The Wisdom of Sally Red Shoes

by Ruth Hogan

  On my way home I catch sight of him again, flying along on his beautiful bicycle. He is smiling at everyone he passes and singing loudly, the tassels on his handlebars fluttering in the wind. These simple pleasures make him a very rich man and it is the kind of wealth I envy. Happiness. I want to be happy again.

  The wine I bought is for Epiphany’s dinner party tonight. But thank God there is absolutely no danger of any Hugos or Olivias being there. There would be more chance of seeing Elvis – the one who died in 1977 – in attendance.

  Chapter 11

  ART

  Dinners are one of the most important forms of entertainment. It is a greater compliment to be asked to dinner than to a luncheon or afternoon or evening party.

  Lady Troubridge

  ‘Meet Hugo!’ Sophronia, Ephipany’s younger sister, is clearly besotted with her smirking companion. ‘He’s the love of my life!’

  God help us.

  Sophronia, which she prefers to be shortened to the more ‘cool’ Roni, is a startling contrast to Epiphany in every possible way. She is tall and voluptuous with a luxuriant mane of jet black hair, most of which used to belong to small orphan girls in India. Her hair extensions are complemented by eyes that are today so astonishingly turquoise that she is either wearing contact lenses or she has had cosmetic eye surgery (which is becoming increasingly popular, apparently – another fascinating nugget I picked up from Google). She has completed her latest very striking look with acrylic nails that could easily qualify as offensive weapons, more make-up than Boots sells on a busy Saturday morning and enough hairspray and perfume to asphyxiate an entire flock of coal-miners’ canaries. She is what my grandma, with a disapproving ‘tut’, would have described as being very attractive in an ‘obvious’ way. Her dress is neither here nor there – literally. It is at least a size too small. For a twelve-year-old. Roni works in a call centre, but given her appearance I’m amazed she manages to do anything at all. Her cosmetic reconstruction must take hours each morning and then she has the formidable task of keeping it all intact. How she manages to get through the day without bits of her falling off, I can’t begin to imagine.

  I have a sneaking suspicion that Hugo is an estate agent and – this is just a hunch – a complete arse. He is wearing a bright pink shirt with comedy collar and cuffs, designer jeans, and a smile as sincere as a politician’s promise. Still, he may just be nervous at meeting a group of new people.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Fanny,’ he says, rather too loudly, to Epiphany. ‘Sold one like this just last week for a small fortune to a couple moving out of London. Of course, it was interior-designed by a professional, not like yours, and didn’t have all this old-fashioned clutter’ (this said gesturing towards all Epiphany’s treasured possessions), ‘but with a bit of work and some top-quality fixtures and fittings, yours would shift for almost as much. Let me know if you think of selling, and I’ll be happy to give you a few pointers.’

  So, I was right on both counts. Epiphany swallows hard and replies with admirable self-restraint ‘Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind. And by the way, I much prefer Epiphany.’

  Hugo is too busy assessing the market value of her home to reply.

  Epiphany, looking gorgeous in a 1930s black and gold embroidered kimono, air-kisses me in her usual fashion and supplies me with a welcome glass of Sauvignon Blanc. She rolls her eyes in Hugo’s direction, and I gurn sympathetically in return. Epiphany loves her sister dearly but is frequently obliged to resist the urge to throttle her. Roni is a sweet girl with beautiful teeth, astonishing breasts and no common sense whatsoever, which seems to leave her vulnerable to disastrous relationships with rather unpleasant men, and subsequent disappointments in affairs of the heart. Her back catalogue of boyfriends has led to a justifiable apprehension, for both Epiphany and me, about meeting any new ones, and Hugo’s certainly not making the best first impression.

