As Guy Phelps departed, touching a finger to an imaginary cap, much to both girls’ delight, Francesca turned to Tess and said, exasperatedly, ‘Tess!’
‘Wha’?’ said Tess, wiping the crumbs from her lips.
‘Do you have to eat cake like a three-year-old? Or the Count of Monte Cristo? After his prison spell?’ she added, indistinctly.
‘What about the Count of Monte Cristo?’ Adam said, appearing at the back of the shop where they were sitting. ‘Who was that bloke? Hi, Liz.’ He waved at Liz, who waved back. ‘Hello, you.’ He bent down and kissed Francesca’s head.
‘Something Phelps,’ said Francesca. She paused. ‘He was just saying about the planning permission.’
‘Oh,’ said Adam.
There was a silence. The previous night, Adam and Francesca had had a massive, and noisy, row about lots of things, including Francesca helping out with the campaign. Francesca had told Adam to get his head out of his arse, and Adam had told Francesca it was none of her business, he’d lived there all his life and she didn’t know what she was talking about. It had ended in bed, but it still hadn’t been right this morning. So Tess said, not wanting to get into it again, ‘What’s wrong with the way I eat cake?’
Francesca looked at her and sighed. ‘Oh, God. Look at you.’ She waved a hand around the table, where Tess’s cake was liberally sprinkled. ‘When I remember I first thought you were this terrifying sophisticated intellectual, with this brilliant classy capsule wardrobe and that lovely hair—’ She flicked Tess’s hair back from her face, and crumbs scattered everywhere. ‘“This is what people in the country are like”,’ I told myself,’ she added, not looking at Adam, who sighed, whilst Tess looked appalled, and brushed her face with her hands.
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying,’ said Francesca wearily, ‘you’ve turned into a hobo.’
Tess was outraged. This was fatigue and boyfriend issues talking, not common sense. She wasn’t a hobo! Sure, she hadn’t worn heels for a week, no, a month, well, a few months (was it really that long?). And sure, she hadn’t had her hair cut for a while, but Jan liked it! And why did she need to when she could just trim the split ends herself, which was actually quite an addictive activity when you were listening to The Archers or something? After all, who was she dressing up for? The nice ladies of her class? Francesca? Adam? Exactly. She looked down at her sensible shoes, and noticed with a wince that her jeans were covered in mud at the ankles.
Embarrassment, and a dawning sense of realization, crept over her, hot and certain. When was the last time she’d washed these jeans? When was the last time she’d even ironed anything? Or plucked her eyebrows, or put on mascara, for that matter?
She looked up at Francesca. ‘That’s so rude,’ she said, but there was a note of uncertainty in her voice.
‘I agree,’ said Adam. ‘She looks fine to me, you always do, T.’ He patted her on the back, reassuringly, and this, somehow, depressed Tess even more.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘No problems,’ Adam said, staring with intensity at Francesca. ‘No problems. At. All.’
Tess was a reasonable person, but there was only so much mooning over Francesca in one day she could take, and since they’d also had the window cleaner round that morning, and she had spotted him gazing lovingly through the glass at Francesca while she combed her hair, she was a bit sick of people falling over themselves (quite literally in the window cleaner’s case) to point out how ravishing Francesca was and what a horrible old grub she was. She stood up.
‘I might go back and do some work before the class,’ she said. ‘It’s only ten days till we go now.’
‘Is it really?’ said Adam. He frowned. ‘I keep forgetting. T—so I’m not going to see you on Saturday at the birthday barbecue, am I? You’re still going to your mum and dad’s?’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Really sorry. But I haven’t been to see them for ages, I completely screwed up…’
‘That’s so annoying,’ Adam said, standing. He held up his hands. ‘I mean because you won’t be there, not that you’ve screwed up,’ he said, as she opened her mouth to apologize again. ‘Remember my sixteenth birthday?’
‘Course I do,’ she said, laughing.
‘What happened?’ Francesca asked, propping her elbows on the table. She loved a story about Adam and Tess and their Langford youth.
