by Fiona Gibson
‘Not the shithead who broke your heart?’ Stu asks.
‘Yep, that’s the one,’ I say wryly.
He turns to Cecily. ‘She was devastated. Cried for weeks. Of course, it was left to me to pick up the pieces …’
I sense my cheeks colouring as Cecily crooks a brow. ‘And you accepted his friend request?’ she remarks.
‘Well, yes, but only because—’
‘So, did he poke you?’ Stu cuts in.
‘Stu, she was only sixteen!’ Cecily exclaims.
‘No, I mean a Facebook poke.’
I laugh derisively. ‘No one pokes anyone these days. No one’s poked anyone since about 2007 …’
‘No, I heard it was coming back,’ he says, suddenly quite the social media guru. ‘People are poking each other all over the place. So, you didn’t tell me he’d been in touch?’
Cecily and I exchange a quick look.
‘It was only yesterday,’ I remark.
‘Oh, right. So, what does he want?’ He cranes forward for a closer look, radiating disapproval.
‘Just to be friends, I guess …’
‘Friends?’ he repeats.
‘Yes, is there anything wrong with that?’ I’m starting to feel rather crowded in now, and slightly regret turning this utterly insignificant incident into a public event. I decide not to mention that I have already messaged Antoine, and have yet to receive a reply.
‘I s’pose not,’ Stu says with a shrug, ‘if you really want to be in contact again …’
‘Well, I think he’s gorgeous,’ Cecily adds with a grin.
‘He’s all right,’ I say lightly.
‘Oh, come on! Look at those lovely dark eyes, Lorrie. The chiselled cheekbones. Very sexy in that polished professional sort of way …’
‘Puh.’ With a snort, Stu ambles away. He opens the fridge, peers inside and closes it again.
‘Well, that’s enough Antoine for me,’ Cecily adds, jumping up. ‘Better head back before I get overheated.’ She turns towards the kitchen door. ‘Bella darling? We really need to get going …’
And off they go, shortly followed by Stu, who’s called out on another job – emergency unsalted butter required in Crouch End – so, with Amy enjoying one of her customary soaks in the bath, I hunker down at the kitchen table and scroll through yet more of Antoine’s pictures.
More personal insights into his life is what I’m looking for: a wife, a girlfriend, children. A couple of photos I missed earlier were taken at some kind of gathering in a garden, in which he’s wearing a casual shirt and jeans, but there are no couply pictures, and there’s nothing to indicate whether he’s married or not. I examine picture after picture like some rabidly obsessed teenager, and when I check the clock on the cooker I realise over an hour has passed since Stu went out. That’s how long I’ve spent gawping at someone I haven’t seen since I was sixteen years old. What’s wrong with me? I am forty-six, I have a tunic to iron for work tomorrow, there’s a load of saggy old vegetables to dispose of in the fridge.
Allowing myself one final peek, I click on the picture that isn’t of a person or thing, but a phrase – perhaps one of those mottoes for life. Nuala pins them up whenever we’re all gathered together in a hotel for a La Beauté away-day: Because every woman is beautiful. Antoine’s reads: La vie est comme une bicyclette. Pour garder votre équilibre, vous devez continuer à avancer.
Even I can understand the first bit. Google translates the rest: To keep your balance, you must keep moving. So this is the type of person he’s turned out to be: a-life-is-a-bicycle sort of man. Right-ho. I go back to the corporate pictures, vaguely registering Stu arriving home and clattering about in the hallway.
A message pops up. Antoine!
Hey Lorrie, Thanks for accepting :) I’m very flattered that you remember me …
Remember? Is the man insane? Of course I remember!
Realise it was thirty years ago, he continues. Where does all the time go?
Oh, I don’t know – it just keeps moving. On its bicycle probably.
So, he goes on, what are you up to these days?
I wait, but nothing more comes. So, how to respond? I rehearse the words in my head: I am in charge of a highly successful make-up and skincare empire … Although I travel widely, what I love most is being with my two delightful teenagers in my beautiful house in a sought-after part of London …
I glance down at Amy’s dusty red and black basketball boots, dumped in front of the cubbyhole shelves that are meant for wine, but which are stuffed with random items such as gardening gloves, jam jars and obsolete chargers.
