The Queen's Margarine (15 page)

She was used to that – it was the story of her childhood. But that didn't mean it was hopeless altogether. People could have makeovers – you saw it all the time: on television, in women's magazines: the unprepossessing home-body transformed into a glamour-puss. In her present situation, she had neither time nor money for cosmetic surgery, or slimming clubs, or weeks at pricey health-spas, nor was she surrounded by hordes of fashion gurus, hair-artistes, beauticians and the like. But she did have a
draw-erful
of make-up and a wardrobeful of clothes – indeed, some of them her sisters' clothes, which she had never dared to wear. Maybe this was the perfect moment, though, to become ‘feminine' or ‘dramatic', and thus give herself distinction.

She rifled through the hangers to find Marguerite's
fondant-pink
, ruched dress, with the sweetheart neckline and the bows on
both the shoulders, which her sister had bought for her tenth wedding anniversary. It was a struggle to get into it. She might be the same height as Marguerite, but not her dainty weight. Once she had managed (with grim effort) to fasten the protesting zip, she took a critical look in the mirror. The image that came to mind was of a large, lumpy, pink-iced birthday cake, encircled with a cake-frill and ludicrously over-decorated. No, she was
not
the feminine type – in fact, she looked more like a man in drag.

Having clawed herself out of the inappropriate garment (ripping it in the process), she tried on a smart two-piece that Carmen had worn to last year's Christmas office do, then discarded on a whim. She and Carmen were more similar in shape, so at least the outfit didn't strain across the bust and hips. But she couldn't carry off the way-out colours (aquamarine and purple), or the audacious style with its padded shoulders and hobble skirt. Her face looked small and wan atop the flamboyant ensemble – indeed, she had all but disappeared; outshone by the clothes themselves. They were
hand-me
-downs, in any case, and although hardly worn, still brought back hateful memories of wearing her sisters' cast-offs as a child.
They
got all the new stuff, while she'd made do with what they'd outgrown, regardless of whether it suited her or not. Once an adult, she had always chosen ‘safe' clothes – tame, unexceptional things that wouldn't make her stand out in a crowd. Even fishnet tights weren't her usual sort of gear, especially those she had bought today: crotchless, seamed and tarty.

She ran to fetch them, removed them from their packet and eased them on with the greatest care, scared of snagging them with her newly painted nails. She couldn't really judge the effect whilst wearing Carmen's outfit, so she took it off and stood in just the tights, grimacing in instant disappointment. If fishnet was meant to be sexy, it didn't work on
her
. The tights simply made her calves bulge and drew attention to her less-than-perfect thighs. Clearly she wasn't the Sexy Type, any more than the Voluptuous Type (just solid), or even the Interesting Type. But there was no such thing as a Mousy Type or a Merging-into-the-Background Type, so, embarking on this new affair, what was she meant to
do
, for pity's sake – accept herself as she was, or try to be someone else?

Did she even have a self, she wondered with a surge of panic? Perhaps that was the whole point. Nobody had given her a label (brainy, brilliant, funny, sparky, laugh-a-minute, dreamy, deep), because she was nothing through and through. Even her name was boring. No Avril ever featured as the heroine of some steamy romance, or the star of a passionate saga. Avrils were seamstresses or parlour maids, and belonged to another age. Again, her sisters were much luckier. In fact, maybe their names had made them what they were. If you were christened Marguerite, you
had
to grow up feminine; if Carmen, then of course you'd be dramatic. Avril had no connotations, neither Spanish passion nor showy foreign flowers. Nothing, once again. Her parents had lost interest once she came along, After an eight-year gap with no babies, they'd run out of steam, run out of distinctive names, and had just let her limp along in her superior sisters' wake.

When her mobile rang, she was still standing in her old greyish bra and knickers, having dragged off the offending tights. Should she even bother to pick up? It would only be her mother, complaining (as she already had, at length) that she wasn't at all happy with the shopping: Maxwell House was shockingly expensive, compared with Sainsbury's own, and she'd specified two oranges, not a dozen tangerines.

Yet, despite herself, her finger reached for the ‘on' button. ‘Hello,' she muttered, disconsolately.

‘Hi! It's Todd.'

Startled, panicked, she let her heart speak for her; its pounding, thumping, racing motion conveying torrents of emotion; all the thrilled, triumphant words she was too astounded to articulate.

