‘Seems his manager wasn’t too keen on the idea.’ Gene shrugs.
‘Lucky for you he just sacked her.’ Sheila grins. ‘Didn’t Jen mention it earlier?’
‘How’d you find out about that?’
Gene neatly sidesteps the question.
‘Online. Anyway, it’s Ransom’s call, surely?’
‘Uh. Yeah.’ Gene grimaces. ‘I dunno. I suppose so.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’ Sheila demands.
Gene walks past her and into the kitchen. He goes to the sink and pours himself a glass of water.
‘Then what’s the problem?’
Sheila follows him. Gene takes several, large mouthfuls from the glass as she stands behind him, waiting.
‘The whole place just felt …’ He places the glass down on to the work surface. ‘I dunno. Everything was just so …’
‘What?’
Sheila sounds impatient. She glances at her watch.
‘Expensive. Luxurious. I mean the way people live in those places …’ Gene shakes his head, appalled. ‘The way they behave. The casual extravagance. The waste. The sense of entitlement …’
‘It’s a golf club, you big idiot!’ Sheila snorts.
‘It felt uncomfortable …’ Gene persists. ‘Stupidly decadent. The plush upholstery, the over-attentive service, the raked gravel, the landscaped gardens … I suppose I just don’t feel especially at ease in that kind of an environment.’
Sheila is silent for a minute, then, ‘Decadent?’
Gene says nothing.
‘Decadent? Seriously?!’
Gene picks up the glass again.
‘Maybe you were right about Ransom,’ he forges on, determinedly, ‘I mean all the bad publicity and the endless bullshit and the dressing up …’
‘Of course I was right about Ransom!’ Sheila exclaims.
‘Then there’s the situation with the Tuckers,’ Gene continues. ‘It’s combustible. The girl’s plainly unstable. The brother’s a loose cannon. I’m just not in any hurry to get more involved in all of that.’
Sheila pulls out a chair and sits down.
‘The girl has an incredible talent,’ she says, her brown eyes glowing with an almost evangelical zeal. ‘I mean she really has an incredible talent. I went to her website this morning – just thought I’d have a quick look around out of idle interest – and I was absolutely blown away. I was just completely overwhelmed. It’s conceptual dynamite, Gene. A fraction sloppy and incoherent as things stand – in need of a little tidying up – but the basic building-blocks are all in place.’
Gene says nothing, just stares at her, appalled.
‘I don’t think she has the slightest clue how universal some of her ideas actually are,’ Sheila runs on, ‘how well they’d travel into the realm of High Art. It’s incredibly exciting. I mean it’s all there. Just needs to be re-jigged a little. Which is where I come in, obviously.’
Gene slowly places down his water glass with an almost inordinate level of care.
‘I dashed her off an email. She got back to me within the hour. Then I sent one to Pammy Sullivan …’
Gene turns to face the window. He suddenly feels overwhelmed by the urge to burst out laughing – or burst into tears – or both.
‘Pammy’s that girl from college I co-founded the magazine with,’ Sheila explains. ‘Remember? She runs this huge gallery space in Spitalfields. She was on the Turner Prize panel a couple of years back.’
Sheila quickly inspects her watch again.
‘I sent her a little teaser. Didn’t give too much away. It’s just a question of organizing things – you know: presenting them coherently. And on a purely psychological level – in terms of her agoraphobia and other emotional issues – if we can somehow connive to get Ransom on board it’ll bring in the added bonus of a whole extra element of healing …’
‘You didn’t mention Ransom in the email?’
Gene turns back to face her, horrified.
‘Good heavens, no! That’s something we’ll need to discuss face-to-face.’
She stands up and goes to fetch her bag.
‘I’m heading over there now as a matter of fact.’
Gene turns towards the window again. He feels physically sick.
‘D’you mind if I take the Megane?’
Gene doesn’t answer. His mind is reeling.
‘D’you mind if I take the Megane?’
She comes up close behind him and gently slides her hand around his waist.
He stiffens, imperceptibly, as she rests the side of her cheek against his shoulder, then quickly withdraws again with a snort.
‘Don’t mind me for saying this,’ she mutters, all cruelly apologetic, ‘but you’re in desperate need of a shower, my love.’
