by Fiona Gibson
“Uh-huh,” Zoë said.
“What if somebody saw? God, Zoë!” Hannah started to march away, pushing between harassed-looking shoppers laden with bulging carrier bags.
“No one saw,” Zoë insisted, hurrying after her. “They never do. It’s easy, Han. I can’t understand why everyone doesn’t do it.”
They ducked into a bakery, bought Cokes and sat at a tiny speckled Formica table in the café area at the back. It felt warm and safe with its comforting cake smells and the raucous hiss from the coffee machine. Hannah stared at Zoë across the table. “How long have you been doing this?” she asked.
“Long as I can remember. Started with tiny things—the odd blusher, eye shadow—then bigger stuff.”
“Like what?”
“You know that makeup set I’ve got with all the drawers and the twenty-four eye shadows and magnifying mirror?”
Hannah’s hand shot to her mouth. “Bloody hell.”
“And my ceramic straightening irons,” Zoë added smugly.
Hannah started to snigger. She thought she’d really got to know Zoë over these past few weeks. She’d told Hannah about the pathetic, pimply boys at her school, and how rumor had spread that she was easy—“only because of my looks, Han”—when she was really anything but. She wasn’t intending to let any of those acne-faced twerps anywhere near her. “You’ve got to respect yourself,” she’d asserted, “or no one else will.”
Now Zoë was telling her that she habitually nicked makeup and God knows what else. “One time,” she carried on merrily, “I nicked this life-sized plastic head with its own makeup. You know the ones that little girls put lipstick on and style the hair? I didn’t know what to do with it so I went to Vicky Park and left it on a bench. Some little kid would’ve come along and taken it home. It would’ve made someone’s day.” Put like that, shoplifting seemed almost like a charitable act.
“Don’t you think it’s wrong?” Hannah asked. “I mean, don’t you ever feel guilty?”
“Why would I?” Zoë scoffed. “I’m not stealing from people. I’m only taking stuff from massive corporations that won’t miss the odd little thing. They budget for it, Han. Natural wastage, they call it. When you think about the terrible crimes that go on, no one’s bothered about someone nicking the odd tester bottle of perfume.”
Hannah couldn’t help feeling a tweak of admiration. Zoë just kept on surprising her. “What about those powder leaf things you gave me?” she asked, swigging her Coke.
“Stolen goods, my dear,” Zoë drawled.
“And the chocolate bubbles?”
“Ditto.”
“God. I’ll feel weird every time I have a bath.”
Zoë laughed and fished her phone from her bag to read an incoming text. “Just Mum,” she muttered, “wanting me to pick up her precious silver dress from the dry cleaners on my way home.”
Hannah rolled her eyes dramatically, as if her own mother was equally prone to asking her to collect designer attire. “Want me to show you how it’s done sometime?” Zoë asked.
“What, nicking stuff?”
“Keep your voice down. Yeah, if you want to. I’m not forcing you though. Not pressurizing you.”
“You’d better not,” Hannah said. She finished her Coke and linked arms with Zoë as they sauntered out of the bakery. “I’ll do something for you though,” she added.
“What?” Zoë grinned.
“I’ll visit you in jail.”
18
Nancy’s right foot was propped on a chair in her kitchen. Beneath a hideous, ribbed knee-high, the big toe was thickly bandaged, the result of being crushed by a shopping bag. “You were trying to carry too much,” Jane scolded her. “Why don’t you get a taxi back from the shops, or call me and I’ll pick stuff up for you?”
“It was only tins,” Nancy retorted. “A few cans of Ambrosia creamed rice. Doctor says it’s healing nicely, not that I’ll be going back to him—he was barely more than a child, Jane, and I don’t need some whippersnapper telling me what I can and can’t do.” As if to demonstrate the digit’s remarkable healing power, she bumped her foot on to the floor and hobbled toward the nerve center of the clippings library.
Jane followed her in, breathing in the smell of aging newsprint. “There’s something I want to show you,” Nancy said, extracting a faded green file from a drawer. She pulled out a rumpled newspaper cutting and offered it to Jane. “I thought of you when I found this,” Nancy added. “Didn’t you see his exhibition years ago? I have to say, this really is art—a world away from the kind of work you produce. Thought you might pick up some tips.”
