by Pat Rosier
“You wait, the other two'll come back and suggest going clubbing, which if I am not mistaken, is not your thing. So it's home to the family, or home with me.”
“Where do you live?” That wasn't what she meant to say. She meant to say some unmistakable version of, “Thank you, but no.”
“A couple of streets away.” Suzanna is grinning. The other two come back, Tanya with the drinks, including water for Ann, who would now prefer another wine.
“My next drink's gonna be somewhere with pounding dance music. Tanya? Anyone else?”
“Yeah, I'm up for it.” Tanya knocks back her umpteenth vodka and orange. She doesn't seem at all drunk. Neither does Jac. Or Susanna. They must have spent a small fortune. Ann is trying not to be shocked at either Suzanna's suggestion or how much these women can drink without apparent effect. She likes Suzanna, likes her confidence, her way of holding herself, a kind of don't mess with me look, but not aggressive. And she has a stunning smile that takes over her whole face. When she laughs, white teeth flash between red-painted lips. She can see Mo, Julie (a different Julie), Frances, Rewa, Athena hovering in the mirror behind the bar, waving, encouraging her.
After some desultory conversation while drinks are finished, coats and scarves and bags gathered, bill and tips sorted, they are all out on the street with Suzanna and Ann heading off in a different direction from the others.
Ann pulls her scarf up over her mouth and her woolly hat down over her eyebrows.
“You get used to it.” Then Suzanna's arm is around her waist and she’s pulled in close and they are walking in step and she likes it. She's never gone home with someone she’s just met before, not ever in her forty-two years, and certainly not for this reason.
As she puts the key in the street door, Suzanna apologises for the small size of her flat. “More of a bedsit really.” It’s up one flight of stairs, the—also locked, different key—door at the top opening into a living room. A bed at one end is covered with large cushions, and around the opposite corner are a tiny kitchen and an even smaller room with a shower and a toilet. It’s extremely tidy; a wall of shelves holds books and knickknacks, there are a couple of armchairs, a dining table with two chairs and a small television in the corner. Everything looks to be in its place.
“Not much, but it's mine, I am really over sharing a flat. Shoes off please, landlord couple downstairs complain if they hear footsteps.” Suzanna hangs her coat on a hook by the door, drops her hat and gloves into a cane basket beside it and turns. Facing Ann, up close, she slides her coat off her shoulders, reaches behind her for another peg, hangs it by feel and kisses her. Ann stops thinking. All of their clothes end up in one rumpled heap on the floor. They hit the bed laughing, shoving cushions out of the way and kissing at the same time, hands everywhere.
“I haven't felt this good in a long time.” They are lying side by side under a duvet, body touching body, at rest. Ann thinks of looking at her watch and can't be bothered.
“No life stories, eh? You know, shit childhood, coming out story, relationship history.” Suzanna is up on an elbow, looking down at Ann, serious. “Let's be ships that pass in the night, quite a few nights I hope, no complications, light and fancy-free.”
At once, Ann wants to know the other woman's story, why she wants such a thing, what has brought her to this place, both in the city and in her life. She wants to defend her childhood too, her childhood that had had no “shit” in it.
“Okay,” she says. Holiday fling, no strings, light and fancy-free. Well, that will be safe enough, she can't possibly fall in love or anything complicating like that with someone she doesn't know. As Suzanna's face moves slowly down towards hers, she swings her leg over and sits up, astride, looking down now. She takes hold of a handful of thick, black hair. “Scrumptious,” she says. “I always wanted hair like this.” She shakes her head. “Instead of this mousy mop.”
“It's lovely. Me and my friends, we spent hours and pounds trying to tame what you call scrumptious. Shake yours again.” Ann does and her breasts shake along, and Suzanna takes one in each hand, and the roller-coaster is back in motion.
When Ann wakes it’s two-thirty and she’s on her own in the bed. She hears the toilet flush. Suzanna comes back and tosses her the towelling bathrobe she was wearing. On Ann’s return the duvet is pulled up under Suzanna’s chin and she is grinning that delicious grin.
“I'd better go,” she says, separating out her clothes on the floor. “I can walk from here, can't I?”
