by Anna Jacobs
Sometimes the thought of home and of his mother especially made him want to break down and sob his heart out. He hadn’t been fair to her. He’d mocked and scorned her, had encouraged Louise to do the same. His mother didn’t deserve that. He desperately wanted to see her and tell her how much he loved her.
Hell! If Wayne saw him crying like this, he’d laugh himself silly. And anyway, becoming sentimental was no way to get out of this mess. Tim knew he had to keep his cool, save his money and run for it when the right moment came.
Louise glared at her grandmother. ‘What do you mean: I’m grounded? What do you think I am, a child?’
‘Yes, I do. You’re only seventeen. That’s not grown-up in my book.’
‘Well, it is in everyone else’s. Anyway, I’m nearly eighteen.’ And no longer a virgin. But sex wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, not by a long chalk. Or else Todd wasn’t very good at it. What a let-down that had been!
‘You’re not eighteen for three months yet. And why didn’t your parents let you have a flat if you’re so grown-up? Why did they want you to live here with me while they were away?’
‘Because my mother is as stupidly old-fashioned as you are!’
‘Well, at least Rosalind is polite, unlike her daughter.’
Louise got up and moved towards the front door. ‘Grounded, eh? How are you going to keep me in the house, then?’
Audrey gaped at her. ‘Are you going to disobey me?’
‘You bet. Just watch!’ Louise opened the door, swept a mocking bow and walked out, slamming it hard behind her.
Audrey sank down on the nearest chair, legs trembling. She might be old-fashioned, but she wasn’t stupid, and Louise had definitely been taking something recently. Yesterday she’d been all dreamy and stupid-looking when she came home, not expecting her grandmother to be waiting up for her at two o’clock in the morning.
What am I going to do? she wondered. I wish I’d never taken this on. I’m too old for all these confrontations. But I’m not giving in. This is my house and as long as she’s here, she’ll keep to my standards.
The trouble was, what other sanctions could she apply? And how to enforce them?
Feeling out of her depth, she went across the street to see John, who was a great comfort to her. He’d told her she was crazy taking Louise in, but he hadn’t said ‘I told you so!’ when he’d been proved right.
Audrey knew if she gave him any encouragement, he’d like to be more than a friend, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to live with anyone again. She enjoyed living alone. Her family and friends worried about her, but she had a quiet, happy life – or at least, she had been happy until Louise joined her.
It was nice, though, having John to turn to, to go out with from time to time. Someone who really seemed to care about her problems.
‘I’ll give Louise a week longer,’ she said after talking it over with him. ‘If things don’t improve, I’ll ring my daughter and say it’s too much for me.’
‘Why not ring the father? He’s a damn sight closer to hand.’
‘Yes, of course. You’re quite right. Anyway, it’s about time he took a hand in the everyday problems of raising his children, instead of leaving it all to his wife.’
With Prue’s help, Rosalind spent a few days going through the house. She’d expected it to be a chore, but instead found it fascinating. Sophie had been a hoarder and there were mementoes dating back to the 1920s and even earlier, the residue of many lives, other members of the family, people Rosalind had never even heard of before.
Soph had put together a family tree and labelled all the photographs, so that her great-niece would be able to identify them. And oh, Rosalind did love those photographs! Album after album of sepia prints, all neatly labelled as to subjects and year – or approximate year in some cases. ‘Aren’t they wonderful?’ she exclaimed one afternoon.
Prue nodded. ‘One or two of them date back to the 1860s. That makes a shiver run down my spine. Miss Worth wrote her memoirs, too.’ She went to the bookcase and pulled out a huge bound ledger, the sort they had used in old offices.
Rosalind opened the book at random. Soph’s familiar spiky handwriting. It should have made her weep, but it didn’t. Why hadn’t she been able to weep for her aunt? Why was the grief sitting inside her in a tight bundle? It was so unlike her. ‘I shall enjoy reading these.’
‘You’d better take them with you, then. You don’t want them being carted away with the rest of the stuff.’
‘I shan’t have anything carted away yet, Prue. I may want – no, I definitely shall want to keep some of her things. And I’d like my children to see this place before I close it down. There are some lovely pieces of furniture. I’m going to ship them back to Australia and keep them in the family.’
Before she left, she arranged for Prue to stay on for a few weeks, rent-free, then set off back to Dorset.
She drove slowly. There was so much to think about. What was she going to do about her life? There were still nearly three weeks to go before Paul would return. She had to come to some decisions before then.
Jenny groped through the mists of sleep and picked up the phone. Who could be ringing in the middle of the night? She jerked into full wakefulness at the thought that something might be wrong with her mother in England.
She could hear someone breathing heavily at the other end of the line and yelled, ‘Stop this, Michael Lazzoni! You hear me? It won’t get you anywhere. I’m not coming back to you and that’s that.’ She slammed down the phone but within seconds it started ringing again.
