Women of a Dangerous Age

Her memory of the morning following his proposal was quite clear. She had woken up beside him, her mind made up.

‘Morning.’ She’d kissed his left eye, then his right.

He’d groaned as he rolled to face her, squinting as he opened one and then the other eye. ‘God! That brandy was a mistake.’

‘But you’re usually OK.’ Their noses were almost touching and she could just smell his morning-after breath. She couldn’t help noticing the few broken veins in his cheeks, the incipient wrinkles around his mouth, his greyish overnight stubble: all reminders that time was marching on. He slid his arm around her waist.

‘Yeah, but last night was different.’ He pulled back a little and looked at her. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you the way I did. Stupid of me. I don’t want to spoil what we’ve got either. I’m happy to leave things be, if that’s what you want. In fact, perhaps that would be better for both of us.’

‘Stop right there,’ she said, not wanting him to retract anything, not now her own thoughts were changing so fast. ‘I lay awake for half the night, thinking about what you said.’

‘Did you? Poor baby. Forget it. We’re fine just as we are. Really.’ He kissed her, slow and lingering, the definite prelude for more. He slid his leg between hers.

She began to respond, then wriggled out of the embrace.

‘Come on. Don’t let a bloke down now. We haven’t got much time.’ He’d reached for her again. But she had something important to say.

‘I know, I know, but …’ She sat up, plumping the pillow behind her and adding a couple of the scatter cushions that had been relegated to the floor. ‘We’ve got to talk.’

‘About what?’ He scratched his head so his hair stood on end. He leaned across her and flicked the Today programme over to Radio 3 as the presenter announced Debussy’s La Plus que Lente. The notes of the piano swelled and fell in the quiet of the room as he waited for Ali to speak.

‘About last night. About what you said.’

He screwed up his right eye and with his right thumb on his cheekbone rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. ‘Yes?’

She heard how apprehensive he was, so hurried to put him out of his misery. ‘I think it’s a wonderful idea.’ She watched his eyes open wide in surprise. ‘I was shocked last night. But I’ve thought and thought about what it would mean and now I know that’s what I want too.’

‘You do?’ He sat up too, his voice coloured with disbelief.

‘I definitely do.’

He enveloped her in a bear hug, pulling her over so they lay face to face, but she hadn’t finished. ‘I love you and want to be with you. But … what about your wife? What will you do?’

‘Forget about her,’ he’d whispered. ‘You didn’t want to know about her before, so let’s keep it that way for now. I don’t want her to spoil anything.’

Remembering his words again now reminded her of how little she really knew about him. Lou was so right to have picked up on that. Aware of movement beside her, Ali opened her eyes, hoping to find her friend awake and in a mood to talk. But despite her change of position, Lou’s head was slumped against the headrest, her distinctive eye mask still in place.

Disappointed, Ali shifted in her seat, slipping off her shoes, and returned to her thoughts. She had curled herself around their secret until she’d got used to it, squeezing every drop of private pleasure from it. She was dying to see the expression on her friends’ faces when they heard she was going to settle down. Most of her women friends had become so wrapped up in their marriages and children, they didn’t look outwards any more. That was one of the things she liked about Lou, her interest in the world around her. But Ali’s friends saw her as a professional mistress – serially monogamous with other women’s husbands. And not all (if any) of them approved or thought it as amusing as they might once have done, especially not after they’d got married themselves. Then their views on marriage underwent a sudden transformation. Ali had become a threat to all they held dear. To hell with them. How gloriously gobsmacked they would be at the change in her fortunes now Ian had come along.

Opening her eyes again, she was confronted by the on-screen flight information. The cartoon plane had barely moved since she last looked. She fiddled with the control pad, trying to switch off the image. What did she care about the temperature outside the plane right now? She wasn’t intending to experience it for herself. She looked at Lou who had pulled her blanket right over her head, now dead to the world. Ali felt her stomach contract again. Cursing quietly, she excused herself from the row once again. ‘I’m so sorry but I’m not too well.’ To say she had Delhi belly seemed a somewhat insensitive euphemism to use to a native Indian. ‘Rather than disturbing you through the night, I wonder if we could swap seats?’ Lou would be horrified, but needs must.

