I just sat and looked down at it. It had a really nice cover with elegant hand-drawn type. I turned it over and on the back there was a beautiful black and white picture of my mother wearing a daisy-chain around her head. I’d never seen the photo before and, more to the point, I didn’t know she had ever produced an actual whole book of poetry. I thought she’d just locked herself away in her study for hours as an excuse to smoke dope and ignore us kids.
‘Open it,’ said Ursula. ‘Look at the dedication.’
I did what I was told and there it was, in print for all to see: ‘For Emily’.
I just sat looking down at it. I was lost for words. And I was trying not to cry. I’d been trying not to think about her since my walk with Toby at Christmas and now here it all was again.
‘Go back a few pages,’ said Ursula gently after a while.
I turned back and saw that on the title page there was an inscription in my mother’s writing, in her customary pretentious green ink.
‘For my precious Emily. My bud,’ it said. ‘On the occasion of her becoming a woman.’
It was dated the year I was born. I felt a chill go down the back of my neck.
‘What is this?’ I said to Ursula, when I was able to speak. ‘And why are you giving it to me now?’
‘Your mother gave me that book, the year you were born, in trust. She was convinced she was going to die young…’
‘She did,’ I said.
‘Emily,’ said Ursula sharply. ‘Listen. She was convinced she wasn’t going to see you grow up – which was true, really. So she said I was to give this to you when you became a woman. I think she meant when you had your first child, so as I don’t see that happening for a while, if ever, I feel this is the time to give it to you. And you have your mystery friend to thank for that.’
I looked down at the book again and ran my finger over the cover. Then I looked back up at Ursula. She was smiling at me so fondly I had to go over and give her a hug.
I didn’t open the book again until I was on the plane. There was something about the suspended time and the anonymity of those moving spaces that made me feel able to allow brain space to thoughts I would have pushed away in real life and time.
It was called Paeanies. The pun hadn’t struck me before. Peonies had always been her favourite flowers, I remembered, and while I couldn’t balance a cheque-book, I knew all about poetic metre, as it was the kind of thing my parents would sit and discuss for hours. When they were talking to each other, that is.
At first I just flicked through the pages. Most of the poems looked quite short and spare and each one was illustrated at the top with a line-drawing of a flower. Despite the difficult associations, it was a nice thing to have, I decided, and put it away in my tote bag. But after just a few moments, something made me get it out again.
I looked at the first poem. It was called ‘Bud’.
Tiny flower
Once a bud
Now unfurling
Your folds
And creases
Smoothing out
Growing up
Towards the light
A vital mass of cells and water
That is
Love
That is
My daughter
A tear slid out of one eye and then out of the other. I wiped them away and then I sat and read all the poems in the book one after another. By the time I got back to Heathrow I knew quite a few of them by heart.
18
It was after nine on Saturday night when I got back to the flat from Heathrow, and Ollie wasn’t in. I knew he’d been at his sales conference in Bath until that morning, but I had expected him to be back by then. I made repeated calls to his mobile but just reached the message bank. I sent him a text and got no reply to that. It was a bit weird – I mean, it was Saturday, I knew he wasn’t out on the town.
When he wasn’t back by eleven I started to get worried. I thought about ringing his parents to see if he had gone down there, but I didn’t want to worry them. I rang Jeremy to see if he had gone to visit them rather than stay in on his own, but their machine was on, so they were clearly in the country.
After that I was completely flummoxed. Ollie was such a communicator, he prided himself on always letting everyone know where he was at all times – ‘accessible management’ he called it – and that included me. Trying to take my mind off it, I did all my unpacking, stashing everything away, sorting out what I needed to take to the cleaner’s and putting on the first load of washing.
When I came to my inflight bag I took my mother’s book out and after looking at ‘Bud’ one more time, I hid it in the back of my bedside cabinet. I didn’t feel ready to show it to Ollie yet.
