Tabby
How seamless the weeks were when you might be working on any day. They turned without pause, the island’s summer season unstoppable both for the holidaymakers and those who served them. Tabby knew which she would rather be, given the choice. A regular income having lifted her from the ranks of the near-homeless, she began to feel stirrings of a desire to let her hair down. All at once it felt tightly braided, knotted to her scalp so closely she could no longer breathe for the pain.
Which was another way of saying she was bored.
Though much had happened in the intervening months, it wasn’t so long since she’d devoted her own days to hedonism, to floating in the waters of the Gulf of Thailand with her arms outstretched and eyes closed, feeling the sun burnish her cheeks while alcohol or other chemicals flowed through her bloodstream. Here, she was excluded from the forces of indulgence at play around her, the daily demonstrations of high spirits in the bars and cafés of the port, and it was an exclusion that was self-imposed – and self-defeating. It began to seem absurd that she and Emmie were living in such a sedate manner, behaving more like elderly spinsters or war widows than young women in their twenties and thirties. How anonymous their lives were, how clandestine! They’d dropped out of everybody’s society but one another’s, a pair of oddballs with no friends among the locals and only one bicycle between them, spending their working hours preparing houses for other people’s holidays, people who sat in the sunshine and drank rosé and licked ice-creams and danced and laughed and… everything else.
Everything else that made life a pleasure and not a punishment.
Having thought she had successfully buried the memory of her night with the Parisian Grégoire, even reached the point at which it was possible to pretend to herself it had not actually happened, she now relived with disturbing clarity her reacquaintance with his guest bedroom. As she’d stood by the bed, the deadweight of fresh linen in her arms, she’d been unable to prevent the onslaught of a series of destabilising lurches as she recalled how good it felt to have sex with a man – with Paul, ideally, who in declaring himself dissatisfied with all other aspects of their relationship had not been dissatisfied with
that
. The pitching feelings had gone on even as she tucked the sheets and hauled the quilt into its new blue-and-white gingham cover, thumped the pillows into plumpness; they startled her like hiccups that could not quite be beaten.
Which was another way of saying she was lonely.
Though her experience of that earlier feminist epiphany had been acute, she’d since continued to be painfully reminded of her aloneness, of being unequal to the task of that aloneness – not like Emmie, whose character appeared well suited to her solitude. (Or maybe she was just better at concealing her frustrations than Tabby was.)
‘Why don’t we have a night out?’ she suggested one Saturday evening soon after the job in Les Portes. The distant music of holidaymakers’ voices through their open kitchen door was always more potent with the added energy of the weekenders. ‘You’re not booked to work tomorrow, are you?’
‘No. What did you have in mind?’ Emmie asked, doubtfully, as if there were hundreds of ways in which the two of them might risk life and limb in this law-abiding place, and she wanted nothing to do with any of them.
‘Just a drink in one of the bars. All these places, and I’ve hardly been to any of them. You do drink, don’t you?’ Tabby had never seen Emmie drinking alcohol. She herself had supplied bottles of wine here and there – it was as cheap as water in the supermarkets – but Emmie had declined all offers of a glass. ‘Or we could just have a coffee? Come on, you can’t spend
every
night reading or staring at your computer…’ She faltered, realising too late that Emmie had not once brought the laptop downstairs but kept it at all times in her bedroom, which meant Tabby could only have known she passed evenings in this way because she’d peeked through the glazed panel of Emmie’s closed door.
But Emmie didn’t make the connection. ‘All right, why not? Give me a few minutes to get ready.’ She was unexpectedly agreeable, even pleased, which made Tabby wish she’d made the suggestion weeks ago. Why hadn’t she? Money, she supposed. The bars and cafés in the port were expensive and her priority remained to save cash, not spend it. As for Emmie, while having appeared when they’d met to be in a far healthier position than Tabby, she was, it transpired, living a similar hand-to-mouth existence on the earnings she made from cleaning for Moira. Other than the bottle of expensive perfume, there’d been no evidence of any former affluence, nothing to bring to the table from her old life; even the bike had come with the house.
