by Fiona Gibson
She frowns as I pause briefly, as if she has noticed a change in my demeanour. I click back to the present and clear my throat. However, I am no longer capable of making casual chit-chat as I stroke dark brown liner along her upper lids, followed by mascara, blusher and lipstick. I am on autopilot now, touching up the lips and blending the eyes: blend, blend, blend, as they taught us in training, for a soft and flattering effect. Perhaps I over-blend because, at some point, she shifts back on her stool, leaving me holding the brush in mid-air. And now she is speaking, or at least her freshly painted lips are moving. She tilts her face to the mirror, and at first I think she’s saying, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for what I did. She’s not, of course. It’s just in my head, mingling with the scents of the beauty hall which, for the first time ever, seem too powerful – suffocating, almost. No wonder children often complain: ‘It smells in here!’ Is it always like this?
‘Lorrie?’ I jolt at the sound of Helena’s concerned voice. ‘Your customer here …’ She flashes a professional smile. ‘She was just saying how much she loves her make-up …’
‘Oh, I do,’ the woman enthuses. ‘I think I might treat myself …’
Normally I’d have lined up all the products in a tidy and tempting array, awaiting selection. However, now they are all scattered haphazardly on the counter, the used cosmetic sponge still lying there, and I could have been pinged down from the homewares department, so strange and bewildering everything feels. I am vaguely aware of the woman saying, ‘Oh, God. I can’t decide … d’you think the base, the lipstick or maybe the blusher? Or would the mascara be the most practical thing?’
I look at her blankly, incapable of helping her in any way. I don’t want to help her. I just want her to disappear before my eyes like a spray of perfume.
Across the floor, the girls at the brow bar are bantering loudly, while Helena steps forward swiftly to help our customer decide what to choose for herself. Base, lips, eyes, cheeks: she’s buying a lot, I realise. She smiles gratefully and turns to me.
‘Thank you, you’ve made me feel a whole lot better about myself …’ Then the face of Anneka Salworth, whose car skidded on that snowy road seven years ago, goes all fuzzy and I feel nauseous and unbearably hot, and then there is nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It’s Helena’s face I see first, but it all seems wrong because we’re not at the counter or even in the miserable yellow-walled sick room on the second floor. All I know is that I am lying down and her face is looming above me. ‘You’re okay, Lorrie. No need to worry. You just had a faint, that’s all.’
‘Low blood pressure,’ comes the male voice, and I realise now that some kind of tight band is attached to my arm, and I am in an ambulance, although I don’t know whether we are moving or stationary or where we might be.
‘Are the kids all right?’ I blurt out, trying to scramble up from the narrow bed.
‘Just rest,’ the man says. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.’ I focus on his face. It’s round and pink, shiny-cheeked, reassuring. There’s a fuzz of white hair on his head. ‘You were only out for a few minutes,’ he adds, ‘but we’re taking you to hospital just to run some tests, to be certain …’
‘But I’m supposed to be at work! Do the kids know what’s happened? Can I phone them?’
‘Lorrie, it’s fine,’ Helena insists. ‘Andi had just arrived and, anyway, you shouldn’t be thinking about that now. I’m sure the kids are fine too. Amy’s in Portugal, remember?’
I nod, remembering now that it’s Amy’s birthday next week and I haven’t bought her a present yet. I should have chosen her something in Nice. I should have explored the other floors of that department store, perhaps picked out some sportswear, a football top … Helena squeezes my hand and I close my eyes, registering that we are moving now.
We arrive at A&E where, despite my badgering – as I feel nothing more than a little dizzy now – Helena refuses to return to work. She remains at my side while a torch is shone into my eyes and my blood pressure taken again. We wait some more, parked on plastic chairs among people hobbling on crutches and with bleeding wounds, people who really do need the services of the NHS. Finally, clad now in a terribly unfetching backless hospital gown – which I’m sure Antoine would find as alarming as my shouting – I am told to lie on a bed in a curtained cubicle while sticky patches are pressed to my chest and my heart is monitored.
