Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman

Chapter Sixteen

I sent in the review by e-mail, and sat back in my chair, hands clasped behind my head.

Definitely there was a plus to having done some work. A step forward: and I was the better for having given my brain a workout. In the peace and silence of my study, being on my own did not seem to be quite so drastic a fate. I was even beginning to suspect that it had one or two compensations. Had we ever confessed, Vee, Mazarine and I, how exhausting marriage could be? Good management in a marriage was not merely a question of being one step ahead of one’s spouse, but two. And it had been Nathan who taught me that good, competent management is the key to comfort and efficiency, which, if as a principle it lacked poetry, had the merit of being honest.

Did he feel, on his side, I wondered, that he had had to manage me as well as himself? What we had not managed was familiarity. I saw that now. Mark Twain had been right after all. Familiarity is edged with the danger of tedium.

Sun flooded the landing, and I felt the house settle around me, my warm, companionable, familiar setting. The carpet under the window had been stained by damp and the sash window – probably – required replacing. Idly I added it to the list of the must-do and, as idly, flicked into my e-mail in-box. There was one. It was headed SURPRISE, SURPRISE.

Darling Mum. This is the biggest surprise.

Rashly, it crossed my mind that our nagging had paid off and Poppy had done well in her finals.

We are on Koi Sumui. It is the best. I have never been anywhere so lovely. It’s so unspoilt. You would love it. I love the East. So cool, so into different things. But, hold your breath. Richard and I have got married. On the beach, and it was beautiful. It was quite wild and I am so happy. Please tell Dad. I will ring you. I love you. Poppy. PS I got a 2:2.

I picked up my bag and ran out to the car.

‘My dad,’ Poppy was also overheard confiding to her friend Emily at the ninth birthday party, ‘loves me the best.’

On more than one occasion, I explained to Poppy that this was not the case. Both of us loved both her and Sam equally. But Poppy, who was never in the least bit interested in the level playing-field, merely giggled naughtily and held up her arms to be cuddled. Clever, instinctive Poppy knew that the conspiracy to present life as fair and equal was just that.

Outside Minty’s flat, I held my finger on the bell. The door jerked open to reveal Minty, with a half made-up face, wearing a satin teddy underneath a white towelling dressing-gown. ‘What on earth -?’ She frowned. ‘Rose, have you gone mad?’

‘I’d like to speak to Nathan.’

She hesitated. ‘I’ll see if he’s free.’

‘Just get him. On second thoughts.’ I elbowed Minty aside and stepped into a diminutive hall, made even less negotiable by two large suitcases, which I recognized as Nathan’s, propped against the wall. ‘Nathan?’

There was the sound of running water from the bathroom, which stopped, and Nathan emerged, also wearing a snowy white towelling dressing-gown. Its unfamiliarity brought me up short.

‘Rose, what’s the matter?’ He looked alarmed. ‘Is it Ianthe?’

‘No, not life and death but a bit of a shock. Nathan, Poppy has just e-mailed to say she and Richard have got married.’ I paused. ‘She sounded happy.’

‘You’re joking,’ Nathan said quietly.

‘Good grief,’ said Minty.

He led the way into a tiny sitting room, cluttered with newspapers, books and unwashed coffee mugs. An over-large sofa and one chair made it even more cramped. Nathan dropped down on the sofa and put his head in hands. He was shaking. ‘I don’t know what to say except that I’ll kill him.’

I sat down beside him. ‘She’s only a baby, whatever she thinks.’

‘So were you,’ Minty pointed out.

‘But that was different.’ Nathan addressed me, not Minty.

‘No, it isn’t.’ Minty regarded the pair of us sourly. ‘For God’s sake, Poppy’s twenty-two.’

We ignored her. Nathan sought my hand. ‘Did you have any idea? Did we miss something?’

‘How could we possibly have known? Poppy never gave a hint.’

Nathan grasped at a straw. ‘Wait a minute. It might have been one of those potty ceremonies that aren’t legal.’

