Invisible Women

by Sarah Long

  She recognised Poppy’s coat, the grown-up trench she had chosen from Zara. The belt was loosened and the boy had his arms round her waist. As Sandra watched, he lifted her up, swung her round and kissed her again, pressing his face into hers. Her feet in their little ankle boots were dangling above the ground. The boy had short blonde hair, powerful shoulders. Sandra leaned over to try to see his face.

  Suddenly, the chair tipped over, clattering noisily and sending Sandra crashing to the ground. Cursing, she picked herself up and stood still, waiting to hear if she’d been discovered.

  The boy spoke first.

  ‘Christ, what was that?’

  At least he was well spoken.

  ‘Nothing, probably our cat.’ Poppy replied, in a new flirty voice that Sandra didn’t recognise.

  ‘Powerful cat! Sure it’s not a burglar?’

  ‘No! Unless, MUM? Is that you?’

  Sandra pressed herself against the wall and closed her eyes tight, until she heard their voices move away. How mortifying, she’d have to leave the house to avoid facing Poppy when she came home. At least if they didn’t see each other until breakfast it would be forgotten, or with any luck Poppy would think it was the cat or a fox, you could blame anything on the universal scapegoat that was the urban fox.

  She quickly went in to collect her coat, then let herself out through the front door, turning away from the direction she imagined Poppy and the boy would be taking. I really should text her, she thought, let her know the house is all theirs, save them hanging around on street corners. She walked briskly down to Portobello Road, past the All Saints clothing store with its window display constructed from vintage sewing machines, which always made her think of her father. In retirement, he had volunteered at a workshop where they reconditioned old Singers, ready to send out to Africa for useful service. Dear old Dad, always so practical and keen to be of use, right up to the end. It was so sad he died before Poppy was born, he would have been a lovely grandpa.

  She continued down Westbourne Grove, towards the cinema, maybe there’d be a film she could catch, to tide her safely beyond Poppy’s bedtime. In her pocket, she felt her phone ringing and was pleased to see it was Mariusz returning her call.

  ‘Hello, Huge Grant!’

  But he wasn’t in a joking mood.

  ‘Sandra! Where are you? I am at your house, but no one is here. I need to see you now.’

  ‘I’m just out for a walk . . . What’s the matter? And please don’t come to the house in the evenings, supposing Nigel had been there.’

  ‘I remember me, Nigel is in the Copenhagen. Where are you walking? I come meet you.’

  ‘Portobello Road, by the sewing machine window at All Saints.’

  ‘I come now, don’t move.’

  She waited on the corner, hoping that Poppy and her friend wouldn’t walk past, that could be incredibly awkward. Five minutes later, Mariusz’s van screeched to a halt beside her. She looked round quickly to make sure she hadn’t been spotted, then let herself into the passenger seat.

  ‘What’s up?’

  He had clearly been crying. She went to take his hand, but he leaned across the seat and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her towards him and holding her tightly.

  ‘Sandra, I have terrible news,’ he said, releasing her so he could look her in the face.

  ‘What is it? You can tell me, whatever it is, I can help you.’

  ‘Sandra, you are so kind, but you can’t help me, nobody can help me to change this thing.’

  ‘It can’t be that bad,’ she said gently, ‘Just say what it is, then you’ll feel better. Are you sick? Is it about that migraine you’re always getting?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I am not sick.’

  Thank goodness, she thought, surprised at how relieved she felt. He was searching her face now as if she might be able to offer an explanation, then told his story.

  ‘I always suspect maybe Katarzyna, she have another boyfriend, but always she tell me, no, you are Michal’s father. And I believe her. But, last time back in my country, even though I think it is not possible, I take a small piece of his hair . . .’

  She could see he was close to tears again. Poor Mariusz, she guessed what was coming.

  ‘And you did a paternity test?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And today I have the results. Michal is not my son.’

