Olivia’s Luck (2000)

by Catherine Alliot

  “But very nice and smiley.”

  “Handsome?”

  “Mmm, Claudes, he’s her age. Tubbyish and grey, but kind-looking. Stares at her a lot, you know, into her eyes.”

  “Oh yum!” She was excited by that. “Can I meet him?”

  “Of course. I thought we’d ask them for tea on Sunday, and listen,” I added quickly, “whatever we think, Claudes, it’s lovely for her, don’t you think?” I asked anxiously.

  “Oh yes. And I think if Dad doesn’t come back it would be lovely for you too, Mum, even someone tubby and grey. Think how you’ve worried about Granny all these years, wished she hadn’t been so lonely. Well, that’s going to be me worrying, if you’re not careful!”

  I ground my teeth. “Claudia, shall we discuss this when you’re twenty-five and have been worrying for fifteen years, and not, perchance, when you’re ten and have been worrying for all of two months? Anyway, you’re a child, for goodness’ sake, you don’t need to worry about me!”

  “Children feel things very keenly,” she informed me soberly. “Don’t you know that? Esther Rantzen knows that. She says it a lot on Childline. Don’t keep me talking, Mum, I’ve got a ballet exam to get to.”

  “Oh Christ, your exam!” I yelped, clutching my head in horror. “I’d forgotten again – go – GO!” I pushed her. “Why aren’t you running!”

  “I’m going, I’m going,” she said as she turned and trudged wearily across the car park, the weight of the world on her shoulders, dragging her bag and her feet. I watched her go, aghast. Heavens – her exam! That’s why we’d been rushing! Oh God, I was losing it. I shook my head hopelessly as I shoved the gears roughly into reverse. There was no doubt about it, I was really, really, losing it.

  And I must keep more of an eye on that young lady, I reflected sagely, making for the exit and still watching her in my rear-view mirror. I wasn’t sure I was entirely happy about her spending so much time with the builders when I was out. It seemed to be putting all sorts of precocious ideas in her head. And she needn’t think she could pull the wool over my eyes either, needn’t think I didn’t know what was going on. Reading after nine o’clock, indeed! I swung out of the gates with a knowing little sniff and headed for home.

  When I got back, I made some tea and took it into the new kitchen where, despite their rather splendid surroundings of which they should have been justifiably proud, I found a pretty subdued bunch of boys beavering away. Mac and Alf didn’t seem to be able to drag their faces out of the Aga fuse box to look me in the eye, and Spiro had his hat pulled right down over his eyes as he crouched to fix some skirting boards. I frowned as I looked around for somewhere to set the tray.

  “You all right, boys? You all look a bit peaky this morning.”

  Lance appeared from behind the larder door and took the tray from me. “Claudia tell you about last night?”

  “Last night?” I tried to remember. “Oh, about coming over to watch the television?” Suddenly I realised they felt they’d overstepped the mark and that a strict line should be taken. I straightened up. “She did actually, and listen, guys, you know I don’t mind if I’m here, but I do draw the line if I’m out, OK?”

  “OK,” they mumbled quickly, heads down. I turned to go. Hesitated. It was unnervingly quiet.

  “Did she stay up late?” I demanded suddenly.

  “A bit,” admitted Mac, quietly.

  “And did she watch anything unsuitable?”

  There was a long and tremulous pause.

  “Not…on telly, no,” said Lance, finally.

  “Good.” I nodded. “That’s all right then, but another time, please remember she goes to bed at nine o’clock.”

  I turned to go, but Mac straightened up to face me for the first time that morning.

  “I’d say we’ll be out of your hair in a couple of weeks, luv.”

  “Really?” I was startled. “What, finished?”

  “Yep, ‘bout ten days.”

  “Gosh, as little as that.” I realised, with a strange pang, that somehow I’d thought they’d be here for ever.

  “Well, now that the Aga’s in and the cupboards are nearly there, we’ve only got the new bathroom suite to plumb in upstairs and you’re laughing.”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose I am. Yes, you’re right, that’ll be it then,” I said, cranking up a smile. I walked across and stroked the top of the shiny, navy-blue Aga which had finally gone in yesterday. Its concrete plinth built, it had been ceremoniously set, then plumbed in upon it, and was heating up nicely now, enthroned and radiating warmth like some plump, benign king of a South Sea island.