Hours later we emerge, with Helena holding my arm protectively even though the doctors found nothing wrong with me. ‘I wonder what brought it on?’ she asks as we stand at the kerbside, waiting for a taxi.
‘Low blood pressure, they said.’
‘Hmm. It was pretty hot in there today. But that’s hardly unusual, is it? And it’s never happened before—’
‘Yes,’ I cut in, ‘but then, Anneka Salworth has never walked up to our counter before, either.’
Helena frowns at me. ‘Anneka Salworth?’
I keep scanning the street for a cab. ‘The woman whose car killed David.’
‘Oh, my God!’ she exclaims. ‘You should have said! Why on earth didn’t you tell me? You could have whispered, I’d have dealt with her or sent her away …’
I manage to smile, despite everything. ‘Can you imagine how Sonia would react if she found out we’d sent a customer away?’
‘Oh, come on, Lorrie. We could have done something. I don’t know how you managed to carry on doing her make-up. I’d have …’ She breaks off.
‘What would you have done, though?’
She pulls a baffled face. ‘Said something.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. I mean, what would you have said? “Oh, you’re the woman who killed the father of my children”?’
‘Probably, yes,’ she splutters.
I exhale. ‘She’d have been horrified.’
‘Well, maybe she should have been horrified …’
‘Helena,’ I say carefully, ‘I know what you’re saying and, of course, part of me wanted to tell her who I was, and how she ruined my life and our children’s lives …’ She nods and squeezes my hand. ‘But what would have been the point? I mean, what would I have gained by that?’
‘You might have felt a bit better,’ she mutters, ‘having the opportunity to tell her exactly what she did to you …’
‘No, I wouldn’t. Anyway, there’s no way it would have come out rationally, like we’re talking now. I’d have been in a state …’
‘You were in a state,’ she cuts in. ‘You ended up flat on the floor! You were out cold, you could have cracked your head open or anything—’
‘Yes, well, I didn’t, and I’m okay now – and not just in the way the doctor said. I mean, I really am okay. I’ve moved on from it and it looks like Anneka Salworth’s trying to do that too …’
Helena frowns in confusion. ‘You mean, you want her to move on? You’ve forgiven her for what she did?’
I pause. ‘In a way, yes, I have. She’s been in prison. She was convicted of causing death by dangerous driving. She knows she killed David, and it wasn’t deliberate …’
‘But her doctor had said she shouldn’t drive!’ Helena catches herself. ‘I’m sorry. It’s none of my business …’
‘No, it is,’ I insist as a cab comes into view. ‘You were there for me after he died. You helped me through it all – you were brilliant with Cam and Amy – and I hardly knew you then. But I’m okay, you know.’ I hail the cab and smile at her. ‘Honestly, I really am.’ The cab pulls up beside us. ‘You want to take this? I assume you’re going back to work?’
‘I will, but I’ll be quicker by tube. You take it, go home and get some rest.’
‘You know, I think I will do that,’ I say, hugging and thanking her for being there yet again, and climb into the back of the taxi.
She waves as we pull away, and then strides towards the tube station, heading back to the store which has almost felt like home to me these past ten years – the kind of place where you sense tha
t nothing bad could ever happen. But today it did.
As we crawl through the traffic I picture its frontage, so delightfully old-fashioned with its wooden revolving doors and brass plaques, one of the last left in London that hasn’t been swallowed up by a huge company. It’s all summer fashion in the window display at the moment: bright prints and sparkles and sequinned beach bags, which will soon make way for muted autumn shades, all the browns and greys and burgundys, then Halloween – seasonal celebrations are always embraced with gusto – and then Christmas, January sales, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Easter and summer again … On and on it rolls, year after year. I have always loved being a part of the place but after today – and my Anneka Salworth encounter – it’s Claudine and Mimi I’m thinking about, determined to focus on their new venture instead of clinging onto the past. And what did Sonia Richardson say again? ‘I assume you’re not planning to sell make-up for the rest of your life?’
Well, maybe I’m not, who knows? I settle back in the seat of the cab, watching shoppers milling in and out of the stores as the tiniest germ of an idea starts to form in my mind.
