by Sarah Long
Tessa put down her phone and reread the message on the screen.
Hey Tessa! I was just browsing and stumbled on your name! How are you? Still gorgeous, if that picture’s anything to go by!! Sure would love to hear from you! I’ve sent you a friend request. Do be my friend!! John.
Too many exclamation marks, as usual. She had once counted five of them on a Valentine’s card. He used to speak in them, too, his enthusiasm for life had to be exclaimed at full volume, and the thing he was always most enthusiastic about was Tessa.
She stood up and walked over to the window, gazing out into the garden. The sight of the carefully structured line-up of pots did nothing to calm her churned-up thoughts. She was seventeen, it was a steamy summer night at his party where they were playing ‘I’m Not In Love’ by 10ccs, and he was pushing her gently up against the apple tree and explaining that it was her and nobody else who could make him happy. She could feel his hand slipping inside the back of her waistband, stroking the rift between the top of her buttocks, making his point. He was wearing a cheesecloth shirt that gaped between the buttons with a packet of soft top Camels parked in the top pocket, and he tasted of tobacco and Watney’s Party Seven.
Tessa went back to her computer, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She shouldn’t reply. Not yet. But she wanted to look at his wall so she’d have to accept his friend request, then he’d know she’d seen his message. She typed quickly. Hey John! Those exclamation marks were catching. Lovely to hear from you. I’m good, thanks. She corrected herself, no need to sound like a teenager. I’m fine, thanks. Fancy you tracking me down after all this time! She deleted the last sentence, mustn’t sound too keen and grateful, and wrote instead, ‘Still smoking Camels?’
He was replying already, she could see the squiggly lines going, it was too much to take in. In a blind panic she turned off her computer. Cut the connection, get back to the here and now.
She sat back on the sofa and stared at the black screen, now safely extinguished. From upstairs came the distant roar of the football game. Matt was probably asleep in front of it. She let her mind return to the morning after the party, when she had woken up with a dry mouth and a thick head, to find herself alone in John’s bed. He had gone. She knew he was planning a gap year in Australia, but he hadn’t said exactly when he was going. It certainly wasn’t discussed that night when he was telling her how they were meant to be together for ever and this was just the beginning. Why had she never heard from him again?
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Don’t grudge the years you spend on child-bearing and child-rearing. Remember you are training future citizens, and it is the most important mission in the world.’
Blanche Ebbutt, Don’ts for Wives, 1913
Early starts were not a regular feature in Tessa’s life and the rink at seven-thirty was a bleak place. She’d been here several times in the evening, with crowds of rowdy teenagers clattering off the ice in clumsy hire skates to treat themselves to burgers and ice creams. Now the cafe was closed and a solitary cleaner was pushing a mop across the floor while a handful of mothers sat behind the glass, following their daughters’ progress, willing them to make the sacrifice worthwhile.
She sat down beside Sandra and took a sip of the vanilla latte brought in from Starbucks, trying to focus on the action through her lenses that were usually resting safely in their case at this ungodly hour.
‘What’s that she’s doing?’
Dressed in a tiny black skirt and T-shirt emblazoned with diamanté skates, Poppy was leaping off her back foot and spinning round in the air before landing with a flourish.
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Sandra, putting down her magazine, ‘I never know what anything’s called, I just sit back and admire.’
She turned to face her friend.
‘So come on then! Spill the beans on John Ormonde, why has he suddenly decided to get in touch?’
Before Tessa had a chance to reply, they were interrupted by the woman at the next table, who had looked up from her embroidery hoop.
‘It’s a double toe loop cherry flip.’
Oh Christ, thought Sandra. It’s that goody two-shoes Megan showing off again. Sitting there with her bloody tapestry, making the worst cushion cover ever. She gave her a cold stare.
‘Cherry flip, my arse,’ she said. ‘What kind of a name is that? Sounds like the sort of disgusting drink my friend here likes to order. Honestly, Tessa, I don’t know how you can drink that stuff at this time in the morning. I’m practically gagging just looking at you.’