‘Am I speaking to Avril Burrows?'

She nodded, shook her head. Not only was she confused, there seemed to be a stone stuck in her throat; an iron band round her chest, pressing on her voice-box, restricting every breath.

‘Have I got the right number? Is that 0791 0538 880?'

Was
it the right number? Was anything right about her? Not her face, for certain. Not her legs or boobs. Not her basic shape or pallid colouring. Not her prissy name or dreary job. Not her feeble porridge-brain nor—

‘Avril, is that you?'

‘No,' she said, suddenly decisive, and cutting off the call. There
wasn't
any her. Why should a busy, lively, successful bloke like Todd want to be saddled with a no one?

‘Thank you for travelling with South West Trains. We are now arriving at our final destination, Waterloo.'

As the train shuddered to a stop, Rowena peered at her reflection in the window. Impossible to see much, with rain lashing at the glass, running down in rivulets, blurring her face to a shadowy grey mask. In fact, she had checked on her appearance several times already throughout the lengthy journey, sneaking glances in her handbag mirror to ensure her lipstick wasn't smudged, or her hair tumbling from its ponytail. Today, she
had
to look her best.

Collecting up her book and bag, she stepped down on to the platform; the sleety air a cold slap on her face after the cosy fug of the train. It had been pelting since she first set out in the chilly predawn murk; driving to the station along puddled country lanes; the windscreen wipers whipping back and forth, as if expressing their vexation at the weather. Her flimsy coat was more suited to July than the middle of November, but her usual casual uniform of sheepskin and green wellies would hardly impress a sophisticate like Carl.

Just the thought of seeing him, after so long a gap, sent nervous spasms skittering through her stomach. Was it madness to have come? Should she have taken a stronger line; told him loud and clear that the affair had finished years ago and couldn't be revived? She stopped abruptly, tempted to turn round there and then and catch the next train back.

‘Mind where you're going, can't you?'

A man behind had more or less run into her, and was still muttering indignantly, despite her profuse apology, and the fact it was as much his fault as hers. It was ages since she'd been to
London and she'd forgotten quite how rude a place it was. With a shrug of resignation, she let him stride on past. Why waste energy on an ill-mannered lout when she needed every ounce of it for Carl? She couldn't bolt for home – not at this late stage – leave him cruelly stranded on the station. Besides, some part of her just ached to know why he'd got in touch again, after all this time; what his expectations were, for God's sake.

‘I'm flying in to Heathrow,' he'd said, his voice indistinct and muffled on the phone, as if he were speaking underwater. ‘Tuesday next, first thing. So let's meet Wednesday morning. I'll see you at half-past nine, under the clock at Waterloo.'

He hadn't asked if Wednesday was convenient, or whether she could get time off work – indeed, whether she was free to meet at all. For all he knew, she could be married, tied to home and kids, or involved with someone else. Two decades had passed, with no communication between them, save for the odd Christmas card, or email, or change-of-address announcement, yet his whole attitude and tone of voice suggested they were lovers still, in constant daily contact, instead of virtual strangers to each other. And why had he suggested meeting at such an early hour, with no thought for
her
convenience? She'd managed to find a train that got in at 9.45, but, even so, it had meant getting up at five and leaving in the dark, not to mention paying double for peak-time travel. She should have objected straight away, begged not just fifteen minutes' grace, but moved the whole thing forward to some more civilized time. But his phone-call had been so disconcerting, so completely unexpected, she had simply stuttered out her astounded acquiescence.

Self-consciously, she proceeded towards the station clock, in the centre of the concourse – the same meeting-place as twenty years ago. That seemed a different era altogether; she a naïve
nineteen-year
-old, gauche and shy and very nearly tongue-tied on first encountering the urbane, well-dressed New Yorker who had been working with her uncle in Manhattan (to where Carl had whisked her off within the week).

She steered a zigzag path between people, luggage, pushchairs, surprised to see such crowds when surely rush-hour must be over now. Her home village boasted barely a hundred inhabitants, whereas twice that number seemed to be milling around this
station. Yet she almost wished the crush was greater still, so that it would hold her back, impede her; postpone the fateful moment when she and Carl came face to face again.

