CleanChia-ra: I thought you didn’t eat meat? Maybe that’s what’s made you write this negative post. Eating decay can’t feed your soul. Eat clean and free your heart. Love and light Chia-ra cleanchia-ra.com
FragrantCloud: Just being honest, Chiara!
EastLondonNostrils: Clean eating is a great foulness. It always makes me think of antibacterial wipes and mothers who give their kids baths in Dettol. Keep on bringing home the bacon. ELN
Monday, 4 January
Polly and Digger had been waiting in her mother’s sitting room for over half an hour, and it was hard to say which of them was more restless. Despite Polly’s constant entreaties to him to settle, the dog kept walking over to the floor-length window, pressing his nose against it and coming back.
‘Oh, for flipping heck’s sake, Digger, can you not sit still for one minute?’ she hissed at him.
She immediately felt guilty for snapping at him. It wasn’t Digger’s fault David had let the poor animal bond to him like superglue and then gaily disappeared off on some bogus research trip, leaving Polly to look after a bereft canine with digestive tract issues.
Digger looked at her balefully and headed for the window again.
Polly glanced at her phone. There was still plenty of time before she was due to start her talk before the residents of Rockham Park, the upmarket retirement village where her mother now lived. Instead of sitting here impatiently, she’d much rather have been sipping a quiet cup of tea down in the residents’ lounge, getting used to the space and checking that her laptop was set up for the slide show.
She wasn’t nervous about what she was going to say – she’d done this talk so many times now she knew it by heart – but she didn’t want to make a rushed late arrival into a room full of impatient oldsters. It was much better to be there smiling as they came in. However, she knew her mother preferred the grand-entrance option.
Polly checked the time again. She’d been sitting here now for close to forty-five minutes, staring at the framed black-and-white photographs of her mother that crowded the walls and at the magazines fanned out on the coffee table featuring Daphne’s more recent shoots, while Daphne finished her elaborate toilette.
Several times Polly had gone into the bedroom to see how she was doing, only to be briskly reprimanded and told to stop hurrying her. Daphne had even insisted on pressing her dress and polishing her bloody handbag herself. Polly had only been allowed to get the ironing board out.
It had taken all her self-control not to ask her mother why she hadn’t done her preparations the night before. Daphne had been awake for most of it, judging by the number of times she’d rung Polly to ask her what time she was coming. Two in the morning, three-fifteen and then again at five.
Along with serious memory lapses, these nocturnal phone calls were one of the distressing new developments in her mother’s behaviour, and Polly had been concerned what state she might find Daphne in when she got there. But she seemed absolutely fine, engaged in her favourite activity of maintaining her ridiculously high standard of appearance, which had been such a theme of Polly’s life.
Polly felt sorry for the other residents, who had to hear constantly about ‘dear Cecil – Beaton,’ at lunch, and what he’d said about Daphne’s neck in 1956, while she threw back her head and laughed, all the better to show it off.
Polly knew every one of those stories off by heart, and years of listening to them were the main reason she’d never taken up modelling seriously herself, despite her mother’s encouragement. She’d done a bit, to earn some extra cash when she’d moved to London, but she’d known from a young age that she didn’t want to spend her life as an admired decorative object, which was exactly how her mother had always seemed so happy to define herself.
Polly had initially chosen instead to follow in her father’s academic footsteps – he was a historian like David – and after finishing her MA at St Andrews had enrolled to do a PhD on the impact of the women’s suffrage movement in provincial Britain. But she’d quickly got discouraged and never completed it, finding she got much more satisfaction from working as a yoga teacher than she did from studying or modelling.
She did sometimes wonder if her looks, while not being anything like her mother’s standard – ‘once in a generation’, as Daphne had been described in Vogue – had held her back in the academic world, which had its own complex standards and snobberies. No matter how she tried to play her looks down, Polly had always felt she wasn’t quite taken seriously at the university. But she’d never regretted starting the doctorate because that was how she’d met David, which had made it worthwhile.
