Women of a Dangerous Age

‘I need to see you.’

Lou hit earth with a bump. Not even a Did-you-have-a-good-holiday? So this was how it was going to be. And just because she’d decided to absent herself for a fortnight to avoid any awkwardness over the Christmas break. She hadn’t only been thinking of herself, but of the kids who would have been caught between their feuding parents. ‘When were you thinking?’ she asked. As the high that had accompanied her arrival home from the flight began to dissipate, Lou thought with some longing of her clean-sheeted bed that was waiting upstairs.

‘Today? Now?’ Was that urgency or was her daughter just being her usual demanding self?

‘Has something happened, Nic?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you. I’ll be about an hour.’

‘And I can show you—’

But Nic had hung up. Lou took a bite of leftover Christmas cake. Mmm, possibly the best she’d made yet. Outside, a train rattled by on the other side of the garden wall: a sound that made her feel at home.

An hour. Not long enough for that sleep which was becoming increasingly pressing. Instead Lou woke herself up with a shower, so that by the time the doorbell rang, she was feeling just about semi-human. She had discarded the coat, knowing the scorn it provoked in Nic. The thick burned orange sweater she wore over her jeans almost compensated for the fact that the water had been lukewarm and the heating had yet to make any noticeable impression on the house. Nic’s disapproving glance at the jeans as she walked in didn’t go unnoticed. And her ‘Mmmm, very ashram’ directed at the sweater was quite unnecessary. Why was it that her daughter felt she had to sanction – or otherwise – all her mother’s life choices, including those in her wardrobe? However, once Nic had hung her overcoat on the end of the stairs Lou welcomed her with a hug, then took her into the kitchen, the warmest room.

‘How was Christmas? Dad OK?’ She pulled out a bag of coffee beans from the freezer.

‘Quiet. Tom was with us. We missed you.’ That reproving tone again, something Lou hadn’t missed while away.

‘Having someone to do all the cooking, you mean.’

They didn’t speak while Lou ground the beans for the cafetière, then: ‘That’s so unfair.’ Wounded now. ‘I just think the two of you should be together.’

Lou decided to ignore her daughter’s last remark. However uncomfortable Nic was with Lou’s decision to move out of the family home, Lou was not going to let her be the arbiter in her parents’ relationship. ‘I’m only joking. Don’t be so sensitive, Nic. Of course I missed you too, but going away was the right thing for me to do.’

Nic shook her head.

‘No, really. India was amazing. You’d love it there.’ Would she though? As well as everything that she had enjoyed, Lou remembered the dirt; the stink; the poverty; families living on the pavements, in the stations; child beggars tapping at car windows; Delhi belly; the drains; the reckless driving. None of that had been enough to negate her own thrill at experiencing the country – but would her over-fastidious daughter react in the same way? ‘Look. I’ve brought you a couple of things.’ She pushed across the table a yellow and green drawstring jewellery purse, a paper bag containing a scarf she’d bought at a stall in a gateway at the Mehrangarh Fort, and a newspaper-wrapped statue of the elephant god, Ganesh, for luck.

Nic pulled open the purse and slid out the star sapphire ring that Lou had chosen with such care. ‘It’s lovely, Mum.’

Had she actually got a present right for once? Filled with disbelief and pleasure, Lou plunged the knife into the Christmas cake. Just another small slice.

As Nic slipped the ring onto her right hand, Lou thought she heard her sniff. When her daughter looked up, her face was a muddle of emotions, her eyes brimming with tears.

‘Nic? Whatever’s the matter? I just wanted to bring you back something special but if you don’t like it … well, I can’t change it, but …’

Seeing Nic so upset induced immediate and unwelcome guilt. She should never have fled the country. How selfish she’d been. Instead, she should have skipped Christmas by burying herself in Devon with Fiona and Charlie after all. At least she’d have been in reach of home. However old her kids might be, they did still need her. She worried that this still mattered so much to her when she should be letting them go.

