Every Good Girl
Authors: Judy Astley
GOOD GIRL
Judy Astley
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781409057727
EVERY GOOD GIRL
A BLACK SWAN BOOK : 0552997668
9780552997669
First publication in Great Britain
PRINTING HISTORY
Black Swan edition published 1998
5 7 9 10 8 6 4
Copyright © Judy Astley 1998
The right of Judy Astley to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Condition of Sale
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Black Swan Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd,
61â63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,
a division of The Random House Group Ltd,
in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd,
20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia,
in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd,
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand
and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd,
Isle of Houghton, Corner of Boundary Road & Carse O'Gowrie,
Houghton 2198, South Africa.
Judy Astley was frequently told off for daydreaming at her drearily traditional school but has found it to be the ideal training for becoming a writer. There were several false starts to her career: secretary at an all-male Oxford college (sacked for undisclosable reasons), at an airline (decided, after a crash and a hijacking, that she was safer elsewhere) and as a dress designer (quit before anyone noticed she was adapting
Vogue
patterns). She spent some years as a parent and as a painter before sensing that the day was approaching when she'd have to go out and get a Proper Job. With a nagging certainty that she was temperamentally unemployable, and desperate to avoid office coffee, having to wear tights every day and missing out on sunny days on Cornish beaches with her daughters, she wrote her first novel,
Just for the Summer
. She has now had eight novels published by Black Swan.
Also by Judy Astley
JUST FOR THE SUMMER
PLEASANT VICES
SEVEN FOR A SECRET
MUDDY WATERS
THE RIGHT THING
EXCESS BAGGAGE
NO PLACE FOR A MAN
and published by Black Swan
âWorm tablet. Don't forget the worm tablet.'
Monica Dyson, of meddlesome habit, stood at the kitchen doorway watching, ready to pounce with advice and criticism as her son decanted cat food from tin to bowl. One hand rested on the door handle for support, but the other, the one with all the silver bracelets, flicked and fluttered as if she was miming what her son's actions should be. Her tongue clicked little noises of impatience and she clung to the door handle to stop herself flying across the room and wresting the fork from his awkward, too-big fingers to dice the cat's supper herself. He was just mashing it about uselessly, in that hopeless way boys did, pulping it to a sodden thick mass instead of slicing it neatly crisscrossed to bite-sized shards the way she would have done it. Boys needed to be given jobs to do around the house, it made them feel important. Monica believed that men who weren't allowed to feel important made trouble for everyone, just to get themselves noticed. Her son-in-law for one. They had it in their hormones â something prehistoric about being allowed to think they were in charge of things. Any little thing would do, she'd come to realize over the years, just carrying a moderately heavy bag or being thanked for sweeping up a few leaves from the path. There wasn't a woman born who really couldn't change a plug.
âAnd cut it small otherwise she leaves half of it. Her
teeth aren't what they were.' Whose are? she thought to herself.
Monica's son Graham smiled down at the grey striped cat which purred and narrowed its sly orange eyes at him. He ignored his mother and concentrated on what he was doing. If he took his eyes off the cat she'd head-butt the bowl out of his hand and onto the black and white tiled floor and that would mean mess and trouble. He'd remembered the worm tablet (crushed and mixed in), he'd forked the food into a manageable mush and he knew there wouldn't be anything left in just ten minutes. The food was the cat's favourite â a foul-smelling mackerel mixture.
âIt's all done, Mother, I did remember,' he told Monica patiently. He put the dish on the kitchen floor and the cat immediately started gobbling greedily at the food, still purring. She didn't care how neatly it was presented, she'd have wolfed it down straight from the tin like a greedy teenager home from a late night, foraging in the cupboard for spaghetti hoops.
âYou'll choke,' he warned it, stroking the animal's ears.
âDon't fuss her while she's eating!' Monica scolded, reaching forward and smacking his wrist away from the cat. âShe'll only follow you for more attention and leave it all! She's got to get that tablet down. You'd know why if you'd seen what I saw in her litter tray this morning.'
Graham scowled but obediently left the cat to eat in peace, grumpily throwing the empty tin at the kitchen bin and missing. Flecks of processed mackerel scattered over the floor tiles and Monica gave an exaggerated gasp. âOh you are
such
a clumsy boy! Now look what you've done! Go and get a cloth, go on, and clear it up.'