Upstairs, as Tabby dispensed herself enough cash from her savings for a couple of carafes of wine, the sight of the modest stash of euros caused sudden euphoria in her. Of course she should overlook her strict budget for a few hours. She’d worked hard to pull herself back from poverty, she’d hidden herself away for almost six weeks now, and it had been months since she’d made an effort with her appearance. Standing at the mirror and putting on her make-up, she felt the exhilaration grow: it felt less like the application of a mask than the removal of one, the overdue reinstating of who she really was. She was twenty-five, young! She deserved a public airing.
She hurried downstairs, wishing Paul could see her looking good again – a weak, futile desire, she knew, but at least she was now free of the belief that there was no point if he could not.
‘All set?’ she called up, hearing Emmie’s door open and close, her footsteps on the stairs. As Emmie’s lower body began to come into view, she couldn’t help but stare, first at the footwear – deep-green velvet court shoes with a glamorous high heel – and then at the skirt – full and swinging, a vintage print of pink and green – which revealed itself to be a dress, cut low at the front and puffed a little at the shoulder, a garment not only at odds with Emmie’s usual style but also the first time Tabby had seen her in
any
dress. Last came her face: she too was wearing make-up, rose-pink lips, kohl smudged under the eye and winged liner on the lids, bringing drama to her green eyes, and a creamy foundation that polished the contours of her cheekbones and jaw. Her hair, normally unkempt and, Tabby had come to assume, resistant to styling, was smoothed from her forehead and secured with a narrow band. It was not just a smartening-up but a complete reconfiguration.
‘Wow, Emmie, you look amazing!’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ve never seen you in make-up before. And can you walk in those shoes?’
Emmie frowned, offended. ‘Of course I can. Why shouldn’t I?’
‘I just meant on the cobbles?’
‘Oh, I see. I’ll try.’
They managed the short walk without injury, Tabby slipping her hand into Emmie’s elbow to help steady her on the uneven ground. This in itself was without precedent, for they had not yet developed the kind of friendship where touch was natural. They attracted glances as soon as they merged into the flow of the promenade. Tabby, in one of the sheer cotton cover-ups she’d bought in the Far East, had forgotten how revealing the fabric was, and as for Emmie’s dress, well, it was very tight at the chest and hips; she must have been a smaller size when she bought it. As they took seats at the bar on the quay, she noticed the glances growing into stares.
‘Well, what a beautiful evening, still so hot!’ She gestured to the waiter for service. ‘Let’s pretend we’re the ones on holiday, let other people do the work for once.’
But no sooner had they ordered their wine than Emmie was springing to her feet again. ‘I’m just going to the
tabac
to get some cigarettes,’ she announced.
Tabby was amazed. ‘Cigarettes? I didn’t know you smoked?’
‘I used to, now and then.’ And she was gone before Tabby could make further comment.
Alone, she became aware of two men at the table next to theirs who were looking her over with particular interest. Something about one of them reminded her uncomfortably of Steve: he had the same British complexion, the same insolence in his eyes. It struck her for the first time that it was not beyond the realms of possibility that she might meet someone she knew from England while she was here. Not Paul, of course, this was not a traveller’s destination, but it was certainly a tourist’s – and just a short flight from London. She was confident, however, that she would not be likely to encounter her mother and Steve. They would not be attracted here for the same reasons that they would be so out of place if they were to find themselves here: it was not flashy enough, but understated, a world of faded beachwear and demure cotton print shifts. No wonder she and Emmie had stood out as they tottered across the cobbles, their faces vivid with make-up.
The last tables were filling, the chatter thickening around her, as the waiter returned with the wine. Tabby began without Emmie, finding she needed the drink more urgently now her thoughts were sliding in the direction she most disliked, towards the single occasion when she had voiced a complaint to her mother about Steve’s attentions. For what it had been worth.
It had been about six months after he had moved in with them and only a few weeks since her mother had confided in her that she thought he was about to propose.