Stu saunters in, pulling off his crash helmet. ‘Still in a sweat over your French fancy?’
‘I’m not in a sweat,’ I retort. ‘Just a bit taken aback, that’s all.’
He peers down at my face. ‘Yes you are. You’re all flushed and your pupils are dilated …’
I laugh awkwardly and try to angle my laptop so he can’t see the message. Too late. His eyes light upon the screen.
‘Ooh, he’s messaged you. Are you going to reply?’
‘I might …’
‘What are you going to say?’
Jesus, it’s like having another teenager about the place. Any replies from datemylovelymum yet? Let me see! ‘Just … you know,’ I murmur. ‘Normal stuff …’
‘Tell him what an amazingly handsome, adorable housemate you have. Go on. Make him regret running off with that French girl, what was her name …’
‘Nicole …’
‘… And realise what a fuck-up he made of things. Make him pine for you, Lorrie …’ He guffaws loudly.
For Christ’s sake, is my entire private life to be held up for everyone else’s cheap entertainment? I try to radiate calm – and mentally compose a suitable message – but it’s impossible now with Stu hanging over me.
He extracts a Magnum ice cream from the freezer and rips off its wrapper. ‘You know what you should put? You should say—’
‘Stu, please!’
‘Whoah, I’m only trying to help …’
‘Yes, but you’re sounding exactly like my mum. You know she used to tell me what to put in a thank you letter? “Don’t just say thanks for the sweater, Lorrie. Say what you like about it – be specific about how you love the colour, the feel of it, how it goes with your jeans …”’
He licks the ice cream slowly. ‘Please don’t say I’m like your mum.’
I stand up and go to touch his arm, but he steps away. ‘Oh, of course you’re not. I just meant—’
‘I was only trying to help,’ he cuts in like a petulant child.
I look at him, embarrassed now for acting like a lunatic over a casual friend request. ‘Look, I know you were. But I really don’t need anyone’s help to message someone …’
‘Yeah, I know.’ He tries for a smile, but it falters. ‘He uses a photo of an orange for a profile picture.’
I chuckle. ‘Yes, he does. Seems like a bit of a jerk.’
Stu drops his Magnum, only half-finished, into the bin. ‘You don’t really mean that,’ he adds, affecting a teasing tone as he saunters out of the kitchen. ‘Anyway, if you’re going to obsess over someone who broke your heart thirty years ago, then I’m not going to stand in your way.’
Chapter Six
It’s a cool and breezy Wednesday morning and, after Stu’s prickliness, I’m looking forward to throwing myself into a day at the store.
I didn’t bother replying to Antoine’s message last night. Instead, I went straight to bed, finally drifting off to the muffled chatter and laughter of Cam and Mo in Cam’s room. No one had surfaced by the time I got up. I dressed quickly in my La Beauté tunic and the required smart black trousers, and applied my make-up – dark eyes, red lips, my professional face – on autopilot.
As I emerge from the tube station a text pings in from Cecily: I have a theory about the lovely Antoine. He’s newly divorced and thinking, hmm, who can I contact from my past? And you were
top of his list!
I smile, amused by her line of thinking. The thing is, when you’re single, married friends are especially keen for you to ‘get out there’ and enjoy some dating adventures. Perhaps they miss that flurry of excitement, and want you to have some fun for them to enjoy, safely, from the sidelines.
I stop outside a closing-down Rymans and reply: Top of the list? Very much doubt it. Will keep you posted! And so to work, where I know precisely what my role is, and what’s expected of me – unlike with the rest of my life.
*
‘The lovely thing about this day cream,’ I say, spreading a little across my customer’s finely boned face, ‘is that it’s like wearing nothing, but all the time it’s keeping the cells plumped up for at least seven hours, whilst helping to stop moisture evaporating from the surface …’
‘You mean it doesn’t sink in?’ she asks.
‘Well, yes, it does, but a very fine layer sits on top of the skin, acting as a protective barrier.’
‘Do you actually know this?’
This takes me aback. I was surprised, actually, that this older woman agreed to come to the counter as I approached her. She’d glided in – tall, perfectly poised with erect posture – just after we opened this morning. I’d expected a brisk ‘no thanks’ and for her to saunter straight past.