‘That’s because you’ve got issues around food,’ said Tessa. ‘Anyway, you need to keep up calcium levels at our age, otherwise your bones will crumble away and you’ll collapse.’
‘Like Cousin Boneless in Cow and Chicken.’
‘Exactly.’
Their long friendship provided shared references from every phase of their lives, in this case a TV cartoon series once enjoyed by their children.
‘Wow, that’s a fabulous camel spin!’
Megan was leaning forward now, intently focusing on Poppy who was rotating on one leg with the other extended behind her.
‘Is that what they call it? She looks like the Duke of Edinburgh to me,’ said Sandra. ‘The way he folds his hands behind the small of his back when he’s following the Queen.’
Megan frowned.
‘I’m surprised you don’t follow more closely, Sandra. Your daughter’s really good, she could go all the way you know.’
Sandra pulled a face.
‘I hope not, she’s only fifteen.’
Megan gave her a disapproving look. She had a fresh complexion and wore no make-up, her sandy eyelashes untouched by mascara. Even her hair looked self-righteous, a single plait falling neatly in front of one shoulder.
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ said Sandra. ‘She’s got a competition coming up so I’m willing to cheer her on. But you need to keep perspective, it’s her life and I’m not going to pile on the pressure. You can’t live through your children.’
‘I’m not living through my children,’ said Megan. ‘I’m just giving them the best possible start. Which is also why I opted for homeschooling.’
Sandra and Tessa looked at her incredulously.
‘That’s amazing,’ said Tessa. ‘Aren’t you worried about them not having any friends?’
‘Of course they have friends. I make it my business to ensure they have friends. And this way I get to check them out. School is such an aggressive, bullying environment, you don’t know what damage it’s inflicting on your children. I’m a Libra, so I’m very concerned about balance.’
‘And I’m a Capricorn so I smell of goat,’ said Sandra.
‘Take no notice of her,’ said Tessa. ‘I’m Tessa by the way, an old friend of Sandra’s and nowhere near as rude.’
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Megan, I’m new to this rink. Do your kids skate?’
‘No! Maybe hobble round the Christmas ice patch outside the Natural History museum from time to time. But they’re away at university now.’
‘Oh you poor thing! So you’re at a bit of a loss I guess.’
‘Not at all!’ said Tessa quickly, ‘it’s great to have some time to myself at last. Are you American?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Well the homeschool was a clue, we don’t go in for it much here. And the accent.’
‘Oh my God, did you see that?’ said Megan, ‘Double loop, double cherry, gallop, axel! Your daughter’s something else, Sandra! It’s so great for my kids to work alongside her, it gives them something to skate up to – especially since Kim lost her flying camel in the summer.’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Megan,’ said Sandra.
Megan wasn’t listening, she had left her table and was standing close to the glass wall, gesticulating to her daughter, urging her to give it another go as the poor child stood shivering on the ice.
‘So, what did he say?’ Sandra
asked, now they were on their own.
‘Nothing really, just asked me to be his “friend”, which always reminds me of the Quakers. I messaged back and he’s replied. I haven’t dared to read it yet.’
‘Intriguing. Maybe he wants to explain why he ditched you the moment you gave in to his smarmy charms.’
‘He wasn’t smarmy, and I didn’t give in!’
‘Maybe not technically.’
‘Technically! You sound so forensic.’
‘You know what I mean. He didn’t TAKE you, did he? Remember how we loved that bodice-ripper language, about men HAVING and TAKING women?’
‘We didn’t do it, no.’
‘But you were so upset when he disappeared. It was like you were engaged or something, the way he’d been talking, and then just to bugger off without a word.’
‘That’s why I can’t bring myself to read his latest message. I’m still trying to get my head round it, which is pretty pathetic when you think about it. Fifty-year-old housewife in dizzy spin at news of old boyfriend!’
‘Homemaker, please.’
‘Fifty-year-old homemaker all of a tizz!’
