by Joan Smith
‘Did you get lost?’ she asked, grumpily leading the way into her flat.
‘That’s better.’ Behind her Sandra dumped her suitcase on the floor and looked around. ‘No, I didn’t have any trouble. . . Well, this all looks pretty much as I remember it.’
‘Really? It was redecorated last year ... I was sure you’d got lost.’
‘Why, am I late?’ Sandra made a great show of looking at her watch. ‘Oh well, if you’re going to call that late –’ She broke off, peering over Loretta’s shoulder into the drawing-room. ‘Hello, you must be Robert.’ She skirted Loretta and advanced, hand outstretched. ‘I’m Sandra, Sandra Neil.’
‘Loretta’s told me about you.’ Robert’s tone was neutral as he came forward and took Sandra’s right hand. ‘Robert Herrin.’
‘Oh!’ Sandra turned to Loretta, a broad grin on her face. ‘You didn’t tell me, Loretta!’ She turned back to Robert. ‘My husband’s an admirer of yours. He took me to one of your concerts once – your music, I mean, I can’t remember whether you were there. You conduct as well, don’t you? Well, well!’ She looked back at Loretta, obviously delighted by her discovery.
Loretta felt, absurdly, as though Sandra had caught her out in some guilty secret. She pretended to study Sandra’s luggage, then looked up again.
‘Let me take your coat,’ she offered, and Sandra began unbuttoning her Burberry. She was considerably changed, Loretta thought, watching Sandra covertly; she was not sure she would have recognized her if she’d passed her in the street. Sandra’s hair was cut differently, with a heavy fringe and the rest of it in a sort of page-boy – it occurred briefly to Loretta that she resembled an ancient Egyptian queen. The illusion was emphasized by Sandra’s naturally olive complexion, though Loretta had never seen an Egyptian queen in heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. They were definitely a mistake, she thought, observing the way in which they magnified the fine lines round Sandra’s brown eyes. Loretta suddenly felt sorry for Sandra, and spoke to her over her shoulder as she hung up the damp raincoat.
‘Would you like some tea or coffee? We’re in rather a hurry but I’ve just got time –’
‘I’d rather have something alcoholic,’ Sandra said, glancing at the empty glass in Robert’s hand. ‘Was that a g and t? Heavenly. I’ve had an absolute stinker of a day – it wasn’t going all that well even before the pipes burst. Where are you two off to?’
‘We’re going to a restaurant on Islington Green, and then to a party,’ Loretta said, leading the way into the kitchen. ‘Some friends of Robert’s.’
‘Lucky old you,’ Sandra said, frankly envious. ‘So that’s why you look like a silent film star. You look good, Loretta, that dress does a lot for you. While Cinderella here will have to spend Christmas Eve by the fire with a good book.’
I’m sorry, Sandra, but I had no idea you were coming,’ Loretta said guiltily, wondering whether Robert would mind if she invited Sandra along – yes, of course he would. ‘There’s lots of food in the fridge. Help yourself to anything you fancy –’
‘Don’t worry,’ Sandra told her, apparently amused by Loretta’s discomfort. ‘I’ll be perfectly all right on my own. I’m used to it by now.’
‘I’d better just show you where everything is,’ Loretta said anxiously. ‘Is there enough gin in that? You’re welcome to more if you – oh, OK. The bathroom’s upstairs, next to the bedroom, and this is how you control the central heating. . .’
Five minutes later, to Loretta’s relief, she and Robert were finally able to wrap themselves up in coats and scarves and leave the flat. They were ushered out of the front door by Sandra who, to Loretta’s consternation, had already assumed the air of a hostess seeing a couple of unwanted guests off the premises.
‘Bye. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’ Sandra’s voice floated down the stairs after them as Loretta reached the street door. Robert looked at her, eyebrows raised, and she gave him a forced smile as she stepped out of the house into the unusually quiet street.
Chapter 2
‘Morning Loretta. You’re up bright and early.’ It was the Tuesday after Christmas; Sandra yawned widely, pushed the kitchen door half shut with her bare heel, and pulled a chair out from under the table. ‘Come on, puss, you’ll have to move,’ she added, addressing the cat who was sleeping peacefully on its seat.
Loretta watched, astonished, as Sandra tipped Bertie on to the floor and sat down in his place. The cat walked majestically from the room, weaving through the small gap left by Sandra’s half-hearted attempt to close the door, his tail high in the air to signal indignation.
