The Other Me (17 page)

‘A kitten?’ I give an encouraging smile.

She looks startled and tightens her grip on the basket. ‘What’s it to you?’ She has her snub nose in the air, as if scenting prey.

‘Nothing.’ I make an awkward noise in the back of my throat – a questioning half-laugh. ‘I like kittens.’

She leans over the low wall between our front gardens, and the full bouquet of her sugary perfume catches in my mouth. A mask of orange pancake makes her look like a cross between an ancient Geisha girl and a frog.

‘You tell your father he’d better not try any funny business this time.’ She jabs a finger in my direction. ‘He kills my cat, and he’ll answer for it.’

My heart flips inside my ribs.

‘We know he shot poor old Bill. We just never had any proof. He’s a cold one, isn’t he?’ She arches a pencilled-in brow. ‘All Germans are the same, my Harry says.’ Her padded shoulders roll and tremble. ‘We’re keeping our eye on him, so you can tell him that from us. God knows what he gets up to in that shed.’

‘The shed?’ My voice comes out as a whisper.

She nods, jowls wobbling. ‘Always in there, isn’t he? Always got the door shut. Stays in there for hours.’

‘He makes things. Out of wood.’ I release a sigh, realising that I’ve been holding my breath.

Her mouth pinches. ‘Well, you can say what you like. We know what we know. And there was all that carrying on before Christmas. Terrible to hear, it was.’

‘What… what do you mean?’ My spine sags.

‘Screaming. Shouting. And I could hear crying at night.’ She lowers her voice to a hiss. ‘It was your mum, God rest her soul.’

My mother never raised her voice. She cried easily over small things, sentimental things, sobbing quietly, dabbing at her eyes with the edge of a tissue. But she didn’t make a sound in front of my father. He hated any kind of scene or drama.

Mrs Perkins is lying. Her eyes bulge and she pants slightly, her wet mouth open. Tiny flecks of spittle have collected at the corners of her lips. I turn my back on her and slip in through the front door, closing it behind me. All I remember are Mum’s anxious attempts to befriend Mrs Perkins, her desire to make things all right again. My father was wrong to shoot the cat, but he’d been right when he’d said the Perkinses were spiteful people. I lean my forehead against the cool of the frosted glass.

I hear a drag of breath, and turn to find my father standing there: a long, looming shape in the hall. I put my hand to my cheek. ‘You startled me.’

His mouth twitches. ‘That woman.’ He takes a step closer. ‘What was she saying?’

I shake my head. ‘Nothing.’

He waits. I hear the click of the minute hand coming from the clock. I feel like a little girl again, made to stand before him with my hands spread wide for him to inspect.

‘She said you mustn’t shoot her cat,’ I say quickly. ‘They’ve got a new kitten.’

‘Hope they get the bugger neutered then,’ my father says.

It is dim in the hallway, the light muted through the glass. But I think he winks at me.

As soon as the postman’s cart rattles down the street, I’m on the alert for footsteps approaching our front door. I rush to the mat every time I hear the slide of envelopes, the metal snap of the letterbox opening and closing.

Nothing from Meg. It’s been weeks. She’ll have received my letter by now. I’m trying not to panic. On my last night in Paris, we drank a bottle of red wine and ate bowls of onion soup before walking through the freezing night, arms linked. Looking down into the black depths of the Seine, she’d squeezed close. ‘It’s been amazing having you here. I really miss you, you know.’

I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and grimace. Meg would despair if she could see me now. She wouldn’t let me leave the house looking like this. Blond roots clash with dark brown ends. I run my fingers through the half-tone strands and realise that it will take months to grow out completely. I can’t go on wearing hats. I’ve bought a cloche hat and alternate between that and the beret. People must wonder why they never see me without them.

There is a small hair salon on the high street. I pass it on my way to the train station. I have the morning before I go in for work.

An elderly woman sits under a large dryer, a magazine splayed on her lap. A girl looks up from filing her nails when I push the door open. She sits me down opposite a mirror and whisks the cloche hat off my head. She stares at my hair, nostrils flaring in disapproval; then she sucks her bottom lip in. ‘Well, what did you have in mind?’

I explain that I’m growing the blond back in. Could she match up the colours?

‘Nah.’ She sighs and shakes her head. ‘You could bleach the lot. Then cut the bleached ends off once you’ve got enough re-growth,’ she offers. ‘You could do with a cut, too. Chop off the split ends and some of the dye.’

