Viv says, ‘Just to please you I shall be on the lookout for unwashed, depraved Lotharios who prey on foolish old women.’ She throws fortune hunters into the mix for good measure, although anyone who looked at her and imagined she was harbouring a fortune would need their head read.
They take an Uber to West Hampstead, where Geoff has laid the table for three, put some Hendrick’s in the fridge and opened a bottle of red to breathe. He greets Julia with a bear hug, which Viv thinks is more than she has scored herself for many a month. Jules is looking as glam as ever, he enthuses. Eternally youthful.
This is an unfortunate slip, as matters stand. An undercurrent passes between the three of them. No one, however, bats an eyelid.
The lapse prompts Geoff to recall that Viv has been to the hairdresser. He is complimentary. It looks very nice. ‘And the colour, Geoff,’ prods Jules. Yes, that’s nice too. But it sounds perfunctory to Viv’s ears.
The women know that Geoff knows something (although by no means all) of what they have been discussing over the past couple of hours. And Geoff is perfectly well aware that his wife will have shared his contentious sentence, word for word, and that the wider implications will by now have been thoroughly dissected. Both women know he is aware of this, and Geoff knows that they know.
This is how it is when old friends have shared a flat in their youth. But in order to be relaxed and convivial together, as is their way, the subject that is uppermost in everyone’s mind will not be aired this evening. They will enjoy each other’s company and recycle a number of old jokes. It will seem, on the face of it, as if nothing has changed.
Viv makes a pasta sauce while Julia and Geoff drink gin and tonic at the kitchen table, and catch up. This is largely focused on what Jules describes as the big fat full stop in her career. Geoff, shaking the vinaigrette in a jar, is sympathetic. Empathetic, even. He knows what it’s like to have your life behind you and bugger all to do.
‘But you chose to leave,’ says Jules. ‘You weren’t given the bum’s rush.’
Geoff shrugs. ‘No, but it would have happened. One just got in first in a vain attempt to hang on to one’s self-respect.’ Viv is surprised to hear him say this. He and Jules nod sagely. Self-respect is something they feel strongly about. It has been a central driver of both their careers.
Jules looks at him. ‘All that time. How to kill it? Meaningfully, I mean, not just belting balls through hoops and droning on about little green men.’ It’s a tease that usually gets a rise. ‘You don’t have any problem, do you, Viv?’
‘But I’m not killing time. I like what I do.’
Jules tweaks the table settings. ‘The blade of the knife should always point inwards, Geoff. Didn’t your mother tell you?’ She sighs. ‘It all boils down to finding a substitute for something you’ve given your life to and adored.’ Viv sees she is worried this may be too close to the bone.
It’s not lost on them that this is a privileged conversation. They are lucky to have the prospect, says Geoff, of having a retirement, let alone of living into it. And of living into one’s old age, Viv adds sharply. To defuse this, Jules raises another matter that concerns them all: the continuing saga of Daisy and her boyfriend. She takes seriously her position as godmother to Daisy Julia Mayberry.
Neither she nor Daisy’s parents like Marco very much – not much at all, really – but what can you do? Daisy is getting (rapidly) on for thirty-nine, and it’s her life. But if she is going to have a baby, and they know this is what she wants, she needs to get her skates on. Marco is not keen to procreate and has thus far been successful in avoiding it.
For a while those on the outside looking in had rated this fortunate, since Marco and fatherhood were a discouraging mix to contemplate. But the march of time is forcing a re-think, and it may be a case of making the best of a bad job. At least Marco has one. And not a bad one, either. A former ace computer hacker, he’s now high up in IT security, an area none of them has much of a clue about. He earns enough to subsidise Daisy’s more challenging career as a painter of miniature portraits.
And neither does Marco have any transmittable genetic defects, as far as anyone knows. Other than his disastrous personality, says Geoff. This is something of a family joke, though not one ever made in Daisy’s presence.
The conversation moves on. Easy, comfortable, and substantially evasive.