  He buried his head in her chest and wept like a baby. She cradled him in her arms, stroking his angelic blond hair, and it occurred to her that she couldn’t remember the last time she had to comfort someone like this, not since Poppy was a little girl, devastated at some playground slight.

  ‘Cry it out,’ she said, ‘it will be alright, you’ll see.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Don’t let breakfast be a “snatch” meal. Your husband often does the best part of his day’s work on it, and the engine can’t work if you don’t stoke it properly.’

  Blanche Ebbutt, Don’ts for Wives, 1913

  Blueberry pancakes made with cottage cheese and oats, you couldn’t get much healthier than that. Tessa sprayed the pan with a thin film of artery-friendly oil and listened to the oppressive tread of Matt coming down the stairs in his heavy office shoes.

  ‘And so it begins,’ he said, taking a seat at the table. ‘We’ve got a meeting today to begin bottoming out our brand materials.’

  ‘I wish you’d speak English,’ said Tessa, flipping a pancake on to a plate and setting it in front of him. ‘Have it with that yoghurt. And I really hate it when people say “and so it begins”. So bloody portentous. Like you’re God creating the world in seven days.’

  Matt watched her as she moved to put the pan in the sink.

  ‘Oh dear, bit menopausal, are we?’

  She saw that he was looking at her in that cool appraising way that usually heralded an insult. He tugged at the bottom of his shirt that was fashionably untucked over his trousers.

  ‘I think that T-shirt needs to be a bit longer. To glide over your love handles, rather than sit above them, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip, but actually this is just my breakfast leisurewear. I’m getting changed later because I’m having lunch at the Ritz.’

  He had clearly forgotten.

  ‘Oh yes, so you are!’

  He looked up from his pancakes.

  ‘With that bloke you were telling your mum about.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Matt took a sip of coffee while he processed this information.

  ‘Who used to fancy you.’ He gave an amused snort. ‘Hope he’s not too let down when he sees you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Only joking, you still scrub up well. What are you going to wear, a little Chanel suit and a string of pearls?’

  ‘Don’t know, haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘So while I’m pushing the peanut forward, you’ll be pushing a prawn round your plate and flirting with your former paramour.’

  ‘He was never my paramour.’

  ‘As long as he knows you’re spoken for.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Divorced.’

  ‘Ooh, watch it, a predatory divorcee!’

  ‘Hardly, I’ve seen his photo. You’d hate his clothes.’

  ‘Well, I trust you to behave yourself. By the way, did I mention I’ve got an away-day think tank next Friday? We’re booked into a country house hotel for a brainstorm, so you’ll be rid of me for a night, I know how that upsets you.’

  ‘Any excuse to whoop it up,’ she said. ‘Why can’t you storm your brains in the office?’

  ‘Offsite is always stimulating. And we get to shoot clay pigeons.’

  ‘Poor birds, I hope you aren’t attacked by animal rights activists.’

  ‘Hello! CLAY pigeons, duh!’ He made the moronic grunting sound they used when one of them was being obtuse. ‘They’re discs made of limestone and pitch, they’re not
living creatures.’

  ‘Oh, really? I always thought they were a special breed, deliberately overfed to make big and slow-moving targets for big and slow-moving executives.’

  ‘Well now you know.’

  ‘Indeed. Rather you than me. Hang on, did you say Friday? I’ve invited Lily and Ian to dinner.’

  ‘Sorry, you’ll have to uninvite them. Anyway, I’m not exactly falling over myself to hear about Ian’s latest promotion.’

  ‘Don’t be bitter.’

  ‘I’m not. Right, got to go, is Lola ready?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  Lola appeared in the kitchen, her hair in a ponytail, pale-faced at the unaccustomed early hour.

  ‘Here, darling, have a pancake,’ said Tessa.

  ‘Yuck, no thanks, I’ll get something on the train.’

  ‘There’s my girl,’ said Matt, catching her round the waist as she went to take some juice from the fridge. She kissed the top of his head.