  “You’ll be glad to see the back of us,” said Mac. “Bet you can’t wait to have the place to yourself!”

  “Yes!” I laughed, but it had a hollow ring to it. “I expect everyone’s glad to see the back of you, aren’t they?”

  “Too right they are!”

  “Still,” I said softly, “it’ll be quiet without you.”

  I drummed my fingers on the hob cover. There didn’t seem to be an answer to that. I turned, and as I went, caught Lance’s eye. He looked away quickly. Well, of course he would. An embarrassingly sad housewife who was admitting to a flicker of regret at seeing her builders go? Crikey. Most people hung out the flags! Declared it a day of celebration! I wandered through to the front hall, biting my lower lip. And not just regret, I realised in horror, also – yes, I felt a wee bit panicky, too. Alone then, in this house – apart from Claudes – for the first time since…well, you know. And you see, because of the boys, I hadn’t actually been alone, yet. There’d always been someone to talk to, to share a joke with, to take a cup of tea to.

  I stopped and picked up the mail from the mat, marvelling at myself. Good grief, I was sad, wasn’t I? Genuinely pathetic. Actually admitting that the place wouldn’t be the same without a rusty old cream caravan blocking the view of the cherry tree, or a clapped-out lorry monopolising the driveway. Why, only yesterday I’d met Alf, backing out of my downstairs loo – the Portaloo apparently being occupied – and squirting a cheap, lavender spray in a desperate attempt to veil the sensational whiff he’d left behind, the result being a sort of lavender-bush-with-dog-poo-on-it aroma. Well, I could do without that, couldn’t I? And what about the constant stench of roll-ups and Pot Noodles, the blaring radio, the empty crisp packets that went forth and multiplied on a daily basis – I wasn’t going to miss any of that, surely? I stared out of the window at the bright blue morning-glory that had wound itself around the frame, bursting into transitory flower. Don’t answer that, Olivia.

  Instead, I turned briskly to the letters I’d picked up, and opened a bill from Barclaycard – before dropping it hurriedly on the mat again. Heavens! Really? As much as that? Were they talking lire? And for what? I peered down, kicking it around so I could see the print. Oh, OK. Wretched linen dress and kitten-heeled shoes. I hated them already. I leant back against the front door and flicked through the rest of the post. And OK, I conceded, I would answer that previous question. What I’d miss, all right, what I’d miss, apart from the jokes and the banter, was the feeling that they were on my side, that they were with me, rather than against me, which frankly, was becoming a rare commodity these days. I mean, take last night for instance. Crikey, if all my enemies had conspired beforehand they couldn’t have planned it – Hello, what’s this? I stopped flicking through, and turned over a rather smart cream envelope, addressed to Mrs Olivia McFarllen, and penned with something of a flourish. No address or stamp, so hand delivered. I ripped it open quickly. Inside, in the middle of a piece of thick, expensive paper, in italics in black ink was written:

  Dear Olivia,

  That was a brave thing you did last night. Come for drinks tonight at seven, if you can.

  Yours, Sebastian.

  I stared. Read it again. Brave thing. Me. Drinks. Tonight. Me brave. Him Sebastian. Thing. I did. Blimey!

  I lowered it for a moment, and stared. How sweet. How very, very sweet, a
nd how – well, forgiving. And, gosh, yes, of course I’d go, but…I gulped, golly. Talk about going back into the lion’s den. But then again, he didn’t sound very lionlike, did he? I raised the paper and read it again. No, more dovelike. More dove with olive branch in beak, in fact. I turned and walked slowly upstairs, one hand trailing thoughtfully on the banister rail, one still clutching the note, then sat, my heart hammering slightly, on the edge of my bed.

  So…off to Sebastian’s, eh. Bound to be a terribly smart and sophisticated affair; what on earth should I wear? I jumped up abruptly, and hastened to my wardrobe, flinging the doors wide. I riffled through the hangers with a vengeance, tail up, nose twitching, sniffing my way along. Now…let’s see…which of my lovelies…I got to the end of the hangers, blinked in surprise, then went back to the beginning again. Eventually I stood back, folded my arms peevishly. Well, what on earth did one wear for a bevy with a famous composer, for heaven’s sake? And was it just me, or would there be others? Because if it was just the two of us, anything more than trousers and a shirt would be over the top, but if, say, it were a celebration, a post-concert party perhaps, then something a bit more stylish would be called for. Maybe – maybe this? I pulled out a little black number I hadn’t worn in years. Stared at it. What are you thinking of, Olivia? This is drinks with a neighbour, just down the street, not cocktails with a crown prince at St James’s Palace. And anyway, why are you so excited?