Graham crouched at the under-sink cupboard, rooting through for a J-cloth and the Flash. He could hear his mother muttering furiously to herself as she went back to the TV in the sitting room. The sofa squeaked as she sat down heavily. âHopeless boy,' he heard her say. He smiled sadly to himself as he carefully swabbed down the floor. The âboy' was thirty-nine.
The model's smile was sheer come-and-get-it, unsuitably so from among the virginal wisps of a white wedding veil. Barely deigning to touch the arm of her âgroom' as if to emphasize his lowly status as mere scenery, she strolled languidly along the shopping-mall catwalk, avoiding the meeting of eyes, the unprofessional temptation to be distracted from what she was doing. The simple dress clung to the full length of her body, with a curved split from ankle to thigh from which glimpses of one slim pale leg could be seen. It was the kind of dress that made it clear what marriage was really for.
Behind her, tiny and careful, watching the floor for where their satin-shod feet should be going, trailed a parade of six âbridesmaids', in shades of pink and lilac, all net and silk roses, with baskets of daisies swaying precariously from their chubby fingers. The audience were bag-laden and weary but lingered to catch the end of the fashion show, careless of the approaching rush hour and the mounting car park charges. They sighed collectively at such a sight of pure prettiness and as the sleek couple reached the end of the catwalk, there was a spontaneous burst of applause. But when the model stopped to turn and pose and smile, the little train behind her continued walking, just as they had been told. No-one in the flustered, chaotic changing room had said anything about stopping. The girl felt them
colliding together behind her and her paid-to-be-radiant smile faltered as they crashed into her and shoved her to a silky tangle three feet below the podium. There was an undignified scuffling of fabric, the rasp of ripping lace, and the pounding feet of the fleeing âgroom'.
âMu-mmy!' wailed the model, clutching her tumbled veil and pushing her dress down to cover her mortifyingly exposed underwear. â
Mum-my!
' she roared, face scarlet and tears fast gathering. Lucy's mother Nina continued calmly folding clothes in the dressing area and assumed that she would be summoned if her daughter was truly hurt. If she wasn't, there was no point making a fuss â little mishaps like this would merely help Lucy on the stony road to independence. They'd laugh about it together later.
âPoor little thing. Where
is
her mum?' sympathized an onlooker, reaching across to help her back up onto the podium. âNever mind dear, it was just an accident.' The reassurance attempt failed. The model gathered her crumpled skirt together, pushed her furious self past the sobbing remains of her baby retinue and fled. She was, after all, only ten years old.
Nina Malone stood in front of her mirror and wished the bathroom lights weren't quite so ruthless. She was sure that under something less honest her face wouldn't look anything like as lived-in. She'd been a still-optimistic thirty-five when she and Joe had opted for the high-tech low-voltage lighting makeover. âThen when you're old and your eyes have gone, you won't get lipstick all over your chin,' he'd joked at the time. At thirty-five, you were still a year or two from the end of thinking that was funny. Six years on, bloody Joe was no longer around to see (or care) where she smeared her make-up. She could be squinting into a powder-speckled hand mirror, or the reflection from the switched-off TV for all he knew.
âOh what's the point?' she sighed, carelessly whisking blusher over her cheekbones. She placed her fingers each side of her jaw and eased the tiny amount of slack skin upwards. The years since the lights were installed disappeared, or at least she assumed they did, because that's what everyone who was slyly checking out the potential results of cosmetic surgery said. âYou've still got good bones, I'll say that for you,' her mother had told her a year or two ago. Monica had said it as if that was the only positive comment she was prepared to make, and then only grudgingly. Nina smiled at herself and forgave the brutal lights, because now they beamed down on the perfect gleaming teeth
which had, many years before, got her the Pearl Girl toothpaste job, placing her grinning mouth on hoardings and magazine pages all over the country. âSo, you're a gob-model' had been Joe's bizarre first words to her.
âOK, so which earrings?' Nina turned and asked the man perched on the edge of the bath, watching her.
âWell it's only lunch,' Henry reminded Nina.
âI know. And it's only Joe,' she agreed. âThe pearl studs or the gold semi-quavers? What do you think?'
Henry inspected Nina by way of the mirror. He grinned at her, his weatherbeaten face corrugating. With the general unfairness of the ageing of the sexes, the light which was merciless to women made Henry look adventurous and interesting. He looked like an explorer, just back from discovering a new antipodean reptile. âHuge great dangling diamond chandelier numbers, that would be my choice. Show the bastard that even without him â no,
especially
without him â you have
life
.'