The Rise and Fall of the Queen of Suburbia: A Black-Hearted Soap Opera

‘Well, if we’re buying the hamsters we should buy whatever goes with them, you know, whatever makes them happy.’ She watched him run his finger along the edge of the desk. ‘What about the Sindy House?’

‘We’d better keep it – she might change her mind again. We could just give her both anyway.’

‘The Sindy House and the hamsters? I don’t know, Mick.’

She looked at him standing there in his uniform. How did he do it? How did he walk off a plane and into No. 4 Pollards Close and just pick up all the threads like that as soon as he crossed the threshold? She couldn’t have done that. He’d just landed a plane that had been in the air for over eleven hours and here he was talking about hamsters and Sindy Houses like he’d never been anywhere but here all the time. Maybe that’s why she stopped flying when she had Delta. Why they both decided she should stop when Delta arrived, because they both knew that if she carried on, one day she’d get onto a plane and never come back. Whereas Mick never had to come back because he’d never left in the first place.

‘Stephanie wants pancakes for breakfast,’ she said, as the phone started ringing again.

‘Hello?’ Mick sank onto the corner of the desk, his hand resting in his groin while staring at Dominique. ‘Hello? Monica? No – I just got back from Florida. Didn’t hear about any tornadoes – what? She’s just here,’ he said, passing the receiver over.

‘Stephanie wants pancakes,’ Dominique whispered, in a sudden panic.

‘You said.’

‘Don’t make Scotch ones, I want normal ones – lemon – sugar.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.’ Mick blew her a kiss then left the room.

Sitting down at the desk, Dominique watched the door shut behind him. She was alone in the study with her mother.

‘Dominique?’ The voice was impatient, almost angry.

The first of her mother’s boyfriends she remembered was Clive, a child-development researcher, who specialised in Early Years. His arrival in their lives coincided with her own early attempts at speech, and on his advice the ‘mumumuh’ she was beginning to stutter was encouraged to become ‘Monica’ rather than ‘mummy’ because Clive believed that the great universals ‘mother’ and ‘father’ should be unleashed from their biological fetters and given spiritual status instead. They even managed to get the Danish au pair to go along with this. Clive stayed in their lives for only nine joss-stick-filled months, but two of his legacies remained (because they suited Monica): a belief that yoga was necessary to civilisation, and that Dominique should never have recourse to use the word ‘mother’ or any of its diminutives.

When she’d had Delta, she’d asked Monica if her daughter could call her ‘grandma’, but Monica said there was no way she could do ‘grandmother’ when she hadn’t even done ‘mother’.

‘Dominique?’

‘Sorry, sorry – we just got back from the airport. Where are you, anyway? Minnesota?’

‘Minnesota? Who told you I was in Minnesota?’

‘Mick did, I think. Anyway – I thought you were in Minnesota.’

‘I was in Montréal. Montréal’s got nothing to do with Minnesota. Are you sure he said Minnesota?’

Dominique wasn’t sure any more.

‘You probably heard him wrong.’

‘Probably. I don’t remember.’

‘That’s your problem, Dominique, there’s very little you do remember.’

‘I remember things,’ Dominique said slowly.

‘What would I be doing in Minnesota anyway?’ Monica cut in.

‘I don’t know, but weren’t you meant to be spending Christmas there?’

‘Where?’

‘Minnesota.’

‘I wasn’t in Minnesota,’ Monica exploded, ‘I was in Montréal. Montréal, Canada.’

‘Sorry,’ Dominique said. Then again, ‘Sorry.’

‘And no, I wasn’t meant to be spending Christmas in Montréal – I was running tests on healthy animals with the help of some people there so that we can get this new red food dye approved.’

‘So …’ Dominique said, unwilling to follow any of this. ‘Where are you now?’

‘Gatwick.’

‘Gatwick?’ Dominique sat up and looked out the study window at the side passage where there was mint growing between the paving slabs and the fence. ‘We were just at Gatwick.’

‘I’ve got some other people to see at Ciba Pharmaceuticals about the new dye, which is why I flew back.’

‘Ciba? How long are you at Ciba for?’

‘Oh – just a few days.’

‘But it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’

‘Yes.’ Monica paused. ‘So – how are all of you?’

‘We’re all fine – Stephanie’s excited. About Christmas. Stephanie’s excited about Christmas.’

‘And is Mick off flying again soon?’

‘Mick never flies over Christmas.’

‘Right. So. You’re all pretty busy then.’

‘Not really. Just getting ready for Christmas.’ She wished she could stop saying the word ‘Christmas’.

Monica paused again. ‘I did phone last week – I spoke to Mick.’

‘Mick? He didn’t say.’

‘I phoned right after I heard about the Harrods bomb. I was in Canada and I saw it on the TV, and I had this sudden feeling you might be up in London shopping, so I rang …’

‘When was the bomb?’

‘The seventeenth.’

She could hear Monica trying not to become angry with her again for not knowing the date of the Harrods bomb when it only happened six days ago. ‘I wasn’t up in London then.’

