by Maeve Binchy
That’s what they said. The truth was that Colin would have disappeared very sharply if Nan had suggested marriage. She didn’t mind much; although sometimes she felt he had it all ways since they both worked. She did the housework and paid the rent; but then it was her place, and he did share the bills.
And he loved the fact that she worked downstairs. Sometimes if he had a day off he would come in and give her a rose in the workroom, and on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion he had asked the machinist to go for a walk, locked the door and made love to her there and then, to the accompaniment of Miss Harris pounding on the door.
One day Colin had seen Shirley leaving with a finished dress. ‘Who on earth was the beach ball bouncing out a minute ago?’ he asked. Shirley wasn’t the usual mould of Nan’s clients.
‘That’s our Shirl whom I talk about sometimes,’ Nan said.
‘You never told me she looked like a technicoloured Moby Dick,’ said Colin. Nan was annoyed. True, Shirley was enormous; true, she was dressed extremely brightly – mainly at Nan’s insistence. But because she had such a lovely face, she looked well in colourful clothes and Nan didn’t like Colin’s joke.
‘That’s a bit uncalled for, isn’t it?’ she said sharply. Colin was amazed.
‘Sorry to tease her – let me hold out my hand for a smack,’ he mocked. ‘Yes it was very uncalled for, teacher, nobody called for it at all.’
Nan retorted: ‘It’s cruel to laugh at somebody’s shape.’
‘Aw, come on, come on,’ said Colin reasonably. ‘You’re always saying someone’s like a car aerial or the Michelin Man or whatever. It was just a remark, just a joke.’
Nan forgave him. ‘It’s just that I feel, I don’t know, a bit protective about her. She’s so bloody nice compared with almost anyone who comes in here, and she’s literally so soft – in every way. I just feel she’d melt into a little pool if she heard anyone making a remark like that about her, honestly.’
‘She was halfway down the street before I opened my mouth,’ said Colin.
‘I know – I suppose I just hope that nobody says such things whether she hears them or not,’ said Nan.
That conversation had been a few months ago, Nan reflected, as she sat, head in hands. Funny that it all came back to her now. She did remember exactly how protective she had felt, as if Shirley had been her favourite sister and their mother had entrusted Nan with the care of seeing that nobody ever laughed at the fat girl.
Nan could hardly believe that, not half an hour ago, Shirley had banged out of the door and shouted from the street that she would never come back. It was like a nightmare where people behave completely out of character.
Shirley had come along for a final fitting for the wedding outfit. Her best friend was getting married and Shirley and Nan had been through reams of ideas before settling on the emerald green dress and matching hat.
Nan had been delighted with it and Shirley’s face was a picture of happiness as they both looked at the outfit in the mirror: the tall, slim, slightly wary-looking dressmaker in her elegant grey wool tunic and the short, mountainous client in her metres and metres of glittering emerald.
‘You’ll need green eye-shadow, not blue,’ said Nan. ‘I’ll lend you some for the wedding if you like.’ She looked around for her bag. ‘Do you know, I was running out of some, and then I thought of you and this colour, so I asked Colin to get me some. He’s in the trade, you know, so it’s a little perk. I can’t find the wretched thing anywhere.’ As she hunted for the parcel which wasn’t in her handbag after all, Nan felt a strange, unnatural, silence descend behind her.
‘Is that it?’ asked Shirley, holding up an envelope that was on a table. The envelope had writing on it. It said ‘Green eye-shadow for burly Shirley.’
The two women looked at the inscription in silence for what must have been only four seconds or so, but seemed never-ending. Nan could think of only one thing to say.
When it was obvious that Shirley was going to say nothing either, she tried, but her voice only came out like a squeak. What she had been going to say was, ‘I didn’t write that’, and that didn’t seem a very helpful thing to say at that moment.
She thought she would kill Colin. She would physically hurt him and bruise him for this. She would never forgive him.
Shirley’s face had turned pink. Her fat neck had gone pink too, which didn’t go very well with the emerald.
