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‘Ah,’ she sighs. ‘Hello.’
Hester – stiff helmet hair, horrible pink blouse, and brown slacks – smiles shyly up at her. She’s a small, scurrying sort of a woman who reminds Melissa of a squirrel.
Melissa hates squirrels.
The sight of Hester now causes a claustrophobic sensation of disappointment to crowd in, as if she is literally stealing her air. It takes her brain a second or two to see that the other woman appears to be holding a tray of scones, of all things.
‘What can I do for you?’ she says, eyeing them suspiciously, her smile tight but bright.
Something shifts in Hester’s expression and she lowers the tray a little before her prim lips twitch.
‘It’s good to see you, Melissa,’ she says. ‘Well, I can see you’re having a function of some kind and I know you must be very busy. I was at a loose end today and I’ve been doing some baking. I made rather too many scones. I wondered if you might find a use for them?’
Irritation spikes in Melissa’s chest.
Function?
It’s such a blatant lie that she had accidentally ‘made too many scones’. There seem to be a thousand of the bloody things on that tray.
Scones are definitely not going to sit alongside polenta with figs, red onion and goat’s cheese, or the balsamic-glazed pecans with rosemary and sea salt.
‘It’s okay, thank you, Hester,’ says Melissa, smiling warmly to stifle the strange urge to scream. ‘I’m quite covered for food. I have caterers, you see.’
The polite refusal seems to pierce the other woman. Her face slackens around the jaw and her shoulders sag. She’s always been passive-aggressive, Melissa thinks. It’s why she has tried to keep her distance in recent times.
Melissa takes a deep, steadying breath. Did people have to be so oversensitive? She knows what she’s going to have to say. Mark thinks it’s funny to call her the Ice Queen, but she doesn’t actually want to go around actively upsetting people. She comforts herself with the thought that Hester will probably be too intimidated to accept the invitation. It isn’t really her sort of party, after all; her with her scones and her 1970s ‘do’.
‘But I’m very grateful for the offer, Hester,’ she continues. ‘And, um …’ The words gather, oversized and chewy, in her mouth. ‘Would you like to drop by at some point later? It’s nothing fancy,’ she adds in a hurry, ‘just a small gathering. I’m sure you’ve got better things to …’
‘I’d love to!’ Hester’s response rings out, a little too shrill, before Melissa has even finished her sentence. Her face and neck flush and blotch with pleasure.
Melissa regards her wearily. ‘Marvellous,’ she says, forcing her lips into a semblance of a smile. ‘Any time from five then. I’ve still got rather a lot to do, so you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t chat. See you later.’ She closes the door before Hester has time to make any more demands.
Bloody Hester.
At least she’d been forced to take her fucking scones back with her.
HESTER (#uf64af6e8-21e4-55a3-bf2a-6ee75102af77)
Although Melissa said any time after five, I didn’t want to appear too keen so I have waited until almost twenty past to go round. I lift the heavy doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head. With its tarnished gold snout and blank eyes, it seems to assess me unfavourably as I rap once, and then again with more confidence than I am feeling.
My heart is beating a little too fast and my armpits prickle uncomfortably in the flowered dress that was chosen after much painful wardrobe deliberation. It was dispiriting to note that everything I own, although clean and pressed, is a little worn and soft to the touch from wear. This is the best I could do. They will have to take me as they find me.
Strains of music and loud male laughter seep from the house but no one answers. Just for a second, I get the wildest, oddest, sensation that they aren’t going to let me in. I will stand here, ignored, until I am forced to take my bottle of Blossom Hill Merlot home. I don’t even like wine, and this cost more than five pounds.
But a vague flash of colour through the stippled glass of the door sort of coagulates into a shape and the door opens.
Tilly blinks, then frowns. Finally, she smiles.
‘Hester? What are you doing here?’
I swallow and smile brightly, hoping she won’t be able to see how much her surprise has stung me. Has she forgotten how close we were, too?
‘I’m coming to the party, of course,’ I say, tilting my chin. ‘Your mother invited me this afternoon.’
Her cheeks flush as she remembers her manners. She’s all smiles now, beckoning me inside.
‘Go on through and get yourself a drink,’ she says. ‘Ma’s out there holding court, I expect.’ She turns to the stairs and her legs scissor away and above me at speed. She is wearing a pair of short dungarees over black tights, which hardly seem like party clothes to me.
I make my way inside. The hallway smells just lovely and I can see that Melissa has new wallpaper since I was last invited round. It’s a bit of a funny colour, the sort of dark green you used only to see in institutions, but I expect it cost a bomb. I expect they all favour this overpriced decor round here.
We live in a part of London that I’ve heard described as ‘on the wrong side of the North Circular’. It’s always suited me fine, but when the train line was extended into the City, all the yuppies started moving in with their lattes and their big cars and their complicated prams. Now I’d be lucky to afford a garden shed in the area.
But it’s just as close and unpleasant in here as in my boring old hallway, that’s for sure. The lilies on the hall table are already nodding drowsily and speckling mustard-coloured pollen. It’s a devil to get out of clothes, that stuff, so I give the table a wide berth as I make my way towards the kitchen at the back of the house. I pass the sitting room and see a couple of people standing in there smiling and talking animatedly.
