He paused again, as if uncomfortable with revelation.
“Anyway. You’ve still got the job if you want it. I liked what you had planned.”
Daisy started to interrupt him, then stopped herself. She stared around her, at the flat that no longer felt like home. At the home that might not be hers for much longer anyway.
“Miss Parsons?”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I do.”
“Good.”
“There was just one thing.”
“What?”
“We—I mean,
I
like to live on-site while I’m working. Would that be a problem?”
“It’s pretty basic . . . but, no, I guess I’ve got no problem with that. You’ve just had a baby, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You might want to make sure the heating’s working first. It can still be a bit bracing up there. For another month or so.”
“I’ll also need a retainer. Would five percent be acceptable to you?”
“I can live with that.”
“Mr. Jones, I’ll put something in the post tonight.”
“Jones. It’s just Jones. I’ll see you on-site.”
Daisy stared at the telephone receiver in her hand, marveling at the insanity of what she’d just done. She thought of Hammersmith Bridge, and Weybridge, and of Don’s friends, glad-handing her with patronizing eyes. Poor old Daisy. Mind you, not too surprising when you looked at how she’d let herself go. She thought of her sister, “just popping in” to the barn, to make sure she wasn’t comfort-eating her way through another packet of biscuits. She thought of the unnamed seaside town, and salt air and clear skies, and not having to wake up every morning in what had been their shared bed. A chance to breathe, away from mess and history. She didn’t think how she was actually going to manage the job single-handedly. It felt like the least of her problems.
In the next room Ellie began to cry again, her thin wail swiftly building to a crescendo. But as she went to her, Daisy didn’t flinch. For the first time in weeks, she felt something close to relief.
Y
ou know, I’d never seen underwear like it in my life. Hardly anything to it, just little whispers of lace, it was. Well. If I put that on, I thought, it wouldn’t be mutton dressed as lamb—it would be mutton tied up in a string bag.” Evie Newcomb started to laugh, and Camille paused, not wanting to get any cream in her eyes.
“You should see some of the stuff they have in these catalogs. I tell you what, Camille love, you wouldn’t want to be wearing it on a cold day. And it’s not even the fabric—although you know I used to work in the rag trade, and frankly the quality left a little something to be desired—it’s the ruddy holes they put in everywhere! Holes in places you wouldn’t believe. Well. There was one pair of drawers I looked at, and I couldn’t have told you which holes you put your legs in, that’s for sure.”
Camille smoothed Evie’s hair back under the white cotton hair band and began sweeping her hands gently across her forehead.
“As for the accessories, or whatever you call them . . . well, I looked and looked, but I couldn’t work out what half of them were
for
. And you wouldn’t want to be doing the wrong thing with them, would you? I mean, you wouldn’t want to end up down the hospital explaining that little lot to a doctor. No, I left them well alone.”
“So it wasn’t a success, then,” Camille said when the mask was fully applied.
“Oh, no. I took your advice, love. I bought two outfits in the end.” Evie’s voice lowered. “I’ve never seen Leonard’s face like that in thirty-two years of marriage. He thought his ship had come in.” She paused. “I thought I’d killed him afterward.”
“But he’s not talking about getting that cable television thing anymore? The one with the Dutch channels?”
“Nope, or taking up bowling. So you’ve done me a real favor there, Camille. A real favor. Can I have some of those eye pads again? They were lovely last time.”
Camille Hatton padded her way over to the cupboard and reached up to the fourth shelf where she kept her Cooling Eye Pads. She had been busy this morning; normally she didn’t have this many appointments unless there was a wedding or a dance on at the Riviera Hotel. But the summer season was suddenly edging closer, and all over town the female inhabitants were treating themselves, priming themselves for the annual influx of guests.
“Do you want the tea ones or the cucumber ones?” she called, feeling for the boxes.
“Ooh. Tea, please. Speaking of which, Tess couldn’t make me a cup, could she? I’m absolutely gasping.”
“No problem,” Camille said, and called for her young assistant.
“There was one thing that made me laugh, though. Just between you and me. Here, come over here. I don’t want to shout it across the salon. Did I tell you about the feathers . . . ?”
