by Ellen Berry
Isabelle’s brows swooped down. ‘No! Have you really?’
She shrugged. ‘From what he said, it certainly seems like it.’
‘What happened?
Roxanne sipped her tea, unable to face going into the whole Tina Court situation. ‘A silly row that just escalated …’
‘Oh, Roxanne, I am sorry.’ Isabelle pressed her lips together. Even at just after 9 a.m., the older woman was wearing lipstick in a becoming soft pink, and her silver bob hung neatly at her chin. Roxanne was still wearing yesterday’s make-up and had yet to de-matt her hair. ‘Are you terribly upset?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure what I am. I just need time to get my head around what’s happening with work, with him …’
‘Didn’t you mention your sister sent you an invitation?’
‘Yes,’ Roxanne replied, deciding not to add that she had called Della, drunkenly, whilst tottering home last night. ‘She’s having a party to celebrate her new, expanded cookbook shop.’
‘Well, couldn’t you pop up there for a little recuperation?’
She managed to raise a smile. ‘You mean, go into hiding in the country?’
‘Just for a change of scene,’ Isabelle added, getting up to put a jazz record on the turntable. ‘I mean – it’s not quite my thing but some people seem to think the countryside’s good for the soul.’ Her dark eyes glinted with amusement. ‘Don’t they?’
‘Allegedly,’ Roxanne said wryly, ‘and I must admit, I’m tempted to stay for a bit longer than just a weekend …’ She pictured herself pottering about in Della’s cosy shop, straightening books on the shelves, indulging in a little light dusting. Compared to pulling together and directing fashion shoots – against a backdrop of everyone feeling doubly sorry for her now she and Sean had broken up – sitting behind a counter with soft music playing sounded blissful.
‘Could you arrange some time off from the magazine?’ Isabelle asked. ‘London would always be here for you if the countryside got too much.’
Roxanne shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. With Tina arriving, it’s probably the worst time to ask. I’d better seem keen to do whatever they want, otherwise they might see it as an opportunity to shuffle me off …’
‘They can’t do that, surely?’ Isabelle got up to turn over the record, blowing fluff from the needle before setting it back down.
‘Oh, I don’t know anymore,’ Roxanne admitted, ‘but … well, thanks for last night, and for listening to me.’ She glanced towards the front window and saw a scuffed dark blue van pulling up outside. The driver’s side door opened and Tommy jumped out. ‘That’s my joiner arrived – again,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘At least he’s fitting my new door today, so it’s all worked out for the best.’
‘That’s my girl,’ Isabelle said with a chuckle. ‘Putting a positive spin on locking yourself out.’
Roxanne laughed as she handed her her dress and shoes. ‘Thank you so much, Isabelle. You’re so kind.’
What she needed, Roxanne reflected as she hugged her neighbour, was a little calm in her life. In just two days she had been effectively demoted at work, embarrassed herself in front of her colleagues and now her relationship had ended. So here she was, apparently single again, and with Tina Court’s smug face to look forward to at the office first thing on Monday morning. Her desire to run away and hide in a cosy rural bookshop was almost too much to bear.
Tommy had Roxanne’s flat door forced open in less than a minute. If he was taken aback by the sight of her ensemble of floral pyjamas, cardigan and woolly socks, it didn’t show on his face. In fact, his sole concern seemed to be the absence of Sean.
‘He still hasn’t texted me, you know,’ he remarked, in the manner of a spurned lover.
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘He’s probably just been caught up in other things.’ Like humiliating me.
Leaving Tommy to fetch the replacement door from his van, Roxanne darted off to brush her dishevelled hair and change into a more appropriate T-shirt and jeans. She kept out of his way, biding her time by constantly phone-checking to see if Sean had texted a grovelling apology, while Tommy fitted the door. There was nothing, and she certainly wasn’t going to text him.
‘We were going to arrange for your man to photograph Jessica,’ Tommy explained, packing away his tools when the job was done. ‘I told Molly, my girlfriend. We were getting all excited.’
Roxanne regarded this fresh-faced young man, feeling partly responsible for his disappointment. ‘I’m really sorry. Sean is pretty busy right now.’ Busy sitting there on the moral high ground, crowing over my excessive drinking.