She stared at it, her breath coming in gasps, as if she’d been running. What was she going to do about this harassment? She’d asked at the police station, but they said they couldn’t really help without proof, and the phone company seemed to think the calls would die down of their own accord. How had Michael got hold of her new number, anyway? She’d only given it to her close friends and had sworn them to the strictest secrecy.
When the ringing began to irritate her, she lifted the phone and let it drop instantly, cutting the connection. But it was ringing again within the minute, so she left it off the hook.
Michael was stalking her – there was no other word for it – waiting outside work and staring at her, following her in his car. She didn’t know what to do about it, who to turn to. Let’s face it, she was scared out of her mind.
If only her mother was here! Or even her father. She smiled wryly in the darkness. This was actually the sort of thing he’d be the best person to handle. But she couldn’t face his scorn. She’d give it a little longer. Surely Michael would grow tired of pestering her?
Soon after Rosalind arrived back in Burraford Destan, the phone rang and Paul snapped, ‘Where the hell have you been, Ros? I’ve been calling you for days. I was thinking of getting on to the police to check that you were all right.’
Why hadn’t he, then? ‘I’ve been in Southport.’
‘But I rang there. Twice. No one answered. I assumed the witch lady was away.’
She felt angry at the way he referred to Sophie and was strangely reluctant to tell him the sad news. ‘How’s Hong Kong?’
‘Great. Busy as ever.’
‘Have you run into Liz? She’s there on holiday.’
There was a silence, just the sound of the line humming and fizzling.
‘Paul? Didn’t you hear me?’
‘Sorry, bad line. What did you say?’
‘I asked if you’d run into Liz.’
‘Why should I have done that?’
‘She’s on holiday there.’
‘There are rather a lot of people in Hong Kong, as you know from your own experience. Bloody millions of them, actually! Wouldn’t be my favourite place for a permanent posting, I can tell you. Anyway, never mind all that. Tell me how you’re getting on with the house? Have you sorted things out with the agents? Some rather important clients will be in town next month. I’d like to give them a country weekend. You’d better exp
lore the district, see if there are any stately homes nearby. Those Americans adore them.’
When she didn’t reply immediately, he asked sharply, ‘Ros, are you listening?’
‘Yes. I’ll see what I can do. The agent’s authorised me to buy some more equipment.’
‘What do you mean, you’ll see what you can do? Is there some problem I don’t know about?’
She hesitated, but she had to tell him sometime. ‘Yes. There is rather. Aunt Sophie died last week.’
Silence, then, ‘Did she leave you anything?’
She slammed the phone down.
When it began to ring again, she waited for eight rings before picking it up.
‘Ros?’
‘Yes.’
‘We got cut off. Is something wrong? Why did it take you so long to pick the phone up again?’
‘We didn’t get cut off, actually. I put the receiver down. I’ve just lost a relative I loved very much and all you asked about was what she’d left me.’
Silence again, then, ‘Hell, don’t take things to heart, Ros. You know me. I’m the financial manager of the family.’
‘Not this time, you aren’t.’
His voice became very soft. ‘What – exactly – do you mean by that?’
She smiled as she told him. And afterwards, when he started complaining, saying they’d have to try to overset the will’s conditions, she didn’t slam the receiver down, but replaced it gently in its holder.
It started to ring but she didn’t pick it up. Instead, she poured herself a glass of her aunt’s cognac and raised it mockingly. ‘Well, Soph, you’d be pleased with me today. The new independent Rosalind’s first act of rebellion.’ Small but immensely satisfying.
The next day the embroideries her mother had picked up for her and sent by courier arrived from Australia. They felt like old friends. She carried them into the large sitting room and hung them on the wall, stacking the tacky prints they replaced in a corner of the attic bedroom with their cartoon-like blue roses hidden.
Much cheered, she began working on the new embroidery, the family group. Her preliminary sketch was of Paul, taken from a photo she’d brought with her. She’d tried to draw his figure several times, but it hadn’t come out as she’d wanted. Now, still angry with him, she tried again. And it was right, so absolutely right.
It would go in the centre of the picture, of course.
She started work on the head first. Muslin face, lightly padded. Dark brown embroidery silk for hair, boyishly tousled. Predator’s stance.
At that thought, she stopped stitching. Predator? Paul wasn’t a predator. He was just – a little aggressive and opportunistic.
He’s a predator! Admit it. The voice in her head sounded like Sophie’s.
OK, she told it. You’re right, really. He is a predator. But there have been times when I’ve been glad of his strength. And at least he’s looked after his family – in his own way. He’s not like some men, going off having affairs, behaving irresponsibly.
She continued sewing. Sometimes she had to make two or three heads to get the face right, but not this time. At first try she got Paul right. He was an arrogant figure, arms folded, dominating the foreground, standing on his own. Why hadn’t she realised before how dominating he was? Funny how the embroidery seemed to be helping her see things more clearly than usual.
Was she going to continue letting him rule the roost? Her small act of defiance yesterday wasn’t going to change much. She shook her head ruefully. She’d never been good at dealing with him in the past, why should she be any better in the future?
