Sally (19 page)

In his reverie, Richard wondered, quite calmly, where on earth he was. His eyes were half-closed, his left eye focused only on a bloom of whiteness which he discerned to be a pillow. His right eye made out a gap in heavily tasselled curtains. He was comfortable in the bed, warm and safe. But where was he?

‘Morning, Dick.'

Who?

Richard raised his head in a relaxed movement and scanned for the owner of the voice. He found her, sitting statuesque at the other side of the room.

Of course, Carlotta, Damn!

Richard let his head drop back to the pillow and tried to lull himself back into that just-woken state of blankness. But could not. He heard her padding towards him and she sat herself down on the edge of the bed next to him. A long, strong nail traced patterns on his bare shoulder. It felt nice.

‘Say, get yourself up. My plane goes this evening and I fancy taking breakfast some place nice.' Her voice, so deep and sensual the previous day, now grated on his ears as he detected a slight whine behind the transatlantic drawl. He looked at her and only half-recognized her. Something was different. What?

‘Morning, Carlotta.'

‘Why are you looking at me like that?' Richard looked perplexed and furrowed his brow in contemplation.

‘Something's different. What?' She laughed and batted her eyelids at him. ‘This London water made my eyes change colour!'

He looked at them. They were the most incredible violet, more violet than Elizabeth Taylor's. It came back to him. The woman he had slept with had lured him with strong emerald eyes. Beautiful eyes. Now they were violet. More violent than violet. Suddenly they didn't seem quite so beautiful. In fact, Richard thought the concept decidedly suspect.

‘What colour are they naturally?'

‘Heck, any colour I want them to be!'

Baffled, Richard made his naked way to the bathroom. On the side of the basin was a container, inside which two green contact lenses were held in suspension. Richard held them to the light.

How very bizarre.

He furtively peeped into the glitzy world of her vast wash-bag. Potions, lotions, brushes, slabs of colour, tubes of lipstick, cream for Thrush.

God! Please, no.

He rummaged as silently as he could and came across another container with ‘Sultry Mahogany' written on the side. Two deep brown contact lenses glared back at him. He had a quick look at his own eyes and found he was quite content with the colour they naturally were. He glanced at his hands and thought his well-cared-for nails vastly preferably to the plastic talons in umpteen shades of red which Carlotta kept in little boxes.

Richard gave his reflection a chastising shake of the head. He drew his fingers across his eyes, dragging the skin down and around in a bid to shed their bleariness and reactivate. His hands may be elegant but his fingers smelt of sex. He was keen to have a thorough shower and did so, freezing cold of course. He felt depleted and sullen, his stomach felt hollow but not with hunger. The shower helped physically, but emotionally he felt drained and desperate for solitary peace and quiet.

But the lady must be breakfasted. And not at my place, no siree!

He emerged, wrapped up in a luxurious towelling robe, his hair still damp and delectably tousled. Naturally.

Carlotta came over to him and slid her hands through his hair. He let himself be kissed and was surprised that his only reaction was wondering if any of her lipstick had transferred itself to his mouth or cheeks. He glanced at the mirror and was relieved to see that it had not. Still she held him. He didn't really want to be held, not just now, not this morning. Not by her. He took her wrists and smiled genially.

‘I'll take you to Hampstead. We'll have breakfast there and you'll find it rather, um,
quaint
.'

Can you guess?

Ill-fated lovers who cross paths in the most ghastly and cruel of circumstances cannot be restricted to the novels of Hardy and Dickens. I apologize but there is little I can do. Sally is already in Hampstead and Richard's Alfa Romeo is now nearing Swiss Cottage. Must they bump into each other? Can it not be that we alone know that they're both there? Alas, such a meeting, unfair as it may seem, is now sadly inevitable.

Unbeknown to Richard, he chose Sally's Tea Pot Shoppe, which she had left twenty minutes before, having been revived by an incomparable cappuccino and Carlos's reverent compliments. ‘My Engel Eesh Rosa, I know zat 'at anywhere. Please, please. Sit!' he had crooned, trying hard to disregard the rest of her appearance.