I allow myself to be tied into a pale blue gown and led to a deep sink. The girl scalds me with boiling water. Her nails graze my scalp. My neck, tipped back at an awkward angle, aches; I’m finding it hard to swallow. Eventually, she releases me from the torture and applies a product. She says she has to put eraser on the brown first. My eyes sting. But when she pastes on the bleach, I can smell something rotting, like dead animal.

‘Yeah. Stinks, doesn’t it?’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘It’s the ammonia. But it’ll be worth it.’

Hours later, after she has set to work with her scissors and a hairdryer, I look at myself. My hair is white. It’s as fair as it used to be when I was a child. Except that now it has no tone to it, no mix of other shades. It is cropped short, my jawline exposed. My mouth and eyes look bigger. I seem vulnerable. Naked.

I put a hand up towards the unfamiliar style, touching my neck. The floor around my feet is speckled with curls and tufts of brown.

‘That’s more like it,’ the girl says. ‘You look all right now. Modern. Trendy.’

I leave the salon on stiff legs. My shorn hair feels weightless, as if I have feathers on my head. The breeze moves through it.

Josh is at the bar unpacking boxes of crisps; he glances over his shoulder as I push open the door. The look of relief on his face changes to surprise when he notices my hair.

‘Whoa! I had to do a double-take!’ His eyebrows rise in startled arcs. He pauses, as if working out what to say. ‘Like the new look.’ He clears his throat and gestures towards the opened boxes. ‘Give me a hand, would you? For some reason they’ve only sent us prawn cocktail flavour.’

Scarlett, coming in through the velvet curtain, stops and grins, throwing her arms into the air. ‘Hallelujah! She’s got rid of the hat at last!’ She touches my hair briefly. ‘Platinum as Marilyn. Very sexy.’

I smile and shrug off my jacket, glancing across at Cosmo’s painting on the wall. I go closer, taking in the latest changes.

Another world stands there, inviting me inside its crimson glow: in dusky shadows strange creatures lurk, winged lions and unicorns. The burlesque dancers are half dryads, half human. Boughs heavy with grapes wind fleshy leaves around the line of the ceiling. The dancers pull down fat globes of fruit, putting them to their lips as they shimmer and smile, enticing as sirens.

Josh appears beside me. ‘Got to hand it to him. The guy’s got talent.’

‘Is it finished?’ A sudden panic grips me.

Josh scratches his neck. ‘Only a few final touches left, he says.’

It’s a quiet night. I polish glasses and watch Scarlett’s performance. My eyes keep returning to the painting. In the pinkish glow and the dim shadows and glittering lights of the club, the dryad-dancers seem to move before my eyes. The green boughs above their heads, weaving across the line where wall meets ceiling, appear to shimmer with moisture. If I were to touch them, I’d feel their fleshy fibre, the softness of leaves, the wet dew beneath my fingers.

Scarlett finishes her set with a flutter of ostrich feathers as she brushes a large fan across her naked stomach. She winks at the audience, bowing to accept the smatter of applause. As the stage lights darken, Peggy Lee is singing ‘Fever’.

I sense a customer approaching and turn with my attentive smile fixed.

But it’s Cosmo. His eyes widen. ‘Your hair!’

I swallow my smile, ducking my head, disconcerted by the reality of him. He’s taller than I remember. My mouth is dry. I pat the short feathers around my ears with uncertain fingers. ‘Radical, I know.’

‘Yes, but…’ he smiles. ‘It suits you. You look good as a blonde.’

I think about telling him that I
am
a natural blonde, but that seems vain. My happiness at seeing him is hindered by wariness. I don’t know what he’s thinking. The lack of connection makes me feel untethered.

I point to the mural. Something safe. ‘It’s amazing.’

He looks pleased. Then he leans on the bar, conspiratorial across a couple of empty beer glasses. I catch the taste of his breath. My insides lurch.

‘I miss you.’ He holds up a hand as if I’m going to interrupt him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says quickly. ‘I’m not here to try and persuade you to come back to me. I heard what you said. It’s over. But there’s nothing to stop us being friends, is there?’

I shake my head, unsayable words shrivelling inside my mouth.

‘As I’m going to be free in the evenings again… I wondered if you’d like to have a drink or something. I know you’re busy here,’ he makes an apologetic gesture, ‘and you have… things going on with your family. But if you want to…’ he breaks off, leaving the question hanging, tantalising and dangerous.

