Party Girl at Heart

by Karen Elaine Campbell

  “What do you think Jazz would say if I spoiled his dinner, left a trail of ingredients all over the kitchen and then sat on the draining board in my underwear and waited for him to offer me a romantic night out at a posh restaurant?” She mused.

  The cat jumped down onto the floor and pointedly sat down beside her food plate, conversation over.

  “Okay, okay, point taken. Look, I’m fetching you some cream, just wait a moment,” she told her. Then, “I know it’s a stupid idea, but quite frankly I’m running out of options. He’s just so distant at the moment Lindsay, it’s like I’m not really here at all, you know? I guess I just don’t know how to connect with him anymore. Where did it all come un-stuck? Oh, don’t get me wrong, he certainly fancies me, we have no trouble on a primal level, but I don’t think he knows who I am these days, you know?” She stooped down low to rub the cat’s soft furry ears. “The other evening, when Imogen was going on about babies and things, he even said I’d look nice in a smock. Nice? I ask you, since when do baggy dresses and flowery tunics feature in my wardrobe? I’m sure it’s Imogen who’s been putting silly ideas into his head, you know. Bloody woman.”

  Lindsay blinked and stared straight at her.

  She bent down and put the remainder of the cream from the plastic container into Lindsay’s dish, as she straightened up she looked at her watch. “I’m late!” she howled, and ran for the bedroom, finally registering that the trail of brown gunge had spread and smudged itself right down the length of her leg. She’d have to get changed now, before she could go out.

  Out of time, she chose the loudest, brightest and most flamboyant outfit in her wardrobe. It was a favourite and there wasn’t time to mess around wondering what Imogen would deem ‘suitable’. She shrugged out of the suit jacket and threw the pale green wool trousers at the linen basket, reaching for a hot pink mohair jumper and super new slim fit jeans from ‘Seven’. The flat, pale suede court shoes followed the trousers and she shoved them in the direction of the linen basket as well. Thigh high black patent boots with killer heels came out of the wardrobe and slid on over her jeans. There, that was much more comfortable and it would knock their eyes out at the Bridge Club, she thought. She was fed up with being demure and discreet, after the morning she’d had it was way past time for the true Crystal to surface again.

  She tipped her head on one side and spent a moment scrutinising her appearance in the mirror. She looked much better like this, invigorated, dynamic even. Life had been a bit hazy these past few months and she knew that she had allowed Imogen’s constant badgering to influence her style. Some of her favourite clothes had been discarded in favour of Imogen’s version of ‘lady-like’, she’d capitulated too many times, far too many of Imogen’s choices had sloped into her life. The pale and discreet colours made her feel frail and wishy-washy, they didn’t energise her or make her soul sing, in fact, they drained her. She should have noticed it before. When she’d struggled out of bed this morning and reached for that trouser suit she’d felt demoralised and downtrodden, verging on pathetic.

  She stared at the revelation in the mirror; there was one more thing needed to complete the outfit, she smiled and threw her head forwards so that the neat, smoothly ironed and coiled tresses tumbled forwards and sprang free from the sleek chignon she’d painstakingly pinned up only an hour ago. All it took was a quick spritz of water from the bathroom sink, a firm ruffle with bold fingers and a determined slick of hair gel and she was back to her old self in no time, a long vibrant rope of platinum hair tumbled down her back in a riot of curls and the reflection in the mirror confirmed it, she looked normal again, Crystal punched the air in triumph. Her eyes glowed as she twisted this way and that, admiring the close fit of the sensuous pink wool, this top had always done wonderful things for her cleavage, she couldn’t imagine why she’d followed Imogen’s edict and begun to wear the drab greys and sludge coloured pastels that the silly woman had selected for her.

  Imogen could play finicky mama-to-be if she liked, but Crystal was back, bold and in charge right now, and that was the way it was going to stay. As a final defiant gesture she rummaged through her drawer, to the very back, looking for a bottle of her favourite perfume. There must be some around here somewhere, she’d worn it years ago, when she’d been spirited, brave and determined.