Or that was what she’d always thought. She didn’t know anything any more, where he was concerned.
‘OK, that’s it,’ she said out loud, as those unwelcome thoughts started to crowd into her head. They were the last thing she needed on her mind before show time.
She stood up and walked purposefully through to her mother’s bedroom.
Daphne was sitting at her dressing table, the same one she’d had for as long as Polly could remember. She was fully dressed and immaculately made up, her hair perfectly set, then artfully messed up a little, as was her signature trick.
Her chin was raised and she was patting herself with light fingertip taps in upwards movements from her décolletage to her jawline. She was so engrossed in this activity that she didn’t notice Polly come in. It was only Digger’s more hectic entrance that finally distracted her from gazing at her own image.
‘Oh, that wretched dog!’ she said, returning to her neck-patting. ‘Can’t you put it in a kennel or something until David comes back?’
Polly decided to ignore that remark – not that she hadn’t considered it. Looking after Digger was like having a toddler again. She couldn’t go anywhere for longer than a few hours without either taking him along or getting someone to look after him. Fortunately she had a very kind near-ish neighbour who was happy to have him for ‘doggy play dates’ with her pets, but even then Polly had to deliver him, pick him up and make canine conversation before she could politely leave.
She gently shooed Digger out of the bedroom and closed the door.
‘You look simply wonderful, Mummy,’ she said, hoping flattery would work its usual magic. Ideally it would have come from a man, but Daphne was happy to accept a compliment from any source. She visibly purred when she received one.
‘Will I do, darling?’ she asked, her eyes never leaving the mirror, as she turned her head from side to side, touching her earrings delicately with her fingertips.
Finally she pulled her eyes away from her own reflection to look at Polly, who had come into view behind her.
‘Are you going to put some lipstick on?’ she said, a slightly critical tone creeping into her voice. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it, but it rang crystal-clear to Polly, after decades of listening to her mother nag her to wear more make-up.
‘Of course,’ Polly replied, thinking about the nice tinted lip balm in her handbag.
Most of the time she didn’t wear anything. She knew it was a reaction to her mother’s cosmetics over-obsession, but she felt more comfortable that way, and it was one of the things David had always said he liked about her. He hated her wearing lipstick.
‘And are you going to do your hair?’ continued Daphne, her eyes narrowing as she took in her daughter’s quite long, mostly blonde, centre-parted, un-blowdried hair. The bits that weren’t blonde were grey, and a bit wiry. Polly’s plan for today’s hairdo had been to pull her polo neck off and then back on again, leaving all the hair tucked inside. She thought of it as the No Scissors Bob.
‘Of course,’ said Polly again, trying to keep an edge out of her voice. ‘May I borrow your brush? I didn’t have time before I came over.’
‘You really should have it cut shorter, Polly,’ said Daphne, handing Polly her Mason Pearson over her shoulder, and shifting her attention straight back to her own reflection. ‘You’re much too old to have long h
air. It’s really not becoming at your age. Would you like me to put it up into a nice chignon for you? That would be better than having it all hanging down like that.’
Polly glanced at the little porcelain clock on the dressing table. There was probably just time, and if it would stop her mother criticising her it would be worth looking like a 1950s air hostess for the afternoon.
‘Oh, that would be amazing, Mummy,’ said Polly, with as much fake enthusiasm as she could muster. ‘Would you mind? You’re so good with hair . . .’
‘Well, of course, we always had to do our hair and makeup ourselves in my day,’ started Daphne, leaning heavily on the glass top of the dressing table to push herself to her feet.
‘We didn’t have your Sam McKnights to do it for us, we had to be able to do whatever style the photographer wanted – although Mr McKnight has done my hair a few times and I must say he’s a charming fellow. He says I’m a hair icon . . .’
