All weekend I had postponed thinking about the sales conference, but as soon as Joyce and Edward left I began to prepare. For the next thirty-six hours I spent every available moment making copious notes, rehearsing aloud, practising jokes. When I woke on Tuesday morning, however, all this frantic activity seemed irrelevant compared to the crucial question of what I would wear. I had collected my suit from the dry cleaners the night before, and as I lifted it out of the wardrobe, I could smell the faint whiff of methylated fumes. The mere sight of the immaculate folds reassured me. When I was fully dressed and stood in front of the mirror, a strangely adult woman stared back at me. I experienced one of those rare moments of satisfaction in my appearance. As a final touch I clipped on my amber earrings.
I went into the dining room. Stephen was sitting at one end of the table reading the newspaper, while at the other Jenny ate cereal and finished her homework. Neither of them looked up as I came in. I stood waiting. “I'm going,” I announced.
“Don't you want some breakfast?” Stephen asked. He gestured towards his own plate as if about to offer me the slice of toast that lay there.
“I can pick something up. The sales conference starts at ten, and I want to go through my presentation one more time.”
“Oh.” He seemed taken aback. “You'll be there to collect Jenny, won't you?”
“Of course,” I said. I saw her write something in her notebook.
Stephen smiled. “See you later then.”
It was raining hard, and as I stepped through the garden gate the wind blew my raincoat out behind me. I was glad to have the use of the car. I sat there letting the engine warm up and thought about Stephen's smile. He had not even wished me luck or commented upon my appearance. The important thing was that I should collect his daughter; that was why he smiled at me. At some point I must have started driving, but I had no recollection of the journey until I found myself turning into Melville Street and looking for a parking space.
I decided to go to the restaurant round the corner from the office. I was about halfway there when the wind turned my umbrella inside out; I ran the last hundred yards as best I could in my tight skirt. The restaurant was almost empty. I ordered a cup of coffee and a scone and carried them over to a table by the window; the raindrops dribbled down the grimy glass. I opened my briefcase and spread my notes before me. “Number one: Choice of authors,” I read, but all I could think about was Stephen's silence. As I reached for my pen, I caught sight of the silver bracelet clasped around my wrist. Nowadays I was so accustomed to wearing it that I seldom noticed it.
I was staring at the silver band when Suzie bounded in and sat down opposite. She had spied me through the window. “Good morning,” she said brightly. “You look down in the dumps.”
“My umbrella's broken. I got wet. I'm nervous about my presentations.”
“Oh, dear.” Suzie laughed. “You can borrow my umbrella. You can use the hand dryer in the ladies' to dry your hair. And the presentations will go fine. The sales staff aren't
critical. The main thing is to say something that they can quote. How many books are you responsible for?”
“Two poetry booksâone âO' level, one primary schoolâand the collection of essays.”
“The essays will sell themselves. It's the first book we've published besides the critical editions that I actually read for pleasure.” I watched Suzie's head bobbing up and down as she offered reassurance; she had hennaed her hair at the weekend, and the colour was especially vivid.
I finished my coffee. “We should get going. It would be stupid to be late.”
As I stood up, Suzie exclaimed, “Celia, you look fantastic! What a great suit!”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Stephen didn't seem to notice.” When we were out in the street, I told her what had happened.
“He probably saw you for a total of five minutes before you rushed off. If you relied on me for praise first thing in the morning, you'd expire.”
“But he remembered that he needed me to collect Jenny. Why couldn't he remember the conference?”
We stopped at the curb, waiting for the light to change. Suzie held her golfing umbrella low over our heads. “When you're a parent,” she said, “you're programmed to remember those sorts of things. I have this absolute mass of trivia about Tim at my finger tips: swimming, haircuts, doctors, art supplies, birthday presents for his friends. It's not like I even make an effort to remember: they just come to mind. At the same time I'll do things like forget my mother's birthday or be half an hour late to meet Derek last night.”
The light changed, and we started across the road. “Derek took me to this pub where they have a talent night. It was hilarious,” Suzie said. She began to entertain me with imitations of the performers.
The conference was being held in the Caledonian Hotel. It
was only a few minutes' walk from the office, but in spite of Suzie's umbrella, I arrived windswept and dishevelled. I hurried to the powder room, where I found Clare applying mascara with immense concentration. As I listened to her fuss over her appearance, I felt less nervous. Ever since the episode with Mr. Brockbank, when Bill had sided with me rather than her, there had been a shift in our relationship; she treated me more cordially, and I, having glimpsed that her daunting manner was in part a facade, was less easily intimidated. Now she too complimented me on my suit, and when we went into the meeting room, she held the door open and ushered me in before her. In the course of a year I had come to know a number of the sales people, at least by sight, and several turned to greet me.
Bill welcomed us, gave an account of sales over the last year, and talked about the proceedings of the meeting. The editors would present the books. Then there would be a coffee break, after which we would reconvene to discuss marketing strategies until one o'clock, when a buffet lunch would be served. Surreptitiously I wiped my hands on my skirt. “Celia,” he said, “would you like to kick off?”
I began to describe the collection of essays. This had been my first independent project in Edinburgh; I had had the initial idea, found an editor, made suggestions about the contents. The essays were grouped under six headingsâthe individual, the family, the community, work, play, politicsâand I had put considerable effort into finding pieces that I thought would appeal to Scottish teenagers. Around the table people scribbled briskly. I felt my words take hold, and when it came time for questions I had no trouble in answering them. To my amazement I realised that I was enjoying myself.
