She came out and went straight back to the office without looking in the mirror. She knew her reflection was unlikely to boost her confidence.
Marta was on the phone in Paul’s office, but hadn’t shut the door.
‘You’re going to have to send another one on Monday,’ she was saying. ‘Not this one, OK? Send someone else.’
Lucy went back to her desk and sat down to fill out her timesheet.
After tax, her pay from Barris Hume would almost, but not quite, cover the balance of payment due for Salt’n’Pepper Theatre.
She hoped that Clemmie would appreciate it, but thought it quite possible that she wouldn’t.
Lucy had fully intended to ask Hannah to leave the minute she got back home, but somehow it wasn’t that easy with the girls around, and when Hannah offered to help out at Clemmie’s birthday party, some crazy, masochistic, stupidly forgiving impulse prompted her to say yes.
In the end, when the day of the party came round, she was glad of the help. She even found herself able, despite everything, to treat Hannah fairly normally; it was difficult to sustain feelings of murderous rage while surrounded by excited small girls in polyester dressing-up clothes.
The party package Lucy had booked for Clemmie was designed for a group of twelve children. There were six parts – Cinders, Prince, two Ugly Sisters, Wicked Stepmother, Fairy Godmother – and eleven carefully vetted little girls, plus Clemmie herself, to play them. (Lottie had agreed to come along, but only as a spectator.) Vicky and Rufus of Salt’n’Pepper Theatre allocated the roles in rotation, in order to ensure that no one child enjoyed the glory of being Cinders, and none was condemned to remain an Ugly Sister in perpetuity.
So it goes, Lucy thought, as she helped Clemmie into
Cinderella’s bridal gown for the final scene. She herself had gone from contented bride to bitter reject, and didn’t much fancy her chances of another turn in the limelight.
Salt’n’Pepper Vicky pressed a button on the CD player and the Wedding March started up. Lucy withdrew to join Hannah and Lottie behind the counter that separated the kitchenette from the rest of St Margaret’s Church number one function room. They had already cleared away the paper plates, half-chewed cocktail sausages, untouched diced carrots and crumbs of mini strawberry tarts: the remains of the feast the girls had scoffed during Cinderella’s third and final ball appearance. There was nothing left to do but look on as Rufus declared Clemmie and Elspeth Morris man and wife.
A big dirty fantasy about money. That was the secret of the Cinderella story’s enduring appeal. Who wouldn’t like to hook a super-eligible bachelor on the back of a few choice costume changes and some chemistry on the dance floor? But then, when the dancing and the magic was over, all you were left with was rodents, a pumpkin – and rage.
The music moved on to Lucy’s pre-approved, age-appropriate disco selection, and the girls tried to follow the dance moves modelled by Vicky and Rufus.
‘Look, some of the mums are here,’ Hannah whispered. ‘Shall I let them in?’
‘Sure,’ Lucy said.
Hannah opened up and the waiting mothers filed in. A general hubbub broke out. Some of the girls helped
Rufus and Vicky tidy the masks and props into their trunk; others rushed to their mothers; a few chatted excitedly to each other. Lucy steered Clemmie towards the box of party bags standing on the counter.
Jane and Elspeth Morris came forward and Clemmie handed over a party bag. Jane wished Clemmie a happy birthday, and her voice was so kind and concerned that it was obvious she was thinking about Adam, and wondering whether he’d been in touch. And the answer to that was: no, or at least it would have been if Lucy hadn’t lost her nerve at the last minute and reminded him to phone.
Lucy gave Jane and Elspeth her brightest smile. In accordance with the formula for these occasions, she murmured the satisfying phrase, ‘She’s been very good. I think she’s enjoyed herself.’
‘I’m sure she has,’ Jane said. ‘You always give lovely parties. You should go into business.’
‘Oh, it’s just a bit of fun, but thank you,’ Lucy said graciously.
As Jane and Elspeth left she reflected sadly that she could have set herself up in some genteel freelance occupation – interior design, perhaps, or making pretty knickknacks, or flower arranging – if she had still been able to count on the support of a well-paid husband. But while she still had the salaried spouse, she would never have felt the need.
Now it was too late. The time for dabbling in the production of prettiness had passed. She needed hard cash, and plenty of it, in a predictable, regular supply. And soon.