‘All our products have taken years to develop,’ I explain, ‘and when something new is launched we all try it over a few weeks. This is the cream I use every day.’
She smiles knowingly. ‘Of course it is, but then, you have to say that.’
‘I’d never recommend anything if I didn’t feel confident that it works.’
She touches her cheek. ‘It does feel rather nice, I have to say.’
I smile. ‘Would you like to try some of our new make-up colours too?’
‘Oh, is there any point at my age?’
I study her for a moment. What a face she has: almost sculpted, with an amazing complexion, her green eyes as striking as a cat’s. In her mid-sixties perhaps, she is a vision of elegance in a simple blue cotton dress and a lace-knit black cardi. Her silvery bob, not a hair out of place, hangs neatly at her pointed chin.
‘I think there’s a point at any age,’ I say, ‘if it makes you feel good about yourself.’
She frowns briefly. ‘Oh, go on then, why not? It’s just, I’ve never been a make-up person, I’ve never actually worn lipstick …’
‘No, well, I can do something very subtle for you.’
‘And I do have something coming up – an important presentation which I’m actually quite nervous about. Silly, I know, at my age …’
‘Not at all,’ I assert.
She blinks at our array of eye shadows, looking quite baffled. ‘Anyway, I’m thinking that make-up is somewhat necessary for such an occasion. It’s just expected, isn’t it, that one looks … polished these days? Could you give me some advice on that?’
‘I’d be delighted to,’ I say. ‘I’m Lorrie, by the way …’
‘Gilda.’
‘Don’t worry, Gilda, I won’t do anything outlandish. Neutrals are best when you want to look professional. So, I’ll start with our new primer …’
A small frown. ‘I have no idea what primers do.’
‘They just form a smooth base for make-up,’ I explain, ‘and contain tiny light-reflecting particles—’
‘I don’t want to look like a mirrorball!’
‘Oh, you won’t, because when I apply base over that …’
‘So base goes over the … what’s it called again?’
‘Primer.’
Gilda chuckles. ‘The base coat …’
‘Well, sort of …’
‘Like I’m a roughcast wall.’
I laugh, because she really is astoundingly beautiful and I don’t think she’s even aware of the fact.
She sits bolt upright as I apply a light cream base, and seems to be paying rapt attention as I talk her through the make-up. ‘I’m using this neutral beige over your lids,’ I explain, ‘and some darker brown close to your lashes and along the socket line – this gives an impression of depth …’
‘Not too much, please,’ she murmurs.
‘No, I promise it’s not a lot. Just a smudge of liner and some brown mascara, it’s much softer than black …’ I add blusher and a subtle brownish-rose lipstick. Although it is a full face of make-up, the effect is subtly enhancing.
‘So what do you think?’
Gilda swivels towards the mirror. ‘Oh!’ She regards herself for a moment.
Hell, she’s horrified.
‘Well, I have to say …’ She peers more closely. ‘Yes, I actually like it. Gosh, that’s a surprise. It did feel like an awful lot of stuff you were putting on …’
I exhale with relief. Although I always care, it seemed especially important that Gilda – a lipstick first-timer – was happy with my handiwork. ‘It probably did, if you’re not used to it …’
She hops down off the stool. ‘And I couldn’t be doing with all that every day, good lord no …’
‘No, of course not. But for a special occasion – for your presentation …’
‘Yes, quite. You know, I think I might have a go myself.’ She smiles. ‘I’ll take them, please.’
That’s a bonus. I didn’t expect a sale. ‘Which products were you thinking of? Here’s everything I’ve used today …’
I lay out the make-up on the counter, which she peruses carefully.
‘Oh, I’ll take the lot, darling. You’re very talented, I can’t quite believe how, well …’ She pauses and checks her reflection again. ‘… How damn good I look!’
‘You look wonderful. I’m so glad you’re happy.’
I ring through her purchases and watch her stride away.
‘God, she was gorgeous,’ exclaims Helena, who’s just returned from her break. ‘I’d love to be like that when I’m her age. It gives me hope. And wasn’t she pleased! Isn’t that a great feeling?’