‘I don’t like the way he looks at me,’ Tabby began, struggling to gain her mother’s full attention. Waiting for an opportunity to get her alone meant she had to ambush her as she left for work.
‘Oh, it’s just his way,’ Elaine said. ‘He likes the ladies, but he doesn’t mean any harm.’ It was the pride in her voice that had disheartened Tabby most, for it was evidence that she was applying all Steve-related matters to herself, not to her daughter, prepared to turn suspicion of him into a compliment to herself. She revelled in her renewed status as a woman desired, even if it made her daughter uncomfortable. Tabby supposed all children of first marriages must encounter this when their mother began again with someone new – but they surely did not encounter the rest.
‘Mum, he came into the bathroom when I was in the bath. He saw me naked!’
‘He told me all about that, Tabby. He didn’t realise you were in the house at all, he thought you were at school.’ This, Tabby knew, was where Steve’s testimony held weight, since she
had
been supposed to be at school but had skipped the class for the history A-level that she would go on to fail. ‘He was as shocked as you were. Try to imagine the situation from his point of view. He was blushing like anything when he told me.’
‘But he —’
‘Please, Tabs, stop this.’ Elaine’s voice grew hard. ‘It’s difficult enough making a go of things second time around without having to deal with you criticising him the whole time.’ And she closed the discussion before Tabby could find the nerve to give further insight into Steve’s ‘point of view’. Yes, she could have insisted, she could have followed her mother out to her car and spewed the full details, shouted, ‘Propose? Why don’t I tell you what he proposed to
me
!’, but what would have been the point? She would only have been accused of attention-seeking, of trying to come between them out of loyalty to her father or jealousy of her mother, of creating disharmony where Elaine was determined harmony should reign. She could not win.
She could not forget, either, not the smallest detail of the episode. She’d been at home on her own, reading in the bath, when Steve had come home unexpectedly from work. She heard the front door open and close, his voice call Elaine’s name and then, getting no response, her own.
‘I’m in the bathroom,’ she yelled.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs, the unhurried deliberation of them, and then, to her alarm, she saw the door handle pressing down.
His face appeared, his shoulders followed. Then he was in the room and the door was closing behind him.
‘What are you doing, Steve?’ she shouted. ‘Get out, will you!’
‘You said you were in the bathroom. Did you want me for something?’ The innocent tone didn’t deceive her for a second.
‘No, of course I didn’t! I meant I’m in here so
don’t
come in!’
But he was already lowering himself on to the towel she’d left folded on the closed toilet lid, and he was looking frankly at her. He was not tall and his face – admittedly well arranged and boyish but ruined at the best of times by a compulsive moistening of the mouth – was startlingly close to hers.
She’d been in the water long enough for the bubbles to have all subsided, leaving her completely exposed. All she could do – and had done the instant his face peered in – was to cover her upper body with her arms and bring her knees closer to her chest, feet drawn tightly together. She couldn’t tell what was visible to someone sitting at his angle, but it was too much whatever it was.
‘Why are you
sitting
? Can you pass me that towel, please – and then get out!’
‘What towel?’
‘The one you’re sitting on, Steve.’
He refused to meet her eye, his making a deliberate scanning of her body parts, gaze coming to rest on her forearms shielding her breasts. ‘Sorry, can’t reach it. You’ll have to get it yourself.’
This would of course mean kneeling or half-standing, losing the protection of one arm as she tried to tear out the towel from under him, and, worst of all, having to make certain physical contact with him. She envisaged a naked tug-of-war that would be far more titillating to him than her remaining motionless in half a bath of dirty water.
Though the water was cooling, her face was searing hot, her pulse pounding. She was frightened. ‘What do you want, Steve?’
‘Well, that’s the thing, it’s what
you
want, isn’t it?’
‘What are you talking about? I don’t want anything.’
His lips parted. ‘I know you need fifty quid, I heard you asking Elaine. How about
I
give you it?’ To her bewilderment, he fished notes from his back pocket and placed them on the windowsill behind his head.