But she wasn’t offered any more temping assignments in the weeks that followed – she’d rather blotted her copybook with Red Apple, and kept drawing a blank with other agencies too. So she put all her energy into Clemmie’s school’s cheese and wine evening, approaching it with the kind of fastidious foresight she’d put into planning her own wedding.
She mapped out a careful arrangement of tables for the food and drink, and commissioned Jane Morris’s husband, Ian, who was good with iPods and things, to sort out the background music: All Saints and so on, hits from the late eighties and nineties, when most of those middle class enough to support such an event had been young.
Usually a certain level of attendance during the first hour or so was almost guaranteed, as the school governors, class reps and other Very Important Parents felt obliged to put in a token appearance; but by nine o’clock the hall was still full, and Lucy decided she could afford to congratulate herself.
It had all been worth it, and she felt she made a rather fetching mistress of ceremonies. As soon as Adam’s latest payment had come through she’d splashed out on a pair of black high-heeled suede court shoes (Hobbs sale), which she shouldn’t have done, of course, but you had to have some pleasure, didn’t you? Her hair was pinned up in an artfully casual chignon, her cleavage was modestly displayed in last winter’s Monsoon party dress, and the shoes, which finished off the ensemble perfectly, hadn’t given her blisters, despite being half
a size too big. Just about every conversation she’d had kicked off with some kind of congratulation. In a way, it was easier without Adam standing in a corner somewhere, wearing a fixed grin and deigning to make conversation, but obviously hating it and wishing he was somewhere else.
She drank two glasses of Chilean Chardonnay, which she normally detested, in quick succession while listening to Tim Sturrock, one of the few dads active on the parental scene, bore for Britain about the strengths and weaknesses of the local state secondary schools. Finally she excused herself to go to the loo, where she admired her reflection before returning to the hall. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were rosy. Her hair was a little dishevelled, but it struck her as looking rather sexy.
Someone called out to her, ‘Lucy, come and say hello, or we’ll think you’re ignoring us and get upset.’
It was Tessa Grier, whose daughter was in the same class as Clemmie. Tessa was one of the naughtier mums. She had a tattoo of a dolphin on her ankle, and had got drunk at her fortieth birthday party – the last social event Lucy had attended with Adam – and started talking about her rubber dress collection. Also, Lucy had seen what Tessa packed in her daughter’s lunchbox: an apple, half a ham sandwich and four different kinds of biscuit.
Tessa was sitting with a small group that had commandeered a semi-circle of chairs next to the French wine table. They looked as if they’d all been laughing and guzzling the best booze, and she suddenly wanted very much to join them.
‘Come on, Lucy, take a load off. You’ve been on the go all evening,’ Tessa said, and Lucy saw that she’d eased off her very small red stilettos. Suddenly Lucy’s feet ached in sympathy. Or maybe they had been aching all along.
‘But where shall I sit?’ Lucy said, looking from face to face and not seeing a vacancy.
‘Sit on my lap if you like,’ Ian Morris said.
Lucy tucked a stray curl behind her ear. ‘I’m much too heavy,’ she demurred, ‘I’ll do you a damage.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Ian, who was quite sturdily built himself; he had the look of a former rugby player. ‘It would be a pleasure. I’d be delighted to be of service.’
He patted his thighs, and suddenly sitting down struck her as a very good idea indeed. She dropped down on to him with all the delicacy she could muster.
Jane flashed into orbit, quick as a red kite dropping from the sky to peck at road kill.
‘Lucy,’ she hissed, ‘would you mind not sitting on my husband’s knee?’
Lucy jumped up. ‘So sorry, just a bit of fun, no offence.’
‘None taken,’ Jane said, and then, as Lucy made a show of studying the few bottles that still contained anything more than dregs, ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?’
‘You’re right, I don’t feel too well,’ Lucy mumbled, ‘I’m on antibiotics. I think it must have interacted. I’ll just go and get some air.’
As she turned and stumbled towards the exit her foot came right out of her shoe. She slipped it back
on, looked round, and saw that Mr Dalston, the headmaster, was watching her with an expression of puzzled concern.
