‘I’m not actually planning to seduce you, if that’s your fear,’ she said.
The pink spots flared in his cheeks again, and he turned away to start lifting Rosie from her highchair. ‘No, I — that wasn’t my fear.’
Suddenly he stiffened. ‘I mean … not that I wouldn’t be terribly flattered.’
‘Yes, yes!’ Michelle waved her hand impatiently. ‘Move on. What’s bugging you?’
Benedict had Rosie in his arms. Normally fastidious, Michelle observed that this time he hadn’t quite managed to wipe all the cookie from her fingers. He really was nervous.
‘I’m just not sure if I should talk about Aishe to you,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not sure that’s fair on her. It’s not only that you and her are friends. But you also know her brother, and I’m not sure it’s fair for us all to be talking about her behind her back.’
Dear God, thought Michelle. Can you not see that you are far more decent to her than she is to you? You’d give her everything if you had the chance, and all she does is treat you like crap.
Right, Michelle resolved. It may not be fair to Aishe, but I intend to find Benedict another woman. Don’t know who, don’t know how. But I do know that you, my boy, deserve better.
Rosie reached up and placed a sticky hand on Benedict’s cheek.
‘My!’ she said with a certainty, Michelle noted, that no person in their right mind would dare contradict.
19
‘Do you know any single women aged between twenty-five and thirty-five?’ asked Michelle.
Connie stared inquisitively at Michelle over her coffee cup. ‘For you?’
Michelle returned her gaze evenly. ‘Yes, Connie. I’m going to fill in the time until Chad gets back with forays into Sapphic dalliance.’
‘There’s a Japanese bathhouse on Fillmore that has women-only nights,’ said Connie, unperturbed. ‘Apparently you can always find lots of lesbians there.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Michelle. ‘But you didn’t answer my question. Single, young, non-lesbian women. Know any? How about in your Pilates class?’
‘Oh, I don’t do Pilates any more.’ Connie shook her head.
‘Aren’t you risking excommunication from the bitch-wives club for arse-sag?’
Connie smiled. ‘You are so rude.’
‘Watch and learn,’ said Michelle. Then added, ‘So why did you ditch Pilates?’
‘Oh!’ Connie blushed. ‘Oh, I can’t say. Really, I can’t.’
‘You have to now — I’m too interested. What happened? Did the instructor cop a feel?’
Connie looked bewildered. ‘I have no idea what that means.’
‘Bad touching.’
‘Oh! No.’ Connie’s shoulders were hunched in embarrassment. ‘No, it wasn’t that.’
‘You will tell me,’ said Michelle. ‘There is no escape.’
‘Oh, I can’t,’ Connie almost wailed. ‘It’s — not nice.’
Michelle sat back and slapped her knee. ‘My God, I’ve got it!’ she said. ‘I know exactly what you mean. I did a yoga class once. Same thing.’
‘Please don’t say it,’ Connie whispered.
‘Lady-part farts!’
Connie sank her forehead onto Michelle’s kitchen table.
‘It’s all those upside-down positions,’ Michelle continued relentlessly. ‘Sucks the air right up there. Then you stand up and it gets squeezed right out again.’ She reached across the table and patted the shoulder of a still-prone Connie. ‘You’re right. Unexpectedly razzing out your vag is freaking embarrassing.’
With a deep inhalation of breath, Connie sat up. She gave herself a little shake.
‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘I feel like Sandy at the start of Grease. Pathetically naive.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve actually seen Grease,’ Michelle frowned. ‘It’s a filthy movie. Pure smut!’
Connie was wide-eyed. ‘It is?’
‘You’re the One that I Want is not a love song,’ Michelle informed her. ‘And I’m not even going to start explaining the lyrics to Greased Lightning.’
‘Beauty School Dropout was always my favourite,’ said Connie wistfully.
‘I’ll bet,’ said Michelle. ‘Anyway. Back to the single women.’
‘Well, there’s our housekeeper, Conchita. She doesn’t speak much English, though.’
‘Not necessarily a problem. Is she pretty?’
‘Oh! Do they have to be pretty, too?’
‘I’m not about to set the boy up with a cave troll. So Conchita’s ugly?’
‘Well, not ugly as such.’ Connie was clearly trying to be generous. ‘But she does have quite pronounced facial hair.’