‘It is,’ I say truthfully, because that’s what I love most about my job: seeing a woman light up with pleasure after I’ve applied her make-up. We get to know our customers a little, too, albeit for the short time they’re perched on our stools. We hear about new relationships, break-ups, difficult mothers, career triumphs and disasters – the whole range of life’s dramas. Making up someone’s face is such an intimate thing. Often, a woman opens up, more than you’d ever imagine.
‘You’re definitely coming out tonight, aren’t you?’ Helena adds.
‘Yes, of course. Looking forward to it …’ It’s Helena’s birthday today – her thirty-sixth – reminding me that I’m by far the oldest team member here. As one customer put it, ‘It’s nice to get advice from someone who understands mature skin.’ Ouch. She was right, though, and even our younger customers – barely twenty, some of them – seem to enjoy my rather motherly approach. I reassure myself of this on rare occasions when I panic about being put out to pasture.
At lunchtime, having picked up a sandwich, I install myself on a bench in the nearby tree-lined square and check my phone. Antoine has messaged again.
Hope you don’t mind me getting in touch, Lorrie. I knew it was you right away. You have hardly changed at all.
Oh, please – flatterer. Yet I can’t help smiling.
Where are you? Still in Yorkshire?
I take a fortifying bite of my sandwich and type:
Hi Antoine,
Lovely to hear from you. It was quite a surprise, I have to say. I’m in London – I’ve lived here pretty much all my adult life actually. East London, Bethnal Green. I live with my two teenagers and our lodger, Stu. Life’s really good. How about you? Where are you living these days?
I’m poised, waiting for a reply; I can see he’s online with his little green light on. There’s a burst of laughter from a group of young women all stretched out on the grass. Despite the cool breeze, their skirts are hoiked up to maximise tanning potential.
&
nbsp; Life is good thank you, he replies. I live in Nice – very different from that sleepy place I grew up in, where nothing ever happened! Do you remember it? I have very happy memories of my time with you. :)
Hmm. So he likes a smiley emoticon. Could it be interpreted as flirty, or would that be a wink? I’m not au fait with the language of commas and dots. Another message appears:
I have two teenagers too, Nicolas and Elodie.
Lovely names, I reply.
Thank you, of course I think so! And yours?
I have Cameron, who’s seventeen – everyone apart from his grandma calls him Cam – and Amy, she’s fifteen. She spends every spare moment at basketball training. Cam loves music and wants to be a sound engineer – or at least he thinks so. It’s all rather vague at the moment.
They sound like great kids. Mine live with their mother in Paris so it’s a long way. But we see each other when we can. They are fifteen and thirteen and growing up fast. It’s hard to believe we were just teenagers ourselves when we met that summer! Do you remember?
Does he actually think I have no memory at all?
Yes, of course I remember, I reply, then add a smiley :)
Amy would be appalled. I’ve glimpsed her texts – they are littered with emoticons – but she reckons there’s a cut-off age (twenty) for their usage.
Having finished my sandwich now, I’m starting to feel slightly ridiculous, sitting here on tenterhooks for another message. I can virtually hear Stu, carping into my ear: ‘Your pupils are massive and you’re all flushed! Jesus, Lorrie, look at the state of you …’
Amazing wasn’t it? Antoine types. The best time!
Wow – that’s a bit … suggestive. Fragments of his long-ago correspondence – the spidery handwriting with its distinctly French-looking loops and curls – flutter into my mind as I get up and drop my sandwich wrapper into a nearby bin. I’ll never forget you, he wrote in his letters back then. I’ll always love you, my beautiful Lorrie.
I stop at the corner of the street. Five minutes left of my break. I type a message, feeling emboldened now.
Can I just ask what’s made you get in touch with me now, after all this time?
Hell, why not? I want to know what he wants, and I’ve been far too reserved lately. Take the date with Ralph. What possessed me to just sit there, being pleasant, while he told me I was clearly very fond of my cake? Why didn’t I say, ‘Actually, that’s incredibly rude of you and, while we’re at it, I really couldn’t give a toss about what Thomas Trotter is trying to “say” with his caged Brillo pads’?