Tommy shut his toolbox and pulled his phone from his jeans pocket to scroll through some pictures. ‘I’ve got hundreds on here. I know it seems a bit sad. You probably don’t get it, do you, unless you have one yourself?’
‘Er no, I don’t have any children …’
‘Oh, she’s not a child,’ he said, brightening now and holding up his phone for her to see. ‘Although I s’pose she is like our little baby really. This is Jessica.’
Roxanne peered at a photo of a small brown and white dog being held lovingly on a woman’s lap. ‘Oh, she’s adorable,’ she cooed. She was actually somewhat partial to dogs herself, and prone to sneaking them into fashion shoots whenever possible. Another gratuitous pooch! her old editor, Cathy, had often joked.
‘She really is,’ Tommy agreed proudly.
‘And I love her outfit …’ From a fashion director’s perspective, Roxanne wasn’t entirely sure about the teaming of tartan coat with pink neck bow, plus diamanté heart dangling at her studded collar – but then, she wasn’t about to criticise anyone for over-accessorising. ‘What breed is she?’
‘A Cavalier King Charles spaniel,’ Tommy replied. ‘We love her to bits. That’s why I want some proper professional photos done, so I can have one blown up massive for Molly’s thirtieth birthday. D’you think he’ll say yes?’
Roxanne hesitated. In terms of acts of revenge, pimping Sean as a willing snapper of pets probably rated as pretty feeble. She had heard of far more spectacular gestures. Tristan, the art director at work, had ordered thirty-five pineapple-topped pizzas from various takeaways to be delivered to the ad agency where his boyfriend worked, after an episode of infidelity had surfaced (‘I bought them on his card,’ he told Roxanne gleefully, ‘but that’s not what’ll get him. He’ll be mortified by the pineapple. Charles thinks people should be jailed for putting fruit on pizza’). Of course, Sean hadn’t cheated, but he had lied by omission, and he deserved a little pestering by Tommy at the very least. Roxanne had known enough high-flying fashion photographers over the years to understand how pet photography was regarded. It was the kind of job your average high-street photographer, with a studio above Poundstretcher, would do for fifty quid.
‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted,’ she said brightly, grabbing her mobile from her bag. ‘I’ll send you his number now.’ She prodded at her phone. ‘Here’s his landline too, and agent’s number in case you can’t get hold of him. Her name’s Britt Jordan. She can come across as a bit scary, but just tell her you’re a personal friend of Sean’s, and that he’s promised to do this job for you.’
Tommy grinned at her. ‘Wow. Are you sure that’s okay?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘You’re a star. Thanks so much. I’ve googled him, seen his work. He’s pretty famous, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, I suppose he is.’
He blew out air. ‘And he’s going to photograph our little Jessica. Better get her to the groomer’s!’
‘I think you should,’ she said, fetching her purse and pressing another wad of notes into Tommy’s hand. He clattered off downstairs, leaving Roxanne with a palpable sense of delight. However, it soon dissipated as she wandered from room to room, wondering what to do with herself now with an entire, utterly empty weekend stretching bleakly ahead of her.
She perched on the sofa and picked at her fingernails – the polish needed retouc
hing anyway – willing Sean to call, if only so they could end things on a less bitter note. Perhaps they could even meet up for a chat, have a spot of lunch somewhere and sort things out. It seemed ridiculous to miss him when they spent around half the week apart anyway. However, on Saturday mornings, as it was now, they generally enjoyed a few languid hours together in bed, either at his place or hers, drinking coffee and reading the papers and making love. They would then shower (together sometimes – they were still at that stage), then wander out to grab a sandwich at one of the dozens of alluring cafes and delis nearby.
Apparently, they wouldn’t be doing any of those things anymore, a realisation that made Roxanne feel quite desolate. What would Saturday lunches consist of now? A single-serving can of mushroom soup? She checked her mobile, just in case Sean had called and she’d had it on silent accidentally. Of course he hadn’t – but surely he would, in his own good time, when he had decided she’d suffered enough.