‘Well, let me know what he says when you’ve plucked up the courage to read it. I’m going out for a ciggy but don’t tell Poppy. Meet me outside.’
Ten minutes later Poppy came through from the changing room, groomed and plaited in her school uniform. Her face lit up at the sight of her mother’s friend.
‘Hello, Tessa, what are you doing here?’ she said, kissing her on the cheek.
‘Watching you, lovely girl, what a treat!’
‘Thanks. Did you get up specially early just for that?’
‘I’ve been meaning to come for ages. I loved it, I’ll definitely come again!’
‘Will you?’
Poppy gave her a sharp look. Oh God, thought Tessa, she thinks I’m a complete loser.
‘Where’s Mum?’
‘She’s just gone out to check on the car.’
‘You mean to smoke a cigarette.’
‘’Course not! Come on, let’s go, Sandra said to meet her outside.’
Together they walked up the stairs. Tessa caught sight of their reflection in the mirrored walls, a plump middle-aged woman and a beautiful, lissom teenager.
‘Do you come here every day?’ she asked. ‘You must be so fit.’
‘Most days. I usually get the tube but Mum drove me in today, she’s trying to show an interest in this competition I’m doing and it’s not like she’s got anything else to do.’
‘Well . . . she’s like me, we’re both very lucky—’
‘Kept women,’ said Poppy with a smile, ‘you’re both kept women, we were learning about it in gender studies. It’s cute really, kind of old fashioned.’
Sandra came up behind them on the pavement.
‘Old fashioned? Moi?’ she said, striking a pose in her tight leather jacket and high-heeled boots.
Tessa laughed. ‘It’s true, you really are the ultimate MILF.’
‘Gross,’ said Poppy. ‘I’m not talking about your clothes, I mean it’s really old fashioned of you not to work or anything.’
‘At least it means I’m free to drive you to school,’ said Sandra, opening the door of her yellow Mini Cooper. ‘Now get in, before I change my mind and make you take the tube.’
Tessa watched them drive off, then walked down Queensway, past the shops selling London souvenirs and elaborate eastern smoking equipment, with snake-like pipes attached to giant Aladdin’s lamps. At Bayswater station, she went briskly down the stairs to the platform, matching her pace to the men and women in their busy city suits, and crammed herself into the train, pressed against a boy plugged into his iPod, his eyes glazed away from her. She’d forgotten how ghastly it was in the rush hour, how sensible of her to usually remain safely at home until the mid-morning lull.
She got off at Fulham Broadway, intending to visit the street market to shop for tomorrow’s dinner party. It gave her a thrill to get so much for so little and she saw it as a modest way in which she could contribute to the household budget. Coming out through the precinct, she avoided the temptation of the Krispy Kreme doughnut stand, though just the smell of it gave her a taste of that sugar rush, the odd metallic aftertaste that came after biting through the sweet crust to the insubstantial interior. Should she buy a box, just in case Max dropped by later on? No. She was on a fruit and vegetable mission.
‘Hello! How are you today!’
Out on the street, a young man with a clipboard was demanding eye contact, waving his arms in an attempt to block her path.
‘Fine, thank you,’ she said, moving sideways like a crab to get round him.
He, too, moved sideways, as though partnering her in a dance.
‘Can you spare me two moments?’
‘Sorry, terribly busy.’
Poor thing, she thought, as she made her escape, he was only trying to earn a living, it could be Max next year, once he graduated. The way things were now, there was no guarantee he’d get a proper job even with a psychology degree, unless he could become one of those bearded experts who comment on the antics of participants in reality shows.
Walking up the North End Road, Tessa enjoyed the immersion in multicultural London. Working-class white stallholders selling fruit to women in veils who spoke little English but knew how to choose the best on offer, while Middle-eastern food shops displayed baskets of exotic vegetables, strange-shaped roots and lush bunches of herbs. She joined the queue at her favourite fruit-seller. She knew it was a bit sad to take pleasure in his outrageous flirting, but it always made her laugh. He was showing off a tan acquired on a Canary Island, as he was explaining to the woman he was serving.
