by Sarah Long
Alone again, Tessa was free to daydream about that first evening when they were all gathered around the camp fire, huddled together for warmth. They’ve had their first swim and are giddy with cider and John is licking her arm to taste the salt from the sea, then he’s pulling her into the tent and she’s slipping into his sleeping bag for several delicious minutes until she realises this is not what she should be doing and she must stop right now.
*
When she returned from the rink, Sandra was surprised to find Nigel hunched over his computer at the breakfast table, pinging an elastic band against his wrist. Beside him, the seasonal affective disorder lightbox was emitting a ghostly glare designed to replicate cheerful summer sun.
‘Oh, still here?’ she said, unzipping her jacket and throwing it on the back of a chair.
He looked up at her briefly then turned back to his screen.
‘Sorry to disappoint you. I’ve got an appointment with Paola this morning.’
She curbed her irritation at the way he pronounced her name, with full Latin American inflection. He’d always been good at languages; it was one of the things that had impressed her when they first met at a French country themed wedding. She was placed next to him at a long table covered with a cheerful chequered tablecloth, set out in a rustic tent decorated with hay bales. Nigel had read out the menu to her, and the way he had pronounced ‘côtes d’agneau’, with the perfect accent acquired during his international education, had completely won her over. His father was a diplomat so he had grown up in many exotic places. As opposed to Orpington, which he had never had the pleasure of visiting, he told her, as he led her on to the dance floor.
‘That’s good.’ she said, watching him now, completely absorbed in himself. ‘You seem quite pleased with her.’
He nodded.
‘She’s really helping me. And there’s more good news. I’ve been doing some research and I’m pretty sure I’m not clinically depressed. I’d say I’m somewhere between moderately and severely afflicted on the scale, so it could be worse.’
‘Indeed it could, and at least you’re fully embracing your condition, which is important. You’re not one of those ostriches who struggle on in denial.’
‘Yes, I’m pretty confident that the course of treatment I’m following will cure me.’
‘Rising like Lazarus from your sick bed.’
He flashed her an angry look. ‘There you go again, taking the piss!’
‘I’m not!’
She pulled off her boots, leaving them in the middle of the kitchen floor.
‘Put them away, can’t you?’ said Nigel. ‘It’s not helping me, the way you’re incapable of putting things back in their place!’
‘Don’t be anal, I’ll be wearing them again later, so what’s the point.’
‘I’m surprised you’re even out and about at this early hour, it’s not like you.’
‘I took Poppy skating, but I forgot how many boring mothers you get up there. I had to talk to this unbelievably dreary American woman who homeschools her daughter. At least Tessa came along to watch. Did you remember we’re having dinner there tomorrow?’
‘I remembered. Anyway, I’m off now, mustn’t keep Paola waiting.’
He unplugged the SAD lightbox and packed it carefully back in the cupboard, then picked up his laptop, sweeping it into an expensive-looking leather bag which coordinated with a soft-charcoal jacket Sandra hadn’t seen before.
‘You look nice,’ she said. ‘New jacket?’
‘Thanks. I bought it a while back, but forgot all about it, what with everything else. Still, might as well put my best face forward for Paola.’
‘Or Paula, as I prefer to call her.’
‘Wrong. It’s spelt with an “o” in the middle. Anyway, see you later. I’ll try not to be too late.’
Don’t rush back on my account, thought Sandra. She kissed him goodbye, running a finger down the back of his head.
‘Getting a bit spiky, you long-haired layabout.’
‘Didn’t have time to shave this morning, I’ll do it later.’
She waved him off. He worked as a consultant in a boutique financial outfit which looked after the money of a few extremely rich clients. It was supposed to be less stressful than his previous job in charge of a hedge fund but the change had not produced the desired effect. If anything, he was more unhappy now that he had more time to think about his unhappiness. He’d tried to explain it to Sandra: you climb off the hamster wheel but still have to watch it spinning round without you, propelled by younger men who made you feel inadequate. It was hard for her to understand that feeling, he said, because she’d never been an alpha male. No, she said, I’m a beta female, nothing wrong with that.