‘It’s not that, Mum. I do really love it.’ There was a long pause during which Nic struggled to compose herself, twisting the ring around her finger, watching the six-pointed star move through the blue-grey stone. Lou stretched out a hand to cover her daughter’s. Years ago, she might have been able to soothe any problem away but now, her maternal success rate was much lower. Nic was usually so strong, so self-contained. Since she’d been sixteen and had decided on a career in family law, following in the footsteps of her godmother, Fiona, she’d always given the impression that she’d rather lie bound to a railway track than seek advice from her parents.

Her daughter gave a final sniff and looked her straight in the eye. That familiar look of defiance was back. As Nic cleared her throat with a brusque cough, Lou had a sinking sensation, recognising that her daughter was about to say something momentous.

‘It’s just that …’ Deep breath. Twist of the ring around her finger. ‘I’m pregnant.’ For a second, Nic looked just as she had fifteen-odd years ago when confessing to some childish prank, anticipating the appalled parental reaction, her justification at the ready.

Lou stared at her, her hand frozen mid-stroke. ‘You’re what?’ Of all the things Nic might have said, this was the last she would have expected. Until now, her daughter’s career had taken precedence over everything, including any boyfriends who were dispatched whenever they got too much.

Immediately Nic was on the defensive, moving her hand out of reach. ‘I knew you’d be like that.’

‘I’m not like anything. It’s a bit of a shock, that’s all.’ Lou stood up to pour the coffee, as her mind raced through the implications. Having a baby would get in the way of Nic’s life, her work, and she wouldn’t like that. Presumably she’d come to ask for her mother’s support for an abortion. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ she asked, playing for time.

Nic tutted. ‘Of course. One hundred per cent.’

‘Who’s the father? Max?’

‘That’s irrelevant.’ She made a scything movement through the air with her hand, cutting off any further discussion about her on–off boyfriend of the last year or so. She pushed her cake away from her.

‘Nic! How can you say that? Of course it isn’t. You have to take him into consideration too.’ But Lou could see that Nic was way ahead of her. She had made all her decisions and, as usual, Lou was going to have to try to catch up.

‘He’s made it plain that he wants nothing to do with this. He wants me to get rid of it.’ She sounded both outraged and determined.

‘And you? What do you want?’

‘I’m going to keep it. This is what I’ve wanted for ages.’

Despite the relief she felt, Lou thought it wise not to point out that Nic had never suggested she’d wanted any such thing. A career, yes. A solid relationship, yes. But a baby? This was the first Lou had heard of it.

‘What about your career?’ she said, sounding like the sort of mother she didn’t want to be.

‘Mum, thousands of women have babies and return to work.’ Nic was trying to control the note of impatience that had crept into her voice. ‘You should know that better than anyone. That won’t be a problem. I’ve thought it all through.’

‘You have?’ Lou took Nic’s plate and transferred the cake back into the tin. Giving herself something to do meant she didn’t have to look at her daughter while she tried to catch up with the conversation.

‘Yes, I have. I’m going to take the statutory maternity leave and then find a nanny share. Like you did.’

This was not the moment to elaborate on the difficulties that could come with nannies however lifesaving they might be. Lou remembered how torn she’d been between her job as fashion editor at Chic to Chic and her young children. The job had been demanding and competitive, complete with the extra strain of feeling she didn’t entirely fit the role with her sometimes off-beat sense of style. And when she’d been at home … How could she forget the soul-lacerating guilt when the smallest thing went wrong, the sense of abject despair when the children turned to the nanny rather than to her, the dull background feeling of in adequacy in both spheres of her life? They were only alleviated when she eventually became a full-time mother – even though that decision was forced on her. But there was no arguing with Nic once her mind was made up. If anything, any objection raised by Lou would only make her dig in her heels. Lou needed time to think through the ramifications of the news before discussing them with her daughter. Nothing had to be decided this second.

A baby! For a moment she envisaged the two of them, heads bent over this unexpected addition to the family, sharing the pleasure together. She felt a thrill of anticipation before she was brought back to the moment as Nic spoke.

‘I just need you to help me with one thing.’

‘Of course. I’ll do whatever I can.’

Nic was fidgeting, tipping her mug back and forth, intent on her coffee, anything rather than catch her mother’s eye. Obviously something else was troubling her and she was finding a way to say it.