  My fellow guests include Helen, a mutual friend and work colleague of mine, and her husband Albert, who is an astrophysicist. They have a delightful daughter, Julia, who at eleven years of age is already frighteningly beautiful and wise, and I am privileged to be her godmother; fairy or otherwise. I am very happy to see that my Edward and Lord Byron have already arrived and are elegantly sprawled across a chaise longue. Edward and I met on a training course years ago when I still worked for the local authority. The gentleman delivering the training had an unfortunate personal hygiene issue that might easily have been solved by washing, and possibly a clean shirt, but which he instead attempted to disguise with something that smelled suspiciously like pine disinfectant and a posture that kept his arms clamped ferociously to his sides. The course was held in a small, prefabricated classroom on one of the hottest days of the summer. Unable to bear the interminable monotony of the trainer’s voice combined with his peculiar body odour, and completely uninspired by the complexities of compulsory competitive tendering, we spent a good part of the day bunking off and smoking Edward’s cigarettes behind the wheelie bins. Fortuitously united by equally sensitive noses and low boredom thresholds, we have been inseparable ever since. Edward is a librarian of antiquarian books who has a particular interest in rare and precious historical volumes. He is a passionate collector of vintage children’s books, a voracious reader of early twentieth-century literature and the man I love the most in the whole world. He is funny, clever, witty, acerbic and deeply in lust with Michael Bublé. Lord Byron is his small but perfectly turned-out smooth-haired English fox terrier. Lord Byron and Epiphany’s cats have an understanding. They ignore each other totally and then probably bitch about each other horribly the next day. I join them on the chaise longue and scrounge one of Edward’s cigarettes, which he smokes through a silver-tipped amber holder, flicking the ash into the aspidistra.

  ‘I see Sophronia has come in her fille de joie outfit this evening. She obviously doesn’t hold with the ars est celare artem school of thought when it comes to face painting.’

  ‘Oh, come now Edward, don’t be a spoilsport. If you’re going to be insulting at least do it in English so I can understand.’ Helen has joined us and leans in conspiratorially.

  ‘How do you know I was being insulting if you didn’t understand?’ Edward replies, feigning offence.

  ‘Because you were talking.’

  ‘What I said was that Roni has come dressed as a lady of the night and doesn’t believe in “less is more” when it comes to make-up.’

  ‘Or cleavage, evidently. I bloody well hope I don’t have to sit next to her. Her perfume is so strong I might just suffocate.’

  Hugo has finished casting his professional eye over Epiphany’s flat and swaggers over to join us.

  ‘So, Edward, what car do you drive?’

  ‘Actually, I don’t.’

  I don’t think Hugo is really interested. He just wants to tell us about his.

  ‘Just taken delivery of a brand new Beamer; dark blue; soft top; goes like shit off a shovel.’

  I am struggling to find something polite to say in response, but for Epiphany’s sake I dig deep. Bicycles with tassels on the handlebars are much more my specialist subject when it comes to transport, and the best I can manage is, ‘That sounds very practical.’

  But I needn’t have worried. It soon becomes apparent that Hugo is very content with an audience rather than a conversation. Within ten minutes we have a comprehensive inventory of Hugo’s prized possessions, including detailed information regarding his fully integrated, state-of-the-art home entertainment system, holiday apartment in Ibiza and signed copy of Kylie Minogue’s Showgirl: Homecoming Live CD. We also know that he’s a brilliant skier, can drink almost anyone under the table, has met Liam Gallagher, and can get free tickets to the local cinema because his cousin’s the manager. Hugo is obviously a mover and shaker.

  Stanley emerges from the kitchen and announces that dinner is ready. I am relieved to discover that I am not sitting next to Roni, and am therefore in no immediate danger of suffocation
nor condemned to a conversation debating the merits and misdemeanours of various soap stars. She has been sandwiched between her new man and Epiphany. However, I am disheartened to find myself seated between Hugo, whom I’m afraid will spend the whole evening confirming his prize arse credentials, and Edward, who will spend the whole evening encouraging him. This seating arrangement has left me in something of a quandary.

  Many years ago, Epiphany gave me The Book of Etiquette (The Complete Standard Work of Reference on Social Usages) by the gracious lifestyle icon Lady Troubridge as a birthday gift. I have been an ardent fan of the fabulous Lady T ever since. Her book provides invaluable guidance on all manner of thorny issues, such as the removal of gloves at the dinner table; when to bow or not to bow; how to treat one’s servants, and what to wear for a stay on the Riviera. She has a particularly comprehensive set of rules relating to behaviour at mealtimes that includes how to eat various dishes – ‘Birds should not be turned over and over on the plate, and no attempt should be made to eat the legs’ – and how to ensure the entertainment of all one’s guests. Lady T advises that ‘the hostess must do her best to place a man who enjoys the sound of his own voice by a dull or silent woman’. Now, I’m fairly certain that Hugo will turn out to be a man who enjoys the sound of his own voice more than any other, but I am also aware that this is the first time that Epiphany has met him, so I shall not assume that I have been cast as silent or dull. However, Lady T goes on to say that ‘the guest who accepts a dinner invitation should realise his responsibility to his hosts, and put himself to some trouble to entertain his neighbours, even though they are not such as he would have selected to sit by’. Bugger. That means I shall have to try to talk to him.

