by Fiona Gibson
She gathers herself up and crosses her legs. ‘Worried about it?’
‘No, no. It’ll be fine …’
‘What was Grandma annoyed about earlier?’
‘Oh, nothing really. Nothing important.’
She reaches out for my hand and I sit beside her on the bed. While the trophies at Cecily’s house are lovingly shined up and displayed with space around them, giving them the reverence they deserve, Amy’s basketball cups are jammed onto a shelf in between books, jars of pens and soft toys with missing eyes. She refuses to have them displayed in the living room where everyone would see them. To her, it’s the doing it that’s important, and being part of her team – not the gleaming trophy with her name etched on as Most Improved Player. ‘It didn’t sound like nothing,’ she offers now. ‘I heard shouting, Mum. You and Grandma … what was she going on about?’
‘Oh just that I shouldn’t have been a working mother, that’s all.’
She splutters. ‘Why not?’
‘Because …’ I shrug. ‘Because it meant I couldn’t be here for you all the time.’
Amy peers at me in confusion. ‘Well, we went to Pearl’s and we loved it there. She did so much stuff with us – games, baking, painting. It was great.’
‘She did more with you than I did,’ I say wryly.
‘That’s not what I mean. You did stuff too but you had your job and the house to look after as well. You were busy, Mum. It was fine …’
I twist a corner of duvet cover between my fingers: a simple light blue stripe, the kind of design she always chooses. ‘Was it really so great, having a childminder?’
‘’Course it was. Mums go to work,’ she adds firmly. ‘It’s not the eighteen hundreds.’
I smile. ‘I know, darling. She just has a way of getting to me, that’s all.’
‘I’m so glad you’re not like Grandma, Mum.’
‘Thanks, darling. She’s not so bad. Just a bit wound up about the wedding, I guess …’
She smirks. ‘No, she’s always been like that.’
I hug her goodnight, and try to thank her but can’t quite convey why it means so much to hear her talking that way. How often does a child acknowledge that a parent hasn’t made an almighty hash of raising them? Almost never. Perhaps things have been okay, just the three of us, after all.
In my own bedroom, I gather up all my La Beauté products from my bedside table and stuff them into a drawer. No need to have them looming at me as I go to sleep. Nuala was right, I know our ranges inside out; nothing’s going to faze me tomorrow. Instead, I change into PJs and sit up in bed with my laptop and log onto Facebook.
Antoine again. He is online too.
Sorry to bombard you with messages, Lorrie. I get the feeling you don’t want to be in touch. That’s okay. I understand. You must still be angry with me.
I think of Mum, angry at Dad for having the nerve to meet someone else and moving to a little beach-side apartment in Melbourne – over thirty years ago.
I’m not angry, I write. Just been busy, that’s all.
Aware of Stu’s motorbike pulling up outside, I realise how abrupt my message sounds, how pissed off and grudge-holding. Stu clomps into the hallway and shuts the front door.
I enjoyed seeing those pics, I add, although I was a little disturbed by my 80s hair …
Antoine is typing, Facebook tells me. At the sound of Stu coming upstairs, I slip out of bed and poke my head around my bedroom door.
‘You’re back quick. You didn’t go to Bob’s, then?’
‘Nah.’ He gives me an inscrutable look.
‘Everything okay with Mum?’
He smirks. ‘Huh. S’pose so. Just never ask me to do that again …’
I peer at him. His hair is still flattened from his motorbike helmet, his bristles erring towards pre-beard. ‘She didn’t try and kiss you, did she?’
‘Um, well, not quite.’
My stomach clenches. ‘Not quite? Jesus, Stu, I was joking! What d’you mean?’
He wanders into the bathroom, partly to tease me, I suspect, to keep me guessing. I scamper in after him and watch as he splashes water onto his face and dabs at it with a towel. ‘She seemed a bit wobbly, said she felt all disorientated from being on the bike …’
‘Couldn’t have been anything to do with the wine,’ I remark.
