by Lesley Lokko
She closed her eyes as the girl’s fingers deftly massaged her scalp. It was practically the first time someone had touched her in months, perhaps even years. In the warm, chemical fuzz of the dryers and steamers around the living room, she was suddenly eight or nine years old again. Her mother sat in the salon with her fingernails steeping in oil, her hair hidden under a rubber cap with holes in it, the hairdresser pulling through strands with a crochet hook to tint it. She’d be given money – a few pence, if they were in London, a franc or two if in Paris – to go out and buy sweets for herself. ‘Not too many, chérie,’ Anouschka would call out anxiously. ‘Just one or two.’ She would trip back happily, a lollipop or some such in her hand, whispering to herself with the curled contentment of a kitten.
‘Viens.’ The girl squeezed the last drops of water out of her hair and beckoned to Annick. She got up with some difficulty – the chairs were small and narrow – and shuffled with the towel draped across her shoulders to the mirror where Celeste was waiting, smiling beatifically.
‘Just a little trim, non? With curls like yours, it’d be a crime to cut them off. Just enough for it to grow again, c’est tout.’
Annick closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see the image of herself staring back at her, her once-beautiful face now fat, swollen out of all recognition. What was it that had sparked the desire to get her hair cut? She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She didn’t like to admit it, but the conversation with Yves, brief as it was, had catapulted her back in time to her old self, to the Annick who deflected men’s attention the way some people swatted flies. She wasn’t that person any longer but the longing for her remained.
54
REBECCA
London
For once, the weather had decided to cooperate. It was a beautiful early summer’s day – fresh and crisp, a cloudless, blue sky with no threat of rain. At Harburg Hall, everything was in full swing. A marquee had been set up on the lawn behind the house. White, with stiff, peaked folds, its edges had been artfully scalloped with enormous bunches of white and pink roses; there were garlands of pink gerberas and rosy carnations, palm fronds and in the centre of the garden, the chuppah, the traditional Jewish canopy where the rabbi would bless the union. From her bedroom window overlooking the gardens, Rebecca watched the teams of waiters streaming back and forth, carrying glasses, champagne crates, wine bottles, more flowers . . . she could see her mother calling out to one of the wedding organisers, a formidably efficient woman called Ruth. The two women huddled together, consulting a list in Embeth’s hands . . . probably working out some last-minute relative who’d ignored their repeated RSVPs and who’d just now phoned from Heathrow, demanding to know why a car hadn’t been laid on.
She turned away from the window and walked over to her dressing table. For the first time in weeks, she was completely alone. She savoured the silence. She sat down, taking care not to crease her dress. It was a pale ecru silk dress, very simple, gathered in tightly at the waist and falling in stiff, billowing folds to the floor. Her mother had chosen it – a modern version, she said, of her own wedding dress. She looked at herself in the mirror. She put out a hand to touch her image dreamily. It was her wedding day. The day of her marriage. When she’d told her mother of Julian’s proposal, Embeth’s eyes had immediately welled up. She’d put out a hand and covered Rebecca’s in a gesture that was both blessing and relief. Julian was hardly part of the inner circle of Harburgs but there was the sense that Rebecca was being passed from one pair of safe hands to another. She’d never thought of her own family as a tribe; now she saw that they were, and that for all their warmth and openness, they guarded themselves against outsiders through the very same codes and values with which they welcomed others in. A safe pair of hands. She felt the presence of her family behind her, a solid, breathing, living presence. She caught sight of her face. She’d been frowning, her forehead marked by a single, deep crease, as though she were struggling to grab hold of something. ‘It’s your wedding day,’ she whispered to her own image. ‘Your wedding day.’
She stood up, flattening the folds of her dress with the palms of her hands. Her dark hair was swept up off her face in a loose chignon, with a few curly tendrils escaping to frame and soften the look. Her mother had given her the most exquisite headband of tiny silk roses to wear. She picked it up just as the door opened and her cousin Rachel walked in, followed closely by Tash. They both stopped; Tash gave out one of her customary low wolf-whistles. ‘Don’t make me cry, please,’ Rebecca begged, half-laughing, half-crying. ‘I’ve just had my make-up done.’