‘I know – Mick said.’ Monica paused. ‘I was thinking …’

‘What?’ Dominique laughed nervously. ‘You want to spend Christmas here?’

Monica breathed out. ‘I suppose I could do, couldn’t I?’

Dominique stared at Linda Palmer’s gazelle that Mick had brought downstairs and put on his desk. What was it he’d said about the gazelle? He’d said that it confronted him – that the gazelle confronted him. There was something going on between Mick and the gazelle that she didn’t understand, and it wasn’t even his – it belonged to Linda. She picked it up then put it down. How exactly did a wooden animal that fitted in the palm of your hand get confrontational anyway? She didn’t like it.

‘But you’ve probably made arrangements,’ Monica was saying. What else had Monica said that she hadn’t heard? This was something she’d always been able to do – fade people out. When she was a child she used to be able to make them invisible as well. Something that had prompted Monica to have her tested for epilepsy.

‘No arrangements – no. We’re having a small party on Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day – just family.’

‘Well, I’m family …’ Monica said.

Dominique heard the airport down the phone, and the Tannoy announcing a delay to the Dubai flight had more clarity for her right then than anything she and Monica were saying.

‘If you’re sure that’s what you want to do,’ she said. ‘Christmas here, I mean.’

‘And if you’re sure you could put up with me for three to four days,’ Monica said. Now it was her turn to laugh nervously.

Dominique didn’t say anything. She’d never heard Monica laugh nervously before. ‘So – do you want to come straight here or are you going to Ciba first?’

‘No, I’ll come to you.’

‘You’re sure? I can get Delta to come and pick you up?’

‘Delta drives?’

‘She was eighteen on her last birthday.’

‘I’ll get a cab.’

‘I would come myself but we’ve just got back from the airport.’

Why was Monica doing this? She’d never spent Christmas with them before – maybe once when Delta was small, but never more than once. Dominique couldn’t work out Monica’s motive – and life, for Monica, had to have motive.

‘I’ll get a cab.’

‘Okay – fine.’

‘You’re sure about this?’

‘Of course.’

‘You don’t sound sure.’

‘It’s unexpected, that’s all.’ Dominique paused. ‘Impulsive; and I’m not used to that in you. You’re not a very impulsive person.’

‘Well, I was here, and I thought … well, it’s Christmas.’

‘It is Christmas.’

The Tannoy was updating people about the Dubai flight, then the phone flatlined.

She stared out the window at the mint again, wondering where it came from. She’d gone through a stage of reading gardening books and they all warned against mint; mint and bamboo. There were others she couldn’t remember, but they were all difficult to control, and she never could work out why this was seen as a bad thing.

Out in the hallway, Stephanie was doing a headstand over the bathroom mirror, which was on the floor between her hands. ‘What are you doing, Steph?’

There were flecks of spittle on the mirror.

‘Watching the blood in my head,’ she said with difficulty.

‘Well, stop it – you’ll make yourself sick.’

‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Steph – pancakes,’ Mick’s voice called out from the kitchen.

Steph was leaning against the hallway wall looking at her Mickey Mouse watch. ‘Four minutes and twenty seconds that time,’ she said, walking unevenly into the kitchen where there was a plate of immaculate pancakes on the bench next to the hob.

Dominique followed her in. ‘Monica’s coming for Christmas.’

Mick, still in his pilot’s uniform, put the pancakes on the table. ‘You’re sure?’

‘I’ve just spoken to her.’

He got the maple syrup out of the cupboard and didn’t say anything.

‘Who’s Monica?’ Stephanie asked.

‘She’s your grandmother,’ Mick said.

‘Mick – you know we don’t call her that.’

‘OK. She’s Mummy’s mummy, which makes her your grandmother, only we call her Monica because she suffers from a disorder called babushkaphobia.’

‘What’s babushkaphobia?’ Delta asked.

‘A woman’s aversion to her grandchildren.’

‘But we don’t know a Monica, do we?’ Stephanie insisted.

‘She was here about a year ago – maybe longer,’ Delta said, without looking up from her matador.

‘Is she the one with the short hair and dragonfly earrings?’ Stephanie asked.

‘I don’t remember dragonfly earrings,’ Dominique said, sitting down at the table. Mick made his way round everybody, sprinkling chocolate drops from a packet over their shoulders and onto their plates.

‘Well, I do,’ Stephanie said.

‘Why’s she coming now?’ Delta asked.

Dominique shrugged, looking up at Mick. ‘She said she phoned last week?’

‘Last week?’ He thought about this. ‘She did phone last week – to make sure none of us got blown up in the Harrods bomb.’

‘That’s what she said.’ Dominique looked down at her pancakes. Mick had sprinkled chocolate drops in the shape of a heart.

‘Why’s she coming now?’ Stephanie repeated. ‘I hate Monica.’

8

Joe went into the lounge and shut the door behind him. ‘Where’s Mum, Jess? Jess?’