  The perfume wasn’t in the back of the drawer, or in the neat padded box where she kept assorted bits and bobs and the more outrageous of her tacky, girly clutter. She rifled through the crumpled up sachets of free beauty products, wrinkle cream and nail polish remover, hair slides, bobby pins and a slinky pair of Lurex leg warmers. There was even an unopened package of false eyelashes, bought in some ‘half-price’ sale or other with their faded ‘reduced’ stickers curling up at the corners and the glossy paper turning brown around the edges. No perfume though, so she cast a glance around the bedroom and spotted the trunk that Jazz used for his aftershave and personal stuff, had it been put in there by mistake? She had tidied out the old bathroom cabinet, back last Christmas, while Jazz had been visiting Imogen and Giles. She’d managed to feign illness at the last moment and had cried off, leaving Jazz to visit his relatives alone.

  Of course, the second that the door had closed behind him, she’d had a remarkable recovery and had turned the stereo on full blast, raided the fridge and had her own private party, just her and Lindsay, slouching on the sofa with a bottle of ‘fizz’ and the remains of the off-cuts from the day before. After several glasses of wine, she’d gone to the bathroom to spend a couple of ‘quality’ hours, relaxing in the bath and had ended up rifling through the bathroom cupboard looking for some luxury bubbles to add a bit of glamour to the tub. There had been strawberry fizzers, chocolate soufflés and champagne bubbles amongst the assortment of girly clutter and the masculine simplicity of Jazz’s expensive toiletries had looked somewhat austere, marooned there, in amongst the chaos and flighty frippery of several years worth of beauty purchases, so on an unexpected wave of domestic zeal, fuelled by champagne and smoked salmon canapés, she had decided to tidy up and sort out.

  She remembered now how she had dumped most of Jazz’s things into the heavy trunk that he kept on his side of the bed, and wondered if her perfume had accidentally slipped in there by mistake. Without second thought she marched around to his side of the bed and lifted the heavy metal lid. At first glance, there were a few old college books, some boxes of cufflinks and several bottles of aftershave. Then she saw what she was looking for, in amongst the masculine packaging was the distinctive chunky star shaped bottle that she wanted. She swooped on the perfume with delight and sprayed the musky, exotic fragrance liberally down her cleavage and all over her hair. The scent was a real statement, it defined her life and briefly reminded her of another time and place; an icy-cold hayloft on a moonlight night in February, and a meeting of minds and souls, overwritten by a night of torrid passion. She smiled and pointedly squirted the fragrance again with satisfaction. With a subtle flick of her newly re-arranged platinum hair and a quick slick of lip gloss, she was ready to face the world, cat-licked cake and all.

  As she bent to close the lid on the trunk, the writing on the front of the envelope on the top caught her attention; she’d know that writing anywhere. Her hand reached out for it without conscious thought, her fingers folding around the pale pink paper with the excessive flowery script. Since when had Verity been in contact with Jazz? Why would he keep such an old letter anyhow, she’d moved on years ago now. Crystal raised her arm and brought the paper in a bit closer, it was postmarked just a month or so ago, recent, very recent, in fact. Odd that Jazz hadn’t mentioned it, more than odd, she thought. The hackles on the back of her neck stood out on end. Did it mean anything? An ugly thought popped into her head, she had no idea where it came from, but it questioned her values, nonetheless. She’d been blaming Imogen’s influence on her relationship with Jazz, encouraging discord, but this letter offered a completely different insight. Had Jazz been seeing Verity aga
in, without her knowledge? Would it matter if he had? It didn’t mean anything, did it? She shook her head. He wouldn’t. She knew that he wouldn’t. She was sure about that; wasn’t she?

  A little voice reminded her that Jazz had problems with reception on his mobile phone here and tended to walk out of the room as he answered his calls lately, claiming that the signal was better outside. Had he been in contact with Verity? Was there anything in that letter that she needed to know about? Should she pry? Her fingers hovered over the flap at the back, it had already been opened of course, but Jazz had tucked the end back in again, underneath. It would only take a moment to open it up, she could read the letter for herself and then she would know. She raised the paper to her nose and sniffed it, did it smell of Verity?