I haven’t really been that nervous until now but my tummy begins to positively thunder with butterflies as I step down into the packed kitchen.
Sensations assail me and I almost stumble. Conversation and laughter billow around me like clouds of smoke. There’s a repetitive tsst-tsst musical beat coming from somewhere. And peacock flashes of colour everywhere. Summer frocks cling to bodies in pink, scarlet, turquoise, black. High-heeled, impossible sandals and painted toes. Lipsticked mouths sipping at drinks or parting in wide smiles.
It’s so hot in here.
I lift my shoulder and subtly drop my head to check that I don’t smell of the perspiration that is prickling my armpits. I have showered and am wearing both deodorant and perfume but I already feel uncomfortable. You wouldn’t think it was possible to feel both invisible and horribly self-conscious all at once, but I do. I always do at this sort of thing.
‘Ah! Hester, isn’t it?’
The husky voice makes me turn sharply to my left.
‘Oh, hello Saskia,’ I say, without enthusiasm.
Melissa’s annoying friend is gurning away, revealing a line of healthy pink gum above the white, almost horsey, teeth. A glass of something alcoholic and fizzy is held precariously in one manicured hand.
She laughs, but I don’t recall having made a joke. She leans over and I catch a strong scent of the cigarette smoke on her breath along with a pungently spicy perfume.
‘Have you just arrived?’ she says. ‘Can I get you a drinkie?’
I let my gaze sweep over her.
Today she is wearing a bright orange halter-neck dress that is cut very low and the two large brown orbs of her bust are almost popping out. In actual fact, her tan is so deep, she is probably darker-skinned than a good many coloured people. I glance down to see orange toenails with some sort of pattern on them poking out of gold sandals. She has money but absolutely no class, that one.
I force myself to meet her thickly made-up eyes. It always feels like she is secretly mocking me but I force myself to smile and say, ‘I can help myself, thank you.’
‘No, let me!’ she trills. The next thing I know, she has gripped me by the arm and she’s almost dragging me through a forest of people to the kitchen island, where we find Melissa, chatting animatedly to a small bespectacled woman.
‘Look who I found!’ says Saskia.
Melissa gives her a look I can’t read.
But then she says, ‘So glad you could make it, Hester,’ with real warmth. She even touches my wrist lightly and I don’t mind that her fingertips feel rather clammy against my skin. Maybe I am not the only person struggling with the muggy heat.
I am quite overcome with relief at her kind welcome. For a second I fear tears may well up. I did do the right thing in coming! Oh if only I’d had the courage to make a move sooner. What a waste of time it has been, this silly falling-out business.
‘Hello, Melissa!’ I say, ‘You’re looking lovely.’
And she is. She is pretty as a picture in a red and white flowered frock that cinches in at the waist. She has more class in her little finger than Saskia. I really don’t know what she sees in that woman.
‘What can I get you to drink?’ she says brightly, her arm sweeping to show the breadth of beverages on offer.
I hesitate. I was going to ask for a sparkling mineral water as usual. I’m not much of a drinker. But maybe it is the happy atmosphere here, or maybe it is the fact that Melissa and I are friends again, which makes me decide to let my hair down for once.
Why not? It can be my little celebration for finishing that computer course. I must tell Melissa about it at some point, but not yet. She is too busy with the party today.
‘I’ll have some of that lovely Pimm’s you’ve got in, if I may,’ I say. A confused frown pinches between her eyebrows and she looks around.
It takes a second for me to realize what I have said. The Pimm’s isn’t immediately visible. I only know about it, of course, because I happened to see the delivery earlier. It would be terrible if she thought I was spying on her. That isn’t at all what I was doing, after all.
Embarrassment congeals like cold fat inside my tummy but at that moment, thank goodness, she is commandeered by a laughing man to her left who seems to have something urgent to impart.
‘Pimm’s it is,’ says Saskia and melts away. I’m just thinking about quietly walking back the other way when I spot the woman Melissa was talking to when I arrived. She’s smiling at me in a hopeful sort of way, and I recognize straight away that she is feeling a little out of place, like me. I’ve always been good at reading people. I have a sort of antenna for it, if you like.
‘Hello, I’m Jess,’ she says, still smiling.
‘Hester,’ I say, flinching, as a very tall glass of Pimm’s, stuffed with cucumber and a long straw, is thrust at me by a tanned male hand.
‘Here you go, get that down your neck!’
Saskia’s son, Nathan, is standing next to his mother. The last time I saw him he was about eight years old and crying because he’d fallen off the trampoline, skinning his elbow. I seem to remember an incident involving a wee accident on Melissa’s sofa and a loud tantrum too.
Now he must be over six foot tall. He winds a muscular brown forearm around his mother’s neck. The boy has an unironed old t-shirt on and his hair hangs over his eyes in mucky blond coils. He grins, showing strong white teeth that look particularly carnivorous, and I notice that his green eyes have little gold flecks in them, as if he is lit by something bright within. I look away from his gaze. It’s too much, like looking at the sun. Saskia pulls him in for a loud kiss on the cheek, staring at me the whole time.
