Women of a Dangerous Age (13 page)

For a split second, Lou imagined the finger touching her. Surprising herself, she swiftly redirected her attention to the menu.

‘Or …' He hesitated, pondering the choice. As his hand hovered over the table, she noticed the silver band around his wrist. Lou dragged her eyes from it to his face, her anxiety about having kicked the meal off to a bad start turning into appreciation of the way he offered her a choice without taking over the meal in the way she'd dreaded. Without her saying anything, he seemed to have understood her.

They chose quickly, Lou deciding for herself within his recommendations, and finally they could talk. They
roamed through each other's lives, recapping what they had found out about each other on the plane, moving on to what had happened since they'd met. Lou concentrated on the shop and Ali's role in it, leaving out the details of her marriage. She wasn't ready to offer up her and Hooker's relationship as conversation to a near stranger. They returned to his life. He talked easily about his middle-class childhood in Delhi, his doctor father and German mother, his married twin sisters who were a paediatrician and a housewife, and his brother, a biochemist. Lou listened, liking the affection and respect he showed for them all, fascinated by hearing about such a different background from her own where achievement had been regarded far less highly. Especially if you were female. She reciprocated by telling about her children, their achievements and Nic's pregnancy. Her own backstory could wait until another time. If there was one.

By the time the main courses arrived, they were in full flow. Another glass of red wine had just been brought to the table when, with an emphatic gesture, Sanjay knocked it with his hand. Just when everything was going so well. There was nowhere for Lou to escape. She shrank back against the wall of the booth and watched as a mini tsunami of wine rushed towards her, drenching the front of her dress. How could so little spread so far, she wondered as she stared downwards, aghast.

Sanjay was half on his feet, grabbing the glass but too late. ‘I'm so, so sorry. What can I do?'

‘It'll be fine,' she said, exerting more self-control than she knew she possessed.

The waiter was already beside them, armed with paper towels, lifting the tablecloth and sliding them underneath. Since they soaked up nothing from her dress, Lou excused herself to go to the Ladies. As she stood, she felt as if someone had plunged a knife into both her feet. They must have swollen while she'd been sitting and the shoes weren't giving an inch. Why hadn't she stuck to her flat pumps instead of going for such high heels? Being seduced by appearance over comfort had proved a major mistake.

Aware of the eyes of the other diners, she concentrated on pulling herself up tall, on not going over on an ankle and on looking quite unruffled by having red wine spreading down her skirt – all the time seething inside. The dress was ruined. The waiter followed her, fussing. He showed her to a tiny but brightly lit room that contained a washbasin and hand dryer as well as a toilet. He touched the dryer. ‘You wash out the stain, then dry it here,' he insisted. ‘Better to do quickly.'

She shooed him out and locked the door, sitting down on the loo seat, levering off her shoes and wiggling her toes until the feeling returned to them, glad to be on her own. Knowing she hadn't got long, she stripped off her dress, infuriated with the safety pins that made the whole exercise such a palaver. She ran the tap and held the stain under it, only succeeding in drenching a much larger area than she'd intended. As she squeezed out most of the water, she became conscious of standing in her elastically challenged underwear and tights under the photographic gaze of a bunch of novice saffron-clad Buddhists on one wall; of
wild-haired, half-naked Indian holy men on another: and of dewy-eyed village children on the last. She had an overwhelming urge to laugh at her predicament just as someone tried to open the door.

‘Won't be a minute,' she yelled, moving across to the hand dryer, holding in her stomach – then letting go. Her audience was only made up of photos, for Christ's sake. The dryer exhaled a feeble gush of warm air that made next to no impression on the dress. Lou gave it four or five goes, punching the chrome start button each time. By then, whoever was outside was growing more frantic, twisting the door handle and jiggling the door.

‘I said hang on,' she shouted, frustrated that, in the one patch where the water had dried, the wine stain was about as visible as when she'd started. She gave the dryer one last chance before doing the only other thing left open to her. She put the dress back on, slipping the discarded safety pins into her bag and hoping for the best. Feeling as if she'd just put on a wet swimsuit, she glanced in the mirror, appalled by what she saw. She coaxed at her hair with her fingers to produce a look that was more wash-and-gone than wash-and-go, slicked on her favourite new carmine lipstick, coerced her feet into the shoes and smoothed down her dress as best she could. Then, putting on her bravest face, she unlocked the door, nodded an apology to the woman who was huffing and puffing outside and returned to the table.

In her absence, the food had been removed, the table relaid and her glass of wine replaced. The only thing that hadn't changed was Sanjeev who, when he saw her coming, got to his feet, his eyes widening as he took in the
enormous damp stain over the front of her dress. Her bag, even strategically placed, did little to hide it. The other diners weren't bothering to conceal their stares or their amusement.