‘Oh—’ Adam turned round. ‘We went up to London for the day, and we went to Piccadilly Circus, and then we found this boozer in Soho that’d serve us, and I got completely drunk, and then we went to see True Romance in Leicester Square—God knows why they let us in, there’s no way we were old enough, Tess was only fifteen as well.’ He scratched his elbow and chuckled. ‘T, do you remember where we went afterwards?’
‘Covent Garden,’ she said promptly. ‘And we had another drink in a pub and then went to the Rock Garden and had burgers and we thought we were so cool…’
‘And then,’ Adam said, smiling at Francesca, ‘do you remember you were saying how you can’t believe bits of London join up with other bits when you first go there, because it all seems separate?’ She nodded, turning her face up towards him. ‘We walked across the river to Waterloo and got the train home and I was so sick when I got home. I’ve no idea how we got there—I wouldn’t know the way now, either.’
Tess chewed a fingernail. ‘It’s true.’ She suddenly had an enormous pang for London. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said suddenly. ‘Daniel Mathias dumped me after that day, do you remember? He thought we were a couple!’
‘Did he?’ said Francesca.
‘He was an idiot, though,’ said Adam.
‘No, he wasn’t,’ said Tess.
‘He kept a comb in his back pocket. And he actually used Brylcreem.’
‘OK,’ Tess conceded. ‘Maybe he did.’ She gave a small snort at the memory. ‘It made snogging him a bit tricky. Like, you’d grab hold of him, and your hands would slither down to his shoulders and leave greasy marks on his shirt, and he’d get really cross.’
Francesca and Adam laughed, the tension gone.
‘Very true,’ said Adam. ‘You owe me for that, at least, as well as owing me a birthday drink.’
‘Absolutely.’ Tess ran a hand through her hair, awkwardly, remembering Daniel Mathias’s Brylcreem.
Adam said, ‘Hey. What are you doing next weekend?’
‘Packing for Italy. And I told you, I’m going to London on Sunday,’ said Tess. ‘To see Meena for the day.’
‘So that’s Sunday,’ Adam nodded, solemnly.
‘I’ve just thought of something,’ said Tess. She looked at Francesca, who was getting money out of her purse. ‘Yes.’
‘What?’ said Francesca.
‘Next week. Us three. Evening out in London town. I love it.’ She clapped her hands together; it would kill two birds with one stone—she could take Adam out for a birthday drink in style, AND it gave her a week to get her shit together before she went back to London. Wear a top she’d actually ironed, perhaps. Perhaps—daring—try out some of that crazy stuff they were wearing in the Big Smoke she’d heard about, called Make-Up.
‘Where will we stay?’ said Francesca.
‘Easy,’ said Tess. ‘We can stay at my old place—Meena’s away on the Saturday night, that’s why I’m seeing her on Sunday. I’ll check, she won’t mind.’ Francesca looked unsure about this, so Tess added hurriedly, ‘Her new flatmate’s an old friend of ours, Alex. I’ll sleep on the sofa, you two can have Meena’s room. Honestly, we’re always having people to stay there. Were always having people to stay.’ She looked at the pair of them. ‘Are you in?’
‘I’m definitely, one-hundred-per-cent in,’ Adam said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Can we find that pub again?’
‘No,’ said Tess. ‘I’m sure we can do better than that place. Francesca?’
‘I’m in,’ said Francesca. ‘Yes, we definitely can do better than that place.’
‘You
weren’t there,’ Adam said defensively. ‘It was brilliant.’
Francesca rolled her eyes. ‘I’m sure it was…’ she said.
‘I might have three T-shirts printed,’ said Tess, excitedly. “Adam’s Birthday Piss-Up ‘08.”’
‘You’ll be wearing all three,’ said Adam. ‘But you go for it.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Francesca, looking pointedly at Tess’s crumpled top. They smiled briefly at each other, but the tension was still there.
‘Tess, dear, may I ask you something?’ Carolyn Tey asked her timidly, the next Thursday after their class was over.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Tess. ‘What’s up?’
‘Well—do we need to bring any books with us? On the trip?’
‘I was going to ask you the same thing,’ Jacquetta said, graciously.
‘Up to you,’ said Tess, trying not to smile. ‘There’ll be talks from me every day depending on what we see, so bring a notebook as I’ve said. But it’s your choice if you want to bring something to help you—a reference book or something, any of the ones we’ve recommended.’ She stood up, stretching her neck and her arms. ‘Is that OK?’
