by Susan Lewis
“But for one person to mean so much, to rely on them for your happiness, surely it’s not right? Surely it’s wrong to centre your whole existence round one person?”
“That’s what being in love is like.”
“But it hurts so much later – when they go. You know, I have actually wished that Julian had died. I thought that if he had died, then my memories would be complete, and that I needn’t have lived with the knowledge that he didn’t love me. I will never love anyone like that again.”
He smiled.
“You don’t believe me.”
“Yes, I believe you. I don’t think you will ever love like that again. We never love in the same way twice. Did it ever occur to you that maybe he does love you?”
“All the time, until he told me he still intended to marry Blanche. That’s her name, by the way. And now I know the truth.”
“Is it the truth? Did he say he didn’t love you?”
“No, but he didn’t have to. He’s not cruel. At least, not in that way.”
“Maybe he is hurting too. It was probably very difficult for him to tell you that it was over. Why don’t you speak to him again? Maybe it would help.”
“No. I can’t speak to him, not about us. His mind is made up, and I must live with it now. I lie awake at night, thinking back over the times we had together, and wondering where I went wrong. What I could have done to prevent this happening. And thinking, if only I’d done this, we would probably still be together. And if only I’d done that, he would probably have fallen in love with me. I long for sleep, but I’m afraid I will dream about him. I’m afraid of waking up, and feeling that everything is all right, only to remember, seconds later, that he’s not there any more. It’s like living in a nightmare.”
“I know. But like all nightmares, it will pass, that I can promise.”
She sighed. “If only there was some way of easing the pain now.”
“If there was, my dear, you can be sure an American would have bottled it and sold it by now.”
She smiled. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how when you feel like this, you are sure that you are the only person in the world that has ever been hurt. Oh yes, other people have been hurt, but they can never know what you are going through. It could never have been as bad for them as it is for you.”
“We each have our own ways of feeling pain and loss, and at the time, it is worse for you than for anyone else, no matter who you are.” He picked up his glass. “When you are ready you will pull yourself up and fight back. Some days will be good, and you will think that the worst has passed, and then something will happen, and you will feel bad again. And it is on those days, when it is almost impossible, that you must be brave, and fight. In my experience the fighters always win. But you have to be brave. Take life by the horns, and live it. Rebel against the misery that saps your strength, and tell yourself that you have a whole new life in front of you, and accept the challenge. One day you will be old like me, and then you won’t have so many opportunities for new beginnings. And think how lucky you are, how exciting it is, to be starting a new phase in your life. It is all ahead of you, and there is no knowing what lies in store. Don’t look back.”
“You’re making it sound an enviable position to be in. I might say, it would be easier if I didn’t see him at all. We work together, you see.”
“Ah, not easy. However, the bigger the challenge, the greater the victory.”
“Real fighting talk.”
“From a fighter. And you can do it.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so.”
“Then I think I’ll start by lighting a cigarette on the Tube tomorrow,” she said, and they both laughed. “I’m feeling better now, having talked to you. By the way, what happened to the venison?”
“George gave in. He probably guessed that I would eat it, and knows that I have been warned about eating too much red meat. God save us from people who have our best interests at heart.”
She chuckled. “But thank God for them too.”
“Indeed.”
“I’ve really unburdened myself tonight. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Unless you’re going to let it pull you under.”
“I won’t, I know I’ll get over it. It’s just at the moment I still miss him and I could strangle him for making me feel so childish, and ridiculous.”
“Which brings us full circle to where we started this evening.”
She frowned. “Yes. I’ve spent the last four days going round in circles, I’m afraid.”
“Mmm. Never seems to get you anywhere, does it?”
“Unless you call back where you started, somewhere.”
“I don’t.”
She sighed heavily.
“I think you’d better buy yourself a fur hat as well tomorrow,” he said.
Ashley looked at the kind old face and smiled. “Thank you for listening.”
“Thank you,” he said, and she knew that in some small way it had meant something to him too. Impulsively she reached across the table and sqeezed his hand. His eyes were shining brightly, and she was glad she had come.
SIX
The rain hadn’t stopped all the way to Brighton, and Jenneen was more than glad to arrive at the small hotel she had booked herself into. Tomorrow night she would stay at the Metropole with the film crew, but that was tomorrow night. Tonight was different.
She peered around the gloomy reception as the girl disappeared to search for a key. Tatty sofas and other uncared-for second-hand furniture were strewn around the place. The windows were uncurtained, and she could see the rain still streaming down outside.
She shivered, and turned back to the desk. The young girl appeared from a small room at the back with a key. She pushed the book towards Jenneen.
“Thank you, Mrs Green,” said the receptionist, and handed her the key.
“I think I shall be returning rather late tonight.” Jenneen stooped to pick up her bag. “Perhaps you have a key that I can take with me. If you want to lock up early.”
“Of course,” said the girl, “here, take mine. I shan’t be going anywhere, not tonight in this weather.”
