by Judy Astley
‘I love this feeling of space. It almost makes me reluctant to plant anything at all,’ Mel said, dipping her hand into the first bag of smooth stones and running them through her fingers. They felt warm and silky.
‘That might be taking minimalism a bit far. But it’s good to be able to see the scope of the place. That’s what happens when you throw out all the dead wood. You have to be so very careful what you put back in.’
‘Oh, I’m being careful all right, don’t worry about that.’
‘I’m not worried.’ He turned to her and grinned, hesitant. ‘I admit I had one or two doubts at first. Not about getting rid of all that stuff that was there. There’s no point being sentimental about rose bushes that have got mighty infestations of black spot and rust like yours had, but – well – nothing but palms, bamboos and succulents. The complete banishment of blooms – that’s a bit harsh.’
‘A bit like “no flowers by request” at a funeral?’
‘That’s the one. I always think that’s a bit unnecessarily miserable.’
‘I don’t think that’s what Roger thought when he came round. I think he minded that I was uprooting something more than plants. Our life together. He’s probably right.’
Max chuckled and coughed on his cigarette. ‘Like I said, dead wood.’
‘Mmm. Good title for my next book. I’ll go and write that down.’
‘If God was so all-powerful, why did he need to have a rest on the seventh day? And how did he know it was the seventh day – that would mean he must have invented counting before he’d made people, and stuff.’ Ben was leaning against the door frame on the threshold of Mel’s study, clutching a mug of tea. Using Rosa’s computer, he’d finished his essay, checked his e-mails and downloaded (‘accidentally’, he planned to say if challenged) some blurry scenes of Dutch teenagers engaged in oral sex that didn’t look as thrilling (to them, and therefore not to him) as he felt it should.
Mel, at her desk working towards the final chapters of Dying For It, glanced up at him. He was a good-looking boy, but still at the stage where he wasn’t yet sure of this. He had a very angular body: other people leaned comfortably against things but he seemed to be propped awkwardly against the door frame like a series of precariously balanced planks. The obligatory tumbledown jeans he wore, and the droopy skate-boarder’s fleece, couldn’t disguise the lack of softness beneath. He was so different from the usual baggy-faced doughboys that she usually saw – the ones Rosa had always brought home. When they were thirty they’d have run to greasy mounds of flab, but Ben would simply be trimly muscled by then. For now, though, he looked almost breakable. Even his hair, fluffed up (many minutes of mirror and care, this) to look as if he’d just climbed out of bed fresh from a session with some raunchy girl-band singer, looked as if it might snap off halfway down its rough fair tufts.
‘And do you think he hated Mondays too?’ he went on. ‘Because if he did, he should’ve just un-invented those.’
Mel considered for a moment. ‘But then that would mean people would hate Tuesdays instead – and all the way through, and then there’d be no days at all and no time and nothing would exist.’
Ben gave this a few seconds’ grave thought. ‘Perhaps nothing does,’ he concluded with a shrug.
Her mother had given her the raised-eyebrow treatment about Ben’s visits. ‘I told you you’d miss having Rosa around. She’s only been gone a few weeks and you’re already filling the house with replacement teenagers.’ Gwen delighted in what she saw as her fulfilled prophecy. ‘You’ll be getting a new man in your life next. You can be too independent, you know.’ Melanie had joined in, laughing as she duetted the last sentence with her mother.
‘No, no new men. Absolutely not. I’m going to enjoy being one of those women who is difficult to place at dinner tables but I’ve got a cab account so no-one has to drive me home. It’s the way I like it.’
It didn’t seem to be the way Neil Nicholson liked it, though. It might have been the polite thing to do at the time, but it also might have been a mistake, Mel considered, to have given him her phone number before fleeing home from the school reunion. He kept leaving messages on her answerphone suggesting that they do more catching up. He said it as if the two words were in ironic quote marks – implying with no subtlety whatsoever that he didn’t mean talking about friends and family.
‘It was good, but not that brilliant,’ Mel told Cherry when she ran into her in Waitrose. ‘I mean he surely has had sex that’s more worth chasing for a repeat than that very brief and dusty encounter.’ Cherry turned a bit pink and looked round quickly, checking no-one was within hearing distance: this particular branch of the store was highly likely to be full of people she knew – smart, affluent women with sharp haircuts, time on their hands and acute ears for gossip.