“No. Too late, you never know who'll be out freezing their bits off at this time of night. And too cold. I'll ring you a taxi.” They swap cell phone numbers. And Suzanna laughs when Ann says she doesn't know what to do about tipping taxi drivers. “Give him a tenner and don't ask for change, it's not far,” she says.
“Come again,” says Suzanna as Ann opens the door when she sees the lights of the taxi pulling up. “Soonish, kiwi girl. Shut the doors quietly.” She gestures at the floor.
The cold air hits Ann like a hammer as she closes the downstairs door very carefully behind her. She doesn't get what the taxi drive says as she gets in, so responds with, “Uh huh.” It seems exorbitant to pay the best part of thirty New Zealand dollars for a taxi ride that takes less than ten minutes.
She creeps into the house and finds Joshua in the kitchen with a grumpy, awake Chris. Both are eating ice cream from the carton.
“Don't ask,” he says. And, “Good night out....?” Ann feels herself flushing and takes off up the stairs.
She can't get to sleep. She feels young and naughty. What will she say when she goes to the library? Oh, grow up, she tells herself. They had agreed, a holiday (for her) fling. Probably just what Suzanna does. How many women has she taken back to her place? Probably dozens. Still, it had been, well, more than fun. She runs her hands down her body, wriggling with remembered pleasure.
Chapter 10
Ann's phone wakes her at 8.30 in the morning . “Hi babe. Suzanna. Look, doll, I'm going up north for a couple of days. Family stuff. I have to be back for work on Tuesday. Don't forget me.”
And she rings off. Oh well. A relief really, she won't have to wonder whether to ring, or not. Don't be silly, she chastises herself in the shower, you've no obligations, just a drink now and then, um, sex, delicious sex, now and then, fitted around the rest of your life. This is not a do the right thing because the rest of your life is at stake situation. No strings. Take it easy. As the mop flops. Go with the flow.
It’s Saturday and they are all going out, to see the Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square and the lights in Oxford Street. Tomorrow the plan is for ice skating.
“The first weekend in December,” Josh had said, “it’s compulsory. For Chloe, anyway. We used to do both in one day until the kids.”
They aren’t going until the afternoon, so Ann turns off her phone and goes back to sleep.
“Good night out?” Chloe’s look has Ann blushing again. Although she’s had a bad start to the day, Chloe is determined to go out and see the lights. With the help of half a lemon to counter any dangerous smells, she insists, she'll be fine, agreeing reluctantly to give up one of the child-carrying back-packs to Ann. Jo sits in it happily enough as long as her mother walks alongside and lets her hold her finger. Josh bounces Chris with a silly walk until he settles in. Ann is particularly careful about the soggy plane tree leaves underfoot. It’s impossible to sit on the underground without removing child and pack, so she’s pleased the Northern Line takes them all the way. It still surprises Ann how many people use the underground and the buses, at any time, week-day or weekend.
When they get off at Charing Cross Station there’s quite a crowd. Chloe insists on a meeting place and time in case they get separated. Even though they each have a cell phone, she wants a rendezvous place. Ann refrains from suggesting at home at the children's supper-time.
“It feels strange, not carrying one of the twins,” Chloe says. “Are you okay, Ann, really?” Ann is oka
y, slobbery fingers in her hair don't matter. She can feel the weight of the child on her back, but Jo’s no heavier than her tramping backpack and she's carried that for ten hours at a stretch.
It isn't raining. There are a lot of people in Trafalgar Square. The tree is magic, a magnificent giant pine, decorated with white lights. It goes up every year, a gift from Norway in recognition of the support and friendship of Britain in World War II, Chloe tells Ann. A group of children sings carols. The twins are entranced. Ann gives Chloe her digital camera to take pictures. A passer-by takes a picture of all five of them. Mum will love this, thinks Ann, me and her twin brother's twin grand-children.
“Are you game to tackle Oxford and Regent Streets, and get the underground at Tottenham Court Road?” Joshua asks. “It's a bit of a walk.”
“I can take Jo if you like,” Chloe says, “I love that walk; it's like one big cliché and I just love it.”