Chapter 8
Valentine draws a deep breath, steadies herself and yanks open the door to find a slight, strong-faced, brown-eyed woman standing there, damp from the rain and clutching at her hair.
‘I don’t quite know what’s happened,’ the woman exclaims, evidently perplexed, ‘but on my way over here my fringe just seemed to … to disappear …’
‘Pardon?’
Valentine focuses in on the woman’s fringe, confused and slightly alarmed.
‘Sorry – hi, I’m Sheila.’ The woman smiles – her nut-brown eyes shining – holding out her hand and grasping Valentine’s fingers, warmly.
‘It’s certainly very short …’ Valentine acknowledges, disarmed, awkward, and almost apologetic, as she inspects the tiny, frizzy tuft which juts – like a cruel bowl-cut or a monk’s tonsure – from the top of Sheila’s forehead.
‘The mystery of the disappearing fringe!’ Sheila rolls her eyes, self-deprecatingly.
‘Where d’you think it’s got to?’ Valentine wonders, laughing – somewhat nervously – while resting her fingers at her nape (which blotches redder by the second).
‘I’m not entirely sure …’ Sheila shrugs. ‘I parked down at the bottom of the road …’ She runs through all her recent movements, in forensic detail, ‘Then I got drenched in a sudden downpour – no bloody umbrella! Typical! – and once it was over I caught a brief glimpse of my reflection in the side-mirror of a car, and the fringe … Poof!’
She makes an extravagant, ‘hey presto’-style movement with her hands.
Valentine beckons her inside, nodding distractedly.
‘What an abysmal first impression!’ Sheila chuckles, striding past her, and then, ‘Oh I love this!’ She gestures around her, enthused. ‘The original fixtures all still in situ. The tiles, the glass in the door …’
She points to the aspidistra.
‘Gene’s grandmother always kept an aspidistra in the hallway. They’re so wonderfully evocative of that whole post-war era.’
Valentine walks on ahead of her (evidently somewhat overwhelmed by this first mention of Gene, by name) and shows her into the sitting room where a small child sits playing with an old doll on the rugs.
‘So who do we have here?’ Sheila demands, striding over.
The child gazes up at her, shyly.
‘This is Nessa, my niece,’ Valentine awkwardly performs the introductions, ‘and I’m Valentine, obviously.’
She bites her lip, her cheeks flushing.
Sheila leans down and grasps Nessa’s hand.
‘How d’you do? My name is Sheila …’ She smiles, mischievously. ‘You may have noticed that I’ve lost my fringe. It’s completely disappeared. Would you like to help me search for it?’
Nessa nods, gingerly.
‘Good! Well let’s start off with the easy places … uh …’ Sheila lifts up the doll’s dress. ‘Not under there …’ She peers into one of Nessa’s ears. ‘And it’s not in your ear … hmmn …’ She gazes around her, speculatively. ‘Shall we check under the sofa cushions?’
Nessa jumps to her feet and goes to look under the sofa cushions. Here she unearths a shiny, fifty pence piece and holds it out to Sheila in the palm of her hand with a deli
ghted squeak.
‘Fifty fence!’ Sheila exclaims (as Valentine quickly trots over to relieve her of it). ‘What a find!’
As she speaks Sheila spots her reflection in one of the small collection of brass-eyed mirrors.
‘Oh bloody hell!’
She inspects herself in it, chuckling forlornly. ‘This’ll frighten the living daylights out of all the poor old dears at Evensong!’ She takes a tiny step closer. ‘What on earth have I done to myself? I only snipped off a couple of inches.’
‘It’s probably just the rain and the muggy heat,’ Valentine hypothesizes, a small line of moisture glowing on her upper lip, ‘and maybe a touch of natural curl.’