  Lord Byron is seated at the table on the other side of Edward, and has his own linen napkin attached by a silver clip to his collar. He has a small silver bowl in front of him and waits with perfect manners for his dinner to be served. Having girded my loins and mustered all my powers of graciousness (which, it must be said, are limited at the best of times) by taking several swigs of wine, I turn to Hugo.

  ‘So, tell me, Hugo, what made you become an estate agent?’ Not very original, I know, but better than ‘So, tell me, Hugo, why is it that you feel compelled to behave like a complete arse?’

  ‘Well, to be honest’ (now that would be a novelty for an estate agent), ‘I just have a natural gift for dealing with people. They seem to trust me and I work really hard to be the best that I can be. I don’t mind what I have to do to make sure I beat my targets. I’ve won salesman of the month more times than anyone in our branch and the more I win, the more I earn.’

  ‘That must be very rewarding,’ says Edward.

  I kick him under the table – sideways, which is a bit awkward. Hard.

  ‘That’s why I do it. The things I like to do cost money, and lots of it. “Work hard, play hard, stay hard”, that’s my motto.’

  Hugo turns to me and winks at the ‘stay hard’ bit. Edward pinches my leg under the table. Hard. I take another swig of wine. The thought of a ‘hard’ Hugo is more than I can stomach. A change of subject is urgently required.

  ‘What type of thing do you like to read, Hugo? Edward has a wonderful collection of antiquarian books. He’s a librarian.’

  Hugo laughs loudly as though I’ve just told a joke and replies, ‘Books don’t really do it for me; dust collectors as far as I’m concerned. If the story’s any good, I’d rather wait ’til it comes out on DVD.’

  I have a feeling that Edward is beginning to lose patience. His tone remains civil but his words betray just a whisper of rancour.

  ‘Well, that’s understandable, considering how much you spent on that fabulous home entertainment system of yours.’

  ‘Damn right, Eddy. Come on, it must be as boring as hell shuffling books all day. It’s not exactly the cut-and-thrust career a man really wants. Books look great in the library of some bloody great house that I’m trying to sell to people who want to pretend that they’ve got a bit of culture. But even they won’t actually read them. They just want their friends to think they do.’

  Hugo has just reduced one of Edward’s greatest joys to the status of an interior design accessory and I am fighting the urge to spill something hot onto his crotch. Right on cue, Stanley serves the soup. And for Lord Byron there is a fat pork sausage cut into slices. He sniffs his food appreciatively and begins to eat. Hugo’s soup spoon pauses in the dangerous drip zone midway between bowl and mouth, and I know at once that this is the defining moment. This is the moment when Hugo’s fate will be sealed; the moment when he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Cometh the hour, cometh the arse.

  ‘I can’t believe you let your dog eat at the table. It’s not very hygienic, is it?’

  Houston, we have a problem. I watch a large drip of soup fall inevitably from Hugo’s spoon and splosh onto his lurid pink shirt. The soup is blood red borscht, and he now looks as though he has a small puncture wound to his chest. Given time, Hugo’s mouth and the selection of cutlery on the table, he may soon actually have one.

  ‘Lord Byron always dines with us, at the table, and don’t worry – he’s had all his inoculations, so he’s unlikely to catch anything from you.’

  Edward’s expression is friendly, but his tone is glacial. His patience has finally run out. At this point most people would have taken the hint; changed the subject; just shut up. But not Hugo. And he chooses the least appropriate person to serve as his ally. He turns to me.

  ‘Don’t you find it ridiculous the way some people treat their animals as though they’re people?’

