by Fiona Mozley
They stand together for several minutes, passing shades to each other, arguing over hues, smudging testers onto the backs of their hands.
“You are absolutely not buying a glittery one. Absolutely not.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
They try more testers and smear more colors on the backs of their hands. They hold the lipsticks against their faces and look into the square mirror at the side of the concession to check if the color complements their skin tones.
“Let’s get one for you too,” Anastasia suggests.
“I’m not going to buy my makeup from a stand at a motorway service station.”
“Oh but it’s good enough for me, is it?” There’s hurt in her voice, hurt that’s been building from these last few months of cold dismissal from her daughter.
“No, it’s not. That’s why I suggested you wait. And if you can’t wait until we’re back in London then at least let’s pop into somewhere in Ripon or Helmsley. They will stock some better brands.”
“Yes, yes, they all stock those brands that look the same. You want to dress me up like some horsey aristocrat. Well, I’m sorry, Agatha, but that just isn’t me. I like lipstick with blue glitter and if you have a problem with that, well it’s tough.”
There’s no reasoning with her. She’s so sensitive these days.
“You can wear whatever you like when you’re picking up men on the French Riviera but excuse me if I don’t want to turn up in the owners’ enclosure with a mother who looks like a prostitute.”
Anastasia carefully places the lipstick back onto the stand, turns to her daughter and slaps her hard across the face.
That’s another thing about her mother: she watches too much daytime TV.
Anastasia is wearing several rings on each finger. They caught Agatha’s skin and there’s a small amount of blood on her upper lip.
A middle-aged woman in a blue uniform is stacking sandwiches into a nearby fridge. She stops mid-motion, turns towards the scene. Her eyes are open wide.
“What the fuck you looking at, you dumb bitch?”
The shopworker scurries away to the side of the shop, quickly types a code into the keypad on a locked door and disappears behind it.
“I cannot believe you just did that,” says Agatha quietly.
Anastasia rummages in her handbag and pulls out a fresh tissue. She moves it towards her daughter’s face to wipe away the blood. Agatha takes a step back.
“You will never touch me again.”
“Oh please. Oh please. That was nothing. If that was the worst you’ve had, then you’ve led a very easy life indeed, my dear.”
“Maybe so. But I won’t be treated with so little respect.”
“How would you like me to treat you? Would you like me to bow and curtsy; treat you like a little princess because you’ve got your money now? And where did that money come from? Did you earn it? Did you fight for it? Was it your skin and sweat and blood that secured it? No. It was mine. All mine. Oh, my sweet naive precious little princess. If you only knew the things I had to do to give you this life. The things I’ve done. The things I’ve seen done. The things that have been done to me. But no. You believe it, don’t you? You really believe it? You believe that you have these luxuries because of your own superiority.”
“The business has gone from strength to strength under my management. You would see if you ever bothered to study the figures. But you wouldn’t understand even if you did look. You can’t read. You certainly can’t count. You know nothing of finance and business. And it wasn’t you who built this fortune; it was my father. And it’s clear that though I never met the man, I take after him rather than after you. He built an empire from scratch. All you’ve ever done is find rich and powerful men to cling on to. And that’s a skill, is it? That’s a skill? That’s something I should admire you for, be proud of, emulate? You think I’m embarrassed of you? Well then, yes. Yes I am. Of course I am. How could I not be? You’re nothing but a whore. A whore, a whore, a whore.”
The blood above Agatha’s lip is beginning to dry. She takes the paper tissue from Anastasia’s hand and uses it to dab the cut.
Anastasia’s face settles into an expression Agatha can’t quite read. She might be about to apologize or she might be about to spit in her daughter’s face. After a short pause, she says, “Your position is under attack on a number of different fronts. Your sisters are still trying to prove that either you or Donski’s last will is illegitimate. That band of hookers have kicked up a huge fuss. The newspapers have become involved—the left-wing press because you’re rich and because of your political donations; the right-wing press because the roots of your business are sordid, and also because you’re a woman and a foreigner in their eyes. You need your friends at this moment. You need your mother.”
“I have everything under control. When I need help, it will come from well-educated, qualified, trained professionals, whose services I will pay for. You don’t know anything about it.”
“I don’t know anything about it? I have been defending your fortune your whole life. I’ve been fighting your half-sisters since the moment I popped you out. I used to go to arbitration with your mouth clamped around my tit. I know what they’re like. Don’t underestimate them. They would rather see everything crumble than allow the estate to remain under your control. You can use your lawyers and your politicians and your policemen and your business speak all you like, but do not forget how this fortune was won—because that is what they will use against you.”
Agatha doesn’t answer immediately. A family with small children comes into the shop. They busy themselves at the refrigerators, selecting and reselecting combinations of sandwiches, wraps, fizzy drinks and packets of crisps that fit the shop’s meal deal. They’re oblivious to the scene on the next aisle. The dad is wearing a checked shirt and faded blue jeans. He becomes more and more irritated by his wife and two elder children who keep changing their minds and squabbling over the last BLT. The mother intervenes with suggestions of sharing but this is poorly received. Only the youngest child, a girl of about five, stands back from her family and watches Anastasia and Agatha as they argue.