‘I’ve been crying all bloody morning,’ Tash announced, throwing herself on the sofa beside the window. ‘Let someone else take over. I don’t care if you’re the bride.’
‘Don’t, it’s bad luck,’ Cousin Rachel said primly. She sat down on the edge of the bed, carefully arranging her skirt around her. ‘To cry on your wedding day,’ she added, in case they’d missed the point.
‘Fuck it. It’s your party,’ Tash grinned.
‘And you shouldn’t swear, either.’
‘All the time, you mean? Or just on one’s wedding day?’
Rebecca threw Tash a pleading glance. Not today, darling. ‘Are all the guests here?’ she asked quickly.
Rachel nodded. ‘There’s one more carload from the airport – Uncle Morris, I think, and Aunt Ellie. Oh, and Adam’s just arrived. He brought his fiancée. Have you seen her?’
Rebecca shook her head, aware that a faint blush had crept into her cheeks. Adam. Her teenage crush. It all seemed so long ago. ‘Ready?’ she asked lightly, turning for one last look at herself.
‘Uh, give us a moment, Rachel,’ Tash asked. ‘Alone.’
‘Why?’
‘We won’t be a minute,’ Rebecca jumped in quickly. ‘Be a darling and just let Mama know I’ll be down in two ticks.’
‘Okay. But only a minute,’ Rachel said reluctantly. ‘Everyone’s waiting.’
‘Jesus, she gets on my nerves,’ Tash said, loudly enough for Rachel to hear as the door closed slowly behind her.
‘Shh, I know, I know . . . but she’s my cousin.’
‘And I’m your best friend.’
‘I . . . I wish . . . well, you know what I wish,’ Rebecca said, bringing up a hand to her eyes again. ‘I wish Annick could be here. Oh, shit, I promised I wouldn’t cry.’
‘And you’re not going to.’ Tash put her arms round her. ‘It’s your wedding day, Rebecca. I can’t believe you’re fucking getting married.’
‘Don’t swear,’ Rebecca said shakily.
‘I know. It’s not nice.’
‘Is your mum here?’
Tash nodded, pulling a face. ‘Unfortunately. Had to persuade her not to wear white. You know what’s she like . . . she’d have upstaged everyone. Right, are you ready?’
Rebecca took a deep breath. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.’
‘Come on, then. It’s time to get you married.’
She circled Julian carefully for the seventh and last time. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her mother dabbing at her eyes and her father’s broad smile. The rabbi carefully laid the cloth-covered glasses on the ground and Julian raised his right foot. There was a moment’s hush, everyone held their breath, then he stamped, breaking them loudly, and the garden behind them erupted in cheers. Embeth was crying openly now; even her father was fumbling for a handkerchief. She felt Julian’s arm on her waist and turned her face up towards his. His eyes were the deepest shade of blue she’d ever seen. She felt his lips against hers and the pressure of his hand at her back.
‘Mazel tov!’ someone shouted behind them. There were answering cheers; people clapped. Blushing and smiling, Rebecca was turned around to face the crowd. The waiters in their smart black and white jackets were standing by, trays of champagne in hand, canapés ready . . . the celebrations were about to begin. There would be speeches and a few tears, lots of laughter and smiles and congratulations all round. Some of
Julian’s colleagues had come over from Paris and they stood around in small groups. One or two of them had come with their wives or partners. These women, in their late thirties and early forties and contemporaries of Julian’s, regarded her warily, their expressions revealing what their words couldn’t. So young. And a Harburg, too. The Lovells were hardly third-rate relations, but there was no denying Julian had made himself a good match – a very good match. Julian was a safe choice for a young girl like her. Lovely man. A safe pair of hands. Rebecca could read their faces as if they’d spoken aloud.