Jenneen took the key and headed towards the stairs with her overnight bag.
“I hope you enjoy your stay,” the girl called after her.
Jenneen smiled, but didn’t look her full in the face – she didn’t want to take any chances. Her hat was pulled well down over her eyes, and her scarf all but covered her mouth. No, there would be little chance of recognition, and the young girl hadn’t seemed particularly interested anyway.
Jenneen carried her bag up to the second floor and pushed open the door to room six. It was exactly what she had expected. A large double bed, a small battered closet, no doubt from the local second-hand shop, and the customary bible, sitting on the table between them. She picked it up and slipped it inside the closet. Bibles always made her uncomfortable, particularly on a night like tonight. The window had probably seen many months pass by since it was last open. She guessed that in daylight she could probably see the sea.
Beside the window was a small desk-cum-dressing-table, with a mirror on the wall above it. Dumping her bag on the bed, Jenneen switched on the wall lamp and sat down on the stool.
She listened as she heard someone banging around in the next room, and then, ignoring the noise, turned back to the mirror.
Her hands were shaking. Only slightly, but enough for her to want a drink. She had prepared for this, and taking the bottle of Bushmills from her briefcase, she went into the bathroom to find a glass. There were two. Another reason for booking into a double room. She poured some whisky into one of the glasses, took a large gulp, poured some more, then carried it back to the dressing table.
She felt a little steadier now as she looked into the mirror. Her face was still almost covered by the hat and scarf; she took them off and dropped them onto the end of the bed. Then she took off her fur coat and laid it beside them.
Sitting down again she reached for her bag and unzipped it. The dress she wanted was sitting on the top. Quickly she slipped out of the jeans and sweater she was wearing, stripped off her underwear, then turned, naked, to look into the mirror again. She studied her reflection for a long time. Her face was expressionless, and her neat blonde hair was flattened to her head from wearing the hat. Her eyes roamed across the winter white skin of her shoulders, and small breasts. She touched them gently, watching her movements in the mirror as she moved one hand downwards and across her flat tummy. It was there that the mirror stopped. She looked at her face again.
“Jenneen Grey,” she whispered to the reflection, then pulling at the corners of her mouth she breathed: “Mrs Green.”
As she turned back to her bag her movements were slow and deliberate. This time she took out her make-up case, and unzipped it. First the brown pencil. Lightly across her fair eyebrows, darkening them, giving her face a heavy, almost mannish look. Then the mascara – black. It evened the look of her eyes, and suited her. Again the pencil. Across the lids, and down, round and under the bottom lashes. She sat back to look and grinned as she jabbed the pencil against her cheekbone. A beauty spot, and why not?
The blusher. Red. She stroked the brush several times across her cheeks, slanting the make-up up round her eyes to her temples, lifting her cheek bones, and giving the impression of a change of shape to her face. Longer now, and thinner.
Next the lipstick. A deep, rich red and highly glossy. This was the most intricate part of the operation. Changing the shape of her mouth would change her whole face. She dipped a thin brush into the pot, coating it with the greasy substance, then carefully traced an outline round her lips. She sat back to study herself. She was definitely getting better at this, although the new mouth looked too large for her face; but that didn’t matter, if anything it helped. She coated the rest of her lips in the gloss, then reached for her dress.
Enjoying the feel of silk against her skin, she draped it round her shoulders and watching herself in the mirror all the while, fastened the buttons, one by one, and tied the belt.
She was almost ready. She took out a comb and drew her hair away from her face, then clipped it to the top of her head. The wig she took from the bag was dark and cropped, with a hint of chestnut.
She stood back from the mirror to admire her new identity. How easy it was to become another person. How easy it was to live another life. Her pulses began to race, the excitement and anticipation building up inside. She looked at her watch. Ten o’clock. Almost time to go. Just one more thing to do.
She took the stockings and garter belt from her bag. Her hands were shaking again. Whisky, more whisky. She gulped at it and sighed. That was better. Up came the dress, and she fastened the belt about her waist, then slipped the stockings up over her legs. One last mouthful of whisky, then she picked up her coat, flicked the lights, and left.
The rain had stopped when she got outside, but it was bitterly cold. She pulled her coat tightly round her. Once or twice she had an eerie feeling that she was being followed, but whenever she stopped to look, no one was there. She told herself that she was imagining things, and hurried on.
She tried not to think what her friends would say if they could see her now. Their looks of horror, reproach, disgust even. And they would ask the question that she knew she could never answer, and hardly dared even ask herself.
Why? Why did she feel compelled to do this?
The risk – the terrible, senseless risk that she took every time she did it. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was what gave her the thrill. The danger of discovery. She wouldn’t think about that. She was Mrs Green now, and Mrs Green didn’t care about such things. Mrs Green did everything Jenneen Grey couldn’t do, but on these unfathomable nights of madness needed to do. Mrs Green was everything Jenneen wanted to be – tonight.
