Women of a Dangerous Age (12 page)

At the sports club, she changed and folded her clothes neatly into the locker. First she completed a set of stretches and a punishing ten sets of ab curls, then, getting into her stride on the treadmill, she was able finally to exorcise the outside world and concentrate on pushing herself to the limit. As she moved round the gym to the cross trainer, the rowing machine, then the weights machines, she could feel her heart pounding, her muscles straining, the sweat running off her. After forty minutes, she changed into her swimming costume and stepped under the shower before doing twenty minutes' brisk crawl in the empty pool. Eventually she emerged into the street, hair washed, eyes shining, feeling alive and resolved. As soon as she got home, she would text Lou and suggest they meet as originally planned.

 

Three days later, Lou arrived at Ali's studio at five thirty sharp. Ali answered her knock. They looked at each other. Lou stepped forward. Ali stepped back. Then she stepped forward to greet Lou with a tentative hug that was returned more enthusiastically as Lou clasped her to her Minnie Mouse fur. Neither mentioned Ian (or Hooker) at first. Instead, they skirted the subject by focusing attention on
Ali's work. She showed Lou the paraphernalia of her trade, answering her questions, explaining which tool was used for what. Neither of them wanted to address the one subject that they knew, in the end, they must.

When they arrived at the safe, Ali keyed in the numbers and swung open the heavy door, pulling out a tray carrying pieces from her autumn and winter collections in one half and, in the other, the antique brooch being refashioned into a pendant, a single pearl earring that she had been asked to copy plus the unpaid-for Orlov commission, and the aquamarine earrings, engagement and wedding rings that were ready as ordered.

Lou dug out a pair of green-framed glasses from her bag, gave them a wipe on the hem of her green jacket, then picked up pieces from the collections, one after another. She turned them in her hand, looking at them closely, holding a necklace to her throat, an earring to her ear. ‘These are beautiful. I love what you've done here.' She picked up a pendant gold earring that hung like an elongated teardrop with a tiny amethyst in its base.

‘The thing is, my customers come to me for a certain kind of classic look so I've got a bit stuck in my ways. That's why your idea for the shop really appeals – it gives me the opportunity to try something a bit different.' Ali reached over to her sketchbook. ‘Since we spoke, I've been trying out some ideas.'

Lou pushed her specs back on her nose and flicked through the pages. ‘These ones with the art deco feel are perfect and the bee and butterfly designs should definitely go well with the newer clothes. And the keys. Very Tiffany.'
She put down the book with an appreciative smile towards Ali as she noticed the second tray in the safe. ‘May I?' At Ali's nod, she pulled out the one below that contained several tiny plastic bags and labelled microwave boxes containing precious and semi-precious stones. She gave a gasp of surprise. ‘I'd no idea you'd keep so much here.'

‘I know, but I can't resist. It's an illness,' Ali smiled. ‘Going to the trade shows is like being taken to a sweet shop – I get seduced by something every time, then pray I'm going to be able to use them.' She tipped four pink sapphires onto her palm. ‘Aren't these beautiful? I'm going to use them in a beaten gold pendant, circling a small diamond.'

Lou peered more closely, nodding in agreement. ‘If only we could sell stuff like this.'

‘Don't worry. I think I've got a pretty good idea of what you want. I'm dying to get going, but what will Ian say when he finds out?'

Lou removed the glasses and fitted them into their case. ‘I told you on the phone. He has nothing to do with my business – financially or otherwise. We don't need to bother him!'

Her smile assured Ali she meant it.

A couple of glasses of wine and a packet of Twiglets later and they were both relaxed on the studio sofas talking freely, quickly agreeing that neither of them could be blamed for the way Hooker had behaved. Lou had made herself at home, her coat and bag thrown over half of one sofa, while she comfortably took up the rest. Ali was nothing but pleased that their friendship seemed back on track.

‘So what
do
we do about him?' she asked, as the
possibility of Ian getting his comeuppance crossed her mind for the first time.

‘Hooker?' Lou looked thoughtful. ‘Nothing. Not at the moment, anyway. I want to get the shop up and running, then think about that. To be honest, I'm still wondering how to play it. Of course, I'm angry and hurt by everything he's done but, despite all that, like it or not, he is still the children's father.'

Ali glanced up, surprised to hear her friend's voice crack but the moment had passed.

