Sally Read online

  ‘Mi-iss!’

  ‘Is that understood?’ she bellowed. Grudgingly, it was understood. The girls placed Miss Lomax’s presents in front of her with a smile, some with a kiss, and skipped merrily out of the classroom and into their Christmas holidays. Most of the boys shuffled up to the desk and reluctantly dumped their gifts, furiously avoiding eye-contact, before swaggering to the door and defiantly beeping into life their electronic games.

  ‘Oh, Diana!’

  ‘My, what a pile of goodies you’ve amassed! Now, have yourself a wonderful Christmas and make sure you take snaps of your outfit for the Thingies’ masked ball. Call me before Paris – I must have all the intricacies of the Stonehill-saga before you go! Oh! I read something about cold macaroni cheese and the libido but I can’t remember if you eat it or use it. I’ll be sure to let you know! Merry Christmas! Mmwah! Mmwah!’ With a pair of vivid scarlet lip marks on either cheek, Sally gathered her things together and left school for Christmas.

  Christmas was Christmas. Sally being Sally did not overeat nor did she drink too much. She bought thoughtful presents for her family and sent charity cards to everyone she knew, including Bob and Catherine with a PS: ‘Outfit-making, Highgate, 27th’. She bought Richard two truffles and a pasta dish; he gave her a vibrator. Momentarily she was taken aback but quickly asserted a knowing smirk for him.

  But his doesn’t look like that at all. And what an odd colour.

  She tried it in private but the noise was like a shaver and its mechanical quivers reminded her of her car starting; giggles quashed any glimmer of sexual connotation and Sally’s first and last vibrator was banished to the back of her socks drawer. She went to Lincoln where she was a priceless mother’s help. Richard spent a dutiful Christmas Eve with his mother and then returned to London and shared Christmas and Boxing Days with Bob and Catherine.

  He thought about Sally and he missed her. He was surprised that he missed her but inwardly it pleased him.

  You can only miss what you know, and like.

  Love.

  Sally, surrounded and swamped by the mundanities and trivialities of her mother’s Lincoln set, the sagas of her sisters’ lives and the monotony of being good and courteous, longed for Richard.

  For sex, she persuaded herself.

  On Boxing Day evening, their coming together, in every sense of the word, was urgent and passionate. It was delicious, like a favourite food not tasted for many months.

  Sally was pleased, Richard had exchanged his customary ‘Omigod o goddos’ for ‘Oh Sally, oh Sal, oSallio’. But she sent him home to his own bed that night, relishing her power and his disappointment, and really quite looking forward to playing seamstress with Catherine the next morning.

  ‘And I also found this piece with black sequins. How’s Richard?’

  ‘Oh, fine, fine.’

  Fingers picked at buttons, the bobbin hurtled merrily, the needle pumped incessantly. Eyes were cast down, scrutinizing, measuring; the atmosphere was one of committed and creative labour. There was, however, space enough to chatter and to allow the occasional dip into one of the many end-of-term chocolate boxes.

  ‘Yuk, strawberry fondant!’

  ‘Pass it over then, I’ll swap you a caramel. Bob thinks he may just don his goggles. Any idea what Richard’s planning?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Everything all right between you two?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing really. I don’t know, it’s just whenever I bring him into the conversation, you never really linger.’

  ‘That’s because I’m a doer, not a talker!’

  ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘Bonk superlatively.’

  ‘Good gracious! Sally Lomax, was that you?’

  ‘’Fraid so!’

  But that was all that Catherine was given. She tried, she pried, but Sally smiled sweetly and kept her secrets tucked into her thimble.

  ‘I’ve done something bad, Sally. Can I tell you? In confidence?’ Sally laid down the feathers and tipped the diamanté bits back into their little pot. She was flattered.

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘I’ve stopped taking the Pill. Bob doesn’t know. I take one out of the packet each night and I tip it down the sink.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Why? Because I want to have a baby, thickie.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but why mustn’t Bob know?’

