A Perfect Home (30 page)

A pile of colourful envelopes welcomed her as she pushed open the front door. Claire made herself a cup of tea and sat down at the kitchen table and started opening her cards. The postcard had been hidden between two envelopes of vibrant pink; it slipped onto the table just as she opened a card from Zoë. She hadn't heard from Zoë since the year they finished college and Zoë had told her she was making a big mistake marrying William.
Haven't you noticed his CD collection is in alphabetical order?
Claire felt a stab of guilt as she remembered that after sharing a flat with her for over two years, Zoë hadn't even been invited to their wedding. She read Zoë's brief note underneath her birthday greeting;

Never can see fireworks without thinking of you, Girl!

Saw the feature about your house in the magazine – what a lovely life you've made. What happened to William? No mention of him in the article so I presume you saw the light! I'm still in London. Let's meet up soon and we can catch up on all those long years since college. I've missed you,

Zoë xx

Her delight at finding Zoë's card was almost immediately forgotten when she noticed the picture on the postcard in front of her; a regal woman in a gown of Virgin Mary blue was seated on a red and yellow sofa, the bowl of flowers behind the woman's head looking almost like a golden crown. Claire recognised it at once,
The Lady in Blue
; it had been her favourite painting in the Matisse exhibition. In her mind she had a vision of standing slightly apart from Stefan as she gazed at the large canvas; had he guessed how much she liked it?

With a quickening heart she turned the card over. Her vision seemed to blur for a moment then cleared and slowly she let her fingers trace the black ink writing, hardly daring to breathe as she read the short inscription:

Dear Claire,

Happy Birthday,

Stefan x

How did he know it was her birthday? She recalled a brief conversation in the garden, where she'd mentioned it was on fireworks night, could he really have remembered?

Claire sat looking at the postcard for a long time until Macavity's long, sleek body wound itself against her and brought her out of her reverie. She took her phone from her handbag, typed out a message, re-read it several times and finally pressed send.

Thank you for my card. How are you? C

He didn't reply.

She loaded the washing machine, unloaded the dishwasher, loaded the dryer, hoovered the floor. He still didn't reply. She couldn't concentrate on work. Sitting down at the table she picked up the postcard for the hundredth time that day. She picked up the phone and checked it one more time.

The kitchen door opened. Claire jumped.

‘Did I frighten you?' said Sally, standing in the doorway with a purple-sequined beret pulled down hard on her head. ‘I know I look scary.'

‘Yes,' said Claire, flustered, putting the phone down on the table behind her. She laughed. ‘I mean no, you didn't frighten me. Though you do look a bit odd in that hat.'

‘Odd? You mean I look awful.' Sally sat down at the table and buried her face in her hands.

‘It's just a hat,' said Claire, sitting down opposite her. ‘Surely you can take it off?'

Sally looked up, her face miserable, and slowly took off the beret.

Claire gasped. ‘Oh, Sally. What happened?'

‘I know. It's awful, isn't it? How can I go out tonight?'

‘It's not awful,' said Claire. ‘It's just a bit …' She couldn't think of a tactful word.

‘Clown-like?' Sally wailed. ‘It's just a little bit … curly.' Sally's hair, which for the last three months had been styled into a lovely, silky, straight bob, was now in large ringlet curls tight to her head. She reminded Claire of Shirley Temple, though she didn't like to say so.

‘What am I going to do?' wailed Sally. ‘I wish I'd never gone to the hairdresser's.'

‘Can't you wash it?'

‘I have.' Sally pulled at one of the curls which pinged back into a tight blonde coil as soon as she let go. ‘Twice. Now I think it's worse than when I left the salon!'

‘Why did you …?' Claire's voice trailed off as she tried to phrase the question.

‘Why did I ask them to make me look like one of the Marx brothers?'

‘Well, at least you haven't got a moustache and big cigar.'

‘No, not Groucho,' said Sally exasperatedly. ‘The other one with the curly hair; was it Chico or Harpo?'