55
TASH
It was hard not to be jealous and she hated herself for it. Rebecca deserved every ounce of her happiness. And she was happy. You only had to look at her to see it. She was glowing with the sort of happiness that gave rise to pop songs and Hallmark cards. Tash tried to imagine what it must be like to have someone interested enough in you to want to spend the next few weeks together, never mind the rest of your life. She couldn’t. The memory of the one and only time she’d ever felt the force of someone else’s passion – Sylvan Betancourt, Annick’s father’s – was mingled with such shame and guilt and try as she might, every time she thought about a man kissing her, wanting to be near, his body anywhere close to hers, her whole body burned with embarrassment. No one had ever looked at her the way Julian gazed at Rebecca. Once, a while back, one of the sub-editors at Style had rather clumsily asked her out. Tim. Tim Collier. Nice enough, in a harmless, unthreatening sort of way. They’d worked together for a few weeks on some inane article about Britain’s most eligible bachelors. One night, a couple of days before deadline, they’d wound up in the office together until almost midnight, checking photo permissions. They got along fine; he was witty and droll and laughed when she said something funny . . . a friend, nothing more.
‘So, who’d you pick, if you had to,’ he asked, straightening up in his chair.
‘Pick? What d’you mean?’ She hadn’t understood him at first.
‘Of the bachelors.’ He indicated the dummy sheet in front of them.
‘Oh, I don’t know . . . they all look the same to me,’ she quipped.
‘No, really. Which one’s most like your boyfriend?’
‘My boyfriend? Which boyfriend?’ Tash was almost too surprised to speak. ‘I haven’t got a boyfriend.’
‘No? How come?’
She stared at him. Was he blind? ‘I . . . I haven’t got the time,’ she said brusquely. ‘Too busy.’
‘Too busy to enjoy yourself?’ It was his turn to sound incredulous.
‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘Now, where are we with these? How many more to go?’ She turned the conversation briskly back to work.
He looked at her queerly for a moment, then acquiesced. ‘Couple more,’ he said, bending his head back down to the photographs. ‘Here . . . take a look at this. She’s just out of focus . . . d’you think we’ll need to clear it with her publicist?’ He handed her a photograph. As she took it, their fingers touched for a second, his lingering a fraction longer than necessary. Tash jerked her hand away as though she’d been burned and got up quickly from her desk. She hurried to the bathroom and opened the window. Tim’s comments and that odd little moment had set off an alarm in her that she couldn’t quite control. She lit a cigarette and leaned out of the window, smoking furiously until her heartbeat had returned to normal. She was being ridiculous, she knew, but his unexpected interest had set off all sorts of alarm bells ringing deep inside her, and she had absolutely no idea why. Better to steer clear of him. He was nice enough, but clearly bonkers. Why would anyone be interested in her?
The next evening, as she was getting ready to leave the office, she found herself walking towards the lift with him.
‘Doing anything special tonight?’ he asked cheerfully as they fell in step.
Tash looked at him warily. Was he making fun of her now that he knew she didn’t have a boyfriend? ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Nothing special.’
‘How about a drink, then?’
She opened her mouth in surprise. Now he really was making fun of her. The panic rose before she could suppress it. ‘What? With you? No thanks,’ she said swiftly. A terrible, painful confusion broke all over her like a sweat. She pushed the emergency exit door and let it slam behind her. She’d been rude, she knew, and cruel. She’d seen the look in his face as she’d said it but she just couldn’t help herself. Better to knock him down than run the risk of humiliation. With you? She’d hurt him, she knew she had. Jesus Christ, she muttered furiously to herself as she clattered down the stairs. What’s wrong with you? He was only asking you for a drink! She shoved down hard on the metal bar and pushed open the door, bursting out onto the street, embarrassed beyond belief.
‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that!’ A woman’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She turned, catching sight of a tall, leggy blonde, her beautiful face distorted with anger. She brushed past Tash and disappeared into the toilet, slamming the door behind her. Seconds later, the front door opened again and a man strode into the hallway. It was Adam, Rebecca’s gorgeous cousin. He stopped and ran a hand through his hair, clearly annoyed. Then he caught sight of Tash and grinned. ‘It’s Tash, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, yes it is.’ She was surprised he even knew who she was.
‘You haven’t got a light, by any chance, have you?’ he asked, pulling a packet of Woodbines from his jacket pocket.
She nodded. ‘Yeah. But I’m not sure we can smoke in here,’ she said hesitantly.
