by Lesley Lokko
The party sounds around her rose and fell, shattering lightly against the clear night sky. Tash turned, walked back towards the house. She pushed open the front door. There were a few people standing around in the vestibule; they looked up as she came through the door but she didn’t stop to say hello. She wanted to be alone somewhere.
There was a small living room just off Rebecca’s father’s study. She tried the handle; the door swung open silently and she slipped in, shutting it quietly behind her. There was an open fire in the grate, sending out glowing streams of warm, coppery light. The door to the study was partly ajar but it was quiet inside the small living room. She looked around her. She’d always liked this room. Its dark wood-panelled walls held thousands of books, just like her father’s private rooms up at Portmore. She stood in the doorway for a second, breathing deeply. There was an old, smoothly worn Chesterfield in front of the fire. She walked over to it, sinking gratefully into its soft, comfortable leather. She, Rebecca and Annick had spent many a night curled up on it when they were younger, playing cards, gossiping, escaping from the rest of the world, especially their respective families. There was a cosy warmth to the room, in spite of its sombre air. There was history here, and continuity, and the sense that one’s own dramas, however threatening, couldn’t possibly overturn the larger order of things to which the house and its wealth and history belonged.
She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. As happy as she was for Rebecca, she’d found the day oddly overwhelming. Seeing Rebecca surrounded by literally dozens of close family members brought a keen sense of her own loneliness into sharp relief. If Tash were ever to get married – and the thought of it seemed about as remote a possibility as dying, or flying to the moon – who would come? Her mother, Rebecca, a handful of colleagues from work . . . that would be it. For all Rebecca’s complaints about not doing anything with her life, she was loved and cherished in a way Tash would never be. She pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes. It wasn’t a day to cry. Suddenly, she became aware of a low murmur coming from behind the half-closed door. She struggled upright. She wasn’t alone.
‘She’ll find someone, don’t worry.’ It was Rebecca’s mother, Embeth. ‘It just takes time.’
‘No. You don’t know her.’ Tash drew in a sharp breath. It was her mother’s voice. Sulky, irritated. ‘Tash very difficult. Not like your daughter.’
‘Tash is a lovely girl,’ Embeth said loyally. ‘She’s so bright.’
‘What is point of brains?’ Lyudmila said sulkily. ‘Better she should be beautiful.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Is curse, you know. Having ugly daughter.’
‘Tash isn’t ugly, Lyudmila,’ Embeth said gently. ‘She’s a lovely girl. She’ll find someone, just be patient. Wait and see.’
‘I wait how many years now? She never has boyfriend. Never.’
Tash was aware she was holding her breath. She exhaled slowly and stood up. Her whole body was flushed with anger – how dare her mother discuss her with Embeth Harburg? She crept across the carpet, shaking with rage. Is curse having ugly daughter. The words were like a slap in the face. Of course she knew her looks were a disappointment, and probably not just to her mother. She knew her colleagues at work sniggered behind her back about her hair and her teeth and the fact that she never, ever wore make-up. She was used to it. But hearing it stated so baldly and with such despair . . . she swallowed hard. She picked up her coat and bag and walked towards the main road. Let Lyudmila find her own fucking way home. She’d seen and heard enough.
56
EMBETH
She watched her own Bentley bearing Tash’s mother pull slowly out of the driveway and breathed a sigh of relief. What an unbelievably disagreeable woman, she thought to herself, shutting the front door firmly behind her. Lyudmila had been one of the last guests to leave. It was well after midnight and she was exhausted. Rebecca and Julian had departed for the hotel where they were staying before going on to a fortnight’s holiday at a beautiful villa at Le Dramont, near St Raphaël, her and Lionel’s gift to the honeymooning couple.
