Choral Society

by Prue Leith

  But now she even missed her daughter’s reproving eye on her. Without Angelica’s gentle tick-offs about mess and clutter, Rebecca knew she was getting messier. Sluttish even. She winced at the word sluttish. She wasn’t a slut. But her possessions did seem to fill the house in a way they hadn’t when Angelica was at home all the time.

  Rebecca recognised, of course, that there were advantages to Angelica’s being away. She could be out almost every night without feeling guilty, and she could have her friends in without competing for space with her daughter and her friends. And Nelson could spend the night without Angelica knowing. Rebecca had not told Angelica about Nelson.

  She needed a bigger flat, that was the bottom line. Somewhere she could bring people to without them having to step over cases of wine in the hall, or negotiate their way to the sofa via the cross trainer and the exercise bike in the living room.

  She’d just have to tackle Bill again. She should ask him for an extra £20K a year. That should do it. After all he was a lot richer now than when they’d made the divorce settlement. True, her payments went up with inflation, but the increase was also limited to inflation, and his income wasn’t. He didn’t have to put up with a measly few per cent annual increase, did he?

  OK, thought Rebecca, so I’m a little late, but it’s hardly the end of the world? She saw Bill get up from behind his fancy Italian desk, which she happened to know cost fifteen grand after discounts, and swing round the end of it, looking like thunder. He yanked open the glass door of Inside Job just as she pushed hard on it. She stumbled inside, stilettos skidding on the marble.

  Bill, of course, did not apologise, nor put out a steadying arm. ‘Becca,’ he hissed, ‘this is hopeless. We’ve got to talk.’ Then he grabbed her arm and hustled her back out of the shop and along the pavement.

  Rebecca saw the lie of the land and gave him her best smile. ‘What’s up darling? You look …’

  ‘I can’t keep bawling out my own wife …’

  ‘Ex-wife,’ she reminded him.

  ‘…in front of the staff. You cannot just roll in when you feel like it …’

  He went on in the same vein, while Rebecca did her trick of listening but not listening. She’d heard all this before, and it was better not to let it penetrate, or she’d get upset.

  Once in Starbucks, he stopped ranting and almost pushed her into a sofa. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Darling, how lovely,’ she said, pretending this was a nice cosy little outing. ‘A decaf cappuccino. And a chocolate chip muffin.’

  She didn’t really want the muffin, but it drove Bill mad that she could eat like a horse and stay slim while he only had to look at food to get another chin.

  While Bill queued for the coffees, Rebecca ran her mind over the issue – her job, her relationship with Bill, her money. He did have a point, she thought, she was a rotten employee, but then he paid her almost nothing. And she hated the job. She was a glorified receptionist: her main duty was to tell the walk-in shoppers, politely of course, that this shop was not for them. And to make appointments for Bill to go schmooze the real punters in their smart houses or loft conversions. She might occasionally get to deliver sample books and swatches and sit down with rich women on their immaculate silk sofas and help them choose something else – a different silk this time perhaps, or hand-printed fabric from Italy. But if it was anything more than a chair to be upholstered, she had strict instructions to refer the matter to the boss. Then in Bill would sweep and sell them a whole new look: maybe a thirties-style white leather suite plus brand new Eames chair and footstool, retro lighting, a new floor (last year this shop alone must have devastated a few forests, but the wood craze was fading and now they were back to pale stone and paler carpets), hardwood doors that reached from floor to ceiling, a dining-room table made of translucent marble lit from underneath, a professional kitchen to make a real chef weep but which no one would ever cook in. No bones about it, he was good at selling. By the time he’d finished with her, our customer could have bought a new house for the money.

  Rebecca did so long to be rich. She knew she’d be good at it. She’d not want to just walk into Harrods or Fortnum’s and buy stuff. She’d still shop carefully because her shopping was a serious business and she gave it due attention. She knew she had terrific taste – never boring but never vulgar – even in clothes, where sometimes the line between designer frivolity and street market tat was hard to find. She had smiled at Lucy’s accusation, made only half in jest, that she spent a fortune to look cheap. Dead wrong. She spent very little to look a million dollars.