  ‘Thanks for taking me to the station, Dad. Saves me the ’mare of the rush-hour tube.’

  ‘My pleasure, Euston’s only down the road from the office and it means I get another hour of your company. We’d better leave now though.’

  He stood up, a careful study in monochrome with his jacket and trousers – never a suit! – in slightly different shades of anthracite.

  ‘Have you remembered your inhalers?’ Tessa asked, following them up to the front door.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And just let me know if you want me to send anything on. You know I like nothing better than boxing up your bits and pieces and taking them down to the post office.’

  She hugged her daughter, blinking back the tears. She mustn’t be pathetic.

  ‘See you at Christmas then,’ said Lola, and Tessa heard the catch in her voice.

  ‘Or maybe before,’ she said. ‘You might fancy another weekend at home, mightn’t you?’

  Lola shook her head.

  ‘Doubt it, I’ve got a lot on.’

  ‘Of course you have. Have a fantastic time.’

  She waved them off, Lola lowering the window to blow her a kiss.

  They drove off and she closed the door, taking a moment to readjust her focus. She was going to the Ritz to meet an old friend, she had cleared it with Matt, and now she must decide what to wear.

  Upstairs, she rifled through her wardrobe, imagining herself through John’s eyes, how would he like her to dress? The thought of it made her feel sick with excitement, she couldn’t eat a thing at breakfast which was unlike her. She flicked through her dressier outfits. A Chanel suit, as suggested by Matt, was not an option, she had no such thing, but maybe her rather prim high-necked aubergine dress in a nod to Miss Jean Brodie. After all, today was in essence a trip back to her school days. The dress was belted and didn’t entirely flatter the lumps and bumps Matt had so kindly pointed out, but the killer heels would help and she would conceal the damage with a fitted woollen jacket that was perfect for the chilly autumn weather. Pulling on her Secret Support seven-denier Bodyshapers, she remembered how it felt when you put on your school uniform for the first time after the summer holidays: sun-tanned legs concealed beneath regulation tights, flip-flops giving way to conker-shiny lace-up shoes, a sense of sadness mixed with anticipation of a new year. ‘C’est la rentrée!’ she would say, dancing round the kitchen in pretentious delight to entertain her mother. Re-entry into the system, onwards and upwards!

  A final preen in the mirror, then she picked up her bag and set off for the bus stop. The tube was quicker but not nearly as much fun as the 14 bus which offered the best views of London from the prized front seat at the top and, before long, she was at Hyde Park Corner, looking down at the cyclists pedalling between the sturdy legs of Admiralty Arch. She rang the bell and picked her way carefully down the stairs, impeded by the high heels which exacerbated her dodgy knees. Damn her ageing body, and it was only going in one direction. No matter how much time and money you threw at it, you were never going to skip, loose-limbed, down the staircase, down a sand dune, the way she’d done with John and Sandra and all of them, in their post-exam elation, the future opening bright and unfocused in front of them. School’s out for ever, Alice Cooper had declared as much, with his black eyeliner and vampire face, which Lola had replicated during her pale Goth phase. There was nothing new, ever, Tessa had told her daughter, we’ve all been there.

  She fastened her jacket, rather tighter than it used to be. There was half an hour to kill but it was too cold to pass the time in a deck chair so she headed for Fortnum and Mason. After admiring the window display, she slipped through the doors and wondered where to start in her sensory exploration. Chocolate was the supposed magnet, but Tessa disliked the received wisdom that all women were secret addicts, giggling over pralines when they knew it was so naughty. Yet she was taken with the idea of welcoming John back to his homeland with a gift of fine confectionery, so different to the rubbish chocolate he’d be used to in America. The assistant took a pistachio-green box and filled it with a selection of rose and violet creams, you couldn’t get more English than that, though it did occur to her it was the sort of thing you’d give to a maiden aunt rather than a hulking middle-aged almost-American who liked to slap a steak on a man-sized barbeque. Never mind. She dropped the daintily wrapped box into her handbag and decided she might as well be early. There was an advantage to being first, she could be safely seated at their table and watch the door for his arrival, rather than being the one to teeter in under his scrutiny, as he clocked the ravages of the last thirty years.