“I'm game,” says Ann. “How about you take Jo at Oxford Circus?”
It is like a walk in fairyland, if a rather crowded fairyland. Chloe's eyes shine as brightly as her children's. The dull afternoon is vanquished by light and sparkle, the stores competing to be brightest and best.
On the underground back to Kennington, Ann wonders whether New Zealand two-year-olds walk more than their London counterparts. She's seen child-carrying backpacks at home, but surely children aren't carried throughout a three-hour outing. She understands that you can't depend on hand-holding in crowds, and a double stroller would be a distinct handicap and anyway the children would see mainly adults' legs. But shouldn't children be on the ground more, getting dirty, picking up unsavoury things, poking into bushes, being frightened by dogs, wasn't that how they learnt to be in the world?
At home, as soon as her feet hit the floor, Jo runs to the toy corner and throws things about until she finds a book which she snatches up and, hugging it to her, looks at her mother, who is changing a sleepy Chris into pyjamas, her father, who is preparing supper and Ann, who is sitting at the table opening the Saturday Guardian. She runs to Ann, tugs at her arm and demands, “Read me! Read me!”
Ann lifts Jo onto her lap and sees the big, white christmas tree on the front cover; it’s a not very well-written telling of the story of the Trafalgar Square tree. Jo falls asleep after a few pages, the weight of her body leaning into Ann's, so she finishes the book silently and finds it a more charming war story than most, deserving of more than the sentimental language it’s couched in.
Going skating the next day is another major undertaking. Joshua has bought tickets online for them all, plus his friend Tony, at the two-forty-five session. Ann persuades him to take a fifty pound note towards the cost.
“Chloe's been looking forward to this for weeks. So if you and Tony each take a child …?” The twins have to have an adult each while they are on the ice, hence Tony, so Chloe and Joshua can skate together.
“I've never ice skated before, I might be hopeless.” Josh is reassuring, it’s quite safe, there are marshalls, the kids get special skates that tie on to their shoes, they did it last year when they could barely walk … So Ann gets into the spirit of it. They have really early lunch to make sure of being on time.
Tony turns out to be a serious man with thick glasses, and, Ann notices as they change their footwear, mismatched socks. Most importantly, the children know and like him. First off, they all go on the ice together. Tony gives Ann some tips, shows her how to move her legs and keep balance. Jo and Chris have a few falls, then are having a whale of a time, hand in hand.
“Go on, you two.” Tony sends Joshua and Chloe off. He and Ann are one each side of the twins, keeping pace with them, not needing to hold them upright. The four of them ease along slowly, watching the show. Jo spots her parents. Chloe and Joshua move like one creature, swirling and dipping and turning, passing other skaters, never a chance they will collide with anyone. For a couple of minutes everyone slows and watches them, admiring oohs and aaahs floating across the ice. Then they split apart and skate around with the crowd, coming back together for a final flourish at the end of the session. The hour has flown by.
“Mummy, mummy, you a fairy,” says Chris as Chloe glides to a stop in front of them. “Fairy, mummy,” echoes Jo.
“What was Daddy then?”
“Daddy fairy too,” says Jo, without conviction.
They buy hot chocolate with marshmallows for the twins, and hot, cinnamony, red-wine gluhwein for the adults. Chloe is glowing.
“That's my favourite fun thing in the world to do,” she says. “My father taught me, we skated every winter, he said it made winter worthwhile.”
Tony and Joshua are discussing football results, Jo and Chris are busy with the melting marshmallows in their hot chocolate. Chloe turns to Ann, and says, “Tell me all about the good night out.”
Damn! Why must she blush? “It was okay,” she says. “Actually, it was great. For the first time ever I went home with a woman the same day I met her.” She blushes some more.
“You go, girl! And you met her in the library?” Ann explains that Suzanna is the library, she works there.
“I know her! She's gorgeous. Talks like the BBC. Well, I don't know her exactly, but I've seen her. She's very striking.”
“Yes, um, well, she did rather strike me. In a manner of speaking.”
“Invite her around.”
“Oh, golly, it's not that sort of, you know, come and meet the family, kind of thing.” They do feel like her family, these people she hadn't known until a few weeks ago.