What she needed now was a little downtime to recover from her early morning start. A leisurely trawl through the repeats of Location, Location was calling, so she made her way downstairs to the home cinema, arguably the flashiest room in the house with its monster screen and surround sound and vintage cinema seats upholstered in blood-red leather. Sandra and her brother Peter used to squeeze up on the Dralon settee in their Orpington semi to watch Blue Peter on the black and white rental set. On Saturdays she’d go with her dad to get fish and chips so mum didn’t have to cook, and the four of them would eat off their laps in front of The Generation Game. When her dad died, her mum moved to Scotland to be near Peter’s growing family. The first time she visited Sandra after the renovations, she had sunk into the maroon leather seat and marvelled at the size of the screen. ‘You’ve done so well, Sandra,’ she said, ‘I can’t believe how far you’ve come.’ Her visits were infrequent; it was a long journey and Peter’s children took up much of her time.
The cat jumped up beside her and she stroked his silky grey coat, admiring the way he matched the plush velour of the ottoman. It was no accident; she had researched every breed before settling on a British Blue. His name on the pedigree certificate was Heathrose Steely Dan – they always sounded like porn stars – but she had renamed him Leo. Proper cat-lovers would disapprove of choosing a pet to match the furniture, but she thought it was perfectly sensible. A cat’s role is to look decorative, you didn’t get much else from them. If you wanted personality and noisy love, get a dog and enslave yourself to daily walks like poor old Harriet.
Kirsty was showing a young couple round a dream cottage with outbuildings and some land which would enable them to develop an unspecified business venture to get them out of the rat race. Lucky them, still young enough to think there was a wonderful new life waiting for them if they only found the right house. She followed them round, from room to room, watching their eyes light up as they contemplated the way they would decorate the attic rooms for their children, planning their golden family years.
She looked round her own room and felt as alienated as a guest in a five-star hotel. There was nothing there to suggest it was her house; no personal photos, just valuable abstract paintings which Nigel had bought at the Frieze fair on the recommendation of his art advisor who was paid to know about these things. They’d spent so much on creating this giant TV lounge that it would probably be cheaper to move into a hotel for the rest of their lives and go to the cinema every night.
A stash of DVDs was neatly stored in a shiny low cupboard that ran the length of the room, they usually watched one in the evening to help Nigel relax, as recommended by Paola. Focusing on the film meant they didn’t need to talk to each other, so that was a bonus. Currently they were three series into Breaking Bad. Sandra had worried that a cancer-stricken middle-aged teacher turned drug baron was not a suitable role model for someone in Nigel’s condition, but at least it let him feel that someone had it worse than him. She fancied Walt’s sidekick and former pupil Jesse Pinkman so there was something for both of them as they stretched out their legs in competition for the B & B Italia ottoman.
Yes of course, that’s what she needed to do! It had struck her last night that it was hopeless having only one ottoma
n, they needed another one, in a toning shade of grey, but definitely not matchy-matchy.
Energised by the project, Sandra leaped up and switched the TV off, zipping herself into her boots. She pulled on her jacket, wound a scarf round her neck and grabbed her bag. She was a woman on a mission.
Unlocking her bike, she cycled towards the park, whizzing past the joggers and the yummy mummies strolling aimlessly behind their buggies, poor things. They might be younger than her but she would soon be free from the shackles of parenthood. Lucky me, she thought as she braked to a halt at the bottom of the hill, then crossed over into Gloucester Road. This was what I was born for, this is what I’ve always wanted. The spontaneity that money bought, the possibility of buying exactly the right piece of furniture to complete the perfect home.