‘Sure,’ said Jan briefly, and zoomed off. ‘See you on Monday. Bright and early,’ she called over her shoulder.
‘Bye!’ called Carolyn, scampering after her, and the classroom was empty. Almost empty—Tess looked up, and to her surprise saw Leonora Mortmain rising slowly to her feet. She hadn’t noticed her before; she usually left almost immediately after class.
‘Do you need a hand?’ Tess said, hurrying over.
‘I am fine, thank you,’ Leonora said, calmly standing. Tess looked at her, thinking how old she seemed these days. It must be hard, being the most unpopular woman in town, and she realized she barely even knew her.
‘Is someone coming to pick you up? Shall I walk you home?’ Tess asked.
‘You?’ Leonora Mortmain said, staring at her in astonishment. ‘My housekeeper will be here any second. Please, do not trouble yourself.’ She sounded absolutely horrified.
‘Right, then,’ said Tess, wishing she wouldn’t stare at her like that. ‘Um—are you looking forward to the trip to Rome, then?’
‘Moderately,’ Leonora said. She walked stiffly towards the door, looking around her. ‘They are not supposed to pin things to the wall. This is a listed building.’ She turned back. ‘Do you know the difference between a gerund and a gerundive, by the way?’
‘Yes,’ said Tess, taken aback. ‘The gerundive is—er, well, it’s a sort of verbal adjective. Amanda,’ she said weakly, grasping at the example they always taught. ‘To be loved.’
‘Yes.’ Leonora Mortmain held up her hand. ‘I suggest you use that knowledge next time then. Your translation of the Catullus poem today was wrong. I look forward to Rome, but not if your teaching is to be peppered with schoolboy errors. Good afternoon.’
‘Mrs Mortmain?’ a nervous voice called, distant in the hallway. ‘Hello, are you there?’
‘Right!’ said Tess under her breath, as the old woman disappeared from sight. ‘How lovely! So glad she’s coming!’
She looked up and around the cavernous classroom which had been the drawing room when the Mortmains were in residence, lit in diamond patterns by the leaded windows. She picked up her stack of books and walked to the door.
On her way she walked past something and then stopped. It was her own reflection, caught in an old, mildewy mirror by the door, and she stared at herself in dismay. Tess was not particularly fascinated by beauty preparations, the mystery of the hair salon, or a new breakthrough in nail technology, but she used to like it well enough. When she lived in London, Tess had loved going into department stores, trying on silly make-up she wasn’t going to buy, and having the occasional splurge—when her teacher’s salary would let her, that is. By the time she was thirty, she’d realized what she could wear (hourglass-shaped tops, belts, denim skirts and leggings) and what she couldn’t wear (maxi-dresses, anything smocky or flowing was particularly cruel to her). She had a style, based on the fact that the junior maths teacher at Fair View had once, once, fleetingly said in the pub that she looked like Audrey Tautou. She had slept with him, obviously.
How had it come to this, that she didn’t even recognize herself in a mirror? Sure, it was nice that she didn’t have to make an effort now she was here in Langford, but was it really that good for her? Perhaps it was as a direct result of living with Francesca. She deliberately wasn’t like Francesca. ‘Look at the new Bayswater!’ Francesca had shouted on Monday evening, poring over a copy of Elle. ‘Oh, my God, I love it, don’t you?’
Tess had been balancing fondant fancies into a pyramid shape on the cake stand. ‘What on earth is a Bayswater?’
Francesca looked at her as if she were a lunatic. ‘Bag. A Mulberry bag. Are you mad?’
‘Yes, I’m totally mad,’ Tess said. ‘I’m insane, for not knowing what a Bayswater is. Look, have a fondant fancy,’ she said, advancing into the sitting room, gingerly balancing the cake stand.
Francesca watched her progress with something like dismay. She closed Elle and shook her head. ‘Look at you. You really need a night out, Tess.’
