by Jill Mansell
‘How much does it cost to put a card in the window?’ Jake asked.
The man behind the counter said, ‘For a week, thirty-five pence.’
‘Oh you poor darling,’ cried Maud, clutching his arm, ‘have you lost your cat too?’
Whoever said there was no point sitting around moping, Rita decided, didn’t know what they were talking about. Sometimes a bloody good mope was what you needed more than anything else in the world.
It was what Rita had been doing for weeks, and she was buggered if she was going to feel guilty. She had drunk too much whisky, smoked far too many cigarettes, listened to hour upon hour of Alex’s beloved jazz CDs, and shed gallons of hot, aching, therapeutic tears.
Weirdly, having always thought she couldn’t stand jazz, she now found herself beginning to quite like it after all. She was even getting to grips with Miles Davis. Since not having to listen to all that crappy music anymore had been the only thing she had been able to look forward to after Alex’s death, Rita thought this typical, and probably his idea of a huge joke.
But moping—or grieving—was something you had to go through and there wasn’t a lot you could do to avoid it. Having realized this, Rita had kept visitors to a minimum, preferring to mourn alone. She had her beautiful house and her memories; it was all she needed right now. She was also, thank God, lucky enough never to have to worry about money again.
Unlike the old days, Rita reminded herself, thinking back fondly to the first years of their marriage and the grotty flat in Hackney, with the bucket on permanent drip-duty in the hallway and the rat-infested back yard. Bit different from what they had become used to here…
That’s another stupid thing people say, thought Rita: Money doesn’t buy you happiness. Okay, I might not be feeling that great at the moment, but I’d be a damn sight more miserable if on top of everything else I had to worry about paying bills.
What a load of tosh some people talked.
Today though, she wasn’t in the mood for whisky and a mope. Spring had arrived, the sun was out, and the temperature outside was on the verge of turning warm. Gazing down from the bedroom window at the daffodils bobbing in the garden below, Rita experienced an urge to embark on a bit of spring cleaning.
The trouble was, there wasn’t any to do. Her super-efficient cleaning women worked tirelessly all year round. Every window sparkled. There was no dust. If she were to drag her dressing-table chair over to the window, climb up on it and run her finger along the top of the curtain track, Rita knew it would come away clean. You could eat your dinner off the curtain tracks in this house.
But the urge to do something wasn’t going to go away. If I can’t clean up, Rita decided with a new sense of purpose, I’ll clear out.
She flung open the fitted wardrobe doors and surveyed her clothes. Rail upon rail of gorgeous dresses. Bright oranges, violets, pinks, and greens. Silver lamé. Blue and gold Lurex. Multi-colored sequins and shimmering fringes. And all with shoes to match.
It was no good. Rita knew she couldn’t do it. Alex had helped her choose these outfits. He had loved to see her in them. How could she even think of throwing any of them away?
She slid the doors shut and opened Alex’s wardrobe instead. After several minutes of deliberation, she chose, for old times’ sake, the crimson waistcoat he had worn for their silver wedding anniversary party and a pair of outrageous purple silk pajamas she had bought for him on last year’s happy trip to Lloret de Mar. Weakening briefly, Rita grabbed a favorite blue and yellow striped shirt of Alex’s and a hefty silver-buckled belt with the initials R. and A. intertwined.
Then, because she knew it had to be done, she swept the remaining contents of the wardrobe, hangers and all, into five black trash bags. Boots and shoes filled another, sweaters two more.
Rita lugged the bags downstairs to be sent to the Salvation Army. Still bursting with energy, she ran back up to the bedroom and dragged a motley collection of suitcases from the back of the wardrobe. Packed inside was everything they had brought with them when they had moved but hadn’t known what to do with.
Now this, Rita thought with satisfaction, was stuff worth throwing out. A bag of tangled suspenders, years old, from when Alex had gone through a phase of wearing the things. A whole suitcase full of back copies of Jazz Journal International. Another case had been crammed with bits of a rusted old drum kit. The last one, with FRAGILE scrawled across it in green felt-tip pen, was stuffed with records in battered paper sleeves, old seventy-eights by ancient wrinkled Mississippians with names like Smokin’ Joe Swampfoot.