‘And after such a late night, too,’ Sandra went on archly, grinning across the table at Loretta. ‘I wish I had your stamina.’
Loretta met her gaze neutrally, determined not to be provoked. ‘Oh dear, did I wake you? I did try to be quiet.’
‘Actually I’d only just got to sleep. Anyway, it’s your flat. No Robert this morning?’
‘Robert? No, he’s in Oxford. I’m not seeing him till New Year’s Eve. Why d’you ask?’
‘I wasn’t sure whether I heard two sets of footsteps or one last night. Are you going to eat that?’ Sandra’s hand hovered over an uneaten slice of bread in the toast-rack.
‘Help yourself.’ Loretta put down the Guardian, resigning herself to a conversation across the breakfast table – one of the many drawbacks, she thought, of this enforced flat-sharing.
‘Thanks.’ Sandra reached for Loretta’s crumb-strewn plate and drew it towards her, picking up the sticky knife which lay on it and using it to butter her toast.
‘You can have a clean one,’ Loretta protested, starting to get up.
‘Nn-n.’ Sandra shook her head violently, gesturing Loretta back into her seat. There was a moment’s peace while she crunched her toast.
‘Any luck with a plumber?’ Loretta asked hopefully.
‘A plumber?’ Sandra looked blank.
‘Yes – I thought you might have found one yesterday. With Christmas being over, more or less. . .’
‘Oh – I didn’t even try. You know what it’s like, people take so much time off these days – I don’t suppose I’ll have any joy till the New Year.’ Sandra finished and pushed her plate away.
Loretta frowned, alarmed by her guest’s attitude. She had assumed that Sandra would want to get her flat sorted out at the earliest opportunity, and here she was –
‘You know, you surprise me, Loretta,’ Sandra said suddenly, putting her head on one side. ‘You really do.’
Loretta returned her look nervously, wondering what was coming. A complaint about her lack of hospitality? It would be just like Sandra to take offence at Loretta’s mild suggestion that it was time to start ringing plumbers. ‘Why don’t I make some more toast?’ she asked brightly, hoping to head off whatever observation Sandra had been about to offer.
‘No thanks – I’m not like you, I have to watch my weight.’
Loretta said nothing, unable to help herself glancing across at the lilac kimono Sandra was wearing in lieu of a dressing-gown. It did nothing to hide her wide hips, and it occurred to Loretta that Sandra was made up of two triangles: a small inverted one for the head, ending in her pointy chin, and a larger one, right way up, for her body.
‘So do I, these days,’ she said quickly, afraid that Sandra had intercepted her look. ‘It was all right till I got to thirty, then –’ she shrugged.
‘Come on, Loretta, you’re irritatingly slender and you know it,’ Sandra said disbelievingly. ‘How old are you, by the way?’
‘Thirty-four.’
‘Lucky you. Still the right side of thirty-five. I wish I was.’
‘But presumably you’ll have to. . .’ Loretta paused, searching for a tactful way of expressing herself. ‘I mean, now that you’ve got this job at the health club – won’t they expect you to, um, set an example?’
During Christmas lunch, Loretta had made the surprising discovery that Sandra had recently abandoned social work; the n
ew job she had mentioned on the phone was, apparently, manageress (’Don’t you mean manager?’ Robert had asked Sandra innocently, his eyes on Loretta) of a health club in South London.
‘They haven’t employed me to prance around in a leotard, if that’s what you mean, Loretta,’ Sandra snapped. ‘I’m management. All I’ve got to do is show people round, make sure everything’s running smoothly. A doddle after what I’ve been doing, I can tell you.’ Her brow had darkened and she stopped speaking, her eyes roving round the small kitchen and its fittings as though she had been asked to make an inventory. It was a habit she had indulged right through Christmas Day, and it was beginning to annoy Loretta.
‘What did you mean?’ she asked, suddenly combative.
‘What did I mean when?’ Sandra’s face swivelled back to Loretta as though she had just been reminded of her existence.
‘You said I surprised you.’