‘I know. I've made it much worse,' she said, suddenly unable to stop herself smiling. ‘I should have had the beer. You were right.' She edged herself back into her seat and raised her glass. ‘Cheers!'

Uncertain how to react, he looked at her and picked up his own glass, slowly returning her smile. So he did see the funny side too. Then, as the waiter returned with their food, they started to laugh.

As they eventually left the restaurant, Sanjeev held the door for her. ‘I really am sorry about your dress,' he murmured.

‘Don't be. I've had a lovely evening.' That was the truth. She'd long ago forgotten what it was like to enjoy the company of a man who wasn't Hooker, who was in fact a lot more charming than Hooker, and the discovery was more pleasurable than she'd expected. Much more.

‘I want to ask how I can make it up to you.' They stepped out into the street, and turned towards the crossroads, looking out for a taxi.

As Sanjeev hailed the first that appeared, Lou made up her mind. No, she wouldn't ask him to cover the dry-cleaning cost. How chintzy would that be? Instead she said, ‘By letting me take you next time.' She interrupted his protest. ‘No. You've shown me quintessential Indian cooking. I'm going to show you something just as quintessentially English.'

‘What will that be?' His eyes glittered in the street light as he looked down at her.

‘Wait and see,' she said, having not the slightest idea. ‘A surprise for when you're next here.'

‘That would be delightful. Then I accept.' He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her, this time a good deal less chastely than when he'd greeted her.

Two minutes later, she was in her taxi travelling home, shoes off, thoroughly discombobulated by the fact that not only had she enjoyed the kiss, she had also responded in kind. She hugged herself. Things were looking up.

Beyond the shutters, the night was dark. Reflected back in the large window was the interior of the shop, currently busy with activity. The decorators had moved out ten days earlier and the official opening of Puttin' on the Ritz was only hours away. The brown paper covering the window had been ripped down. Inside were bleached white floorboards, white walls except for the one on the right which was painted a cool Scandinavian green – Lou had ditched the bright pink as too predictable – with changing-room curtains in just the grey she'd originally imagined. The rail along the left wall was now hung with dresses that she was rearranging for the umpteenth time. ‘Do you think they're better hung by length, style or colour? I think length, don't you?'

Ali looked up from the glass cabinet where she was arranging her jewellery. ‘Well, length pretty much governs style, doesn't it? So, yes – sounds good to me.'

‘But by colour's easier on the eye and might be better for browsing. I think I'll leave them like this and put these two in the window. Yes?' She held up a floaty three-tier Jean
Varon dress in a green floral print muslin and the dark blue moss-crêpe Ossie Clark.

‘Why not one of your own dresses?'

‘Not for tomorrow. I want to show the quality and the timelessness of the vintage and then swap it all round next week. I thought I'd hang a couple of mine on the wall, though, and perhaps one behind the counter.' She went across to inspect Ali's handiwork. ‘Ali, these really are beautiful.' She picked up a simple gold key that hung on a gold chain, weighing it in her hand before holding it up against her in front of the mirror. ‘These will give the clothes a contemporary feel. I love them.'

Ali never tired of the pleasure she experienced when someone complimented her work. There was nothing better than the feeling of a job well done and of knowing that someone appreciated the effort and imagination that she poured into what she did. For the next half-hour, they worked together to get the place looking exactly as they wanted.

‘So are we ready?' Lou straightened the pile of press releases on the counter and then one of the postcards showing a cocktail dress and one of Ali's delicate insect necklaces – a bee in flight suspended on a delicate chain. ‘We've asked everyone who might be useful to come …' She stopped, a look of panic crossing her face. ‘Suppose they didn't get their invitations?'

‘Of course they did.' For the last two weeks, Ali's role, apart from official goldsmith, had been to soothe and reassure. She was astonished how much she'd had to prop up Lou's anxiety. This was a side to her she hadn't seen before.

‘And if they haven't?'

‘Then we'll drink the drink and have another official opening day when we can afford some more.' Brave words but inside, Ali was as nervous as a kitten. If no one turned up, the business would be much more of a challenge to get under way. Originally the plan had been for her not to be there. Lou had been too anxious that Hooker might turn up unannounced and neither of them wanted him to find them together, tomorrow of all days. Then, at the last minute, Lou had discovered that he was going to be safely holidaying on the other side of the world. The way was clear for them to host the opening together.

‘The kids are coming to take me out for dinner afterwards. I'd ask you along but …' Lou hesitated.

