by Adele Parks
True, its individuality used to appeal to her; in fact, she used to be proud of her amazing find and only introduced her very best friends to Caffè Bianchi. She used to delight in the fact that none of the wooden chairs matched (and most had one leg shorter than the others), and that Signora Bianchi served espresso and cappuccino, and nothing else. No caffè latte, no caffè macchiato, no caffè Americano, no espresso ristretto, no flavours and certainly no decaf. They didn’t sell fancy packets of tea or bottles of olive oil for twenty quid. They were true Italians and believed that introducing chairs to the café had already been a huge concession to the oddness of the British people. They did offer a glass of water with each cup of strong pitch-black coffee, ‘no charja’.
Signora Bianchi was extremely fat. Her numerous chins rested on her mammoth bosoms, which often rested on the counter, but if not, rested on her huge stomach. Eliza had never seen her legs because in the seven years that Eliza had visited Caffè Bianchi she had never witnessed Signora Bianchi emerging from behind the counter; yet the Signora dominated the entire bar with her mass and personality. She was a true matriarch: she bossed, fussed and loved all her customers with the passion of a mother. For example, if anyone had the foolish audacity to order a double espresso, she would bang her fist on her ample breast, click her tongue and roll her eyes; thus conveying eloquently that in her opinion two espressos were sure to bring on an instant heart attack.
Signor Bianchi, naturally, had to be a very slight man. There simply wouldn’t have been room for him to be anything other. Eliza estimated that he weighed less than nine stone, and that a good part of that weight was made up of his moustache, which was long and waxed. However fragile he looked, he was not a weak man. Although slight and often silent, Signor Bianchi’s presence was quintessential to the café and, most particularly, to Signora Bianchi. She still looked at him in such a way that it was clear to Eliza that the Signora could not see the wizened old man, with his grey hair, ever-increasing bald patch and rasping cough. The Signora saw the nineteen-year-old boy, with a head of ink-black, slicked-back hair, riding a Vespa around the piazza. He’d have had flowers in his hand (for her) and a twinkle in his eye (also for her). A truly handsome boy.
The café was very narrow, not much wider than a corridor, and the bar that ran the entire length was lifted directly from a Hopper picture: a shiny swathe of zinc scratched and scarred by years of use by customers who had become friends. The till consisted of nothing more than three wineglasses: one for small change; one for tender above 50p, and a third for notes. The homogeneous chains had frequently approached Signor and Signora Bianchi in the hope of striking a buy-out deal; the response was always the same. No.
‘I should stop drinking coffee,’ muttered Eliza.
‘Why?’ asked Greg. He had tipped two packets of sugar on to the table and was drawing a smiley face with his finger.
‘Because it decreases iron absorption.’
‘Are you anaemic?’ He looked up, obviously concerned.
‘No, but if I were to try for a baby, iron absorption is important.’
Greg spluttered into his coffee and then immediately tried to recover his usual composure. ‘Are you – er – we, presumably we, trying for a baby?’ Contraception, like any other form of responsibility in their relationship, fell to Eliza.
‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.
If Greg was relieved, he had the good sense not to advertise the fact – his facial expression didn’t alter a jot. He could be mentally punching the air, as euphoric as Beckham scoring a goal from a free kick against Germany to win the World Cup, and Eliza wouldn’t know it. Equally, he could be disappointed. His secrets were mostly safe. The reason for Greg’s calculated restraint was that whilst talking to Eliza with whatever part of his brain it was that chit-chatted about iron absorption, he was using another part of his brain to calculate when Eliza’s period was due. Because like it or not (and she didn’t like it, she didn’t even like admitting to it), the truth was Eliza was more than prone to PMT. She didn’t fling plates exactly, just insults, jibes and irrational comments.
She wasn’t due for another two weeks.
Perhaps she did want a baby. Being a bull-by-the-horns straightforward type of guy, Greg ventured, ‘Do you want a baby?’
‘Eventually, yes.’ Eliza put down her espresso cup with such force that the black liquid slopped into the doll’s-size saucer. She paused, and then added with more accuracy, ‘Maybe. I’d just like there to be the option.’