Minty tied the belt of her dressing-gown tight around her slender waist and looked superior. ‘Nathan, Poppy is an adult, and free to make her own choices. The fact that she did not involve you is sad, but not the end of the world.’ She had succeeded in capturing his attention. ‘Does it occur to you that Poppy went off precisely because she did not wish you to interfere?’

‘I bet that man pushed her into it.’ Nathan shaded his eyes with his hand.

Minty raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Don’t be so Victorian. Poppy wasn’t pushed into it, she made the choice for herself. You can’t start huffing and puffing and indulging in conspiracy theories because you don’t happen to like what’s she’s done.’

In one sense Minty was correct. But in another she was quite wrong and she did not – could not – understand. ‘You don’t have children,’ I told her.

There was silence in the slightly frowsty room.

Nathan and Minty exchanged a look. Minty stacked a couple of the books that littered the low glass coffee-table on top of one another. ‘Having children doesn’t make you Mastermind, Rose. I am closer in age to Poppy’ She slapped another book on to the pile. ‘Having children doesn’t put you into a superior category of the human race. You don’t have a monopoly on experience and judgement. We lesser mortals have one or two things to say that matter too.’

‘Minty,’ Nathan said warningly, ‘I think -’

‘It’s fine, Nathan.’ Minty had reminded me of what I had – those long, interesting, love-filled years that nothing and no one would ever take away.

Minty scuffed the carpet with her foot. ‘Sorry’

Nathan blew his nose. ‘I don’t even know Richard’s surname.’

‘You do. It’s Lockhead,’ I said.

Nathan stood up and went over to the ungenerous window that overlooked the terrace opposite, which had been built in depressing red brick. He seemed far too big for the room’s meagre proportions. ‘What do we do?’

Minty said impatiently, ‘For a start, I’ll finish dressing -and so should you, Nathan. Otherwise we’ll be late.’

The bedroom door banged and Nathan turned to me. ‘Don’t go quite yet.’

When Minty reappeared in a leather skirt and a stretch purple top, beneath which her nipples were outlined, we were still deep in discussion. Nathan was all for flying out to Thailand and dragging Poppy home. He had also been honest enough to say, ‘How could she have done this to us?’

Hand on hip, Minty listened. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this rubbish. Could I point out that Poppy is now a married woman? You’d make yourself look ridiculous by scurrying out there.’

I sneaked a look at Nathan. His reaction had been more subdued than I had envisaged, and that was worrying. He was hurt, bitterly so, at Poppy’s cruelty in leaving us out of such a momentous event.

Minty ploughed on. (She did not know of the filing cabinet in Nathan’s study that contained notional budgets for the wedding he had planned to give Poppy.) ‘Shouldn’t you be relieved that Poppy’s safe, well, happy? She hasn’t developed leprosy or anything.’ She pursed her lips. ‘After all, Nathan, you sprang your surprises, why shouldn’t Poppy? She probably felt she was paying you back.’

This angered Nathan sufficiently to snap him out of his distress. Icily cold, he said, ‘OK. You’ve made your point.’

I jumped up and grabbed my bag. ‘I’m going. If you want to discuss Poppy you know where to find me.’

‘Rose, let’s talk this over tomorrow when I’ll have thought it over.’ Nathan swung his attention back to me. Funnily enough, he was much more in control when he was angry than when he was sad, which, I think, was why he allowed himself to be angry over quite a few things, and, if you did not know him, subtracted from his sweetness at other times. It was a fascinating, wayward combination and I was used to it. Minty was not. She turned on her heel and left the room. The bathroom door banged.

I sat in the car for five or ten minutes, endeavouring to pull my thoughts together. How very like Poppy it would be to pay back Nathan and me in our own coin. Or had she been so shaken by our break-up that she had fled elsewhere for security? Oh, God, without realizing what she was doing.

I inserted the key in the ignition and the door to Minty’s flat opened. Nathan and Minty walked rapidly towards his car, talking hard. Minty was clutching a short magenta jacket over her leather skirt, and she was scowling. In a dark suit and blue silk tie, Nathan looked thunderous. He got into the driver’s seat, slammed the door and did not wait for Minty to get in before he started the engine.