‘Is that what you call me: “Burly Shirley”? Well I suppose it has the advantage of rhyming,’ she said. She was so hurt she was almost bleeding.
Nan found her words finally. ‘Colin has rude, destructive nicknames for all my clients. It amuses him – it’s childish, immature and senseless,’ she snapped fiercely.
‘How does he know I’m . . . burly? He’s never met me,’ said Shirley.
‘Well, you see he makes up these nicknames without knowing who people are. You do see that it’s not an insult and it’s not a comment. He could have written anything.’ Nan nearly laughed with relief. How marvellous to get out of it in this way. But Shirley was looking at her oddly.
‘So I expect he just chose the word because it rhymes with your name. If you had been called Dotty he might have said Spotty.’ Nan was very pleased with herself, at the unknown powers of invention that were suddenly welling up within her.
Shirley just looked.
‘So now that’s cleared up, why don’t you take the eye-shadow and put a little on to see how it looks with the outfit?’ urged Nan.
Shirley politely started to put it on, and Nan released her breath and foolishly didn’t leave well, or nearly well, alone.
‘I mean it’s not as if anyone would deliberately make a joke about being fat to anyone, not that you are very fat or anything, but one wouldn’t mention it even if you were.’
‘Why not?’ asked Shirley.
‘Why? Well, you know why – it would be rude and hurtful to tell someone they were fat. Like saying they were ugly or . . . you know . . .’
‘I didn’t think being fat was on the same level as being ugly, did you?’
Desperately Nan tried to get back to the comparatively happy level they had just clawed their way to a few moments ago.
‘No, of course I don’t think being fat is the same as being ugly, but you know what I mean – nobody wants to be either if they can possibly avoid it.’
‘I haven’t hated being fat,’ said Shirley. ‘But I wouldn’t like to think it was on a par with being ugly – something that would revolt people and make them want to turn away.’
‘You’re not very fat, Shirley,’ Nan cried desperately.
‘Oh but I am, I am very fat. I am very short and weigh sixteen stone, and no normal clothes will fit me. I am very, very fat, actually,’ said Shirley.
‘Yes, but you’re not really fat; you’re not fat like . . .’ Nan’s inventive streak gave out and she stopped.
‘I’m the fattest person you know, right? Right. I thought it didn’t matter so much because I sort of felt I had a pretty face.’
‘Well, you do have a pretty face.’
‘You gave me the courage to wear all these bright clothes instead of the blacks and browns . . .’
‘You look lovely in . . .’
‘And I didn’t worry about looking a bit ridiculous; but you know, ridiculous was the worst I thought I ever looked. I didn’t think it was ugly . . .’
‘It isn’t, you understood . . .’
‘It’s always disappointing when you discover that someone hasn’t been sincere, and has just been having a bit of fun, that she’s just been pitying you.’
‘I don’t pity you . . . I wasn’t . . .’
‘But thanks anyway, for the outfit.’ Shirley started to leave. ‘It’s lovely and I’m really very grateful. But I won’t take the eye-shadow, if you don’t mind.’
‘Shirley will you sit down . . . ?’
‘The cheque is here – that is the right price, by the way? You’re not doing it cheaply just for me, I ho
pe.’
‘Please, listen . . .’
‘No, I’m off now. The life has gone out of it here, now that you pity me. I suppose it’s just silly pride on my part, but I wouldn’t enjoy it any more.’
‘Shirley, let me say something. I regard you as my most valued customer. I know that sounds like something out of a book, but I mean it. I looked forward to your coming here. Compared with most of the others, you’re a joy – like a friend, a breath of fresh air. I enjoyed the days that you’d been. Now don’t make me go down on my knees. Don’t be touchy . . .’
‘You’ve always been very friendly and helpful . . .’
‘Friendly . . . helpful . . . I regard you as some kind of kid sister or daughter. I had a fight with Colin about you not three months ago, when he said you looked like Moby Dick with stripes or something.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Oh God.’
Shirley had gone. The bang of the door nearly took the pictures off the walls.