‘It's not that bad,' Claire tried to reassure her. ‘But I still don't understand what happened. I only left you a few hours ago and your hair was …'

‘Straight? Beautiful? Sophisticated?'

‘Yes, all of those.'

‘I went to the hairdresser's after I left you, so that I'd look gorgeous for tonight.'

‘Yes, I know. You said you were going for a trim,' said Claire.

‘The girl who cut it for me before had gone to collect her sick baby from nursery and so I had the only other person available – a man. Very handsome, very persuasive – very young. He said he could make it a bit wavy when he dried it.'

‘Oh …'

‘A bit like Kylie Minogue, he said – just a bit of a change for tonight. Well, you know, I've always wanted to look like Kylie. How could I resist? Then he suggested a light perm so that it could be a bit wavy for longer.'

‘A light perm,' Claire repeated slowly.

‘Yes,' said Sally, trying to smooth down her hair with her hands. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I think he left the stuff on for too long. Turned out he's only a student – a first year on the hair and beauty course at my college, on work experience at the salon for the week. He didn't have a clue what he was doing.'

‘What did he say when he saw how it turned out?' asked Claire.

‘That the curls would drop and become waves later.'

‘When later?' asked Claire.

‘Over the next few weeks.'

Claire thought Sally's face was about to crumple into tears.

‘What am I going to do? What will Josh say? He won't want to be seen in the student bar with a middle-aged poodle.'

Claire looked at her phone on the table. She longed to check her messages. She couldn't look at it in front of Sally. She knew she wouldn't approve.

‘Right,' Claire said, standing up decisively and looking at her watch. ‘We've got half an hour before we pick up the children. I'm going to get my straighteners and I'll see what I can do.'

Claire came back and plugged in the tongs.

Sally asked: ‘What were you doing when I came in? Was I interrupting something?'

‘Nothing much,' said Claire, starting to pull the metal straighteners through a curly strand of hair. ‘Only opening some cards.'

‘You looked very guilty.' Sally picked up the postcard, ‘Ooo, Matisse – you went to see a Matisse exhibition with your photographer man didn't you?' she turned it over.

Claire snatched it from her. The straighteners slipped.

‘Ow!' cried Sally. ‘You've burned my ear. Now I'll have clown hair and a red ear. Great!'

‘Well you shouldn't read other people's correspondence,' said Claire crossly. ‘It's rude.'

She picked up the postcard and moved it to the dresser. ‘Did I see you had your mobile in your hand when I came in?'

Sally obviously wasn't going to let the subject drop.

‘Maybe,' said Claire innocently.

‘Were you sending a text?'

‘No! Just remember who's holding the hot tongs,' said Claire.

‘Thanking people for birthday cards?'

‘No.'

Sally suddenly turned around and looked at Claire, her eyes narrowed.

‘Careful!' said Claire, quickly moving the straighteners away.

‘You're the one who needs to be careful,' Sally said pointedly.

The phone rang again and Claire quickly pushed it far away across the table with the end of the straighteners, into the pile of birthday cards. Sally tried to grab it and missed. They both laughed.

Sally looked suddenly serious. ‘Don't play with fire, Claire.'

‘Voilà!' said Claire, unplugging the tongs and ignoring Sally's warning. She didn't want to be having the Stefan conversation with her. She didn't want her friend's disapproval to spoil the euphoria that she had been feeling for the last few hours. ‘I think your hair looks lovely now!' She had turned the curls into gently undulating waves around Sally's face. It really did look very pretty.

‘Thank you,' said Sally, getting up and looking in the small mirror beside the door. ‘What a relief. Now I can go to the ball!'

‘But first we have five children to pick up from school, give tea, bath, put in pyjamas, get to bed …'

‘And you've got a
husband
to feed.'

‘OK,' Claire said. ‘I get the message. Sending texts to other men is wrong.' She picked up the phone and put it in a drawer of the dresser.