  ‘Indeed I do, Hugo,’ I reply. ‘I find it astonishing that otherwise perfectly sensible people can believe that it’s appropriate to treat their dogs or cats as derisively as though they were mere humans. It is perfectly clear to me that Lord Byron is far more intelligent than many people I’ve met, and his manners are unquestionably superior.’

  Hugo cachinnates (word of the day – to laugh loudly or immoderately), which is not a good response.

  ‘Roni warned me that her sister’s friends are somewhat eccentric. I think you’re all barking mad.’

  I’m pretty sure Lady T would take a very dim view of biffing a fellow dinner guest, so I may have to sit on both my hands if this continues.

  ‘Let me assure you that nothing I have said was with the intention of deliberately amusing you.’

  Once again Hugo finds my reply immensely diverting and snorts with laughter like a truffle pig with a cocaine habit. Edward has been watching this exchange with barely concealed fury at Hugo’s rudeness, but now I see mischief glinting in his eyes. His tone is almost genial as he asks Hugo, ‘And in what way, exactly, do you find us “eccentric”?’

  ‘Well, for starters, the clothes you wear are what most normal people would consider to be fancy dress!’

  Hugo clearly believes himself to be a wit and a wisecracker. The word I’m thinking of also begins with a W. Bearing in mind his hideous, soup-splattered shirt, this man has got more front than Blackpool. But he hasn’t finished yet.

  ‘And you express views that you obviously can’t really believe, just to be shocking and entertaining.’

  I wonder at this moment if he would find a sharp blow to the testicles shocking and entertaining in equal measure.

  ‘For example?’ Edward encourages Hugo to open his mouth a little wider, so that he can shove his own foot even further inside. Hugo leans back in his chair, preparing to deliver some further considered words of wisdom.

  ‘For example, the whole doggy thing. I mean, I suppose they’re quite cute, those pampered little pooches,’ he gesticulates condescendingly in Lord Byron’s direction, ‘but they’re too small to be proper dogs.’

  ‘And what about Masha’s wolfhound? Is he a “proper” dog?’ asks Helen, who has been listening to the conversation with increasing irritation.

  ‘Well, that’s a whole different ball game!’ Hugo turns to me with a lecherous grin.

&n
bsp; ‘Size really does matter.’ He holds up his empty wine glass to indicate that it needs refilling and then continues: ‘But of course, most of these spoilt doggies are simply child substitutes, for people who can’t handle the real thing.’

  There is a brief but exquisitely awkward silence, before Roni explains.

  ‘Hugo has a little girl, Sophie. She lives with her mum, but comes to stay with him every third weekend.’

  I feel rather than see the anxious glances, all in my direction, and under the table, Edward takes my hand and gives it a little squeeze. At this point I excuse myself. In the safety of Epiphany’s wonderful downstairs loo, I try to blink back the guilty tears that are threatening to embarrass me. The walls of this little room are covered in strange and wonderful pictures cut from magazines, inspirational and hilarious quotations, and anything else that takes Epiphany’s fancy. The windowsill is full of kitsch knick-knacks and the tiny window is framed with coloured fairy lights in the shape of flowers which are reflected in the mirror on the back of the door. The woman I see reflected in the mirror is a selfish, self-pitying fool, little better than horrid Hugo. That exquisite silence was entirely my fault.

  Today would have been my son’s fourteenth birthday, and for all these years, this is what I have put my friends through. I have condemned them to a crippling carefulness in order to spare my feelings, and it has taken Hugo’s big mouth to make me realise it. My grief has become an addiction; a bad habit like a tattered comfort blanket that I have hung on to for far too long. It has to stop. I look in the mirror again, and try to see my face as a stranger would see it. It has all the requisite physical components to make it reasonably attractive; green eyes, full but well-shaped lips and a strong, straight nose. But there is no spark or spirit behind those eyes, and there is an expression of ingrained defeat haunting every gaunt contour of that woman’s face. That woman in the mirror is not me. She is the spectre that I have allowed myself to become and I don’t want to be her any more. I want to be the old Masha; the one I pray to God is still hiding inside me somewhere, hanging on by the tips of her fingernails. On the way back to the dining room, I meet Epiphany taking soup bowls back to the kitchen. She looks worried.