Elegance and Innocence (54 page)

‘Bunny! Oh hoo!’

‘Bunny!’

It’s the shrill, sing-song voices of Babe Heinemann and Belle Frank.

I veer round.

They’re waving from across the hall.

‘Hello! Bunny! Oh, look! Evie! Is that you? What? Have you got a dress on?’ They’re working their way over, weaving through the crowd in much the same way two small Chanel bulldozers might weave through an unprotected wildlife reserve.

There’s nowhere to hide. My heart sinks but I wave in spite of myself.

There’s no shame in this; Babe Heinemann and Belle Frank are a force far greater than me, and although each of them is only about four foot ten in their custom-made Ferragamos, they’re much larger than life. And a pretty good match for death too.

They’re twins, Bunny’s second cousins. And they know all about death; are defined by its presence as a pivotal moment in their lives. They’re widows. Proper, professional widows. The phrase ‘my husband, God rest his soul’ comes as naturally to them as breathing. They consider Bunny a fully paid-up member of their exclusive club. Only she refuses to join in.

So they lavish their attention on me instead. (After all, a single mother is almost the same as a widow.)

Bunny leans over and gives Babe a kiss on the cheek. ‘So what did you think?’ she asks.

Babe shakes her head. ‘Like an angel!’ She sighs. ‘And it’s nice to see you out and about for a change! You’re a hermit, Bunny Gold!’

Bunny smiles, but says nothing.

‘Evie!’ Babe cuts in front of the bow tie man and grabs my hand, squeezing it affectionately. (We’ve suddenly become great friends.) ‘How are you?’

‘You’ve lost weight! Is this new?’ Belle’s feeling the fabric of my dress, rubbing it between her fingers. ‘Last season or this?’

‘Belle, for Christ’s sake, let the woman talk!’ Babe yanks me closer. ‘You
have
lost weight. You’re skin and bone! I know that dress. Last season,’ she adds automatically to Belle. ‘I nearly bought one like it but you have to have
legs
. Now.’ She stares into my eyes with the intensity of a hypnotist. ‘How are you?
Really
. How are you bearing up?’

‘Fine,’ I bleat, failing to dislodge my hand from Babe’s powerful grip. ‘Everything’s just … fine.’

They continue to stare at me, waiting.

‘Alex is well.’ I smile brightly. ‘Getting bigger all the time!’

‘He’s a lovely boy.’ Belle makes it sound as if I don’t fully appreciate this fact. ‘You’re a lucky woman,’ she adds in the same warning tone.

‘Wasn’t it a wonderful performance?’ I grab Allyson’s hand in desperation. ‘Have you met Ally?’

‘Hello!’ Allyson beams.

They look at one another.

Belle latches on to her arm. ‘My son has a crush on
you!’ she announces, so loudly that almost all conversation stops. ‘His name is David and he owns his own business!’

‘How lovely.’ Allyson glares at me over Belle’s head. ‘We must meet some day!’

‘Oh, absolutely!’ I smile.

‘You know, Bunny –’ Babe turns her attention back to Bunny – ‘the first ten years are the hardest, take my word for it.’ She extracts a gold compact from her handbag and checks her lipstick; a thick pink shade she must’ve bought in bulk in 1974. ‘You need to get back into the world. And you
need
to get rid of that house.’ She stares at Bunny, her small dark eyes unblinking. ‘Sooner or later you’ve got to let go.’

A shadow of dismay ripples across Bunny’s face. I want to reach out and reassure her. But Babe appropriates my hand instead, squeezing it vigorously. ‘Now. To the real business! Who can we find for Evie, eh?’

And she looks around the room, as if eligible men can be found unclaimed in dusty corners.

‘Oh! He’s tall! What about him?’ She points to Piotr.

‘God, no!’ I say.

Piotr looks up, catching my eye.

He smiles. ‘God no what?’ he asks, walking over.

‘Nothing,’ I say quickly. ‘Babe, this is my room-mate, Piotr Pawlokowski. Piotr, this is Babe Heinemann, Bunny’s cousin.’

‘Oh! So you’re the Pole!’ She grabs his hand, yanking
him down to her level; he’s practically doubled over.

‘That’s right. The Pollack, the American and the Australian. Sounds like a joke with a light bulb in it.’

Babe pats his hand.

‘He’s cute!’ she hisses to me.

Piotr looks at me. ‘Yes. You see. I’m cute.’

Babe gives my arm a tug. ‘Isn’t she a pretty girl? Look at that figure! Do you like children, Piotr?’

I’m going to pass out with mortification.

Or rather, I wish I would.

