Calendar Girl (14 page)

“But what about your flight to New York?”

“I made a little while I was there. Let me explain.”

Saz told him about Calendar Girls, especially the part about the brown-eyed blondes but leaving out the more sordid details and presented him with the photos. He looked at all four of them quite closely and seemed about to dismiss the two with dark hair until, with a sharp intake of breath, he grabbed one of them and looked at it very closely.

“This is it. This is her.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, see that scar?”

“Where?”

“A tiny scar just there, under her left eye.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“It is her. It’s there all right. That faint line just under her eye. I mean, I know she’s got dark hair in this photo – but it’s her. It’s a dog bite. The scar. She got it years ago. We used to joke about it. She loves dogs you see. And this time her dog was sleeping – she was only young – and she went up and cuddled it and it reared up and bit her. Right across the face. She was lucky not to lose an eye.”

“And you used to joke about it?”

“Let sleeping dogs lie. After she’d told me about the dog, that’s what she always used to say if I ever asked her anything she didn’t want to tell me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the scar before?”

“Well, as you said yourself, you couldn’t really see it. Only once you knew it was there, and even then you’d have to look for it. I didn’t think it would help.”

“I asked you to tell me everything.”

“I’m sorry. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? Not now that you’ve found her? Did you meet her? Is she living in New York? Did you speak to her about me?”

“Hold on. No, I didn’t meet her. I actually think she’s here in London. As it turns out, she may be the friend of a friend of a friend. I’m not sure yet, but if she is, then we should have this little mess cleared up within the week.”

John Clark looked visibly relieved.

“But I wouldn’t count on getting your money back John. Strikes me, that a girl who does secret part-time work as a very well-paid hostess might have some quite good reasons for getting rid of sixteen thousand pounds pretty damn fast.”

“No, Ms Martin. It’ll be OK. Once I see her. Just give me a chance to talk to her.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Saz left the cafe wondering about the sort of man who could be so besotted as to believe the stories of this “September”. She decided that despite his grey exterior, John Clark must be possibly the most romantic man she knew. Or just plain stupid.

That evening she rang Judith and Helen and Claire to invite them all for dinner the next night. Leaving messages on both phones she gave them little choice but to be there.

“And like the loyal friends you are, you will cancel all previous engagements in order to eat my delicious food and hear about how I narrowly escaped death while breaking and entering in New York.”

All three women turned up promptly at 8pm.

Over the guacamole Saz filled them in on the basic details up until she went to New York. As she filled the taco shells she told them about Caroline. As she opened the third bottle of wine she told them about Calendar Girls. And how it feels to have a gun pointing at your head.

Claire declared her completely mad and Helen and Judith put on WPC faces as they tut-tutted, but all three greedily grabbed the photo of “September” when Saz produced it. Unfortunately none of them knew Dolores and only Claire had seen Maggie Simpson performing “funnily enough, without her girlfriend”, so none of them could confirm Carrie’s belief. September’s true identity still unknown, they went back to discussing the events in New York.

“And you believe it was good coke?”

“Yes Jude. I do.”

“And you’d really know?”

“Well, I’d have a better idea than you! Remember the party we all went to in that really flash warehouse, a couple of years ago?”

“In Camden?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t remember it, are you sure I was there?”

“Yes Claire, you were there and the reason you probably don’t remember it is because someone there had some similarly “good” cocaine. I remember Helen and Jude both discreetly left the room.”

“So we didn’t have to face the old ‘Oh no! My friends are taking drugs!’ dilemma.”

“And left me to fry my brains. Right, I do remember now. Thanks a lot girls!”

“But as I was saying, that was the best I’d ever had. The guy that had it couldn’t stop bragging about it. A soap star or something like that I think. Anyway, I gave the
stuff in Simon James’ desk the barest whisk around my gums, because of course, now that I’m a fitness bunny, I don’t do anything as airhead as that – and believe me this was just as good, if not better. And there had to be eight or nine ounces, just sitting there, in an unlocked desk drawer.”

