Loves Me, Loves Me Not

Although Hollywood wasn’t exactly beating a path to my door I was getting a reasonable amount of work. But on the romance front things could hardly have been less promising…

My friend Kate, who lived round the corner, was in the same boat. She had a highly paid fourteen-hours-a-day job in the City. We met up when we could, which wasn’t that often, given the capacity of our work to send us all over the place—hers involved first-class travel and five-star hotels; mine didn’t.

We met in coffee shops or in Kate’s palatial flat or in my teeny studio flat and over lattes or wine we sympathised about the lack of eligible men in our lives. These conversations usually ended with one of us saying that it was pathetic. On this occasion, it was Kate’s turn. ‘Let’s face it,’ she said, refilling my glass. ‘It’s pathetic, isn’t it?’

And then, suddenly, everything changed for Kate. I had just got the occasional hurried text message when out of the blue came the announcement of her engagement. Hope for us all, I thought, on the why-not principle. A few days later I got an invitation to the engagement party. Fancy Dress, it said firmly in the corner.

Well, I knew about fancy dress. I visited the nearest theatrical costumier’s, about ten minutes’ walk away from my flat, and put down a deposit to hire a lovely floor-sweeping vaguely mediaeval number in crimson velvet that reminded me of Sleeping Beauty. Just right. I arranged to collect it the afternoon before the party.

I chose an engagement present, a salad bowl glazed green and white. I packed it up with plenty of padding, wrapped the box in bright pink paper and tied a big silver bow around it. Perfect.

On the day of the engagement party I did an emergency voice-over in the morning and by three o’clock was back in my flat, finishing lunch and thinking about strolling down to the theatrical costumier’s to collect my costume. After that I should have time to slip into a bubble bath. But then my phone rang. It was someone at the costumier’s to say that they’d just discovered a mistake with the booking. I couldn’t have my lovely crimson Sleeping Beauty dress as it was still out on hire. They could offer another dress of comparable quality but it belonged to a different period and I’d have to go and collect it from their other branch, which was miles and miles away.

The sky faded by three shades of blue. The sparrows on my bird-feeder sounded grumpy.

I wallowed briefly in a ten-minute bath, threw on some clothes, grabbed my bag and picked up the pink parcel containing the engagement present. Time was tight, so I’d have to go straight to the party once I’d collected my costume. I trekked across several postal districts and an hour later I reached the other branch of the theatrical costumiers, when they were on the point of closing.

They let me have a discount for inconvenience, which I accepted with as much grace as I could muster. I paid up and the elderly assistant was just putting the costume into a box when she suddenly said, ‘You’ll have someone to help you get into this, dear, won’t you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going to change when I get there.’

The assistant sighed heavily and opened the box again. ‘You’ll never manage it by yourself,’ she said. ‘Too complicated. Come into the fitting room.’

You’d think I’d have realised, with my training. The dress and the corset underneath it laced up at the back—in the era my costume belonged to they had maids, lots of them. And then there was the wig.

‘You don’t look bad in that,’ the assistant said grudgingly, once she’d shoehorned me into the dress. The corset underneath helped, of course, and the dress material, heavy blue silk, was really pretty. There were even large concealed pockets where I could stow essential items—keys, money, mobile phone, lipstick and a mini A to Z.

The assistant let me leave my bag and clothes there. ‘By the way, dear,’ she said. ‘Should I recognise your voice?’

I said no. It saved time. I thanked her, picked up my parcel, left the shop and headed for the nearest bus stop.

It’s difficult to walk down the street unobtrusively when you’re dressed as Marie Antoinette. And carrying a large pink parcel.

Several old ladies laughed behind their hands. Two men tried unashamedly to look down my cleavage. Small children’s mouths dropped open.

‘I bet she’s advertisin’ something,’ said a spotty teenager to his spottier friend. He managed to speak and leer at the same time. ‘What you advertisin’, darlin’?’

‘Cake,’ I said, and strode on.

The bus driver thought it was hilarious. I had to stand sideways in the aisle because of my skirt, which was very wide and held rigidly in shape from the waist downwards by panniers, ludicrous framework-like structures where the pockets were hidden.