“This is such a fun afternoon. Odd, how quickly you can forget to have fun.” Yes, indeed, thinks Ann. Note to self: don't forget to have fun.
“Tony!” calls out Chloe. Omigod, thinks Ann, she's going to tell everyone. “Tony, would you like to come back with us, stay to supper.”
“Thanks, Chloe, but, no offence, you live on the wrong side of town. Two hours minimum to get home on a Sunday.”
“Thanks for coming, mate. Good to see you.” And the whole leaving process is under way. It’s a slow trek. Jo actually gets whiny, something Ann has not seen before, reminding her what equable children they are generally. Chris falls asleep, his head slumped forward on his father's shoulder. Even Ann has to be nudged awake as they approach Kennington station.
“Out of training for late nights, eh?” says Joshua. “Me too, in fact.” They get curry delivered in and everyone is heading off to bed soon after nine. Ann boots up her laptop. There’s another email from Ex. Ann opens it and wishes she hadn't when she reads,
“When are you coming home? We need to talk.” And a whole lot more, Paula is missing her, she's been round to see her parents with a few things she hadn't got an answer to her email about. Ann is so lucky with them, they were nice to her—what the hell else would they be, Ann thinks— but a bit cool, to be expected. She misses them, Julie has been a terrible mistake. Blah, blah, blah, thinks Ann. She has been so angry, and she supposes hurt, and now she can only manage indifference. She hits reply and changes the subject line to “no way” and says as clearly as she can that she has no need to talk and Paula should forget any ideas she has about starting again. She finishes with, “Please stop emailing me,” and clicks send.
Then she sends an email to her close friends telling more or less all, and another to her parents telling them more about the family and less about, well, other things. She finally goes to sleep, after wondering, briefly, what the family stuff was that had called Suzanna up north. She thinks about sending her a text, and decides against it.
The next day, Monday, Chloe and the children are going to a friends' for lunch. Ann is invited to go with them but decides she'll go into London again, walk the lit-up streets some more, check out second-hand bookshops for the picture books she keeps thinking about.
Her childhood Christmas memories are of long summer holidays, variable weather, swimming in the sea and pohutukawa trees brilliant with the spiky red flowers that carpet footpaths and beache
s and roofs as they fall. Christmas morning is rushing outside trying out the new bike or scooter or roller skates or water pistol, followed by roast turkey and vegetables and gravy for a late lunch. Recently, it has been a more seasonably suitable lunch with her parents, and most likely Ex as well, and a gathering with friends later in the day. She and Paula often went to a beach somewhere for the week before the holiday to avoid the worst of the shopping madness.
Here, it’s the Christmas of those old-fashioned snowy cards. Shops and streets twinkle. People's breath makes little clouds. There’s a lot of live carol singing, practically on every street corner. The cold and dark make sense of Christmas, a necessary cheer-up before the worst of winter. For the actively Christian she supposes it’s more, but religion, apart from some cursory carols, has never been part of her Christmas.
She wants to buy good presents for everyone. Joshua she thinks would appreciate some quality New Zealand wine, but that won't do for pregnant Chloe, and she’s not going to treat them as a single entity. The most excited Ann has seen her sister-in-law was at the ice-skating, but she can't see much present potential there. The night sky, maybe a really good book, is an idea, but how will she know what is neither too technical nor too simple. What do you buy for someone who wants to study accountancy? For the children, she knew, it would be a bundle of bright new hardback children's books, ones with well-told stories and wonderful illustrations.
By three in the afternoon Ann’s backpack is heavy with purchases. She’s near Trafalgar Square, so she decides on a preview drop-in to the National Portrait Gallery ahead of a more sustained visit. She takes her bag to the check-in and wanders around the galleries. Portraits can be confusing. What matters most, the subject or the artist? What if the artist is famous and the subject not, or the other way around, or they are equally famous? Take the Cecil Beaton photographs of Marilyn Monro. He’s famous for his photographs, she’s famous for her looks, his portraits of her are famous for both, she supposes. But it confuses her idea of art as something beyond a picture of something, to be looking at a caption find who is the subject of a painting.