You’ve never seen anything I’ve produced, Jane thought. She examined the cutting: Archie Snail. “Well,” Nancy said, “is that him?”
“Yes. I can’t believe you remember.”
“You know me,” she said, cackling. “I forget nothing. Have you read much about him?”
“Not really. He’s American, and doesn’t seem to have produced much since—”
“He works in Scotland,” Nancy interrupted. “He’s just started running courses, workshops, whatever you call them. Something about being ruined financially, having to keep himself afloat. Why not nip up there, sharpen up your skills?”
“I can’t just nip up to Scotland,” Jane protested. “I’ve got Hannah and my job….”
“Doesn’t that nursery give you holidays? Couldn’t Hannah stay with Max, if he’s not too tied up with that fancy woman?”
Jane winced. “It’s too far, Mum.”
“Glasgow’s not that far. It’s hardly Madagascar. Get on a train at King’s Cross and bingo.”
Jane peered at the cutting. The newspaper had used the same photo as the website; same weaselly eyes and vexed demeanor. She scanned the text, picking out phrases: outstanding craftsman…most gifted artist in the stained glass medium…financial hardship after a fire that destroyed his studio and virtually all of his work…runs five-day courses on a remote Hebridean island… “It’s nowhere near Glasgow,” Jane murmured. “His studio’s on some tiny island off the west coast.”
Nancy lowered herself on to the room’s sole chair and hoisted her bad foot on to the opposite thigh. “You’ve traveled, haven’t you? What about that summer you and Max took off, went to India before—”
“Yes, Mum, I got pregnant.”
“Well, I’m sure a reasonably intelligent thirty-eight-year-old woman like you is capable of getting herself from London to some Scottish island. Hannah won’t mind. I assume she’s still besotted with that ridiculous Zoë girl? Too busy, is she, to come and see me?”
“She’s got extra theater rehearsals,” Jane fibbed, feeling a twist in her stomach. Hannah hadn’t wanted to come to Granny Nancy’s; she and Zoë were going to study together, which could be roughly translated as We’re going shopping, using Zoe’s limitless funds, then coming home to beautify ourselves. Pity us our hectic lives.
“On a Saturday?” Nancy huffed. “You don’t need to humor me. If Hannah doesn’t want to come anymore, that’s absolutely fine.”
“Of course she does,” Jane said, knowing that her mother was right; between hanging out with Princess Zoë or being told what to watch on TV in cabbage-smelling living room, there really was no contest.
Jane slipped the Archie cutting into her jeans pocket and kissed her mother’s papery cheek. “And Mum,” she added, “I’m only thirty-seven.”
“What shall I do about Mum?” came Hannah’s voice.
Jane tensed in the water. She’d poured herself a shoulder-deep bath, sloshing in a liberal helping of Hannah’s chocolate truffle bath deluxe foam. It looked far too expensive to be poured, least of all into a bath; its golden top and metallic label made it look like some exotic sweet drink, though its label read Do Not Drink. Jane lay as still as possible, but couldn’t make out Zoë’s reply. It sounded like, “Your mum’s all right.” Well, thank you kindly, Jane thought angrily. You’re sleeping over yet again; you drift around our hou
se, doing whatever you like, and I’m deemed as “all right.”
“She was going on about those nail varnishes,” Hannah continued, her voice clearly audible from her room. “Said I should politely ask you not to keep giving me stuff.” An outburst of giggles. “Please, Zoë,” Hannah continued, affecting a ridiculous cut-glass accent, “would you be so kind as to not keep showering me with presents, there’s a love?”
Zoë was laughing openly now. Both of them were. Hadn’t it occurred to them that Jane might hear them? Didn’t they care? “God, Han,” Zoë said, “you’re so funny, you know that? You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. The girls at school are all so superficial and up themselves.”
“That’s what you get for going to a posh school.”
“Wish I went to your school.”