  Lucy’s idea of a bargain, thought Rebecca, is something from an Oxfam shop, or Nike trainers from a market stall, whereas she would never ever buy street-market rip-offs. They were rubbish and they looked it, but good fakes were identical to the real thing. Once she’d even taken her imitation Cartier watch, bought in a shop in Bangkok, into Cartier’s in Paris to get a link taken out of the strap and they did it without a word, and for free.

  It’s not just clothes, she thought. She knew where to get everything Bill sold, all the furniture, soft furnishings, lighting. Sometimes he sent her to do the bargaining. That was part of the fun, getting a great deal. But even for bargains you needed money.

  And her ex-husband was her only source of money.

  When Bill came back with the coffee, Rebecca was ready for him. Before he could say a word, she leant forward, smiling into his face, contrite.

  ‘Look, darling, I’m really sorry. I was late at the gym. But Mandy was holding the fort. It’s not as if the place was deserted.’

  ‘The point is, Becca, I don’t have to employ you, you know. I could get some girl for half the money who’d be twice as good. I only hired you because you can’t live on the money I give you, though God knows it should be ample …’

  ‘Oh Bill, let’s not go down that route …’ But he was in full flood and not about to be deflected.

  ‘I pay you a fortune in maintenance. Naturally, you don’t think it’s enough, but if you applied for more you’d get laughed out of court, and you know it.’

  This was an over-familiar script, and Rebecca’s answer was as well-rehearsed as his.

  ‘Darling, of course I can’t live on the money you give me, even with the salary. Which is a pittance by the way. I was going to put in for a raise. It’s ridiculous. My rent is five hundred a week.’

  ‘Yes, and your clothes bill just about matches it, and so does your holiday bill, to say nothing of the lunching and the taxis. Rebecca, one way and another you and Angelica cost me a hundred grand a year, which is more than Jane, our two boys and I cost together.’

  Rebecca did not want to follow this path, which she knew from experience would lead to unfair comparisons of her tenure as his wife (thirteen years during which she decorated his arm, helped him drink a lot of Bollinger, made him laugh and gave him a beautiful daughter) and Jane’s (fifteen years spent breeding sons, ironing shirts, cooking meals, and boring the pants off him). So she interrupted, aiming for peace.

  ‘Look, Bill, I’m sorry I was late. I’ll try harder – God knows I need the extra money.’ She looked into his eyes, her face open and friendly. ‘But darling, you could afford to stump up a bit more, surely? Inside Job made more than my annual salary just on the profit of those Chinese marriage chests you brought in for Lady Child, and what did that cost you? A couple of phone-calls. You didn’t even have to lay out any cash since her fifty per cent deposit more than covered what that poor Chinese dealer got.’

  Of course in the end her lateness was forgiven and Bill promised to review her allowance. Then she told him how she was saving money by going to cheap singing classes down the seamy end of Notting Hill instead of to smart restaurants up the posh end, and made him laugh with gossip about her new singing companions – the uptight Joanna who struggled to get a note past her lips and the criminally fashion-averse Lucy. Rebecca felt a bit bad poking fun at them. She’d had few women friends in her life
and she really liked them both. I shouldn’t mock them, she thought.

  She told him of her plans for secondary shopping, since the expense of primary shopping bothered him so.

  ‘One day I aim to do a complete makeover on Lucy,’ she explained, ‘choosing the clothes while she spends the money. Joanna thinks Lucy’s seriously depressed, and what any depressed woman needs is retail therapy.’

  ‘I’d send her to a doctor rather than on a shopping spree.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. She’s just unhappy about losing first her husband and then her job in swift succession. Anyone would be.’

  Bill raised an eyebrow at her, and Rebecca laughed. ‘OK, depends on the husband and the job. And I don’t want to lose my job, darling, really I don’t.’ She leant over and kissed Bill lightly on the cheek, and was gratified to see him smiling. It seldom took much effort to get Bill into a good mood. She went on.