“No wonder you didn’t put him to sleep for long.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“Open another bottle of wine and get detecting girl. Only a bit more carefully this time – I don’t fancy defending you in an American court when you get extradited for burglary.”

Saz opened the wine and the four women formed a plan of action.

“I’ll check out Mr James – I’m sure it’s not his real name but I’ll run it through and see what we can come up with.”

“He might be James Simon, darling.”

“Yeah, Jude, and he might be Andrew Lloyd Webber, we can but try.”

“Now girls,” Claire butted in, seeing that the excess of alcohol was promoting a little inter-relationship rivalry, “I’ll call my friend who works in New York. She works for the city government and might have some access to building or ownership papers or whatever they have there. It’ll probably cost you though. America’s supposed to be the land of perfect civil liberties – unless of course you can afford to buy the opposite.”

“Or if you’re too poor to buy those liberties in the first place. Don’t worry, I can afford it, I made a lot of money in the Big Apple remember?”

“Yeah and nearly got your pips blown out in exchange.”

“Thanks Helen, I needed reminding.”

“Thought you might. And I’ll see what I can find out
about our missing girl. I’ll take a copy of her photo and check it against those in our missing persons.”

“Great. In that case I’ll go to sleep for a couple of weeks while you all do my work for me!”

“Oh no you don’t. You’re going to a few cabaret places to see Ms Simpson performing and then you’re going to find a good excuse to visit this Annie and Dolores. Sounds like you’ve got a lot in common.”

After Helen and Judith had gone, bickering as usual, Saz put Claire to sleep on her sofa-bed. Not so much putting to sleep really, more like lifting a sleeping person from a chair and lying them down. She then went to bed herself, having set her alarm for 6am.

“Four hours sleep Saz Martin, a good run and then a nap. After that you’d better look out Blondie, because I’m gaining ground!”

I stayed with Dolores and Annie – and all the family – for nearly six months. At first she called every day. Two or three times a day. I’d hear the phone and crawl under the covers of the bed. Hide in the dark.

It’s safer in the dark. I always keep the curtains drawn now.

I stayed in bed for a week and by then the calls had dwindled to one a day. At the same time, seven o’clock every night the phone would ring and I would attempt to stifle the sound with pillows and blankets. Annie always answered the phone and every time she gave the same reply.

“I’m sorry. Maggie doesn’t want to speak to you. She can’t come to the phone. She’s sleeping.”

My friends and my misery were combining to make me narcoleptic.

I stay awake now as long as I can. I’m keeping a vigil.

For the first time in my life I discovered the “I can’t eat” syndrome. Food made me feel sick, the smell of cooking made me retch, the thought of eating made a dry lump rise in my throat. My body was going through withdrawal. It lasted for about five days and then Keith made me
porridge. Porridge is like mashed potato – comfort foods, soft and warm and bland and easy to swallow. Hot, sweet, sticky porridge, made with milk and smothered in brown sugar and cream. Actually, it was too rich and made me throw up, but at least the vomit got me out of bed.

Eventually I got up. I had to. The sheets needed changing and I hated the pictures in the spare room. I cleaned my teeth and discovered I’d lost ten pounds – even grief has its own tarnished silver lining. I went downstairs on the unsteady legs that invalids always descend staircases with – just to make it easier for Mrs Danvers to push them down. Only this time there was no Max to scream at me, just Keith and a fresh pot of coffee. He poured me a cup, passed me the paper and some toast and then went out into the garden.

“There’s sunshine out here. It’s not such a bad thing.”

But it is, sunshine gets into the corners and lets you see the dust motes. I keep the curtains closed and the lights off.

After the coffee I followed him out. I left the toast and
The Independent
on the table, I still had little interest in food and even less in the affairs of the world, mine were more than enough to handle. Besides that, the affairs of the world turn quite slowly, and my life had been turned around in less than two minutes – it takes the earth at least twenty-four hours to do that. Keith was right, not only was there sunshine, but there was also a gentle breeze and birdsong and the sound of children playing in the school yard at the back of the house. It was too much for me and I burst into tears. Keith handed me his huge hanky.

