by Mavis Cheek
Since her trip Up West the possibility was real. She had met a very nice businessman, a foreign businessman, one who seemed delighted by her fair, Aryan looks. He said his name was Otto, but she wouldn’t count on it, and he drove a Mercedes which had apparently cost more than her newlywed sister’s house in Barking. He was courteous, he was in need of a ladyfriend (he said) and he would never, she was sure, say ‘Woof, Woof’ at her. When he smiled he had a whole load of gold teeth; when he checked the time he had a watch to die for. And he did not mind her knock-knees, if he noticed them, which was doubtful in the position he preferred.
Chloe had high hopes that when the Beautician’s Mantle was dropped from Tabitha’s shoulders, he would pick it up for her with his wallet. He was very interested in the beauty parlour, asked her all about it, and they had even driven past it one evening and peered in. Chloe pretended that she did not have the keys with her, rather than never having had them entrusted to her.
He squeezed her bottom as they walked back to the car and said, ‘A very nice little outfit, my dear.’ Chloe told him she was looking forward to its being hers one day. She could do a lot with it. And he had nodded, squeezed again, and said, ‘Yes, yes, of course.’
Couldn’t say fairer than that, now could you?
Tabitha was still looking serious. ‘I have been giving your final test some thought.’ She fixed Chloe with a telling look, immediately bringing the Pargeter and the Baker back into focus.
‘We need to be really sure,’ said Tabitha.
Oh do we? thought Chloe, but she went on smiling.
‘You will therefore apply every treatment and I will watch over you.’
Chloe, clever, kept right on with her smiles.
‘Then, when I am sure you are ready, you will do a minimum of three makeovers, entirely alone. I will go out for the day.’
Tabitha’s stomach churned at the thought.
Chloe’s heart raced. Had she been among her own pals in the Dog and Duck she would have raised her fist in the air and uttered a mighty ‘Yes!’
Meekly she folded her hands in her lap. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I shall try not to let you down.’
Tabitha stood up as the next appointment walked in. Manicure, pedicure and eyelash tint. She sighed. In tinting her own lashes the other day she noticed a grey hair menacing the rest. Truly it was time to move on. She turned to Chloe and raised a finger, ‘But remember – you must walk before you run. These will be real, live women beneath your hands. And totally at your tender mercies. Each of them.’
Chloe looked downwards again, even more meekly. ‘I know,’ she said humbly, ‘I know.’
Three makeovers, she was thinking, three women. She imagined them, long-limbed beauties every one. And she could not wait for the first...
10
Margery felt depressed. She was on the bus going home and could hear nothing save the words in her head. Karen had spoken them. Karen with her big perfect smile and the little hint of pity in her eyes.
‘Only one more visit required and then it’s all done.’
Oh misery. All done?
Never to be touched by those deft, masculine hands, nor observe the hairs on those strong tanned forearms as they went about their business? No more honey, bees, rinse now, open wider, did that hurt, are you comfy ... None of that ever again? Fantasies frozen with a last wave from the surgery door and no more new ones to squirrel away into her pillow at night?
Margery was not going to have it. She simply was not. And as the bus sped on she looked from its window at the passing shop-fronts, the passing shoppers, the endless imagery of what from now on would be an entirely empty life. Well, nearly.
One last appointment to go.
One.
And then?
Blankness, darkness. And still she had not worn the dress, to show him how beautiful she could be.
Oh that dress. How it held memories of that beautiful day when she ate honey cakes and met him. She re-ran the film in her mind, stopped it at the dress agency, remembered what the woman, Nanette, had said: makeover. Magical word. She had never understood what it meant.
And then, as if by chance, though Margery preferred fate, she looked out from the bus again and saw a sign: a beautiful sign, pink and vanilla, with golden stars surrounding it. She peered. Certainly the sign could not be offering two pence off a tin of Kit-e-kat; it was not that kind of shop. What kind of shop was it? The bus stopped, obligingly, at a queue for traffic lights. She was very close. She read the name, ‘Tabitha’s Beauty Parlour’, and the sign in the window with its pretty stars and pastel colours:
Special Offer
Half-price on all treatments.