‘Honestly Mel, you sound quite shameless!’ she whispered.
Mel felt puzzled. ‘Well, I am – in the sense that I’m neither ashamed or regretful. I should have put it about a bit more in my youth,’ she sighed. ‘No-one thought anything of a quick fling then. I was such a goody-goody. Someone should have told me that when you’re old you’re not supposed to have sex without a very well thought-out reason, or at least a note from your mum. Talking of which, I’ve left mine in the Dickins and Jones coffee shop. I’d better go and fetch her before she eats all their Danish pastries.’
‘But what about Neil – you’re not going to see him again, are you?’ Cherry sounded almost anxious as they pushed their trolleys towards the checkout.
‘Oh, I should think so, perhaps just once. A drink or something, for the real sort of catching up, that’s all.’
‘It’s never all, though, is it. Next thing, you’ll be half a couple again and back to square one. All that involvement.’ Cherry shuddered, as if she’d mentioned a dread disease.
Mel laughed. ‘No, really – there’ll be no involvement, that I can promise. I like being on my own. Now if I can just get my mother to take herself back home, everything’ll be hunky-dee. See you tomorrow at Sarah’s.’
By day three of his wife’s absence, Howard was phoning every couple of hours, at first trying to sound jolly and normal and as if he’d just remembered they’d run out of tea bags and wanted to remind Gwen to pick some up on the way home. Gwen pointedly left the room when the phone rang, and Melanie tried at first to claim that her mother was out and let her father imagine she hadn’t a clue why Gwen had taken off like a cross flighty twenty-something who’d discovered her new live-in boyfriend was a loutish slob. By the fourth call, Howard had stopped pretending and sounded pitifully pleading. ‘Can’t you persuade her? Can’t you get her to come home?’ Gwen was still adamant, flapped her hands frantically at Melanie and made goldfish mouths at her in her efforts to convey refusal to talk. When he called at 8 a.m. the next morning when Gwen was searching the fridge for marmalade without rind in it, Mel decided it was time to call a halt to her unchosen job as referee, told her father, ‘Yes, she’s right here,’ and pushed the phone into her mother’s upraised hand.
‘Just give him a break, say you’ll meet him,’ she hissed, striding out of the room before Gwen could thrust the phone back at her again.
Melanie kept well out of hearing range and crossed her fingers briefly in the hope of a resolution. Her mother was wearing to have in the house with her: she kept turning down the thermostats on the radiators, washing up by hand instead of confining the used plates to the dishwasher (‘hardly worth wasting the electricity, just for the two of us’) and asking about what Melanie had planned for supper when they’d barely finished breakfast. God knew, Mel thought, what would happen if circumstances forced the two of them to live together permanently. It would be like having two stroppy tigers pacing in the same cage.
In her sitting room she bashed the sofa cushions back into shape and folded the silky scarlet throw that lived over the back of the battered old pink velvet chair. The night before, Gwen had pointed out that the chair needed re-covering. T
his couldn’t be denied – it resembled an ancient and much-adored teddy bear, squashed and misshapen with clumps of stuffing leaking out. Mel had promised it a revamp, for it was one of her true treasures, but only when she had time to seek out the perfect same thrilling shade of faded Schiaparelli pink fabric that currently suited it so well. Her mother’s suggestion – Dralon, hard-wearing, the colour of dark sherry that ‘blends with anything, doesn’t show the dirt’ – had made her shudder and feel quite dejected – as if now all she had to look forward to was growing old and stocking up on serviceable, dull items that would see her safely to the end of her days and absorb all kinds of foreseeable spillage and leakage. She wanted to carry on choosing only the furniture that delighted her, practical or not.