Frantic e-mails went to and from Thailand. ‘Why the fuss?’ wrote Poppy. ‘Why aren’t you happy for me? What’s Dad playing at? We’re going to honeymoon up-country and plan to come back at the end of July. Out of touch till then.’

With that, we had to be content.

Ianthe’s stay in hospital had involved waiting in virtually every department but, as a grand mistress of the art, she coped with her usual grace. When I went to fetch her, she was ensconced in a sitting area at the end of the ward, watching the fish in the tank, which had been chosen for their ability to look dispirited. On the table were piled ancient, dismembered magazines. Nurses squeaked over the linoleum in rubber-soled shoes and a telephone rang incessantly in the background.

‘There you are, Rose.’

I sat down beside her and we discussed how she was feeling. Then I said, ‘Mum, I’d better tell you. We’ve heard from Poppy.’

‘Dear little thing. How is she?’

‘The dear little thing has gone and got married on a Thai beach. To Richard Lockhead.’

‘Oh.’ Ianthe fiddled with the pearl button on her cuff. ‘How disappointing. None of us was there.’ She fiddled some more. ‘Does this mean… she’s pregnant?’

‘Not as far as I know. Anyway, I don’t think Poppy’s generation get married because they’re pregnant.’ I picked up Ianthe’s suitcase. ‘It’s been a bit of a shock,’ I said fiercely, ‘but I’m determined to look on it as exciting. We’ll have to give a party for them when they come home. When has the doctor asked to see you again?’

‘In a couple of weeks when the final tests come through. Let’s not think about that.’

She seemed so determined not to talk about it that I did not question her further. We drove back to Pankhurst Parade through a city that was emptying of traffic for the summer. From time to time, I glanced at her. Her colour seemed good and the lipstick was as bright as ever, and I felt nothing but pride for my brave mother who had taught herself to grapple with loneliness and little money.

Poppy’s news stirred up Ianthe’s memories. ‘When your father proposed he took me up the beck to the trout pool. The daffodils and catkins were out and it was so pretty and peaceful, but all I could think about was that my hair was frizzing in the damp. It was drizzling a bit. I hadn’t had time to change my blouse and I was worried that I smelt… well… sweaty because I’d had to run for the bus.’ She smiled. ‘He looked so sweet and earnest in his tweed jacket and there I was in a state because I didn’t think I looked my best, and I wanted the moment to be perfect.’

‘You were perfect at the wedding,’ I reminded her. ‘You looked lovely in the photograph.’

‘It rained then, too, would you believe?’

‘I wish he’d lived longer,’ I cried. ‘I wish you hadn’t had to suffer.’

‘There’s nothing special about suffering, Rose. It’s as common as hair growing. We just have to deal with it, and get on.’

Number fourteen was like a hothouse and I went round opening windows while Ianthe made tea. ‘One of the nurses would insist on calling it “Mr Comforter”. I ask you.’

Afterwards, I helped her to unpack. I had not been in Ianthe’s bedroom for a long time. A photograph of the three of us, taken outside Medlars Cottage when I was eight, was displayed prominently on the bedside table. A pot of Nivea face cream and a bottle of natural-coloured nail polish stood on the dressing-table beside her silver-backed brush, so old that many of the bristles were missing. The wardrobe contained six pairs of neatly stowed shoes, her herringbone winter coat, and dresses bagged up on hangers. Ianthe watched me inspecting them. ‘As you grow older, Rose, you need fewer clothes.’

‘How depressing.’

I opened a drawer to put away her clean nightdress and was choked by a familiar smell. ‘The lavender. It’s so strong.’

‘That reminds me…’ Ianthe searched on the shelf in the wardrobe. ‘I bought a couple of bags for you at the fête.’

Wordlessly, I held them in my hands, assaulted by the charged, never-to-be forgotten nostalgia of lavender.

Vee had not finished with me. The invitation to the summer gala dinner to celebrate the year’s best books arrived in the post. For years I had hosted a table – the guests and seating had occupied much time and debate. Scrawled on the back of Vee’s invitation was: ‘I have a table. You are on it.’