  As she closed her eyes and inhaled, the aroma of expensive cologne and the indefinable scent of her lover filled her nostrils; it smelled of Jazz. A tiny arrow of pain wrenched at her belly, had he been secretly carrying that letter around in the breast pocket of his jacket, close to his heart? Her imagination cranked into overdrive. How long had he carried it around with him, what did it mean?

  The treacherous letter scorched at her fingers and she dropped it in distaste.

  She stared at it, where it landed at her feet; it was pink, it had flowers embossed on the outside, that didn’t make it a love-letter though, it really didn’t.

  The memories that the envelope resurrected were mostly unpleasant. She stooped down low and grasped the stationery with thumb and forefinger, pitching it back into the trunk with a deft flick of the wrist and closing the lid of the trunk decisively, it was all in the past now. They’d been living together for almost four years, there was no way a letter from Verity could harm her now.

  But why hadn’t he told her? A small voice asked. Why would he keep this a secret?

  She’d ask him tonight, she told herself, there had to be some explanation.

  In the car, the personal transformation continued. Out went the classical music, pan pipes and oriental water music and into the CD player went several variations of heavy metal and the sexy baritone of Mr Tom Jones, his voice sent shivers down her spine. She was happily howling along to the sensuous thump of ‘Sex Bomb, (you can really turn me on…)’ as she squealed to a halt outside the Primrose Manor Country Club, the preferred haunt of the village Ladies’ Bridge Club.

  Doug, the ancient gardener, was out pruning the wisteria as she slid in through the magnificent wrought iron gates sideways and slithered to an abrupt halt, tyres racing for traction on the neatly raked gravel and spewing bits of grit and shale out in an arc behind her. With a quick flick of the switch on the dash, the retractable roof of the Aston began to sweep effortlessly into place and Crystal reluctantly ceased bopping along to the music and turned down the volume on the stereo, squaring her shoulders and automatically checking her reflection in the rear view mirror before reaching for her handbag.

  “Hi there, Miss Crystal,” Doug called, as she reached through to the rear seats to pick out the large plastic container which held the neatly repaired sponge cake. “You’ve got the boss’s car today then?” he remarked, as she trotted past with high heels clicking on the honey coloured stones.

  “Hi Doug. Yes, I felt like a change today,” she replied breezily.

  “I’ll say,” the gardener retorted as he swept an all encompassing glance over the hot pink outfit, rampant hair and kinky thigh high boots.

  “A special party today?” he asked quizzically, as he scratched his head in wonderment. He’d not realised there was a bit of a ‘do’ going on in the clubhouse, especially at this time in the morning. He raised his wrist and tapped at his watch, to make sure that it was still functioning and had not stopped unexpectedly.

  “No, no. Just a bit of a re-vamp. I’m the scarlet woman today. Fed up with being boring, you know?”

  Oh boy, yes he knew alright. He sucked at his dentures. The last time Crystal had turned up here in that kind of a mood had been for the Rugby club party, several years ago now. Apparently she’d caught her boyfriend out cheating on her or something, so village gossip went. She’d given them all a right run-around. The boyfriend, one of the wealthy land-owners sons, had been far too embarrassed to show his face here again for weeks after.

  Doug wondered what had caused this latest volte-face. They had all thought she was beginning to settle down at last, here in the village with that company-director boyfriend of hers, he’d been a steadying influence on Crystal over the past few years, or that was what it had seemed. With the hindsight of a considerable age, Doug recognised immediately that from the car, to the hair, to the outfit, she looked like trouble today and no mistake.

  “Your Gran and the other ladies have already arrived miss, and missus Imogen, she’s here already too, looked a bit sour faced miss, I should say. I don’t think she’s feeling very amenable today, I’d watch it if I were you,” he added, pained to be discussing the guests out of earshot, but feeling the need to smooth things out somewhat, where he could. He indicated the container Crystal was carrying: “You been baking again miss?” he asked hopefully. That last cake she had brought over here had been right good, he wouldn’t mind another slice of a cake like that, given the chance.

  “Don’t worry Doug,” Crystal laughed, “it’s a very big cake I’m sure I can save you a slice, I’ll pop a bit into the kitchen fridge for you when we cut it and you can have some with your coffee later.”