The little girl sees the face of the older woman crumple in anger then relax in despair. She sees the color of her cheeks range from red to white to red. She sees tears build at the corners of her eyes then boil over and drip down her face. The older woman says the word “fucking” a lot. The little girl knows this word because her older sister whispers it to her between mouthfuls at the dinner table then giggles then whispers it again behind her hand then giggles. She sees the older woman turn and leave the shop with a lipstick clenched in one hand and her handbag in the other. The younger woman, whom the little girl cannot fathom as a daughter because daughters are little children like her, stands still.
Agatha goes to the till and waits for the checkout assistant to re-emerge. She pays in cash for the lipstick her mother has taken, sliding loose change over the counter one coin at a time.
Set in Silver
“I was an idiot for trusting that bitch. But whatever. Damage done. Lesson learned. I’ve moved on.” Precious has not moved on. “The thing that fucks me off, though, is that it was so blatantly obvious something like this was going to happen. I should have spotted it a mile off.”
“If she was a bloke you would have,” says Tabitha. “We’re constantly on the lookout for dodgy blokes—men who pay you for one thing then demand another, men who don’t pay what they’ve agreed to pay, men who pretend to be all charming then are complete jerks. We’re wise to that. But with a woman it’s a whole other game.”
Tabitha is standing by the kitchen counter staring at the toaster. It is sitting at a jaunty angle, closer to the edge of the surface than it should be. She pushes it back against the wall. “Is it just me or is this toaster further forward than it used to be? I shift it back every morning, and it just creeps forwards again over the course of the day.”
Precious i
gnores her.
“Do you have to move on though?” Candy is sitting by the little table in the corner. The window next to her is open at the bottom, and her arm is dangling out, drooping at the wrist, a lit cigarette in her hand. She keeps leaning towards the opening, taking a drag, exhaling, then rejoining the conversation. “Isn’t there anything you can do about it?”
“Like what?”
“Someone can’t just take a photo of you and put it all over the place without your permission.”
“Yes they can. Of course they can. Do you think the paparazzi ask celebs for permission before selling photos of them arse over tit at 4 a.m.?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Precious invited this photographer up to the flat. She posed for her.”
“More fool me,” Precious says. “If anything, that makes it even less likely I’ll be able to do anything about it. God, I’m such an idiot. It’s like inviting a known burglar into your home then being surprised when they make off with your jewelry.”
“Fuck her,” says Tabitha. “Fuck Mona Beardsley. Fuck her to hell.”
Tabitha throws down the pamphlet she is holding. It is a program for a photography exhibition. The photograph of Precious that Mona took in her bedroom three months before is the image that has been selected to advertise it.
Tabitha had been out for longer than usual that morning. She came back from the shops with a grim expression and thrust the brochure towards Precious. Tabitha had seen a much larger version of the image on a poster by the entrance to the Tube and jogged over to the gallery to see what it was all about.
Young Scarlet is in the room with them. She is leaning over to look at the brochure Tabitha threw onto the floor. She puts on a superior voice and says, “If it helps, it’s a very powerful image.”
Precious looks down too. She sees herself rendered in black and white. There is little contrast between the light and shade, meaning that the whole picture, herself included, has a silvery quality. It appears to shimmer, even though the paper is matte. It looks old, like the photos of people’s grandparents she used to see on mantelpieces when she worked at clients’ houses, only the subject is different. She is sitting on her bed in her underwear, leaning back with an expression on her face that she doesn’t recognize. It is at odds with everything she thinks about herself and feels about her life. She looks scared. She has been captured at a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability, but this is the version of her that everyone will see. They will look at her and believe they know her. They will be moved by this beautiful, powerful image of a poor, fragile woman, and not realize it is a lie.
Precious recently saw a photo of Agatha Howard. She doesn’t own a computer and only uses her phone for contacting friends and family, or the occasional game of Solitaire. Neither does she have a Facebook profile or a Twitter account and she rarely uses email. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to stalk an adversary online.
It was Tabitha who had alerted her to the possibility. She had been to the pub with Crystal, and Crystal showed her a picture of Agatha Howard that she had found. Tabitha came home and showed Precious, along with an article from a village newspaper in Yorkshire that connected Agatha Howard to some local job cuts.
“She looks like a right bitch,” Tabitha said.
Precious looked at the photo of Agatha. It had been taken at a high-society function, and she was standing with a man and a woman, and others could be seen behind, milling about holding glasses of champagne.
The men were wearing dinner jackets and shining black shoes. The women were wearing dresses that reached to the floor.