By midday she had managed to convince herself that of course they would manage to patch things up, once the cloud of ill-humour had dissipated. Maybe Sean simply hadn’t wanted to be the bearer of bad news, regarding Tina joining Roxanne’s magazine. If that sounded rather weedy, she knew he went out of his way to avoid upsetting people; it was yet another aspect of him that she loved. She had watched him take dozens of pictures of a certain model, even though it was clear that she just didn’t ‘have it’, and that the client would only use the pictures of the other girls on the shoot. Sean would rather waste his time than risk the ‘dud’ model feeling rejected.
Roxanne leaned against her fridge, sipping a tepid coffee, trying to convince herself that they would soon be laughing about her middle-aged inability to hold her booze, and her over-fondness for a certain 70s floor-filler. In the meantime, she would try to enjoy a Saturday to herself, and prepare something sweetly forgiving to say – ‘I guess we’ve both been a bit idiotic!’ – when he finally called to apologise.
Having run herself a deep, hot bath, Roxanne marinated her aching body until her fingertips wrinkled. She dried off, pulled her slouchy jeans and grey sweater back on and curled up in an armchair with the Laurence Grier photography book. As she leafed through the pages, tears welled up again – about Sean, her job and the whole damn mess. It was ridiculous, the sheer volume of liquid that was falling out of her eyes. Tears were flooding her face, dripping onto the precious book that Sean hadn’t wanted anyway, and making her cheeks sting with all the salt.
She set the book down on the coffee table, fetched a wad of loo roll to mop herself down, and inspected her throbbing heel. The plaster Isabelle had so kindly administered must have fallen off in the bath. Naturally, a woman who allowed her kale to rot in the salad drawer didn’t have any fresh plasters in her flat. If she were more like Della, she would have a properly stocked first-aid box. The more she thought about Della, the more urgently she wanted to be with her: being comforted, being looked after, for once in her life. Was it okay to say that? At forty-seven years old she wanted to be all cosy in her big sister’s flat above the bookshop, with a blanket around her and a plate of sugary biscuits on her lap. It wasn’t that she was ungrateful for Isabelle’s Del Monte fruit cocktail. Just that sometimes you really needed a bit of mothering, and when that wasn’t going to happen you wanted the next best thing: some sistering. That was what she needed right now. But she couldn’t call Della again yet; it would set her worrying – they tended to only speak a couple of times a week – and anyway, Saturdays were generally her busiest days in the shop.
Roxanne gathered herself up and spotted Isabelle through her living room window, crossing the street. She was wearing a chic purple skirt and a little fitted black jacket, all dolled up and looking like a woman on a mission, although she was probably just off on one of her random wanderings. ‘It’s heartbreaking really,’ Emma from the first floor had remarked when she and Roxanne had met in the hallway recently. ‘Poor, batty old lady, just wandering about, pretending to have this whole illustrious jazz thing going on …’
Was it really so sad? Roxanne had wondered. Okay, so Isabelle was alone, and seemed to be estranged from her son – but at least she did precisely what she wanted, and seemed pretty content. Was that such a bad way to live? Wasn’t it far sadder, she thought now, to be married to a man who insisted on calling the fire brigade just because a batch of biscuits had been left in the oven?
The sound of her mobile ringing cut through the silence, and Roxanne grabbed at it and stared at the name on the display. It was just Amanda.
Just Amanda? Roxanne was appalled that she was even thinking that way. Amanda was her closest friend. What sort of person had she become?
‘Hi, darling,’ she said, trying to sound upbeat.
‘Hey, Rox. Just checking you’re okay for today?’
She frowned. What was she talking about? ‘Er, I think so …’
A small pause hovered between them. ‘Keira’s birthday picnic?’ Amanda prompted her.
‘Oh! Oh, God, yes, of course it is …’
‘Are you sure you’re okay? Did you forget?’
‘No, no, I’m fine, honestly. You know it was Sean’s party last night. I’m just a bit fuzzy, just getting myself together …’
Amanda laughed. ‘Well, we’re not meeting till two. Still plenty of time to recuperate and I promise we’ll be gentle with you. Remember we said by the bandstand in Highbury Fields?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She was sweating now. She actually had forgotten about her own god-daughter’s birthday party.
