Precious Things (7 page)

‘She never tasted such before . . .'
The words from ‘Goblin Market' flitted across her mind, baiting. And with that, she stepped forward, raising her face to his. It seemed he understood now. Gaston leaned down, brushing
her lip with his fingertips, sending shivers down her spine. Aimée dared put a hand to his chest. She closed her eyes, breathing in his scent.

Bending his head to hers, he spoke, ‘Well well, you little trollop . . .' He laughed softly, hands busy at the buttons of her nightgown.

Aimée opened her eyes, shocked. What had he said?

There was a noise, just outside the door. Gaston stopped, head jerking up.

‘Quick – no one must find you here!' he said, bundling her roughly behind the door. Opening it against her, he checked up and down the corridor. Footsteps receded.

‘It's clear,' he said then, nudging her into the hallway unceremoniously, motioning for her to leave. ‘Go, go.'

Aimée felt like he'd slapped her across the face. She stumbled down the stairs, sickening nausea and shame crashing down – wave upon wave of it. So that was it. All her desire, all her yearning, for a man who thought she was no more than a silly plaything? All those months of pining, only to experience such . . .
mortification
! She felt again the shove against her shoulders as he hissed at her, ‘Go.' My God, how close had she come to being undone?

When she reached her sewing parlour, Aimée snatched the dress down from its hanger. Feverishly tearing at the creamy organza, she pulled away the lining from the collar's coarse, embellished linen. Picking up her needle and blinking through hot, angry tears, she began stitching hasty words into the underside of the collar with red embroidery thread. Brave, empty words for her future, defiant and true. The bright scarlet thread blurred before her eyes as the tears fell freely.
What a foolish, stupid girl I've been . . .
Aimée worked like a woman possessed. The small wound in her finger reopened, blood mingling with thread as some spirit compelled her to work faster than ever – the task seemed urgent and necessary. She sewed on until she was finished.

Snipping a piece of voile from beneath the skirt's bustle, Aimée secured it in place over the collar's underside and sewed it down with fast, tight stitches.
Good
, she thought,
the words are hidden, but I know they exist.
They would be her secret; her spur, she hoped, for her future.
Smoothing the fabric in place, Aimée looked over her work again. The scarlet words had disappeared. Invisible now, beneath the folded voile. She felt lighter than she had in months. A strange calm came over her.

Placing the long white dress back on its hanger, Aimée hung it on the picture rail. Suddenly drained, she stepped away and fell, exhausted, on to the chaise longue. Now there were only hours left.

Aimée braced herself against the table in her dressing room. Faustine pulled the laces of the corset tighter, constricting her breath. Movement was virtually impossible; her ribs felt swollen and bruised. Aimée was convinced they were about to cave in with the effort of the whalebone pressing against her sides, pushing up her small breasts. She thought she might break in two.

‘Just a tiny bit more, mademoiselle. It's almost done,' the maid said.

‘Enough!' Aimée cried, her voice ragged and harsh. She hated Faustine in that moment. ‘It's tight enough already. Do you really need to take it in any more?'

‘A little, yes,' Faustine responded without emotion, jerking Aimée from side to side as she worked the laces a few precious millimetres closer. Aimée cried out in pain, her breasts thrusting upwards and out. Faustine tied the lace in a tight bow at the base of her spine, knotting it again.

Aimée looked up to see her reflection in the long mirror lining the armoire door. She looked a stranger to herself . . .
inside the goblin market, feasting upon globes of red.
Twin circles of colour bloomed on her cheeks from Faustine's exertions.
Obscene
, she told herself.
I look obscene.
The frown between her eyes was the deep tick of a child's bird scrawled in flight.

The minutes and seconds passed by, time marching steadily on until, finally, the moment came. She stepped down from the carriage outside the church.

The congregation turned towards Aimée, craning their necks and jostling for position as she moved to join her father. They were all trying to catch a glimpse: the bride, dressed in white. Virginal regalia, rose red cheeks. Fugitive blood pounded through her veins as she took another step closer, gripping Father's hand. Her vision blurred and her hands began to shake. Aimée thought, distantly, that she might be about to vomit. Father gave a sharp sideways glance, licking his lips. But did not stop walking. Towards Bernard, and the altar.