‘No, ’course not.’ He chuckles. ‘So I helped her upstairs, made sure she could get her key in the door. She started going on about how her Jacobean dress won’t look right, now the wedding plans are up in the air. I tried to persuade her it’ll be fine, she’ll look great …’
‘Stu …’ I stop and wince. ‘Please don’t tell me she launched herself at you …’
‘Christ, no.’ He laughs. ‘But she did insist on tottering off and trying the dress on, said she needed my opinion. “All right,” I said. I mean, she’s your mum, isn’t she? What else was I supposed to do?’ I shrug wordlessly. ‘So she disappeared off to her room and reappeared in this, this … gown.’ His mobile trills. He swipes it from his back pocket, frowns at the screen before I can see who it is – not that it’s any business of mine – and declines the call.
‘And then what?’ I ask.
He rubs at the space between his eyebrows as if trying to erase the memory. ‘Well, she paraded around her living room in it, and I told her it was lovely but that I really needed to go. She said, “Wait, help me get this thing off …”’
‘Not that old line,’ I say, appalled.
‘Yeah. She said the zip was stiff, being Jacobean …’
‘But it’s just a normal, modern zip!’
‘Hmm. Well, I just gave it a little tug …’
I cover my face with my hands and peer at him through my fingers. ‘You didn’t undress her, did you?’
He looks at me, eyes wide. ‘What else could I do? I couldn’t leave her trapped in it …’
‘Yes, you could! She could have slept in it and somehow struggled out of it in the morning, maybe asked Mr Tomlinson from upstairs to come down and help …’ We both splutter at the thought.
‘Well, she wasn’t having any of that. She was quite agitated, you know, and kept saying, “Get it off me” and asking why was I being so uptight when there are certain people – naturalists – who wander about with no clothes on all day …’ We are now both laughing convulsively. ‘So, what else could I do? I yanked on the zip and the dress fell to the floor and I rushed off to the bathroom and found her dressing gown hanging on the door, thank God …’ He is doubled up with laughter. ‘And I bundled her into it.’
‘Oh, my God, Stu. I’m so sorry—’
‘It’s not your fault your mother’s a sex pest.’
I wipe tears from my cheeks. ‘She adores you, you know. Thinks it’s a terrible waste, you living here …’
‘Huh?’
‘You know, me and you not being a couple. God.’ I dab at my cheeks with my pyjama sleeve. ‘Maybe it was all an elaborate plot, falling out with me tonight so you’d be the one taking her home …’
He pushes a tumble of dark, wavy hair out of his eyes. ‘I tend to have that effect on the older demographic.’
I study him for a moment. ‘Really? You mean other older women have propositioned you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he mutters, cheeks colouring.
Now, of course, I am fascinated. ‘Stu, what else has happened? Is it one of your Parsley Force customers? Has someone tried to jump on you when you’ve dropped off their fresh figs?’
‘What are you on about?’
I can feel the heat from here, radiating from his cheeks.
‘They have! They’ve said, “Hang on a minute” and pretended to rush off to find their purse, and come back wearing a see-through negligee with nothing underneath, and then turned the dimmer switch down …’
‘You’ve watched too much rubbish porn.’
‘I’ve never watched any porn!’ I exclaim truthfully.
Stu chuckles. ‘And no
one has dimmer switches anymore.’
‘Actually, Mum does.’
‘God, does she?’ He shudders.
‘And a negligee with peonies all over it; I’ve seen it drying on that wire stand in her bath …’ We are on the landing now, giggling like the teenagers we once were, over Jacobean dresses and the fact that Mum thinks he’s hot. ‘I’d better go to bed,’ I say finally. ‘Early start for this conference tomorrow.’ We say goodnight and, as I climb back into bed, I find myself wondering what Stu meant by the older demographic, seeing as he ducked out of further questioning. There’s been no evidence – and certainly no information shared – about any encounters with women since scary Roz chucked him out. ‘He’s always between things, that’s his problem,’ she moaned when she appeared on my doorstep to drop off the last of his stuff. ‘Between jobs and projects,’ she clarified. ‘Never fully in them. I might consider having him back if and when he finally grows up.’ Without wishing to be disloyal to Stu, I just murmured that I understood, and decided not to remind her that he was in fact working as a motorcycle courier, albeit sporadically. ‘Thanks for taking him in,’ she added, as if he were a stray dog she’d found sniffing around the bins. Yet he’s not between things now. He’s busy and motivated, and Parsley Force seems to be flourishing. I’m so proud that he turned a crazy, wine-fuelled idea into something real.