‘Isn’t my boy gorgeous?’ she says. ‘Go on, isn’t he?’
I feel quite sick with confusion. What am I supposed to say? If I say, ‘Yes he’s very handsome,’ she may think I am some kind of pervert who favours teenage boys, and if I say, ‘I think he could do with a good bath and a haircut,’ they will both be offended. Thankfully I’m saved by Nathan baying, ‘Gerroff!’ and pulling away from his mother, who bays with laughter.
Jess laughs politely as they move off to bother someone else, Saskia protectively cupping the back of her son’s neck.
Jess smiles at me again and I try to smile back, although my cheeks feel stiff and unnatural. I take a too-big sip of my drink and I can feel the alcohol seeping through me instantly.
I regard Jess. She’s a small woman, like me, with very short light-brown hair. I’m sure the rectangular glasses perched on her snub nose are very trendy, if you like that sort of thing.
‘Do you have any children, Hester?’ she says. She looks at me with open curiosity.
I can’t stop myself from heaving a sigh of resignation.
I should be inured to it by now.
But, ‘No, I do not,’ I say, perhaps a little sharply. Flustered, I gulp another large mouthful of the Pimm’s. It warms me down into my stomach and helps me avoid seeing the inevitable look of pity on Jess’s face. So I take another. I had forgotten how nice Pimm’s was. It’s slipping down so easily.
‘Me neither,’ she says cheerfully. I look at her with renewed interest.
‘I thought you were maybe connected to one of Tilly’s friends,’ she says conspiratorially. ‘It seems most people here are trailing teenagers. Here’s to being unencumbered!’
To my surprise, she tips her glass of wine and chings it against mine. Her lips quirk and her eyes twinkle. I find that I quite like her.
Emboldened by the alcohol I decide to change the subject.
‘So how do you know Melissa?’ I say.
‘Through Zumba classes,’ she says with a grin and does a funny little wiggle. ‘Have you ever tried it?’
I shake my head vigorously and have another sip. It’s only now that I am remembering I didn’t have any lunch. Zumba, indeed.
‘I’ve never really been one for foreign cookery,’ I say. Jess emits a strange squawk. I think she is laughing at me but all I can see is warmth in her eyes.
‘Hester, you are a bit of a hoot,’ she says.
‘Hmm, am I now.’ I’ve no idea why she has said this. New people should come with an instruction booklet, I think, taking another sip.
I peer at a table laden with food I can’t identify. I always find buffet-style eating a bit of a minefield. First there is the business of trying to hold a drink, the food, and a napkin all at the same time. Then there is the worry of having food stuck between your teeth. Terry once very cruelly pointed out that I had spinach in my teeth in front of guests, and I’ve never really got over it.
I realize Jess is looking at me and it must be time for me to make a comment back to her. I’ve really quite forgotten how to behave in public. Since I stopped working, I probably do spend a little bit too much time alone.
I suppose it’s a little like tennis: conversation. For some reason this makes me want to laugh and, to compensate, I take another sip of the drink. To my complete surprise, I realize I have finished it. I really am starting to feel quite relaxed.
‘Wow, that barely touched the sides!’ says Jess and before I know it, I’m grinning back. I don’t know why. It isn’t very funny. I really should have something to eat before too long.
‘I’ve finished mine too,’ says Jess. ‘Let’s get a top-up.’
‘Allow me, ladies!’
That annoying boy pops up next to us. I hand him my empty glass and he disappears off with it.
I smile at Jess. She really does seem terribly nice.
MELISSA (#uf64af6e8-21e4-55a3-bf2a-6ee75102af77)
Melissa winces at the sudden starburst of pain behind her eyes. She slicks on more lipstick and then sighs, closing her eyes and leaning her forehead against the blissfully cool glass of the bathroom mirror.
The diazepam has done nothing but give her a dry mouth and her headache hasn’t responded to double painkillers. She has been sipping champagne all afternoon, yet remains completely sober. It seems her body is depressingly resistant to chemical help today, when she needs it the most.
She washes her hands and comes out of the en-suite. Mark has left a balled-up pair of socks in the middle of the floor. Melissa picks them up and then throws them savagely against the far wall. They drop to the carpet with a disappointing lack of bounce.
‘Fuck you Mark,’ she murmurs.
Mark was meant to return from a medical conference in Durham this afternoon, in time for the party. Then two days ago he’d announced that the BBC wanted to fit in some studio filming, to be slotted around the location scenes for the next series. The studio is in Manchester.
He had argued strongly that he had no choice, but when he’d added, ‘It’s not like Tilly wants this party, is it?’ it had been obvious how he really felt.
A few days ago she’d watched him throw his suit bag onto the bed, whistling like a man who has no real cares. Like a man who thinks everything is fixed now. He’d been wearing only a turquoise towel around his middle and she could see a new softness there. The bedroom was filled with steam and the scent of the Czech & Speake aftershave she’d bought him for Christmas.