I propped it up on the desk in my study. This was a novel situation for me, and I felt an eddy of excitement and nerves in the pit of my stomach, even of curiosity to see what would happen and how I would react. Admittedly, during the past weeks, I had not thought much about my business world and it had grown distant. On cue, the phone rang.

‘No ifs and buts,’ said Vee. ‘I know it’s last-minute but you’re under orders to show up. And, Rose, treat yourself to the hairdresser.’

I was proud of myself as I got ready. Without a moment’s hesitation I pulled the black sleeveless dress out of the wardrobe and selected the outrageously stylish shoes I had bought in Paris. I applied foundation, brushed on grey eye shadow, drew a scarlet line around my lips and filled it in.

‘There,’ I addressed the resulting construct in the mirror, ‘not bad.’ I placed a hand on my stomach, which felt delightfully flat. My lips gleamed, my dress flowed over my hips and my feet arched in the high heels. To complete the vision, I emptied the contents of my handbag on to the bed, threw away crumpled tissues, picked out the fluff from my hairbrush and put it with my lipstick and keys into a witty bag in the shape of a flowerpot.

When I arrived at the hotel, a stream of men and women, dressed predominantly in black, flowed towards the room where the drinks were being served. A strange girl poked at my bag. ‘Safe,’ she said.

Someone else said, ‘Hi, Rose. Long time… let’s keep in touch…’ and drifted past.

Wearing a pair of large, flashy earrings, Vee materialized out of the mass and waved me over. ‘You look fabulous. Not even a hint of the wronged wife. Introductions,’ she cried. ‘This is Rose.’

I was introduced to a distinguished theatre critic, who had written a book on Whither the Theatre?, currently receiving a lot of attention, a man dressed from head to toe in leather and a cross-looking female novelist in a full skirt, a wide belt and a waterfall of necklaces. The theatre critic turned his attention to Leather Man and I was left to struggle with the novelist, who wrote under the name of Angelica Browne.

‘You’ve just published a new novel, I gather?’

Her crossness intensified. ‘It’s doing well and I’m rather proud of it except… I’ve had some nasty reviews. Critics, you know.’

‘I do know about critics.’

Anxious as writers always were, she pressed on. ‘I was writing about a design fault in nature. Young females are flooded with oestrogen and oxytocin, hormones that make them broody. Young men are flooded with testosterone, which tugs them in a different direction. In middle age, when male testosterone levels begin to fall, females lose their oestrogen and start producing testosterone and off they go, just as the men are happy to play golf and win prizes for their lawns. Fictionally speaking, it’s the stuff of tragedy’.

‘I suppose it is. Do male and female ever balance?’

She shrugged impatiently. ‘That’s the point.’

‘Angelica,’ Vee shepherded us into a huge dining room, which had revolving glass balls in the ceiling, ‘gender is dated. Gender is out. We don’t think about it any more.’

I found myself seated between the theatre critic, whose name was Lawrence, and Leather Man, a printer from Essex, who leant over and unfolded my napkin. ‘Let’s get stuck into the wine,’ he said hopefully.

I was getting along famously with Lawrence, who was on fine, spitting form, until I made the mistake of looking across our table to the next. Nathan was sitting there with his back to me. A seat away from him was Minty, whose profile I could observe – if I cared to. Their table was made up of senior executives, including Timon, from the Vistemax Group, with their wives – including the Good Wife, Carolyne Shaker – and a couple of big authors and their companions. Among them, Minty stood out like a sore thumb. She had chosen a dress in a dull green that was too low-cut and did not flatter her. Her contribution to the conversation appeared minimal.

Vee made desperate faces at me across our table. Sorry, sorry.

Ridiculously, it was Nathan’s obliviousness to my presence that upset me most. It brought back the terror that I was dissolving, becoming invisible, melting into the walls and carpet. It reopened the question: who was Rose?