Lou held her breath.

Without moving her head, Nic glanced up at her, then away again. ‘Dad doesn’t know.’ There it was. The all-important missing detail lay between them like a ticking bomb.

‘Why not?’ As if Lou didn’t know.

‘He’ll go ballistic, that’s why.’

Light dawned. Nic hadn’t come to share the news with her so much as to persuade her to be the messenger. ‘And you want me to tell him?’

‘You’ll have to, Mum. The boys think so too.’ Nic banged down her mug, as final as a judge’s gavel. Decision made.

So she’d told her two brothers first. Even though Lou had been away when Nic broke the news, that hurt, too. What had gone wrong with the adult mother–daughter relationship, which Lou had anticipated with such pleasure when Nic was little? She had imagined them sharing confidences, shopping together, even taking the occasional weekend break – everything Lou had missed out on with her own mother. But none of that had happened and it now looked as though it never would. Nic had always behaved like a cuckoo in the nest, making her presence loudly felt before taking to her wings as soon as she could.

‘Shouldn’t we talk this through properly first?’

‘Mum, there’s nothing to discuss. Not now anyway. I’m not asking you to be ecstatic for me, though that would be nice, but just to help with this one little thing. Please.’ She drew the last word out into a childish entreaty. ‘I’m nearly three months and I’ll be showing soon.’

‘But I haven’t seen him for weeks.’ Lou racked her brains for a better objection.

‘Mu-um?’ Nic knew there wasn’t one.

Despite all her misgivings, it was hard to refuse her daughter. Lou remembered the excitement that had accompanied her own pregnancies, the absolute joy she had felt, the hopes for the future, the pure unfettered longing for a baby.

The news would travel among their old friends like a forest fire. Just as it probably had when they learned that Lou had moved out. How the more conventional among them would sympathise yet relish in the Sherwood family’s misfortunes. How they would sigh with relief at having been spared a similar fate themselves. That thought gave Lou strength. Who gave a damn what they thought? She had summoned up the will to ignore their views when she left Hooker, and that’s just what she would do again. Nic should be encouraged to take the path in life she chose for herself.

‘All right.’ Lou saw relief colour her daughter’s face. ‘I’ll talk to him. And I’ll give you all the support you need. Anything you need for this baby – you can rely on me. That’s a promise.’

Perhaps Nic’s motherhood would at last bring the two of them closer. Being a single grandmother had not been part of Lou’s plans, in fact it wasn’t a concept that had even crossed her mind. But at least Nic would understand what Lou had gone through trying to balance her work with the children’s demands – and that she had done the best she could.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Nic, getting up and flinging her arms around her. ‘I knew you would.’

Lou hugged back and for a moment all their differences melted away. Lou breathed in the smell of her daughter’s hair, noticing how tense and bony her shoulders were. But she didn’t comment or tell her to relax. Nic would tell her if anything else was troubling her in her own good time. If Lou couldn’t have all of her daughter, she would take whatever part of her was on offer.

‘Oh, and I’d keep off the cake if I were you,’ Nic suggested as she shrugged on her coat and stepped out through the front door.

After her daughter had gone, Lou washed the coffee pot, thinking over their conversation. Communication between them had clearly broken down more than she had realised. Why did Nic want this baby so badly? Had Lou and Hooker unintentionally failed her somehow, so that she needed something more in her life to love and be loved by? But they hadn’t been such bad parents, had they? Not when she compared them to all the dysfunctional families that were paraded through the pages of the daily tabloids. She couldn’t believe that their growing distance from one another had been the cause. Now finally separated, they were about to become grandparents. Another tie that was bound to throw them together again.

Sighing, she picked up the phone and dialled Hooker’s number.

