Elegance and Innocence (17 page)

My mother, also a traumatized survivor of teenage acne, first steered me towards an identical counter when I was twelve. She was not about to let me suffer the way she had all those years ago, in the age before oil-free make-up formulations and mildly medicated soap bars. Her hand firmly gripping my shoulder, she guided me through the make-up department of Horne’s Department Store until we arrived in front of the same glowing white stand. ‘Pardon me, my daughter has acne,’ she announced, to my intense mortification. ‘And we’d like to know what you can do about it.’

Of course the worst thing you can do is march up to a sales counter and announce that you need help.

The first hour we were there, the make-up assistant, who was at least forty-five and appeared to be wearing all the products in the range at once, insisted on diagnosing my skin type using the then high-tech Skin Analysis Station, which was on a separate little island in the centre of the cosmetics room. It consisted of two high white stools and a plastic, illuminated box with some sliding panels on it, under the headings of Oily, Combination and Dry skin. We sat on the stools and she put on a white lab coat and took out a pad and pen and began asking me a series of very serious questions like, ‘Is your skin dry and flaky?’ To
which my mother persisted with the refrain, ‘She’s oily! Oily! She’s got really oily skin!’

The assistant nodded knowingly and slid the panel in the illuminated box over to the pale green, astringent-coloured section marked, ‘Oily’. Then she moved on to the next question. ‘Would you say your pores are small, normal, or large?’

‘Well, just have a look.’ My mother gave my head a push and the next thing I knew, the assistant and I were staring at each other’s pores.

‘Yes, large,’ she confirmed, just as I was thinking hers were the size of a house. And again she pushed the panel over to the oily section.

By now a small crowd was gathering, so novel was the sight of the Skin Analysis Station in action, especially for one so young and so in need of emergency attention. The assistant, deftly playing to the crowd, raised her voice, shouting the next question across the entire ground floor. ‘So, how many times a day do you need to moisturize?’

‘Moisturize?’ My mother shouted right back. ‘You don’t understand; she’s oily! OILY! The last thing she needs is moisture!’ And the women in the crowd, indeed, even a few of the men in the gentleman’s shoe department across the aisle, shook their heads in sympathy.

When every panel had finally, scientifically revealed that, yes, I did indeed have oily skin, the assistant tore the sheet off her pad, removed her lab coat, and led us back in a
cloud of perfume to the purchase counter. ‘Fortunately, we have a number of extremely effective products to combat the oily skin condition,’ she began. The next forty-five minutes are a blur.

And that’s how I came to look like a twelve-year-old version of Joan Collins.

Now, hovering just beyond the jurisdiction of the white lab coated assistants, I’m on the verge of doing it again. I remove my glasses and take a deep breath. Desperate times require desperate measures.

An hour later, I’m armed with a new collection of lotions, astringents, smudge-proof foundations, cover-up sticks, oil-removing blotting pads, blushers, a quad of eye shadows (three of which I don’t like) and a free lipstick in a shade I’ll never use. From now on, the words ‘fresh faced’ are just a distant memory. So is the balance in my bank book.

However, there are some things that even one’s best Joan Collins impersonation can’t remedy.

The next day at work I check my mailbox and discover nothing. Yet again. No note or sign from Oliver Wendt, who I haven’t seen in weeks. What have I done wrong? Upstairs at my desk, I stare blankly at my e-mail screen, replaying the whole sequence of events in my head. Over and over.

It’s been ages since I left the note, the note I now seriously regret. I feel like a complete twat. Worse, I still think
of him all the time, still wander the halls of the theatre hoping to see him, still fail to find any other man attractive, still cling to this old obsession.

If Oliver Wendt can see me, I must exist. This is the philosophical premise upon which I’ve built my new life. And now that I exist, I’m allowed to participate in the whole dynamic of living without apology – to take up space and time, to want things, to reach, to try, to fail. However, it seems impossible to me that I should come this far, make so many changes, and yet miss out on possessing Oliver himself. He’s the prize, the reward I get for so much effort, the reason that I’ve gone to all this trouble.

I must love him. I think about him all the time.

Or am I really thinking of him thinking of me? Is Oliver merely a reflective surface in which I’ve caught sight of my own image for the first time?

Suddenly, my phone rings. Could this be it, at long last? I take a deep breath, my heart pounding as I reach for the receiver.