Kneeling down, Rita sifted through them, deciding that rather than the Salvation Army she would drop these round to the Cavendish Club. Anyone who wanted the crappy things could have them. And the magazines.
At the bottom of the case, beneath the seventy-eights, were half a dozen hardback books, also to do with jazz. They looked deadly boring and as old as the records. Rita flipped through a few of the yellowed pages, wondering idly if Poppy would be interested in selling them on the stall. The date at the front of this one was 1954. Blimey, practically an antique.
When Rita picked the book up, a photograph fluttered out onto her lap. A small black and white snap, it was as discolored with age as the pages it had been sandwiched between. With only mild curiosity—she was by this time heartily sick of all things jazzy—Rita turned the photograph over and took a closer look.
She knew at once when it must have been taken. She had bought Alex that patterned shirt the week before he’d left for Bristol, to spend the summer working at the Ash Hill Country Club. When she had broken her leg and Alex had come rushing back to London, he had turned up at the hospital wearing it. It had been bright green, with black Scottie dogs printed all over it. Each dog had been wearing a white collar. Rita, about as handy with a needle as a hippo, but so in love it hurt, had devotedly embroidered each dog’s collar a different color. It had taken hours but she’d done it anyway, and when she’d given him the customized shirt, Alex had been thrilled.
So thrilled, thought Rita, that he’d worn it on an day trip to Weston-Super-Mare.
Or wherever it was. It might have been Weston, it might not. All Rita knew was that it was the seaside, somewhere with a pier. Alex was sitting on the beach, grinning broadly.
And he wasn’t alone.
It had to be her. This time Rita didn’t have any doubts. The way they sat together, her left knee brushing his right one, was a dead giveaway. Those knees said it all.
So this was what her rival had looked like. After years of wondering, it was a relief to find out—like finally managing the last clue in a crossword puzzle that’s been niggling away in your brain. Rita, still on her knees in front of the wardrobe, held the photograph up to the light.
The woman was nothing special. Okay, she was pretty, but nothing amazing. Having envisaged everything from Liz Taylor in her heyday to Brigitte Bardot, this came as a relief. The woman Alex had had an affair with had long curly hair, a heart-shaped face, and a captivating smile. She was wearing a calf-length pleated skirt and a short-sleeved white blouse. Her feet were bare. There was a ring on her wedding finger.
Rita was surprised how calm she felt. What did it matter now anyway? Her curiosity had been satisfied, that was all. Alex’s fling had ended twenty-three years ago, and their marriage had been happy to the end. In a funny way, knowing about it—realizing that she could have lost him to another woman—might even have helped the marriage.
Maybe I appreciated him all the more, thought Rita, gazing at his dear face in the photograph. There, that’s female logic for you.
About to crumple the photo up and lob it into the wastepaper basket, she stopped and looked at it again. It was odd, but somehow she didn’t have the heart to throw it away.
Instead, she slid it back inside the pages of the book and put the book on a high shelf right at the back of the wardrobe.
Then, suddenly fancying a gin and tonic and a nice cigarette, she went downstairs
.
Chapter 41
‘Do you have any idea how many newsstands there are in London?’ demanded Claudia when Jake arrived on Saturday morning at the house. She was dressed and ready to go but it didn’t mean she was happy about the idea. In her opinion, it sounded like the flimsiest of long shots. It was also a dismal way to spend a Saturday. She normally stayed in bed until lunchtime at least.
‘That’s why we’re going to concentrate on Notting Hill,’ said Jake. ‘Here, I’ve got a map. We’ll start at the center and spiral out. With two of us, one can sit in the car and the other can zip into each shop. It’ll save having to find parking spaces. Come on,’ he added persuasively—heavens, thought Claudia, Jake’s being persuasive—‘it’ll be fun.’
‘Sounds like The Getaway.’ Having always longed to look like Ali McGraw, she began to weaken.
‘Only with fewer bullets.’
‘I hope you don’t drive like Steve McQueen.’
‘No, but I don’t get chased by so many police cars either.’