Lou recovered herself as she reached for the last Twiglet when the packet was nudged in her direction.

‘That's just hokey nostalgia getting in my way. I don't want you or anyone to think that our marriage was rotten all the way through, that's all. Time, habit and my flagging libido simply got the better of us.'

‘I don't think anything except that he's a chunk of my life best forgotten. I'm moving right along. I've decided to reply to Don's email,' Ali added, reading Lou's pleased expression. ‘But only because he and I are unfinished business, even after so long. Besides, I'm off men right now. This is just a long overdue tying-up of loose ends.' If she kept saying it, she'd come to believe it.

But Lou looked doubtful as she raised her glass. ‘Well, may it work out, one way or another.'

‘For both of us,' corrected Ali, taking over the toast. ‘And to Puttin' on the Ritz.'

‘I'll drink to that,' said Lou.

By the time Lou arrived, the three rooms in the students' union devoted to the vintage fair were buzzing with expectant buyers. She had got up at five o'clock to get there on time but roadworks on the M4 had held her up by at least an hour. If there were any finds to be made, they'd have been snapped up by now, picked off by any cognoscenti and dealers who would have been there as soon as the doors opened. However, all was not lost. Fortunately, she wasn't exhibiting, having decided to hold the stock she had until the shop was up and running. The likelihood of finding anything here to add to it was remote, the dealers would have marked up the prices too high for her, but nonetheless she loved the hunt. There was always the possibility that something might have been overlooked. Having paid her entry, she walked in, savouring the distinctive smell of a vintage fair. However well the clothes had been cleaned, there was always the whiff of mothball in the air.

She fingered her way down a rail of colourful day dresses, none of them what she was after, except in the
way of inspiration for patterns and fabric. She paused at a fifties floral and candy-pink striped cotton prom dress with straps, a seamed waist and full skirt. She could use exactly this shape in the shop. Looking closer, she noticed that the left side seam and a long tear in the skirt had been badly repaired and the fabric under the arms was faded. In five minutes, she had bargained the stallholder down to a few pounds and the dress was hers. When she got home, she'd take it to pieces and use them to make her own pattern.

Edging round a couple of young women trying on hats in front of a long mirror, she halted in front of a jewellery stall. Black velvet cushions pinned with deliciously gaudy paste brooches and earrings were angled behind rows of beaded necklaces. Bracelets and more necklaces dripped from stands. She turned over a pair of terracotta cameo earrings, tempted for a moment, then returned them, moving on to the next stall. Seeing them convinced her that she was right to get Ali to provide something more contemporary for the shop.

Slowly she worked her way round the fair, pausing to look at more dresses, watching to see what people were most interested in, listening to the prices they were prepared to pay, chatting to a couple of the stallholders whom she knew. Eventually she found a chair in the café where she treated herself to a heavily iced cupcake. Coming here had provided the therapy she'd known it would.

Sipping her coffee, she went over in her head what more she needed to do before the shop finally opened.
The Puttin' on the Ritz website was almost ready. Over one long Saturday, Jamie had photographed all the clothes with Rose and Lou dressing first one dressmaker's dummy, then the other, while a mate of Tom's had been drafted in to update and rebrand her existing website. Lou had sat up late into the night, writing copy for the various pages, explaining what the shop would offer – fifties to eighties vintage designer and vintage-inspired clothes – giving potted fashion histories of the four decades, setting up her blog. That had been the most difficult bit. To begin with she'd been self-conscious, unsure what to say, until she got into the swing. Writing on a subject about which she felt so passionately was a pleasure.

Her regular online business had been slow so far this year but, once the shop formally opened with the publicity she hoped to generate, she was confident everything would pick up. The builder–decorators were due to move out next week, having taken an age to fix the toilet and the tiling at the back, but the main space was already looking good. She and Ali had agreed that she would open without fanfare and then, once Ali's designs were ready, they'd have a formal opening. Lou had already dusted off her old contacts book in preparation. The invitations were due from the printer by the end of the week.

She hadn't seen Hooker since that afternoon in the Regis. She didn't want to, knowing any kind of confrontation she might initiate would go the way of most confrontations: Hooker – one, Lou – nil, disabled as usual by his
verbal dexterity. He was always able to justify himself. And in truth, what would she say? He was entitled to spend time with whoever he liked, whenever he liked. Even if they were half his age. She really didn't want to tackle with him his affair with Ali or indeed any other infidelities during their marriage. They belonged to the past and shouldn't matter to her any more. Nor did she want his disapproval of what he would regard as a risk rather than an investment in the shop. Lou had already had enough of that from Nic.