No, that wasn’t good enough. She looked up and promised Sophie’s hovering shade that she’d continue to do what she could to stand up for herself. She’d at least try.
She felt better for that, as well as apprehensive.
HEADS AND FACES
The head is usually the first part of the human figure to be embroidered on the ground fabric or applied to it. The soft-sculpture technique … is both versatile and lively …
Obtaining a head that is of a correct size for the design is often a question of trial and error … Insufficient soft filling will result in a flat, uninteresting face …
It is more important to create the desired impression than to copy slavishly from the design source.
(Hirst, pp.42–6)
Chapter Six
During the next few days Rosalind spent a lot of time thinking about her situation and relationships as her clever fingers built up the figure of Paul in her embroidery. This wasn’t at all like one of her usual pictures, it was – it was more a search for understanding, she decided during a stormy afternoon, watching the rain march across the hills towards her, then splatter against the windowpanes of the bedroom she used as her workroom.
This wasn’t just a pleasurable activity, but a necessity, and it was taking far longer to do than usual because she seemed to be spending a lot of time staring into space, lost in the dark tangles of her own thoughts.
When the figure of her husband was finished, she held the square of material at arm’s length and stared at it in amazement. Such a strutting, arrogant creature! And yet – it was Paul!
Was she being cruel to him, creating a caricature? No, she decided reluctantly, she was being truthful, using her artist’s eye.
Paul’s experiment had backfired on him. Change of season, he’d called this visit to England. Change of perception, it seemed to be for her – about herself as well as him.
She set the piece aside for a while because working on it was so traumatic. She couldn’t face doing herself or her children yet, not if their figures were going to reveal as much as Paul’s had.
For the next embroidery she chose a charming thirties scene with children playing in a park, based on one of Soph’s old photographs. It was a relief to work on that after the wrenching emotion of doing Paul.
She was no longer sorry she’d come on this trip, because she’d been able to say farewell to Soph.
And the money she’d been left made her feel better about herself, more confident somehow. She’d bought a new computer and a program for designing embroidery pictures – though she was still trying to figure that out. She was on email too, but Liz must still be away and her mother didn’t do email.
She’d sent messages to her daughters, giving them her new email address, but they hadn’t replied. Had she dropped off the planet or something?
She hadn’t contacted Paul, because what she wanted to say to him needed to be done face-to-face. It fretted her that he was so far away, because she wanted, no, needed to discuss their future. They hadn’t talked enough in the past, not seriously, anyway.
Improved communication could only strengthen their relationship in the long run, surely, even if it was painful. Twenty-four years together must mean they were basically on track as a couple. Paul wasn’t like Bill Foxen, after all. He didn’t cheat on her.
Liz let Paul swing her round the dance floor and gave herself up to enjoyment. She’d danced with him before, of course she had, but it hadn’t felt like this, as if they were alone in the universe. Other faces blurred around them. She looked up and found him smiling down at her.
‘Enjoying yourself, Liz?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Me, too.’
As he pulled her closer, Paul couldn’t help wondering if Liz had meant what she said to Ros about ‘sauce for the goose’. He’d dismissed the idea at the time, but what was Liz doing on her own here in Hong Kong if she hadn’t meant it?
He shouldn’t think about such things, definitely not. Rule number one: never foul your own nest. But the feel of Liz’s small, firm breasts against his chest, the smell of her perfume, the pleasure of her company and intelligent conversation – well, they were all having an inevitable effect. He only hoped it wasn’t too noticeable.
It was. Liz smiled as she nestled against him and felt his arousal. She wished the dance would go on for ever. Even if it was only Paul, it was good
to feel a man get hard because of her, especially a man as attractive as this one. She’d seen the other women in the restaurant looking at him. Well, look all you want, ladies! she thought triumphantly. Tonight, he’s mine.
That made her blink. Whatever was she thinking about? He wasn’t hers. He was Ros’s. Her best friend’s husband, for heaven’s sake! What sort of woman was she to fantasise about him, press herself against him like this? She pulled away, only too aware of her own body’s reactions. And his.
‘I think this is getting too – too—’
He didn’t let go of her hand, didn’t stop moving in time to the music. ‘I’m enjoying myself, Liz. Very much.’
She swallowed hard, then the words crept out of their own accord. ‘So am I.’
‘Then why stop?’ He pulled her closer and started dancing again. She couldn’t resist the invitation behind those words, because it was balm to her pain.
Any more than he could resist following up on her unspoken consent. A man’s sexual needs were so much more pressing than a woman’s. Ros would never have understood that.
One fine but cold day Rosalind decided not to sit around and mope. A really long walk would do her good.
The neighbours, who had invited her in for morning tea one day, had told her about the wonderful scenery you could only see properly on foot, all signposted for walkers, apparently. The lady at Number 7 had even lent her a book of walks, graded from easy to energetic.
Rosalind decided to try something of medium distance to begin with, so flipped through the book. No, a mile wasn’t enough. Three miles would be just right. That would tire her out and then she’d maybe get a good night’s sleep, for a change.