And then she ran her eyes down the list until, as if Gabriel had tooted his trumpet, and God himself had stuck a finger out of the clouds to point, there was the magical word:
Makeover.
The bus moved off. With the quick-wittedness of one who is seriously smitten, Margery breathed on the window glass and wrote the telephone number of the salon in the mist. Then she memorized it.
On reaching home, happy once more, Margery went to the wardrobe and gently stroked the lilac gingham as if it were a sleeping cat. Beyond her bedroom window and the rooftops of other houses, was a cerulean sky and a sinking golden sun, the perfect summer weather for wearing such a creation. With summer sun, pretty frock, perfect teeth, and a makeover to connect it all up, it would be bye-bye Mrs Postgate, Old Queen.
She did a very unladylike thing and whistled a few bars from the Beatles’ ‘Honey-pie’. Tapping out the rhythm with her fingers on the window-ledge. The sun was dropping towards the rooftops, slowly, slowly, and it looked for all the world like a large spoonful of golden sweetness slipping from the sky.
*
Caroline, recovering from the ignominy of having rung a beauty parlour instead of Bernie, decided on a surprise visit instead. Despite good sense, she was beginning to miss him very much on the days when she wasn’t supposed to be missing him, and though the strategy of Not Getting Too Intense For Both Their Sakes was still perfectly valid – Own Space being a popular phrase with her – well – what was a little extra surprise now and then.
As she flung on the nearest T-shirt to hand and pulled on her boots, she was whistling. Whatever was happening between them made them both very happy. ‘So I should think,’ she said to the mirror, flexing her arms in body-builder style and remembering her assertiveness training. ‘What a fantastic woman you are.’
She looked down and saw that she had scribbled the wrong number given by the beauty parlour on to the telephone pad, and next to it had written ‘Tabitha’s’. Better get rid of that before any of her friends saw it. But it remained there, forgotten, as she hunted for her keys.
Whistle, whistle, whistle, she went, not knowing that even now Rita was driving back along the M3, dangerously fast, and no longer, it would seem, in love. Whistle, whistle, whistle, Caroline skipped up the path to Bernie’s front door, and let herself in, happy as a lamb, unaware that a dynamic little storm cloud was coming on fast.
An hour later the dynamic little storm cloud also let herself in. She gave a sob. And then another. The first was involuntary, the second to make sure that Bernie had heard the first. He did not appear. Nor did his tender concern, his tea and sympathy. She riffled through the mail in the hall, nothing for her, and then she remembered Wiltshire again and howled afresh. He must have heard that. Water gushed. Ah — he was having a bath. Up she went. She heard his laugh from behind the bathroom door. Odd. And before she could consider the thought ‘Do Not Go In’ – she had opened the door.
The first thing she saw was that Bernie had an enormous erection rather delicately emerging from a froth of suds which surrounded it like a sweet lacy collar. He was standing in the bath. He was not alone in the bath. The second thing she noticed was that Caroline was also covered in lacy froth. And she was holding on to the erection. Having absorbed this much, she looked at their faces and realized
that there was only one thing to do. Rita opened her pretty little mouth, closed her enchanting blue eyes, and cried.
With excellent results.
Bernie hopped out of the bath, pulled a towel around his middle and having secured it, embraced her. She peeped around his shoulder. Caroline was standing in the bath, still naked, empty-handed once more and with such an expression of astonishment on her face that Rita felt a rising giggle which she quickly turned into a sorrowful hiccough.
‘Do you mind if I stay here tonight?’ she asked Bernie, looking up at him with spilling eyes. ‘I am so afraid of being alone.’
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Bernie?’ said Caroline behind him.
Bernie turned.