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It stopped raining shortly before I left to pick up Jenny. This week I found the school without difficulty. I drove up in time to see a crowd of parents and children milling around the
gates. Jenny was in the middle of a cluster of girls, and I was reminded of how small she was, compared not merely to older girls like Charlotte but to her peers. I saw her glance over at me. Then she said something and laughed. I turned the car around and stopped a few feet from where the girls stood. Jenny made no move. She kept her back resolutely towards me; she seemed to be having an animated conversation. I was beginning to wonder whether I would have to go and fetch her, when she detached herself from the group.
“Didn't you see me?” I said as she opened the door.
“Sorry.” She put on her seat belt with a snap. “I was asking about homework.”
I thought of the old adage “Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.” After all, I had seen her seeing me. I decided not to pursue the matter. I waited for a couple of cars to pass and pulled out into the street. When we were on the main road, I asked how her day had been.
“Okay. Can we stop at the park and see if there are any chestnuts?”
“Isn't it too early?”
“No. Dad and I found a few when we were roller-skating on Saturday. And it's been jolly windy today.”
“I suppose there's no harm in taking a look,” I said. On the way to the park Jenny chattered about school, her friends, Anna and Sheila, and apparently anything else that came into her head. I did not need to say a word, in fact she seemed anxious that I should not, and this was the only aspect of her behaviour that could be construed as a sign that she was not entirely at ease. Since Sunday I had been so busy that I had scarcely seen her, and when our paths crossed she had been excessively polite as if to make up for her brief spurt of rudeness. “Anna has a new record by Mel and Kim,” she said. “She's going to bring it to our house when she comes to see me.”
Not until we were in the park, walking towards the chestnut
trees, did she fall silent. The grass beneath the trees was thickly strewn with nuts. They were newly fallen, and the spiky cases were still green and hard to open. We began to fill our pockets. As a child I had gathered chestnuts every autumn and arranged them on my window sill, where, during the course of the winter, they gradually dulled. I pressed my thumb along the seam of an especially large nut. “Look at this,” I said to Jenny, holding out the shell for her to see the two matching kernels with curious piebald markings.
“Can I take them out?”
“Of course.”
I watched as she popped the nuts out of their shell and cupped them in her palm. “They're like Tweedledum and Tweedledee,” she said. She slipped them into her pocket. Then she bent down to pick up a feather.
The feather was bright blue, the barbs still perfectly smooth. “It's pretty,” I remarked. “I expect it comes from a jay.”
“Here,” she said, handing it to me. “It matches your eyes.”
I must be going mad, I thought, to have believed her capable of wickedness and hatred. As we walked back towards the car I was certain that the worst was over, the fever had broken, and we had embarked at last on a healthy relationship, independent of Stephen.
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We were on our way into the house when something lodged in my left eye. As I fumbled with the keys, tears ran down my cheeks. Jenny asked what was the matter. “I wear contact lenses,” I said. “If dust gets in my eyes, it's very painful.”
“What are contact lenses?”
“They're pieces of plastic you wear in your eyes to help you see.”
“Plastic in your eyes?” said Jenny. She started to giggle.
“I'll show you.”
In the bathroom, she perched on the edge of the bath
watching with interest as I took out the lens, rinsed it, and reinserted it. “How do they make you see?” she asked.
“Sort of like glasses, but I'm not exactly sure. You'll have to ask Stephen.” I felt abashed. I was utterly dependent on my lenses and yet could not give a simple account of the mechanism. While I dried my hands, Jenny examined the lens case and the various solutions. Then, putting the case back on the shelf, she announced that she was going to make tea.
By the time I had changed out of my suit and lit the fire, she had everything organised. We carried our tea through to the living room, and I settled down on the sofa. I began to leaf through a cookbook, trying to decide what to make for supper. Jenny lay on the floor in front of the fire, petting Tobias, eating toast, and reading. Suddenly there was a small, sharp bang. A spark flew onto the hearth, and Tobias fled.
“What's the matter?” Jenny asked.
“Tobias is terrified of fire. I think once when he was a kitten a spark must have landed on him.”
“Oh,” said Jenny. “Poor Tobias.” She stood up and, calling “Toby, Toby,” walked over to the far corner of the room. She returned with Tobias in her arms, murmuring consolations.
I moved on to the egg section of the cookbook. I was contemplating a soufflé, when Jenny said, “Celia, do you know what amber is?”
“It's fossilised resin. Haven't you seen it in the museum? They often have lumps of amber with insects inside.”
“No,” she said. “In my book it just talks about how the Vikings used amber as money.”
“Wait a minute, I'll show you.” I had taken off my earrings when I changed. Now I fetched the basket in which I kept my jewellery and sat down on the rug beside Jenny. I opened the little blue leather case. “This is amber,” I said.
She picked up one of the earrings and looked at it closely. The piece of amber was about the size of a shilling, but
thicker and slightly irregular in shape. “It's like honey,” she said. “Are these old?”
“The amber is very old, but I don't think the earrings are. Maybe a hundred years. They came from Egypt and belonged to my great-aunt Marigold.”
“Egypt,” she echoed. “Can I try them on?”
“Of course.” My ears were pierced and the earrings were among the few that I owned with clips. Jenny hurried from the room. A minute later she returned.
“What do you think?” she asked, holding back her hair.
“Pretty.”
When Great-Aunt Marigold showed me the earrings, I had behaved exactly like Jenny, putting them on and running to look in the mirror. Then I would beg Marigold to tell the story of the earrings one more time. She would demur briefly and give in. Her best friend's brother had brought them home from Egypt. “He gave Lucy and me each a pair,” she said. “It was a kind of joke between us. We would wear them and pretend to be twins. But then our friend Joanie was given an amber brooch with a fly in it, and we were terribly envious. We gave Maurice an awful teasing about not bringing us the kind with flies in. âI thought you girls were afraid of creepy crawlies,' he would say. âNot when they've been dead for thousands of years,' Lucy and I would explain.”