Authors: Kathleen Tessaro
I
t was early afternoon when Leticia left the hospital. She wandered, directionless, along the South Bank, not wanting to go home. Leo’s words had pierced the fragile balloon of her pride and ego.
Then she remembered the card in her pocket. Taking it out, she opened it.
Dream with me. The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden,
eight o’clock tonight.
Her heart contracted. If only she could show it to someone; someone who understood her.
She would go to the shop. Sam would know what to do. Besides, she could check on his progress.
When she got there the shop was empty.
He must be on his lunch break, she thought, closing the door behind her.
Walking through to the back, she went into the bathroom. To her surprise, it was done. The plastic sheeting had been taken down, the floorboards replaced, the slipper bath was clean, taps polished, even the piles of gray dust had been vacuumed away. It looked as if nothing had ever happened.
She turned on the tap. Out came the water, clear and strong, no more groaning or shuddering.
It was finished.
Leticia sat down on top of the toilet seat.
Everything was in perfect working order. All the tools had been cleared away, even the dreaded tea mug. Sam was gone.
Of course, she berated herself. What had she imagined? He was there to do a job. Like he said, anything else was just him being kind.
She wandered back into the main shop. There were messages to listen to, appointments to reschedule, orders to check. Instead, she looked round at the beautiful furnishings, the cobalt-blue chandelier, the thousands of pounds’ worth of exquisite fabrics.
Rarefied.
Fantastical.
This was her world, the one she’d created; a stage set upon which she performed like a magician, dazzling with a bit of silk and lace.
But who was her real audience?
She’d gone to all this trouble just to fool herself.
The door opened. A flustered woman backed a baby buggy laboriously up the steps.
She must have the wrong shop. Nevertheless Leticia held the door open. It seemed cruel to send her straight back down again after such an effort.
“Thanks.” The woman was wearing a pair of orange flip-flops, milk-stained maternity jeans and a man’s button-down shirt. In the buggy, a pink newborn slept soundly.
“Can I help you?”
“Bordello, right? You do lingerie?”
“Yes, but by appointment only. Actually, the shop isn’t even open right now.”
The woman yanked her shirt closed where the buttons strained over her bosom. It gaped back open. “I couldn’t get through on the phone so I came down especially…”
Leticia hesitated, irritated. She didn’t deal with maternity gowns; there was no point making something for a woman who was most likely going to shrink three sizes before the garment was done. It was a waste of time and effort.
She decided to get rid of her as quickly as possible. “I couldn’t help noticing you’ve just had a baby.”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s probably best to wait a few months. I’m only suggesting because the whole process is expensive and your body is bound to change.”
“Bound to change?” the woman laughed. “I’ve been waiting to lose the baby weight for about seven years!”
Leticia smiled.
“I’m serious.”
Leticia stopped smiling. “I wouldn’t want us to embark upon a long, costly process that doesn’t really meet your needs. You’re breastfeeding, right? See, I don’t do anything for breastfeeding mothers.”
“Why not?”
Leticia wasn’t in the mood for confrontation. This woman wasn’t even a suitable client. “It’s just,” she sighed, “it’s just that the pieces I make are less practical and more along the lines of fantasy.” She reached across her desk to a small silver box. “But, if you’d like to contact me again in a few months, here’s my card.”
The woman took the card, and stared at it, frowning. There was apparently something baffling in what she heard.
Some people were so determined, Leticia thought, crossing to open the door. It was tedious but inevitable.
The woman looked up. “What makes you think domestic life isn’t a fantasy?”
“I’m sorry?”
The woman took a deep breath and in that breath gained about two inches in height.
“What makes you think it isn’t the biggest fantasy going? Look, I realize that you’re fobbing me off; I’m probably not rich enough or chic enough for you. But I spend all of my time in my nightdress whether I like it or not. And I’d like it if it looked nice. Actually, more than nice—fucking fantastic.”
“Look, I’m not implying—”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Have you got kids?”
Leticia shook her head.
