Clara's Daughter

by Meike Ziervogel

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he replies without lifting his eyes.

  ‘But you don’t want to talk about my work?’

  ‘No, I don’t want to talk about it.’ He looks up. ‘I would like to talk about something different.’

  ‘Like what?’

  He shrugs. ‘How is your mother?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Is she still staying with your sister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the home, so they’ll keep the place?’

  ‘What do you think? Of course I have.’ She pauses, then mumbles, ‘Sorry.’

  Goosebumps are spreading down her arms. She pushes her chair back and steps over the ledge of the garden door, catching the handle to pull the door shut. On the garden table she spots the mother-and-child clay model that her mother gave her last Saturday as an early birthday present.

  ‘Why are the figures out there?’ She fetches the model, turning to shut the door.

  ‘Let’s leave the door open. It’ll rain in a moment and the smell will be wonderful.’ Jim puts candles on the table.

  ‘If we leave the door open, the wind will blow out the candles in no time,’ Michele remarks.

  ‘These tea lights will be fine,’ Jim says, striking a match.

  Michele places the clay model on to the worktop, then picks up the cardigan from the kitchen sofa. The wind will prove her right soon enough. As she lifts knife and fork again, thunder rumbles, but still far away. Michele watches the dancing flames.

  ‘So why was the clay model out there?’

  She pushes some fish on to the fork. Last Saturday after returning home from her mother’s, she put the clay model on the mantelpiece in the living room. Her mother’s gesture had touched her. She hadn’t ever expected Clara to let go of her most precious artwork, and certainly not to give it to her eldest daughter.

  ‘I wanted to put it in the basement with your ­mother’s other stuff. But I must have got distracted.’

  ‘Why?’

  Michele examines the full fork lying on her plate. The white fish sits perfectly on it. No tiny bits are hanging over the edges.

  ‘Why?’ Jim repeats the question, as if he didn’t understand it. ‘Because it’s hideous, darling. And so I thought that’s where you would like it to go.’

  He pours himself another glass of prosecco. Michele’s is still full.

  ‘My mother gave me this model as an early birthday present.’ She lifts her eyes from her neatly packed fork. ‘I like it.’

  Jim’s little finger disappears into his mouth, removing food from between his teeth. A sudden gust of wind blows out all four candles.

  ‘What did I tell you!’ With a movement of her head, she points to the candles.

  Jim takes his finger out of his mouth and relights them. The first raindrops are falling. Michele finally puts her full fork into her mouth. The fish by now is cold. She chews. It might as well be rubber. She washes the food down with a large gulp of alcohol.

  ‘I’d like it to stay on the mantelpiece,’ she says.

  ‘I really don’t like it, Michele. What is it supposed to be, anyway?’

  ‘A mother and child.’

  He laughs. ‘A mother and child? Well, you need a lot of imagination to see that.’

  ‘Which you obviously don’t have.’

  A thunderbolt rips through the air. Michele jumps.

  ‘You see, even the gods agree with me,’ she says, laughing.

  ‘The gods may agree with you,’ Jim comments drily. The shadows cast by the flames on her face make his wife look gaunt. ‘But I don’t. And it will certainly not stay on the mantelpiece in the living room. It’s so awful and badly done . . .’

  ‘Stop it! Don’t talk like that about my mother.’

  ‘I’m talking about the heap of clay – not your mother.’

  Without warning, water starts gushing down from the heavens. The candles on the table blow out again. Both Jim and Michele turn their heads and stare at the rain in silence.

  ‘Shall we make love in the rain?’ Jim says finally, without looking at his wife.

  Michele leans back in her chair, shaking her head. ‘I can’t believe you’ve just said that.’

  Jim shifts, then calmly, with a deliberate movement, lights the candles once more.

  The rain splashes hard on to the patio. He gets up, scrapes his half-eaten dinner into the bin and opens the dishwasher. Michele watches the candles blow out for the third time. She’s been waiting for it to happen.

  ‘I wish you would listen to me,’ she snorts. ‘As long as the door stays open, there is no point in lighting the candles.’