Now, with the house slowly returning to itself after the excitement of the day, the staff still busy clearing the grounds and making sure their various guests were all comfortably accommodated, Embeth allowed herself the luxury of drawing breath. The entire day had gone off without a hitch. She switched off the lights in the study; Lionel had long since retired to the suite of rooms on the first floor. At ninety one, amazingly, he still had the curiosity and zest for life that had so attracted her all those years ago, but not the stamina to match. It was to be expected, of course. She’d never met anyone with as much energy. At an age where her own father had slowed to a near-halt, not moving from their Altamira home in Caracas, Lionel still went to the bank every day, still oversaw all the deals that the younger generation made . . . he could no more have stopped working than he’d have stopped breathing and there were times when Embeth feared that that was exactly how it would end – suddenly, in the middle of a telephone call or whilst chastising an employee. She was forever telling him to slow down, take things easy, think about retirement. Retirement? He’d looked at her as though she were mad. ‘We’re Jews, Embeth,’ he said incredulously. ‘What d’you expect me to do? Take up golf?’
She shook her head as she slowly made her way upstairs. Dear Lionel. It was sometimes hard to believe they’d been married for over forty years. She remembered their own wedding as though it had been yesterday. She, like Rebecca, a young bride marrying a man more than twenty years her senior. Had she done the right thing in marrying her off so soon, she wondered, thinking of the strange, unsettling conversation she’d had with Tash’s mother, Lyudmila, concerned only with her daughter’s looks – or lack thereof. She couldn’t imagine talking about Rebecca in that way to anyone, let alone her best friend’s mother. Neither could she understand Lyudmila’s despair. Granted, Tash was no beauty queen but she was a bright, articulate and – from what Rebecca had told her – extremely ambitious young woman. Who cared whether or not she’d taken after her mother in the looks department. It had been on the tip of Embeth’s tongue to say she hoped she’d inherited better manners than her mother but she’d stopped herself just in time.
She’d never cared for Lyudmila, to be honest. On the few occasions she’d met her over the years she’d found her uncouth and overbearing . . . and with that dreadful accent that made it almost impossible to understand what she was saying. She brandished her ‘Russian-ness’, if that were the right word, like a weapon – but why? She had no idea who or what the woman had done before her arrival in England – Rebecca had said something once about Tash’s mother being a model – but in truth, Embeth had never taken much interest in her and had assumed the feeling was mutual. Whenever she’d bumped into Lyudmila at school or at some function when they’d been unable to avoid each other, they’d air-kissed briefly, chatted about their respective daughters for three or four minutes – not longer – and gone their separate ways. It was a shock to find the woman in Lionel’s private living room earlier that evening, a glass of champagne in one hand and a snail’s trail of tears rolling down her cheeks. What was she crying about? The fact that her daughter was unmarried and, according to her distraught mother at least, destined for ever to stay that way. Embeth hadn’t known quite what to say. She’d offered the usual platitudes – of course she will; don’t worry; she’s lovely – but, in truth, she had absolutely no clue about the state of Tash’s love life. From what Rebecca told her, Tash had set her sights firmly on other things – her own business, her own career, making her own way in the world . . . and what was so wrong with that? She’d never had to work; neither would Rebecca, unless she wanted to. Julian was certainly well off, and besides, Rebecca had her own trust fund, just as Embeth had had hers. Despite it being a different time, especially for young women, it was so important for Rebecca to enter into her marriage already independent.
She opened the door to their rooms quietly. Lionel would
doubtless already be asleep. For nearly a decade now, they’d slept in separate but adjoining rooms, each with its own dressing room and en suite bathroom, connected by the large, comfortable sitting room where they often sat together in the evenings, watching a film or reading quietly together. It had been a successful marriage, though not without its ups and downs, like any marriage, she supposed. She sat down on the edge of her bed and eased off her shoes, sighing in relief. She’d worn a dark-grey silk dress with the same lace detail at the neckline as Rebecca’s wedding dress and a pair of ridiculously high grey suede court shoes – Tash’s choice. She’d looked at them dubiously when Tash brought them over. Jimmy Choos? At my age? But Tash was adamant. ‘They’re divine, Mrs Harburg. You’ll get used to the height.’ Embeth smiled tolerantly and slipped them on.