Polly sat on the stool and let her mother go on with her monologue about herself and what other people had said about her over the past sixty-five years. It was a subject Daphne simply never tired of – and one about which she could still be relied upon to stay lucid. Other areas – such as where she’d put her hearing aids or the hundred pounds Polly had got out of the bank for her a few days before, and whether she’d eaten anything other than a few dry crispbreads and cups of very weak China tea in the last few days – she was less reliable on.
Polly sat and listened, watching as her mother whipped her tatty hair into a remarkably sleek French pleat, with fingers that were still deft, despite the arthritis beginning to swell the knuckles, pausing only in her mono-themed soliloquy to apply what seemed like several ozone layers’ worth of hair spray.
‘There,’ said Daphne, putting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. She leaned in towards the mirror to see better, smoothing a strand of stray hair back behind Polly’s ear.
‘See how much more elegant you look, darling?’ she said. ‘At your age, you don’t have the luxury of going au naturel. You’re not the ingenue any more. Why don’t you let me pop a little colour on your face too?’
Polly was so discombobulated by the helmet-headed stranger looking back at her in the mirror she couldn’t think of a reason to object.
‘That would be wonderful,’ she said weakly.
Daphne set to with enthusiasm – creaming, powdering, lining, brushing and buffing. Polly just sat there opening and closing eyes and mouth as instructed, letting go as she had learned to in yoga.
It wasn’t like she was going to see anyone she knew, so she might as well let her mother be proud of her for once, rather than apologising for her scruffy appearance, as she usually did. None of the other residents would know it wasn’t her normal style; they would probably think it was very ‘becoming’. And Daphne would have the added pleasure of being able to brag that it was she who had created the transformation from clapped-out duckling to soignée swan.
‘There!’ exclaimed Daphne, just as Polly was starting to nod off. ‘Super. Have a look.’
Polly opened her eyes and immediately sat up very straight. What did she look like? She peered more closely. A drag queen? She had to admit not. An old lady? No. She looked grownup. Like the sophisticated women she met in the perfume world who went in for all the accessorising and grooming her mother was so keen on but Polly never bothered with. The look was maybe a little overdone for the twenty-first century, and the coral lipstick was heinous, but the overall effect was glamorous, she had to admit. Better than she usually looked. Much.
‘Gosh,’ she said, smiling up at her mother. ‘Thanks, Mummy. I hardly recognise myself.’
‘Well, this is how you should look all the time, darling. As I’m always telling you, at a certain age, every woman needs more help. Men are very unforgiving about all that. They’re allowed to go grey and whiskery, but they expect their wives to stay beautiful or else they go and find younger meat. If you want to keep David interested, you’ll simply have to make more effort.’
Polly flinched at another mention of her absent husband. She was certain he’d be appalled to see her all done up like a dog’s dinner, as he’d call it, but her mother’s remark still cut her.
Was that why he’d insisted on going away without her? Was he off somewhere pursuing ‘younger meat’? Ugh, what a horrible phrase, and an even more horrible thought.
Determined not to get upset before she had to perform, she put it out of her mind. Again.
Her mother was now busy putting the finishing touches to her own look. Standing in front of the glass doors of her extensive wardrobe, she was shrugging on the neatly fitted jacket that matched her navy-blue crêpe dress and adjusting her pearls to sit perfectly on her chest. Then she went to her dressing table and, after a moment’s thought, picked up her bottle of Fracas and sprayed herself liberally. Finally, she slipped her feet into patent-leather pumps with heels, much too vain to wear flats or use the stick she really needed.
Polly took advantage of Daphne’s full absorption in her own reflection and nipped into the bathroom, grabbing the lip balm out of her handbag on the way. Wiping off the hideous coral lipstick, she slicked the balm on, instantly feeling more like herself. Then she lightly rubbed her hands over the sides of the hairdo, as she’d seen her mother do so many times, softening it just a little. It really did make it look better.