‘And dangerous,' Sally added. ‘Don't do anything to jeopardise the girls' night out. Otherwise the wrath of the Oakwood Primary mothers will come down upon you and you'll be very sorry.' She picked up her car keys. ‘Are you coming then, Birthday Babe?'

‘You go on. I've just got to turn something off upstairs.'

As soon as Sally's car had disappeared down the driveway Claire retrieved the phone. No messages.

Maybe he had sent an email? Claire looked at the clock on the kitchen wall; she was going to be late anyway, a few more minutes wouldn't make any difference.

In the study she scrolled down the list of messages on the screen. Her heart sinking as she realised there was no sign of Stefan's name. Just as she was about to shut the computer down another name on the list of emails caught her eye, the name of the beautiful department store in Central London that she dreamed of selling her work to. Emily Love Enquiry the message title read. She opened it and read:

We came across your lovely work in this month's
Idyllic Homes
magazine, it would look fabulous in our Home and Gift department, the quirky vintage feel is just what we're after for our last-minute Christmas Shopping promotion in the store. We'd like to order the following;

200 x Christmas stockings (as on the cover of Idyllic Homes)

100 x assorted aprons

150 x assorted shopping bags

50 x assorted tea cosies

50 x washing line peg bags

500 x lavender hearts

Delivery date December 1
^st
,

Lance Monroe. Buying manager.

Claire whooped out loud and jumped around the room as she imagined her work displayed in the shops luxurious surroundings; sitting beside the work of other crafts people and manufactures she admired so much. She went back to the computer and read the message again, it was a lot of work to make, but it would be a lot of money too, she did a little salsa dance. She read the message again, December 1st! That was less than a month away – how would she ever get the order done in that time – that would be a lot of sleep to do without, William would have to help her with the children at the weekends and his clean and tidy home would just have to go to hell until she'd finished.

Resigning herself to an entry in Mrs Wenham's
Tardy Parent
book Claire typed a quick reply, her fingers tripping over the keys with excitement.

Thank you for your order. December 1st is no problem.

She smiled to herself; now this really was something worth celebrating tonight.

The children were so excited about the fireworks party that they wanted to get dressed for it hours before they had to go. It took Claire ages to find matching gloves and mittens and scarves and bobble hats.

‘My scarf's too itchy,' whined Emily.

‘My hat feels too tight,' complained Oliver.

Ben dropped a mitten in the toilet and they all refused to eat the lasagne Claire had made them for their tea.

‘We'll have soup and baked potatoes at the bonfire,' said Emily. ‘Like we always do.'

‘Sparklers, sparklers, fizzy sparklers,' sang Ben.

At last they were all muffled up in clothes they were happy with and sitting in front of a DVD as they waited for William to come home.

Claire escaped upstairs to get ready. In her mind she had envisioned a leisurely soak in a bubble bath, maybe a scented candle on the side, a glass of wine, gentle music wafting in from the bedroom. In reality, it was a quick shower with just enough time to randomly slap on a bit of body lotion afterwards as a treat. She should have shaved her legs, she thought, but never mind, she'd be wearing tights.

She began combing tangles from her wet hair in front of the bathroom mirror, Emily appeared.

‘The DVD's finished and Oliver threw a cushion at Ben. He's crying.'

Claire went back downstairs, shivering in her damp towel, and tried to sort out a full-blown cushion fight that was going on between her sons.

William walked in. ‘I've come home extra early so that you can go out.'

‘Thank you. I really do appreciate it.' Claire gave him a hug and tried to sound as grateful as she could. ‘Could you stay down here and sort out the children while I finish getting dressed? I've got some wonderful news to tell you.'

He followed her up the stairs. ‘I think I'll have to go back to the office over the weekend to finish what I've been working on this week.'

‘OK,' she said, sitting down at her dressing table.

‘I've had a hell of a day,' he said, sitting down on the bed.

As Claire applied her make-up and quickly dried her hair – no time for glamorous styling now – William told her in great detail about the problems of his day. Claire put in as many
oh dears
and
how awfuls
as she could until he finished and she began to tell him her exiting news.