‘Why don't you get Jamie and Tom to paint the place for you?' her daughter had asked. ‘Much cheaper and it's not as if you need it to be perfect. It would be different if you were selling contemporary designers, but these are just old clothes. Someone else's at that.' Nic wrinkled her nose in disgust, smoothing her dove-grey wool skirt and crossing her legs to show off her shiny plum leather pumps. There was just the merest swish of nylon.

Lou laughed. ‘Honestly! I give up. They may not be brand new but some of them are gorgeous. Did I show you that very fitted purple Zandra Rhodes dress in slubbed cotton? It's so you.'

‘I don't think so, Mum,' she disagreed, with a small movement of her head. ‘Retro isn't me at all. Anyway, I'm about to be more of a Mamas and Papas girl.'

Lou touched her daughter's stomach, the bump barely visible. ‘I know. I'll have to keep my eye out for vintage maternity. Perhaps I could start a whole new line.' She pretended to make a note.

‘Not on my account!' Nic's pregnancy had obviously
been issued with a stern sense-of-humour bypass. ‘I don't want you to go bust before you've begun.'

‘Give me some credit, darling. I've worked out my budget extremely carefully. You mustn't forget that I really want this to work. I'm not going to do anything that might jeopardise it.' She passed her the draft of the invitation to the opening, hoping she'd be impressed.

Nic read it, then passed it back. ‘Actually, this looks great!'

‘Don't sound so surprised.' Lou took it and once again admired the design, as funky and interesting as she'd hoped.

‘I'll come if I can. Do you think anyone else will?' And no sign of a smile. Trust Nic.

But Lou refused to be deterred. In fact, she'd been surprised and touched by the response she'd received from the few fashion journalists she'd spoken to so far, to mark their diaries. Many of them knew Lou from her magazine days and trusted her knowledge and idiosyncratic good taste – and those were what she was relying on.

Ever since she had conceived the idea of the shop, she'd been increasing her stock, using the mornings to trawl anything from charity shops and eBay to jumble sales or auction rooms, visiting the mother of another friend of Fiona's who had a couple of old trunks she wanted to empty – anywhere she might find the perfect pieces. Most afternoons and evenings, she sewed like a fiend, both for the shop and for the various friends and friends of friends who had commissioned her to alter or make something for them. She had never been so busy.

She finished her coffee and spent another half-hour rummaging through more stalls. The only things she found were indulgences to add to her own collections: an art nouveau hatpin with a twisty gold finial and a blue stone, and a sixties French evening bag decorated with jet and gold glass beads.

Driving back to London, she slid Billy Joel's
Piano Man
into the CD player at top volume, shrieking out an almost-in-tune accompaniment as she drove. Cocooned in the relative comfort of her Ford Focus with a large packet of Maltesers well within her reach, for the next couple of hours alone in Billy's, then Mark Knopfler's, first-rate company, she felt happy, secure in the feeling that all would be well with the world.

Having arrived home, she spent the remainder of the afternoon with Fred Astaire setting the mood while she made a start on her initial stocktake. Two laden clothes rails were set up in the sitting room and every item had to be logged onto the laptop, priced and labelled. As she worked, she mentally catalogued her wardrobe upstairs, wondering what she had that would be suitable for her evening's date with Sanjeev.

India had receded in her memory, overtaken by recent events; their meeting on the aeroplane, likewise. She was already anxious that she might not recognise him again, or that they wouldn't get on. Agreeing to a date had seemed such a good plan when she was just back; hearing his voice conjured up all sorts of possibilities but now the reality was more nerve-wracking as she imagined the conversation flagging, him making a pass and her not
recognising it
was
one, getting her kit off in front of him … She refused to think any further, having already gone way too far. This was going to be a friendly meeting. That was all.

Her ‘brush' with Hooker and subsequent discoveries about what he'd been up to had put any kind of liaison with someone new on the back burner. She was with Ali on this. All things considered, another man in her life would be way too much trouble and anyway she was better off on her own, particularly when she had so much to keep her busy. Ali had visited the shop and had been impressed and boosted Lou's confidence in the project. The two of them talked and emailed often, Ali talking through her ideas and Lou telling her about any new purchases and how the shop was shaping up. They had barely discussed Hooker since they met at the studio.