But he just laughs. ‘Yes. She’s pretty and I’m cute. As for her figure.’ He stands back, appraising me. ‘I think … humm … I think I should have a closer look. A private viewing, perhaps.’

Babe giggles. I manage to wrench my hand free.

‘OK!’ My face is burning. ‘Enough!’

But he goes on. ‘Of course, you may not know this but she has terrible habits. She smokes when no one is looking and walks around in nothing but her bra and knickers when she thinks no one is home.’

‘No!’ Babe gasps, delighted.

‘That’s not true!’ I object. ‘I don’t smoke! Ever! And when have you ever seen me in my knickers?’

‘Don’t say it’s not true!’ He turns to Babe. ‘I like to think it’s true.’ He grins at me. ‘Something simple. White cotton knickers, maybe?’

Allyson grabs my arm, pulls me aside. ‘Thanks to you
I’ve got a date with the midget’s evil spawn! I’m going to have to leave the country now!’

‘Save me!’ I hiss in her ear.

‘Save you! I should kill you!’ But she drags me across the hall anyway, parking me in front of a squat toad-ish looking man in his late fifties, with thick, black-framed glasses and a permanently red complexion. ‘Here, talk to Clive. But don’t be surprised if he talks only to your tits.’

Later, at the restaurant below, my mobile starts to buzz. I duck outside on the front steps to take it. ‘Hello?’

It’s the babysitter, Karen. Nothing’s more anxious-making.

‘Is Alex OK?’

‘Sure. Like, I’m just calling to find out if it’s OK if I eat this chocolate thingy in the fridge.’

I sigh with relief. ‘Actually, Karen, that’s not mine. So would you leave it? I think there’s some bread and jam …’ I know how dull this selection sounds. I’m one of those women who never have any good babysitter grub.

‘Oh.’

There’s a pause.

‘You’ve already eaten it, haven’t you?’ I deduce.

‘Well, sort of.’

It’s probably Bunny’s; some expensive little delight from Marks & Spencer. ‘OK. Never mind now.’ I’ll replace it tomorrow.

‘Oh, and, just so you know, it wasn’t me.’

I look out at the even Georgian architecture of the red-brick houses that line Smith Square. ‘What are you talking about? What wasn’t you?’

‘I was coming down the stairs, after Alex went down. And, you know, the mirror, the big old one at the bottom of the steps, is broken.’

‘Broken?’

‘Yeah, like there’s this crack across it.’

I shift uncomfortably in my high-heeled sandals. ‘Has anything else been disturbed? Is the window open? Is anything missing?’

‘Na, I looked and like everything’s locked. You should get some of those chocolate thingys,’ she adds, putting in a request for next time. ‘They’re really good.’

‘Karen, do me a favour. Check on Alex again, will you?’

‘No problem.’

‘I think … Listen, I’ll call you back.’

I click the phone shut. The best thing would be to go home now, just to make sure everything’s all right. We came in Piotr’s car but I can easily get a cab. As I’m looking around the square, I spot Bunny, sitting alone on a wooden bench in the gardens around the church. There’s a curious quality about her; a kind of tranquillity, as if she’s waiting for someone or listening to a conversation no one else can hear.

I walk over.

She looks up, startled. Then she smiles quickly. ‘Wasn’t Allyson wonderful?’

I nod. ‘Yes, a triumph. Listen, there’s been some sort of accident at home. I don’t know how it happened, but the mirror in the front hallway is broken. There’s a crack in it.’

Her brow wrinkles, but she doesn’t seem as upset as I expected. ‘Yes,’ she says finally. ‘Yes, that makes sense.’

‘What do you mean?’ I sit down next to her.

She’s on the verge of answering, but thinks better of it. ‘Nothing, darling.’ She’s unusually frail tonight, almost other worldly.

‘Listen …’ I begin.

‘He was here,’ she interrupts me. ‘Standing just to the left of the organ.’

‘Who was here?’

‘Harry, of course,’ she says, as if it were obvious.

‘Oh.’ I’m listening closely now.

‘It reminds me of the days just after he died. I couldn’t sleep. Always hated sleeping alone. So I used to go to the opera and sit in the stalls. When they dimmed the lights, I’d doze off. It was warm, safe, dark. No one gives it a second thought if you fall asleep during the opera. In fact, there was a production of
Beatrice and Benedick
which used to send the entire audience into a coma at the end of the first act. I went to nearly every performance. I so hated being alone. So hated it.’

I take her hand. A soft breeze dances around us.

‘It doesn’t matter about the mirror.’ She’s very far away. ‘Things happen out of nowhere. They just happen.’