After that I went to bed, but I just lay there, too worried to sleep. I was starting to have horrible visions of his yellow Karmann Ghia skidding on black ice at high speed and as the night crept on, and there was still no sign of him, I began to feel almost delirious with worry and somehow it got all caught up with feelings of guilt about Miles.
Maybe I was being punished for my terrible behaviour with him – and for not going to see my mother – and Ollie had been killed in a car crash and I’d be left all alone and penniless. I was such a bad person, I’d probably lose my job as well, my fevered brain told me, and go bankrupt from all my credit-card debt and get really fat from grief.
At 2 a.m., I couldn’t stand it any longer. I got up, put the clean washing in the drier and a second load into the washer. Then I just paced around the flat, trying Ollie’s phone endlessly with no success. I made myself some camomile tea to try and calm myself, but the worry combined with jet lag – it was still only 9 p.m. in New York – made it impossible. I turned on the TV for distraction, but at that time in the morning it all seemed to be nasty violent films and gangsta rap music videos.
I went back into the bedroom and grovelled around under the bed to find the books that Ursula had sent over to Milan with Paul. I chucked the one about body image back under there and got into bed with the other one, the collection of poems.
Siren Songs it was called, with a line underneath saying: ‘New works by emerging women poets’. I turned to the contents and sure enough there were three poems in it by my mum. I looked at the publication date – 1973, before I was born – and then I read her poems. They were OK, but I could tell they weren’t as good as the ones in Paeanies. They were rather naïve and hippy-ish, but sweet in their way. I put the book in my bedside cabinet with the other one and turned out the light.
It was after four – and I was trying to remember how long you had to leave it before you could report a missing person to the police – when Ollie came in. I sprang up from the bed when I heard his key in the lock and ran to the door.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world to get home at that time in the morning, without letting anyone know.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ I said furiously, feeling like I should have been standing there wearing an apron and wielding a rolling pin, but the moment I’d heard that key all my guilt and anxiety had turned to anger. It was so thoughtless of him.
He seemed surprised by my tone.
‘I’ve been at the conference in Bath,’ he said, like that was an explanation.
‘I thought it ended this morning,’ I said.
‘Well, it went over,’ he said shrugging. ‘They often do, you know that, Heffalump. Anyway, how was New York? How’s Ursula? Has she got a new girlfriend yet?’
I shook my fuddled head trying to make sense of what he was saying.
‘Forget New York, Ollie,’ I said. ‘And forget Heffalumps. If you knew you were staying on at the conference until four in the bloody morning, why the hell didn’t you ring me and let me know? You knew I was coming back today. I just don’t get it.’ I realized I was waving my arms in the air like someone in a cartoon, but it was that kind of situation. ‘I’ve been so worried. I was wondering whether to call the police.�
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My voice broke a little, from the combined worry – and a little lingering Miles guilt. He laughed affectionately.
‘Oh, you silly sausage,’ he said, trying to put his arms around me.
‘Don’t silly sausage me,’ I said. ‘I’m really pissed off. I haven’t had a wink of sleep worrying about you and I was already knackered by the flight and everything. I’m going to sleep in the spare room.’
I started to stomp off. He came after me and grabbed my hand.
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he said. looking all wounded. ‘I thought you’d figure it out – you know how these things drag on – and by the time I realized I was going to be so late, I didn’t want to disturb you with a phone call. I knew you’d be exhausted. Come on, come to bed with Ollie.’
‘Oh, all right,’ I said, too tired and weirded out to argue any more. ‘But don’t ever do it again. And don’t try any funny business either. I’m not in the mood.’
I needn’t have worried about Ollie exerting his conjugal rights, he went straight out the moment his head hit the pillow. I still couldn’t sleep, though. I was too confused.
It was so out of character for him not to let me know where he was, but at the same time what right did I have to criticize him when I had spent a large part of the last five days bunking up with an Australian surfer in my hotel room? And the real reason I didn’t want to make love with my husband was that I was so sated from jungle sex with Miles. What a bloody hypocrite I was.