Tess didn’t agree. It was stupid, all of that obsession with clothes and facials and body lotions that smelt nice. She’d moved here to get away from all of that. It was silly and it got in the way of other things: being a real person, having thoughts in your head, caring about things like the water meadows. But then, Tess thought confusedly, Francesca did both. But Francesca was also pretty mad herself. She shook her head and shivered again, in the cold room, walking out into the hallway. She didn’t like Langford Hall, never had done. There was something oppressively Gothic about it. Perhaps Jane Austen had got the inspiration for Northanger Abbey there. Oh, no, it wasn’t built until 1846 and she died in 1817. Perhaps she should go and check the dates in the museum. It’d be nice, she could pop into the Tea Shoppe afterwards, they did a lovely Eccles cake. And she needed some suntan lotion for her trip to Rome. Factor 45, best be on the safe side—and insoles for her shoes, the chemist next door did a nice range…
Tess checked herself. Good God, Francesca was right. She did need a night out. A haircut, and a night out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘What do you mean, you’re not coming?’
‘I mean, I’m not coming. End of discussion.’
Tess could hear Adam clearing his throat. ‘Francesca,’ he said, quietly. ‘But we—I—’
‘Look,’ Francesca’s voice was harsh. ‘I don’t see the point of me coming for this one night just so we can pretend everything’s wonderful, when it’s not and it hasn’t been for days now. Weeks, even!’
‘It’s fine, you’re just—’
‘Don’t patronize me, Adam,’ she said. ‘You’re the one who’s making it like—’ her voice cracked, and out in the sitting room, Tess winced. She got up, and went into the kitchen, clearing the remnants of lunch away. She wished she couldn’t hear. She was sick of hearing it.
‘I know this week’s been difficult—’ she could hear Adam saying impatiently. ‘I know you’ve been working really hard on the appeal as well, but Francesca, it’s supposed to be fun, a night out, come on—’
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Francesca shouted. ‘That’s why I’m not coming. Do you seriously, seriously think you and I are simply going to forget that we’ve barely said a nice word to each other for two weeks and—’ she put on a fake cockney accent—‘set off for a jolly night out in London town? Get real, Adam. I can barely stand to look at you, let alone…’
Her voice trailed off.
‘That’s it, then?’ Adam said. He was calm now. He opened the bedroom door; in the kitchen, from where she could see the stairs opposite Francesca’s bedroom, Tess jumped back, guiltily, as if she were eavesdropping. She looked at her watch in agony—they were going to miss the train if they didn’t leave now, come on…She put her hand to her mouth, in anxiety, and then said
, ‘Adam—Francesca—we really need to go.’
She’d said that five minutes ago, and this is what had prompted the conversation currently taking place. She picked up her bag and went to the door, and she heard the murmur of hissed conversation, before the bedroom door slammed and Adam came running down the stairs, his face white, and his brown eyes black.
‘Are we going?’ he said, curtly, as if she were the one holding him up. Tess stared at him; he was fierce, his features set; she didn’t recognize him.
‘Yep,’ she said, holding up her bag. ‘Um—Francesca—’
‘No,’ he said, holding the door open for her. ‘She’s not coming. It’s—yeah. Right, got everything?’
‘Yes,’ Tess said.
He grabbed her back, almost as if by force, and set off down the road, marching so fast she had to run to keep up with him. ‘We’re late.’
‘Yes, I know we are,’ said Tess. ‘But we’ll make it at this rate, if we march very fast like Roman soldiers and don’t enjoy ourselves at all—Adam, are you OK?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Adam. ‘It’s just—it’s over with me and her. Yeah.’ He stopped. ‘I have to say, I’m pretty relieved.’ Tess’s mouth dropped open, and he turned to her and smiled, tightly. Seeing the expression on her face, his softened. ‘Sorry.’
‘No,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm, knowing how upset he must be. ‘I’m sorry.’ She stopped. ‘Look, do you want to just—’
‘No, way,’ he said. He took her arm. ‘It’s my birthday night out on the tiles. We might have to revise a few of the plans, but we can still go ahead with the original one, eh?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said. She squeezed his arm, and there was silence as they walked briskly, turning right behind Leda House towards the station.
‘She said I was a loser,’ Adam said morosely, after a couple of minutes. ‘She said I was pathetic.’
‘Oh,’ said Tess. She didn’t know why, but she bit her lip, trying not to laugh. He turned to say something else, and caught her expression.
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