  ‘Lucy’s a really nice woman and not bad looking. She could lose a stone, sure, but it’s more important that she gives up dressing in Oxfam. Definitely time for a trip to Harvey Nicks.’

  When they got back to the shop, friends now, Bill went off to see a client, and Rebecca felt free to flick through the décor mags and dream. Most of the pictures were conservative and lifeless. Good taste, but dull. And ridiculously expensive; she could achieve that look, or better, at half the price. She wished she had clients of her own. It would be wonderful to do what Bill did, and completely transform boring interiors into something stylish and original so that people stood stock still and open-mouthed on entering a room.

  But she knew Bill would never let her loose on a house, or even a room. He had an unshakeable image of her as frivolous and unreliable, based on a few tiddly nights, lost car keys or missed trains. Which she considered mighty unfair since those incidents were spread over a thirteen-year marriage. She looked up at the Justin Mortimer portrait of Bill on the wall (a present from her for his fortieth) and said aloud, ‘I am neither frivolous nor unreliable. And your boozing was a worse problem than my spending, damn it. And I raised Angelica pretty much on my own, didn’t I? And made a damn good job of it too.’

  Rebecca looked intently at the picture. Bill had been slimmer then, in spite of the drink, but he had not aged that much in the last twenty years. He was greyer of course, but still with thick wavy hair that gave him a slightly Bohemian look. He’s not a bad old stick, she thought. He had pretty well promised to come across with a bit more money. And he never denies Angelica anything.

  Sometimes Rebecca thought she should have stuck with Bill. But how was she to know AA would get him off the drink and that he would get, not just rich again, but a whole heap richer? She’d thought he was a sinking ship.

  And the awful thing was that she would never have stayed faithful to him, rich or not. I’m fond of him, she thought, but sex matters to me, and sooner or later I’d have come across someone as irresistible as Nelson, and we’d have been back in familiar territory, with me behaving badly and him on the booze.

  Chapter Twelve

  As she stepped onto the platform at Paddington station, Lucy was curiously excited, almost nervous, and she could not think why. She was only going to have tea with Joanna and yet it seemed like some kind of test. Joanna was so elegant and self-assured, so independent.

  While she, Lucy, seemed to have lost confidence over the last months. She’d never been smart or fashionable of course, but she was bloody good at what she did. Why feel anxious?

  Lucy looked at her watch: twenty-five past three. It wouldn’t take her more than fifteen minutes to walk to the Palace Tea Rooms in Westbourne Grove. If she set off now she’d be half an hour early and could read the paper till Joanna arrived.

  And yet she did not want to. Fashionable restaurants had never intimidated her in the past – indeed their owners, chefs and head waiters were more likely to be nervous of her, Lucy Barnes, the scary restaurant critic. But here she was, reluctant to arrive early in case some slip of a girl told her that she could not have a table.

  She decided to delay setting off and put the time to good use on the station. She’d do boring things like buy a railcard, get a couple of ballpoint pens at Paperchase, the kind she liked with free-flowing ink but which leaked in your handbag if you took them on aeroplanes, a fact she routinely forgot. And she’d buy Grace some little present as a thank you for the months of weekly Bed and Breakfast.

  She had to queue for ages for her reservation, but was surprised to see when she looked at her watch that it was only quarter to four and she still had time to kill.

  She bought the pens and sifted through the racks at Accessorize but it was all cheap tat which she knew Grace wouldn’t like, so she ventured deeper to the shops at the back of the station.

  At Tie Rack she nearly bought a pretty purple pashmina, and at Monsoon she was marginally attracted by a beaded bracelet. Eventually, irritated with herself for being so indecisive, she abandoned the search for a present for Grace and joined the queue at Costa Coffee.

  As she sipped her coke slowly, staring idly round the station, she noticed the station clock was wildly wrong: three quarters of an hour fast. How irresponsible, she thought, station clocks, of all clocks, should tell the right time.

  Then the woman at the next table said to her little boy, ‘Cmon, Tom. Did you hear? That’s the four-forty. Platform Nine.’

