Parallel Life (6 page)

Ben. Hermione lit a cigarette and opened a window. Eileen Eckersley had the nose of an elephant when it came to residual nicotine. Harrie, Hermione's partner in crime, was the guilty party who smuggled in Benson and Hedges once a week. Ben. Such a kerfuffle tonight, all spinning car tyres and flying gravel. He wasn't right. Lisa's fault? Hardly. Lisa was, always had been, an excellent jeweller and a good saleswoman. Love had died in her. Hermione had watched the premature death of her own daughter-in-law. Gustav? She shook her head. Gustav was the creation of his own father, a good enough man who had pushed his son into Bolton School, into Oxford, into medicine. Later on, Gus had placed himself under the wings of the Universities of Manchester and Liverpool, together with the financial backing of pharmaceutical companies. It was hard to place all the blame at the feet of her only son.

‘Was it me?' she asked herself aloud. ‘Or Woebee? We did our best. If I could only get out of this damned chariot and walk, I'd march all the way to the root of the problem that is Ben.'

Tomorrow, she would talk to Harrie. Today, she reminded herself inwardly, because midnight was ages ago. Time to swing her senseless body into a prone position on the bed. Soon enough, she would need putting to bed before Eileen/Woebee's daily departure. Not yet. For as long as possible, Hermione Compton-Milne would wear purple with red, would rattle a metaphorical stick along life's railings, would wear slippers in the snow. Who wrote that poem?

Harrie, summoned into the Presence, placed her rear on Gran's padded footstool and waited for the inquisition to begin. Her second-in-command would open the shop and marshal the comings and goings of staff. ‘I can't stay long,' she began. ‘The clockmaker's due this morning. I have an early-nineteenth grandfather that needs attention.'

‘Bring him here, then. He'll be more use than your real grandad, God rest him.'

Harrie smiled tentatively. ‘No. He's all tick and no tock, Gran.'

‘Even so. Eileen?'

A turbaned head poked itself through the kitchen doorway. ‘I'm cupboards today.'

‘Coffee, please. And don't fall off that stepladder; I am not insured.'

Grumbling softly, the head disappeared into the kitchen.

‘What's going on?' Hermione asked.

Harrie scratched her head. ‘I'm not sure. I thought he was getting better, because he did the driving test without even telling me, but I may have been mistaken. He's still scrubbing everything. I found him last week making a terrible decision about double CDs. Should they stay with the singles in subdivisions of artistes, or should he make a new section for doubles?'

‘His conclusion?'

Harrie shrugged. ‘Don't know.' She lowered her voice. ‘Ciggies bottom drawer, bedroom bureau. She won't find them while she's doing the kitchen.'

‘What? Old X-ray eyes? Don't be too sure.'

The younger woman laughed softly. There was no point in hiding anything from either of these two. Between them, they would probably spot without hesitation an igloo in a white-out. And Gran had proved herself to be almost unshockable. Any problem at all could be laid at the numbed feet of this eccentric, delightful creature.

‘What happened last night, Harriet?'

Ah. ‘Harriet' meant serious business. It had been the same at school. On normal days, she was Harrie, but when officialdom prescribed prize-giving day or some such formal occasion, it was Harriet. ‘I'm not quite sure, Gran, but it was dealt with at the hospital.'

‘I see. Which department?'

‘A and E, swiftly followed by psychiatry.'

‘Bugger.'

‘Exactly.'

Hermione wheeled herself toward a front window. ‘What has he done to himself?'

Harrie hesitated for a short beat of time.

‘Well?'

‘I think he bleached his manhood, Gran. If it wasn't Ben, that might even be funny in a Michael Jackson sort of way. He insisted he had mistaken Domestos for shower gel. I almost lost my temper with him.'

‘You think he washes himself in bleach?'

‘Weakened bleach, yes.'

‘Why can't he use soap and water?'

‘Gran, if I had answers, there would have been no visit to the hospital last night.' She sighed heavily. ‘Time for me to become semi-detached – if your offer still stands. One of those prefabricated jobs can be built within weeks. They do it all the time in America. I think they put cooking foil between the two layers as insulation.'

Hermione nodded absently. ‘Of course.' She fiddled with a string of pearls. ‘I should never have allowed Stanley to get those rooms done for him.'