I pick up the beer glasses as if they have become an urgent task, and bend to put them in the machine. I pull air in quickly, lungs fluttering. His generosity makes me ashamed. But can we really be friends? Doubt pulls at me. I dash it away, because I need to see him again, just to be in his company, to hear his voice again.

When I’ve composed myself, I turn back. ‘Sure.’ I cross my arms. ‘A drink. Why not?’

He straightens up and shrugs, suddenly casual. ‘Sunday?’

I nod, watching him walk away.

The congregation have stopped talking about my father and me. At chapel, the whispering clusters have moved on to other topics. Invitations for my father to join discussion groups or go on rambling jaunts along the Thames have dwindled away. He declined every offer. He no longer has nutritional offerings thrust into his unwilling hands from women in the congregation: home-cooked pies wrapped in foil or cakes in Tupperware boxes presented to him after services with damp smiles. He made it quite clear that he thought the food parcels were ill-advised charity.

The last hymn is announced and we stand. My book is open. But my father knows the words off by heart. He opens his mouth and sings with the vigour and enthusiasm that I remember from my childhood. I am conscious of my shorn and silvery hair. It feels bright and frivolous in the confines of the chapel.

When Mum was alive, we usually stayed for tea and biscuits in the hall afterwards, but my father isn’t interested in making small talk over chocolate bourbons. Straight after the service, we make our way down the aisle, my father’s chin jutting, a look of endurance etched into his stern expression, as if he is barely prepared to tolerate the polite greetings people give us as we pass. And I see the effect he has on others, the restraint, even nervousness, he inspires in them.

It’s a short walk home. The trees are pink and white with blossom. Behind the traffic fumes and taint of petrol, there is the green and certain scent of spring. My father hums one of the hymns from the service. Turning into our road, I notice two familiar figures, one in a red sari: Mrs Gupta and her husband approaching along the pavement. I can feel my father tensing. He increases his stride. As we get closer, I prepare to give them a casual greeting: something to break the ice. I clear my throat.

But when we are a few feet away, my father veers right, stepping off the kerb. I stare after him, open-mouthed. He’s marching to the other side without a backwards glance. A motorbike screeches past his heels, horn blaring angrily. I see Mrs Gupta’s startled face. A lorry lets off a hissing squeal of brakes as I mumble a greeting. I have to run to catch up.

‘That was rude,’ I tell him. ‘We should have said hello at least.’

He looks at me blankly, the house key in his hand.

‘The Guptas,’ I say. ‘You ignored them.’

I follow him up the path to our doorstep.

He shakes his head. ‘I didn’t see them.’ He turns the key in the lock. ‘I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about.’

Cosmo suggested we meet in the Chinese restaurant in Atlantic Road. I keep telling myself that this is not a date. But it feels like one. I’m sick with nerves. My underarms are damp. I have two showers, spray myself with deodorant and empty my wardrobe, throwing things onto my bed. I have an eclectic mix of clothes. I try on a brown mini-skirt and T-shirt; but that just makes me look wrong: like an adult wearing Brownie uniform. A pair of black leather trousers hugs my bottom so tightly I don’t think I’d dare sit down in them. I find a plum-coloured jumpsuit that I bought when I was shopping with Meg, and dangle earrings at my lobes, loop beads around my neck. But I take it all off and pull on my jeans and a white shirt. Better that I look natural and relaxed. If we’re going to be friends I need to work at being casual. I’ll have to learn not to care so much.

The bottle of perfume that I brought back from Paris is at the bottom of my otherwise empty case, still gift-wrapped for Christmas. I open the packaging, crumpling shiny cellophane and undoing the box. The ornate bottle is a solid weight in my hand. Gold liquid glows in the light. It seems a shame to waste it. Wearing it will make me feel closer to her.

I unstop the heavy glass top, putting my nose to the rim. I don’t recognise the dense notes of cinnamon and peach. It’s exotic, floral and spicy. I can only remember lavender talc on her skin; but I expect that she wore this when she was younger. I dab generous splashes onto my pulse at my neck, behind my ears, on my wrists.

I put my head around the sitting-room door to say goodbye to my father. He looks up from his chair. He has a book in his hand. A Bible. I go closer and stoop to turn the sidelight on. ‘You’ll strain your eyes.’