5
THE INTERVIEW
Viv and Julia share the same GP, tucked away in a small street near the British Museum. Viv has been friends with Nerida Clifford since they were at Oxford. She thinks it’s quite possible that Nerida knows her better than her husband does; certain intimate details about herself, at least. Geoff was always squeamish about medical matters, even though he worked in pharmaceuticals. Today is a case in point.
‘Greetings, m’dear. Long time no see. What would seem to be the problem?’ This is Nerida’s standard intro, however recently Viv may have been in, after they have greeted one another with a kiss on both cheeks.
‘The pesky problem would seem to be pelvic-floor dryness.’ And today Viv feels bound to add, ‘Age related, no doubt.’
‘No doubt, but we have cunning potions with which to tackle it.’ Nerida looks at her computer screen. ‘We might kill two birds while we’re at it. You’re due for a pap smear. Debag, and let’s have a dekko at the nether regions. Is this a recent phenomenon?’
Viv doesn’t think Nerida talks like this to all her patients. It’s a throwback to their time at Somerville.
‘Not really. One has just lived with it; you know how it is.’ As usual, Viv reverts seamlessly to the same lingo.
‘One just hasn’t felt the need to do anything about it until now.’ Shrewd, Nerida, and super-tactful. She has made connections and drawn conclusions without having to be told a thing. She remarks, ‘Good hair day, btw. Been having a bit of a makeover, have we?’
From her prone position Viv can’t see Nerida’s face, but she knows how it will look: bland and innocent. Ditto with her follow-up question about Geoff’s state of health.
‘Geoff is quite well, thank you.’
‘Busy? Or, perchance, not busy enough?’
‘That’s just it, really. I think he may have a mild case of depression.’ She hadn’t anticipated this subject, but Nerida always did have a sixth sense.
‘They all get it when they retire.’ Nerida goes to her desk. ‘It’s all ship-shape down there, you can cover up now.’ She rips off her latex gloves and peers at the computer screen. ‘These high-flying men. Don’t know what to do with themselves when they’re no longer top of the heap. Won’t seek help. Won’t talk. Won’t do nothin’. N’estce pas?’
‘Exactement.’
They exchange an expressionless glance. ‘Well,’ says Nerida, tapping out a little rhythm on the desk, ‘a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do.’
Viv nods. ‘How true that is. Jules is in town.’
‘Yes, her nibs has been in touch. Talking about drowning her sorrows with an end-of-career wing-ding. I egged her on.’
Julia’s parties, bringing together a mix of friends from all periods of her professional life and outside of it, are highly esteemed. No skimping on booze or catering. At a period in their lives when most people’s interest in these activities has undergone a steep decline, Julia’s has, if anything, increased. This is not unconnected, her friends imagine, with the fact that she is unattached.
Keeping in mind the bulging waiting room, Viv steals a few more minutes with Nerida. It is sober talk, today. They have a mutual friend with late-stage lung cancer, and another with a case of early breast cancer only recently diagnosed. Well, at least that case is eminently treatable. We have to expect things like this from now on at our age, they agree, as they have agreed before.
‘All the more reason to make hay,’ the doctor says negligently, glancing out of the window at the grey skies and switching on her desk lamp. ‘Needs must. Isn’t that what they say?’
‘And
who am I to disagree? Women must work and men must weep. Isn’t that what they also say, these days?’
‘In increasing numbers, believezmoi.’
Viv gets on her bike and heads for Marylebone High Street, where she intends to spend a couple of hours checking out clothing shops. Sometimes this tedious task can’t be avoided. Tomorrow is the interview with Martin Glover, and given the importance of first impressions she has been thinking about her own.
There’s nothing to be gained by trying to look like someone she is not. This precludes most of the clothes Jules might wear, and those of her friend Joy, who has a penchant for gypsy skirts with tight boleros and cowboy boots.
She drops Nerida’s prescription into a chemist, and while she’s waiting buys some face cream. A pricier one than usual. It describes itself as a concentrated serum, and the box states that in a trial of this product, eighty-two per cent of women reported an improvement (significant to very significant) in their fine lines and wrinkles, after four to six weeks.
