I stared at my finished espresso. This seemed like good advice.
11
DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON
The journey back from Oxford was pleasant and uneventful. Plenty of coffee, plenty of leg room, no meat men to spoil things. Reviewing everything Professor Caborn had told me, I still didn’t know, specifically, what my article was going to be about, but this didn’t worry me in the slightest. When I closed my eyes, I could see a hundred possibilities sparkling like diamonds in a mine. It was just a case of selecting a handful and fashioning them into a necklace of astonishing brilliance. I smiled at this image and resolved not to think about work until the evening. Instead, with my eyes still tightly shut, I turned to the window and felt the warmth of the afternoon sun flickering through the trees and hedgerows, a series of golden flashes as bright and bewitching as sheet lightning.
At Paddington, I called Dr Barbara from the first-class lounge, having decided I needed to catch her while things were still fresh in my mind. Voicemail, inevitably. It was office hours and she’d be with a client. But a message would do just as well.
‘Dr Barbara. It’s Abby. Have you heard of cognitive dissonance? I expect you have. I’ve just met an evolutionary psychologist who was telling me about it. He says it’s rare but I think I experience it at least two or three times a week. We shall talk about it at our next appointment – which I’m very much looking forward to. Cheerio.’
I thought Dr Barbara would be pleased; it was such a neatly worded and interesting message. And it was so nice to be able to call her and not be in the middle of a crisis.
This whole day had been an unqualified triumph from the start, and it was not yet four o’clock! As I left the lounge, I resolved that from now on I would only ever travel first class. Anything less seemed such a waste.
We wouldn’t normally have had the ingredients to mix a recognizable cocktail, but I had the foresight to stop at the off licence on the way home. A Google search while browsing the spirits turned up a list of about two hundred recipes to choose from. I made a shortlist of cocktails with names I liked, then whittled this list further by eliminating anything too complicated, too boring or that involved raw eggs, and eventually settled on Death in the Afternoon – a shot of absinthe served straight up with chilled champagne. It had been invented by Hemingway, and while I was not a huge fan of Hemingway’s writing, I certainly admired his willingness to push the alcohol envelope. Unfortunately, it transpired that the off licence only had cava, but the result was still pretty much as Wikipedia suggested it should be: the mixture frothed, emulsified, and within a few seconds had turned opalescent.
When Beck arrived home, I was waiting for him in the kitchen like a dutiful housewife. He held the tumbler I thrust into his hand in a long, contemplative silence, before saying, ‘Um, what’s this?’
‘It’s Death in the Afternoon,’ I explained. ‘I’m not going to tell you the ingredients because I want you to guess.’
‘No, that’s not really what I meant,’ he clarified. ‘Are we celebrating something?’
I laughed and patted his arm. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I got my interview with Professor Caborn. I went to see him in Oxford. So there’s my next article.’
‘Professor Caborn . . . The monkey guy?’
‘That’s right. The monkey guy.’
‘Oh. That’s . . . good, I guess. I thought he was ignoring you. What changed?’
‘Nothing changed. I had to get creative.’ I gestured with both hands in an expansive flowing motion that began at my shoulders and ended at my hemline. ‘I made myself harder to ignore.’
At this point, I launched into an intricate and engaging account of my day. I didn’t tell Beck about first class as he could be quite uptight about those little indulgences, but other than that, all the details were there. It felt as if I were telling a story full of interesting and amusing twists, but when I’d come to a standstill, Beck just nodded, a strange look of concentration on his face. He took a small sip from his tumbler – his first – and immediately gagged. ‘Jesus Christ! Is that Pernod and champagne?’
‘No, it’s absinthe and cava. The off licence didn’t have champagne. Don’t look at me like that; it’s a recognized cocktail. Hemingway invented it, hence the name.’
Beck set his drink back down on the table. ‘Abby, listen. How are you feeling?’ He said it in a slightly ominous way that made me want to laugh.
‘I’m fine. I’m more than fine: I’m great.’