  Four-forty? The woman must be mad. Lucy looked at her watch, and saw that it still said quarter to four. She started to tell the woman her mistake, but the child had darted ahead and the woman hurried after him.

  And then Lucy looked again at the station clock on Platform One. It said half past four.

  Realisation crashed in. Her watch had stopped. She’d been on the station for a good forty-five minutes. Of course she had. How else could she have trawled all those shops, bought the pens, got her railcard, had a coke?

  Lucy grabbed her bag and ran out of the station to the taxi rank. There was an enormous queue. Oh God, she thought, panic mounting, Joanna will have left. What is the matter with me? Why didn’t I realise my watch had stopped?

  She fished for her mobile phone, buried deep in her handbag. It was turned off, something that irritated her daughter enormously. She must remember to keep it on.

  She pressed the on button and sure enough, she had a couple of messages.

  ‘Lucy. It’s four-fifteen. Just wondering where you are. I was expecting you at four. I’m at the Palace Tea Rooms. See you soon.’

  And then a second message.

  ‘Lucy, hope nothing horrible has happened. Perhaps I misunderstood. Anyway, I’m off to the singing class. Hope you’ll be there. Call me.’

  She left a message on Joanna’s voice mail.

  ‘Oh Jo,’ she said, ‘you won’t believe this, but my watch stopped, and I’ve been on Paddington Station waiting for it to be time to meet you. I can’t explain it. How could I not notice?’ She ended abruptly, knowing that if she said another word, she’d cry.

  Lucy hurried along Bishops Bridge Road, mortified at her stupidity. And then she suddenly stopped. With appalling clarity she knew that her worst fears were realised. It’s happening, she thought. I knew it would. I am going mad, just like my mother. The young woman shook the painted wooden pieces out of a drawstring bag onto the table between them. There were red, green and yellow ones of different shapes.

  ‘As you can see,’ she said, ‘these pieces are different from each other. I’d like you to sort them into three piles, so that like goes with like.’

  Lucy quickly pushed the round, triangular and square discs into different piles.

  ‘Good,’ said the woman. ‘Is there another way to sort them, like with like?’

  Lucy slid them into groups by colour: green, red, yellow.

  So far so good. But Lucy knew the assessment would not all go so smoothly.

  She’d been coming to the Memory Clinic once a year for several years now. David had said her fears were unfounded nonsense
: everyone forgot things sometimes, and as you got older you naturally forgot a bit more – it did not mean you had dementia.

  But Lucy’s mother, and her mother’s mother, had both gone doolally in their early sixties. Both had lived to be well over eighty, needing constant care during the last twenty years of their lives. If it was to happen to her she wanted to know soon enough to make her own arrangements. She wasn’t sure what those arrangements would be, but she wanted to be in control, not like her mother, denying to her death that there was anything wrong with her. Her mother had gone on driving her car and getting lost until Lucy took it away from her. That was just awful: her mum was beside herself with fury, convinced Lucy was stealing the car. And when Lucy had put her in a care-home, her mother became paranoid, sure Lucy was shutting her away for devious reasons of her own, convinced the staff were trying to poison her.

  David had been reassuring and relaxed about it. ‘Why worry, darling?’ he’d asked. ‘If it happens, it happens. I’ll look after you. Why keep going to the clinic year after year to be told you are fine?’

  She hadn’t said she could not bear the thought of him having to answer the same question five times in five minutes, of having to coax her into cleaning her teeth or changing her shirt, of having to lock her in if he went out in case she wandered off. Instead she’d laughed,

  ‘I go so I’ll be first in the queue when they find a cure. Or so I know when to do myself in.’

  He hadn’t believed the suicide bit of course. And indeed she hadn’t really meant it. As long as they were together, even if one of them was ill or mad, life might still be worth living. Of course one would look after the other.

  Only she would prefer it to be her that did the caring. The prospect of David’s inevitable irritation with her senility, his consequent loss of respect for her, his doing things out of duty rather than love, had been horrible.