Claudia began to forgive him for bullying her out of bed on a Saturday.
‘You hope,’ she said.
By one o’clock they had visited twenty-three newsstands, some smart, some unbelievably seedy. The cards Jake had had printed—on an eye-catching purple background—were pinned up alongside Megan-the-magnificent-masseuse type ads, rooms to let, sofas for sale, guitar lessons for aspiring rock stars, and enough lost pets to fill a zoo.
Jake took Claudia to a wine bar for lunch. Okay from the outside but with an air of shabbiness inside, it served meals-in-a-basket at wonky tables. On each table stood a vase of plastic flowers. Claudia tried to control her upper lip, which wanted to curl in disdain. Jake, who had been doing so well all morning, spotted the lip. His confidence promptly ebbed away.
The bar manager had already handed them the menu (Today’s Special, Spahgetti Bollonaise with mushroom’s and chip’s). Should he hand it back, say sorry they’d changed their minds and leave? If he did that, he would have to find somewhere else to eat, and knowing his luck it would be somewhere even worse. He wanted to appear assertive but he didn’t know the area. Staring blindly at the menu, wondering what to do for the best, Jake reached nervously for the bowl of free peanuts on the bar. The moment the first one was in his mouth his panic intensified. Oh God, he’d eaten a free peanut. They couldn’t leave now, they were trapped.
‘Um, I’ll have the lasagna,’ he mumbled. Hopefully, the chef cooked better than he spelled.
By the time their food arrived, fresh from the microwave and cardboardy at the edges, the wine bar had begun to fill up. Jake, who was starving, chewed manfully and tried to pretend it was fine.
The spaghetti was the consistency of shoe laces and there was a dried lump of something hideous welded to the underside of Claudia’s spoon.
‘This is awful.’ She laid down her fork. ‘I can’t eat it.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Jake looked miserable. ‘We shouldn’t have stayed.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
But it did, and tact had never been Claudia’s strong point. Petulantly, she moved the fake freesias away.
‘I’m just surprised you come to places like this, when you could afford to eat anywhere.’
Lunch at the Ritz was hardly Jake’s style, but he realized she was miffed.
‘I didn’t know it was going to be like this.’ Falteringly, he tried to explain.
‘You mean you saw a few plastic hanging baskets outside and thought, Oh well, this’ll do, it’s good enough for Claudia. Thanks.’ She pushed her plate to one side. ‘Excuse me if I’m not flattered.’
Jake could feel his neck reddening.
‘Look, it’s not as if we’re out on a… a date. If we were, of course I’d take you somewhere nice. But we aren’t.’ The awful flush was creeping up to his face. He ran his fingers distractedly around the collar of his shirt. ‘This was only supposed to be a quick working lunch. If I’d been on my own, I’d have had a packet of crisps in the car. Okay, I wish we hadn’t come here and yes, it’s awful, but I… I really didn’t think it mattered.’
As Jake spoke, a middle-aged man in a holey grey sweater was approaching their table. The next moment, Claudia almost jumped out of her chair as he tapped her on the shoulder.
‘It is you,’ said the man, evidently delighted. ‘I thought it was but I couldn’t be sure. As the saying goes, I hardly recognized you with your clothes on!’
Claudia gazed at him, dumbfounded. It was her turn to blush. Unlike Jake’s stealthy creeping redness, her face turned crimson in a flash.
‘Mike Cousins, from the life class at St Clare’s,’ the intruder prompted jovially when she didn’t react. As if she needed prompting after a remark like that.
‘Of course,’ murmured Claudia, not jovially at all. She was seized with the urge to strangle Poppy and Caspar all over again. The only way she had been able to endure those nightmarish classes was by telling herself she would never set eyes on any of its pupils again as long as she lived.
‘Well, well, what a coincidence.’ The beastly man, who had never uttered so much as two words to her before, was now beaming mightily across at Jake. ‘This is some girl you’ve got there, if you don’t mind me saying so. Splendid body. Rubensesque. You’re a lucky chap.’
Jake, traitorously, was biting his lip and trying not to laugh. Claudia stood up, chair legs scraping noisily against the black and white tiled floor.