En route to the pasta shop, Sally was diverted by the antiques corridor and was caressing an old engraved pewter tankard that would make a fabulous vase but was expensive at thirty pounds while, a few yards away, Richard tucked into a decadent cooked breakfast and Carlotta sipped orange juice.

‘I like those green waxy coats,' she enthused.

‘Barbour. Very popular. Very practical. Quintessentially English. Rather expensive,' ventured Richard.

‘Well, I'd like a take-home present before I go, so I think I'll treat myself to one.'

‘We could stop off at Austin Reed on the way back to your hotel,' suggested Richard, sorting through his wallet to pay the bills. Carlos scurried off for change; lots of small change to encourage a generous tip. But Richard did not know who Carlos was.

‘I tell you what else I love, not my style though, and that's those pretty little flowery dresses that your English girls like to wear. They're so sweet, so countrified and old fashioned. So
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
. So oldy worldy. Look, like that one there,' she motioned.

Richard looked.

My God, it's Sally.

There she was, over the road and up a bit, window shopping. Richard watched as she scratched the back of one leg with the foot of her other, her arms out to either side steadying herself. His heart soared and raced and plummeted.

She can't see me here. Not with this woman! My God, but look at her! That dress? Those shoes! That cardie? Carlotta's right; so sweet, so pretty, so domestic and cosy. Well, this is a revelation. But a welcome one. She's lovely. So lovely. But she can't see me here. Not now. Shit, Sal, what have I done? And what have you done to me? It's no good, I've got to get out of here. Now. Quickly.

‘Come on, let's go and get your Barbour.' Richard urged Carlotta to her feet and left without waiting for his change. Lucky Carlos, a tip twice the cost of the breakfast. Richard looked again but Sally was gone. He felt simultaneously greatly relieved and yet terribly disappointed.

Was it her? Just an apparition? It was her, of course it was. I want her and I don't want her. I want her like that – gorgeous in rags and colour clashes – but not yet. Not now. Not today. Not 'till I've rid myself of this American affliction; not until she wants me. God, where is she? Just another peep to tide me along. Let me see her unseen.

Simultaneously desperate for another glimpse but dreading being seen, Richard tried to set the pace, brisk and assertive. Carlotta resisted, drawn compulsively to the tempting shop windows. Richard's heart was heaving and his breakfast sat defiantly at the base of his throat; his stomach too tight to allow access. His palms were clammy, his feet were cold and his knee joints stiff, though he needed them now more than ever to carry him away.

His car was around the next corner at the top of Fitzjohn's Avenue; close, frustratingly close, and yet horribly far away. He grasped Carlotta around the waist and pleaded that they really should get going if she wanted to shop for a Barbour. As he pulled her away and made her walk, he saw Sally.

And she saw him.

And they were just a few feet apart, hopelessly headed for each other.

Sally stood stock still. Richard was so overcome with horror that he could neither prevent his legs from moving nor remove his arm from Carlotta's waist. Fortunately Carlotta, unaware of the tragedy of the situation, freed herself to scrutinize a pair of boots and was soon inside the shop, leaving Sally and Richard less than a yard away from each other. Richard felt sick but not half as sick as Sally. They stood there, defying Newtonian time; their mouths open, their minds whirring, their eyes disbelieving and searching, their hearts in overdrive. He wanted to push the lock of hair away from her mouth. He wanted to fall on his knees at her feet. He wanted to swoop her up, into his arms and take her a million miles away from this place and this moment. He just wanted to touch her. But all he could do was remain frozen and desperately remorseful.

Sally wanted to dissolve. She wanted to be back in childhood, away from all this. She wanted to cry, to be sick, to fall asleep and wake up yesterday. She wanted to be anywhere but here. She wanted Richard to cradle her in his arms and kiss her forehead.

No, I don't.

Yes, you do.

‘Hon, I'm through, let's go.'

Carlotta, oblivious and brash, broke through their tragic barrier and destroyed the frozen moment. Richard heard Sally give a sharp and involuntary intake of breath and watched, helpless, as she fled across the road, the back of her dress dragging in a puddle as she went. He wanted to go after her; to catch her, to shake her, to explain to her, to kiss her. But he was rendered immobile. He had no strength to move, his body felt heavy, his eyes were fixed to the loaded space Sally had left, his heart was grinding to a halt. Carlotta, bored and still brash, hauled him to his car.