‘Right,’ said Michelle. ‘Scratch Conchita and her beard. Anyone else?’
Connie thought for a moment. ‘I suppose there’s Phil’s PA. She’s very pretty.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Brandi.’
‘With an i?’
Connie nodded.
‘Has she been known to dot the “i” with a little love heart?’
‘Why, yes!’ said Connie. ‘I saw it on the Christmas card she gave Phil. How did you know?’
Eek, thought Michelle. Eject! Eject!
‘Benedict is far too intelligent for a girl who punctuates with love hearts,’ she said firmly. ‘Is that all you have?’
‘I think so.’ Connie frowned.
Jeepers, observed Michelle. Her eyes move but her forehead stays as smooth as a billiard ball. For God’s sake — she’s not even thirty-five!
‘Connie,’ she said, ‘do you have botulism injected into your face because Phil makes rude remarks about your wrinkles?’
For a second she thought Connie was about to cry.
‘Sorry,’ said Michelle. ‘That was a bit full-frontal even for me.’
‘It’s not Phil.’ Connie’s lower lip was wobbling. ‘It’s me. Is it that obvious?’
‘Connie, if it wasn’t obvious, you’d still have forehead lines, which would somewhat defeat the purpose. Why do you do it?’
‘Because I don’t want to get old.’
‘You will whether you want to or not,’ said Michelle gently. ‘But you’re nowhere near old now. So why the angst?’
Connie bent down and fumbled about in her Birkin. She came up clutching a tissue, on which she delicately blew her nose.
‘Oh my.’ She crushed the tissue in her hands. ‘Why? Because I have done absolutely nothing with my life, that’s why. My only achievements to date have been being voted Miss Congeniality at high school and finishing James Joyce’s Ulysses.’
‘You finished Ulysses?’ said Michelle. ‘I’ve never got past page twenty.’
‘I started Finnegan’s Wake, too. But I stalled halfway through. Couldn’t get going again.’
‘Connie,’ said Michelle, ‘why have you done nothing with your life when you are capable of mastering one of the most challenging novels in the English language?’
‘I never thought it was important.’ She shrugged. ‘What can I tell you? I am a walking cliché. The dutiful only daughter of well-to-do parents, brought up with excellent manners and to aspire only to marriage and children. A cliché and an anachronism.’ She waved the crushed, sodden tissue in the air. ‘And I haven’t even managed to fulfil all of those expectations. No children. What a failure! That’s why I don’t like the thought of getting old. I feel like I’ve already reached my use-by date, and from here on in I’ll do nothing but quietly fade away.’
‘Why no kids?’ asked Michelle. ‘Phil lacking in swimmers?’
‘No, we were Rhesus negative,’ said Connie. ‘I had three miscarriages before they decided to test. We could have taken drugs over the next pregnancy, but I couldn’t do it. I was too afraid they wouldn’t work. Phil didn’t push me.’
She offered Michelle a brief smile. ‘He was super sweet, really. You shouldn’t be so down on him.’
‘Jesus.’ Michelle blew out a long breath. ‘Connie
, that’s terrible. Seriously. I feel like such a bitch.’ She inclined her head. ‘Well, I know I’m a bitch, but most of the time I don’t care.’
There was a coffee cake on the table. She pushed the plate towards Connie. ‘This is all I have to offer you. Sad but true.’
Connie wiped the tissue under her eyes. ‘You have you,’ she said, and attempted a smile. ‘Doesn’t that count for something?’
‘Christ!’ said Michelle. ‘Really? I mean, I’m more than happy to be friends with you. But don’t you think it might be a bit like taking up smoking or Nordic walking or something? More trouble than it’s worth?’
‘I’ll risk it,’ said Connie. ‘That will be a new experience, if nothing else.’ Then she gasped.
‘Jesus!’ Michelle jumped. ‘What?’
‘I thought of someone! A girl.’
‘Go on.’
Connie ticked off the attributes on her fingers. ‘Young. Single. Pretty. Fairly certain she’s not a lesbian. Becca’s new nanny.’
‘Another nanny?’ said Michelle. ‘Sounds uncannily perfect. What’s her name?’
‘Isobel,’ replied Connie. ‘But Becca’s children call her Izzy.’