‘All the same, maybe I should go back, just to make sure everything’s all right.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Something of her old sparkle returns to her eyes. ‘Shall I ask Piotr to take you?’

I’m riffling in my bag, looking for my change purse. ‘No, I’ll be fine. I’ll catch a cab. I’m just going to say goodbye to Ally.’

It takes another ten minutes to work my way through the clutch of people around Allyson and say my goodbyes. The twilight sky’s a dark navy streaked with black. The air’s cool. I throw the pashmina over my shoulders and am searching for a black cab when Piotr appears, dangling his car keys.

‘Bunny says you need to go home.’

I’m flustered; suddenly all I can think of are white knickers. I scan the horizon, praying for a yellow taxi light. ‘I’m fine. I’ll take a cab.’

‘Good.’ He lodges a hand in the small of my back, firmly pushes me across the square to where his car is parked. ‘I charge ten pounds to St John’s Wood. But for you, fifteen.’

He opens the door.

I glare at him, folding my arms across my chest.

He looks at me. ‘Are you getting in? Or do you want me to strap you to the roof?’

I get in. There’s a special way ladies are supposed to climb into cars. I’m not certain how it’s done but I realize
I’m trying to do it now. He shuts the door, crosses and settles in on the driver’s side.

‘He’s all right, Alex?’

‘Yes, it’s just that something’s been broken. I’d feel better if I knew that everything was … OK.’

‘Right.’ He starts the car and backs out of the parking space so quickly, I have to hang on to the dashboard. He grins. ‘This is the way we drive in Kraków. You’ll be there in no time. But I’d fasten your seat belt.’

I take his advice. As we speed down the Embankment and across to Victoria, Piotr slips a disk into the CD player. And the grand opening chords of Tchaikovsky’s first piano concerto fill the car.

We veer round Hyde Park Corner. I grasp the door handle for support.

‘Listen, Piotr,’ I start, ‘I feel …’ he narrowly avoids back-ending a Volvo estate ‘I … I was a bit uncomfortable with … Jesus! Slow down!’

He looks at me. ‘You trust me, right?’

‘Watch the road! Piotr, please!’ I fling my hands over my eyes. ‘God help us!’

He laughs. ‘Good. Now, you were saying …’ And whipping through the traffic, he swerves across lanes, gaining speed up Park Lane.

‘I was saying that the way you were speaking to me, with Babe …’

‘Flirting,’ he interrupts.

‘Flirting. Flirting?’

‘Flirting,’ he confirms. ‘Yes?’

‘Well.’ Was he really flirting with me? ‘I just think it’s inappropriate, considering that we’re room-mates.’

He cuts in front of a bus at Marble Arch and pulls up sharply at the lights. ‘Inappropriate,’ he repeats.

I feel awkward; I pretend to examine the CD case. ‘Yes. Perhaps it’s a cultural difference but here, in London, when people live together, like we do, it’s best to keep relationships …’ What’s the word I’m looking for? ‘Contained.’

He considers, nodding gravely. ‘Yes. It must be a cultural difference. We Poles spill out everywhere.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Yes,’ he snorts, ‘I know! You’re always serious.’

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘God, that’s rich, coming from you, Mr “Happiness is a shallow little goal”!’

The lights change. ‘Happiness is a shallow goal. Shouldn’t we strive for a greater range of experience in life?’ The car lurches forward. ‘Anyway, you were irritating me.’

‘
I
was irritating
you
!’

He sighs, exasperated. ‘You’re not the sort of woman who should be … be …’ he taps the steering wheel, struggling for the word ‘…
slinking
around! Teaching night classes! Pretending to be invisible!’

I’m cut to the core. ‘I do not slink!’

‘Oh yes, you do!’

‘I do not! Besides, what business is it of yours?’

He turns into St John’s Wood Road, gears grinding. ‘No business. Slink away!’ he growls.

I’d give anything to get out of this car right now. I’m seething, sitting as close to the door and as far away from him as I can get.

‘So. No flirting,’ he confirms.

‘Right,’ I snap.

‘So, not a good idea to tease you, then.’

‘Correct.’

‘And this … this idea of you wandering around in nothing but your knickers is absolutely, completely false.’

‘Piotr!’

‘Just checking.’ He swerves into the High Street.

A thick silence wedges itself between us.

I will ignore him for the rest of the journey.

Turning the CD case over, I examine it intently. It’s quite old, Russian; a photo of a gangly teenager on the front, with a defiant shock of spiky hair and hands two sizes too large for the rest of his body, poised at the side of a piano.

‘Who is this anyway?’ I demand.