‘Did I?’ Sandra’s eyes narrowed with the effort of recall. ‘Oh yes – this business with Robert, that’s what I was talking about. It just struck me – do you know, I think I will have some more toast. Don’t get up, I’ll make it myself. God, the amount I’ve eaten these last few days.’ Sandra put a hand on her stomach and pulled a face as she went over to the breadbin. ‘I’ll say this for you, Loretta, you’re a damn good cook. I was picking at that pheasant right through Boxing Day. Want any more? Toast, I mean.’ She sawed clumsily at the remaining half of a brown loaf, crumbs flying off the breadboard and landing on the kitchen floor.
‘No thanks. What about – what about Robert?’ Loretta had a tight feeling in her chest, and a strong sense that she wasn’t going to like whatever Sandra was about to say.
‘Well, I wouldn’t have thought he was your type, that’s all. He’s a bit straight – a bit conventional for you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know –’
‘I mean, there’s nothing I can put my finger on, but – to tell you the truth, he reminds me of your husband.’ Sandra turned her back on Loretta, attempting inexpertly to light the grill with a match which flickered and went out. ‘Damn.’
‘John? I didn’t know you’d met him.’
‘Oh yes, a couple of times. I can’t remember where. He was very much as you – what’s wrong with this wretched thing? Oh, I see – described him.’ The grill dealt with successfully, Sandra turned and leaned back against a waist-high cupboard so she could watch Loretta’s reaction. ‘Bossy.’
‘I don’t think I ever said he was bossy!’
‘Not in so many words. But that was the gist of it, wasn’t it? Not treating you like an adult. Why don’t you do this, Loretta, do you have to do that, Loretta. You know what I mean. That’s what Robert reminds me of. Buying you that dress, for instance. That little gold number you were wearing on Christmas Eve.’
‘He didn’t buy it.’
‘Didn’t he? That’s not the point, is it? I’m not going to argue about where he got it from. The thing is, I said something about it on Christmas morning when he was peeling the potatoes. You were upstairs, I think. And he said, “I’m glad you like it – Loretta has this idea she should wear black all the time, because of being blonde, but I want her to be a bit more adventurous.” What I mean is – well, come on. You’re thirty-four, you said so yourself. Aren’t you old enough to choose your own clothes?’ She gave Loretta a frank, open look, then reached across to pull out the grillpan and turn over her toast, which was beginning to take on a dark brown colour.
‘It’s only happened once,’ Loretta said awkwardly.
‘Yes, but it’s not just that,’ Sandra said over her shoulder, her attention now firmly fixed on the grill. ‘God, this thing’s fierce when it gets going.’ She hooked the bread out, whirled round and dropped it on the table. ‘Ouch, that was hot.’ She sucked her fingers thoughtfully, then transferred the piece of toast to Loretta’s dirty plate. ‘It’s the effect he has on you. I could be wrong, I haven’t seen you for a long time, but when he’s around you seem – subdued.’
Loretta’s heart sank even further. ‘You haven’t seen us together very much,’ she protested weakly.
‘All of Christmas Day,’ Sandra pointed out, not looking up from loading marmalade on to her second piece of toast. ‘You didn’t go off to your mother’s till – what, sevenish? I mean, I don’t want to be rude, but it’s not what I expected of you. I remember in the women’s group, I was terrified of you and Bridget. You were always so. . . pure.’
‘Pure?’
‘Come on, you know what I mean. You’d read everything, all those books I’d hardly even heard of. I didn’t dare admit it, but I went off and tried reading one of them, Andrea what’s her name? You know who I mean.’
‘Dworkin?’
‘That’s her. And I thought, my God, is this woman serious? But let’s face it, I always was the odd one out, wasn’t I?’ She paused from eating, one hand poised in the air.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Loretta began, aware that the statement was half true but irritated by the self-pity in Sandra’s voice. ‘You always got on very well with Sally. She saw more of you outside the group than she did the rest of us.’
‘That was just because we happened to have the same job,’ Sandra said, shaking her head. ‘It didn’t last long after the group broke up. But the rest of you – frankly, I always felt if I arrived late you’d been talking about me behind my back.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Loretta said impatiently. ‘The group didn’t work like that. If you felt left out, it was because the rest of us had more in common to start with. You’d only just come to London, remember, and the rest of us had been here for ages. And you had children, which the rest of us didn’t.’
‘All right, all right, I don’t want an argument – I can’t cope with it over breakfast. Let’s change the subject – you were telling me about Robert.’ Sandra picked up her knife, licked it, and smiled knowingly at Loretta. ‘How long have you two – known each other?’