Ali's lack of self-pity and the way she had picked herself up and got on with her life was impressive. Lou wanted to follow her example. But, relieved as she was to have made a break from Hooker, there was still a tiny bit of her that missed him, that thought of him as hers. She had tried to suppress that feeling but, despite herself, it still could make itself felt when least expected. She was determined this wouldn't happen tonight and prevent her from enjoying the evening with Sanjeev.

She went back to considering her wardrobe and decided on the fifties-style coral-coloured cocktail dress that she'd designed with a sweetheart neckline not too low (cover the crêpey cleavage), elbow-length sleeves (flatter the flabby upper arms) and a pencil skirt (make the most of
those pins) – an understated statement of a dress for a woman of a certain age: tighter than it once had been, but flattering for all that. Capping the look were her new shoes bought despite being a half-size too small. She had wanted to be persuaded by the sales assistant that the divine pale grey suede would stretch easily, and so she had been.

In the end, she recognised Sanjeev immediately, the tall lean physique, the black hair with flecks of grey over the ears, the thick eyebrows over long-lashed dark eyes, the moustache that looked more dashing than she remembered. She'd never been much of a one for facial hair, but somehow on him, it didn't look so bad. He was muffled up, standing on the street corner, waiting for her. To her surprise, she felt a definite tingle of anticipation as she approached him. She'd quite forgotten that feeling and how pleasant it could be.

But then, as she walked towards him, she felt two bands of pain wrapping themselves more tightly around the first joints of all her toes, building to a crescendo in both her incipient bunions; she cursed under her breath and tried not to limp. They exchanged chaste kisses on the pavement and she inhaled sandalwood and citrus from him. She heard his slight intake of breath when he helped her out of her coat in the restaurant lobby, and sent up a prayer for her already straining side zip to last the night. For some reason her body seemed to have expanded on the way there. As a precaution, she had prepared for the worst, but unlikely, eventuality by pinning safety pins at strategic points to reinforce things.

‘Follow me,' he said. ‘The food here's more authentic than any anywhere else in this city.' Realising he must know London better than she'd thought, she followed him up the workaday staircase, gaffer tape over the worn bits of carpet, faded Bollywood film posters lining the walls. They arrived in a large room with a long central row of crowded noisy tables flanked on either side by booths for four. Large ceiling fans circulated the air, despite the season, rocking slightly as they turned. The mirror running down the left wall gave the impression that the place was double the size. Waiters in red jackets darted up and down the room, balancing plates, sweating. Lou had expected a smart London restaurant: instead she felt as though she'd been beamed back to India. Here, her dress and shoes felt all wrong, overdressed, English.

Sanjeev was welcomed like a prodigal son by the old man sitting at the top of the stairs. Embraces over, he showed them to a booth where a waiter flapped a white tablecloth into place, then returned with cutlery and the menu. Sanjeev ordered a couple of Kingfisher beers, thus depriving Lou of the glass of red wine that she was longing for. Black mark number one. Ordering for her without asking, as if she couldn't read the menu and choose for herself, was one of Hooker's maddening habits. And the new Lou was not going to revert to being that invisible woman.

‘Beer is better with this food,' Sanjeev explained, as if reading her mind. ‘Trust me. I want you to experience the real thing all the way from north-west India.' He picked up both menus and passed one to her.

‘Even so, if you don't mind, I'd like a glass of red wine
while we order. I can always change to beer later.' She wouldn't, of course, but equally she didn't want him to think she was completely impossible. Better to start the way she intended to carry on: if not in the driving seat, at least as the co-driver.

Despite the raised eyebrow, she recognised that glint of amusement in his eyes as he called the waiter back so she could order a glass of French Merlot. That was the look that went with his return of her knickers. Half regretting her bolshiness, she considered the list of dishes, then put the menu down. ‘I honestly don't know where to start. Would you choose?'

‘Very well.' His voice was reserved but not unfriendly. ‘The
murgh makhani
is very good here or, if you like prawns, perhaps the
tandoori jhinga
, and the black lentil dhal is excellent.' With each suggestion, he pointed at the list of dishes with a lean, well-manicured finger.