Eileen appeared with a tray. ‘Are you taking my husband's name in vain here? What's he done now? When last seen, he was innocently mending a gate. Yes, you should get your house built,' she advised Harrie. ‘Time you had a life. Here, you pour the coffee while I carry on carrying on.' She returned to her task.

‘She misses nothing,' smiled Hermione. ‘I'll start the ball rolling out towards the copse as soon as possible.'

‘Ben will have to be more self-reliant with me out of the house.'

Woebee's head made another brief appearance. ‘You'll still be on top of him, but. You'd be better off taking one of those departments in Eagley Mills or such.'

‘Apartments,' snapped Hermione with feigned annoyance. ‘She'll do as she chooses, Eileen. Get the cupboards finished. It's time you did something to justify your existence.'

It was settled. Harrie was to have a posh shed in the grounds, and all of them would wait and watch. It reminded Harrie of a set of books she had read in childhood.
What Katie Did Next
would become
What Ben Did Next
. And the grandfather clock was waiting, too.

Three

Must get a new car soon. A new car is such a source of pleasure, especially for the first few weeks: clean and fresh, new number plate, sense of achievement. An automatic, I think. The roads are so busy now that gear-changing, especially during rush hour, is becoming a full-time occupation. Much better to crawl along without fiddling with a gear shift, and without worries on hill starts.

My supposed husband is an inverted snob – I think that's the term. He has used, over the years, a series of battered and bruised Minis into which he folds himself clumsily, knees almost under his chin. He's a fool. A clever fool, but he thinks he's so bloody special, too elevated for a decent car. What's a car after all? Why should he need any kind of status symbol? What's a car to a man who is going to be knighted one of these years?

Right. What's down for today? The shop, of course. Meeting with the accountant, lunch with Sadie Fisher, home, change of clothes, an evening with Alec. The thought of him makes me shiver with anticipation. If only les girls knew that I bed a man ten years my junior two or three times a week. They'd be crying in their soup; the resulting dilution might alleviate Sadie's weight problem, if nothing else . . .

A bottleneck here again at the top of Bank Street. I don't know what the hell the planners think they're doing, but this town is dying inch by inch. Soon, small shops like mine will disappear altogether. My Milne's jewellers operates these days like a Lone Ranger at the centre of an almost empty block, businesses murdered, hope gone, lives ruined. Everyone shops at Middlebrook now.

I think I'll have a blue car. Blue is my colour, always has been. It accentuates my best feature, the large, long-lashed eyes that have been the envy of so many girlfriends over the years. Not bad for forty-four. My skin continues firm despite warnings on cigarette packets, the nose is perfect now – after a couple of small adjustments, of course, and my breasts can hold their own shape no matter what the situation, because they cost me an arm and a leg. Yes, I have excellent limbs, too, and men still turn in the street when I pass by. Any male would be happy to be seen out and about with me. With the exception of the Prof. Well, he got his money's worth: trained jeweller to carry on the family firm, pelvis wide enough to deliver naturally his two children. It wasn't easy, but I proved my worth.

There are ongoings at home. If I could call it home, that is. Better to say that the strangers among whom I live are at odds with one another and with life in general. The only person I talk to is my daughter, and that doesn't happen very often. Such a fuss last night when Ben had to be driven off to hospital. I pretended to follow my daughter's car while visitors watched, but I didn't bother, turned back when I thought everyone would have gone away. Harriet can cope. She always could.

Bridge ended prematurely, taxis ordered to take home my tired and emotional friends. Friends? Ha-bloody-ha. I am close to none of them. Alec is all I have and all I want. He is a closely-guarded secret, and he knows me better than anyone else in the world.

Park the car, enter my shop by the rear door, disable the alarm before it brings the house down. It's Alec's alarm. I met him when he fitted it. He's the last – I hope – in a line of lovers who have kept me sane throughout a lifeless, soulless marriage. Must make sure no one sees the latest packages – without Alec's constant flow of second-hand items that never touch the books, our bolting money would be a great deal less than I am going to need. I don't ask where he gets the stuff, almost don't care. I am out of here as soon as the shop gets its final condemnation from the powers that shouldn't be.