She nodded at her reflection, then headed out into the hall to find her mother waiting outside, handbag over one arm with the hand turned out and upwards, the other hand low on her hip, feet in ballet fourth position, looking for all the world as if she were waiting for ‘dear Cecil’ to adjust his focus.
When she saw Polly, she threw up her chin and tinkled with laughter.
‘You’ve done my hair trick,’ she said, ‘just as I hoped you would. Doesn’t it look better with Daphne Masterson’s Magic Mess-up?’
Polly had to agree that it did, and after calling for Digger to come with them she put out her elbow for her mother to take, and arm in arm they set off for the coffee lounge.
FragrantCloud.net
The scent of . . . the elders
Yesterday I did a talk for the residents at the retirement village where my mother lives.
It’s not a sad old people’s home of the kind we all dread ending up in, with high-backed plastic chairs in rows along the walls, but a very sophisticated purpose-built development where they have their own apartments, with post and milk delivered to their own front doors, so they feel independent. They all have kitchens, but most of them have their meals in the dining room, where they can consume an excellent three-course lunch or dinner served by waiters in white gloves, or in the more casual café.
There’s even a bar, a hairdresser and a spa . . . so really, it has more the atmosphere of a luxury liner than of ‘God’s waiting room’ – and it certainly doesn’t have the dreaded smell of wee and boiled fish that we tend to associate with old people’s homes. The public areas are subtly scented with bowls of pot pourri and infuser sticks, not those terrible plug-in things, which give me an instant migraine.
I chose ‘A Short History of Perfume – The First Ten Thousand Years’ as my theme, because I thought my audience would enjoy hearing about perfumes they might remember their own parents wearing in the 1920s and ’30s, and the ones they wore themselves in their own mid-century heydays.
They were such an interesting crowd. There was a bit of nodding off, but they pepped up whenever I passed blotters around for them to smell.
They shared the loveliest stories about their own early experiences of scent – they all called it ‘scent’ – how precious it was and how hard it was to get during the war. There were twinkles in the eyes of a couple of ladies who told us about handsome GIs who’d given them bottles of perfume as well as the usual nylons.
It was very special to hear all their stories and I felt privileged that they shared them with me.
As well as all that, one very interesting t
hing happened. After I’d passed around the second lot of blotters, one lady said rather sadly that she was afraid it was all wasted on her because her sense of smell had become much duller as she’d aged.
Several others agreed, so I broke off from my talk and asked them to try some of the techniques I’ve learned to improve your sense of smell.
I got the kitchen to give me an onion, a lemon, a piece of ginger and some ground coffee, and I passed them around, asking the residents to sniff each one and think about what memories it brought back. I also told them trick of smelling the skin on their inner elbows to freshen the nose between sniffs.
They seemed to really enjoy it and became more animated, with a lot of giggling about the arm-sniffing. After we’d done that, we went back and revisited some of the blotters I’d sent round first, to make a comparison.
One of the few men there positively lit up when he smelled Mitsouko.
‘My mother,’ he said very quietly, and looked up at me with tears in his eyes. It was so touching that it was all I could do not to hug him.
At the end he came over to me and asked if he could respray the blotter. I tried to give him the whole bottle, but he wouldn’t take it, saying he couldn’t possibly, and joking that the cleaners might be a bit surprised if they saw a lady’s scent in his bathroom.
He was such a dear, a proper old-school gentleman, immaculately turned out in a cravat, with a yellow waistcoat under his jacket, of the kind I remember my dad wearing. That was very special.
As well as talking about times past, I thought it was also important to bring my presentation into the present, so I asked the residents what perfumes they wear now. I could smell Youth Dew the moment I walked into the room and one of the ladies said she’d been wearing it non-stop since the 1950s.
Yardley Lavender, one of my own favourites for its beautiful simplicity, also had some fans. More unusually, one lady told us she’s worn Dior’s Poison since it came out 1985, which made me feel rather sorry for whoever has to sit next to her at lunch.
The Scent of You Page 4