‘If you think that would be better for you. Of course,’ he said, disentangling his headphones and gathering his possessions – a paperback, his airline toiletry bag and a bottle of water – and stood to let her past.

‘I think it might.’ Propelled by a certain degree of urgency, she transferred her belongings to the outside seat, then abandoned him to make his own arrangements.

When Ali returned, he was asleep in front of the thriller. She sat down, resigned to a long sleepless night ahead. She tuned in to an anodyne family comedy that required neither concentration nor intelligence but even so she could only think of Ian.

He had noticed how uncomfortable she was with the way he talked about his wife, and had hugged her tighter.

‘I don’t want her spoiling what we have. When I come here to your flat, I can forget everything else. I feel a different person. Do you understand that?’

‘I suppose so,’ she murmured, enjoying their closeness enough to drive away her concerns. ‘But we can’t exist in this weird little bubble forever.’

‘We can try.’ He began to kiss her again.

Once again, she pulled away, this time to his tsk of annoyance. ‘Where will we live?’ she asked.

‘Where?’ He let her go. ‘What’s wrong with here? I love this place.’

‘So do I. But if we’re going to have a new life together then I’d like to live somewhere that’s ours. Yours and mine. A new start.’ She snuggled up to him. He just hadn’t thought this through. She had moved into her flat when she had accepted she was probably going to be single forever so this was her domain, her home. The place held too many memories that had nothing to do with him, and, if she was honest, were hardly appropriate to the life they were planning. No, if they were starting a life together, they needed a place of their own. She could tell from his silence that she had surprised him. One all, then.

Despite his apparent lack of enthusiasm, she’d made up her mind that was definitely what was going to happen. She’d already put out a few feelers before she came away but as soon as she got home she’d be combing the property pages and pestering the agents. He’d come round when he realised how a move made sense. Then she’d have to broach the idea of a baby. Too much too soon? But time was against them. If they didn’t talk about these things now, it might be too late. And Ian loved her. He would understand.

Moments later, she had to leave her seat again. At the back of the plane, the cabin crew were in the galley, whiling away the hours until their more active duties resumed. The blonde I’m-Clare-fly-me one noticed Ali’s coming and going, and asked if she could help. So it was that, provided with a beaker of water, Ali found herself lying full length on an empty row of seats, reasonably comfortable at last. By the time the stewardesses began the breakfast round, she was fast asleep.

Lou was woken by the sound of the trolley and distant voices. Keeping the blanket over her head, she swallowed and ran her tongue around her mouth. The metallic taste was the side effect of her sleeping pill but her head was clear. Only a few hours and she’d be home, taking down the Christmas decorations. They’d looked so pretty all ready for her pre-Christmas Christmas dinner that she’d had with the kids before she left for India and Jamie and Rose his fiancée left for Tenerife to visit her family in their holiday villa.

Hooker had not been invited. Sitting the whole family round the table and pretending nothing had changed would have been inappropriate, not to say uncomfortable. As would a full-blown turkey extravaganza. Instead, she’d decided on the old family favourite – roast beef with all the trimmings. This was the first time they’d all be together at her new home, and she wanted everything to be right. This was the first time they’d celebrated Christmas without Hooker. She’d transformed her workroom with coloured fairy lights twinkling round the window. The chipped and scratched surface of her sewing table was hidden under a red tablecloth sprinkled with silver star confetti. No crackers this year. Instead, the table was elegant with Jenny’s white china, the only decoration being the gauzy red ribbons that Lou had tied in bows around the bases of the glass candlesticks.

The meal was a triumph, even her Yorkshire puddings, and after they’d eaten, they moved into the living room for present opening. The fire blazed, glasses were charged, chocolates and mince pies passed around. The kids had clubbed together to buy Lou a Total Pampering Package that aimed to rejuvenate and re-energise. Oh, the optimism of youth! She had given Jamie and Tom cheques, socks and a shirt each – anything else ran the risk of rejection. For Rose, there was a book about Reiki healing. Then she took the last package and passed it to Nic.

‘Honestly, Mum! You could have done better than brown paper.’