The priest stood before them in gold- and mauve-lined robes, a tall crown towering upon his head. Her father passed Aimée's hand into Bernard's and she turned to look at him properly, as if for the first time. His brown eyes looked soft. Shining and calm.
Not so very frightening
, she thought.
Nor as unfathomable as Gaston's
. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly at her gaze. Aimée gulped at the air, seeking breath. But none came. The collar was just as she'd imagined it: a trap sprung tightly shut, sharp teeth against her neck. Strangling the life from her. The priest intoned his Mass in Latin, sending her thoughts far away . . . She cast her eyes up to Christ on the cross, to the heavens, searching for Maman . . . But Amandine had deserted her again. Dull pain hit her squarely in the chest.

Aimée's head grew empty as a gourd. Clutching at the collar, her fingers displaced a few small, loose beads. A murmur rose from the congregation. Beads cascaded down the bodice of her gown, bouncing soundlessly at her feet. They rolled under the altar, gone.

The priest swam in her vision. She heard Bernard's voice, deep and close in her ear. Aimée clutched at her neck. Eyes rolling skywards, the sound of a hundred gasps rang in her ears.

And just like that, she fell, the world turning black and cold.

‘Leaving in five minutes!' Tim roared from somewhere downstairs.

He's in the kitchen
, Maggie thought, as she grasped Pearl's foot and struggled to wrangle it into the leg of a pair of woolly star-spangled tights. Maggie could just picture him, in his dark blue business shirt and trousers, standing next to the old farmhouse table, scattered with the usual detritus of breakfast plates, crumbs and cups.

He'll be eating toast and reading the papers
, Maggie thought.
I hope he doesn't throw away the weekend magazines . . .
While she was a bit useless at checking the news every day – she knew she really should do it more often – Maggie loved poring over the longer profile pieces in the weekend supplements. There'd been one that had particularly intrigued her the other morning, and she'd dog-eared the page with the intention of getting back to it in a spare moment. It was an article about a famous female artist from the fifties or sixties . . . Maggie had never heard of her, but there was something about the woman's eyes that was pained and haunting, despite her creamy, glowing skin. Maggie had been meaning to fish it out for days now.

‘Come on, darling, help Mummy, please,' said Maggie, struggling to pull the tights up Pearl's chubby little legs, which were now furiously trying to kick away the unwanted garment. She finally succeeded in pulling them up, then smoothed down Pearl's skirt and grabbed her for a quick kiss, sitting back on her heels.

‘Too smudgey, Mummy. Smudgey kiss!'

Maggie smiled, then glanced at her watch. If there was going to be coffee for her this morning, it would have to be a takeaway. She felt
harassed and breathless, and it was not yet seven-thirty. She was due at the Channel 4 studios for the television guest spot in an hour, but of course she was running late – as usual. And Pearl still wasn't ready.

‘Come on, Pearl, shoes now.' Maggie bent down to do up the straps and felt her daughter lean into her, using Maggie's head to steady herself. Maggie felt her neck twist painfully and she pulled away with a gasp.

‘Not
those
ones, Mummy,' Pearl cried, sensing Maggie's momentary loss of concentration and wriggling out of her grasp. The little girl scrambled to her favourite hiding spot behind the chintzy faded armchair in the corner of the bedroom. Sitting down heavily, she then tore off the offending tights, which sailed over the armchair towards Maggie.

‘
No
tights. I want my
ballet
shoes,' said Pearl, voice muffled by the thumb jammed in her mouth. Her life-sized baby doll, the beloved Lucy, was clutched to her chest.

‘Come out from there, sweetheart,' Maggie begged, trying to prise her out of the tight corner that Pearl had worked herself into. ‘Right now, please. We need to get going, otherwise we'll make Daddy late.'

‘But I don't want the star ones, Mummy. I want the pink ones. With the butterflies. Lucy does too,' Pearl said, glaring at her.

‘They're in the wash,' Maggie said quickly. ‘But what about these ones? Look, they're so pretty.'

‘Ballet shoes!' Pearl insisted, pulling her hand away. ‘No tights!'

Maggie heard Tim's footsteps on the stairs. ‘We're going to be late,' he shouted. ‘Hurry up, Mags – I've got a meeting with the developers at nine. Unless you can take her?'

‘Can't. Got the telly thing, remember?' Maggie shouted back.

‘Pearl!' he barked. ‘Out. Now.'

‘Yes, Daddy,' replied Pearl, suddenly compliant. She scrambled out from behind the chair, trailing the limp doll behind her.

Maggie rolled her eyes at Tim, and he shot her a grin over Pearl's head. ‘Has this little monkey been giving you trouble?' he asked, grabbing Pearl's hand. ‘And where's Stella? Is she even up yet? I wanted to talk to her about that essay . . .'