The scene reminded her of when, a few years ago, she’d been choosing fabric to re-cover the sofa. She was captivated by an open-weave white linen, covered in massive blue twined tulips. She was perfectly aware, of course she was, that it wasn’t at all practical. The label recommended it for cushions and curtains only. The assistant in the John Lewis fabric department smirked and ruled, ‘You can’t have this for upholstery, madam,’ as if Mel was a total fool. Roger had pointed out that the cat would claw it to shreds and that it wouldn’t survive the Rosa treatment for more than a year. A year was enough, for now, she’d argued. Fabric was mendable, cleanable and in the end replaceable. She’d stood her ground, bought it and the sofa looked magnificently showy, like a gaudy party frock at a rainy summer barbecue. The cat did pull out threads, Rosa’s trainers did make grubby indelible marks, but Mel still loved the pattern – and it was surviving in brave splendour four years on. It was Roger who was no longer there. All things considered, she was glad she’d so determinedly pleased herself.
* * *
The most comfortable of her four pairs of black trousers would be just the thing, Mel decided, gazing into her wardrobe. Sarah would approve – she knew they were from Joseph, being the one who’d persuaded Mel to splash out and buy them. On the other hand, Sarah had demanded something special. Top halves were the important bit at dinners – they were the only bit of you that could be seen above the table – your lower half ideally needed something with a loose elastic waist so that you could be as piggy as you liked with the food. To be awkward, and something in Mel had the urge to be, she pulled out a mad skirt she’d bought in a sale on impulse. It was calf-length black net, spattered with velvet dots, nothing but layers of the softest tulle with bands of ribbon sewn on each layer’s hem. And shoes – these had to be her most gorgeous silly zebra-print mules. The combination would convince Sarah that she was making an effort, all the way up from ground level, at frivolous glamour, though the wackiness would probably be off-putting to men who might fear bizarre sexual tastes to match the odd dress sense. A top was trickier. Sarah had a generally warm and welcoming house, but it was old and high-ceilinged and had sneaky draughts. Outside, the evenings were cool and fast heading towards what Cherry called the shivering season. Eventually she pulled a silvery-coloured low-necked cashmere sweater out of its summer wrapping. Sarah would give it a look, the one that said ‘so last season, sweetie’, but it was snug and slinky, sumptuous and comforting, and the low neckline was edged with a purple band from which dangled tiny shiny black beads that were quite fun to twiddle with when she had to sit still for any length of time.
One thing Mel had done that would get Sarah’s approval was to have her hair cut. She’d ventured somewhere new that afternoon, a salon with black walls and the kind of music she associated with class A drugs, where Ellie, clad in a ten-inch skirt, padded silver moon boots and a cut-off top with ‘Eat Me’ written across it in studs, chopped Mel’s shoulder-length grown-out bob into something gloriously messy, ragged-ended, and dead flat. It couldn’t be more rock-chick if she’d asked Ellie to ‘think Anita Pallenberg’ (which she couldn’t have done – Ellie being no more than twenty and unlikely to be familiar with Sixties icons).
‘I thought you were getting your hair done,’ Gwen commented from in front of EastEnders, as Mel presented herself for inspection just before the cab was due.
‘I have. Don’t you like it? It’s exactly what I wanted, I’m thrilled.’ Mel fluffed her fingers through the chopped-out ends.
‘It looks very flat and tatty. You should have put some Carmens in it,’ Gwen said, looking doubtful. ‘You never know who you’ll be meeting.’
Mel thought about this last statement of her mother’s as she walked up Sarah’s path. The path was lit by a couple of dozen candles that glimmered in blue glass holders, guiding guests across the front garden to the porch. Mel pressed the bell and leaned on the door for a few moments, collecting her thoughts. Sarah must have been reading an article called something like ‘Make An Entrance’ in a colour supplement. Mel suspected her of practising for Christmas.
‘Melanie darling!’ Sarah’s husband Nick opened the door, head already sideways like a parrot to kiss first her left then right cheek. He was a bit of a background presence in Sarah’s life – adoring, but so very hardworking somewhere financially important in the City that he was rarely around for enough collected hours for real friendship to develop. He was so much an absentee he had been known to have to frown and think deeply when asked which schools his children attended. He led her into the sitting room, where Sarah could be seen beyond the stunning Christopher Farr rug, looking gleeful as she poured champagne. The reason for the glee wasn’t hard to decipher: sprawled comfortably across the vast cream sofa, looking pleased with himself, was Neil Nicholson. Cherry was on the far side of the sofa, gazing round-eyed at first Mel then Neil, her mouth twitching with the effort not to laugh.