Just being in Brompton Cross made you feel part of the new European elite to which she naturally belonged, a tidal wave of successful people enriching London with their style and lovely foreign money. Pushing open the door to B & B Italia, she was welcomed by the throbbing ambient music and sense of emptiness associated with the most expensive furniture shops. She nodded at the girl on the desk and walked past the arrangements of floating armchairs and corner seating units, wide beds with built-in side tables, suggestions of rooms that could be yours if your pockets were deep enough. She smiled at one of the assistants and was soon seated beside a hanging file of fabric swatches, feeling through the velours and the wools, imagining each of the colours into her room, moving from deep amber to burnt orange, then on to bitter purple chocolate.
‘Sandra! I thought it was you!’
Sandra looked up and saw a woman with a plain, wholesome face that she vaguely recognised but couldn’t place.
‘Megan,’ said the woman, ‘from the ice rink?’
She sat down beside Sandra, who clocked her functional training shoes and sensible anorak, so wildly out of place in this temple to style.
‘Megan, of course! Sorry, it just didn’t click, seeing you out of context—’
‘I know, it’s not exactly my milieu! Which is why I’ve just had this great idea, seeing you sitting there looking so much at ease.’
‘Oh I love B & B Italia, don’t you?’
‘I guess I do, but what do I know? This is where you come in. Let me explain. My husband often needs to entertain his clients at our apartment but our furniture just isn’t right. We shipped it over from home but he wants to send it back and get a modern European style. You know, I’m a very committed needlewoman, but somehow my patchwork quilts and woven cushion covers don’t look right here . . .’
Sandra suddenly felt sorry for her. Cruelly snatched away from her loom and banished to the unforgiving chic of Chelsea.
‘They’d look great in the country,’ she said. ‘You know, if you ever decided to live out of town.’
Megan looked wistful. ‘I wish! But my husband didn’t want to commute, and we both agreed that with the homeschooling we needed to be in the centre of things, so our daughter could get the best cultural exposure out of our time here.’
Sandra nodded.
‘Of course. You don’t need to sell the city to me, I wouldn’t live anywhere else.’
‘Someone told me this was the store to come to,’ said Megan, ‘but you know what, I’m kind of out of my depth here. We’re looking for an expensive Italian vibe, like this store. You look as if you know what you’re doing. Look. I know this sounds mad, but . . . I’d like to take you on as my interior designer.’
Sandra was taken aback.
‘Me? I don’t know what gave you that idea, I’m not an interior designer . . .’
‘You’ve done your own home, right?’
‘Well yes . . .’
‘And I bet it’s beautiful, I can tell just from looking at you.’
‘Well yes, it is really, even though I say so myself . . .’
‘The thing is,’ Megan went on, ‘interior design is just not my area of expertise. I mean I can weave rugs and make a beautiful homely home, if you know what I’m saying. My house in Connecticut is full of ornaments we’ve collected on our travels, I remodelled our bathroom with the most beautiful Victorian bathtub and faucets, I just loved putting that house together . . .’
She suddenly looked close to tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ she went on, pulling herself together, ‘But I guess I just don’t have the eye for this sort of . . . European penthouse look, I suppose you’d call it, where everything has to look so . . . empty.’
‘I can see that,’ said Sandra, then realised it sounded rather rude.
‘I mean,’ she added quickly, ‘I can tell you’re more interested in your child’s education than fussing around fabric swatches. Whereas I am entirely shallow and exactly suited to the job of interior designer, in fact I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before! Thank you, I’d absolutely love to take in on. And honestly, it shouldn’t look empty if you do it properly, it’s a question of making the right choices. A signature piece in a bay window, an original sculpture to arrest your attention as you walk in the door, above all it’s about attention to texture and space and light.’
She had read so many design magazines over the years, she could do it standing on her head.
‘Great, that’s settled then.’ Megan looked so happy and relieved that Sandra felt as if she had already done her the most massive favour.