The onset of the spring months always seemed to make people want to talk more. It was as if the March winds that picked up, blowing in from the Channel, quietly shifted away the stasis of winter, reminding people of the possibilities for change. That and, in the ladies’ case, the new influx of women’s magazines.
When Camille’s boss, Kay, had opened the salon, nearly nine years ago, the women had been shy at first. They’d been reluctant to try the treatments, fearful that it looked in some way overly indulgent. They would sit rigid and silent as she smoothed and pasted, as if waiting for ridicule or for her to make some dreadful mistake. Then, gradually, they began to come regularly. And about the time that the Seventh-Day Adventists took over the old Protestant church, they began to talk.
Now they told Camille everything: about unfaithful husbands, recalcitrant children, about the heartbreaks of lost babies and the joys of new ones. They told her things that they wouldn’t have told a vicar; they joked—about lust and love and libidos battered, like Leonard’s, into new life. And she never told. She never judged, or laughed, or condemned. She just listened as she worked and then, occasionally, tried to offer some gentle suggestion to make them feel better about themselves. Your congregation, Hal had joked. But that had been back when Hal still joked.
She leaned forward over Evie’s face, feeling the moisturizing mask harden under her fingertips. It was a tough environment for skin, a seaside town. The salt and wind blew tiny lines prematurely into a woman’s face, aged and freckled it, remorselessly stripping away whichever moisturizer was applied. Camille carried hers in her handbag and reapplied it throughout the day. She had a thing about skin that felt dry; it made her shiver.
“I’ll peel that off in a minute,” she said, tapping Evie’s cheek. “I’ll let you drink your tea first. Tess is just coming.”
“Oh, I do feel better, love.” Evie leaned back in the seat, making the leather squeak under her considerable bulk. “I come out of this place a whole new woman.”
“Sounds like your Leonard thinks so anyway.”
“Here’s your tea. You don’t take sugar, do you Mrs. Newcomb?” Tess had a photographic memory for tea and coffee requirements. It was an invaluable asset in a beauty salon.
“Ooh, no, that’s just lovely.”
“Phone, Camille. I think it’s your daughter’s school.”
It was the school secretary. She spoke in the firm yet oleaginous tones of those accustomed, through a steely charm, to getting their own way.
“Is that Mrs. Hatton? Oh, hello, Margaret Stevens here. We’ve had a little problem with Katie, and we wondered if you could possibly come and pick her up.”
“Is she hurt?”
“No, not hurt. She’s just not very well.”
There was nothing that clenched the heart like an emergency call from the school, Camille thought. For working mothers it held a potent mixture of relief when the child turned out not to be injured and irritation that they were going to jettison the working day.
“She says she’s not felt very well for a few days.” The supposedly offhand remark held a mild rebuke. Don’t send your children to school ill, it said.
Camille paused, thought of her appointment book. “I don’t suppose you’ve rung her father, have you?”
“No, we like to ring the mother first. That’s who the child tends to ask for.”
Well,
that
told
me
, she thought.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be along as soon as I can. Tess,” she said, replacing the handset on the wall, “I’ve got to go and pick Katie up. Not well, apparently. I’ll try and sort something out, but you may have to cancel some of this afternoon’s appointments. I’m really sorry.”
There were only a few ladies contented to have Tess minister to them instead. They didn’t feel they could tell Tess the stuff they told her. Too young, somehow. Too . . . But Camille knew what they really meant.
“There’s a lot of it about,” said Evie from under her mask. “Sheila from the hotel has been under the doctor almost ten days now. Winter was too warm, I reckon. All the bugs have been breeding.”
“You’re nearly done, Evie. Do you mind if I go? Tess will put your tightening moisturizer on.”
“You go ahead, love. I’ll be off soon anyway. I promised Leonard a fish supper, and I’ve run out of oven chips.”
K
ATIE HAD FALLEN ASLEEP UNDER HER RUG
. S
HE HAD
apologized, with her peculiar mixture of eight-year-old maturity going on twenty-eight, for interrupting her mother’s working day and had then said simply that she’d like to sleep. So Camille sat there beside her for a while, her hand resting on Katie’s covered limbs, feeling powerless and anxious and vaguely annoyed at the same time. The school nurse had said Katie looked very pale and asked whether the dark shadows under her eyes meant she was staying up too late. Camille had been affronted at her tone, at her unspoken suggestion that what they politely referred to as Camille’s “situation” meant that she might not always be aware quite how late her daughter was awake.