“I’m going to tell you something that no magazine or novel or television show will ever let on. Love wears you down. We think of it as hearts and flowers and happily ever after but in real life, the things you have to do in the name of love kill you. I don’t know what it’s like for men, but that’s what it does to women. You end up doing a thousand things a day in the name of love that you wouldn’t ask a dog to do. And you never question it—not once. Why would you? It’s love, isn’t it? Then you wonder why you don’t feel romantic. Why, in fact, you don’t feel anything at all. I’ve been waiting for things to change, putting off my life till the kids are older or they sleep through the night or until my figure comes back, or my husband notices me…you name it, I’ve been waiting for it. And that’s not who I am.” She gestured to her body. “See this? I’m fed up with waiting. And I’m going to dress myself in the best bloody nightdress I can buy. So my question to you is: Are you going to make it? Or,” her eyes flashed, “are you going to write me off as another fat middle-aged middle-class woman who will just have to mend and make do?”
Leticia stared at the woman in shock. Her first instinct was to be offended. But instead she found herself admiring the woman’s frankness. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to her so passionately. Plenty of women wanted a Leticia Vane original, but this woman
needed
a nightdress. And it had also been a long time since Leticia had produced something new or really useful.
“What’s your name?”
“Amy. Amy Mortimer.”
Leticia picked up a notebook and gestured to one of the chairs. “Would you like to sit down, Mrs. Mortimer? Now,” she selected a fresh pencil, “I want you to tell me exactly what your requirements are and how I can help you.”
R
ose felt unusual. She spent the afternoon playing trains with Rory, setting up track and, more importantly, building blocks the engines could smash into. It was reassuringly repetitive, like all games with small children. Yet she didn’t feel comforted. She tried to cuddle him, but he wriggled away. All she wanted was to hold him; to be quiet, warm and safe. But he was intent on racing around the flat, plowing into pillows on the bed. She was out of step, off kilter, even with him.
After a while, she pulled out the buggy.
“Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”
She found herself strolling toward Jack’s Café without even realizing what she was doing. Part of her wanted to go back in time, to the old and familiar. Or at least to have a good look at it again.
Pushing open the door with Rory’s buggy, she was accosted by familiar smells—the warm fug of a hundred slices of toast, the enticing saltiness of piles of fried bacon and the extra-strong lemon-scented bleach they used to clean the tables and floors. (She’d insisted on lemon; it was the only thing that seemed to cut through the smell of chip fat. How touching. They hadn’t bothered to change it when she’d gone.)
All in all, the café seemed smaller but cleaner than she remembered. There was Bert, scrubbing the grill in the back, and another
young girl, a replacement Rose, with black hair, too much eyeliner and a tight T-shirt that read, “I’m no angel,” leaning on the counter by the cash register, ignoring Rose as she chatted away on her mobile phone. Here were the landmarks of her past; all safe, all intact. Relief swept over her. It meant a great deal that it was still here; something solid and unchanging from the life she’d cast off so freely.
Then she saw a familiar figure. It was Sam, staring into space at one of the far tables.
Rory squirmed in his pushchair and held out his arms. “Down!” he shouted. “I want to get down!”
Out he came, barreling happily between the empty tables, collecting all the salt and pepper shakers and forming them into opposing battle lines. The dark-haired girl glowered at him, but was too busy planning the details of her Saturday night to do anything more.
Rose slid into the booth across from Sam. He looked up.
“Hey, kid,” he smiled. He seemed distracted. “How’s it going?” he asked, taking a sip of cold tea. Beside him, a pile of invoices and catalogues lay untouched.
“Great!” she nodded. “Really great.”
“How do you like being an artist?”
“Oh, you know!” she laughed. Suddenly it was there again: the feeling of falling, spinning out of control. Turning, she looked out of the window for something to focus on. But everything out there was shifting too.
“No,” Sam said. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”
Rose looked up. His eyes were kind, waiting. She never could hide anything from him.
“It’s not like I thought it would be,” she confessed. Her throat tightened, as though she might cry. What did she have to cry about?
“It’s…I’m…really, really…confused.”