I lay there for what seemed like hours angsting over it all – plus all my usual nocturnal anxieties about whether I should go and see my mother. Reading her poems was making me feel more curious about her, but I had been so devastated by my last visit, I didn’t think I could ever go through it again. It’s not something I could ever have told anyone, but often in those wakeful hours I wished she had succeeded in one of her many suicide attempts. A dead parent you can grieve. The living dead just haunt you.
When I finally woke at a jet-lagged ten fifteen Ollie wasn’t there. Instead there was a note on his pillow:
Gone to Sunningdale to play golf with a couple of key Scottish retailers from the conference. Too good a bonding opportunity to miss. Didn’t think last night was the time to tell you… Back this evening. We’ll have dinner somewhere nice. Will keep my phone on as much as possible – but not allowed in clubhouse. Why not spend the day at The ESPA Spa at Mandarin Oriental? Slap’s treat. Your Ollie, xxxxxxxx
I did. And I took Gemma with me. I would have liked to have taken Frannie really, but I knew that she and Andy would have been cosying up at home – like any normal couple on a freezing cold February Sunday. How Ollie could even contemplate stomping round a muddy golf-course on a day like that was beyond me. Actually, how he could play golf at all was beyond me. I wondered if he would be doing it in full make-up. That would make an impression on his clients.
Gemma was thrilled to be invited to my spa day, as she was going through a painfully single phase. She was still moping over Kent and I knew she found Sundays particularly lonely, because both her flatmates had boyfriends. We were lounging around in something called ‘the Amethyst steam room’ when she suddenly stood up.
‘Look at me, Em,’ she said, doing a slow twirl, with her arms above her head. ‘Am I deformed? Am I foul? Am I ugly? No. Look at my thighs – do you see cellulite? No. Look at my stomach. Is it flabby? No. Look at my breasts. Are they way too small? Well, yes, actually – but really, I’m not a hideous monster, am I? I’ve even had a bloody Brazilian bloody wax. So why haven’t I got a boyfriend? Tell me, please.’
‘I wish I knew, Gemma,’ I said, with all sincerity. ‘You’re not only gorgeous – you are the loveliest person. Loyal, smart, funny… they must be mad not to have snapped you up. You’re a prize.’
‘Blokes in London are all such tossers, Emily,’ she said slumping back down on to the bench. ‘They’re all so obsessed with being cool they don’t even ask you out in case their friends don’t rate you. They just treat women as accessories to enhance their image. You might as well be a mobile phone. It makes me sick. They’re not like that in New York – look at Kent…’
I had been wondering when we would get on to Kent.
‘He said he just knew immediately he liked me and that was it. Why can’t men be direct like that here? Oh, I wish he would come over to London, or I could go over there again. He’s always sending me funny emails.’
She sighed deeply. I felt really sorry for her. It’s terrible to be twenty-three and feel like you’ll never be kissed again.
‘You know, Emily,’ she continued, flicking water off the ends of her post-modern Purdey cut. ‘Sometimes I think you and Frannie got the last two good straight men in London. It must be so wonderful to be married and living with a gorgeous man in your own home and knowing that you’ll never have to spend a weekend by yourself again.’ She was right, I agreed, it was wonderful, but the funny thing was – so far I had pretty much spent that one by myself.
Ollie got back from golf just after seven, looking rosy-cheeked and generally pleased with himself. I was in a good mood too after the spa and happy to see him.
I felt soft, smooth and invigorated after the steam room and an energizing aromatherapy massage and I was standing in my underwear deciding what to wear to dinner – something to show off my freshly buffed and pummelled shoulders – when he came in. He got undressed, stuffed his golf gear into the laundry basket, and put on his dressing gown.
‘Would you mind if we stayed in tonight, Em?’ he said, hardly even looking at me, as he admired himself in the bathroom mirror. ‘I thought it would be nice just to watch a movie and have something delivered. I’m shattered after all that corporate backslapping and we’ve got London Fashion Week starting in two days, and I’ll have to be on top form for that.’