Coffee maker on, coat on a hanger, use the hand cream. What shall I wear today? Ah, yes, the sapphire and diamond earrings with the matching ring, a whopper almost as big as Princess Diana's was. I have been told more than once that I look like the princess, though I hope people notice that I have the better nose. She was unhappy, poor soul. God, how well I understand that!

My other shop is better placed and may survive. Well, let Harriet have it, because I shall be in Portugal with the love of my life. I'll put those pearls in the window, I think. Nice, fat, juicy pearls suitable for a nice, slender, firm throat. No, I mustn't wear them. The lily will be sufficiently gilded by the Diana furniture. Wedding season. I'll shove a few silver lockets in the display – they seem favourites as gifts for bridesmaids.

Half an hour till the shop opens. Check the main safe, make sure that all questionable items are in the floor safe. Only Alec and I know of the second safe's existence. We are well on the way to the quarter million mark. The books are clean and Alec's stuff is sold to people he chooses carefully. He swears it's not stolen, tells me he gets it from his second job – clearing houses. I have to believe . . . It won't be long now. We'll be gone, and no one will miss me. Not true. I believe Hermione will notice my absence.

Set up the earring stand. Creoles are so ugly, yet I sell more of these hideous items than of studs and sleepers. To Gus, sleepers are bits of wood beneath railway lines. Ha-bloody-ha again. When Harriet was born, Gus failed to hide his disappointment. He carried on “loving” me until I had produced a son, then buggered off faster than sugar off a shiny shovel into the world of research. Model trains filled his leisure hours. Occasionally, he would check on Ben's progress at school, though he seldom communicated with either of his offspring. That was supposed to be my job, I think. I don't like that jade, think I'll take it off display.

I know now that it was post-natal depression. Eileen and Hermione took over the rearing of Harriet and, by the time Benjamin was born, I was set in my pattern, because the first symptoms of Hermione's MS had begun to show shortly after the birth of my daughter. She is my daughter. Sometimes, I have to remind myself. However, Hermione stayed at home to help Eileen mind the children, while I ran the shops.

The Austrian crystal sells well. Glad I had those lights set into the display cabinet – see how the cute little hedgehog sparkles? From the age of three, Harriet has run to her grandmother, has known that Gran was ill, that Gran and Ben needed her. Am I jealous? I should pick up that phone, cancel Sadie and take Harriet out to lunch. No, it would be awkward. Ah, I'll turn on the little fountain. When a customer sits next to that, they are soothed by water lapping over smooth stone. That, I worked out for myself. So I am not as daft as some might believe.

Right. Jewellery on, smile on, shoes shining, suit a miracle of understatement. A Renault, I think. Yes, I'll have a change. Alec says the Renaults are good. A blue Renault, a false smile, borrowed jewels, man-made boobs. But the whole is greater than the parts. Before I leave for Europe, I'll find myself. And Harriet. For some reason, it is suddenly important that she understands.

It was ten minutes after one by the time Lisa arrived at the restaurant. Sadie Fisher, already toying with a second glass of wine, hailed her friend enthusiastically. ‘I'm booked in,' she whispered excitedly. ‘Liposuction and a couple of tucks; soon be back to normal. Only a few weeks to wait.'

Lisa smiled and sat down. At the rate Sadie consumed carbs, she would never be anything approaching normal. ‘Sorry I'm late – got a bit tied up at the shop. Have you ordered?'

‘No.'

‘I'll just have a green salad and a bit of chicken –' Lisa patted her flat stomach – ‘or I could well be joining you in the liposuction stakes.' She smiled to herself while Sadie placed the order. Roast beef and all the trimmings? At lunchtime? No wonder the woman needed surgery. ‘Did you have a good morning?'

Sadie shook her head. ‘The boss is down with irritable bowel syndrome again, so guess who had to run the department? Yours truly. It's all very well, but she'll turn purple if I order the wrong accessories. Some nice handbags in today. You must come and look.'

The food arrived. Lisa picked absently at lettuce and chicken, tried not to watch while Sadie stuffed herself. Still, near-starvation did pay off. Sadie was two years younger than Lisa, though she looked at least five older. That was the high price of indulging an over-healthy appetite.