I got off the bus, put the parcel under one arm, fished out my A to Z and turned down a side street. A little lad in a baseball cap asked me if I was a time-traveller. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But if you see the Doctor, promise that you won’t tell him you’ve seen me.’

He looked impressed. ‘What’s your Tardis like, then?’

‘Sedan chair,’ I said. One should try to keep in period.

‘What’s in the parcel?’

‘Anti-gravity,’ I said. ‘Urgently required on Gallifrey.’

‘Why have you got an A to Z, then?’ he called after me. Obviously a bright child.

I stopped briefly. ‘It only looks like an A to Z,’ I said mysteriously.

And then at least four people asked whether I was going in for a fancy dress competition as a spare toilet roll cover. I attempted to smile charmingly and tell them that actually I was going as a tea cosy.

‘Just a minute, love,’ the last one said. ‘Don’t I know your voice?’

‘Do you have a cat?’ I asked.

‘Sure,’ he replied, mystified.

‘In that case, you probably have heard me before.’ I took a deep breath, drew myself up to my full height and said, ‘I am the voice of Moggy Brex.’

‘Wow!’ he said. ‘Can I have your autograph?’

‘My cat hates the stuff,’ said an interested onlooker.

‘So would I, if I was a cat,’ I said recklessly and moved on, hoping that the terms of my contract didn’t include not dissing Moggy Brex.

A few moments later a taxi slowed down at the kerb beside me and a man about my age, with brown curly hair, eyes that crinkled at the corners and a nice smile, put his head out of the window. At another time, in another place, I would have found him wildly attractive. He had the looks that normally make me go weak at the knees.

‘Excuse me.’

I ignored him.

‘Excuse me,’ he said again. ‘Where are you heading?’

I walked rapidly.

‘1785,’ I said. ‘Rift in the time/space continuum over Versailles.’

The taxi moved with me. Just what I needed, a kerb-crawler who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

‘Stop!’ he called to the cabbie, then opened the door and leapt out. He was wearing an early nineteenth-century naval uniform with a swallow-tail coat, white breeches and buckled shoes and there was a cocked hat under his arm—think Lord Nelson, but about a foot taller and with the full complement of arms and eyes. ‘I suspect we’re both going to the same place.’

It took at least five minutes to get me and the parcel into the taxi and he ended up squashed against me because of the panniers. ‘I don’t mind if you don’t mind,’ he said gallantly. ‘Remind me to straighten your wig when we get out.’ I had no option but to lean against him. I could feel his heart beating, smell his aftershave and gauge the size of his shoulders. I remembered how long it was since there had been anyone like him in my life.

All too soon we arrived at the venue, an impressive private house, and tumbled out of the taxi, for which the early nineteenth-century naval officer insisted on paying. Then we were directed around the house to a stunning garden and a large marquee. A three-piece band had been put under the willow tree and were working their way through favourites from Gilbert and Sullivan.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ said the naval officer. ‘Oh, hang on, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Oliver Kitteridge.’

‘Sally Grant.’

‘I suppose I should stay in period and bow,’ he said, and then bowed quite beautifully. ‘And your costume makes you far too early to be shaking hands.’

I curtsied, which was what they did circa 1785. Normally I’m quite good at curtseys—one has to be. But it felt very peculiar with the panniers. And the parcel.

‘I’ll get that drink,’ said Oliver. I parked my parcel beside a flower arrangement and took a glass of champagne gratefully. My estimation of Oliver, which was pretty high already, went up a few more notches. He said he’d left his hat behind the bar. ‘And I’m sorry about the costumes,’ he added. ‘I mean, about guests having to wear costumes. Kate’s always been crazy about fancy dress, ever since she was given a fairy princess outfit at the age of three. And last year some fool gave her the DVD of To Catch A Thief and she’s practically worn it out watching the costume ball scene. Talked about nothing else for a fortnight.’

He seemed to know an awful lot about Kate. Pennies started dropping in a way I didn’t want them to drop. ‘Just a minute,’ I said as my mind went blank on names and an unwelcome thought struck me. ‘You’re not Kate’s fiancé, are you?’

‘Good God, no,’ he said. ‘I’m her cousin. Let me get that glass refilled for you. And I’m not anybody’s fiancé, by the way. Or anybody’s anything.’