Cam arrives home then, calling out a cheery goodnight from the landing.
‘Have a good time, love?’ I ask through my closed bedroom door.
‘Yeah, great.’
With no further info forthcoming, I lift my laptop onto my bed and log onto Facebook. I know I planned an early night but one last quick peek won’t hurt.
Antoine has messaged me.
I love the pictures too, and your 80s hair was great! Look, this might be a bit forward but I’m in London on business this week, arriving Sunday afternoon as I have a breakfast meeting first thing on Monday …
Antoine in London?
… I know it’s short notice, he continues, but would you like to meet for a drink?
A drink. Sounds so casual, as if we are just old friends. But we’re not, are we? Friends keep in touch. They don’t stop writing out of the blue. They make an effort, and spend time together, and we haven’t seen each other in thirty years.
I blink at the screen, mulling over possible ways to reply. I’m scared, that’s the problem. Scared because the last time he saw me – just a girl, quite a pretty girl, I realise now – I had skin like a peach and, despite feeling terribly plain, an actual waist. Now I’m a middle-aged woman who’s terribly fond of her cake …
Just a quick, friendly drink, though, for old times’ sake. Where’s the harm in that? And he’s older too. He’s a middle-aged man in a suit who just so happens to be coming to London on business. He just wants to catch up. He’s not going to judge me and, anyway, what do I care if he does? After three-teeth-Marco and pervy Ralph, isn’t a fun night out with a delicious Frenchman precisely what I need?
Trying to project calm – rather than rabid enthusiasm – I type out my reply:
Sounds great. How about Sunday evening, about eightish? Would that work for you?
Cam stomps to the bathroom, and the loo flushes repeatedly; I assume he’s done his party trick of using almost an entire loo roll, thus blocking its workings. I’ll have to sort it out with a straightened-out wire coat hanger tomorrow. Bet Ginny Benson’s never troubled by such thoughts as she waits for her truffle oil delivery.
There’s some muttering and more flushing, then Antoine’s reply appears:
Perfect. I’m staying at the Neal Street Hotel in Covent Garden – I’ll wait for you in reception. How wonderful to see you after all these years! xx
Chapter Twelve
So worried am I about sleeping in – despite my alarm clock being set, backed up by the alarm on my phone – that I jerk awake next morning at 5.47 a.m. with no chance of drifting back to sleep. Still, plenty of time to re-read my little exchange with Antoine last night, just to satisfy myself that it did really happen – that he’s coming to London.
Having unblocked the loo with my patented coat hanger method, I shower and consume an entire cafetière of coffee as I get ready. I pull on my uniform tunic, and select my smartest black trousers; they are a little tight at the waist, I discover, but okay if I remember to hold in my stomach. I choose low heels, polished to a high sheen, plus the simple silver earrings that Pearl brought back for me last year after a nannying stint in Switzerland. She doesn’t work as a childminder anymore. Nannying for wealthy families overseas is far more lucrative and, as she put it, she ‘needed adventures’ after it transpired that her husband Iain had been having an affair with an intern at the publishing house where he worked. This was three years ago, when Iain was forty-seven. Daisy was eighteen. ‘Operation Yewtree,’ Pearl spat out, whenever we discussed his new liaison. Iain tried to patch things up after Daisy had, in Pearl’s words, ‘realised that spending her Saturday nights in with a boring middle-aged man isn’t that much fun’. But by then, Pearl had binned his possessions, redecorated their home to her personal taste and begun to enjoy living in a flat ‘that isn’t filled with his black moods and farts’. She has, she has asserted, no desire to meet anyone new, and there are no children to badger her into joining a dating site.
Sensing that the earrings will bring me luck today, I turn my attentions to my hair, first blow-drying it, then obliterating any suggestion of fullness by scraping it back and securing it in a tight bun. The effect is either sleek professional or hostile doctor’s receptionist, I can’t quite decide which.