I was really disappointed. I hadn’t seen Ollie now for over a week and I’d been looking forward to dressing up and going somewhere swanky. If I’d known we were staying in I would have had the relaxing aromatherapy massage.
‘OK,’ I said, shrugging, and put my dressing gown on too.
As we watched the film – an old Cary Grant classic that Ollie had brought home one night, I think he was hoping to pick up some smoothie tips – and ate our Thai takeaway, something alarming occurred to me. Miles was coming over to shoot the London shows. In fact, he had probably already arrived.
We’d talked about it in New York and how I couldn’t possibly see him in my home town, because it would have felt just too tacky – but what I hadn’t factored in was that Ollie also went to a lot of the London shows. Slap sponsored the make-up at half of them and he had to go. He also loved it, of course.
Slap for Chaps was having a stand at the selling exhibition as well and he’d probably be parading around wearing it, I realized, with a sinking heart. I knew it had done amazing things for the precious ‘brand’, but I still didn’t enjoy seeing my husband got up like Hugh Grant from the neck down and Eddie Izzard from the neck up. It was creepy.
I now felt slightly sick at the realization that over the next few days I would be sitting in venues with Ollie and Miles in the same space. I didn’t quite know why, but I hated the idea of Miles seeing Ollie – especially with that bloody pancake on. Normally I was so proud of my husband, but for some reason I didn’t like the idea of him through Miles’s eyes. They belonged in different boxes and the idea of them being in the same one was all wrong.
Combined with residual jet lag and mixed up with the green curry that seemed to be dancing the macarena in my stomach, it all added up to another sleepless night.
The next day I was relieved to find that Ollie had got up and gone to the office without waking me up again. I got ready for work and on my way to the dry-cleaner’s, I dialled Miles’s number.
‘Em,’ he said. ‘G’day.’
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Are you in London?’
‘Yeah, I’m having coffee somewhere in Portobello Road and it’s shithouse
. You really don’t know how to make coffee over here, do you?’
My stomach turned over. He was so close to my home base.
‘Don’t we?’ I said, weakly. ‘We have Starbucks – isn’t that good coffee?’
‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ said Miles, laughing heartily.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said, a bit crossly. ‘I’m not a coffee expert, but, um, you see, the thing is, Miles. It’s all a bit weird, because you probably don’t know it, but you are about five minutes’ walk from my flat right now and that’s the kind of thing I’m ringing about. You see, my husband will be coming to a lot of the shows this week and it’s just suddenly hit me how weird that’s going to be.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Miles. ‘That is weird. Well, don’t worry. I won’t come near you. I won’t even look at you. Not even through my longest lens. OK?’
‘Thanks, Miles,’ I said. ‘I feel really, really strange about this.’
And I don’t want it to spoil this thing we have, I was thinking.
‘I’ll see you in Milan then?’ I added.
‘Cool,’ said Miles in his most smiley voice. ‘You just text me when you’re ready.’
God, I was a slut.
Despite Miles’s assurances I still felt odd about the situation and spent the whole of London Fashion Week as jumpy as a flea, trying not to hang out with my own husband more than necessary and exercising extreme self-control not to look at the photographers’ pit.
Maybe it was this state of high tension that caused me to react so strongly at the Huw Efans show. He was the latest Saint Martins-trained sensation to emerge on to the London catwalks, with a powerful vision that did not flinch from using shock tactics to make an impression. He did actually design really beautiful clothes, which I often used in my pictures, but he was better known for doing schlocky things like putting live rats on the catwalk and holding his shows on rubbish tips.
Normally I found it quite entertaining, but this season he did something I really couldn’t cope with. The entire collection had been inspired by the film The Shining and everything was fine until the big finale when he reproduced that horrendous river of blood moment, at the top of the catwalk.
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