We were on our third glass of champagne when I said to him, ‘I suppose you’ve got a job in the City, as well?’

‘Sort of,’ he said. ‘Members of our family tend to end up studying maths at university. And then they go into the City.’

‘Like Kate,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ he said.

‘And now she’s marrying someone else in the City?’

‘Yup. Hugo. Plays the banjo, speaks three languages and cheats at Monopoly. I suppose we should go and greet the happy couple.’

I picked up the parcel and we went to find them. Kate, looking happier than I’d ever seen her, was dressed as a fairy princess—surprise, surprise—and Hugo was wearing knee-breeches and a frock coat. ‘People keep asking me if I’m Ken,’ he said. ‘Who’s Ken?’

‘He’s had a very sheltered upbringing,’ said Kate to me. ‘He’s only got brothers.’

‘Kate’s told me a lot about you,’ said Hugo charmingly, after they had fought their way into the parcel and admired the salad bowl.

‘She’s the voice of Florabunda deodorant,’ said Kate. ‘And Mrs Morrell’s Country Mushroom Pies. And Moggy Brex.’

‘Really?’ said Oliver. ‘That’s so much more interesting than what I do. Shall we go and get some food? It’s in the marquee. They might even have some of Mrs Morrell’s Country Mushroom Pies.’

Mercifully, Mrs Morrell would have been way out of her league. There were platters of blinis, beautifully decorated canapés and a carvery buffet with huge bowls of glistening multicoloured salads, then profiteroles and syllabub and shortcake and mounds of fresh strawberries and raspberries. And the champagne never stopped coming.

As we ate, Oliver asked me about my work, even the hanging-about-in-the-background jobs and the ice cream selling. I supposed that if he worked in an office surrounded by computer screens and financial data he would find what I did fascinating. I asked about his work but he said that he couldn’t say much for reasons of confidentiality.

‘Do you think you can dance in that thing?’ He eyed my dress doubtfully.

‘One way to find out,’ I said.

The band had relocated to the fringe of the dance floor and was now playing a selection of classic French numbers. ‘Oh, lovely,’ I said. ‘La Mer. My favourite.’

‘Very appropriate,’ he said, ‘given your costume. And, come to that, mine: France and the sea.’ He took my hand and led me on to the dance floor. Then he took me in his arms and we started to dance. I felt a delicious anticipation of the electricity of physical attraction. Our bodies touched lightly. Crunch.

‘Dear God,’ said Oliver. ‘What on earth have you got on under that dress?’

‘You don’t want to know,’ I said.

‘Don’t be so sure,’ he murmured.

We went on dancing until the band pleaded desperate thirst and announced a break and then we walked around the garden. There were lanterns strung in the trees and the scents of jasmine and lavender drifted lazily. The evening was getting impossibly romantic, which I suppose was appropriate, given that it was an engagement party. Oliver took my hand. ‘We could go and look at the pond,’ he said. ‘They were going to light it.’

I said, ‘You know this garden?’

‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘It’s Kate’s parents’ house. I spent some of my formative years here—catching tadpoles, watching dragonflies, getting covered in mud.’

Coloured lights glowed from the trees around the pond and, of course, there was a bench.

‘This isn’t as romantic as I’d hoped,’ said Oliver. ‘I can’t get closer to you than about two feet.’

‘Sorry, it’s the panniers. The most fashionable ladies at Versailles had to go through doors sideways.’

The party ended some time after midnight when the champagne ran out and the band got to the end of their repertoire and said they’d have to start on Gilbert and Sullivan again. ‘Let me take you home,’ said Oliver. ‘I’ll just go and get my hat.’

We found a taxi and Oliver helped me in. ‘At least no one’s going to ask to share the cab,’ he said, settling on the opposite side of the seat from me. ‘And I think I’m learning how to cope with your costume. D’you need some help with that seat belt?’

When we arrived at my rather humble apartment building, Oliver paid off the taxi. ‘I’ll see you to the door,’ he said.

‘What about getting home?’ I said. He waved a set of keys at me.

‘Kate’s flat,’ he said. ‘Just round the corner. She’s staying with her parents. So I can crash at her place. I borrowed her keys when I went to get my hat. I thought perhaps I could take you out to lunch tomorrow.’

‘Dressed like that?’ I couldn’t resist asking.