‘Okay. But this is all . . . I mean, champagne, sudden trips to Oxford – it’s all a bit—’
I clamped my hands on his cheeks and kissed him on the lips, as this seemed the most efficient way to shut him up. ‘I’m fine,’ I repeated. ‘It’s cava, not champagne. And it wasn’t a sudden trip to Oxford. I’ve been trying to set up this meeting for a month. Conventional means failed so I took a punt. And it paid off. Jess has already said she’ll buy the article – she’s even mentioned the possibility of a column. I feel good and I have every reason to.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ Beck unconsciously reached for his tumbler, raised it to his lips, wrinkled his nose, and set it back down again. ‘I just don’t want you to overdo things. It’s been a difficult month; you need to take things slowly, at least for the next couple of days. Rest. Try to get a full night’s sleep.’
I rolled my eyes indulgently. He was being a little patronizing, but I had no intention of ruining the day with an argument. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll slow down. I’ll make sure I get plenty of sleep. And in return, I want you to relax a bit. Drink your cocktail. Trust me: it’s an acquired taste but definitely worth the effort.’
Beck frowned again at his tumbler. He did not look convinced.
The problem, of course, was that it was all very well saying that I’d try to get a full night’s sleep, but I couldn’t just flick a switch and make it happen. I got up as soon as Beck had drifted off, around midnight. It felt ludicrous to be creeping around in the darkness again, but never mind. It was far too difficult to make him understand. Being awake half the night was only an issue if you chose to make it one. If I slept for three to five hours and it was deep, refreshing sleep, then surely that was enough? It seemed enough. I would only ‘suffer’ with my sleeplessness if I spent too much time in bed worrying about not sleeping. It made far more sense to stay up until I was actually tired and had some chance of sleeping through for a decent stretch.
This turned out to be impeccable logic. I worked until 3.30, went to bed as the sun was coming up, woke at 8.32, and set about taking down the curtains. Beck had already left at this point – presumably, he hadn’t wanted to wake me – so there was no reason not to get straight to work. My sleeping hygiene needed a complete overhaul, especially now that I’d decided to focus on quality rather than quantity. And Professor Caborn was right: the curtains were the obvious place to start. I’d put up with them for over two years, but now their number was up. I yanked them down and stuffed them into a large refuse sack which I tied with a triple knot. It felt wonderfully liberating, like walking out on a failed relationship with no thought of keeping in touch.
An hour later, I was washed, dressed and on my way to the shops. I had dispatched the curtains to the bottom of our wheelie bin with not a moment of regret. Since they were not fit for purpose, I didn’t even think of taking them to a charity shop; it would have been an extremely irresponsible thing to do, like passing on that cursed video tape from The Ring.
The replacement drapes I had in my head were so clear and vibrant I felt as if I could already reach out and touch them. They were essentially the curtains from Jane Eyre’s childhood: a heavy cascade of velvet, the red of clotted blood and so thick they could have stopped a bullet. But when I got to Shepherd’s Bush Market, I found that the soft furnishings store had no such fabric. Furthermore, the vendor was far from helpful in dealing with my request.
‘It can’t be that difficult,’ I told him. ‘I want dark red velvet curtains to
cover a window one hundred and twelve by one hundred and thirty centimetres. There must be somewhere in London I can get them.’
The vendor snorted. ‘Try Knightsbridge.’
He was trying to be rude, of course; but actually, this didn’t seem like such a ridiculous suggestion. The best alternative I could come up with was to try all the home stores in Westfield. But it was another glorious summer’s day, and the thought of being cooped up in a shopping centre made me want to howl.
So a couple of Tube rides and Google searches later, I found myself in Laura Ashley Home, where I bought the perfect set of deep-pleated velvet blackout curtains in maroon. They cost £229, which seemed reasonable given that I’d never bought curtains before, and assumed that a good pair should last me a lifetime. I arranged to have them delivered by courier after five o’clock – since now I was in central London, I intended to spend the day there. I figured it would be a crime to come to Knightsbridge and not at least look in some of the clothes shops.
First, though, I sent a text message to my sister asking if she wanted to meet for lunch. I’d ignored three texts and a voicemail since Monday, but now I thought she’d suffered enough. I wasn’t a million miles from her work, and it felt like a day for new beginnings. Plus I didn’t feel like lunching alone. After a rapid SMS negotiation, she agreed to meet me at one. Then I headed up the road to Harvey Nichols.