  I hung the black dress up slowly, went back and sat down on the bed. I’m not excited, I reasoned, just – flattered. That’s all. And relieved. That he’s no longer angry. I raised my chin. Got up and went across to the cheval mirror. But I’m not excited. Hell, no. I smiled at my reflection, tucked my hair back behind my ears. Why, only the other day I was calling him Sad Sebastian, for goodness’ sake; he was still the same person now, wasn’t he? Why should I be any more interested? Quite.

  I shut my wardrobe door firmly and turned to my chest of drawers. From the bottom drawer, I shook out a pair of khaki Gap trousers – a bit creased and faded, but perfectly serviceable – and a white shirt. I gazed at them. All the same, that huge talent, that masterful way he clearly had with quavers and semiquavers – you couldn’t deny that had a certain glamour, a certain cachet? I mean, Jeremy Paxman wouldn’t be the same without his masterful way with dodgy politicians, and what about Alan Titchmarsh’s masterful way with turnips, or Imran Khan’s – No, OK, Imran Khan would be absolutely delicious whether he was masterful with a cricket bat or not. I sighed and pushed the bottom drawer in with my foot. But there had definitely been something commanding about that man’s presence last night, hadn’t there? And not just because the luwies were simpering around him either. No, there was something very…watchable about him. Of course, I reasoned, a dinner jacket always helps, and a few inches off those wayward, gypsy-ish curls…

  I shook myself and went back to gaze at my reflection in the mirror again. Golly, I looked old. I peered closer. Older still, close up. I put my fingertips on my cheekbones and pulled the skin back. Much better, shame I couldn’t hook it behind my ears, took ten years off me. Couldn’t smile, of course, but you could see why people fell for it. I dropped the skin and my face fell with a shudder, now resembling a Van Gogh self-portrait. Ah well, perhaps he was an ankles man? I gazed down at them ruefully. It was pretty much all there was left, these days. I glanced back up at my face sharply. Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Olivia, the man’s an intellectual, he won’t be looking at your ankles or your cheekbones, he’ll be interested in your mind! I nearly buckled at the knees in terror at this thought, and hurriedly racked my brains to think of any famous pieces of music I could talk about. “What do you like?” he might well ask. Yes, well, he might well ask. Um…Wasn’t the theme from one of Claudia’s old Disney videos something memorable – Sleeping Beauty, was it, or…oh yes, the music from the Hovis ad, with the lad trudging up the cold northern hill? I mulled it over for a moment, but fearing that the next thing to spring to mind might be so staggeringly prosaic I’d even horrify myself and be forced to decline the invitation, I abandoned my mind, and instead, with a sigh, went downstairs in search of chocolate to appease my body.

  17

  When I finally ran out of the house at half-past seven that evening, I was hot, flustered, out of control, and not at all in the cultured, sophisticated frame of mind I’d intended. For a start, there had been huge hassles over the baby-sitting. When I’d popped into the kitchen to see the boys and ask Spiro, seeing as it was his turn, I’d been met with such flushed faces and a horrified silence, I was taken aback.

  “What? What’s the matter?”

  Finally Spiro found his tongue. “Oh, Meesis McFarllen, I feel so badly, I fall on your breast with shame. I theenk you not know, but last night, I seen your shreddies, I seen your jugs jacket, I see – ”

  “Hang on, seen what? Jugs what? Spiro, what on earth do you mean?”

  “I think what Spiro means,” said Mac, stepping in smoothly, “is that we thought we might go out for a curry tonight. Didn’t we, boys?”

  They nodded to a man. Beaming with relief until I thought their faces would split in half.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” agreed Alf happily. “A curry. Need to get out, see, have a bit of a vindaloo.” He rubbed his stomach and grinned even wider. I feared for my lavatory pans.

  “Oh! Oh, well, that’s a bit of a blow.” I frowned. God, it was a blow, actually. Suddenly I saw my sophisticated evening disintegrating. Where the hell was I going to get a baby-sitter at such short notice?