‘If necessary,’ he said. ‘But I thought I’d go out and buy some clothes. Unless some of Kate’s will fit me…No, not really.’

‘Clothes…’ I felt my face drop. ‘I can’t get out of this dress by myself,’ I said. ‘It’s all done up at the back with laces and things.’

‘Can I help?’ he asked.

‘Er—’ I wondered momentarily about the advisability of this.

‘I could do it with my hat over my eyes,’ he suggested.

There was nothing for it. He came up to the flat. Getting in and out of the lift was quite an experience, and once we’d got my front door closed he put his hat down and undid the laces on the dress for me. ‘You’ll have to loosen them as well,’ I said. ‘Or else I won’t be able to get out of it. And then the same with the corset.’

‘It’s amazing what they did before Lycra,’ he said. ‘Will that do?’ he asked about five minutes later.

‘Fine. Thank you.’ I had to hold up the front of the dress to stop it sliding downwards. Then he kissed my back between my shoulder blades. It was wonderful. Electric. A concentration of all the sensations that had been trying to get through that wretched corset.

‘You’ve got a lovely back,’ he said as I turned round.

He kissed me on the lips.

‘I ought to go,’ he said. He kissed me again. ‘I really ought to go,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I heard myself say, then I kissed him back.

He did go. The lock clicked softly behind him.

Always leave them wanting more, I thought. I wasn’t sure whether it referred to him or me.

The next morning he turned up at about half past eleven in chinos and a pale blue shirt, with an enormous bunch of flowers. We went for brunch, then to an art gallery and dinner.

From then on we spent all the time we could together, as much of it as possible with our arms wrapped round each other. The days passed in a haze of happiness. Oliver’s work was punctuated by early starts and working late into the evening. My diary showed a more haphazard work pattern, the norm in my profession. When Oliver was working and I wasn’t, I filled in odd hours with exercise classes or went to the cinema.

One afternoon, when I was sitting in a small studio cinema waiting for a recently released rom-com to begin, I saw something that made my heart lurch. It was Oliver, looking completely different and in the sort of company it didn’t occur to me that he would keep.

I’d have to confront him, I realised as I slunk out of the cinema after the film finished. Mentally, I rehearsed what to say.

Oliver turned up at my flat that evening with an armful of cornflowers. ‘The colour reminded me of your eyes.’ He bent to kiss me, but I moved out of the way.

‘You’ve been deceiving me,’ I said.

‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘You’ve found out. I can explain everything.’

‘That new rom-com,’ I said. ‘I went to see it. I also saw you. Before the film even started. Man in commercial for Henley aftershave.’

‘They only picked me and the other guys for that ad because we could row.’

‘Not just that,’ I said. ‘In the film. Hero’s old school friend with six lines in wine bar.’

He looked sheepish.

‘Admit it,’ I said. ‘You’re an actor. No wonder you always change the subject when I ask about your job.’

‘It’s a fair cop,’ he said. ‘It’s like this—Kate told me about all the stuff about not getting involved with an actor. The actual wording, if I remember correctly, was would not touch with a bargepole. Then I fell in love with you the moment we met and I didn’t want to muck up my chances…’

‘And what about working in the City?’ I asked sternly.

‘It’s true. I’ve taken part in performances of readings there for charity.’ I could believe that—he had a fantastic voice. ‘And I temp there quite a bit. It pays well. And I really have got a degree in maths. I just did a lot of acting at university. And then I went to drama school.’

There was a pause. ‘Can you forgive me?’ he asked.

‘You lied to me,’ I said.

‘No, I didn’t. I misled you. That’s different. It all depended on the interpretation.’

He was looking at me with the most serious expression I’d ever seen on his face. ‘Are you going to forgive me?’

I looked at the cornflowers and his brown eyes and curly hair and thought about the way he’d kissed my back. And all the subsequent kisses and the hours we’d spent together and the wine we’d drunk and the jokes we’d laughed at and the smell of his aftershave—even though it was probably Henley aftershave.

I took a deep breath. Was I going to have to rethink my attitude to the most consistent advice ever handed down from one actress to another?

‘Well?’ he said.

‘I’ll have to think about it,’ I said.

I held the pause for about twenty seconds.