“She doesn’t have a television in her room, if that’s what you mean,” she said abruptly. “She goes to bed at half past eight, and I read her a story.”
But the nurse had said that twice this week Katie had fallen asleep during lessons. And that she seemed lethargic, lackluster. And reminded Camille that her daughter had been ill not two weeks ago. “Perhaps she’s a bit anemic,” the nurse suggested, and somehow her kindness made Camille feel even worse.
On the slow walk home, Camille had asked if it had anything to do with her and Daddy, but Katie had said irritably that she was “just ill,” in a tone of voice that suggested the conversation was closed. Camille didn’t push it. She had handled it well, they all said. Possibly too well.
She bent down and kissed the sleeping form of her daughter, then stroked the silky muzzle of Rollo, their labrador. He had settled himself with a sigh at her feet, his wet nose brushing against her bare leg. She sat for some moments, listening to the steady ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the distant hum of traffic outside. She was going to have to ring him. She took a deep breath.
“Hal?”
“Camille?” She never rang him at work anymore.
“I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just that I needed to talk about tonight. I was wondering if you’d mind coming back a bit early.”
“Why?”
“Katie’s been sent home from school. And I need to go out and catch up on a couple of appointments that I had to cancel this afternoon. See if I can reschedule.”
“What’s wrong with her?” In the background she could hear nothing but the sound of a distant radio, none of the sounds of hammering, clamping, or voices that had once indicated a thriving workshop.
“Just some virus or other. She’s a bit low, but I don’t think it’s anything serious.”
“Oh. Good.”
“The school nurse thinks she might be a bit anemic. I’ve got some iron pills.”
“Right. Yes, I suppose she has been a bit pale.” He paused. Tried to sound casual. “So who are you going to see?”
She had known that was coming. “I haven’t organized anything yet. I just wanted to see if it was possible.”
She could hear him struggling. She closed her eyes, wishing he didn’t.
“Well, I suppose there’s nothing I couldn’t bring home.”
“Are you busy?”
“No. In fact, it’s been dead all week. I’ve been working out savings on toilet paper and lightbulbs.”
“Well, as I said, I’ve got nothing fixed. If no one’s available, I won’t need you back early.”
They were so polite. So solicitous.
“No problem,” he said. “You don’t want your customers getting upset. No point jeopardizing our one good business. Just—just ring me if you need picking up from anywhere. I can always get your mum to sit with Katie for five minutes.”
“Thanks, love, that’s really kind.”
“No problem. Better go.”
C
AMILLE AND
H
AL
H
ATTON HAD BEEN MARRIED FOR
precisely eleven years and one day when she revealed to him that his suspicions about Michael, the estate agent from London, had been correct. Her timing, it is fair to say, stank. They had just woken up after celebrating their wedding anniversary. But then Camille was a fairly straightforward person—or at least she’d thought she was until the Michael episode—and her talent for comfortably carrying other people’s secrets did not extend to her own.
They had been happily married; everyone said so.
She
said so, on the occasions when she said anything. She was not outwardly romantic. But she had loved Hal with a fierce passion that had not, unlike in her friend’s marriages, gradually dissipated into something more relaxed (their euphemism, her mother said, for sexless). They had made a handsome pair. Hal, it was widely agreed, was “fit,” while she was tall and strong, with thick blond hair and a chest like a cartoon barmaid’s. And he, with his university education and his prospects and his skill at restoring antique furniture—he had been prepared to take her on. Because not everyone would have, in spite of her obvious charms. And perhaps because of all these things, their evident passion for each other had been so all-consuming, and so long-lasting, that it had become something of a joke among their friends. (When they joked, however, Camille had always heard a tinge of something else in their voices, something like envy.) It was the best way they had of communicating. When he was silent and withdrawn and she felt unable to bridge the gap to him, when they had argued and she didn’t know how to bring him home, the sex had always been there. Deep, joyous, restorative. Undiminished by Katie’s arrival. If anything, she had wanted him more as the years wore on.