Caroline vacillated at the sight of her half-naked lover holding his ex-wife tightly to him. Several options flew through her mind and out again as rapidly. One – tell Rita to Get The Fuck Out Of It – reigned supreme for a while. Two – Get The Fuck Out Of It herself – came in a close second. Three, four and five came and departed so rapidly that she could not recall them and six, the one that finally made supreme champion, was: ‘How did you get in?’
Rita, snuffling into Bernie’s damp chest, said, ‘With my key.’
‘Er,’ said Caroline, afraid to ask. ‘Your key?’
‘Yes,’ said Rita, snuffle, snuffle, snuffle.
Caroline was aware this was a tricky situation. It was not her house, and her lover had a right to dispense his keys where he chose. Monstrous.
Caroline looked at Bernie; Bernie looked back at Caroline. Caroline, contemplating this monstrosity, was an incredulous woman; Bernie was a dichotomized man. He was also aware that he should offer some form of explanation.
‘I said she should have one, just in case.’
‘In case of what?’ Caroline kept her voice light, moved out of the bath and throwing a towel around her, sauntered to the door. She was fully aware that this was a sparky situation. She could roar with rage and very probably never darken this bathroom, or its owner’s erection, ever again. Or she could box a bit clever and stay calm.
‘In case of an emergency,’ said Bernie. He made to move but Rita held on surprisingly tightly for one so small and dainty. By contrast, Caroline towered over her like an avenging goddess. Certainly her face, if not her voice and her manner, had a hint or two of wrath about it. Bernie had never seen that side of her. It was not, he felt, entirely feminine. By contrast, Rita looked very feminine indeed.
Little Rita cried afresh. She began to explain.
Caroline held up her hand. ‘Not until we’ve got dressed,’ she said, opening the door, ‘and had a nice cup of tea. Bernie?’ He hesitated. And in that moment’s hesitation, Caroline had a very clear vision. Such a vision compared with which the eighteen sightings of the Virgin by Bernadette Soubirous were but comic-strip motes in her eye. Such a vision that Moses’ burning bush was a mere prelude to a Scrabble game. Caroline’s vision was more profound by far. She and Rita were at war.
Hostilities began immediately.
First came the ceremony of the tea. When Caroline and Bernie went down to the kitchen, Rita had already got the kettle boiling and three mugs set out. As she poured water into the pot she nodded at the mugs. ‘Remember those? The Finches gave them to us. I always liked that kind of pottery.’
Bernie nodded.
‘We had fun on that holiday, didn’t we?’ Rita’s eyes went swimmy again.
Bernie smiled gently.
Caroline smiled much as Mrs Macbeth had smiled when welcoming Duncan.
‘If you always liked them,’ said Caroline, still smiling, ‘why don’t you take them? We prefer using our Divertimenti cups now. Don’t we Bernie?’
And he, treading a thin line with difficulty, nodded enthusiastically.
It all approximated to no man’s land.
Rita, sitting so prettily cross-legged on the floor that Caroline felt like kicking her, said, ‘I shall cook us all something tonight. That will take my mind off – things.’
Caroline’s eyes widened. But what could she say? Her cookery was appalling and they had to eat.
Bernie looked a little embarrassed and shrugged. ‘She’s a wonderful cook,’ he said. Perhaps a little too heartily.
The Wonderful Cook explained over the meal that her Organic Dream had conned her. Of course, she did not mention how she had padded down the moonlit corridor of the farmhouse in her little cotton nightshirt, on the pretext that she had had a bad dream and needed comforting, only to tap on his door, open it and find the object of her passion fast asleep in the arms of Gilbert, his partner. Nor did Rita mention that he had never actually given her cause to think his intentions were anything but friendly.
Caroline suddenly understood territorial atavism. There is nothing more dangerous than an ex-wife in close proximity who is still held in affection and suddenly in need of tender care, especially if the ex-husband is a man of Bernie’s mettle.
You fall in love with a man for his kindness, she counselled herself, therefore you cannot expect him to stint that kindness to others.
Oh yes you can, if the others contain an ex-wife.