Viv doubts if the trial had much scientific rigour, much like Geoff’s sentence. She feels a significant to very significant increase in her personal gullibility rating as she plucks the package off the shelf, but goes ahead with the purchase nonetheless. The accepted wisdom among her friends is that none of them work and you’d do just as well with the cheap crap. However, she is fairly sure few of them actually buy the cheap crap in practice. Instead they go on shelling out on the off-chance of some barely discernible effect.
Viv enters a large popular store with racks of clothing in all directions. The tops look as if they’re made for midgets, and there’s deafening rap music blaring. She turns and walks straight out again. Small shops, boutiques, are less off-putting. She is in a branch of a French chain looking at their jackets, which are shorter this year, when her mobile rings. It’s Daisy, on a crackly line.
‘Daisy! Are you back? How was—’
‘No, back tomorrow morning, and I’ll have to be very quick – okay if I come over?’ There is tension in her daughter’s voice, even on the bad line. This is not unusual. During the five years Daisy has been with Marco, Viv has become inured to domestic dramas.
‘Tomorrow, you mean? Of course, darling, yes. Whenever you like. Any time, let me think – any time after six should be fine.’
‘I’ll come in the afternoon, when I’ve dumped my stuff.’
‘Well, actually I won’t be there in the afternoon, I’ve got to go out.’ Pause. Daisy says something inaudible. Viv moves outside against the wall of the shop. ‘Come for dinner. I’ll make the green chicken curry Marco likes, and we’ll hear all about Rome.’
‘No! He’s not coming,’ she hears Daisy shout. The line is worse in the street, so she ducks back inside.
‘We’ll have you all to ourselves? We needn’t have the curry, we can have fish instead. Does fish pie work for you?’
‘Mum – listen, I’ve got something—’
Did she say something on, or was it something to? Viv can’t be sure. ‘Have you got something to tell me, darling? Some news?’
Daisy’s voice curdles in Viv’s ear. ‘No. No. Nothing like—’
The line cuts out, but Viv presses on in case Daisy can hear. ‘Well, we can talk it all over when you get here. Six-ish, or later. Look forward to it.’
She returns to the rack of fine-wool jackets. A sales assistant comes over. Daisy’s age, French, thin and elegant, helpful without being over-intrusive. Some are in navy. Not so predictable, oui? The lapels and the pocket have this little denim stripe, the tiny but important detail that brings them alive. Very clever and très cute, non? And they mix and match. The jacket, it teams up with these trousers or those skirts. And these tops, they work very well too.
There! You will have a whole new wardrobe. The young woman demonstrates, holding the garments up against each other with a flourish. Viv sees she is in danger of being sold half the shop when she thought she was only after a jacket. The subtle touches on the collar and pocket make it very Frenchy and chic, but isn’t it a bit short? You must try it on to find out, says the assistant knowingly.
As Viv goes into the fitting room a text shoots in from Daisy. Cant do evng. Come str fr gatwck & meet u 4 lunch islngtn at 1? Daisy says she can’t be arsed with predictive texting.
Viv shrugs into the jacket as she stews over this. Her appointment with Discretion Agency is in Victoria at two-thirty. Why Islington? No way could she have lunch there and get back to Victoria in time. But the Gatwick Express goes to Victoria. She could meet Daisy’s train. But then she would have to extricate herself from her daughter in order to get to the hotel alone. To do this she would need an excuse. A little white lie, she thinks.
In the mirrored cubicle she quite likes the look of the jacket. The length is fine; in fact, it makes the one she was wearing look dated. Quite liking an item of clothing is about as good as it gets these days. The period when you loved how something looked on you is long gone.
An armful of items to team with the jacket has materialised in the cubicle. The above-the-knee skirt is rejected. But the wool pants have slanted pockets with the same single denim stripe. Far too long, as always, but well cut, and she can turn them up tonight at home. What about the top? Pale blue dots on light cream wool, with a scoop neck.
The assistant looks in, nods approvingly. ‘Ah, yes. You see? Voilà, a new ensemble!’ Viv voices a fear common to all women of a certain age (or past it) when about to splash out in such a boutique. ‘It’s not too young, is it? Be honest. Pretend I’m your mother.’