Jane glanced over the side of the bath. One of Zoë’s sandals was lying on its side by the loo. Emma Hope Shoes read the oval-shaped label on the sandal’s inside. Regalia for Feet. Jane and Hannah’s shoes weren’t “by” anyone. They were from Dolcis or Shelleys or Roman Road market. They weren’t Regalia.
Hannah’s beaten-up trainers lay beside Zoë’s pink embroidered confection. The ends of the laces were grubby and frayed; they looked like the footwear of a different species. Jane wondered when Hannah would start asking for Emma Hope shoes. She’d already acquired a new habit of applying full makeup before school. It was subtle enough to sidestep the no-makeup rule; what concerned Jane was the time it took. Most mornings Hannah was running late, often with homework not done.
“What d’you think I should do?” Hannah asked.
“About what?”
“Mum getting on at me.”
Christ, Jane thought, is that how she sees me? She glared down at the bubbles. They weren’t chocolate-colored—not the luscious molten Aero she’d expected—but disappointingly white. “She’s probably going through the menopause,” Zoë ventured.
“You think so? What happens then?”
“You go completely weird. Mum told me all about it.”
“Is your mum having it?” Hannah asked.
“God no. She’s way younger than your mum. But she told me what happens, about your bones going brittle and—” pause for stifled snort “—how you shrivel up down there.”
Jane’s heart was thudding urgently. She could see it—the agitated pulsing of her chest. She glared down at her long, slender legs and tried to imagine the noncrumbly, virtually indestructible bones inside them. “You start piling on weight around your middle,” Zoë continued, “and your face gets hairy. You know how old women have hairs poking out of their chin? Like, they have to get them electrolocized? And you get sweaty at night and don’t want sex anymore but—” she sounded as if she were choking on her own tongue now “—that’s okay ’cause no one wants to do it with you anyway!” They erupted in laughter.
Ha-di-bloody-ha, thought Jane, poking a toe—a rather gnarled toe, she realized now—through the thin layer of foam. Not that she had a sex life to lose. Her last encounter with the male species had been over a year ago. She and Daniel Banks—a thin, shy surveyor who’d commissioned a bathroom window—had spent several nights together when Hannah had been staying with Max. He’d been so well-meaning—so eager to please—that Jane had felt wretched for not fancying him back. Pretty soon, she’d realized that she was hiding him from Hannah as if he were an embarrassing stain. There was nothing wrong with him exactly. Nothing she could put a finger on. Yet if the prospect of introducing him to her daughter was beyond remote, what was the point in continuing?
Jane grabbed the bottle and sloshed in more chocolate foam. She shut her eyes, breathing it in, this evidentally near-menopausal woman who was due to shrivel up into a tight little ball at any moment—or go off, like a malfunctioning burglar alarm. The bath had gone tepid and there was no more hot water in the tank. Jane hauled herself out and wrapped herself tightly in a clammy towel, trying to dampen the pounding in her chest. How dare they discuss her like that? She gave Hannah acres of leeway. What about the puking incident? Jane hadn’t made a fuss. She’d even washed the goddam path! And hadn’t she been justified in questioning all the makeup Hannah was acquiring? How many nail polishes did a girl need? Max, or maybe Veronica, must be doling out money to the girls. It would have to stop. They wouldn’t be beholden to some woman who developed a formula for aphrodisiac cookies. Swathed in her towel Jane stomped to her room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Even in bed there was no chance of sleeping. Jane’s brain whirled, fueled by marauding hormones signalling her impending withering up. She thought about her own mother who, at sixty-seven, paid no heed to her age and, damaged toe aside, could tackle any task you could throw at her. She swiveled out of bed, retrieved her jeans from the floor and pulled out the Archie cutting from the pocket.
She could read it properly now, without Nancy breathing coarsely down her neck:
Unleash your creativity in the unspoilt and stimulating environment of Croft Crafts. An advanced course, aiming to encourage students to explore color and form within a stimulating natural environment…other courses are available including mosaic, natural dyeing and dry stone walling…course program starts February 18…contact Croft Crafts on 01764 458765 or visit www.croft-crafts.co.uk for details of fees, accommodation and availability. Small groups ensure personal attention.