  He closes the dishwasher. She takes a sip of her prosecco and puts the glass back on the table in the exact position where it stood before. Without another glance at his wife, Jim walks out of the kitchen. A moment later the front door slams. Michele doesn’t move. Eventually she grabs her glass and empties it in one go. The wine tastes flat and sweet. The bubbles have gone and so too, it seems, the alcohol. She refills her glass and empties it. Her head finally starts to feel light. Her reflection in the glass door resembles a pale ghost with a shapeless mane of hair. She switches off all the lights, opens the doors to the garden wide. She drinks the last of the prosecco straight from the bottle. When she presses the speed-dial with Jim’s number, his phone rings on the dresser, where he had placed it after showing Michele the picture of their son.

  10

  Michele – Eleven Months Later

  I close my bedroom door and place the glass of water on the bedside table. I slide my computer bag from my shoulder and drop it, together with my handbag, on the old armchair. I place my shoes next to each other underneath the chair. I take off my jacket, blouse and skirt. I hang the hangers with the clothes on the outside of the wardrobe door to air overnight. I didn’t make the bed this morning, nor did I draw the curtains back. I sit down at the dressing table. It’s a beautiful Art Deco piece made out of cherry wood. My right hand strokes the soft curve of the small drawers. Only then do I glance briefly at myself in the mirror. My face looks tired and naked. The make-up has long since worn off. My hair needs a wash. I lift my arms to remove the pins and my hair falls to my shoulders. I search in my earring box and take out the long ruby ones. I call them ruby, but in actual fact they are cheap things from Accessorize, one of my many airport purchases. I hold them against my ears. They match the dark-red lace of my bra. I should go to bed. I shouldn’t sit here playing at dressing up. But it helps me to unwind. I remove the little gold studs from my earlobes and put in the big earrings. I search through my lipsticks and pull out the bright red one. I very rarely wear it. It has an orange tint and complements my hair perfectly. But I always feel it adds too much colour to my face if you consider my bright blue eyes.

  Jim laughs. ‘A man sees your amazing eyes, your wonderful hair. I can’t see that anything clashes.’

  He stands behind me and leans forward to plant a kiss on my neck. I look at us in the mirror. He glances up and our eyes meet, while his hands gently cup my breasts.

  ‘And your breasts are the best part of you.’

  I wonder if I should wiggle to shake him off. We have to be at Tony and Mel’s at eight and we are already running late. He is wearing his suit. I haven’t even got beyond the lipstick yet. Then I lean back into him. I close my eyes, gently removing his hands from my body. I swing around on the stool and put my hands behind his neck before he has time to straighten up. We kiss. ‘Melanie can wait for ten minutes,’ I say. ‘We’re late as it is.’ My lips on his, while I start to loosen his tie. Squeaking noise from the TV downstairs. We both smile at each other like naughty children. I stand up, go to the door and shut it. In the meantime Jim has sat down on the bed, undoing the laces of his shoes. I push him back on to the bed and climb on top of him. ‘Let’s not waste time with undre
ssing.’ I hear his shoes fall to the floor behind me.

  In the mirror I see my right hand now move along the lace of my bra. I feel a vague longing between my legs.

  ‘You use what?’ My sister, quite drunk by now, lurches forward on to the table, roaring with laughter. I take another big sip from the whisky in my hand. My vision is already blurred. I’ve drunk so much this evening that I no longer feel the amber liquid go down my throat like fire. It’s more like water now. I put down my glass, wiping away tears of laughter. How on earth did we get on to this subject? How on earth did I end up totally drunk in my sister’s kitchen? I suddenly freeze. What day of the week is it? No, nothing to worry about. It’s Friday.

  ‘Why are you shaking your head?’ My sister has sat up straight on the other side of the table.

  I wave my hand in the air. ‘I had a sudden panic, wondering what day of the week it was.’

  ‘It’s Friday, you silly. Would you be so carefree ­otherwise, and sit in my kitchen drinking? No way. So – ’ she pushes her glass across the table and knocks against mine – ‘back to what you were saying.’

