad of yours looked exactly appetizing … Mind if I polish off the garlic bread?’

  Anna pushed the basket towards him, smiling, and got up to replace Songs for Swingin’ Lovers with Bryan Ferry’s new album, which was if anything even smoochier. As she passed his chair he reached out an arm lazily and pulled her close. ‘Let’s skip dessert. How about going straight upstairs?’

  As she bent down and kissed him, it occurred to her that it was ages since Donne had been so much as mentioned. She missed Donne. As she caressed the back of Jack’s neck she wondered what on earth he’d make of Sexy Sindy. At least nobody could accuse them of getting stale, a major lapse as far as Sindy was concerned. She extricated herself and changed the CD. Good – that should set the mood nicely. Jack was already getting to his feet, leaning towards the candles to blow them out. She had to be quick. ‘Actually, darling, I’ve got a surprise.’

  ‘Honestly, Anna, I’m stuffed.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Come on, let’s go upstairs. I daren’t risk being as late as I was last time, I could tell she didn’t believe a word about the puncture.’

  Last time she’d somehow managed to spill wine on the stocking binding his left wrist and it had taken hours to get the bloody knot undone. ‘I meant I thought we could try something new.’

  ‘Darling! Have you bought one of those leather masks? Great.’ He headed for the door. ‘Hope it’s got a mouth zip, I’ve always thought –’

  ‘No, I mean … different.’ She leant seductively against the dresser. ‘And I’ve got a feeling this is the best place for it.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Think it might be a bit messy.’