I didn’t so much find the dress as the dress found me. It drew my gaze from across the store: cobalt blue, satin, spaghetti straps; a just-above-the-knee hemline that would do wonders for my legs, a neckline that I could certainly get away with, as long as I was wearing the right bra.
As soon as I tried it on, I knew I couldn’t bear to put it back – not only in the sense that I’d decided to buy it, but also in the sense that I intended to wear it home. The only hitch was that today I wasn’t wearing the right bra; I’d have to go strapless, and a bit of extra padding couldn’t hurt, either. But it wasn’t as if the situation I found myself in was insurmountable, or even particularly difficult. One of the assistants escorted me to the lingerie department, where I found the perfect add-two-cups, multiway push-up to complement the outfit. Ten minutes later, I left Harvey Nichols with my credit limit depleted by another £640 and a plan to earn the money back in no time at all. Already crystallizing in my mind were the templates for two new articles, both very sellable.
1) ‘Which Blue is Right for You?’ (600 words.)
I knew the two blues that worked best for me: baby blue and cobalt. The former matched my eyes and the latter was very flattering to my skin. But blue was such a versatile colour; there was a shade that suited every conceivable combination of hair colour, eye colour, complexion and occasion. I could think of another dozen hues just off the top of my head: navy, azure, ultramarine, true blue, royal blue, Oxford blue, powder blue, cornflower blue, midnight blue, ice blue, sky blue, Pacific blue. Some of these blues might be difficult to distinguish in a line-up, but the point still stood. Carefully chosen, there was no reason why the little blue dress shouldn’t be as central to every woman’s wardrobe as its black counterpart. It packed the same flexibility with an adventurous, modern punch.
2) ‘Dress-Up Friday.’ (At least 800 words.)
This idea was basically a write-up of the fashion experiment I was now performing: eveningwear as daywear. After all, what was the point of limiting yourself? On the right sort of day, a cocktail dress could make an ideal outfit for the park, or even the supermarket. It felt magnificent to be wearing something so electrifying, so arresting, for no particular occasion. I felt I was making the day even brighter, and not just for me. Everyone I passed on the street was benefiting too. I was bringing a vivid splash of colour to what might otherwise have been a very run-of-the-mill Friday lunchtime.
So, 1,400 words, minimum; factor in the tax benefits – since my purchases were now work-related – and I was already making a profit. With a little imagination, I could probably find a way to make the curtains pay for themselves too. ‘Contemporary Furnishings Inspired by Literature’, or something along those lines. It wouldn’t be the biggest earner in the history of journalism, but I felt sure that someone would buy it.
I met my sister in a posh pizzeria not far from Leicester Square. It had a huge, ostentatious wood oven, visible through glass doors, and the pizzas were being fed in by two burly men with snow shovels. I was only a few minutes late – ten at the most – but Francesca was already seated, and already looked impatient, as if I were keeping her from something dreadfully important, which no doubt I was.
I smiled and waved; she did a theatrical double-take, then rolled her eyes skyward. ‘Oh, Abby! What on earth are you wearing?’
I kissed her on the cheek, then stepped back and did a little twirl. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It looks expensive.’
I beamed. ‘Francesca, it was expensive.’
‘I thought you were struggling?’
‘No, not so much any more. I’m getting a weekly column – probably.’
‘Probably?’
‘Almost certainly.’
My sister nodded knowingly. ‘Right. So you haven’t signed a contract? You haven’t actually been paid yet?’
‘I have lots of other work lined up too.’
‘It’s a bit much, don’t you think?’
She was back on the dress, her eyes flicking between the sculpted flare of my hips and the misleading promise of my cleavage. I shrugged and gestured at her plain white blouse, her drab grey trousers: even with the temperature nudging twenty-seven degrees, Francesca refused to get her legs out; she thought it would undermine her status in the office. ‘I wanted to make absolutely sure we wouldn’t be wearing the same outfit,’ I told her.
‘I think it’s safe to say that no one else in London is wearing that outfit at this precise moment,’ she retorted. ‘You know, you’re getting a lot of looks.’