But there was the option, wasn’t there? thought Greg. Her ovaries or womb, or whatever, were all OK, as far as they knew. (Female plumbing beyond the G-spot wasn’t his area of expertise – was it any man’s?) Of course having a baby was an option if that’s what she wanted. She’d just never mentioned it before. He’d never thought about it. But now she had mentioned it, well, why not? Instantly, visions of splashing in the sea with a small grubby person flashed into Greg’s mind (and he didn’t mean his best mate, Bob, even though Bob was only five foot six, he meant a child. His child). He could see himself and his child playing on swings, kicking leaves in a park, hunting for conkers.
‘We could have a baby, if that’s what you really want.’ He reached out and took Eliza’s hand; she noted with some annoyance that he didn’t even have to put down his cigarette to manage the manoeuvre, so practised was he at this art. He had started smoking when he was fourteen, because it made him look hard and cool. He was still doing it now, twenty years later, for the same reasons.
Eliza snatched her hand away and avoided answering the question by saying, ‘I fancy a cup of tea.’
Tea? Christ, cravings already. Eliza never ordered tea. Could she already be up the duff? Was this what these recent mood swings were about? Christ, shit, bloody hell.
Bloody marvellous!
Eliza read Greg’s mind.
‘I’m not.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘Certain.’
‘Oh.’
There was a pause. If Eliza had been more tuned into Greg’s emotions she’d have noticed that it was a disappointed pause.
‘Still, if it’s tea you want.’ Greg stood up and walked to the bar. If only life were that simple: it’s tea she wants, she’ll be happy once she has a cup of tea. As he walked towards the bar and Signora Bianchi, Greg started to calculate how he should best negotiate procuring a cup of tea in an Italian café, which would be tantamount to treason as far as Signora Bianchi was concerned.
How much caffeine was there in tea then?
5
Who on earth chooses to sit in these grubby little cafés, which are really not much better than pubs? wondered Martha as she walked past Caffè Bianchi, pushing a grumbling Maisie in her stroller. The heavy wooden door suddenly opened, coughing forth a cloud of cigarette smoke. A young woman rushed out and fled past Martha and Maisie. Obviously late for something. Signing on, probably, thought Martha, and then immediately regretted the thought. It was very judgemental and censorious, and not necessarily accurate, to jump to the conclusion that the woman was a doley. Just because it was – Martha checked her watch – a quarter to ten in the morning, this didn’t necessarily mean that the girl was unemployed. Martha tried to think positively. There are all sorts of things that a woman could do for a living. She might work shifts, or have a shop job. Wednesdays might be her day off, if she works in retail: she’s bound to have to work Saturdays and would be due a day in return. Martha noted that the woman’s shoes (although they were horrible square-heeled fashion-statement shoes) were at least clean. Martha always noticed people’s shoes.
Those shoes were Eliza’s shoes. Her own sister’s.
‘Eliza!’ Martha called out, although she didn’t like shouting.
Eliza turned round. Her expression of exasperation melted as she recognized her sister and niece. She rushed back towards them and enveloped Martha in a huge hug and planted a fat kiss on Maisie’s t
ear-stained cheek. ‘Martha, fantastic to see you,’ she beamed. ‘Not your neck of the woods, doll.’
Though the women lived less than a mile apart (Eliza lived in Shepherd’s Bush and Martha lived in Holland Park) their neighbourhoods were worlds apart. Shepherd’s Bush was all Poundstretcher and betting shops, with an above average number of newsagents that sold Lottery tickets. Holland Park was a dizzy blur of expensive florists and stunning patisseries. Eliza was right to be surprised to see Martha on her doorstep.
‘When we last visited you I noticed the shops that sell Indian saris, and I wanted to take a closer look at the fabrics – you know, for inspiration, colours and things,’ explained Martha.