  She walked past the Wolseley, the revamped car showroom that was now a successful restaurant full of fashionable people, then on to the Ritz which was resolutely unfashionable. As she was ushered through the revolving door by a uniformed lackey, Tessa half expected Downton Abbey’s Carson to rush forward to take her coat. Instead, she was confronted by a corridor of elderly people sitting around in chairs. She continued down the hall, past the raised dais where blue-rinsed out-of-towners were already installed for afternoon tea. Carson would turn in his grave, who on earth took tea at one o’clock? Then she arrived at the dining room, a peculiar choice of venue for John, she couldn’t quite imagine him here, in this gilded cage of frippery, with its pink floral carpet and rosy-hued frescoes like a Fragonard painting. The front of house welcomed her with the East European accent you heard everywhere in London’s restaurants. She smiled at him graciously, looking forward to being shown to her table.

  ‘Yes, thank you, I’m meeting John Ormonde, I think the table’s booked in his name.’

  He looked at his screen, an intruder from the modern world incongruously slipped into the eighteenth-century decor. He frowned and looked a little longer.

  ‘I can’t find anything here . . . Oh yes, I see there was a booking but it was cancelled this morning.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Tessa felt the flat grey of disappointment.

  ‘Thank you, I can’t have picked up the message, lines crossed somewhere. Thank you.’

  She turned round and made her retreat.

  On the bus home, she couldn’t be bothered to go upstairs, not when she was wearing these ridiculous shoes. She chose a seat for the disabled, opened her handbag and helped herself to a violet cream chocolate.

  *

  Sandra was on her way back from her first planning meeting with Megan. She realised she had misjudged her client, Megan had shown herself to be open to ideas, and had immediately understood the concepts that Sandra had laid out before her. The apartment was full of possibilities, with the generous proportions you only found in purpose-built buildings, none of the boxed-up little rooms you found in conversions. She had forgotten her bike lights, so travelled home through the afternoon fog like a lawless amphibian, riding on the pavements when there were few pedestrians, reverting to the road to risk the consequences when there were too many people shouting at her. It reminded her of when she took Poppy on a Duck Tour and the bi
g yellow vehicle suddenly left the road to go crashing into the Thames, totally thrilling.

  As soon as she got home, she spread her design sheets over the kitchen table, fuelled by enthusiasm at the task ahead. She was interrupted by a ring at the door. She hoped it might be Mariusz, she had told him to come round whenever he needed to, as long as he gave prior warning. It had been so difficult for him, she could see his pain and had tapped levels of tenderness she didn’t believe she was capable of.

  She jumped up to throw the door open, ready to play the angel of mercy to her distressed lover. Except it wasn’t Mariusz, but her neighbour Lydia, an elegant widow who was looking very concerned.

  ‘Oh, Sandra dear,’ said Lydia. ‘I just wondered, is your cat alright?’

  Her cut-glass vowels and booming delivery spoke of years of landed gentry confidence.

  ‘Hello, Lydia! I think so, last time I saw him, why do you ask?’

  ‘Please, can you just check?’

  She sounded serious.

  After a few moments of searching, Sandra came back to the kitchen without Leo.

  ‘Oh, Sandra, I’m so sorry,’ said Lydia, her eyes filling up.

  ‘I was talking to our road sweeper this morning, and he asked me if I knew anyone with a large grey cat so of course I thought of you. I’m afraid he may have found him on the side of the road . . .’

  ‘Dead?’ asked Sandra, thinking that was surely better than the alternative.

  ‘I’m afraid so. It seems he may have been hit by a car, not that you could see any injury, he looked very peaceful.’