‘Good. It’s a social experiment. I’m trying to find out if people treat me differently, if my day is improved by wearing eveningwear instead of casual wear. Whether it makes it easier to get a seat on the Tube – that sort of thing.’
‘My God! You’re not going to wear that on the Tube?’
‘Already have. It felt fabulous.’
‘Yes, but what if it gets damaged?’
‘Damaged how?’
‘I don’t know – caught in a door or something.’
I giggled. ‘Fran, you’re so endearingly uptight. You’re like one of those women who refuses to take the plastic covering off her new furniture.’ She scowled as I patted her hand across the table. ‘Relax. Let’s get some drinks. I’ve discovered the most incredible cocktail. Death in the Afternoon: it’s absinthe and champagne. I’m buying.’
Francesca’s scowl deepened. ‘Abby, that’s not a cocktail. You’ve made it up. Who in their right mind would drink something like that?’
‘Hemingway. Google it.’
‘I don’t need to Google it. I’m not drinking. Some of us have to work.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a martyr. I have to work too. In fact, I’m working right now.’ I hooked a thumb under one of my spaghetti straps and gave it a satisfying twang. ‘It’s just that I have a much more interesting job than you.’
‘Yes, well, that’s rather subjective. I happen to like my job. It’s challenging and stimulating, and there’s a lot of room to develop—’
‘Christ! You sound like you’re citing the vacancies page.’
Francesca snarled. ‘You don’t even know what I do – not really.’
‘That’s because I fall asleep whenever you try to explain it to me.’
‘Abby, what’s this all about? Are you still pissed off about last weekend?’
‘No, absolutely not. All forgotten.’
‘Really? Because it seems like you’ve invited me to lunch with the sole intention of insulting me.’
‘Of course I haven’t. Don’t be so sensitive.’
‘So why are
we doing this?’
‘Does there have to be a reason? I was in the area and felt like having lunch with my sister. What’s so odd about that?’
Francesca arched an eyebrow but remained silent.
‘Look,’ I continued, ‘let’s start again. We won’t talk about work and I won’t pressurize you to drink anything even remotely interesting. How does that sound?’
She looked at me for a very long time, as if she wanted to say something else but doubted the wisdom of it. Then she just exhaled and nodded. ‘Fine. You can get me another Perrier. And let’s order, for God’s sake. I have to be back in an hour.’
Within ten minutes, I, too, was wondering why I’d thought this lunch would be such a good idea. I’d forgotten, once again, that Francesca and I could no longer sustain a friendly conversation, no matter what topic we settled on. The tragedy was that she used to be fun, once. The twenty-two-year-old Francesca would not have turned her nose up at absinthe and champagne, as if the very suggestion were some kind of hideous cultural faux pas. It was depressing to think that in the space of eight years she’d morphed into the neutrally clad, Perrier-drinking, humourless career girl who now sat opposite. Frankly, she was putting a real dampener on my day.
Nevertheless, I endeavoured to keep our dialogue – increasingly a monologue – light and breezy. I expounded on my trip to Oxford and my suspicion that I was a chronic sufferer of cognitive dissonance. But she didn’t seem to get any of this. Several times she interrupted with the most irrelevant questions – why had I turned up at Professor Caborn’s workplace uninvited? Why was I suddenly so interested in monkeys? – as if I hadn’t explained all this already! She obviously hadn’t been paying proper attention, so I decided I should just abandon this narrative and move on. I told her about the dinner with Daddy, and how I thought Marie would make a marvellous stepmother. She told me, with her eyes, that I was being extremely immature about this whole situation. I countered that she was being far too forgiving, as always, though I supposed this was understandable since her life had been far less affected by our father’s multiple failings. We fell, eventually, into a barbed silence. For my part, I’d grown tired of carrying the conversation single-handed; and Francesca seemed determined to remain distant and judgemental – even more so than usual. She kept shooting me these wary, searching looks, casting her eyes in narrowed disapproval over my beautiful blue dress. I figured she was jealous; there must have been a part of her that wished she could wear something that astonishing to work.
The Mirror World of Melody Black Page 10