Chin up! She walked out with all the nonchalance she could muster, as if this sort of thing happened to her all the time – hell, it could happen to anybody; there was just no relying on shoes.
Hard on the heels of the cheese and wine fundraiser came another event that called for an investment of Lucy’s flagging maternal energy: Hallowe’en.
The morning after she woke early, with a start; it was as if an intruder, wishing to alarm her, had suddenly switched on the lights, though her bedroom was still pitch dark. Her mouth tasted dry and sweet, and her head throbbed. Oh God, she was heading towards forty, alone, and broke, and she had lost Adam; these things could be put to one side in the evening, but in the morning, which always began too early for comfort, they recurred like a fresh insult.
She was still wearing yesterday’s underwear. She got up, found her pyjamas and dressing-gown and put them on instead. Then she tiptoed downstairs – she wasn’t quite ready to face either Clemmie or Lottie yet – and put the kettle on.
The Hallowe’en pumpkin was still sitting on the kitchen windowsill, baring its grinning teeth at the world, a burnt-out candle in its hollowed-out belly. Sad. Like a Christmas tree on Boxing Day, or a row of greetings cards the week after the birthday they were meant to celebrate: out of time.
Hallowe’en had been a washout, she had to admit it. Lottie had refused point-blank to participate, and had retreated to her room to listen to God knows what and read
Twilight
. Clemmie still wanted to go trick or treating, but Lucy didn’t want to leave Lottie alone in the house, and didn’t like to impose by asking one of the neighbours to take Clemmie with them. So instead she and Clemmie had dressed up, bobbed for apples and read
Room on the Broom
, but really it had been a poor show, and she knew Clemmie knew it.
She had dreaded the moment when the doorbell would ring and an eager little crew of green-faced, fang-wearing, black-hatted marauders would demand their fistful of Celebrations – would Clemmie cry, protest, demand to know why she was being kept from collecting as much candy as they? – but in fact, what had happened had been worse; nobody had come at all, despite the message of welcome she had hoped to transmit with her carefully positioned pumpkin.
Maybe, not having seen her out and about with the girls in costume, the neighbours had assumed she’d turned her back on the tradition. Or was it a sign of something more ominous – evidence of how, without a man in the house, she and her daughters had become inconsequential and thus invisible, or at least, easy to overlook? Did they think she would feel threatened by people calling at the door under cover of darkness? Or, which was perhaps more likely, had they all just had somewhere better to be – some event to which she and the girls had not been invited?
She unlocked the back door so she could take the
pumpkin out to compost. But the door was unlocked already, or had been, and must have been left that way overnight, and she’d just locked it.
Damn! What had got into her? Since Adam had gone she’d become as absent-minded as a new mother. Milk-brained, they called it. But how could she have forgotten to lock up? It had always been her job – she’d never trusted Adam to oversee the security of the house. Burglaries were not uncommon in the houses on the green; they were assumed to have wealthy inhabitants.
Still, no harm done. She turned the key in the lock again and took the pumpkin out into the drizzle. It was cold and still very dark. She prised the lid off the composter; a few flies buzzed at her. She dropped the pumpkin on to last week’s rotting potato peelings and tried not to breathe in. Why did decay always smell sweet – toxic and curdled and sour, but still sweet? She slammed the lid back on and hurried inside.
Carving the pumpkin had been one of the things that Adam always did. Lucy hadn’t found it easy going, but the effort had paid off in the delight on Clemmie’s face when the pumpkin was ready, and the candle inside it was lit. The effect had not been spooky or creepy at all; the fat little orange lantern had looked cosy and welcoming, an undaunted sign of life, a round glowing beacon warning the ghouls to keep their distance, and summoning the goodwill of absent friends.
NATALIE HAD NOT
begun to feel guilty until the morning after her kiss with Adele. The kiss, and the skirmish on Adele’s sofa that had followed, had taken her somewhere out of time. It had not occurred to her to think ahead, only to feel, and she had felt privileged, and suffused with wellbeing, and grateful.
She had not been herself, and yet she had been more herself than ever – as if all her previous selves, all the memories locked in her body, had been brought simultaneously to life: the mother, the jealous child, the uneasy student, and the young woman who had found a companion in Richard and, once, in a flimsy room on the other side of the world, something even more powerful than the comfort of friendship.