‘Phoenix Theatre box office,’ I purr, in the smoothest, calmest tones I can manage. ‘How can I help?’

There’s a pause.

‘It’s me,’ my husband says. ‘We need to talk.’

I meet him for lunch at the Spaghetti House restaurant next to the theatre. We’re both unable to conceal our shock at seeing each other. He looks drained, thin and exhausted, and I resemble a pantomime dame. We stand together by
the doorway, awkward, uncertain of how to greet each other and afraid to look each other in the eye.

Now we’re seated in a corner booth. The food we order arrives and sits there, untouched. After what seems like hours of painful chit-chat and loaded silences, he finally asks, ‘So, what are we going to do?’

This isn’t a subject I’m ready to discuss, although I suspect we both know the answer. I toy with my cutlery, trying to balance my knife on its flat edge. ‘I’m not sure,’ I stall. ‘What would you like to do?’ The knife falls and I catch sight of my reflection in the blade. The distorted face of a fun house mirror stares back at me.

‘I take it you’re not coming back.’ He’s trying to force my hand. It’s all too abrupt, too sudden, and too real.

The waiter brings us our coffee. I wrap my hands around the warm china cup for comfort.

‘Nothing’s changed,’ I say at last. I sound vague even to myself.

He sighs in frustration. An awkward silence ensues.

I pick up my teaspoon and am about to stir in some milk when, again, my image, pale and warped, is reflected back to me in the curved bowl of the spoon. I bury it immediately in the sugar bowl.

‘I’ve been to see a lawyer.’ He’s undeterred by my evasiveness. ‘Just as a precautionary measure.’

I open my mouth to say something. Nothing comes out.

‘Tell me honestly, have you met someone else?’

I look up, startled. And there, in the darkened glass behind him, I see myself again, my face red and flushed, almost unrecognizable behind the mask of make-up.

‘You’re blushing.’

‘No! No, I’m just shocked that, that you would even think such a thing!’ I fumble, certain he can read my guilty thoughts.

‘Well, then maybe we can repair the damage, don’t you think?’ He reaches across the table and touches my hand.

‘I’m sorry.’ I struggle to push my chair away from the table. ‘I really … really can’t do this right now.’ My head pounds and my hands shake as I reach for my bag.

‘Louise, we need to talk about this!’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’ I stand up. ‘But please, not now!’ The words trail over my shoulder as I head for the door.

I run all the way back to the theatre and into the safety of the Upper Circle Ladies. Splashing my face with water, I fill the palm of my hand with cheap, pink hand soap, and scrub my face clean. My make-up dissolves, mascara running and lipstick smearing to form grotesque shapes. And suddenly I’m sobbing into the warm water.

It’s all gone wrong. And all the make-up in the world can’t hide it.

That night at home, I lock the door and sit, with my pen and Post-its, making notes of Madame Dariaux’s words
of wisdom. If I just concentrate, if I can just get it right, everything will become clear. And I’ll know what to do.

The next day at work, I get a call from the foyer to say there’s someone waiting to see me. ‘Is it a man?’ I ask cautiously.

‘Nope.’ The security guard suppresses a burp. ‘It’s some old tart.’

Mona stands imperiously in the centre of the lobby, smoking a cigarette and peering disdainfully at the poster for the season of new lesbian writing we’re hosting next month. She has a grey fox-trimmed cashmere wrap thrown around her shoulders and a tiny green Harrods bag dangling from her wrist.

Every inch of me wants to turn and run back up the stairs before she can see me.

No such luck.

She turns, looks up, and her face expands into a slow, Cheshire cat grin.

‘Louise!’ she cries, as if we’re not so much mother and daughter-in-law as two long lost lovers, and a moment later, I’m enveloped into a full Mona embrace, a kind of suffocation by cashmere and Fracas.

When I disengage myself, she holds me at arm’s length and gestures dramatically. ‘But, darling, you’re not well, are you? All this nonsense is clearly making you ill. Look! You’re nothing but skin and bone! Doesn’t that Calvin you’re staying with have any food?’

‘It’s good to see you, Mona,’ I lie. ‘And it’s Colin; my flatmate’s name is Colin.’

‘Well, that’s settled! I’m definitely taking you out to lunch! We’ll go anywhere you like – The Ivy, Le Caprice … you name it and we’ll go get some
proper
food into you!’