‘See you soon, then. Oh, and the main reason I was ringing – you know I hate blowing up balloons, but the girls insist on them? Ewan usually does it, but he hasn’t got around to it this time. Can you believe he’s having to stay at home with a sickness bug?’
‘He’s missing Keira’s party?’ This was unlike him; Amanda’s husband usually threw himself into the proceedings, taking charge of the games, charming all the mums.
‘At death’s door, apparently,’ she hissed, with uncharacteristic fury. ‘Anyway – never mind. I can manage. You couldn’t pick up one of those balloon blower-upper thingies though, could you, on your way? They sell them at that cute little toy shop by the Green.’
‘No problem at all,’ Roxanne replied, feeling like possibly the most despicable godmother on earth.
Chapter Nine
At least she had not only bought but wrapped Keira’s birthday present. It was sitting on Roxanne’s dressing table, so pretty in owl-patterned paper (Keira loved owls) next to the gift box she had made for Sean’s brandy snaps. Roxanne changed her ‘I am depressed’ grey sweater for a perkier pink top – the sun had broken through, the sky had turned bluer – and inspected her face. Her cheeks looked lightly sanded and her eyes were veiny and swollen from all the crying; not the preferred look for a ninth birthday party. She splashed her face with cold water and made a mug of tea specifically for the purpose of preparing two wet teabags to place over her closed eyes, for de-puffing purposes. She lay on the sofa, trying to transform herself into godmother mode, as the PG Tips took effect.
It seemed to work – or at least, she looked marginally less frightening. She applied sufficient make-up to appear partyish, as opposed to looking like she was about to hurl herself off a bridge. With her tender heel padded with loo roll and Keira’s present stashed in her bag, Roxanne pulled on lace-up pumps and set off on foot, grateful now for a reason to leave her flat. She had friends to see, things to do. She was not plummeting into a mushroom-soup sort of life. The air was warm, the shopfronts cheery, the streets busy with people out shopping and meeting for coffee, enjoying the day.
Oh, but she loved her local neighbourhood. Yes, it was insanely expensive now, and lots of people thought it too twee and smug, not ‘edgy’ enough – but who wanted edgy at forty-seven years old?
Roxanne had stretched herself to buy her minuscule flat twelve years ago – magazine journalists weren’t paid nearly as much as people a
ssumed – and never looked back. What was wrong with being able to visit a different cafe every day for a whole month, if you wanted to? There was the canal, the cinema, all the quirky boutiques, tons of welcoming pubs and green spaces, should you want them – like Highbury Fields, where she was now, picking her way between children kicking footballs about and adults sprawled out enjoying the sunshine. She spotted the birthday gathering in the distance and quickened her pace.
‘Hey, gorgeous!’ Amanda enveloped her in a warm hug, and she was soon besieged by Keira and her little sister Holly. The girls seemed to regard Roxanne as an exotic aunt. They were fascinated by her access to what seemed like the world’s most beautiful clothing. Many of the child-friendly freebies that came Roxanne’s way – jazzy scarves, feather boas and glittery face paint – were dispatched straight to her favourite girls.
‘This is lovely,’ Roxanne exclaimed, plonking herself down on one of the madras-checked throws, among the wicker baskets of party food and scattering of gifts. She gave Keira her present and was introduced by Amanda to the mothers she hadn’t met at previous parties.
‘Mum, look!’ Keira yelled, ripping the paper from her gift. Roxanne had given her an extravagant jewellery-making set that she herself would have loved as a child. ‘Can I make something now?’
‘Another time, darling,’ said Amanda. ‘You’ll lose all the little pieces in the grass.’
‘We can do it together,’ Roxanne added, ‘next time I visit.’
‘Yeah, you can help me.’ Keira hugged her, and Roxanne reassured herself that perhaps she wasn’t so awful after all, at least in godmotherly terms. When you didn’t have children, people sometimes assumed you preferred not to be around them, that you found them noisy and unpredictable, but Roxanne enjoyed their company very much. She took Amanda’s girls on outings to the zoo, the cinema and theatre and never forgot birthdays – well, almost never.