5

Standing in her walk-in closet, Ali looked around her. Everything was as it should be. Her boxes of shoes were stacked one on top of another, illustrated labels outwards, so she could see which pair was where at a glance. Beside them were the drawers with transparent fronts. The order with which she’d organised her wardrobe would have amused her in someone else, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Behind her was the hanging space, divided into sections: trousers, skirts, shirts, dresses and coats. No item remained unworn for longer than a year before it was thrown out. On the end wall was a well-lit mirror. She checked herself, stood sideways on, anxious to make the best possible impression on Ian, pulling at her black and cream striped asymmetric jersey dress so that it sat straight on the hips, then adjusting her hair. He’d once said how much he liked it short because it emphasised the length of her neck. A half-smile crossed her lips as she anticipated him running his finger along her naked right clavicle and up her throat to the point of her chin, before they kissed.

Satisfied she could do no more, she turned to walk through the bedroom, glancing round to make sure everything was ready. She touched the bedside table, checking that her few sex toys were out of sight. They were for later. Nothing too way out but she knew what he liked, and what she liked too. She ran her hand over the bedspread, making sure every wrinkle was smoothed out, before pulling the heavy curtains and arranging precisely the way they pooled on the floor. She straightened the pile of books by her side of the bed and moved the three red roses on the table to be just so, then moved to the door where she stood for a moment, surveying the scene she’d set for seduction, and dimmed the lights a little more.

As she went downstairs, Ali thought how lucky she was to have the apartment. Ten years earlier, one of her lovers, Peter Ellis, a wealthy middle-aged property developer, had been converting the Victorian school into a number of des res. A generous and kind man, he had thought nothing of offering her a place of her own in exchange for the several years of pleasure she had given him. Resistant at first, she had eventually been persuaded to accept.

She was as much in love with the place now as she had been then. She loved its quirkiness and the utilitarian elements of the design that featured exposed RSJs and cast-iron school radiators. Upstairs, the two bedrooms and bathrooms were designed to be more intimate but she never tired of the large dramatic space of the living area with its vast multi-paned windows and wide oak floorboards. She’d furnished it minimally but as comfortably as she could afford, concentrating on good lighting and statement rugs to separate the different living areas. A sofa sat in the centre with a coffee table in front of it, two smaller chairs opposite. Her dining table stood by the open-plan kitchen and in the opposite corner, under the low hanging light, was her jigsaw table, where Brueghel’s Allegory of Sight and Smell lay scattered in six thousand pieces awaiting her attention. Enlarged photographs from her travels hung on the walls: rolling blue mountains of Mongolia from the Great Wall; Mount Fuji from the railway line; a farmer with horse and plough tilling a terraced hillside in Vietnam.

She poured herself a cranberry juice. Leaning against the divide between the kitchen area and the rest of the living space, she checked the time. Fifteen minutes and he would be here. He was never late. She switched on the wide-screen, wall-mounted TV and flicked through the channels unable to find anything that grabbed her interest. Instead, she went to the dining table, where her laptop lay open, her accounts file on-screen.

There was no escaping the truth. Her turnover was down on last year’s. She’d hoped the three months before Christmas would make the difference as well as help cover the cost of her holiday. She ran her finger down the sales and stopped at the name ‘Orlov’, suddenly remembering that their order was still sitting in her safe, uncollected and unpaid for – a pair of emerald and diamond earrings with a matching necklace worth over three thousand pounds. She always asked clients to pay a fifty per cent deposit on commission so she was still owed the other fifty per cent. She made a note to contact the Orlovs as soon as she got to the studio in the morning. But for how long would that and her other commissions tide her over?

Perhaps she should call in the loan that, in headier days, she’d made to Rick, her studio share and friend. When he was starting up his silversmithing business he was having trouble meeting his mortgage and alimony payments so Ali had agreed to let him use a space in her studio rent-free until he started making ends meet. Then, she could afford to be generous. Now, it was less easy. At the same time, she didn’t want to jeopardise their friendship. Despite the odd reminder, he never seemed embarrassed by the debt. While she was debating how to persuade him to part with the few grand he owed her, the doorbell rang.

As she crossed the room, she felt she might burst with excitement. She was so looking forward to seeing Ian again, to making plans together. Three years of passionate but clandestine encounters, of secret overnight stays in hotels when he travelled on business, of meals in discreet restaurants and of entering and leaving theatres and cinemas separately – ‘just in case’ – were almost over. Soon their relationship would be in the open. She prayed that he had broken the news to his wife and that everything would be reasonably civilised between them. She didn’t want anything to cloud their happiness.