‘I haven't seen her this morning, but I'll make sure she's up by the time I leave,' said Maggie, raising her voice in the vain hope Stella would hear it through her closed door and get out of bed by herself.

Maggie followed Tim and Pearl downstairs, watching as Pearl let him put her coat on without argument. She gave a resigned sigh. At least it was better than the previous week: Pearl's claims of being too ‘scared' to go to nursery and her tantrum had made them all miss their trains on Friday morning. What had that been about? Generally Pearl loved the nursery. When Maggie had told Pearl she simply must go, that she couldn't possibly stay home with Mummy because Mummy had to work, Pearl had burst into tears. ‘You always have to work!' she had shouted. It had made Maggie feel wretched all week.

‘Tim, her tights,' Maggie suddenly remembered, holding out the balled-up stockings.

‘No time. She can go without,' said Tim, shrugging on his coat and bending to give Maggie a brief kiss on the cheek.

‘But she'll freeze! Pearl, your boots,' she cried forlornly as Pearl slipped on her grubby pair of ballet shoes by the hallstand then wound her left arm around Tim's leg, the other dragging Lucy.

‘All right, we're off. Scoot,' said Tim to Pearl, gently nudging her down the front steps. ‘Say goodbye to Mummy.'

‘Bye, Mummy,' called Pearl, skipping down the stairs before Maggie had a chance to pat down her daughter's crazy sticky-out hair or grasp her in another quick cuddle, drinking in the gorgeous smell of her morning skin. She was glad she wasn't catching the train with them today, at least. The other commuters must wonder what kind of mother she was, letting her daughter face the chilly day with bare legs and shabby ballet slippers . . . But sometimes arguing was simply more trouble than it was worth.

Maggie shut the front door and began moving fast. She went back into the kitchen, sighing when she saw the mess littering the table. Really, Tim could make a bit more effort . . . Quickly and efficiently Maggie gathered up the dishes and stacked them in the large ceramic sink, putting the bread away and grabbing the lunch she'd packed
earlier. She glanced around the room. Dominated by the long, honey-coloured farmhouse table, the large, low-lit kitchen was her favourite place in the house.

Maggie had looked for ages before she'd found the perfect kitchen table, but as soon as she'd laid eyes upon the sturdy item in an otherwise unpromising house view – one of countless visits she made each week to source floor stock – she'd known it was exactly what she wanted for her life with Tim.

‘It's from Burgundy,' the woman selling it told her. Maggie knew the tired-looking woman was readying the contents of her mother's Berkshire house for sale after the old woman had been shifted to an aged-care facility. ‘We used to have a holiday home there, but it had to go after Dad's stroke,' she murmured, rubbing the scarred surface of the table, which was pocked with a thousand small dents and rubbed shiny by decades of use. ‘I'd keep it myself, but there's no way it'll fit in my apartment – if you don't take it, I'll ask the neighbours to help me cart it out to the street.'

Maggie shuddered at the thought of such an attractive object being exposed to the elements – it would be ruined in days. ‘No, it's beautiful,' she said truthfully. ‘I love it. But are you really sure you want to let it go?'

‘It's just me and this one,' the woman said, nodding down at the ugly tabby cat encircling her legs. ‘No chance of anyone else joining us now.'

Maggie nodded politely to mask her discomfort. It was amazing the things people shared with her, in their grief. Even if auctions did generally revolve around the three Ds – death, divorce and disaster – she was constantly taken aback by the intimate tales of family rifts, infidelity and money troubles of her clients. And, sometimes, their crushing loneliness. People she'd only just met often bared their souls to her within minutes. ‘But if you love it,' the woman continued, ‘I'm happy for you to have it. I hope you enjoy it as much as we did.'

And now the table sat, exactly as she'd pictured it, squarely within the heart of their home, an almost living presence in itself. And it was loved. It was the sort of table Maggie had dreamed about since she was a girl, big enough for ten or more friends to gather around for a feast, but cosy enough so that she and Tim could sit and companionably share a bottle of wine together at the end of a working day, while Pearl sat drawing beside them, her pencils and books fanned out in front of her. It was a real family table, and looking at it now – scrubbed and cleaned, with an old glass jar holding some branches of cherry blossom she and Tim had collected from the Columbia Road flower market on the weekend – it felt like home.

In fact, Maggie thought, hit by a sudden realisation, it was a table drawn straight from memory, from the only other home she'd ever really known. Not her own family home, but the home of her best friend from childhood, Kate, where she'd virtually ended up living during her teenage years.