  I decide to go to the loo first.

  ‘Oh, the suspense,’ Hil moans, rolling her eyes.

  ‘You won’t be disappointed,’ I say over my shoulder, holding on to the frame of the kitchen door.

  ‘No way!’ my sister exclaims, as I place the electric toothbrush I have picked up from the bathroom in the middle of the table like a trophy. ‘I thought I misheard.’

  I sit down and empty my glass. Hilary inhales audibly and theatrically.

  ‘You have hidden depths, big sis.’

  Then she suddenly breaks out laughing again. ‘What did you just do in the loo?’

  I grab the bottle and pour myself some more. ‘I only use a toothbrush with a pink ring.’

  Hilary hits the table with the flat of her hand. I laugh, mightily pleased by my quick wit.

  ‘Joking aside,’ Hilary then says, trying to keep a straight face, ‘why an electric toothbrush? You surely have money for some sexier device.’

  ‘Pah, kinky toys. No thanks. This does the trick much better. Two minutes and you are done. And sometimes not even that long.’

  I now keep one in the drawer of the dressing table. Which means I don’t have to go to the bathroom to fetch the other one. I don’t want to run the risk of Mum hearing my bedroom door opening, closing, opening, closing, and wondering what I am doing or calling out for me, leaving me feeling guilty. What I do in my bedroom is my own private affair. I open the drawer.

  I feel the heat rising. I open my legs wider, put my feet up against the dressing table.

  I never see Jim. Though I see a man. Anonymous. A man I paid with a young, firm body. I never see his face. I only feel him inside me. We are in a dark little back alley. Or in a small office storeroom.

  My lower body convulses. My heart doubles its speed.

  I’m always dressed. The man is sometimes dressed. And sometimes I see his naked torso. Feel it.

  I turn the toothbrush off. Put it back into the drawer. I open my wardrobe and wonder what to wear tomorrow. Summer has arrived. Today the temperature climbed up to twenty-four degrees. I look through my summer dresses. None are suitable for the office. I pull them out, lay them on to the bed, then I try them on, one after the other, matching them with the new high-heeled green sandals. All of them still fit. I hadn’t really expected anything else, but it is still good to know. By the time I’ve tidied the clothes away, it’s twenty past one. I put the alarm on for four thirty. I have to catch a plane to Frankfurt at seven.

  11

  Jim runs down the road, then slows and continues up the hill in a light jog. His shirt is soon soaked from the rain. If he’d been wearing trainers he’d be lighter on his feet. He has no idea where he is heading. He simply had to get out of the house. When he reaches Hampstead Lane, the rain has stopped. He speeds up. The yellow light from the street lamps reflects on the wet tarmac. His legs feel heavy but his breathing has become easier. A stitch in his side suddenly makes him bend over. He has nearly reached the Spaniards Inn; a small group of people are leaving the pub, laughing. He would love a beer. Straightening up, he searches in his trouser pockets for change. Nothing. Not a penny. Stupid to have left the house without his wallet. Without a jacket. At least he grabbed his keys. He carries on running towards Hampstead. Gus might be in. Worth a try. Jim and Gus have known each other since university. They both have a weak spot for heavy metal and have kept in touch by meeting once a year for a gig featuring one of their ailing heroes. Three months ago they saw Iron Maiden. For over twenty years Gus worked as a successful City lawyer and earned enough to retire five years ago. His marriage broke up soon afterwards. His wife, who was fifteen years his junior, wanted children, but he didn’t. He now occupies the airy top part of an old Victorian house in the Vale of Health, takes guitar lessons and is planning to buy a vineyard in the South of France. Jim sees the light in Gus’s flat as he approaches the house.

  ‘Wow! Did she chuck you out?’ Gus exclaims when he opens the door. ‘You look like a drowned rat.’

  ‘Long story,’ Jim replies.

  ‘I’ll fetch you a dry shirt.’

  ‘Thanks,’ says Jim, who can feel the chill from his wet clothes on his skin now that he has stopped running.