‘Mel! Look! Big surprise! Look who you missed at the reunion! Remember Mr Nicholson (geography)? Such a shame you had to leave early.’ Sarah, almost shrieking with delight at her ‘surprise’, whizzed across the room and kissed Mel swiftly and triumphantly, grabbing her hand and leading her to where Neil was hauling himself out of the sofa. ‘I was sure you’d want to see him again after all these years,’ she hissed too loudly into Mel’s ear. Neil grinned at her from the other side of Sarah. Mel could almost swear he’d also winked, but hoped it was a trick of the soft lighting. The sly bastard, she thought: those phone messages – he could have mentioned he’d be here.
‘All these former pupils,’ he said as he approached and kissed her cheek. ‘So wonderfully grown-up. It makes me feel ancient. Hello, Melanie – I’d never have recognized you.’ Lying sod, Mel thought, wondering at the same time why something smelled as if it was smouldering gently. It couldn’t be Sarah’s cooking – she simply didn’t get these things wrong.
‘Well hello, Mr Nicholson,’ she said, becoming aware of the smoky air. ‘How er . . . terrific to see you again.’
‘Sarah, I think something’s burning.’ Cherry, next to a short, cube-shaped blond man in strange lime-green jeans, sounded as if the fire alert might be a point of urgency.
‘Jesus, Mel, you’re on fire!’ Nick grabbed her from behind and flung her to the floor like an over-eager wrestler.
Melanie was indeed burning. Her beautiful, fragile net skirt must have brushed against one of Sarah’s candles on the porch. Now she lay scrunched beneath Neil (again), who’d fallen on her swiftly to quench the flames, while Cherry and Sarah and the lime-green-jeans man squealed uselessly and Nick took aim with a tiny fire extinguisher. Eventually the fire was decreed to be out and Mel stood up, reaching warily behind her to see what she was left with in terms of clothing. There wasn’t any pain, so she hadn’t been scorched all the way to her skin. But behind her she felt no fronds of fabric – most of the back of her skirt had disappeared. Horrified, she clutched at her bottom – her knickers were still in place, that was something, but it wasn’t much, given that they weren’t the sort anyone would put on with the intention of them being seen. Beneath the mad floaty skirt was a pair of pants built for comfort: flesh-coloured, waist-to-thigh cotton-soft snugness – the sort that mothers of
teenage girls used to urge them to wear against ‘chills’.
There was a stifled giggle from Sarah. ‘You’d better come upstairs and pick out something of mine. I think your skirt’s definitely a write-off. Pity, it was so pretty.’
‘Oh I don’t know, you look quite fetching like that,’ Neil commented, grinning lewdly. Cherry’s eyebrows went up almost into her hairline, and Mel glowered at him.
‘Honestly sweetie, just because you’re living on your own there’s no need to let the standards slip.’ Sarah told Mel off the moment she’d got her into her bedroom. ‘Those pants! Did you borrow them from your ma?’
‘I didn’t know anyone was going to be gawping at them, did I?’ Mel giggled. ‘Just as well I did wear them anyway, they’ve been an effective firebreak!’
‘You should have had a leopard-print thong under that skirt, or something bright pink with marabou. I get you a nice suitable man and look what you go and do!’
‘I didn’t ask you to provide me with a man! I don’t want one!’ Mel protested, peeling off the charred remains of the skirt. It was clearly not salvageable, which was a shame because it had made her feel as if she was almost in costume, as if she was playing a far more frivolous and irresponsible person than she actually was. She’d have done her best tonight, played up to Sarah’s expectations and flirted with Neil and also with Nick. She had a feeling that Mr Lime-Green wouldn’t be too responsive. Now she was destined to spend the evening in Sarah’s black trousers, which had lost a lot of their original stretch and which, Sarah being skinny-hipped, were a bit tight for easy eating, and she would feel far too much like her real self.
‘So. How come you two missed seeing each other at the reunion?’ Sarah asked as they eventually made a start on the lentil and pheasant terrine (Raymond Blanc). Mel glanced at Cherry, whose lips were clamped together to contain either laughter or the truth. Mel prayed she’d manage to keep both in.