But the minute Ian walked into the flat, Ali knew something was wrong. Earlier, on the phone, he’d been unusually abrupt but she’d put that down to his being preoccupied by something at work. Now she could see there was more to it than that. Although they hadn’t seen each other for over two weeks, he barely reciprocated her welcoming kiss. She thought she detected alcohol beneath the strong smell of peppermint on his breath. By the time she’d hung up his coat, he was sitting on the sofa, staring into the middle distance, elbows on knees, hands steepled in front of his face, fingers tapping against one another. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

‘How was Christmas?’ she tried.

‘Yeah. Fine.’ He still didn’t look at her. And he didn’t mention his wife.

‘Is something the matter? Difficult day?’ This was hardly the reunion she’d envisaged.

‘I’m sorry.’ He snapped out of his reverie and turned to her. ‘Something at work’s bothering me. That’s all. Give me a minute or two to come down. I want to hear about the holiday.’

Experience had taught Ali never to probe into whatever was troubling a lover. Her role was to distract, to provide an alternative to their other world. That was why they liked coming here. Her apartment was a retreat, not just for her, but for those men who had lives they wanted to forget for a few hours. Spending time with her was therapeutic although she was no therapist. She asked no awkward questions, never held them to any kind of emotional ransom. And in return, she got to run her life just as she wanted it.

She busied herself by bringing over two small bowls from the kitchen, one filled with the black olives he liked, and the other with cashews. After returning for the bottle of Medoc and two glasses, she turned her iPod to Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major, one of the most soothing pieces of music she knew, and went over to him. She was practised in jogging a man out of his worries for a few hours. That was what she did. As she sat down, she thought she heard him sigh but she just tucked her feet under her and sat with her head resting on his shoulder. This was where she belonged now. This was how they would spend so many evenings in the future, just the two of them.

‘I’ve missed you,’ she murmured. ‘Really missed you.’

‘Have you?’ he asked, sounding as if he was a million miles away.

‘I think that was your cue to say how much you’ve missed me.’ She gave a nervous laugh, sat up and looked at him, puzzled by what could be distracting him so much, feeling the first whisper of alarm.

But instead of turning to her, he stood up and went over to the window, staring out across the communal garden. His hands were in his pockets, jingling his loose change. ‘Of course I did. You must know that.’

‘But it would be nice to be told.’ Annoyed with herself for sounding like the nagging wife she imagined he was escaping, she tried again. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve been so looking forward to seeing you.’ Going over to stand behind him, she wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘We could go upstairs. Or I’ve got champagne in the fridge.’

‘Not yet.’ He turned and kissed her nose. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment. I probably shouldn’t have come.’

‘But we haven’t seen each other for weeks. We’ve got so much to talk about.’ She took both his hands and kissed him back. Over the two years she had known him, Ali couldn’t remember a time when he had refused an invitation to her bedroom. But, having trained herself not to question her lovers’ moods but just to wait them out, she didn’t object. She was confident he’d tell her what was bothering him when he was ready. Despite her growing unease, she was prepared to wait. Worming his troubles from him was a wife’s job, not a mistress’s. In a few weeks, when everyone knew they were together, things would be different. They would be able to talk and share so much more than they ever had before. She would get to know him so much better. She could afford to maintain a sympathetic silence now.

‘Tell me about your holiday.’ He held her hand and guided her back to the sofa.

‘How long have you got?’ Ali pretended she hadn’t noticed how uninterested he sounded. But rather than bore him about what he didn’t want to hear, she passed across the linen Nehru shirt she’d had specially made for him. In the Udaipur fabric emporium, she had been so sure it was the perfect present. But as he pulled it from the packet, there was something distinctly charity shop about it. The stitching, which had looked charmingly authentic in Udaipur, now looked embarrassingly amateur, the linen cheap, and, when he held it up, the sleeves were obviously way too long.

‘It’s not you at all, is it?’ she said, disappointed.