Aware of the effort that usually went into Nic’s extravagant wrappings, she just said as brightly as she could, ‘I’m saving the planet and anyway, it’s what’s inside that counts.’

As Nic tore away the paper, a loose deep green silk devoré velvet jacket slid into her hands. She shook it out and held it up to look at it, then against herself.

A pause as she examined it, then, ‘Is it one of yours?’

Lou caught the faintest hint of criticism in the question.

‘I’m afraid so,’ admitted Lou, who still smarted from the time when Nic, as a young teenager, had begged her to stop making their clothes. She wanted to go shopping with her mates, and wear what they wore. And who could blame her? Uniformity was what mattered then – for the boys too. Ever since, Lou had restricted her dressmaking to herself and to friends. But she hadn’t been able to resist this gorgeous fabric, which she had been so sure Nic would love.

Nic confined herself to shaking her head in a despairing sort of way. She slipped it on over her dress, then went upstairs to find a mirror. Despite Rose’s quiet ‘Wow!’ and Lou’s feeling of satisfaction in seeing a perfect fit, Nic’s appreciation was less than impressive. When she returned to the room, she slung it over the back of her chair and kissed Lou’s cheek. ‘Thanks, Mum. It’s lovely.’ Her lack of enthusiasm had been barely hidden. ‘It’ll be great for that flappers and gangsters fancy dress party at New Year.’

Stuck in her airline seat, blanket over her head, Lou could still feel her disappointment. How she longed to have one of those close mother–daughter relationships instead of one that blew hot and cold with no warning. The jacket should have proved to Nic how beautiful vintage-inspired pieces could be, how successful Lou’s business venture would be, but she should have known better. Nic had been as dismissive as Hooker sometimes was. They rarely thought of the effect their words might have. Well, she’d bloody well show them that she could make a go of this. If anything, Nic’s scorn had only served to stoke the fire of Lou’s determination. Who knew? Perhaps her success would bring them closer together. Success was something that Nic, like her father, respected.

The rattle of the trolley was getting nearer. She wondered what the time was, but was reluctant to brave the glare of the cabin to look at her watch.

‘Excuse me.’ An unknown voice sounded right by her ear. ‘Would you like orange juice?’

Annoyed by the disturbance, she peeled the blanket from her head and took off her eye mask only to be confronted by a familiar face in the next seat. Her knicker rescuer. Beyond him, the third seat was empty. Where was Ali? He was passing her a plastic beaker from the stewardess. She took it and unfolded her table. ‘Thanks. But that seat’s taken.’ Realising how rude she sounded, she apologised. ‘I’m sorry, that sounded awful.’

‘Not at all.’ He inclined his head and gave a slight smile. ‘Your friend was taken ill so she took the aisle seat, but I think she may now be sleeping at the back of the plane.’

Lou composed herself. She was a fifty-five-year-old woman, for God’s sake. This man had only tried to help her, not stripped her naked in front of the whole airport. Even if that was what it had felt like to her at the time. The memory of his hand holding out her knickers came into her head and she fought a desire to laugh.

‘I’m sorry about earlier on at the airport, too,’ she said. Then, ‘I’m Lou.’

He held out his hand, at least as far as the movement was possible in such a confined space. ‘Sanjeev Gupta.’

They shook, elbows digging into their sides. Before they could continue their conversation, a stewardess was leaning across, offering trays of breakfast. Lou stared at the separated lumps of scrambled egg and the warm burned sausage that floated in a thin sea of tomato juice, before turning her tray around and picking up the yoghurt.

‘Have you been on holiday?’ her neighbour asked while cutting his sausage as if expecting something foul to crawl out. He gave up and turned his attention to the roll and butter.

Within minutes, Lou was detailing their route through Rajasthan, remembering the highlights, excited to be able to talk about what she’d seen without the rest of the group, who were scattered through the plane, interrupting. She only stopped to allow the breakfast to be removed. Sanjeev was an attentive listener, concentrating on what he was hearing, interrupting only to ask whether she had managed to visit certain places she didn’t mention: Jaisalmer, Bikaner, Deogarh. By the time they’d finished their coffee, Lou was laughing.

‘Two weeks obviously isn’t anything like long enough. We’ve missed so much. I’ll just have to come back.’