Earlier in the day when they were all getting ready, she’d slipped into Rebecca’s room and they’d stood together for a second, looking at their reflection in the mirror. Mother and daughter. It was a little uncanny, seeing herself not only as she was now, a woman in her mid-sixties, but also seeing herself as she’d been once, a bride, just as Rebecca now was. The resemblance was strong, though Rebecca had always taken after her father, not Embeth; but they were both tall and slim, with glossy, dark-brown hair and the same wide, easy smile. ‘You look beautiful,’ Embeth was moved to say, kissing Rebecca’s forehead lightly. ‘Just beautiful.’
When they both walked out of the house into the garden later that afternoon, Embeth had accepted the compliments from all their guests, knowing all the while that there was something else being said beneath the admiring glances and the hugs. She’d done a good job. She’d been a good wife and a good mother. Who could ask for more?
She stood up, reached around rather awkwardly and unzipped her dress, stepping out of it carefully. She folded it and placed it in the pile marked ‘dry cleaning’. She took off her undergarments and peeled off her stockings. She opened the huge wardrobe doors and stood for a second, looking at herself in a way she rarely did anymore. She lifted one arm, watching her skin stretch and fall away. Where had the time gone? When did her body begin to register the passing years? She put up a hand to her neck; just like her mother’s had been, the skin beneath her chin was fine and papery. She turned again so that she faced herself. An attractive woman, but no longer beautiful. The squared jaw and high cheekbones that had held a hint of tomboyish beauty in her twenties had given way to slightly drooping jowls, a certain heaviness around the chin. She wondered if Rebecca would inherit the same.
In the adjoining room, she heard Lionel stir, mumbling something in his sleep. She closed the wardrobe doors quietly and picked up her dressing gown from behind the door. She tiptoed through to his room. He had his back to her and was snoring gently. All was well. She left the door slightly open and pulled back her own sheets. She slid in, feeling the cool crisp cotton sheets against her skin. In the nearly forty years she’d lived in England, she’d never quite managed to shake off the tropical habit of sleeping naked. It was hard to remember that in the beginning of their marriage, it had been the source of so much private eroticism. Now, Lionel told her frankly, she’d catch her death of cold. She smiled to herself. She remembered something her mother had said to her, on her wedding night. ‘It’s fashionable nowadays to wish your children’s lives turn out better than your own.’ She’d paused. ‘But even if your marriage is only half as good as mine has been, I’ll die happy.’ She’d never had the final reckoning with her mother; she’d passed away shortly thereafter. But she remembered the sentiment now, as she lay waiting for sleep to claim her. She wished the same for Rebecca. Hers had been an exceptional marriage; there was no way of telling if Rebecca would be as lucky. Julian was a kind and decent man but was he another Lionel? She closed her eyes. It was a blessing, she thought to herself drowsily, as she settled herself further down in the cool sheets. Yes, a blessing. Three generations of women, wishing only that their daughters’ marriages would be as successful and happy as theirs. Poor Tash. It seemed as though there would be no such wish for her.
57
TASH
She turned the card over in her hand. Julian Lovell. Private Equity & Venture Capital Management. Two phone numbers, both mobiles – one, a UK number and the other she didn’t recognise. An email address. Nothing more. She took another gulp of coffee. Her hand hovered over the phone. It was three weeks since the wedding, three weeks in which she’d sat at home all day and practically all night, working on the proposal she now held in front of her. [email protected]. An online shop-a-zine. It wasn’t the snappiest byline she’d ever seen, but it was the best she could do. Besides, she knew already Julian would much rather study content than the cover page. And she’d certainly done her homework in that regard. Sixteen pages of history, analysis, market projections, market share, competition . . . it was nerve-wracking. It was the first time she’d ever done anything without the protective umbrella of a magazine or an organisation over her head. [email protected] was hers.
She snapped the report shut, took a deep breath and picked up the phone. There was the soft, familiar two-tone ring, then Julian’s deep, beautifully modulated voice. ‘Hello?’
‘Oh. Hi, Julian . . . it’s, er, Tash. Tash Bryce-Brudenell. Rebecca’s friend. I . . . I don’t know if you remember—’
‘Tash.’ He cut short her babbling. ‘How are you?’
‘Great. Fine. Um . . . I . . . I hope I’m not disturbing you or anything but—’
‘Not at all, but I’ve a feeling you’re about to tell me something of great importance. Why don’t we meet for lunch?’