While her own mother mightn’t be at all fussed about whom Viv is sleeping with, her fashion sense, on her daughter’s behalf, remains keen.
But this was an unrealistic ask. ‘Too young?’ the assistant looks horrified. ‘Non, pas du tout, au contraire! It is très, très élégant. You like?’
And yes, Viv really does quite like. It’s a bit extravagant, but how often these days do you find a more-than-passable outfit in one fell swoop? It looks – what is the French word? It looks insouciant. And understated, without having tried too hard. Is that how I wish to appear to Martin Glover? Yes, it is exactly how I wish to appear.
With her mother on her mind, Viv goes into a cafe and makes her daily call. Judith Quarry is a former Oxford don, and fiercely independent. A small squad of visiting carers, heroic in Viv’s eyes, are helping to keep her in her own home. Her home being a high-ceilinged ground-floor apartment in North Oxford, part of the old family house Judith converted into two flats after her second husband died.
Viv tells her that Jules wants to see her soon, maybe next weekend, reassures her about various small matters and describes what she has just bought. She winds up the call with the usual twinge of anxiety. Judith has been showing a few cracks lately, after a lifetime of forceful competence. So far, and fingers crossed, they are only hairline cracks.
Another text arrives. Daisy again: Not dinnr. Lunch 2moro ok?
Will be in Victoria so could meet Gatwick train, Viv replies, without wasting any more energy mulling over the advisability of this. Ok, comes the reply. The flight gets in at ten. Daisy will text when she’s on the train. Plenty of time between now and then to concoct the white lie. The Rome flight is late, predictably. When the Gatwick Express trundles in well after midday Viv has had enough time to check out the location of Martin Glover’s hotel, which is large and unremarkable (suitably discreet, she supposes) and find somewhere for lunch.
She has also had time to stress out, both on account of the coming interview and getting to it punctually. With this in mind she’s tossing up between competing stories. She has even, briefly, flirted with the idea of confiding in Daisy. Neither Jules nor Joy thought this was advisable. Are you losing it or what, Joy had demanded. Which was roughly Julia’s response.
Viv has only to see her daughter striding towards her pulling her luggage while speaking forcefully into her mobile to know that Daisy is under pressure. Slender, tall and vibrant, with a
mane of Celtic hair, Daisy attracts attention wherever she goes. Her body language was always eloquent, to her mother’s eyes. And as Viv anticipates with a stab of apprehension, today Daisy is eaten up with her own all-consuming problems. She doesn’t remark on her mother’s new outfit or her revamped hair. She’s pumped with fight-or-flight adrenaline.
Daisy and Marco have split up. The baby issue has been a wedge between them all along. It has happened before, more than once, but this time Viv senses something different. An air of finality. Now that it looks as if Marco has been given his marching orders, Viv is surprised to find herself ambivalent about it.
Daisy holds back until they have settled themselves into the Lebanese restaurant and ordered from the waiter (male, early forties, swarthy). Then she lets rip. The break-up is irrevocable. There’s a reason for this, Mum. Worse than you’d ever guess. A flick of the head. Much, much worse.
A selection of dips arrives promptly. Daisy seizes a piece of flatbread and tears it into small pieces. There’s something Marco had never told her. Something fundamental. Something shocking. Marco is incapable of fathering anything. Anything of any description. He’s had the snip.
‘Without consulting you? But – when?’ Viv feels appalled on her daughter’s behalf. On her own behalf too, it must be said. Her heart constricts as she looks at Daisy sitting opposite, her face stony. She quells the impulse to take her daughter in her arms. She knows it would be unwelcome. Daisy is a grown woman, facing a very adult crisis.
It transpires that the procedure was performed after Marco’s previous relationship broke up, following an abortion. He’d been firing blanks, says Daisy, wide-eyed with disbelief, for our entire relationship. That’s six years, counting the year before they met when no doubt he was fucking anything that moved.
‘And he never told you?’ Viv is transfixed by the injustice of this. ‘But how did you discover—’
The Age of Discretion Page 5