Responding to her laugh, Sanjeev smiled back. ‘To Rajasthan? Or maybe somewhere else?’

‘What do you think?’ Lou wanted the opinion of someone who knew the country far better than her.

He began to tell her about the other very different parts of his country, from the unspoilt mountain state of Sikkim that lay in the Himalayan foothills in the shadow of Kanjenjunga, to the gentle white-sanded paradise of Kerala in the south. Lou listened, entranced by his descriptions and the stories of his visits there, at the same time making plans for countless future visits. Would her new business provide the necessary income? She would have to make sure it did. He took her journeying down the mighty Brahmaputra in the state of Assam, conjuring up the crowded ferries, the riverine island of Majuli, his visit during light-filled Divali, the ubiquitous tea plantations. He was describing the steep noisy street up to a Hindu temple outside Guwahati lined with stalls stuffed with devotional objects, crowded with holy men and pilgrims who had travelled there to have their wishes granted, when Ali returned to the outside seat.

Lou smiled a faint welcome but continued to let Sanjeev talk. So caught up was she in the places he was describing, she didn’t want him to stop. However, seeing he’d lost her attention for a moment, he broke off and twisted round to see Ali. He immediately asked her if she wanted her seat back. ‘Your friend has missed you. So, if you are better …’ He let the sentence hang.

‘Thank you.’ She stood to let him out, so she could slide into the vacated middle seat.

Lou was disappointed to lose Sanjeev but Ali wasn’t to know how much she had been enjoying his company.

‘What a bloody awful night,’ announced Ali, who was looking pale despite the make-up that she’d obviously applied in preparation for landing.

‘I’m sorry. I’d no idea. How are you feeling now?’ Lou felt guilty that she hadn’t even bothered to go to the back of the plane to find out. But Ali seemed not to mind.

‘Much better. Once I was lying down and the Imodium kicked in, I was OK. But I had so much going around my head, I couldn’t sleep for ages.’

‘Once you see Ian, everything’ll fall into place. You’ll see.’ Lou wasn’t sure why she was speaking with such confidence when she knew so little about either of them. ‘Is he meeting you?’

‘I wish. No. I don’t know when I’m going to see him. Depends on how things have gone with his wife, I guess.’

The pilot’s voice broke into their conversation, announcing the start of their descent into Heathrow. Lou stretched her ankles back and forth, suddenly aware that she had barely moved on the flight and that a blood clot might be lurking in a stagnant vein, waiting to finish her off. Why hadn’t she worn those awful white compression socks that had briefly graced the airport floor and were now buried somewhere in Ali’s case? Confusion and vanity had combined to prevent her retrieving them. Her grip tightened on the armrest again as her hearing buzzed and blocked and she struggled to catch what Ali was saying. She gasped as a sharp pain drilled into her eye socket, then swallowed hard. Cutting loose from her neighbours, she focused on the pain in her head and on all the methods she knew that might relieve the pressure: holding her nose; swallowing; yawning; drinking the last of her water; trying and failing to find the chewing gum buried in her bag. Just when she thought she couldn’t bear it another moment and her head would split in two, the plane hit the tarmac. As it bumped along the ground, the pain began to recede as they taxied towards the airport buildings.

4

Lou’s eyes felt as if they’d been forcibly removed, sandpapered and returned to their sockets. Her limbs were leaden as she slid her suitcase through the melting snow along the path to her front door, vowing never to catch another overnight flight again. She stopped to look up at the windows, wound about with bare wisteria stems. Jenny’s home was hers now, and waiting to welcome her back. Even so, it was strange not to be returning from holiday to the home she and Hooker had shared for so long. For a second, she felt more alone than she had since their split. As she rummaged in her bag for her key, she felt Sanjeev’s business card. Would he make good his promise, hurriedly made as they walked towards Immigration, to invite her to dinner while he was in London? And if he did, how would she respond? Positively, she decided, given what she remembered of his manner, his way of conjuring up places, palaces, myths and Mughals, not of course forgetting his Bollywood good looks. And why not? There was no reason why she shouldn’t indulge in a little post-marital entertainment.