‘Don't worry. I know the score. We don't want any chance of them mentioning me to Hooker.' She found that using Ian's nickname put a pleasing distance between them. ‘Anyway, I'm going home to put my feet up. And Don may be calling me,' she added suddenly, looking to see the effect her announcement would have on Lou.

‘Really? I thought he was in Australia,' said Lou, surprised. ‘Not that he can't call from there, of course, but …'

‘But he's not. He's back here, involved in setting up an NGO dealing with international human rights. Still saving the world.' She sat in the reupholstered junk-shop chair that they'd put outside the changing rooms, picked up one of the fashion magazines from the small table and started flicking the pages, as if his being in the country barely affected her.

‘You never said.' Lou sounded suspicious.

‘I forgot.' Not quite true. She just hadn't been ready to say anything.

‘Any wife, partner, girlfriend?'

‘Marriage on the rocks, apparently.' She tried to sound nonchalant, as if nothing could be less significant.

‘Well, Miss Macintyre. Looks like your ship might be about to come in.'

‘I don't think so,' she protested. ‘I've sworn off men, remember? We're just old friends.' She wasn't going to admit to the flicker of excitement she'd felt on hearing his voice.

‘Yeah, yeah. We'll see.'

‘Enough!' Ali slapped down the magazine and stood up to change the subject. ‘Come over here and look at what we've done. The place looks terrific.'

‘You really think so?' Lou stepped out from behind the counter and joined her at the back of the shop. Together they took in the two rails of clothes, the shelf of bags, belts and gloves above the left-hand vintage rail, all meticulously arranged. Above the opposite vintage-inspired rail, two dresses hung on the wall, one a green and blue striped
Mad Men
style day dress, the other a cocktail dress in deep green shot silk designed by Lou along the lines of the one Sanjeev had so ably drenched in wine. By the counter stood the gleaming cabinet containing Ali's jewellery that winked under the ceiling spotlights.

‘Have more confidence, woman! We're going to be busy.'

Lou hugged her. ‘I hope you're right.'

 

The next day Lou woke at 4.30 a.m. as the first train of the day rattled past, so hot that she had to throw off her duvet. She turned her pillow over, waiting for the flush to pass so she could cover herself up again. But even when she'd cooled down, she couldn't sleep. She lay on her back, breathing deeply, trying to persuade herself that whatever happened today wouldn't matter. But it would. Desperately. Preoccupied by fulfilling her ambition, she hadn't given a thought to how exposed she'd feel when the dream became reality. She had put so much of herself into her own designs and the choice of fabrics, as well as into the choice of her stock, that she felt as if she was about to stand up stark naked in front of the world. And if everyone looked away or took no notice? As much as she told herself she didn't care, deep down she wanted her choices validated by the approval of her ex-colleagues and friends. She wanted success. Just thinking about what, she was increasingly sure, would be a disaster, made her heart pump quicker.

At least Hooker wasn't here to gloat over her failure. Nic had dropped his visit to Thailand into the conversation a week earlier.

‘Alone?' Lou had asked pointedly.

Nic looked sheepish. ‘Well, there might be someone. But what does it matter? He needs the break after everything he's been through.'

Lou said nothing. Thailand indeed! The most exotic they'd ever got to was Europe. But she knew Hooker too well. Holidaying on his own was not his thing. His companion from the Regis would no doubt be glued to his side. If Nic knew about her, then it must be more serious
than she'd thought. But it couldn't be. The woman had looked half his age. All these thoughts went round and round. Then her alarm went off. It was seven o'clock.

As she was sitting down to a bowl of muesli, telling herself that calories from the dried fruit and nuts didn't count, there was a knock on the door. Gathering her dressing gown round her, she padded across the hall, expecting to see the postman.

‘Tom!' She hugged her youngest to her, pretending not to notice the acrid smell of stale cigarette smoke. His life, not hers, she reminded herself. ‘Isn't this a bit early for you? Is something wrong?'

He pulled out of her embrace and went to the kitchen. ‘Mmm. Coffee. Actually, believe it or not, I came by specially to wish you luck for today. Cassie on the fashion pages said she was going to drop in on you, so I thought I'd swing by on the way to work.'

‘That's so sweet of you. But I'm miles out of your way.' She started making a fresh pot of coffee.

He winked. ‘But not out of Sarah's.'

‘Who?' She didn't remember the name.

‘Someone I met last week. She likes to get to her office at eight so kicked me out at seven fifteen!' Like a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat, he conjured two warm croissants from his bag. ‘So I thought of you.'

Lou knew better than to ask for details. Tom buzzed from one woman to another like a bee in a wildflower meadow. She had long ago got used to the fact that by the time she'd cottoned on to the latest girl's name, he'd already moved to the next. Although his behaviour offended every feminist
bone in her body, there was nothing she could do to stop him. He'd learned at the knee of a master, she thought with regret.