‘Lunch?’ Tash’s voice went up an octave. She cleared her throat. ‘Lunch would be lovely.’
‘Great. How about my club? The Lansdowne – d’you know it?’
‘No. Yes. Yes, of course.’ Tash had no idea where it was but she’d find out.
He chuckled. ‘Fitzmaurice Place, near Berkeley Square.’
‘Yes, I . . . I’ve heard of it,’ Tash mumbled, embarrassed.
‘How about one o’clock on Friday? That way we can have a glass of wine. I knock off at lunchtime on Fridays. Seems a more civilised way to enter the weekend.’
‘That . . . that sounds perfect,’ Tash said faintly. Her palms were sweating. Friday was three days away. She’d been out of work for almost a month and her savings were almost at zero. She was aware of Lyudmila’s frantic, anguished look every time she walked in. ‘Vy nashli uzhe rabotu? Have you found a job yet? I don’t need a job, Ma, she longed to say. I’m starting my own company. I’m going to be my own boss. But she couldn’t. Not yet.
She put down the phone. Her hands were shaking. She ought to ring Rebecca and tell her she was about to meet Julian to ask for his advice – and possibly help – in setting up a company, but something made her hold back. This was business. Her meeting with Julian should have nothing to do with their friendship. She had to make a distinction between the two relationships and stick to it. If there was one thing she’d learned from working with Rosie Trevelyan it was not to mix business and pleasure, not that she could even imagine Rosie enjoying anything that wasn’t in some way business-related. Rosie was all business and nothing but. She chewed the end of her pencil. It wasn’t that she wanted to hide anything from Rebecca – on the contrary. She was eager to show Rebecca that even without the obvious advantages of money and security, she’d thought up something all on her own that might – just might – bring her into the orbit of the things that Rebecca enjoyed but had never had to provide for herself. But she wasn’t yet ready, she realised.
She pushed her chair away from her desk and the phone and lit a cigarette. The report lay, cover up, in front of her. Copies of magazines were strewn all around, lying open-jawed at the fashion pages. Yellow stickies, notes and reminders to herself; a couple of sketches, printouts . . . all this was in front of her. There was so much life and energy in the way it all looked. She drew on her cigarette and felt a deep, satisfying surge of excitement. Thi
s was the beginning of it. Her life was beginning to take shape. A different life.
58
The morning of her meeting with Julian started well. She woke up with a bolt of energy that saw her in and out of the shower in five minutes flat. She chose her outfit with greater care than usual. There was nothing to be done about her face or hair but she knew instinctively that Julian would notice what she was wearing and that he’d be looking for signs that she knew something about fashion. She picked out a dark-blue pair of Armani jeans, a crisp white blouse with a midnight-blue blazer from Zara and a chunky silver bracelet that a grateful stylist had once tossed her way. Nothing expensive – on her salary haute couture was out of the question – but it did show she knew how to put a look together.
Unfortunately for her, it was the wrong ‘look’. At 12.55 on the dot, the two doormen at the Lansdowne looked her up and down and shook their heads in unison.
‘Sorry, ma’am. No jeans.’ One of them, perhaps sensing a scene, sloped off. The other folded his arms across his chest as if he were about to physically bar the way.
Tash looked at him, her eyes widening in panic. She’d already wasted ten minutes walking up Berkeley Square in the wrong direction. She clutched her report in one hand and her bag in the other. ‘But they’re designer jeans!’
‘Sorry, ma’am. Those are the rules.’ The doorman wasn’t giving an inch.
‘Look, I’m meeting someone . . . he’s already in there . . . I’ve got a meeting at one. It’s really important.’
‘Sorry.’ By now he’d dropped the “ma’am” and was beginning to sound imperious. ‘Those are the rules. I don’t make ’em,’ he added sniffily.
Tash took a deep breath. ‘Fine,’ she said, pulling a pen and her Filofax out of her bag. She scribbled a quick note. ‘Would you mind passing this along to Mr Lovell? I assume you know who he is,’ she said, equally sniffy.