*
Back home, having learned of today’s events at the hospital, Cam gamely knocks together our dinner: pasta with pesto, not Stu’s home-made version of course, just a jar from the cupboard. However, it raises my spirits to watch him doling out super-sized portions into cereal bowls, and I bestow him with thanks.
We hang out together, watching TV, munching on crisps and speculating on what Amy might be doing now, until Mo shows up, and the two of them head out for the evening. The house feels quiet without him, oddly still and decidedly empty. Even the kitchen cupboards are looking bare. Despite Stu often being out on deliveries, he sort of filled the space here, even when he wasn’t here. I am missing seeing his biker boots lying in the hall, his habit of storing bread in the fridge. And, okay, I am also missing spotting a Post-it note stuck to the lid of the cake tin, saying EAT ME.
I decide to run a deep bubble bath and, while it’s filling, I poke my head around his bedroom door – well, our spare room now, I suppose, even though most of his possessions are still here. I consider calling him, just to chat, to tell him about Anneka Salworth, but after my bunting emergency last night I decide it’s best not to load more woes upon him. Perhaps that’s why he’s moving out: because he’d simply had enough of the ups and downs of my life.
I close the door and sink into my bath, determining that, as soon as Mum’s wedding is over, I’ll decide what to do about his room. Perhaps I should let it out to a student after all? Cam and Amy are so often out and about, doing their own thing, and I know I’ll miss having young people about the place when they do fly the nest.
In bed now, I flip open my laptop and check for any activity on the dating site. I have several ‘winks’, all from seemingly decent-looking men, no obvious weirdos or anyone lacking in teeth. I flick through the profiles, gasping audibly as I spot a face I already know. It’s Eric from the park. Handsome, red-haired Eric, with a wide, slightly crooked smile and crinkly eyes, as if he’s been caught mid-laugh. Eric who owns an off-licence, for crying out loud – always handy in a crisis, as Pearl pointed out. So he’s playing the dating game too. And he’s winked at me! I study his profile and small selection of pictures. Even without having met him, I’d be interested; he’s a nice-guy-with-a-dog, I decide. Kind, friendly, easy on the eye. Not the type to say anything about a woman’s weight. I consider whether to wink back, fire off a friendly message or delay doing anything at all. Oh, what the hell …
Hi, Eric,
Fancy meeting you on here! What a lovely surprise. Would you like to meet for a drink sometime? I am away at my mother’s wedding this Friday and Saturday morning, but perhaps sometime after that?
I press send, then come off the site and check Cecily’s Facebook page. It’s filled with pictures of the Kenton family – and Amy – all gathered around their turquoise pool at the Portuguese villa. With a twinge of missing her, I send her another chatty text, deciding not to mention the fact that Stu is moving out. Like Cam, she’ll be disappointed. I scroll through Dad’s recent pictures too, and glance only briefly at Antoine’s page – there’s nothing new on there – by which time Eric has replied:
Hi Lorrie, I couldn’t believe it when I saw you here either. How about Saturday evening? Shall we meet at the pub in London Fields?
Sounds perfect, I reply.
So, another date to add to my diary. Surely there’ll be no nasty surprises with an amiable, dog-loving man?
Too charged up to sleep now, I sit upright in bed and start to carefully compose the email I’ve been thinking about ever since I left hospital today:
Dear Claudine and Mimi,
It was wonderful to see you. Thank you so much for your hospitality. It was an honour to visit your home and garden – the inspiration behind La Beauté. The good news is, since I’ve been back, I’ve had a meeting with the new management who have agreed that I can stay in position as counter manager, and that nothing will change. But as you know, things have changed. It’s just not the company we all loved anymore, and now I think it’s time for me to consider moving on to something new. A fresh start, if you like – just like you’re doing too.
I’ve been thinking about the sketches and photographs you showed me in your studio. I’m convinced you’re right, and that this is something women would love – a sort of escape, where they can shake off their responsibilities and disappear from the real world for a short time. Somewhere to go with no pressure to buy. I know some people think beauty is trivial but I have never felt that. Doesn’t every woman deserve to treat herself, and be looked after, once in a while?