‘Good theory!’ Sheila applauds this hypothesis. ‘But enough about my stupid hair.’ She turns, decisively, from the mirror. ‘I’m here to talk about you and your amazing work, Valentine. It’s completely astonishing. So beautiful. So gritty. So odd. I’ve never seen anything like it before – not ever. In fact I’ve been on this ridiculous high all morning since I first visited your website …’
As Sheila enthusiastically holds forth, Valentine finds it virtually impossible to maintain any kind of eye contact. She feels sick. Her shoulders and arms ache with repressed tension. Her hands are clenched. She initially struggles to take Sheila’s compliments at anything approaching face value, and then – the horror! – when she finally realizes that Sheila is in fact being sincere, feels an alarming combination of panic and self-loathing. As a direct consequence of this, instead of responding verbally (a polite denial, a gracious ‘thank you’, even just a small, modest shrug) she immediately seeks refuge in the ongoing drama of Sheila’s catastrophic fringe (gazing at it while she speaks, analysing it, running through all the feasible options in her head).
‘The work itself is exquisite – that goes without saying,’ Sheila continues to enthuse. ‘I mean that almost medieval level of attention to detail, all the strange, psycho-sexual connotations, the fascinating cultural implications, all those amazing, amazing nipples! And then the weird, Oriental angle! There are just so many layers, so much to feed the mind upon; such bounty – such abundance – such … such incredible richness, both in form and in content –’ Sheila suddenly breaks off, panicked. ‘You look upset – overwhelmed. Am I coming on too strong?’
‘It’s just …’ Valentine gnaws at her lip. ‘I could always try and even it out a bit. I took a hairdressing option at college.’
‘Pardon?’ Sheila’s initially confused. ‘Sorry?’ then nonplussed. ‘Oh – you’re still worrying about my hair?!’ She puts a wary hand to her head again. ‘But it’s nothing!’ she insists. ‘Don’t give it a second thought. It was only the initial shock. It doesn’t matter in the slightest. I’ll just …’
‘I always do my own,’ Valentine runs on, ‘and my mum’s and Nessa’s. I’m perfectly handy with a pair of scissors.’
‘Is it really all that bad?’ Sheila turns back to the mirror again, embarrassed.
‘No!’ Valentine insists. ‘It’s absolutely fine. I just thought … I mean if you’ve got a spare ten minutes I could easily …’
Sheila continues to inspect herself.
‘I suppose it does look rather dreadful,’ she sighs, ‘but the fringe is so short now I can’t really see how …’
Valentine quickly moves to her side. ‘It’s a radical solution, I know, but what if we just took it all off? I mean all the rest …’
She takes hold of the side sections of Sheila’s hair and draws them away from her face.
‘Do a Mia Farrow. You’ve got the perfect shaped face for a shorter cut. Good cheekbones. Strong jaw. If we just …’
‘Take it all off?’
Sheila’s eyes widen.
Valentine drops the hair and takes a hasty step back. ‘I mean not if you’re –’
‘Why the hell not?’ Sheila interrupts, with a grin.
‘It’s a big decision.’ Valentine’s cheeks redden again.
‘Blow it!’ Sheila chuckles. ‘Let’s live dangerously. It’s only hair. Let’s take it all off! What do I care?!’
‘Maybe think about it for a while,’ Valentine cautions (alarmed by how readily Sheila is now embracing the idea). ‘I could put the kettle on …’
‘Nope. The decision’s made.’ Sheila won’t be gainsaid. ‘Go grab your scissors. Let’s do this! It’ll be fun!’
She pauses. ‘I mean so long as it isn’t too much trouble …’
‘Not at all!’
Valentine takes hold of Sheila’s hair again. ‘We’ll need to be quite brutal. I may have to get Dad’s clippers out to add some definition around the nape and the ear …’
‘It’ll always grow.’ Sheila shrugs, gung-ho.
‘Okay.’ Valentine drops the hair, her mind racing. ‘Okay …’ she repeats, blankly. ‘Good. Right. Well you’d better follow me through to the kitchen, then.’
She grabs Nessa’s hand and they walk down the hallway together, past the studio and into the rear section of the house.
The kitchen is a cheerful, well-lit room with a wooden, enamel-topped kitchen table standing square in the middle of a worn but period-appropriate linoleum floor.
‘Wow!’ Sheila appraises the beige and green cabinets, impressed. ‘I’ve not laid eyes on anything like these in a while. What are they? Painted tin or painted enamel?’
‘Uh … I’m not really sure – enamel, I should imagine.’
Valentine is lifting a cat off a red rocking chair and then placing Nessa on to it, with her doll for company and a picture book. Nessa hunkers down, obligingly.