I concentrated on summoning the figure in the mirror in Paris – the interesting, exquisitely dressed one who had something to say, who had managed motherhood, a career, a home, who had loved her husband, her children, food, wine, the sea… her garden. Little by little, the panic dissolved and I could breathe more easily. I looked down and discovered that I had shredded the roll on my sideplate into pellets and arranged them into a pattern, the smaller ones in the middle, the larger ones in a circle round the edge of the plate.

Under the cover of listening to Lawrence’s diatribe on the modern theatre – too expensive, no sense of adventure, mediocre – I studied Nathan. He seemed different. Looser and less contained. Less poured into a mould that had settled around him after he had been promoted to deputy editor. A colleague passed by the table, greeted him, and Nathan replied – easy and charming amid the clutter of candles and glasses. Smiling through the ease and affluence.

My breath quickened: leaving me had made him look like that.

Minty fumbled in her handbag and applied another layer of lipstick; her mouth was like a scarlet gash below the slanting eyes. Carolyne lifted her glass to her lips and sent me a nod of solidarity. The beef arrived, too spicy and fussy. I left most of it.

‘Not hungry?’ inquired Leather Man. With relief, I turned to talk to him.

I did not register much about the speeches. The lights dimmed, the globes flashed and, no doubt, the winners were modest. Eventually, the audience clapped for the final time and the evening began to break up. A hand descended on my shoulder. ‘Hallo, Rose, I’ve been searching for you,’ said Monty Chavet. ‘You look like a gorgeous flower. Can I put you in my vase?’

He propelled me through the crush and tapped a male back, whose owner swung round. ‘Hallo, Monty,’ said Timon, all affability until he saw me.

‘Look here, Timon,’ Monty was at his loudest, which was pretty loud and I was touched by his chivalry, ‘you’ve made a mistake getting rid of this girl. She was the best in town. You should think again.’

Timon did not miss a beat. ‘Rose did a brilliant job, didn’t she? I’m glad you think as highly of her as we do.’ He draped his arm across Monty’s shoulders. ‘A little bird tells me you have a book coming out in the autumn. You must be sure that we have a look at it. Send it to me.’

The battle taking place in Monty’s breast was probably a sincere, well-fought one, but doomed. ‘Sure.’ He gave a tiny shrug and I smiled at him to show there were no hard feelings.

Timon drew him away. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’

There was a polite touch on my elbow. ‘Hallo,’ said Neil Skinner, the junior minister. ‘I thought there was a chance you might be here.’ He looked marginally less fraught than when I had met him in February. ‘The whisper is that I might gets arts in the next reshuffle, so I wangled an invite here.’ He eyed me up approvingly, which was infinitely cheering.

‘I thought about our conversation a lot after Flora Madder killed herself,’ I told him.

Neil frowned. ‘Yes, that was awful. Of course, it was a well-known secret that she was a manic depressive and had been threatening suicide for years. Charles had been trying to keep the show on the road, terrified that she’d kill herself, but it was only a matter of time.’

‘I’m sorry’ I thought this over. How stupid I’d been to forget that the press only deals with the appearance of something. ‘Even so, the papers must bear some responsibility’.

Again, he touched my arm. ‘You’re still in the nasty trade?’

‘I was sacked, but I’ll be looking for another job.’

‘Keep in touch, won’t you?’ It was with pleasure that I said I would.

On the way to collect my coat, I spotted Minty. She was attempting to negotiate the stairs up to the cloakroom in her tight dress and awkward heels and, at the same time, to hold a conversation with Peter Shaker. She moved stiffly and I knew she was not enjoying herself.

At the top of the stairs, she turned. Her eyes widened and I caught… what was it? A hint of panic and… fury. Whatever Minty had promised herself had not materialized.

The moment passed, and she shook herself back into the recognizable Minty. She leant towards Peter, touched his arm and he redoubled his attention. Bitterness rose sharp and acid in me, and I struggled with it. It was not so much that life had proved itself unfair – it was not as simple as that. Life was unfair and a quicksand. It was more that Nathan’s departure had taught me I had not come to terms with that, and my mastery of myself was not complete.

‘Rose.’ The drawl was familiar, yet not. I swung round. ‘Rose. It is Rose, isn’t it?’