‘C'mon, hon. Take me to Dustin Reeves or wherever it is I can buy an oily Barburry.'

Austin Reed, you stupid cow
, Richard thought witheringly as he crunched his gears and sped recklessly away.

O
ur poor heroine, sad old Sal. Poor Sally of the shabby dress, she of the comfy cardie, of the tatty trainers; Sal of the dirge and frills.

How do you feel, scurrying to nowhere in particular just to get away? You can feel the gritty wet of your dress slap against the back of your calves. You can feel the chill in the air whistle its way through the holes in your cardigan, through the buttons in your frock. You're chilled, aren't you, chilled to the bone? Numb too. Poor old girl, what a nasty shock, what a beastly thing to have happened. What are you thinking, Sally Lomax? And how do you feel?

How do I feel? What do I think? I think I feel sick. I feel like I've swallowed a lump of lead. There is something in my head, a noise, it's thudding around. Every time I move my head it crashes against a side of my skull.

But what are you thinking?

What am I thinking? I'm thinking that I'm frightened, she frightened me. I can't get her out of my mind's eye. Did you see her?

Yes, we saw her, Sally, we've seen quite a lot of her, not that you'd know. But yes, we saw her.

Who is she? Who
is
she? Has he slept with her? Why were they in Hampstead? Does she live near me? When did it start between them? But did you
see
her? All high heels and couture clothes, cheek bones to die for and lips to pray for.
Did you see her? I did. And I saw Richard's hand around her waist and he didn't even drop it when he saw me. He couldn't keep his hands off her. He had his hand glued to her gorgeous horrid tiny waist. It seems bizarre but I feel rather like Hamlet. Remember his distress and disgust with his mother for exchanging the love for a husband not two months dead, for the bed of another?

A
husband
, Sal? Oh, girl! If only you knew. Think not of Hamlet, but only of yourself. What do you make of it all?

He said he loved me.

And you hated him for it.

I never hated him. I just didn't like the idea of it. In retrospect, I loathed myself more, I think. Richard, Richie, who is she? Was she good? In bed? Did you think of me? Did you compare us? Well, I compared J-Bloody-C to you. And he was lacking. I bet I was far from your mind, from your soul, from the desires of your body. Get me away from all this. Get me to a nunnery!

Sally!

Where is Richard right now? What is he thinking just this very second?

If you want to know, he has dumped
that woman
at Austin Reed with a cursory farewell to her, and ‘good riddance' racketing through his mind. He has just zoomed over a zebra crossing forcing innocent and indignant pedestrians to stand motionless and precarious in the middle of a road. He is on his way home. He does not feel very well. Like you, he's wondering about you.

‘But you don't understand. He was with a
woman
,' Sally pleaded as Diana helped herself to the untouched pasta on Sally's plate. Diana chewed thoughtfully, gazing at the swirled irises patterning Sally's laminated Liberty tablecloth.

What does she want me to say? What can I say? I'm not likely to say: ‘Well, it's all your fault, Sal.' Until she says it, says the ‘L' word that she abhors so much, then I really can't say much, can I? After all, if the love-factor didn't exist, then I doubt whether she'd be this devastated.

Diana looked across at Sally, sitting shabby and collapsed in her funny old clothes that actually only seemed funny in the wake of her recent sassy wardrobe. Sally sat still, her lower lip jutting out; in a sulk, in anger, in sadness? It was difficult to decipher its provenance. But her eyes told her tale, downcast but constantly on the move, an eyebrow furrowing, pupils darting, eyelids beating fast to prevent ready tears. Diana had finished Sally's plate and was full. She'd had enough and she had had enough.

‘Sally?' she ventured. Sally remained slumped but looked up with her eyes and scanned Diana's face desperately. ‘What is it that you want?'

Sally's eyes dropped under the weight of such a question. She sat silent and let it go unanswered. Suddenly she spurted forth a torrent of uncontrolled woe.