She exchanged details with Megan, then placed her order for the ottoman, confidently settling on the deepest shade of puce. On the cycle ride home, her mind was full of Megan’s exciting project and Tessa’s reconnection with Donny Ormonde. It was also entirely possible that Mariusz might drop in later on; he was making it quite obvious that his frequent recent visits were not exclusively work-related.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Don’t sneer at your mother-in-law’s old fashioned ways’
Blanche Ebbutt, Don’ts for Wives, 1913
In the hospital waiting room, Celia was getting impatient.
‘How much longer?’
Harriet wondered why she cared, it wasn’t as if she had anything else to do. They had been sitting there for two hours already because Celia liked to be early and Harriet liked to oblige. She turned round to look at the board.
‘It says they’re running ninety minutes late, so I reckon another half an hour. At least you’ve had your blood test done.’
Celia sighed theatrically. She looked stunning, in spite of her illness, in a turquoise silk dress and elaborate make-up applied for the benefit of her consultant oncologist, whom she always referred to as ‘The Professor’.
‘Just as well you don’t have a job, Harriet. Can’t see how I’d get to all these appointments otherwise. It’s not as if Sam could spare the time, jetting off here, there and everywhere. He woke me up at five o’clock this morning, I could hear him rattling around in the kitchen, right above my room, I thought it was a burglar at first, then I remembered he was getting the plane to New York.’
‘That’s right,’ said Harriet. ‘He’s having dinner with Alex after the meeting and Alex is bringing his new girlfriend. She’s called Nadia. I’ve seen the photos and she looks very glam.’
Her eldest son had been working on Wall Street for three years, long enough for her to get used to it, but she still missed him terribly, especially since her younger son James had moved to Shanghai last year where he was marketing luxury goods to the Chinese. Both boys were born in this hospital, it only seemed like yesterday that Sam had brought her into the ward, clutching a packet of frozen peas because the NCT teacher said that massaging them against her back would relieve labour pains. Lunatic woman. When it was over, she held Alex’s tiny hand as he lay beside her with what seemed almost supernatural stillness. Sandra and Tessa were her first visitors, once Sam had slipped off to wet the baby’s head with his friends. They had arrived together in a giddy after-work whirl of perfume and short skirts, producing expensively wrapped baby clothes from Pet
it Bateau and marvelling at this perfect new addition to all their lives. ‘Such beautiful flat ears,’ Tessa had said, running a reverential hand over his head, he’s going to be an absolute looker.
‘I don’t know why everyone has to go abroad all the time,’ said Celia. ‘Plenty of banks in England with jobs if that’s what you want to do.’
‘It’s exciting to live somewhere else, though,’ said Harriet, wishing right now that she was somewhere more exotic than the oncology clinic. ‘Life is short, after all.’
She looked round the room. Women of all ages and backgrounds, randomly brought together by their rogue cells. Black women, white women, some of them expensively dressed, others in shapeless joggers; the disease was ruthlessly indiscriminate. On the way up, they’d passed the wig shop, but many of the patients had opted for more creative options, wearing turbans or the arty headscarves favoured by National Trust volunteers as they sat reading the paper, waiting their turn. The atmosphere was business-like, almost upbeat, not at all like you might expect. Some were accompanied by their husbands, others by their entire extended families.
‘I should think I’ll get to see The Professor today, don’t you?’ said Celia. ‘I imagine he’ll want to see me himself.’
Celia took it as a slight when she was allocated anyone other than the main man.
‘I’ve no idea, Celia, we’ll just have to wait and see.’
‘Mrs Watson?’
Harriet jumped as her name was called, before remembering that it was also Celia’s.
A lanky schoolboy figure had appeared at the door, reading out from the file he was holding. He looked expectantly round the crowd of patients, all of them under his care, all hoping they would be the one to buck the trend. How on earth could he remember them all, Harriet wondered.
‘Yes!’ said Celia, a note of triumph in her voice. No underling for her. She gave The Professor her most radiant smile. In a gallant gesture, he swept up behind her and took charge of the wheelchair, steering her at speed past admiring nurses and patients into his consulting room. Harriet followed behind, the loyal foot soldier.