Jane figured out the dates. Hannah would be on half-term break. She’d give her the option of coming but sensed that she’d prefer to stay with Max, Zoë and Non-Menopausal-In-Her-Sexual-Prime Veronica. Fine: they could do with a break from each other. Jane examined the mischievous curl of Archie’s mouth, the challenging spark in those narrowed eyes. She slipped the article into the drawer of her bedside table.
Pulling the towel around her, she crept downstairs and logged on to her PC. She tapped in Archie’s Web address. The “accommodation” button threw up an image of a stately home called Hope House. That couldn’t be right. It was all turrets and bay windows in formidable gray stone, backed by extravagantly sweeping hills.
She fired off an e-mail:
I would like to enquire if places are available on Archie Snail’s Advanced Stain Glass Workshop, commencing February 18. Could you also please advise me of availability and cost of accommodation at Hope House for one/possibly two people.
With many thanks, Jane Deakin.
On her way back upstairs, Jane heard Hannah’s voice. She paused, holding her breath. “Will that happen to us?” Hannah asked.
“What?” Zoë said.
“The fat, hairy-faced thing. The menopause thing.”
“Fuck, no,” Zoë exclaimed. “By the time we’re that old, there’ll be some kind of pill we can take to stop all that happening.”
“Well,” Hannah said, “thank God for that.”
19
Ollie’s house wasn’t remotely as Hannah had imagined. There was no garden, no conservatory, no patio heater; in fact it wasn’t even a house, but a flat in a stark concrete block with a rusting radiator lying on its side by the front entrance. “Which one’s yours?” she asked.
“Top floor,” Ollie said. He smiled at her, and his eyes said: See? There’s stuff you don’t know about me.
Hannah felt her preconceptions fall away. Ollie wasn’t posh. He might have a posh voice, and be studying at a posh sixth form college—not to mention have the means to drink wine and nibble salad with poached egg draped on top at the Opal—but he didn’t live a posh life. He flicked his cigarette on to the puddled ground. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll show you my palace.”
The stairwell smelled of fierce disinfectant. In an attempt to spruce up the entrance someone had placed a wicker basket filled with grimy plastic tulips on a windowsill. Hannah felt a swill of nerves as they climbed the stairs. Ollie had already said that his mum would be working at the restaurant. Before she’d seen where they lived, Hannah had pictured her gliding around some exclusive place—being the person who showed you to your table,
but didn’t have to deal with the horrible remains of people’s dinners. Now she wondered if Ollie’s mum did something more ordinary, like washing up, or peeling potatoes.
They reached Ollie’s front door, and he rummaged in jacket pockets for keys. Hannah studied the back of his neck; the way his hair curled, asking to be touched and kissed. His skin was so soft—virtually edible. As he opened the door, she realized she was gnawing noisily on her gum. She swallowed, and the gum skidded down her throat.
“Hey,” Ollie said, “are you okay?”
“Fine,” Hannah said brightly as she followed him in.
A pair of black tights was draped over a radiator. The living room was sparsely furnished, but not in a minimalist way—not like Zoë’s room with its golden letters and calico walls—but in a manner that suggested that Ollie and his mum didn’t own much stuff. The walls were an unsettling shade of red, as if painted by someone in the throes of emotional trauma. The whole place smelled of damp washing.
It was dark outside. Through a glass door, which led from the living room onto a balcony, Hannah could see blurred headlamps inching along Cambridge Heath Road. “Have a seat,” Ollie said, sounding shyer than usual—almost awkward.
She perched on the sofa’s edge, feeling as if they were strangers who’d found themselves in the same room and were obliged to make conversation. Her tongue had shriveled up. She was aware of a vein pulsating on the side of her neck. On the wall above the tiled fireplace were black-and-white photos in clipframes. Each photo was of the same woman. Her enormous eyes were heavily rimmed with black liner, her mouth forming a pensive smile. Although pretty, she looked kind of folorn—almost scared.
Ollie sat beside Hannah. “So,” he said, “you’re in the show after all.”
“Yeah, as a plant.”
He laughed and said, “You’ll make a lovely Venus flytrap. It’s a good idea of Beth’s—having a person play Audrey Junior instead of that papier-mâché disaster they were building….”