By the time she arrived at her destination it had started to rain again. She was surprised to see so many people, standing at the bar, or dancing on the two round dance floors, either side of the DJ stand. They looked very young. But of course they were. At least ten years younger than she was. Discotheques like this were for the young.
She crossed the room to the smaller bar at the back, and settled herself on an empty stool. A waiter asked her what she would like to drink and she ordered a large Scotch. She looked around the room again. How innocent the young. Nubile young girls, just waiting to be asked to dance. And the shy, awkward youths, too self-conscious to ask. God, who’d be twenty again?
She sipped her Scotch slowly, and felt her body swaying in time to the music. Would anyone ask her to dance? She hoped so. She loved the feel of a young body, moving next to hers. Lithe and firm, yet still inexperienced.
The time ticked by and she was into her second Scotch and wondering if she was wasting her time when she noticed two youths, neither of them any older than eighteen, standing at the other side of the room, watching her. She swallowed hard, and felt the sweat beginning to rise in her hands. She turned away, back to the bar, and lifted her glass. When she turned back they were still looking at her. They were saying something to one another, and smiling. She smiled back, and they nudged one another and winked. Inwardly she laughed. How predictable.
She waited, but it wasn’t a long wait. They started moving towards her, stopping before they reached her. She knew she would have to do something to encourage their final steps. She licked her lips, pouted then turned to face them with an enticing smile. It worked. They smiled back, and covered the rest of the distance.
“Hello,” said the tallest, and by far the better looking of the two.
“Hello.”
“On your own?”
She nodded.
“I’m Neil,” he said, “this is Sean.”
“Hello, Sean.”
They stood there, looking awkward. “Aren’t you going to tell us your name?” Neil asked, eventually.
“Mrs Green.”
“Is that what we have to call you?” he said, surprised.
“If you like.”
“Don’t you have another name?”
“Jane.”
“Mind if we join you?” Sean pulled up a stool and sat down beside her.
“I think you already have,” she laughed, and they laughed too.
They glanced at one another, grinning, trying to think of something else to say. “Tell me,” said Neil, “what’s a good-looking woman like you doing here all by herself?”
Jenneen smiled, and felt her age. Woman, eh? No longer a girl, but the lines never changed. She shrugged. “I was fed up sitting at home alone.”
“Do you live in Brighton?” Sean asked.
“Just outside. Do you?”
“Yes, we both do.”
“Do you work here?”
“College,” Neil answered.
“Oh.” She drained her glass.
“Can we get you another drink?” Neil offered.
“Mmm, please.”
He summoned the waiter and ordered three Scotches.
Sean suggested that they go and sit on one of the semicircular settees in the corner booths. Jenneen agreed.
Jenneen smoothed the silk of her dress along her thighs as she settled herself between Neil and Sean. There was another awkward silence while the boys tried to think of something else to say. Jenneen was enjoying herself.
“Do you often sit at home on your own then?” Neil asked.
“Ever since my husband left me.” The lies slipped out so easily.
“He must be mad!” Sean declared, looking at her legs.
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“Would you like to dance?” said Neil.
“I’d love to.”
Sean looked a little put out. Still, plenty of time, the night was young.
As she danced, Jenneen could feel Neil’s eyes on her, dropping occasionally to look at her breasts as they moved freely inside her dress. He looked up and seeing that she was watching
him, blushed. She laughed aloud.
“What’s funny?” he shouted above the music.
“Nothing!”
He laughed too, turned to Sean and winked. Sean did not relish this communication – it looked like Neil was going to walk off with the girl, again.
Jenneen stayed on the dance floor with Neil for the following two dances, then as the music slowed, she left and went to sit down.
“Don’t like the slow ones?” Neil asked, flopping down beside her.
“Yes,” said Jenneen. “It’s just that I’d like to sit down for a while.”
They sat in silence, listening to the music, watching the dancers. They all laughed and applauded as the DJ announced the engagement of a shy and very youthful looking couple. He asked them which record they would like, and their choice was very romantic, one that Jenneen liked.
“Fancy another dance?” Neil said, taking her hand.
She allowed him to lead her onto the floor, and felt her blood begin to race as he took her in his arms. The look of hunger in his eyes, in deep contrast to the raw inexperience of his body, and the vulnerability of his youth, were like a magnet to her. Gently she moulded her body to his, and followed his inexpert swaying, sadly out of time to the music.
“I think you’re beautiful,” he whispered in her ear as he ran his hands over her back.
She didn’t answer, but smiled at the clumsiness of his approach. She pressed her body closer and felt him hardening against her. Then moving her hands inside his jacket, she stroked her fingers across his lower back. She heard him gasp, and was waiting for him as his mouth came round to find hers.
When the record was over, they went to sit down again. She was laughing. “French kissing on the dance floor!” she said. “It makes me feel young again.”