‘Project Dream House?’ asked Eliza. Eliza knew that Project Dream House was about all that could induce Martha to venture to W12. Martha, Michael and the children had only ever visited Eliza in Greg’s flat three times, although she’d lived there for four years. Eliza visited their home at least once a week, sometimes three or four times. Eliza was well aware of Martha’s views that Shepherd’s Bush wasn’t a desirable place to bring the children to. Eliza thought Martha was snobby and overprotective, Martha thought Eliza was irresponsible and imperilled. They loved each other fiercely.
‘And how is Project Dream House developing?’ continued Eliza.
‘We’re waiting to hear if the vendors will accept our offer. I expect we’ll hear any day now.’
Many people have ideas about their dream home. They say, ‘I’d like a hot tub and a forty-foot swimming pool’, they wish for something flashy, flamboyant and often unrealistic. No more expected than their numbers coming up on the Lottery; it could happen but it probably won’t. Martha’s concept of her dream home was much more sincere than that.
Martha’s dream home was the fabric of her self. Since her teens she’d been filling a scrapbook (and when that was full, a box) to be the inspiration for her dream home. She’d collected magazine pictures that had caught her eye, mostly of sunny kitchens and fun-looking children’s bedrooms. As she grew more confident in her own creative abilities, she saved a leaf and stored it carefully in her box (because one day she wanted to paint a bathroom that exact same shade of rust), along with a glass marble she’d bought in a toyshop (because she liked the way the colours slipped into one another). She squirrelled away pieces of rich fabrics, textured stones and pebbles, pretty tiles and pottery. Martha spent hours mixing paints when she did craft with Mathew, in an attempt to get the perfect blue (the blue of a troubled sea before a storm), and the exact red (the pinkish red of lazy Spanish walls that just about propped up the terracotta roofs on the sleepy houses). She often went into a haberdasher’s and gazed and gazed at the bobbins of cotton: a myriad colours, wonderful rich magentas, soulful greys and lilacs, every nuance of vibrant green. She’d buy the reels and add them to her treasure box.
Her interest was not just about the cosmetic side. Whilst she did buy countless magazines and books about interior design, she also became an expert on the technical aspects of creating a dream home. She knew everything there was to know about renewing roofs, damp-proofing joists, tiling, polishing, converting, dismantling, restoring and maintaining.
Her dream house would be a big house but not ostentatious; the rooms would be light and airy, south-facing. There would be enough bedrooms for the children still to sleep separately, to have lots of friends and family to stay in comfort. Maybe they’d even have a live-in nanny, as Michael often said he wanted.
Every room would be full of love and laughter.
Her dream home would have kids’ pictures pinned to the kitchen walls, and there would be lots of pairs of small shoes by the front door. She knew Michael considered their family finished (‘a boy and a girl, the set’) but she secretly longed for more children; four had always seemed a lovely number. They would have a playroom that would be a fairytale space for adults and children alike: each wall would be painted a different vibrant colour; there would be a library corner where the kids would sit and pore over the books that she’d read as a child (and quite a few modern ones too, which were a damn sight funnier and brighter); and there would be a big wicker basket full of old loo rolls and cereal boxes so that she and the children could make things together – models of space rockets, miniature gardens (and they’d look just like the ones they made on Blue Peter). The kids would always have friends round for tea and they’d eat sandwiches and drink big glasses of milk (Mathew’s intolerance to wheat and dairy products would have subsided).
It would also be a party house for grown-ups. Martha and Michael had lots of great friends and Martha loved entertaining. There was nothing she liked more than sending home half a dozen, half-cut friends after they’d eaten and drunk well. In her dream home the kitchen would be large enough to have a sofa and a fireplace so that her dinner guests could congregate there as she prepared the food. They’d laugh and chat about the latest celebrity gossip and they’d talk about the serious issues of the day. They’d serve great wines that Martha would be able to recommend with confidence. The children would politely pop downstairs at the start of the evening to say goodnight to the guests (then they’d go back to bed without getting overtired and throwing tantrums). The food would be beautifully presented and delicious (she wouldn’t burn a single thing).
After a two-year search Martha and Michael had found the Bridleway: a house without any serious structural faults, within their price bracket, in a fantastic location, with original fireplaces, wooden floors and genuine sash windows – the right blend of potential.
The dream house.
Martha was left breathless just thinking about it.