And then I kissed him.

Will You Dance?

Anna Jacobs

The author of forty-five published novels, Anna Jacobs freely confesses to an addiction to story-telling. Fortunately, she is not very domesticated, so has plenty of time to produce two to three novels a year, writing sagas for one publisher, modern women’s fiction for another. She is fascinated by women’s history and by the challenges women face in today’s changing world. Her books have been nominated several times for Australian Romantic Book of the Year, which she won in 2006, and she is among the top few most borrowed authors of adult fiction in English libraries. She’s still in love with her own personal hero, and she and he live half the year in Australia, half in England. Discover more about Anna’s writing at www.annajacobs.com

Will You Dance?

Western Australia, January 1921

When the ship docked at Fremantle, Gracie Bell was on deck with the other passengers. She stared round with a sinking heart. The West Australian port looked so scruffy, like a large village with an untidy collection of tin roofs. The summer heat made sweat trickle down her face. It was like standing in front of a hot oven.

Never mind that, she told herself. In Australia she’d find a more interesting job and make a better life for herself. She wasn’t working as a maid ever again, hated being shut up in a house all day. During the war she’d worked as a conductress on a motor omnibus, but once the war ended she’d lost her lovely job to a soldier returning to England.

She hadn’t emigrated to look for a fellow, though. All her married friends worked like slaves and were always short of money, not to mention having one baby after the other. She didn’t fancy that. Maybe one or two children would be OK, not eight, like her mother.

When she came out of Customs she found her sister, Jane, waiting for her on the dock, looking pregnant, hot and weary, with her husband Tommy beside her. Her brother-in-law had grown fat in Australia, reminding Gracie of an overstuffed cushion. He didn’t look at all tired.

He eyed her up and down, nodded in approval and loaded the luggage on the motor car.

‘Is this your car?’ she asked, trying to make conversation.

‘No. I’ve borrowed it from my friend Bert. He and I work together.’

‘Since we live in Perth, not Fremantle,’ Jane said brightly, ‘this is easier than taking a train into the city. It was very kind of Bert, don’t you think?’

‘Yes.’ She saw that more was required and added, ‘Very kind indeed.’

‘Tommy’s doing ever so well at work. We’re buying our own house now.’

Tommy smirked and, as soon as they set off, dominated the conversation. Talk about bossy! Gracie tried to maintain a polite expression but what she really wanted was to talk to her sister.

Jane, who seemed to have lost all her old spirit, gave her a warning look and shook her head slightly when Gracie mentioned her hopes for the future.

What was going on?

The next day being Sunday, they went to church, then Tommy worked in the garden. Gracie couldn’t believe how many tomatoes there were, just growing in the sun, not needing a greenhouse. She’d never eaten them newly picked before, or peaches, either. They were much nicer than tinned ones.

Bert, Tommy’s best friend, always came to tea on Sundays, and Jane spent her sister’s first day in Australia baking a cake and some scones, red-faced, rubbing her back from time to time. Gracie had hoped to go out sightseeing and said as much.

Jane looked over her shoulder and whispered, ‘We’ll go out during the week. There are some lovely shops in the city. But Tommy likes things to be just so on Sundays, so if you don’t mind helping…?’

They were to eat out on the veranda, so Gracie swept outside and dusted all the furniture there. She tidied up indoors as well, which consisted mainly of picking up after Tommy. Didn’t that man ever carry his own empty teacups back into the kitchen, or put away his daily newspaper?

She was very disappointed in his friend Bert, who was nearly as fat as Tommy and just as fond of his own voice.

During the tea party, conversation was mainly between the two men. As he talked, Bert stared at Gracie in the same assessing way Tommy had, and it made her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t know where to turn her eyes.

The hosts insisted on clearing the table and making another pot of tea, which left Bert and Gracie alone.

‘You’re even prettier than your photo.’ He leaned across and, taking her by surprise, planted a big, moist kiss on her lips.

She tried to pull away, but he dragged her to her feet, pressing his body against hers. She wasn’t having that. Stamping on his foot, she scraped her shoe down his shin, causing him to yelp, then she retreated to the other side of the table.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Protecting myself. And I’ll do worse than that if you ever grab me again. How dare you take liberties with me? What sort of person do you think I am?’