But that moment had arrived. She was now within a few feet of the clock, and her stomach registered the fact by turning into a rollercoaster: hope, excitement, curiosity, careering up, up, up, while fear, doubt, agitation plunged down, down, down, down, down. Quickly, she faked a confident smile as she checked the groups of people, peering up at the indicator-boards, stretching in a long line beneath the clock. Her smile withered to a grimace, however, when she saw he wasn't there – nor indeed anywhere in sight. But then Carl had always been late. His chronic
unpunctuality
was one of the many reasons she had returned to England and ended the affair; tired of constantly waiting, and hurt by his assumption that
her
time didn't matter, only his. On this occasion, he had no excuse at all. He'd told her he was staying at the Savoy, only minutes from Waterloo, whereas she'd been travelling since half-past six this morning – earlier, in fact, if she counted the drive to the station. On the other hand, he might have been delayed. He was bound to be in a taxi (Carl took taxis everywhere), which could be stuck in traffic on Waterloo Bridge. Couldn't he have rung her, though? She had her mobile with her, and had given him her number, but he, of course, had failed to give her his.

Trying to swallow her annoyance, she sought distraction in the people standing next to her: a plumpish Indian matron with a large brood of sad-eyed children, and a scruffy-looking lad scrunching his way through a giant-sized bag of crisps. She envied him his trainers. Her own shoes were already hurting; cramping at the toes, throwing her off-balance with their ridiculously high heels. Was Carl really worth the effort, she wondered with a twinge of bitterness: the new clothes, new shoes, the frantic week of preparations?

She longed to rest her feet, but the few benches in this area were already occupied, and the only empty seats were in the café opposite. They should have arranged to meet
there
, of course, but Carl was, if nothing else, a romantic, and clearly wanted to replay that magical occasion back in 1987, when they had first set eyes on each other and felt instantly attracted, ending the day dizzily in
love. He'd been late then, too, she recalled, but as a young, selfeffacing girl, meeting a distinguished and much older man, she had accepted it as his natural right. This time, however, she intended to speak out; make a sarcastic quip about leopards never changing their spots. And he
was
a leopard, in some ways: powerful, feline, ruthless. So what did that make
her
? A leopard's prey?

For the umpteenth time, she checked the clock. If he wasn't here by ten past ten, then she would decamp to the café. It was only a few yards away, so if she sat at one of the tables on the concourse, she would see him when he did arrive.

‘The train at platform 8 is the 10.05 South West train service to Weymouth, calling at Clapham Junction, Woking, Basingstoke, Winchester, Southampton Airport Parkway …'

‘The train at platform 16 is the …'

The constant announcements on the tannoy only served to emphasize her plight. Other people were dashing to catch trains; purposeful and busy; only she aimless and rooted to the spot. And why did every minute take so long to pass? Could the clock have stopped, maybe? No, her watch said exactly the same: four minutes past ten.

An enticing smell was wafting from the kiosk next to platform 12. ‘Millie's Cookies,' she spelled out, suddenly realizing she was ravenous. Too rushed to snatch a bite of breakfast, she had planned to buy a snack on the train, then changed her mind and decided not to eat until she actually met Carl. During the two years of their affair, he had always swept her off, within minutes of their meeting, to some stylish brunch, or ritzy lunch, or elaborate, four-course dinner. So why spoil her appetite by stuffing Millie's Cookies?

By 10.20, there was still no sign of him, so she marched over to the café, ordered an Americano (which seemed appropriate) and took it to an outside table, in direct view of the clock. It was colder there than in the snug interior, but she didn't intend to miss him, having expended so much effort and expense on her outfit and the rail fare, not to mention the sheer stress of anticipation.

She took slow, reflective sips of her coffee, in a bid to calm herself. Carl
would
come. He always did. Eventually. She remembered one
occasion, waiting for him in the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue. After half a fruitless hour, pacing up and down the lobby, she was picked up by a swarthy Arab, and was actually tempted to go off with him, just to pay Carl out. Though, in truth, New York had terrified her. Transplanted from her sleepy Devon hamlet to the shrillest city in the world had left her all but reeling: the speed, the buzz, the glitz. The tallest buildings in her village at home were the steepled church and the silage tower, whereas the overweening skyscrapers seemed to reduce her to a pinprick. And exchanging her parents' cosy cottage for Carl's twentieth-floor, minimalist apartment, overlooking Central Park, had been another culture-shock.