“Well,” he concentrated on his teacup, turning it round and round in its saucer. “That’ll make two of us.”
“Why are you confused?”
Rory pushed a garrison of salt shakers to the floor. They rolled in all directions. “Kabam!” he shouted gleefully, preparing to do the same to the pepper shakers.
“Stop it!” Rose rushed to pick them up. The dark-haired girl rolled her eyes but did nothing to help. Eventually Rose managed to slide an angry, wriggling Rory next to her in the seat across from Sam, placating him with an improvised game of building up packets of sugar for his toy train to run into.
“You were saying?” he prompted.
“I don’t know what I was saying. What were you saying?”
“Nothing.”
They both watched Rory ram the sugar packets with a battered Thomas the Tank Engine.
“I want something,” Sam said at last.
“What?”
His fingers drummed the table, agitated. “Something I can’t have.”
“What makes you think you can’t have it?”
“Because,” he forced his hands through his hair, exasperated, groping for words, “because it involves…I don’t know…making a complete, total arse of myself for something that most likely won’t come off anyway.”
Rose thought a moment. “Yeah. I get that.”
Sam was like solid ground for her; real. He always hit the nail on the head.
They both stared out of the window.
“I want something too,” she confessed.
“What?”
“I want to be a real artist, Sam.” She looked up. “How crazy is that?”
The café was getting ready to close. The dark-haired girl was cashing up the till, Bert was mopping the floor. Outside, color drained away from the sky and a cool gray mist rose from the ground. Street lamps glowed dimly in the dusk.
He shook his head. “So, what are we going to do?”
Rory climbed on top of Rose, nestling into her lap; suddenly still. She stroked his head, inhaling the warm clean smell of his hair.
“Make arses out of ourselves, I suppose.”
D
ressed in a clingy black jersey sheath with a plunging neckline, piles of black pearls wound round her neck, Leticia sat at her kitchen table, holding the anonymous card.
The performance was at eight.
It was seven fifteen.
If she was going to go, she should go now.
Still, she sat, turning the card over, slowly, again and again.
There’s more love where that came from.
Great.
But did she want more?
When Olivia arrived at the Opera House that evening, it was closed. There was no performance. She’d gone to a great deal of trouble getting dressed, finally choosing a flowing dress of icy blue-gray silk, draped over her slender figure like water around a reed. She felt foolish, standing in front of the locked building, clearly dressed for an evening out, clutching a silver evening bag and cashmere cardigan. Passersby seemed to be smirking at her.
Just as she was about to give up and hail a taxi home, a young man appeared in an usher’s uniform.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he smiled. “This way, please.”
Olivia followed him around the corner. The door to the balcony was open.
He stopped. “Straight up,” he said. “Sit anywhere you like.”
Olivia climbed the stairs. They were steep. Her high heels echoed on the concrete floor. When she reached the top, it widened into the balcony. The lights were on, the curtain down; she was alone. The young man had told her to sit anywhere, so, moving carefully on the steep rake, she walked down the center aisle to the middle seat in the front row. There was a small box of Godiva chocolates on the seat next to her. The note on top read: “
Enjoy the show
.”
Almost immediately the orchestra filed in to the pit. They were dressed in street clothes. It must be a dress rehearsal. Moments later the lights dimmed, the conductor appeared at the rostrum, and the music began. Great waves of sound flooded the empty theater.
The curtain rose. She was being treated to her own private performance!
Settling back, she opened the box of chocolates and bit into one. Dark and slightly bitter, its thin outer coating gave way; her mouth was filled with the perfumed sweetness of vanilla and violets. All around her the music swelled and grew, voices plummeting and rising, twining in and around each other in unrestrained passion.
Olivia was breathless from the beauty of it, from the blackness that surrounded her; the soft silk against her bare skin. Yet a single thought plagued her: if only I weren’t alone.
Then suddenly she wasn’t.
Someone slipped into the back row.
It must be her admirer!
Turning, she strained to see in the darkness.
Leticia was late.
She followed the usher, climbed the dark, narrow stairs, far
below her the opera was already in full flight.
La Bohème.