  ‘Because he feels too young to be a father and he says I’m too young to be a mother. But, you know, I feel ready … I don’t know, ripe. Nougat? I think there comes a time when you just have to look inward and see how old or ready you feel. Not go by all this media bullshit dictating that couples ought now to breed only well into their thirties when they have a combined salary of “X”. I’m not even that gooey or broody. Quite simply, I feel it is the right time to get pregnant. I looked inward, and that’s what I saw.’

  Sally sucked on the nougat thoughtfully. She was quite stunned by Catherine’s frankness but was moved too by her wisdom. A closeness and warmth and camaraderie now existed between the two women. Sally had heard that elusive click, the bonding that ties women together as soul friends. She had it with Diana and with Daph. Not with her mother, nor Aunt Martha. But with Aunt Celia, yes. And now Catherine too. After that, they rarely talked about their menfolk but about themselves, about women they knew and others they admired, about vices they had and virtues they longed for. It made for a great working atmosphere and by the end of the afternoon, feathers and sequins and brocade and frogging had been coaxed into masks of supreme beauty and formidable workmanship. Catherine had also been afforded snippets of Sally.

  ‘So after James at Bristol Uni, there was …?’

  ‘Jim.’

  ‘Not one and the same?’

  ‘No! But funnily enough, after Jim came Jamie.’

  ‘You obviously go for Jims.’

  ‘Actually, I prefer Dicks.’

  ‘What was wrong with Jim?’

  ‘Jim was okay, but boring. He used the “L” word halfway through our first date. And then frequently thereafter. He was a fair bit older than me and kept saying how I needed someone to watch over me and take care of me and pamper me. Meaning him. Thank you but no thank you. I sent him packing.’

  ‘Ooh, you’re a cruel woman! How?’

  ‘He told me he loved me and I said “But I don’t love you” and he said “But you will, you know, you will” and I said “I won’t, you know, I won’t”. That didn’t work so I told him, without beating about the metaphorical bush, that I found him physically unappetizing. But in truth, the greatest turn-off had been to declare his undying love.’

  ‘And that worked?’

  ‘Obviously – enter Jamie.’

  ‘Jamie.’

  ‘Scottish, a cab driver.’

  ‘Is that how you met? In the back of his cab?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually.’

  ‘But did you ever do it in the back of his cab?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you with Richard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In your car or his?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘In a Mini? Wait up, I’ve got to work this one out!’

  ‘Well, I’ll ramble on about Jamie while you do. Jamie was such fun at first, always cracking jokes in his glorious accent and bringing me little treats. He was dark and swarthy but gentle too. At first.’ Sally trailed off and Catherine observed her turn to her sewing with a near-desperate application. She waited and as she waited she could see the pain.

  ‘Sally?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Talk to me.’ Sally laid down the feathers and bows and sighed. It was as if the memory had worn her out and aged her visibly. She looked Catherine in the eye and was comforted by a smile of sympathy and support. She focused at some point over Catherine’s shoulder and her eyes glazed, her speech became dull and flat.

  ‘Jamie had a temper. He broke my crockery and he smashed my no
se. Here, feel.’

  Sally guided Catherine’s forefinger over the bridge of her nose. They felt the bump and dent together and Catherine allowed her finger to linger, letting it stroke Sally in a gentle whisper of comfort. Sally allowed her eyes to close under Catherine’s touch while she worked hard to shut the memory back out.

  On opening her eyes, the matter was closed. And would remain so. Catherine knew Sally had taken her into her confidence and that in itself had been a difficult and generous decision. She was grateful and flattered. It felt good to have a part of Sally that Bob and Richard didn’t have. Catherine felt her first wave of love for Sally and was half-tempted to embrace her fully. Instinctively, however, she knew that her job was to lessen the load and lighten the atmosphere.

  ‘James, Jim, Scumbag and now Richard. And I think you’ve scored at last there, Ms Lomax.’

  ‘Yes, Richard. Richard is––’ Sally paused, fiddling with a line of red sequins before concluding ‘––nice.’

  Bob, meanwhile, plundered the impeccably dressed Christmas tree and strung his booty in glorious abandon over his old diving mask.