  “Perhaps I could ask Nanette,” I wondered aloud. “I think she might be on her own this week.”

  “And if she can’t,” put in Lance quietly, “I’ll do it. I’m not that desperate for a curry.”

  “Oh, Lance, that’s awfully kind,” I beamed. “You’re an angel. I tell you what, I’ll keep you in reserve.”

  “You do that,” he muttered with ill-concealed sarcasm. I glanced at him, startled. Now what the hell did he have to be peeved about? His face betrayed nothing, though, so I shrugged. Oh well, I couldn’t cope with sulky builders right now. I had bigger fish to fry.

  I hastened over to see Nanette, who was indeed Rogerless, and who declared that she’d be delighted. She and Claudia liked nothing more than a girly nail-varnish-and-highlights chat, and they’d already had a couple of cosy evenings together, painting toes, putting face packs on and wading through Hello! Magazines searching for Posh and Becks, something Claudia complained she didn’t get enough of from me.

  “Where are you going, anyway?” called Nanette, hanging out of an upstairs window which she’d pushed open when she’d heard the doorbell. She was jangling armfuls of bangles and clutching a duster in her nails.

  “Sebastian’s,” I muttered, glancing nervously down the street.

  “Sebastian’s!” she shrieked. “I don’t believe it!”

  “Nanette, you were totally wrong about him,” I hissed, “he’s not a nutter, or a teacher, he’s a world-famous musician! A composer for heaven’s sake – he’s Sebastian Faulkner!”

  She frowned. Shook her head. “Never heard of him. Who?”

  “Oh, never mind. Let’s not discuss it at the top of our voices in the street. I’ll see you later, OK?”

  “Be there at seven o’clock.”

  “Great.”

  Except, of course, that she wasn’t. Seven o’clock came and went and I paced about the garden for a bit. Then, when it got to twenty past, I rang her.

  “Nanette, are you coming?”

  “Of course, darling. Just getting ready.”

  “Nanette, you’re baby-sittingl You don’t have to get ready, just come over, please! I’m going to be late!” I wailed.

  “Okey-doke.”

  Five minutes went by. Then ten, so I rushed off to get Lance.

  “She is coming,” I yelled through the caravan door, “but she’s going to be late, so I just wondered – Oops – sorry!” The door opened and he appeared w
ith just a towel around his waist, fresh from the shower. I covered my eyes and carried on talking. “I just wondered, could you possibly come over just till she arrives?”

  “Sure, and you can uncover your eyes too. I’m perfectly respectable, you know. You mustn’t be so uptight, Liwy.”

  “Right, yes. Sorry.”

  I dropped my hand and he dropped his towel.

  “Lance!” My hand shot to my eyes again.

  “Sorry, I dropped it,” he laughed.

  “Oooh, God!”

  Seething now, I turned and raced back to the house to find Claudia, lying on the sofa reading a teenage magazine.

  “Darling, it’s half-past seven,” I panted, checking my hair in the mirror, “and I must go. Lance will be up in two ticks followed by Nanette, OK?”

  “Fine. Can I watch The Simpsons?”

  “No you can’t watch The Simpsons. Do some flipping homework for a change why don’t you!”

  She looked up from her mag. “Mum, you’re nervous.”

  “What?”

  “I can tell when you’re nervous, you always get stroppy. Take a deep breath and think – ” she turned back to her magazine and read, ’ ‘ – I can do this. I can trap this man. I’m gorgeous’. ‘

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” I snatched the comic from her hands, reached into the bookcase, flung Anne of Green Gables at her and stormed out. All of which was not particularly conducive to feeling calm, confident, and collected as I beetled across the cobbles in shoes that frankly, could have come out of Nanette’s wardrobe. I hadn’t worn anything like these mules, or the peacock-blue pedal pushers I’d squeezed into, since I was about twenty, but I had a feeling the place might be teeming with trendy arty types and I didn’t want to look frumpy. I wondered, as I ran along, tucking back my hair, if I looked too frivolous, though, and tried desperately to look serious and intelligent. Oh, and musical. I hummed a little tune. Abba. Hopeless, Olivia, just shut up. As I ran up the steps to the front door and teetered on the top one to ring the bell, it occurred to me to wonder if mother would be in. I did hope not. I wasn’t convinced she’d be conducive to the artistic atmosphere within, unless, of course, it was some dismal, gothic novel, sort of way.