‘Bet Becca doesn’t,’ said Michelle darkly. ‘Bet she calls her “Nanny” or something else that manages to both patronise and dehumanise her all in one go.’
‘Becca’s not so bad,’ said Connie.
‘Connie! Have you learned nothing? Becca is an evil cow! Repeat after me — C.O.W.’
‘No, I will not,’ said Connie with prim decisiveness. ‘But I will talk to Izzy and see what she says. I assume your Benedict is a nice boy?’
‘He’s a doll,’ said Michelle. ‘Possible hint of a shady past, but in all other respects a gentleman and a scholar, and handsome to boot. And anyway, most girls love a shady past. Where’s Izzy from?’
‘New Zealand, I think.’ Connie realised what she’d said. ‘Oh! Maybe you know her?’
‘It’s a country, not a commune,’ protested Michelle. ‘There are four million people in it, and I didn’t get around to meeting all of them before I left.’
‘If she says yes …’ Connie had clearly been giving this some thought, ‘should we set them up them on a blind date, or should we chaperone them?’
‘Connie, no young person has been chaperoned since 1855.’
‘I was! On my first date.’
‘Were you under twelve? On second thoughts,’ said Michelle, ‘don’t answer that. However, you do raise a point.’ She drummed the table lightly with her fingertips. ‘I haven’t yet given any thought to how to sell this to Benedict.’
‘I could bring a picture of Izzy if that would help?’ Connie suggested.
‘Listen to us,’ said Michelle. ‘We’re like a couple of yentas arranging a marriage.’
‘Actually, the correct Yiddish word is shadchen,’ said Connie. ‘A yenta is just a gossipy old biddy.’
‘Well, that’s us too,’ said Michelle. ‘Except we’re not old, of course. And in my case, I’d substitute another word for biddy.’
‘If we don’t want to be obvious about it being a set-up,’ said Connie, ‘we could simply tell Benedict that Izzy is new in town and ask him to show her around. That wouldn’t even be a lie.’
‘It would be a well-considered piece of manipulation,’ said Michelle. ‘But you’re right — not an outright lie. Our consciences could be almost clear.’
‘They might not hit it off, you know.’
‘They’re young, attractive and alone. Persuade them to meet at a bar and our work is done. The dynamic duo of alcohol and hormones will take over from there.’
Connie gave her a searching look. ‘If this boy is as handsome and genteel as you say, why hasn’t he found a nice girl of his own?’
‘Genteel? Jeepers, we are in 1855.’ Michelle went on. ‘He has found someone, but she’s neither nice nor a girl. Personally, I like her a lot but she’s terrible for him.’
‘Does he share that opinion?’
‘Don’t look at me with your chaperoning-conscience eyes, woman! As it happens, he doesn’t. He believes she is the love of his life, and if he only tries a bit harder, he will crack her open and melt her icy heart. He’s delusional, of course. Inside her icy heart lie only more icy shards, mixed with the arid gravel of profound distrust.’
‘You sound very sure.’ Connie sounded the opposite.
‘I’m exaggerating,’ said Michelle. ‘You may have guessed. But she is treating him very badly, and he’s suffering. I’d like to give this Izzy chick a shot. If she’s a New Zealand girl, she should be a good egg.’
From the direction of the bedrooms came the kind of shriek normally attributed to the Irish banshee. Connie clutched her heart. ‘Goodness!’
‘Not a quality I often attribute to my darling daughter,’ said Michelle. She checked her watch. ‘But I suppose we can be grateful she’s slept this long.’ She pushed back her chair and stood up.
Connie hesitated. ‘May I come and get her with you?’
‘Of course you may,’ said Michelle. ‘You may even hold her. Just don’t let her get her hands anywhere near your face, your ears or your hair. And don’t put your fingers anywhere near her mouth.’
‘You do know you’re making her sound like a rabid monkey?’ Connie said, as she followed Michelle down the hall.
‘Rabid monkey?’ Michelle paused and tilted her head thoughtfully. ‘You know what? I think that may well become my new nickname for her. It certainly trips off the tongue more easily than Evil Witch Spawn from Hell.’
‘You do love her though, don’t you?’
Michelle could see that Connie had doubts.
‘I love her beyond words,’ she said. ‘I would lay down my life for her in a nanosecond.’