‘In the garage – doing a stock-take of the freezer.’

He moved over and stood in front of the TV.

‘Dad, I’m watching this.’

He looked down towards the screen at a newsreader standing in a field outside some barracks. ‘What is this?’

‘A documentary on para psychological training for soldiers.’

‘You didn’t feel like watching something more seasonal?’

The newsreader started to interview a couple of soldiers.

‘They did the same thing in America,’ Jessica said. ‘The Army Research Institute ran a programme to enhance the para psychological abilities of a few select soldiers.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning they were trying to train them to use a range of non-weapon-dependent techniques not readily available to the average soldier.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like walking through walls – being able to leave their bodies.’

‘How d’you know all this?’

‘I read.’

‘Oh, you read.’

‘They were trying to develop a First Earth Battalion.’

‘To fight what?’

‘I don’t know – intergalactic wars?’

‘Yeah, right.’ Joe sat down next to her. ‘I need your help with something.’

‘What?’

‘Mum’s Christmas present.’

‘You haven’t got her anything?’

‘Not yet, no.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’

He leant forward, watching the screen.

‘That’s just so depressing, Dad – Dad?’

‘I was thinking of maybe underwear.’ He turned towards her and paused. ‘Jess?’

‘What?’

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘What’s it got to do with me?’

‘Well, you’re a woman, and …’

‘I’m not a woman – I’m your daughter.’

‘But I don’t know about size and stuff.’

‘You don’t know her size?’

‘Well, do you?’

‘Why the hell would I? This is really depressing, Dad.’

Joe watched the screen as a man in uniform started to levitate, then got up and changed channels.

‘Dad – I’m watching that.’

‘There’s got to be something else on.’ BBC2 was showing The Wizard of Oz. He watched Judy Garland get surrounded by munchkins – Jessica didn’t say anything – then sat back down on the sofa.

Why did men buy women underwear? To buy them the sort they imagined fucking them in or taking off then fucking them without. What did he imagine fucking Linda without? Without black? No. Without white? In fact, what colour underwear did Linda usually wear? He couldn’t remember. He saw her either fully clothed or naked, but never in between. In between was for people who didn’t make it to the bedroom; people with sex drives still intact; people like Mick and Dominique, according to Linda. He could imagine Mick buying underwear. Mick would have a place he went to regularly in Brighton or London where they knew his name and where all the assistants imagined being the woman he was buying the underwear for. Did Linda ever wonder what it would be like to be Mick’s wife? Why didn’t he have any drive for this kind of thing? Was he dead? Maybe he’d died and Jessica and Linda were just too polite to point it out.

‘Perfume,’ Jessica said, watching the screen intently now. ‘Get her perfume.’

‘She said if she got one more bottle of perfume or one more pair of earrings she’d …’

‘She’d what?’

‘I don’t know, she was too angry to finish.’ He felt a sudden, intense pity for Linda and, turning to Jessica, was about to say something cutting when a huge smile started spreading across her face as she watched the film, which meant that any minute now she was going to start laughing, and Jessica laughing was something he wanted to see.

Then the phone rang.

Joe was standing in the lingerie department at Farrington’s, Littlehaven’s only department store, listening to a woman with backcombed hair on the Windsmoor counter confessing loudly to another assistant that she always washed her face in her bathwater. He scanned the rails of mostly white underwear, broken by a single block of purple and more beige than seemed necessary. It was all wrong. He wasn’t going to find Linda here, and he definitely wasn’t going to find him and Linda here.

‘Can I help you?’

It was the woman from the Windsmoor counter who, up close, was much taller than him and had mostly grey teeth.

‘Well … yeah … I was looking for something for my wife. For Christmas. For my wife. For …’

‘… Christmas,’ the woman finished, then nodded as if she was thinking about this. ‘Let me show you our new range – Lissière.’ She headed towards the purple. ‘The lace is French,’ she said, and paused as if this should mean something to him, or maybe she’d just been trained to say the word ‘French’ a lot because everybody knew that the French were the only nation who had post-marital sex. ‘The sequin detail really is quite unique – of course it means it has to be hand-washed, but then I always hand-wash underwired bras anyway. My washing machine broke down once and when the engineer came out to fix it he found wire from one of my bras jammed behind the drum.’ She stared down at the purple Lissière bra. ‘I nearly died.’

Joe, who had been staring at the bra as well, looked up. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly.

They glanced quickly at each other, both suddenly aware that neither of them was going to enjoy this.

‘The range is entirely new. Very French.’

Joe nodded rhythmically in time to her patter. What was this – did you have to be French to fuck these days?

‘And look at the detail.’ She flicked up the single sequin sewn between the cups then flicked it down again. ‘You can tell it’s French.’ She held the bra out towards him. Unsure what he was meant to do, he rubbed the lace trim between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Very nice.’

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ She looked down, contemplating the bra again.

‘The only thing is … I’m not sure about the purple.’

‘It isn’t purple.’

‘It isn’t?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s lilac – you don’t like lilac?’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.