‘You’re absolutely right. Join me outside?’
She was too surprised to do anything other than nod and follow him through the doors. ‘Er, what about your girlfriend?’ she asked, casting a backwards glance towards the toilet.
He shrugged. ‘She’ll calm down eventually. She always does.’ He offered her a cigarette.
‘What did you do, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘More a case of what I didn’t do. You know how it is. Didn’t say she looked nice often enough. Didn’t introduce her quickly enough. Didn’t introduce her properly. Didn’t, didn’t, didn’t . . . relationships are just one long string of “didn’t”s, don’t you find?’
‘Wouldn’t know,’ Tash said cheerfully. She inhaled deeply. ‘Never had one.’ She blew the smoke carefully out of the corner of her mouth.
Adam looked down at her. There weren’t many men who could look down at Tash. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’
Tash shook her head. ‘Nope.’
‘How come?’
Tash shrugged. ‘No reason in particular. Just never met anyone I—’
The door behind them opened suddenly. It was Adam’s girlfriend. Her face was a mask of sulky beauty. ‘I’m going home,’ she said sulkily.
Adam swore softly under his breath, then glanced at Tash as if to say, See what I mean? ‘You can’t go home now,’ he said patiently, as if explaining something to a child. ‘There’s dinner first, then the speeches.’
‘I’m going home,’ she repeated, though her voice wasn’t quite as strident as it had been. She was weakening.
Tash dropped her cigarette, stubbing it out with her toe. It was clearly a ritual they’d been through many times before. She gave Adam a quick grin, and left them to it. He was right. A relationship? Who’d want one? Not her. Liar, a little voice inside her spoke up suddenly. Liar. She suppressed it and hurried over to find someone to talk to. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with those sorts of thoughts.
A few hours later, when the dancing inside the house was in full swing, she wandered outside for a quick cigarette and found herself in the company of a group of men, including Julian, Rebecca’s new husband. She was suddenly shy; he smiled at her rather gravely. ‘You’re Tash, aren’t you?’ he asked curiously, breaking away from the group.
She nodded. ‘Yes.’ It was the second time someone had asked her that question.
‘Well,’ he looked down at his own wedding suit. ‘You know who I
am,’ he said, and laughed.
She laughed with him. She felt curiously tongue-tied in his presence. ‘Congratulations,’ she said, not knowing what else to say.
He looked at her keenly. ‘Thank you.’ There was a slightly awkward pause. She was one of Rebecca’s best friends and yet their wedding day was their first real encounter – there was an awkwardness there that neither could fully admit to. ‘You’re the entrepreneur,’ he said, and again, it was more of a statement than a question. ‘Rebecca’s always talking about you. She’s been telling me a little bit about your business idea.’
Tash blushed immediately. ‘Oh . . . well, we’ve still got a long way to go,’ she said quickly, wondering how much Rebecca had actually told him.
‘Not much,’ he said, reading her mind. ‘But I’m intrigued. I’m an investor. I look for good ideas to invest in and this sounds interesting. You should come and see me. In the office, I mean. Here . . . let me give you a card.’ He slid a hand inside his jacket. ‘Just give my secretary a call. We’re in France next week but we’re back at the weekend.’
Tash nodded. ‘Th . . . thanks,’ she said uncertainly. She liked the way he said it. We’re in France next week. ‘I’ll give you a ring when you’re back.’ She saw Rebecca out of the corner of her eye, coming towards them. She was tipsy, Tash saw. The rosy colour was up in her cheeks and her eyes shone with warmth, in spite of the cold.
‘So . . . you’ve met,’ she laughed, slipping an arm around them both. ‘Finally. It feels a bit strange, doesn’t it?’
‘Why’s that, darling?’ Julian looked at her indulgently.
‘Here I am, getting married. No, I am married,’ she corrected herself, giggling. ‘And yet you’ve never met.’
‘Well, we have now. And I’ve asked Tash to come and see me when we get back.’ Julian put his arm round his wife.
‘Oh?’
‘Mmm. We’ve got business to talk about.’ He winked at Tash and they turned to greet someone else.