Even here, in London, she felt something of an alien. She was used to greeting everyone she met, be they stranger, or fellow villager, yet if she did the same on this busy, heaving station she would be locked up as a mental case. And despite the fact she was sitting close to several other customers, no one smiled; nobody made eye-contact, let alone struck up a conversation. Most were on their own, like her, save one young couple sharing a milkshake; taking it in turns to drink from the single straw. They seemed so relaxed, companionable; wiping froth from each other's mouths, giggling when they slurped or burped; even their legs entwined beneath the table. She and Carl had never been at ease like that. It wasn't just the age-gap, but the fact that he surpassed her so decisively in income, education and sheer experience of life. Yet, somewhat paradoxically, that very fact had spoiled her for all other men. Here she was, still single at the age of thirty-nine, because every male she'd met since Carl had seemed tedious and tepid, uncultivated, penny-pinching.

She spooned the melted sugar from the bottom of her cup, then, with another glance at the clock, opened the book she'd brought: a challenging novel set in eighteenth-century Moscow. Despite the long train journey, she had barely read two chapters and, once again, it proved impossible to concentrate on Russia under the Tsars, when her mind was so fixated on Tsar Carl. What she really needed was a frothy magazine. Normally, she shunned them as a waste of time and money, but she was in dire need of distraction and, if she went to Smith's next door, could buy a couple, whilst still keeping an eye on the clock.

There were more women's magazines in Smith's than she could read in a whole lifetime – every subject on display from cookery and knitting to weddings, babies, health and fitness, fashion and psychology. She stood leafing through a selection of them, surprised by the assertive tone of many of the articles: ‘How to take your man in hand and demand what you want in bed'; ‘Is it time for you two to part?'; ‘The
Cosmo
guide to going it alone'. Clearly, she was out of touch with the zeitgeist. She should be standing up for her rights, refusing to be messed around by a thoughtless, selfish male who had no idea of time. Any woman with an ounce of pride would have stalked off after half an hour, but she, the willing slave, kept abandoning the magazines and nipping to the door, desperate for the sight of the inconsiderate bastard, who had already walked all over her, twenty years ago.

Yet her natural inclination was to make excuses for him. He might have been so jet-lagged he had slept through the alarm. Or perhaps he'd gone down with a virus – one with a sudden onset that had taken him unawares. In fact, she ought to phone the Savoy, to check if he was there still. She rang Directory Enquiries, who dialled the number for her.

‘Yes, hello. I'd like to speak to Mr Carl Luzzatto. Can you try his room, please?'

‘I'm sorry, madam, Mr Luzzatto left the hotel over an hour ago.'

‘Oh … I see. Thank you.'

So where was he, for God's sake? If some problem
had
occurred, perhaps he'd left a message on her home phone, rather than ringing her mobile. She dialled in, to check her calls, but there was only one from the boiler-repair-man, saying he couldn't come till Friday. Boilers somehow made her think of bombs. Could there have been a terrorist attack – one involving Carl? The thought of him lying mangled amidst the wreckage of his taxi filled her with such horror, she rushed out of the shop, in search of a policeman.

She had to walk some way along the concourse before she came upon two transport police, standing by the escalators that led to Waterloo East.

‘Excuse me,' she said, approaching them. ‘I wondered if there'd been any sort of … incident – something that could cause a delay?'

The younger man gave a rueful smile. ‘Anything can cause a
delay in London – faulty traffic lights, burst water mains, signal failure on the tube, a march or demonstration.'

‘No, I meant something much more serious, like a terrorist attack.'

‘You can rest assured on that score,' the other man replied. ‘We've heard nothing of that nature whatsoever.'

OK, bombs ruled out. She was overreacting to a ridiculous degree. He might be waiting in another part of the station, despite his saying it must be under the clock. In fact, much the same had happened in New York. She still remembered, all that time ago, his curt instruction on the phone: ‘Meet me at Regine's at one.' By three o'clock, when he'd failed to show, she went back to his apartment, half-furious, half-frantic. When he eventually returned himself, hours later, he had insisted, deaf to argument, that he'd distinctly said the St Regis bar, not Regine's.