  As they are heading out of the door again fifteen minutes later, Jim asks, ‘Can I borrow a hundred from you?’

  ‘The night is on me.’ Gus’s hand comes down on Jim’s shoulder. Then he pulls out a banknote. ‘So that you are not entirely cashless.’

  The pub Gus has recommended on Upper Street is crowded. A band is playing. The two men manoeuvre their way through to the bar. Just as they are about to head back out with their pints, Gus spots an empty table in the corner next to the small stage. He points to it, shouting above the noise, ‘Our chance! Or would you prefer to go outside?’

  Jim nods in the direction of the table. He doesn’t feel like talking. Perhaps after a couple of pints. Gus will understand. He leans back against the wall, his mind empty, the loud bass filling his body. The glass becomes lighter in his hand. Gus nudges him. Jim opens one eye.

  ‘Another one?’

  Jim nods and closes his eyes again.

  ‘Some very pretty women around,’ he hears Gus say.

  Jim smiles. He has had enough of women for the day. When he becomes aware of his second glass being nearly empty, he stands up. Gus nods in agreement to a third pint.

  Waiting to be served at the bar, Jim scrutinizes the room. The average age is about twenty to thirty years younger than him. And a lot of young women. All looking very similar. And very good. Long blonde hair, long beautiful legs in miniskirts, very high heels. He orders his two pints, takes one in each hand and, just as he is about to make his way back through the crowd, someone pushes against him from the side. He accidentally kicks the calf of the woman next to him. He hears her sharp intake of breath. Beer spills on to her arm. She is a head smaller than him. He looks down into her face, she looks up at him. He notices her shining bright eyes. A brief expression of indignation flickers across her face.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he shouts above the noise.

  She wipes the liquid off her naked arm, while her eyes don’t let go of his face.

  ‘Lucky I’m wearing short sleeves.’ She smiles.

  Jim can detect a slight foreign accent, but it is too loud to decipher where it is from. He smiles back at her. She is older than some of the others. Early to mid-thirties, he guesses.

  ‘It’s so crowded in here,’ he says, lifting the glasses above his head as he feels another push from behind, forced to step closer to the woman. His body briefly touches hers; he can smell her flowery perfume. He quickly nods, then turns to head back to the table.

  A few minutes later the band stops playing, announcing a half-hour break. Jim s
cans the room, conscious of who he is looking for. Gus follows his gaze.

  ‘Attractive woman,’ he says.

  Jim furrows his brow. The bar is hidden behind two large pillars. Gus points to the big mirror on the wall behind them. Jim twists his neck. A clear view of the bar. The woman is talking to a female friend.

  ‘They’re regulars,’ Gus now says. ‘I’ve never seen them with any man.’

  Jim drinks half his pint. The alcohol starts to wash away the tension from the early evening.

  ‘Fancy a bite to eat?’ he enquires. His half-eaten fish didn’t leave him satisfied. And he needs some food in his stomach to absorb the alcohol. He puts the glass on the table. He catches a glimpse of two laughing women moving through the crowd. He looks in the direction they seem to be heading and sees two empty chairs at a table a few metres away.

  ‘There is a lovely Indian down the road,’ Gus replies.

  The women are now sitting down. The one Jim spoke to smiles briefly in his direction but has already averted her eyes before he has time to react.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he says.

  He stands up, gulps down the rest of his beer. He lifts the black leather jacket he borrowed from Gus off the back of his chair. For a second it feels as if he is about to lose his balance, then he stands firmly rooted on the ground again.

  ‘Shall we get some company for our dinner?’ he asks, slightly surprised at his bold suggestion. But who cares? After all, he is a mature man in control of himself.

  ‘You know me. I am not going to decline,’ Gus answers.

  Jim heads straight for the table with the two women.

  ‘May I give you my telephone number?’ He grins.

  She looks up at him. If she is surprised she certainly doesn’t show it.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she replies.

  Her tone, however, is soft. Jim didn’t expect her to say yes; in fact, he would have been disappointed if she had.