Agatha Howard’s dress was black. Black is the most elegant color but also the most clandestine. It’s a color to hide behind. Agatha Howard’s hair was long and blonde. It reached to her chest, and was sleek and precise. She was very beautiful. She had high cheekbones and bright blue eyes, her face was symmetrical and she was tall and slim.
Precious found herself using her fingers to zoom in on the image. She expanded and enlarged parts of Agatha Howard’s face and body, and the faces of the people around her, as if Precious could find clues about her opponent from these close-up sections of skin and black silk; from the way she clutched her champagne flute, to the way she stood with one foot slightly in front of the other.
It was strange to see the face of the person who had caused them all so much grief. Precious couldn’t decide whether her first impression of the woman was informed just by the photo or by her knowledge of what the woman had done to them. She looked cold, withdrawn, as if everything around her was dangerous and disgusting, unclean and unkind. Precious and Tabitha were specks of dirt beneath this woman’s French-polished fingernail, to be gouged out and flicked away.
“She looks terrified,” says Precious, partly in response to Tabitha’s earlier comment.
After this, they tried a couple of times to contact Agatha Howard and arrange a face to face chat. They never received any reply.
Later, after Candy and Young Scarlet have left, Precious gets a call from her eldest son, Marcus. His girlfriend is pregnant again and Precious is eager for updates. She asks him about Nicky’s prenatal classes and plans for the birth. They speak about his work situation and the prospect of paternity leave, and they arrange a shopping trip the following weekend so Precious can buy them various essentials ahead of the birth. At first Marcus says she doesn’t need to do this, that they can afford to buy these items themselves, but Precious insists and Marcus gives in quickly.
Marcus and his girlfriend already have a daughter, Connie, which is not short for Constance but a standalone name. It is Connie on her birth certificate.
Precious makes a point of spoiling Connie. She wants her to grow up loved, never doubting that she is loved. She wants her to wear warm clothes from expensive shops that last for years rather than months, but which will be replaced regularly anyway. She wants her to go to a posh private school and make friends with posh private-school children and wear a posh little uniform Precious can tease her about when she comes home.
Tabitha has been trying to teach Precious how to knit pullovers and leggings for Connie, but so far the results have been disappointing, and Tabitha has been quickly and efficiently finishing off most of the projects on Precious’s behalf, before Precious wraps them in tissue paper and a bow and writes a little note “Love from Nanna.”
Then Marcus says, “I saw you had another interview in the paper.”
Precious stops speaking immediately. She thought neither of her sons knew of her profession. She thought they believed she still worked in a beauty salon. She was careful in those interviews. She wore a mask and did not give away personal details, except her first name. The thought of Ashley and Marcus knowing their mother is a prostitute makes her feel ill. She feels no shame for her own sake but young men can have a strange sense of honor that extends to all their female relatives. It is one thing to feel at ease about her choices in life but another to be easy about them when around her sons.
She says, “What interview?”
“The one in the weekend supplement, about all the evictions. You look lovely in the photos. Behind the mask, that is.”
Precious says nothing. Tabitha is in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher. Precious can hear the clink of cutlery and crockery in one ear, and her own silence in the other.
Marcus continues, “You’re getting quite a following. The things you’ve said about property ownership and renting and gentrification and all that have really hit a nerve. You’re a major hashtag.”
“I know,” she says.
“How many interviews is this now? I’ve counted twelve.”
“Fifteen, including the radio ones. I was on BBC Radio London and LBC.”
“I should be keeping a scrapbook, for the grandchildren.”
“Marcus—”
“I think it’s great what you’re doing, Mum. You’ve got a real talent for this kind of thing. You should’ve gone
into politics or something.”
Precious is silent again.
“Anyway, Nicky’s making lunch, I should go and help her. But I’ll see you next weekend, yeah? And maybe talk in the week.”
“Okay,” says Precious.
“I love you, Mum.”
“I love you, Marcus.”
Precious presses the red dot on her iPhone to hang up the call. Tabitha comes through from the kitchen with a dust-cloth and a bottle of furniture polish. She notices the grave look on her friend’s face.
“You all right, love?”
“Yeah,” replies Precious, unconvincingly. She puts the phone face down on the sofa and gets up. She goes through to the kitchen to pour herself another coffee. She places the filled mug in the microwave. As she waits she leans forward with both hands pressed onto the kitchen counter. She goes back into the other room before the microwave has finished. She says, “You know that thing we were talking about the other night?”
Tabitha is at the table, brushing crumbs from its surface into her hand. She turns towards Precious and makes a noise of recognition.
“I’m thinking of going for it. I mean, what have I got to lose? Other than, for example, my self-respect.”
Tabitha sprays the furniture polish onto the table and scrapes the white foam across the wooden surface with the cloth. “You won’t embarrass yourself,” she says. “How could you? You’re so good at this stuff.”
Tabitha takes a handful of crumbs to the kitchen and deposits them in the bin. Then she brings through a couple of glossy holiday brochures that were on the countertop. She and Precious have been idly contemplating a European city break.