Eliza knew all there was to know about the Bridleway, and she wanted Martha and Michael’s offer to be accepted almost as much as Martha did. Depressed as she was about her own scope for joining the ranks of London’s affluent classes, she delighted in living her life vicariously through her sister. Not for a moment was she jealous of Martha’s emotional and material success; in fact, it gave her hope.
‘Have you time for a cup of tea and then you can update me?’ asked Eliza.
‘Absolutely, but haven’t you just had a hot drink?’ asked Martha, gesturing towards Bianchi’s.
‘They don’t serve tea,’ replied Eliza. ‘Where are you parked?’
Martha, Maisie and Eliza set off towards the Range Rover. Martha was wondering whether she would still have time to visit the supermarket and pick Mathew up from playschool if she had tea with Eliza. Eliza was contemplating, with amazement, that Martha still thought hot drinks were something to do with needing warmth or quenching thirst, when clearly they were all about being sociable.
Both were desperate to chatter.
6
Eliza suspected that Mr and Mrs Evergreen had found her on their doorstep, aged (roughly) two days, and had taken her in out of the goodness of their hearts. Because how else could she explain the fact that she was different from her sister in absolutely every way? Mrs Evergreen was not the type to have conceived a child by the milkman and conned her husband into bringing it up as his own – and yet they couldn’t be sisters, could they?
Not only had Martha failed to look impressed when Eliza mentioned she’d spent the night before at a club, drinking with Basement Jaxx, but she looked absolutely bemused. ‘Did you go to college with her? Have I met her?’ Martha inquired politely, desperately searching for a reason why she should be supposed to remember this Bertha Jacks person.
Eliza hadn’t bothered to explain, it was too embarrassing.
Besides dressing differently, they talked differently (Martha – entirely the Queen’s English; Eliza – all urban hip chick). They walked differently (Martha was stiff and upright, her movements sudden and jerky; Eliza drifted with fluid, languid grace). The first thing Eliza did every morning was put the radio on. She only turned it off to play a CD or watch MTV. She adored the buzz and distraction that background noise supplied. Martha spent her entire day pleading for quiet and her wildes
t dream was an afternoon of tranquillity. Even before the children had been born Martha only ever tuned in to the radio occasionally; to listen to Woman’s Hour or a particular concert on Radio 3. They moved in different circles and found it hard to relate to one another’s friends. Eliza could quote Simone de Beauvoir at the drop of a hat and thought that the woman should be canonized; Martha (if pushed) expressed the opinion that the women’s movement had ‘confused things’. Martha bought all her underwear from Marks and Spencer, as their ranges were ‘so pretty and extraordinarily good value’. The most kinky thing in her knicker drawer was a peach satin balcony bra with matching French panties. Eliza spent half her time and income in Agent Provocateur and daring was going commando.
But they did adore each other.
They shared memories that bound them heart and soul. Martha and Eliza knew what each other’s childhood had felt, smelt and looked like. They knew which jumpers had itched, which socks had fallen down, they knew the texture of each other’s Tiny Tears doll’s hair (Martha’s had silky hair and Eliza’s was matted after an ill-advised game of hairdresser’s involving flour and washing-up liquid). Eliza remembered Martha’s screams when she got sunburnt in an era before the government’s campaigns had encouraged mums to smother their children in factor-50 sun cream. The burns were so severe that even a sheet had been too heavy for Martha’s delicate, irritated skin to bear. Eliza had cried as she watched her sister being lowered into a bath of soothing lotion. Just as Martha had cried after a game of circus had gone horribly wrong and Eliza had ended up in hospital and in plaster.
They’d tasted Space Dust for the first time together and Orange Appeal, Nestlé pink milkshake, Angel Delight and Findus Crispy Pancakes. They’d bobbed apples, ridden donkeys, built sandcastles, fought over Pippa Dolls, argued over the TV, screamed over Paul Young and Nik Kershaw together (which was possibly the last time Martha paid any attention to the world of pop). They’d believed and disbelieved in Santa together, which was a bond that could not be broken over something as trivial as ignorance about the current club scene.