  Doug clicked his dentures again. “You’re an angel. Now hop on inside, before they come on out here looking for you, on you go.”

  Crystal clicked her heels together in mock salute, “Yessir,” she trilled as she trailed her way on over to the steps which led up to the front door.

  It was dark inside the foyer, and she stopped for a moment to blink her eyes and give herself time to adjust to the subdued lighting in the cool and calm interior. There was a large lemon and gold flower arrangement over on the long table which skirted one side of the elegant hallway and the entrance carried the delicate fragrance of the freshly cut flowers combined with the smell of the traditional beeswax polish that the army of cleaners used about the place. Add in the aroma of coffee drifting through from the ante-room over to the left and the hushed rattle of fine crockery and subdued conversation and the ambiance of the refined Country Club spoke volumes about the place.

  She’d barely had time to blink twice before the side door was yanked open fully and Imogen strode out into the hallway, immaculately cut, light brown hair hanging like a waterfall straight down to her shoulders and flicking up on the ends where it touched her collar, pale grey wide legged cotton pants and matching chemise billowing in the breeze from the open doorway beyond.

  “Ah, Crystal, you’ve arrived. Allez, Allez. Vite, Vite,” she instructed with a click of the fingers. “Ladies waiting. You must learn to be more circumspect in your time-keeping Crystal. A lady is never late for her appointments.”

  “A true lady wouldn’t mention another’s shortcomings, Imogen,” Crystal retaliated, with a sweet smile. Then as Imogen’s eyes narrowed, as she took in the hair, the clothes and the boots, Crystal continued, “Problems with the new kitchen, I’m afraid.” That should distract the miserable witch, she thought uncharitably.

  Imogen’s eyes flashed as the barb hit home.

  When Jazz had initially expressed an interest in re-modelling the kitchen, Crystal had casually remarked that the one they had was fine and she couldn’t see any point in spending money on something that was working perfectly well as it was. She actually loved the ancient hand-crafted old units, the original crumbling ‘Belfast’ sink and the slightly grubby painted woodwork, shabby-chic they called it these days, and it suited her just fine. They had a large kitchen, large enough for a tiny scrubbed pine table pushed up against one wall in the corner and a traditional butchers block to use as a portable island and move around wherever she needed additional work space. It was a comfortable and homely space and it suited the character
of the house perfectly.

  ‘Imogen says it is tired and old.’ He’d retorted. ‘She says we will get more for the place when we do decide to sell if we do something with it now.’

  Crystal had shifted uncomfortably. She hadn’t liked the way that the conversation was going at all. Imogen had recently ripped out a beautiful hand crafted ‘Smallbone’ kitchen from her own newly acquired property and installed a hideous monstrosity of chrome, glass and marble in an evil shade of steel grey. It may be sleek and shiny new, but it was about as welcoming as walking into a battleship in the middle of a storm, Crystal thought. ‘It might make financial sense.’ – Jazz didn’t take criticism of his sister well, she’d noticed lately, – ‘but I’m busy with work these days and I really don’t have time to choose colours and paint finishes and cope with a major refurbishment right now.’ Silently adding, and there’s no way I want to part with my kitchen, either, regardless of what Imogen thinks.

  Jazz had seemed satisfied with the answer, so imagine the shock and the horror, when over dinner two weeks later Jazz and Imogen dropped the bombshell together, with a satisfied smirk, that Jazz had asked Imogen to oversee the new kitchen and Imogen had been happy to oblige. Crystal had stared mournfully into her claret and felt railroaded and betrayed. Over the course of the remainder of the evening, none of her excuses were heeded, and Jazz and Imogen had begun to make grand plans.

  Later that evening, as they’d lain in bed together, she’d tried unsuccessfully to broach the subject with Jazz, but he’d seemed distant and remote the second that his sister’s name had been raised, so Crystal had allowed the subject to drop for fear of causing a rift between them.

  That had been the start of their problems, she thought, with sudden clarity. Her eyes flashed a warning as she turned to Imogen now and added with relish, “I seem to have dropped something unsuitable into that fancy new garbage disposal unit, it’s all gone up in a puff of smoke this morning.”