‘Actually, we were just about to leave—’
‘Bit of luck, too, bumping into you like this! Only last week I finished that oil I was working on… you know, the one with you lying on your side reading a book?’ He mimed the pose, propping one hand dreamily beneath his chin. ‘That one, remember? Bit of a success, if I say so myself. Thing is, I wondered if you’d like it. As a kind of memento—’
‘No thank you,’ gasped Claudia, snatching up her jacket and making for the door. ‘Jake, we must go.’
‘To remind you of your happy time with us at St Clare’s,’ Mike Cousins persisted, bemused by her reaction to his well-meant offer.
‘Jake,’ she almost shrieked, ‘come on. NOW.’
Back in the car, Jake wisely made no reference to the incident. For the next three hours, he and Claudia drove around Notting Hill placing another twenty-eight cards in newsstands’ windows.
He dropped her off at Cornwallis Crescent at five o’clock before Poppy, who had been left running the stall single-handed, could arrive home and demand to know what the pair of them had been getting up to.
‘Sorry about the pervert,’ Claudia muttered as she undid her seat belt.
‘Sorry about lunch.’
Her lips tightened. ‘Pretty disastrous all round.’
Jake took his courage in both hands.
‘Look, I meant what I said earlier. If we went out… you know, properly, on a date date, I would take you somewhere nice.’
She stopped fiddling with her front door key.
‘How nice?’
‘As nice as you want.’ Encouraged by the question, Jake said, ‘Tablecloths, the works.’
Claudia very nearly smiled.
‘Heavens, how posh.’
‘Anywhere. You could choose. Any restaurant you like.’
‘The thing is… is this a hypothetical question or are you actually asking me?’
Jake looked at her. ‘That depends on whether or not you’d say yes.’
‘I’d say yes,’ she murmured, ‘if you took me to Chez Nico.’
‘Sure it’s expensive enough for you?’ Even Jake had heard of Chez Nico.
Claudia had got what she wanted. This time her smile was triumphant.
‘You can afford it.’
Chapter 42
Jake, back from a spectacularly unsuccessful flea market in Chigwell, sat peacefully in front of the TV eating a Birds Eye frozen dinner for one. Claudia would not have been impressed.
Jake didn’t care. It was Sunday afternoon
. The Birds Eye roast-dinner-on-a-plate was actually quite edible, especially when you were as hungry as he was after a long day sifting through boxes of Barbie dolls with matted nylon hair, bent cutlery, dodgy electrical items, and chipped tea sets. And he was watching The Antiques Roadshow, one of his favorite programs. What more could a man want?
One of the furniture experts was assessing a French provincial chestnut armoire carved with vines and acanthus scrolls. The owner was pretending to be interested in the age of the piece. Lying through her buck teeth, she said, ‘Well no, we never have,’ when the expert asked if she’d ever wondered about its value.
‘Two thousand six hundred,’ muttered Jake, chasing the last potato around his plastic plate. ‘Maybe two eight.’
‘Well,’ said the expert, prolonging the agony, ‘it is a particularly charming example of the period.’
‘Come on, come on,’ Jake urged.
‘On the other hand, this split in the wood will obviously have an effect on the value.’
‘Okay, two four,’ amended Jake. He cursed as the phone rang. Didn’t these crank callers have any sense of timing?
The owner of the armoire was looking mulish. ‘Actually, I’m sure that split wasn’t there this morning. Are you sure your cameraman didn’t do that when he bumped into it just now?’
Great, a fight.
‘Hello,’ said Jake, answering the phone. If it was yet another nutter he was hanging up.
‘Oh… hi.’ The male voice at the other end of the line sounded briefly taken aback. ‘I was kind of expecting to speak to Poppy. Is she there?’
‘No.’ Jake’s tone was brisk. He had dealt with enough of these dirty phone callers by now. ‘And before you say anything else, your number can be traced.’
‘Just as well.’ This time the voice sounded amused. ‘That’s rather the point of the exercise, isn’t it? To trace me. Besides, if I didn’t want to be found, would I be ringing you now?’