She put her hand on the knob of Rosie’s bedroom door. ‘Brace yourself,’ she said. ‘We’re going in.’
20
Gulliver and Aishe were perched on an outcrop of rock overlooking a lake. As lakes go it was a small one, but prettily surrounded by dense and verdant mountain forest that bustled with birdlife. The main entrance to the park and its walking tracks was at the end of a street in Marin’s wealthiest town. Aishe had heard that, per capita, the town was one of the wealthiest in the whole of the States. Considering its population was less than three thousand, Aishe had to conclude that its denizens did not include anyone who waitressed at the Sunshine Café truck stop — or anyone who patronised it, for that matter.
Aishe glanced across at Gulliver, eating a sandwich, and wondered if he knew how they survived financially. She had never told him, but he was hardly a stupid child, so he must have worked out, as Benedict had, that a part-time waitress’s take-home pay was barely enough to keep the car in fuel let alone keep a roof over their heads. I should tell him, she thought. He’s certainly old enough.
It occurred to her that she should tell him a lot of things. Like the full name of his father, for example. Aishe had always claimed that her pregnancy was the result of a one-night stand with a man whom she only knew as Jonas. The risk that her son might regard her as a slut seemed significantly less than the risk that he might one day want to track down his father. Aishe had no intention of letting that happen. It was most likely that Jonas would run a mile if he suddenly found out he had a son. But, thought Aishe, you never know how the years might change people. Jonas might have matured. He might even be eager to play a part in his son’s life. But Aishe wasn’t ready to share Gulliver. Not yet, anyway.
The money — that was less of a risk, but it still came embedded with fishhooks. Aishe had built her life around being — and being seen to be — self-sufficient. She would rather be dead than feel beholden to anyone. When she’d found out that Frank had left her a considerable sum of money in his will, she’d been furious with him. How dare he? He knew how she felt. Worst of all, he was dead, so she could never pay him back. Goddamn him!
She’d told the surprised solictor she wouldn’t take it. She’
d said she’d expected Frank to leave it to other family members, not to her. That’d be difficult, he’d replied. Frank had no immediate family still living. In fact, family-wise, the solicitor had said, you’re it. You can give it away to charity, he’d said with a shrug, but otherwise, the money’s all yours. Congratulations, Mrs Lewis, he’d added. You’re a wealthy woman.
The very idea of it had grated on Aishe like sand in sunscreen. She couldn’t be wealthy. Only self-obsessed, stuck-up cows were wealthy. Women who thought they were better than everyone just because they had money. Or, more likely, because they had a husband with money. Wealthy women weren’t independent and courageous. They were small-minded, narrowly focused — hogtied for life by the binds of societal convention and expectation.
She’d been that close to acting on the solictor’s suggestion and giving it away to charity. But then it had begun to dawn on her that having money could offer her choices she’d never had before. And although Gulliver was little then — only three — he’d be grown-up some day. She could save the money for him, and then he could have choices.
The difficulty was that she did not trust banks, or investment advisors, or indeed anyone who purported to know what she should do with her money. The only way those slick creeps would get hold of it would be by robbing her grave. And even then she’d make sure she was buried extra deep.
It was a lot of money, though. Too much for a mattress. So Aishe gave in and, after swearing him to secrecy upon pain (she stressed the pain aspect) of death, asked for help from her cousin Patrick. As a result of his advice, she’d bought the house in Marin. It had seemed absurdly over-priced then, but Patrick had pegged the area as one with potential for growth. He was right — over the last ten years the tiny house had doubled in value. Against Patrick’s advice — because Aishe could not bear to be totally compliant — she’d invested almost all the remaining money in the NASDAQ at the height of the dot.com boom. Eight months later the market crashed, reducing the value of her shares to slightly less than that of a used bus ticket. Aishe was left with a mortgage-free house and (Patrick’s advice again, for which she was resentfully grateful) an investment account with a reputable firm that earned her not quite enough interest each year to live on. Even though Aishe had long since determined never to put a job before Gulliver, she knew she could probably find a part-time job that paid enough for them to feel relatively comfortable. But as it had been her fault entirely that most of the money had been lost, she’d taken the waitressing job as a kind of penance — and as a reminder of the cheese-paring existence she might have had if Frank had never inveigled his way into her life. Into their lives. Hers and Gulliver’s …
The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence Page 17