Sheila touches the curtains, wistfully (they’re in an old, white cotton, printed with little red apples). ‘Isn’t it funny how something as insignificant as a piece of old curtain material can call back so many memories? Be so redolent of another period?’
‘Dad loved this kitchen,’ Valentine murmurs, opening a drawer in a slightly battered red and white dresser in search of her dad’s clippers. ‘Poor Mum wasn’t quite so taken with it, though.’
‘Is your mum at home today?’ Sheila wonders.
‘You just missed her.’ Valentine locates the clippers and places them on the table. ‘She’s popped into town with one of her old friends from … from before …’ Valentine falters, unsure how much Sheila knows of her personal history.
‘Before the accident.’ Sheila nods, unabashed.
‘Yeah. A couple of her old pals still help out sometimes. Take her on day trips and stuff. They’re very good with her – very patient.’
Valentine unwinds the black, electric cord from around the body of the clippers and then pushes the plug into a socket located low in the wall. She straightens up. ‘We’ll need to wet your hair before the cut. I’ll grab a couple of spare towels from the airing cupboard.’
She disappears for a brief interlude.
Sheila, meanwhile, has a fond chuckle at the red and white bread box and matching sugar, salt, tea and coffee canisters. She runs her fingers over the small, glass knobs on the cabinets then inspects the wide collection of period enamel-ware on the rack above the dresser.
‘You tend to forget how incredibly satisfying really good design can be,’ she volunteers as Valentine returns to the room clutching a couple of clean towels, ‘how enriching to the soul it is just being surrounded by lovely things – seeing them and using them, touching them …’
‘Mum and Noel think it’s like living in a museum’ – Valentine places the towels on to the draining-board and plugs up the sink – ‘but I’ve always loved it.’ She pauses, smiling dreamily. ‘I guess it’s a hangover from my dad.’ She shrugs, the smile fading. ‘We definitely had our issues, but a passion for forties design was one of the few things we really shared. We’d spend half our lives at loggerheads and the other half hunting for special pieces together at car-booters and jumble sales.’
‘That’s good, though, surely?’ Sheila avers. ‘Healthy.’
‘I suppose so,’ Valentine muses, turn
ing on the taps, ‘although sometimes I feel kind of smothered by them – you know, all these … these things – by the need to protect them, preserve them, against Mum and Nessa and Noel. Then I feel guilty, like I’m being really selfish.’
‘Must be quite confusing,’ Sheila sympathizes.
Valentine gazes at Sheila, frowning. ‘Yeah …’ She nods, tucking some hair behind her ear and then lightly touching the same hand to her throat (where the blotching has now faded a little). ‘They just don’t seem to understand that it’s the only positive way I have of engaging with Dad now he’s gone. There’s so much other stuff left over, so much bad stuff, all these feelings of … well … I dunno …’ she trails off.
‘Abandonment,’ Sheila contributes.
‘I can hardly blame him for dying of a heart attack!’ Valentine grins, lopsidedly. ‘It’s weird, though,’ she continues, frowning, suddenly thoughtful, ‘because I was always the one who argued with him – about pretty much anything and everything – but now it’s like I’ve taken over the dad role. I’m constantly getting it in the neck for trying to preserve … for being the only real grown-up …’ She scowls. ‘It’s like I hate him and I’ve become him – the controlling one, the bully. I dunno. It’s really, really strange.’
‘There’s always the tattooing,’ Sheila volunteers, ‘that’s his real legacy to you, surely?’
‘Yeah’ – Valentine nods – ‘although I was hardly the world’s most enthusiastic apprentice. And he always really hated my experimental work.’
‘You’d be appalled if you saw the state of the rectory.’ Sheila shakes her head, forlornly. ‘It’s just a horrible mess – a celebration of all the worst kinds of design. An awful mish-mash of the seventies and the eighties. Full of old, inherited pieces nobody else’d give house-room to … All these heavy, dark sideboards and grim, collapsing bookshelves.’
Valentine beckons her over to the kitchen sink which has slowly filled up with warm water, then drapes one of the towels around her shoulders. ‘Hold this in place to protect your clothes.’
She grabs an apron from a peg on the back of the door and covers her dress with it, tying it into a neat bow at the back.
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