So, when you are ready to look for premises for your first Claudine & Mimi beauty store in London, I’d like to put myself forward to head up things here in the UK. You know I am devoted to beauty. I manage my team well and have lots of experience of recruitment. My girls here are excellent.
Most importantly, perhaps, I understand what you are trying to do with the new venture, and I know I can interpret your vision and make the London store a wonderfully inviting place where any woman will simply love to be. I do hope you can keep me in mind.
With very best wishes,
Lorrie
Chapter Thirty-Six
Two days isn’t nearly enough time to get ready for the wedding, according to Mum. ‘What about underwear?’ she laments down the phone. ‘I can’t get married in Primark knickers … can we go shopping again?’
‘Sorry, but not this week, and don’t tell me all your underwear is from Primark. That’s simply not true. Bet Hamish has bought you some lovely fancy things.’ Since my little adventure in Nice I’m finding it easier to brush off her demands.
‘He might have,’ she says reluctantly.
‘Just choose something plain and simple so it doesn’t spoil the line of your dress …’
‘Plain and simple? I’m going to be a bride, not a nun!’
She can truss herself up in a rubber corset for all I care at this point, although I refrain from saying so. Instead, I explain that Stu can come after all.
‘He’s rearranged things just for me?’
‘Not exactly, but—’
‘Oh, isn’t he a darling? I’m delighted, Lorrie. I was so worried about you sitting there all alone.’
Meanwhile, with Amy’s sixteenth birthday just around the corner, I use my lunchbreak on Wednesday to acquire an entire new basketball kit, plus two concert tickets, a pair of Converse, underwear and multi-packs of sports socks. Tickets aside, it all seems rather functional, but it’s what she likes. I’d never dream of buying her perfume; she takes after her dad on that score. ‘I’ve never knowingly worn aftershave,’ he quipped one Christmas as soon as his mother was out of earshot, having presented him with an enormous bottle of Gucci Homme.
On Thursday lunchtime, I make a beeline for my store’s homewares department, where I buy gingham napkins and tablecloths, and
then hurry onwards to the fashion floor – not my usual hunting ground, but time is of the essence now. The sales assistants rally together to present me with a selection of possible footwear options to wear with my dusky pink dress on the big day. ‘Wow, you’re cutting it a bit fine,’ remarks one of the girls. I settle on gorgeous black suede sandals embellished with tiny pearlised beads.
Amy returns that evening, honey-golden and, I suspect, slightly relieved to be home. ‘It was great,’ she confides, ‘but they’re so competitive, Mum. We couldn’t have a swim without it being turned into a race. The boys are unbelievable …’
‘Well, they are all high achievers,’ I remark with a smile.
‘Yeah, I know. It’s exhausting. I’m so glad we’re just normal …’
‘Well, the jury’s out on that.’
She laughs, her sunny mood only slightly dented when I tell her that Stu is in the process of moving to Bob’s. ‘We will still see him, won’t we?’ she asks.
‘Of course we will,’ I assure her. ‘I’ve been friends with him since I was your age, darling. He’s not getting rid of us that easily.’ She still looks disgruntled as I leave her to unpack while I try on my outfit for the wedding tomorrow, perking up only when I reappear downstairs in my dress and heels.
‘You look gorgeous, Mum,’ she exclaims as I parade up and down the living room in a jokey catwalk strut. Amy will wear a chic little sleeveless red dress with no embellishment whatsoever, plus her sole pair of heels; it’s all put together with zero fuss, and when she appears downstairs in it, I’m quite choked at how lovely she looks. With Cam, I have to exercise rather more quality control, but we dig out a shirt for him, plus smart trousers and a proper pair of shoes.
Late on Thursday evening, I am overcome with panic about the next day. There is nothing specific to fret about; the bunting and table decorations are all packed up, and as long as Mum has dispatched proper instructions to the florist, everything should be okay. However, her agitation is infectious, and I can’t settle until I have called Hamish to check that everything has come together at their end.