Artists, poets, dying seamstresses…
There was someone in the front row, a blonde woman. She turned, nodded.
Leticia nodded back.
What was this? Two for the price of one?
Settling into the back row, she felt old, overdressed, irritable. Slipping off her shoes, she stretched out her toes. Her feet hurt.
Apparently this was the nature of the beast, the party game in full swing. A card, a date, the chance to meet some mysterious stranger…
The tenor launched into his aria.
And suddenly, very clearly, Leticia knew she’d had enough.
She didn’t know what would happen if she went home, took off the dress and the pearls, closed the door. Maybe she’d start crying and never stop; maybe she’d never be able to pull herself together and no one would ever want to be near her again.
But she’d had enough.
No more strangers; no more pursuits or intrigues. No more clues, scrambling in the dark with fragments of the truth, filling the spaces in between with fantasy.
There might be more love where that came from, but she didn’t want it on the same terms any more.
Far below her, on stage, Mimi and Alfredo clutched desperately at one another, voices reaching unreal heights of beauty and passion. That can’t be love, Leticia determined. They’ve only just met; they don’t even know one another.
Real love couldn’t possibly be so shallow.
Hughie stood outside, tucked into a doorway across the street from the Opera House.
She was in there; his love!
And he wondered if his plan was working, if Leticia were delighted by the performance, intrigued by the clever notes, softening under the weight of his devotion.
Leaning against the door frame, he lit a cigarette, enjoying the torment of being separated from her, yet so close. This was what love was about: the pain of desire and longing; the exquisite mixture of agony and hope before the loved one appeared.
Then suddenly she did appear.
The balcony door swung open across the street and out came Leticia.
She was walking toward him.
Hughie froze. What to do? Hide? Run away?
As it was, he just stood there.
She looked up.
For a moment she said nothing. Then, a long sigh, a shake of the head. “Oh, Hughie!”
Just by the way she said his name, he knew the gig was up.
“Hey!” he grinned sheepishly. “By the way,” he quickly stubbed out his cigarette, “may I just say how beautiful you’re looking tonight?”
His compliment didn’t seem to penetrate.
“Oh, Hughie!” she sighed again, a heavy, leaden sigh. “Oh, God, Hughie!”
The gig wasn’t just up; apparently it was over.
“You didn’t like it?” he deduced.
Leticia sat down on the doorstep. It was dirty, dusty; smelling of Special Brew.
He settled gingerly next to her. “My darling?”
“Fuck, Hughie!” She looked at him, her brown eyes sad. For the first time, she looked older; tired; properly in her thirties. “Fuck!” she said again, shaking her head.
And then, to his horror, she began to cry.
“Fuck, Hughie! Fuck!”
Hughie sat next to her, rubbing her back; completely out of his depth. He was frightened, disappointed, confused. What had happened? How could it have gone so wrong? He’d done everything Flick said.
And it had failed; spectacularly.
A couple of guys lurched out of the pub across the road, laughing too loudly. He wished they were somewhere more private.
Black tears rolled down Leticia’s face. “Oh, God, Hughie! What a cunt I am!”
“No, no, of course not!”
“Yes.” She looked up at him; her nose was running. He wanted her to do something about it but he wasn’t sure how to weave it into the conversation. Was a gesture too obvious?
As it happened, she took a tissue out of her evening bag and blew hard. She made a kind of trumpeting noise; one that wasn’t entirely consistent with his image of her.
“Fuck!” she said again, closing her eyes.
This seemed to be the crux of the conversation.
“But what’s wrong?”
She rubbed her eyes with her fists, two gray mascara smears across her cheeks.
“This…the notes…” She shook her head. “What were you doing?”
Suddenly he felt as if he were three years old. Even his voice was small. “Making you love me.”
She sighed again; again her eyes filled with tears. Taking his hand, she squeezed it hard. “Fuck, Hughie. Fuck!”
And this time he got it; it hit him forcibly, like a kick in the chest.
They sat, holding hands on the filthy doorstep in Covent Garden.
It was over.
Well and truly done.