She pulls me across the foyer but I manage to twist free. ‘I’m sorry, Mona, but I can’t. I just got on duty and I don’t have another break for ages.’

‘Well then, a coffee. Just for five minutes.’ Her hand is on the small of my back, pushing me firmly towards the door. I feel like a leaf, small, brown and weightless, being forced downstream in the direction of some treacherous waterfall. In the five years that I’ve known Mona, I’ve never managed to defy her and it doesn’t look as if I’ll be able to start now.

We sit in Café Nero across the street from the theatre. Mona orders a double espresso and I drink still water, turning the glass bottle around and around, peeling the label off in long strips while she talks.

‘Louise …’ she begins, and I know, just from the tone of her voice, that this is not a conversation I’m going to enjoy. Sensing this, she stops and starts again. ‘First of all, this is for you!’ She places the Harrods bag grandly on the table between us and my whole insides collapse with mortification.

‘Really, you shouldn’t have.’ My voice is as flat as a pancake.

The last thing I want to do is have to go through the whole dumb show of pleasure and gratitude in front of Mona. Not today. Not ever.

‘Well, it’s not actually
from
Harrods … I got it in a little shop in Hampstead but I had the bag at home and I thought it might be
fun
.’

I’m not sure why it’s fun to make something look like it comes from a different, more expensive store but it does somehow make the whole charade easier to bear; the knowledge that the gift is not, in fact, an extravagant gesture, but only a trinket parading as such. Inside the bag there’s a tiny tissue paper parcel. I unwrap it to discover a silver brooch in the shape of a fish.

‘Oh. How thoughtful. Really, really lovely.’

‘I thought you might like it, you being a Pisces and all. I don’t know if you believe in that sort of thing but … it’s
fun
.’

Everything’s fun today. We’re having a wonderful time.

‘How lovely,’ I say again, re-wrapping the fish and putting it back in the Harrods bag. I haven’t got the energy to tell her my birthday’s in June.

I peel another bit of the label and watch as she takes a small, enamel vial from her purse and carefully shakes two tiny saccharin tablets into her coffee. Her spoon clips the edge of the cup with a brisk, clicking sound.

‘Well, I won’t ask how you are, Louise; this whole thing has clearly affected you very badly. And of course, I’m here
to offer you my help and guidance. There comes a time in every woman’s life when she needs the advice and assistance of, shall we say, a more
experienced
confidante.’

I continue peeling.

She clears her throat. ‘Let me be frank with you. All marriages go through bad patches – that’s just part of the deal, isn’t it? For better or for worse. Am I right?’

She pauses but without effect.

‘Louise, I know my son can be difficult. He’s sensitive, an artist. His father, God rest his soul, was the same way. But you and I are women, we’re the adults here. Am I right? Certainly, we’d all like life to be about romance and flowers and all the rest of it but sometimes it just isn’t that way. There’s a lot more to making a relationship work than just sex!’ She laughs awkwardly. ‘Sometimes marriage is more about kindness, shared interests; a kind of sympathy for one another …’

It’s not working. She stares into the small, black darkness of her coffee for a moment and when she speaks again, her voice is tired and drained.

‘I know my son. I know he’s … difficult. But he does love you, Louise. In his way.’

I stare at the table.

She sighs heavily and looks me in the eye. Her voice turns bitter. ‘You’re not making this very easy are you?’

‘It isn’t easy,’ I say.

She smiles, lips stretched across teeth. ‘No, no of course
not. But have you thought about where you’re going to go? What you’re going to do? This situation may not be ideal, but after all, you’re old enough to realize that there’s more than one kind of love in the world. You’re going to have to learn to take the rough with the smooth.’

I push the chair away from the table and stand up. ‘I’m sorry, Mona, I really have to go. Thank you very much for the pin.’

She doesn’t move. ‘You’re very welcome, Louise. It’s a pleasure.’ Then she reaches out and grabs my hand. ‘Just think about what I said. Sometimes the best thing to do, the
smartest
thing, is to just kiss and make up.’

She lets go and I turn and walk out of the coffee shop.

That night, Colin and I are riding home on the bus, when he looks at me and says, ‘Stay still, there’s something on your cheek.’ And he reaches out a finger and begins brushing away at something.