Sex was the consolidator in this battleground and she had better get on with it. Rita, meanwhile, was perfectly content with the spare room and the sounds of their lovemaking disturbed her not at all. Caroline was welcome to that. For the time being.
*
Gemma, who had taken to whistling and humming around the flat after posting her letter, was moribund again by Sunday fortnight and playing Patience. She had placed all her hopes on one sodding telephone call. Which did not come. Clearly the Mont Blanc had lost its charm. The whistling ceased, followed a day or two later by a cessation of the humming.
At least, she thought, as Megan came in and flopped down on to the settee in front of her, at least she had the decency to keep her overnight bag out of sight during the crisis.
‘You should get out more,’ she said, folding her plump arms.
‘Nowhere to go,’ said Gemma, flicking the cards in that idle way that makes one wish to smack the flicker.
‘They’ve opened a flotation tank at the local baths.’
‘I don’t want to lie around in the dark in lukewarm water and get in touch with my placenta again, thank you very much.’ She flicked the cards more recklessly.
‘How about some aerobics?’
‘Yes,’ said Gemma acidly. ‘Care to come with me?’
‘You’ll feel better if you do,’ said Megan, ignoring the insult.
‘Do what?’ Had Gemma pursed her mouth much further she would have looked like an accident with a silicone lip operation.
‘You’ll feel better if you get out more.’
Gemma grimaced.
‘That beauty place is doing special offers at the moment.’
Silence.
‘Tabitha’s.’
‘Tabitha’s!’ Gemma curled her lip. ‘Sounds like an old pussy.’
‘Everything half-price.’
‘Everything? Like what?’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘Why don’t you go then?’ Gemma’s chin came up and out.
‘Because I’m quite happy,’ Megan said through her cheerful piggy lips, ‘and I don’t need to.’
Megan had a man. She had no need of beauty treatments. It was the sponge-bag all over again.
‘I am going to have a bath,’ said Gemma.
‘What you need,’ called Megan, ‘is some nice oil to soothe you.’
Gemma slammed the door. Affording sodding bath oil would be something.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that if a woman is waiting for a telephone call concerning her Private Life, she should have either a bath or a shower. Gemma did not have a working shower, so the bath was the next best thing. Nor was she aware of this particular piece of Sod’s Law. The reason she sought the soundproofing of running water was because she felt like having a good howl. And she was sitting in the rapidly fi
lling bath doing just that, when Megan started knocking on the door. Louder and louder.
‘I’m all right,’ called Gemma, furious at having been heard.
The knocking increased. Megan sounded urgent. Above the roar of the taps Gemma suddenly heard two magic words: telephone and man. A galvanizing combination, she discovered, for she was out of the bath, wrapped in a towel and padding down the corridor to her bedroom before she was aware she had moved.
She sat on the bed, picked up the telephone, took a deep breath and said, ‘Hallo.’
‘Well, hallo,’ said a male voice.
There were two distinct sets of breathing, neither of which belonged to Gemma. ‘Megan,’ she said, ‘you can put the phone down now.’ And she waited for the click which came.
‘I liked your letter,’ said the male voice.
You took long enough to tell me, thought Gemma. ‘Oh good,’ she said. And then, because it was necessary, she added, ‘the Francophile?’
He laughed, ‘Oui.’
They both laughed.
They were getting along famously.
‘You speak French fluently?’ she asked.
‘Non,’ he said again.
More laughter.
This was terrific.
‘Do you?’
‘Un peu,’ she said, ‘but you’re the real Francophile. I mean –’ She paused, tried to sound casual, ‘You’ve got some sort of house out there, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You could say that.’
Gemma’s heart gave a little leap. Le Château! Well – Le Demi-Château anyway! She banished thoughts of You Took Your Time and concentrated on sounding charming. And, she fancied, witty.
‘In that case shall I call you Frank?’ she quipped. It had sounded all right in her head. Frank, Francophile.
No laughter. ‘You can if you want to, but my name is Keith.’