Maggie had been fourteen when her mother had first found out about her father's affairs. One brave friend in her parents' circle mentioned seeing him out with a woman from the office of the book warehouse her father managed on the outskirts of Basingstoke. Maggie's mother said the woman had begged her father to leave them, but he'd ended it. He was ashamed and contrite. But then other indiscretions came to light: her mum's oldest friend, who had disappeared from their lives overnight, and one of the neighbours (Maggie had thought the woman gave her odd looks whenever she caught the school bus with her son). Prostitutes in London, which her mother found out about while combing through her father's bank statements. He vowed to stop drinking and promised her mother he'd stop chasing women. But he didn't.

Maggie remembered the arguments, her mother and father circling each other in the living room, with its polite beige Axminster carpet and Waterford Crystal–lined shelves. But still her mother stayed in the marriage, and Maggie never really understood why.

‘I shan't be a divorcee, Margaret. I won't let him have the satisfaction,' she once said, her lips a cold thin line. ‘What would I have left? I gave up everything to be with your father, and look where it's got me. He'll have to support me as long as he lives. Do you know how many women my age end up destitute and alone? I won't sell this house.'

Maggie couldn't fathom her mother's attachment to the ugly seventies bungalow at the end of a sleepy cul-de-sac, or why her mother didn't just kick her dad out. Surely the law was there to protect her? Or was it more about ending up alone? Her mother did always care about keeping up appearances . . . Maggie used to wonder what she did all day. When she left to go to school in the morning, her mother was already fully made up and wearing her grandmother's pearls, and she was the same when Maggie came home, only with more cigarette butts in the ashtray.

Maggie had done everything she could to avoid the stifling confines of her house, where her parents seemed intent only on destroying each other. She couldn't wait to grow up, leave school and move to London with her best friend, Kate. During those few awful years, Kate's family had essentially adopted her as one of their own, and she'd spent more time with them than with her own family. Kate was small, blonde and sunny – Maggie's polar opposite in many ways – but they were as close as sisters. Kate's home was a short bus journey away in the older, more established part of town. It was less spacious and more rundown, but with much more character and warmth than the aspirational bungalow in the new suburban estate her mother clung on to so fiercely.

Perhaps it wasn't surprising, then, that Maggie's table was an almost exact replica of the one owned by Kate's family. Looking at it now, it occurred to her how obvious the connection was: eating meals with Kate's wonderful parents, Jean and Don, and Kate's older brother, David, feeling part of their tribe . . . The only time Maggie had felt anything close to safe and loved during those turbulent years.

Maggie touched the soft surface of the table wistfully, then blinked and checked her watch. Hell, what was she thinking, tidying up? There was barely any time left. She bounded up the stairs to rap on the door of her stepdaughter's bedroom. There was silence from within.

‘Stella? I've got to rush but there's sourdough on the board and granola in the cupboard. It's ten to eight.'

Maggie waited for the insults she expected to be hurled at her from behind the wooden door, but there was only silence. Stella had been getting progressively ruder and ruder over the past few weeks, and Maggie had had to take deep breaths on several occasions just to stop herself becoming caught up in a huge row.

Maggie knocked again, tentatively cracking the door open a few inches. She peeked inside. Stella's bed was a shambles of sheets, pillows and duvet. But no surly teenager lay curled up in the messy bedclothes, and the drapes were shifting in the breeze from the open window. She must have snuck out, Maggie realised, via the low roof and fence, to avoid Tim asking her about school. There was no way she'd have been able to walk down the stairs without either Maggie or Tim noticing. She wondered, with a sinking heart, what Tim would have to say about this. Stella was meant to be studying for her exams, but judging by the state of her room – with its piles of discarded clothes, empty tea cups and crumpled chip packets – there was precious little evidence of any books, notes or studying going on at all.

Panicked, Maggie checked the time again. She couldn't call Tim – he'd go ballistic, and she didn't have the time or energy to get into a prolonged conversation about Stella. Besides, Maggie knew there was no way they'd be able to find her unruly stepdaughter if she didn't want to be found. Stella would come home when she was good and ready, the way she often did.

Thinking that she'd better close the window – at least for a semblance of household security – Maggie stepped inside the bedroom. It was strewn with a tangled collection of clothing and accessories, makeup and exercise books, and glossy magazines with lurid headlines like ‘HOW TO PLEASE YOUR MAN IN BED' and ‘TEN TIPS FOR TOP ORGASMS'. Stepping over a pile of dirty underwear and T-shirts to close the window, Maggie felt sick imagining Pearl stumbling across Stella's magazines – she could almost read already, and the graphic pictures of half-naked models inside left little to the imagination.