  Richard went to the local toyshop and bought a Lone Ranger mask. And then he went to Dunn and Co. and bought an extremely expensive Stetson.

  ‘Sal?’

  ‘Hey, Richie!’

  ‘So you didn’t need me to thread your needles?’

  ‘No, I just about managed.’

  ‘Will you come?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Over? Now?’

  ‘But I’m in bed!’

  ‘Hasn’t stopped you in the past.’

  ‘But I’m tired!’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘Beaumes de Venise?’

  ‘It’s in the fridge.’

  ‘I’m there!’

  ‘’Bye.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  ‘Sal? Sally?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  THIRTEEN

  Richard had his hand full of buttock.

  ‘I’ll pick you up, shall I, eightish?’

  ‘No you shan’t! We are to arrive separately!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, if you take me, then it won’t be a surprise. And you’ll recognize me which defeats the purpose of a masked ball utterly. And anyway, because I say so.’

  ‘Oooh, but say I don’t? Say I mistake another for you?’

  ‘I’ll give you a little sign.’

  ‘A little sign, and what will that be?’ Sally ran her finger tip lightly and temptingly up Richard’s fly. He let go of her buttock. With one arm he pulled her towards him; with the other cinched around her waist he kept her there, and sewed a kiss deep into her mouth. Her eyes smiled lasciviously at him. He let her go and watched her dress, craning for a last look at the two tiny dimples at the base of her back before they were swallowed away by denim.

  The best thing, thought Sally, about sex in the afternoon is that it sends you on your way with a spring in your step and a euphoric energy to tide you through the rest of the day.

  She had always loved New Year’s Eve day and as she sauntered along Highgate High Street the shopkeepers to whom she usually smiled were now given a big wave.

  ‘Happy New Year, Miss Lomax!’

  ‘Happy New Year, Joe!’

  ‘Off dancing tonight, love?’

  ‘Certainly am!’

  ‘Dancing and Romancing?’

  ‘You bet!’

  ‘See ya next year, love!’

  ‘It’ll be a good one, Joe!’

  On a whim, Sally went to the newsagent and bought a packet of ten cigarettes, low-tar and mentholated. ‘Oh, yes, and a box of matches, please. Happy New Year.’ She then went to the bookshop, old, musty, magnetic, and browsed the minutes away into three-quarters of an hour before selecting two recently reviewed, highly acclaimed novels. ‘You’ll enjoy those, Happy New Year.’ Her final stop was at the French patisserie where she ummed, ahhed and crooned and then chose a strawberry tartlet, gloriously red and glazed to glistening perfection. ‘Année!’

  Back in her flat, Sally placed the books, in the bag, on the mantelpiece. She tapped them, deciding not to peek at all until she was on French soil. She then went into her kitchen and took out a cake fork and tea plate on to which she slid the tartlet. Kettle boiled, Earl Grey brewed and poured into a matching tea-cup and saucer, she retired into the lounge and settled down to a few minutes of luxury. Such times had to be conducted in silence. No television or radio, no rustling of magazines, no pencil in one hand hovering over a crossword. It had to be just Sally, her cake and her cuppa. Too soon, though, there was not even a crumb left despite a hopeful dabbing finger searching every inch of the plate, just in case. She burped quietly under her breath and sat a while longer, looking, as always, at nothing in particular. She enjoyed the friendly silence of her own company, she liked her little flat, and was content just to sit and look around her, itemizing her possessions, checking on her paintwork and scanning her heaving bookcase, smiling and nodding at favourite volumes as they came into view.

  Well, this is no good, just sitting here like a lazy lemon. There’s work to be done, a party to prepare for, a man to wow! Come on, let’s have a fag, Sal!

  Sally smoked self-consciously as she pottered from room to room. Every now and then she darted back to the kitchen to flick ash into the sink.

  Disgusting habit, but what can one do when one does not possess an ash-tray?

  The cigarette gave her a slight head-rush which she thought amusing, and she giggled out loud as she went into the bathroom to check how she looked, fag in hand, fag in mouth. Could she talk like that? No. She tried blowing smoke rings but couldn’t. She checked how she looked sucking on the butt in side profile and again from the front. She watched herself inhale and exhale. Inhale and exhale.