“It’s not quite as healthy as tissues, but it always looks good in the movies. I’d light your cigarette for you, only you don’t smoke. Do you want to talk about it?”

I snuffled a little into his handkerchief, then a little more into his shoulder and told him what I knew, which obviously wasn’t that much, but enough to convince him that my hypothesis was right – she was having an affair. He maintained a respectable pause and then started saying those sensible things that people always feel obliged to say, when really the only thing to do is to say nothing, but they can’t bear the silence in case you see it as an opportunity to start crying again:

“Maybe it was only a fling.”

“There is a chance they only had dinner.”

“Perhaps you should talk to her about it?”

And finally the banality to end all banalities –

“Well, they do say that time heals all wounds.”

“I know that Keith, I’m the one that told you that, I’ve been half an orphan for years now, remember?”

“Only trying to help, and anyway you know it’s true.”

“I don’t care if it’s true or not. I don’t want it to be true. I don’t want to heal. I want to fester. I want it to grow and spread until it bloody well kills her too.”

“Hey! Brilliant! She’s up and expressing her anger!”

Dolores and Annie strode into the garden from the back door, Dolores carrying shopping bags and grinning her approval of my return to the world and Annie tactfully extricating herself from Dolores’ grasp, presumably so as not to remind me of my recent “loss”.

My recent loss. It sounds like an obituary.

We all had dinner together that night. The three kids, Dolores and Annie, Keith and I. Just like any other happy, extended family. I almost believed it too, until we were settling down to a good old-fashioned argument about who should do the dishes when the telephone rang. I froze. Nailed stiff to my seat as Dolores and Annie nearly killed
each other in a mad dash to get to the phone before I did. Which was a little pointless really, as I couldn’t have talked to her even if I’d wanted to, my throat was so dry. Keith and the kids started talking across the table as loudly as possible so I wouldn’t have to hear Annie’s mumbled

“I’m sorry, I told you, she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

But I did hear it, my x-ray ears even heard her say my name. Or maybe they didn’t, but the shiver that ran down my spine and the convulsions in the pit of my stomach certainly signalled that she had.

I think I hear her whispering for me now, but I know she’s not. She can’t be.

Annie walked back into the kitchen and took my hand.

“You know, you can talk to her if you want to.”

“No she bloody well can’t, what good will that do?”

Dolores grabbed my other hand to stake her claim.

“That bitch has treated her like shit and Maggie doesn’t ever have to talk to her again.”

“I’m not saying she does, Doll. I just think, that as Maggie left in such a hurry, there may come a point when she wants to speak to her, and if there does, then that’s OK. OK?”

Annie’s voice was calm, but the look she gave Dolores above my head was pure threat and Dolores had no choice but to give in. I was still shaking, so she took me upstairs and tucked me into bed like a small child.

There’s nothing like a loss to make you into a child again. I feel very small just now.

Still, my new life quickly became routine. I fell into living with all those people like it was the easiest thing in the
world. Perhaps it was, certainly living with six other friends has got to be easier than living with one lover in a rotting relationship. Perhaps because it seemed so ordinary, so much like what had been planned for me in my genetic and sociological background. I’d get up with everyone else at about seven thirty in the morning, see them all off to work and school with a smile, and then, to “pay for my keep” I’d do that housework thing – dishes, dust, and vacuum followed by “Woman’s Hour” at 10.30am. I’d have my cup of coffee and toast and pretend to be “real”. It was like being Snow White. And when the serial was over I’d realise the pretending was over too and I’d climb back into my bed and start to cry again. God knows what the neighbours thought, perhaps they were all at work, perhaps they never heard me. Or maybe they just thought it made perfect sense, all that screaming coming from that “lesbian’s house on the corner”. I kept it up for nearly three weeks, staying in bed until everyone came home in the evening. I’d get up then for a couple of hours, but I was always asleep by ten o’clock – all that crying wore me out. I almost lost my voice and my eyes stayed red from too many tears and too much sleep.