‘Beautiful it was, no trouble at all, people good as gold. Then I get back to Gatwick, queuing at Immigration, bloke taps me on the shoulder.’
He dropped his voice to a stage whisper.
‘Black.’
Then resumed his normal tone.
‘Says “’ere, mate, can you lend me a quid?” I thought here we go, welcome home.’
He handed over the fruit.
‘There you go, girlfriend, that’s five pounds for you, and I’ll see you tonight as usual.’
His ‘girlfriend’ was well over seventy and made no response as she put the bags of fruit into her basket on wheels. Then he was on to the next customer, a stout matron in tweed, who was speaking into her phone while passing him a bowl of apples.
‘You phoning me? I wish you were. There you go, darling, give us your bag, let me slip it in for you, if you’ll pardon the expression, that’s for you for being a good-looking young lady.’
Then it was Tessa’s turn. She handed him bowls of oranges and lemons, three pomegranates and a large bunch of Italia grapes, and he turned to his son to order further supplies.
‘Luke, more oranges please! I’m serving this little girl here.’
‘Don’t you love your dad’s banter?’ Tessa asked the boy.
‘Oh I love it,’ he said, swinging a box of oranges on to the stall, ‘all day long. I never get sick of it.’
His father was still on the patter.
‘I see you’re getting your five a day, love,’ he winked at Tessa, ‘you’re looking good on it.’ He threw in an extra pomegranate.
‘That’s for being a good girl, not like you were last week, I heard all about it. What time are you expecting me this evening?’
His fruit really was good, it wasn’t just his sitcom repartee that she came back for, though the entertainment was a bonus. It took her back to a simpler time when people didn’t have to watch what they said, when men considered it their duty to crack cheery jokes, before everyone become so damned earnest. A simpler time, when you were seventeen and believed John Ormonde when he told you he loved you and wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.
She was in a hurry now to read his message, but first she must complete her shopping for tomorrow’s dinner party. Boudi
n blanc – she’d have to get that in Harrods – pan-fried with the grapes and chestnuts that she’d pick up from the French greengrocer near her house. Then a classic rack of lamb with celeriac purée and Heston’s orange and almond cake, gluten-free to accommodate Alan who fancied he could no longer tolerate flour.
She stopped off at her favourite Lebanese store to buy some pomegranate molasses and fresh mint. The old-fashioned stallholders disapproved of these shops, there won’t be a market soon, one of them had told her, they would be driven out by ‘them people’; immigrant shopkeepers who had dared to bring their rich food culture into a society that used to make do with meat and two veg.
Swinging her bag of provisions, she decided to walk home through the Brompton Cemetery, which always raised her spirits. It made her feel part of the exciting fusion of new and old in the city, with the football stadium rearing up behind the Victorian mausoleum and the gravestones, surrounded by artfully wild vegetation, with Michaelmas daisies and long grasses left to whisper memories of the departed. Beatrix Potter used to walk here and took the names of her characters from the tombstones: Jeremiah Fisher, Peter Rabbett, Mr Brock and Mr Nutkins.
As she opened her front door, Tessa was greeted by the distant roar of the vacuum cleaner. She put away her shopping, ignoring the lure of her computer, then made two cups of coffee, carrying one up the stairs for Maria, who jumped as she came up behind her in the bedroom, removed her earphones, then nodded her gratitude. Tessa liked having a cleaner who spoke little English, it kept a distance and didn’t oblige you to share your life stories. She remembered old Mrs Evans, short-sighted and talkative, who used to ‘do’ for them in Orpington. Her mother would sit her down at the kitchen table with a pot of tea and Rich Tea biscuits and listen to tales of sun-baked package holidays to Spain and the dangers of being spat on by camels in Tunisia. Tessa and her sister would pass round the photos of Mrs Evans spilling out of her bikini and wonder why they only got to go to rainy Wales in a caravan.