Make-up wise, we’re talking full face: it’s expected for work, although now I choose more muted shades than usual. Neutral colours are best when you want to look polished and professional. I find myself replaying the advice I gave to elegant Gilda in the store. It feels oddly like talking to myself.
By the time I’m ready to leave – at 7 a.m. – no one else has emerged from their rooms. I check Facebook, and discover that Antoine has messaged me his mobile number, which I store in my phone immediately before sending him mine. Then I log off and leave the house quietly, with an unsettling feeling deep in my stomach as if I am going to court.
*
The Davenport is a bland modern hotel at the Euston end of Tottenham Court Road, a step up from a Travelodge or a Premier Inn. There’s nothing terribly alluring about it. Across the street, teetering along in terribly uncomfortable-looking heels, Andi, our newest team member, shouts my name and waves. She waits for a gap in traffic before darting towards me.
‘Oh, I’m so glad to see you,’ she exclaims. ‘I wish they’d told us what this was all about. I could hardly sleep last night.’
‘Me neither,’ I say truthfully. ‘It’ll be fine, though, once things get started. These conferences are usually quite fun.’
She casts me a doubtful look. ‘I’m just no good at speaking in front of people. Will they ask me, d’you think?’
I squeeze her arm as we make our way into the hotel foyer. ‘I’ve no idea, but try not to worry. You’re warm and friendly and that’s all that matters. That’s what the management wants to see.’
Andi musters a weak smile. ‘God, I hope so—’
‘And they’re just people,’ I remind her. ‘Most of them do the same job you do. There’ll be a few bigwigs, but I’ve met most of those from various seminars and they’re fine. They’re just like us …’
We both turn as a tall and rangy blonde woman in a black linen suit and nude heels strides towards us. She is clutching a thick wodge of documents, and a pair of huge sunglasses are perched on top of her head. ‘You’re here for the La Beauté conference?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I reply.
She jabs a cherry-red nail in the direction of one of the corridors leading off the foyer. ‘Down that way, last door on your right. Please pick up a name badge on your way in.’
Hmm, no niceties there, then.
<
br /> I assume a purposeful stride as Andi and I head off together and collect our badges from the dozens arranged in neat rows on a table.
Fixing them on, we step into the already bustling conference room. Rows of plastic chairs have been set out before a small raised stage with a lectern positioned dead centre. Behind it, the elegant swirl of the La Beauté logo beams from an enormous screen. Our entire skincare range has been laid out on a cloth-covered table to the right, and another table displays our make-up collection. It all looks impeccably organised, and I try to ignore the niggle of unease about being given only two days’ notice for this. And what about our counter back at the store? I’ll be checking the morning’s sales the minute we get back.
Although croissants, pastries and a selection of fruit have been laid out for us, no one seems to be eating anything. Normally I’d be right in there, ogling the glistening pains aux raisins and squidgy blueberry muffins. I have never quite managed to shake off my childish joy at being faced with a hotel breakfast buffet but now I can’t stomach a thing. D’you hear that, Ralph, office-toilet-perv? There’s about a mile of baked goods on offer and I am merely pouring myself a coffee from a stainless steel pot.
Clutching my cup and saucer nervously as if I’ve never handled such items before, I glance around the room. Andi is still lurking anxiously at my side, like a little girl on her first outing to playgroup. I smile – serenely, I hope, my cup jiggling only slightly – in recognition, at some of the women who are hovering around. As we’re ‘a much-loved niche company’, as Nuala puts it – i.e. small fry to the industry’s major players – most of the London sales staff know each other even if we work at different stores.
I catch Nuala’s eye, and she waves distractedly, then turns away to continue chatting with a modelly-looking guy in tortoiseshell specs and an expensive-looking pale grey suit. He has one of those angular jaws that looks chiselled from rock. ‘It’s a bold, brave move but it’s definitely the way forward,’ he booms, and I catch Nuala nodding, wide-eyed. ‘Knock the competition into a cocked hat,’ he adds, with a horsey laugh.