  Lordy, I feel dizzy!

  She exhaled and smiled, watching the smoke whisper over her teeth and veil her face.

  Nope! Smoking does not suit me at all. So I shan’t.

  With that, she threw the butt down the toilet and retrieved the packet from the lounge, took it outside and dumped it ceremoniously in the dustbin.

  Sally ran a bath. Deep. She tweezed stray eyebrows and scrutinized her face for anything to squeeze. Nothing. She soaked for a while but found she was not in a luxuriating frame of mind so she shaved her legs and her armpits, showered off freezing cold (she’d learnt it from Richard) and then swooped her bath sheet around her. Getting dry was such a bore so she took the phone into her room and called Diana. Who wasn’t in. So she called Richard, who was.

  ‘I’ve got nothing on.’

  ‘Neither have I.’

  ‘See you later.’

  ‘Alligator.’

  ‘Crocodile.’

  Time to get ready, body is dry and silk-soft, hair likewise. What a lovely little dress you’ve bought, Sally.

  I know, I couldn’t resist it. It’s from that shop that I’ve only ever drooled in front of. I shouldn’t’ve. But I just had to. I want to knock him for six tonight.

  But you have already done so, you know.

  Mmm, I want to make sure.

  It’s black crêpe, isn’t it? Completely straight, two little darts giving it a perfect line. It’s just above your knee, just right. Sleeveless though, mightn’t you be chilly?

  No, not once I’m at the party. Look, do you see how cleverly the zip is hidden at the back? It feels heavenly on.

  It suits you, fits beautifully.

  Look, little Dupion court shoes too!

  Perfect. What knickers have you chosen?

  At first, I wasn’t going to wear any at all. But it is December. I know Richard goes wild for those little white cottony ones but I’ve never had black silk panties so I bought some. I’ll make sure he likes them.

  Let us see your mask, Sally.

  Just look at my mask! I know it’s bad to brag but I’m terribly pleased with it. See how it fits snugly over the b
ridge of my nose? And then dips down over the tops of my cheeks? Catherine’s is more elaborate but I decided against any wild flourishes. I just studded the edges alternately with silver sequins and little pearls, then I attached the soft downy black feathers over the brow. I wanted to look swan-like, or cat-like, or something. But it fits well, doesn’t it? It’s awful when a mask is lop-sided, or reveals more of one eye than the other.

  It fits, Sally. Perfectly.

  Actually, it’s rather nice to wear. You can sort of hide behind it. It’s as if I can see out but they can’t see in.

  Go on, one last check in front of the mirror, then you’d best be on your way.

  I hope I arrive after Richard. I’ve never really been in a situation where I can make my big entrance. It is my prerogative after all!

  Check your flat, Sally, the gas, the plugs, the windows. Close the curtains, the doors. Double lock. Outside lights on. Off you go, off to the Ball, Sally Lomax. Have the most wonderful night. And Happy New Year.

  See the Mini chortle down the road, heading for West London and a night of festive celebration. See its precious load: a young woman, decked out in her finery. She looks almost beautiful. Not classically, not even that classy, but there is something about her that is enchanting and rather lovely. She smiles and she is excited, anticipating an evening of fun and frolics. The lights turn orange but tonight our usually pedantic driver throws caution to the wind and accelerates through, a rush of adrenalin adding to her fizzy mood. Does she not seem happy, her fine mask coddled in tissue on the seat beside her? She is happy and she tells herself so out loud. You can see her mouth it as she drums on the dash-board: I am happy, I’m really happy.

  So one year is on its way out and the next is tangibly near. What does it hold in store? Sally has no idea. If she’s at the metaphorical steering wheel, as she intends to be, she believes she’ll journey through it safely and soundly.

  But what if someone else takes the wheel, uninvited? Sally hasn’t thought of that. And if there is someone else there, where will they take her? And will she let herself be taken?

  Just now, however, it is Sally’s New Year’s Eve and she is looking forward to it very, very much.

  FOURTEEN