‘Well, sit down then and tell me what else is happening in your life.' She produced two plates and joined him in the much bigger breakfast than she'd intended to have. Over the next half-hour, she was updated on his football team's place in the league, his friend Sam's decision to take a foreign reporter's job in Saigon, his frustrations with the way he was treated at work. Why was it that he, like Jamie, behaved as if the world owed him a living? She was sure she and Hooker hadn't led them to expect success on a plate. Nic and Rose, Jamie's fiancée, both worked without complaint. Oh, well, she loved his chat all the same. Eventually and reluctantly she stood up.

‘I'm going to have to kick you out now. If I don't get ready, the shop won't open.'

‘Shit!' He looked at his watch. ‘And I've got to run. The news editor will give me such a bollocking if I'm late again.' A brief kiss and he was gone, leaving Lou to run her bath, taking a coffee with her, touched by his visit.

As she stripped off, she dropped her clothes on the floor as she went, still delighting in the new freedom of not having to set an example or to keep the place as ordered as Hooker liked. She wished she'd been bolder about removing Jenny's floor-to-ceiling mirror but she'd been worried about the state of the wall behind it. Some things were better left hidden. A view amply confirmed as she caught sight of her own reflection. Her sister had been convinced that a daily reminder of the shape of things
would help her stick to all her dietary resolves. But Lou had never stuck to such a thing in her life. Besides, she told herself, their family gene pool predicated that the women shouldn't look absolutely perfect. Not for them the bodies she'd seen paraded every other day in her former incarnation on
Chic to Chic
. When she left the magazine, she had vowed not to make her waistline a priority in her life, nor to conform to anyone's fashion dictates but her own. She braced herself as she turned back to confront her image. Remember, she told herself. The new me is someone who celebrates what they've got and makes the most of it.

She stared at her mirror image. Not bad, but when
did
that happen? She was genuinely mystified. It wasn't even a question of having let her body go – it was more a case of her body having walked off in another direction without her noticing. Starting at the lowest point, neat ankles that hinted at her former size and legs that were still in good(ish) shape, apart from the hint of cellulite and the slight sag of the inner thigh. From the front what struck her most was not the slightly protruding stomach or the less than perky breasts (she'd had three children, for Christ's sake) but the beginnings of a spare tyre that had settled just above her hip bones, or at least where she remembered them being when they'd last been visible. Where had that come from? She turned sideways on. There it was again, at home around her back, protecting her kidneys and obliterating the waist she thought she didn't care about. Celebrate, she warned herself as she dragged her eyes upwards. Her arms were still slim at least.

She looked at herself in the eyes, a direct appraising stare.
Not such a bad old face. Others might have gone for an eye-, neck-or face-lift – but not her. She lifted the sag of her jawline with her fingers. Even if she had the money and the encouragement of her family, she'd rather stick with what nature gave her: a friendly face, she liked to think, with wide eyes surrounded by a tracery of fine wrinkles, cheeks a little too apple-like for her liking, a mouth that had lost its plumpness but still turned up at the corners.

Before she stepped into the bath she sloshed some Moroccan rose otto bath oil into the water. She half shut her eyes and inhaled. Can a girl ever have too much of such a good thing? She remembered Hooker's yell as he once saved himself from slipping on the bottom of the bath when he climbed in to take a shower, only moments after she'd exited the room steaming and perfumed with lime blossom bath oil – his birthday present to her, chosen no doubt by Sally, his compliant PA. Unfortunately the only casualty had been the shower curtain.

After a good soak, she dared the mirror again, staring despondently at her hair that looked more like Medusa's snakes. However many years passed, however much she tried to accept the rest of her, she would never be happy with the hair God gave her, especially now that it took the equivalent of the national debt to keep the once natural Titian red up to the mark. And no amount of ‘product', as her hairdresser insisted on calling it, would make it conform to the unruffled businesslike look she was hoping to project through the day. She had no choice but to accept the wild woman of Borneo look. She gazed at her face, leaning forward as she noticed a couple of new wrinkles appear in
her right cheek if she tilted her head a certain way. She removed her specs. That was better. How wonderful nature is, she mused: as your looks begin to fail so does your eyesight. If God had meant us to see how decrepit we were growing, he'd have provided us with a lifetime of 20/20 vision. She brushed on her illuminating concealer. An expensive con surely, but no, it did seem to help. Cheered, she continued her preparations to face the world: not too much blusher, lipstick or mascara but not so little that she looked as if she'd just exited an intensive care unit.