As soon as she was inside, she swapped her too-thin mac for her voluminous knee-length leopard-print faux-fur coat that was scattered with Minnie Mouse faces. Walking through the house, inhaling the familiar scent of home, reacquainting herself with everything, she glanced out of the window into the garden. In contrast to the black slush covering the London streets, here was a frozen winter wonderland, only interrupted by the paw prints of local cats and foxes. Despite having put on the coat, she shivered and went to turn up the heating, exchanging her holiday shoes for her Uggs, before making herself a cup of tea, builder’s strength.

Even though the house belonged to her now, she still felt Jenny’s presence. After months spent grieving for her younger sister, wandering round the place, remembering, Lou had finally galvanised herself. Being practical was one of the things she did best. At first she had planned to rent the house until the property market improved. She’d sorted out all her sister’s belongings before starting on a round of charity shop visits to get rid of the rest. Stuff – that’s all her sister’s possessions were now – just stuff that had little or no significance to anyone else, not even to Lou. She had found that terribly sad. Any tales about how Jenny came by certain things or why she kept them had died with her. Letters, old postcards from her friends, ancient bank statements and bills, diaries and notebooks: only fit for the bin. Lou had to go through them all first, despite hating the invasion of her sister’s well-kept privacy. Apart from one or two personal mementoes, some gifts for the children and a few clothes, all that Lou kept were the basics necessary for a rental property. If it was to appeal to any potential tenant, her job was to neutralise Jenny’s home, get rid of its character altogether.

But there wasn’t going to be a tenant, after all. The moment of realisation had come three months ago, as she planned the redecoration of the main bedroom. She was poring over a paint chart with a couple of fabric swatches in her hand, undecided between shades – Raspberry Bellini, Roasted Red or the one she knew she should choose: safe, innocuous white – when a blinding light dawned. Why do the place up for a stranger when it could be hers, done up exactly as she wanted? This could be her chance for a new start in life. How Jenny would have liked that: so infinitely preferable to the idea of a stranger taking over her home. Her sister had been the only one in the world who knew what Lou really felt about her husband in recent years, about her marriage. She would be so pleased to have helped her to an escape route. If her death was teaching Lou anything, it was to squeeze every drop out of life while you had it. There was no knowing when it would end. That same evening she had told Hooker she was leaving him.

To begin with he hadn’t believed her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he’d said. ‘You don’t mean it.’ But she did, and over the following two weeks of protracted and painful rowing had finally got him to accept that her mind was made up. ‘You’ll be back,’ he said. ‘You won’t like being on your own.’ But the more he poured scorn on her plan, the more determined he made her. Any reservations she might have had were quashed.

In the living room, everything was as she’d left it. She tucked her knitting bag under the Eames chair that had been Jenny’s pride and joy, then sat and opened her laptop on her knee. With tea and a small(ish) slice of home-made Christmas cake on the low table by her side, she lifted her feet onto the ottoman and began to download her photographs. Unpacking could wait. As the images materialised in front of her, she was ambushed by memories: Jaipur’s Palace of the Winds; a Brahmin village chief preparing the opium ceremony; the swaying elephant ride up to the Amber Fort; groups of enchanting dark-eyed children; an old woman cooking chapattis over a fire in her front yard; and so they kept on coming.

At the same time as wishing herself back there, Lou also felt a deep pleasure at being back home. Now India was over, she was ready to concentrate on making a new life alone. The trip had given her a necessary shot of energy. Her current exhaustion aside, she felt stronger, empowered (though she hated the word), braced for whatever life would throw at her. Breaking up with Hooker had not been easy and she had an unpleasant sense that her problems might not be entirely over, but she felt ready to deal with whatever he threw at her next. The colours of Rajasthan had inspired her as much as the fabrics that she’d been shown in the large fabric emporiums where roll after roll of silk and cotton had been pulled out for her. She was itching to get on with her new summer designs for the shop. As she gazed at a photo of a sari stall in the Jodhpur market – all clashing colours, crowds and chatter – the phone rang.

‘Mum?’ Nic’s voice sounded different.

‘Darling! Did you have a good Christmas?’ Lou felt the familiar fillip to her spirits that came whenever she heard from one of her children.