‘I’ll miss her dreadfully,’ thought Nan. ‘She was the only one with any warmth or life. The rest are just bodies for the clothes.’ To hell with it. She would telephone Lola, the friend who had sent Shirley to her in the first place.
‘Listen, Lola, this sounds trivial, but you know that nice Shirley who worked with you . . .’
‘Shirley Green? Yeah, what about her?’
‘No, her name is Kent, Shirley Kent.’
‘I know it used to be till she married Alan Green.’
‘Married?’
‘Nan, do you feel okay? You made her wedding dress for her, about a year ago.’
‘She never told me she got married. Who’s Alan Green? Her husband?’
‘Well, he’s my boss, and was hers. Nan, what is this?’
‘Why do you think she didn’t tell me she got married?’
‘Nan, I haven’t an idea in the whole wide world why she didn’t tell you. Is this what you rang up to ask me?’
‘Well have a guess. Think why she mightn’t have told me.’
‘It might have been because you and Colin weren’t getting married. She’s very sensitive, old Shirl, and she wouldn’t want to let you think she was pitying you or anything.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Anyway, it was the most smashing wedding dress – all that ruffle stuff and all those lovely blues and lace embroidery. I thought it was the nicest thing you’ve ever made.’
OXFORD CIRCUS
Once she had decided to write the letter, Joy thought that it would be easy. She had never found it difficult to express herself. She found her big box of simple, expensive writing-paper and began with a flourish: ‘Dear Linda . . .’ and then she came to a sudden stop.
Joy didn’t want to use any clichés about Linda being surprised to hear from her, she didn’t want to begin by explaining who she was, since Linda knew. She had no wish to start by asking a favour since that would put her in a subservient role, and Joy wanted to have the upper hand in this whole business. She didn’t want it to seem like girlish intrigue; both she and Linda were long past the age when schoolgirl plots held any allure.
Eventually she wrote a very short note indeed and regarded it with great pleasure before she put it into the envelope.
Linda,
I’m sure my name is familiar to you from the long distant past when Edward was both your friend and mine. There is something I would very much like to discuss with you, something that has little bearing on the past and certainly nothing to do with either nostalgia or recriminations! Perhaps if you are coming to London in the next few weeks, you could let me know and I can take you to lunch?
Sincerely, Joy Martin.
Linda re-read the letter for the twentieth time. Everything, every single warning bell inside her told her to throw it away, to pretend she had never read it. Joy Martin must be mad to want to reopen all the hurts and deceptions and rivalries of ten years ago. They had never met, but she had read all Joy’s passionate letters to Edward, she had sneaked a look at the photographs of Joy and Edward taken on their illicit weekends, the weekends when Edward had said he was visiting his elderly mother. Linda could feel her throat and chest constricting with the remembered humiliations and injustices of a previous decade. Throw it away, burn it. Don’t bring it all back. It was destructive then, it can only be destructive again now.
Dear Joy,
How intriguing! I thought this kind of thing only happened in glorious old black and white movies. Yes, I do come to London fairly often and will most certainly take you up on your offer of lunch. Can we make it somewhere near Oxford Circus? That way it will leave me right in the middle of the shopping belt. Simply mystified to know what all this is about.
Regards, Linda Grey.
Joy breathed a great happy sigh. She had been so afraid of rejection. A whole week had passed without acknowledgement, and she had almost given up hoping for the Hampshire postmark. Her first hurdle had been cleared. She knew now that Linda Grey must feel exactly as she did about Edward. She had not been wrong. There had been a huge amount of caring, almost passion, in her love letters to him – those letters which Joy had sneaked from his wallet to read. There had been purpose and serious intent in her threats of suicide. No, her fear that Edward might have been forgotten in Linda’s cosy Hampshire life was . . . unrealistic. Edward was never forgotten.