‘A while,’ Loretta said evasively. She didn’t feel like discussing the relationship with Sandra.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘How did you meet, when did you first – you know.’
Loretta sighed audibly and hoped Sandra would take the hint. Instead, the other woman went on looking at her expectantly.
‘We, um, we saw a bit of each other eighteen months ago,’ Loretta said awkwardly. ‘Then it all went wrong and – as a matter of fact, I didn’t even see him again till six weeks ago. I’d been to something at Covent Garden and he was waiting for a taxi when I came out. . . We got talking, and he asked me to a party. . . That’s all there is to it. He isn’t the great love of my life, you know.’
‘Hmm. Is he good in bed?’
Loretta felt her cheeks grow red. Before she could answer, Sandra laughed.
‘I thought that must be it, I couldn’t see why you stuck with him otherwise. I know he’s quite famous, but I didn’t think it was quite your scene. All right, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’ She shrugged and reached for the paper. ‘What’s been happening in the world?’
‘Nothing much. Everything seems to shut down over Christmas. Even wars and things. What about you? What about your love life?’ The last words had no sooner left her lips than Loretta regretted them; she had allowed Sandra to annoy her into unaccustomed rudeness. Not to mention her unfortunate phrasing – she sounded like a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl exchanging confidences behind the bike sheds.
‘Oh, I live the life of a nun, these days,’ Sandra said airily, opening the paper wide. ‘Nothing to report on that score.’
‘But your –’ Loretta stopped in mid-sentence. She had been on the verge of inquiring after Sandra’s husband and children, who had not been mentioned in the course of Christmas Day, but decided against it. Sandra’s life was really none of her business; the woman would move out soon, and Loretta thought it highly unlikely that they would keep in touch. ‘I must get on,’
she said, standing up and starting to pile the dishes next to the sink.
‘What you need is a dish-washer,’ Sandra’s voice observed from the depths of the Guardian. ‘Leave them, I’ll do them when I’ve finished this.’
‘Thanks,’ said Loretta, glad of any sign on Sandra’s part that she was willing to share the household chores. ‘I’ll go and run my bath. By the way –’ She stopped at the door, choosing her words carefully. ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, I’m not trying to get rid of you. . . But the Yellow Pages are underneath the phone books if you did want to try some plumbers. . . You never know, you might be lucky. . .’
Sandra put down the paper, an exasperated expression on her face. ‘Look, Loretta, I realize this is putting a strain on you – I’ll be out of here as quickly as I can. But it’s not easy for me, either. This has come at the worst possible time, what with the new job and all these bank holidays. . . What are your plans for today?’ she added in a less hostile tone. ‘I can do some ringing round but I don’t want to get in your way. . .’
‘Oh, I’m going to be out all day. I’m finishing a book.’ Loretta cheered up at the thought. ‘I’ve promised it to Vixen, that’s my publisher, by the beginning of January, and I’ve still got quite a lot to do. It’s all on the department computer, so I have to go into the office. . .’
She paused, giving Sandra a chance to inquire about the subject of the book. She didn’t.
‘OK. Have a good day.’ Sandra waved her hand, picking up the paper again.
Loretta waited a second, raised her eyes to the ceiling, then made her way upstairs to the bathroom.
The day’s work got off to a good start. Loretta let herself into the silent English department with her key, unlocked her room and sat down at her desk. It was not a particularly attractive place to work, the college being a relatively recent addition to the University of London and housed in a functional nineteen-sixties block, but the office was at least spacious and well-equipped. Loretta opened a drawer, took out the discs on which her book was stored, and slotted one of them into her computer terminal. The main body of the much delayed work, a literary biography of Edith Wharton, was now complete; all that remained was to annotate the text and attach a list of sources to each chapter. Loretta had been halfway through when she broke off for Christmas, and she took up the task again at chapter eight with a light heart. Another couple of days, she thought, and it would be finished – just in time to meet the deadline agreed with Vixen Press, a small but lively feminist imprint. She still had to think of a title, but she was confident that something suitable would occur to her once she had the manuscript printed out and in her hands. She worked with a mounting sense of excitement, Edith Wharton’s novels stacked neatly on the desk beside her, and it was after three when her aching back told her it was time to take a break.