Linda came to London the night before this rendezvous. In her handbag she had Joy’s card with the name of the restaurant: ‘. . . only a few minutes from Oxford Circus, as you requested.’ She checked in at an inexpensive hotel and ordered a cup of tea to wash down her two sleeping pills. A night in London with the possibility of some showdown involving Edward on the morrow would keep her awake for hours, and she had no wish to arrive looking flustered. She had made appointments for hair and facials. She was going to buy herself some very expensive shoes and a handbag. Joy Martin could not sit elegantly and pity poor Linda who had lost Edward all those years ago. Still, she thought as her body began to relax with the mogadon. Still, Joy had lost him too. He had left Joy very shortly after he had left Linda.
She felt very guilty about Hugh. He had been concerned about her visit to London and wanted to come with her. No, she assured him, just a check-up. She really thought she needed the little break as much as the check-up. She begged him not to come. She would telephone him tomorrow and tell him that she felt perfect and that the doctor had confirmed it. He would be pleased and relieved. He would arrange to meet her at the station and take her out to dinner. He was so kind and good. She didn’t know why she was making this ridiculous pilgrimage to dig up the hate-filled ghost of Edward.
Joy woke with a headache and a feeling that something was wrong. Oh God! This was the day. Linda Grey would be getting on her train somewhere in the countryside telling her mouse-like husband that she was going to look at some fabrics in Oxford Street, and was on her way panting with excitement at the very mention of Edward’s name. She made herself a health drink in the blender and a cup of china tea. But the headache didn’t lift so she took some pain-killers very much against her will. Joy liked to believe that she didn’t need drugs. Drugs were for weak people. Today that belief didn’t seem so clear. She also thought that only weak people stayed away from work when they felt a little below par. But today that wasn’t a theory that she could substantiate. She telephoned her secretary. No, of course she wasn’t seriously ill, just a little below par. Her secretary was alarmed. Crisply Joy gave instructions, meetings to be rearranged, appointments to be cancelled, letters to be written. She would be back tomorrow morning. Perhaps even this afternoon.
She felt alarmed that it was all taking so much out of her. She had planned it so very carefully. She had allowed no emotion, no waverings. It was now absolutely foolproof. Why did her stomach feel like water? Why did she think she couldn’t face her job at all during the day. Full of annoyance she put on her smart sheepskin coat and set out for a long healthy walk in Hyde Park.
As s
he walked she saw people with their dogs. She would have liked to have a dog; she didn’t disapprove of people having dogs in London if they gave them enough exercise. When all this business was over, Joy thought to herself, she might get a dog. A beautiful red setter, and she could walk him for hours in the park on a bright cold morning like this.
It was five to one and Linda was determined not to be early. She gave herself another admiring look in a window. Her hair was splendid. What a pity that nobody in the village at home could do that sort of thing with scissors and a comb. They really only liked you to have rollers and a half-hour under the dryer. Linda smiled at herself with her newly painted lips. She looked in no way like a woman of nearly forty. She supposed that Joy Martin probably spent days in beauticians. After all, she had a very glamorous job running an art gallery and an art dealing business. Linda had even seen her photograph once talking to a royal person. Facials and expensive handbags would be no treat for Joy.
She forced her feet to go slowly and only when she saw that she was a nice casual six minutes late did she allow herself to enter the restaurant, take two deep breaths and enquire about a table for two booked by Miss Martin.
‘You look smashing,’ said Joy warmly. ‘Really glamorous. Much younger than you did years ago actually. I always think we improve in our thirties really instead of going off.’
‘How on earth did you know what I used to look like?’ asked Linda settling herself into the corner chair.
‘Oh I used to look at the pictures of you in Edward’s wallet. Now, will we have a gin or would you prefer a sherry?’
‘A gin,’ gulped Linda.
‘What do you think of me? Have I aged or gone off do you think?’
‘No, in fact you look very unsophisticated, sort of wind blown and young,’ said Linda truthfully. ‘I thought you’d be much more studied, obviously groomed, over made-up. A bit like me,’ she giggled.
Joy laughed too. ‘I expect you went to a beautician’s just to impress me. I was so nervous at the thought of meeting you, I’ve been out walking all morning in the park. That’s why I’m so windswept and rosy. Normally I’m never like this.’
