Every Good Girl Page 8

  ‘I suppose it’s different for you,’ Nina said, foraging in her bag for lipstick. ‘Children grow up in a place and expect to move on, away from it. It’s your duty not to get over-involved with the inhabitants, otherwise it might be difficult to leave. And of course it’s not like it was when I was little, all the children sent outside to play together. I don’t think I know of anyone’s kids who are allowed on the Common without a parent. You just know that behind every tree lurks a crazed rapist.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Emily replied again. Nina, as she applied blusher, remembered her own childhood, making camps with friends in the woods, fishing for sticklebacks in a river that no-one even bothered to check the weedy depth of. Once, when she and a friend, at about Lucy’s age, had been digging in the earth for shards of highly prized old broken pottery, a man had knelt beside them and asked if he could show them his own ‘treasure’ and had unzipped his trousers – bottle green corduroy, she could see the warm fuzzy fabric now, and could almost smell the dusty dried earth she and the friend were so solemnly scraping into with their seaside spades. She remembered how politely, with what must have been almost comic decorum, they’d told him, ‘No thank you, we’re busy.’ By some sixth-sense agreement he had never been mentioned again, to each other or to anyone else. Talking about it, telling, would have meant the incident was significant and sinister and playing out in the woodsy freedom would never have been the same again. Girls who told parents about that kind of thing got kept in, confined to their own dull gardens, which felt just like a punishment, till only gangs of boys would be left to roam wild and free. Parents then didn’t think things like the treasure-man happened to boys. Lucy didn’t have that freedom, driven to school, kept safe, made wary. She still hadn’t been out of Nina’s sight over on the Common, wasn’t ever allowed to use it as a short cut to the school unless she or Emily was with her.

  ‘He mentioned something about babysitting, this Paul man. You could earn yourself some cash,’ Nina suggested.

  ‘How much?’ Emily looked up, instantly interested. At Joe’s expense she was having driving lessons, but buying and running a car along with her social life might well be at her own.

  ‘Oh I don’t know, you’d have to negotiate some kind of hourly rate. Ask your friends, someone at school will know.’

  Emily flicked a few magazine pages, but Nina could see financial calculation on her face as she said, ‘They might have real brats. I think the charge should be per child, as well as per hour. Suppose there’s a teeny baby that cries all the time and needs bottles and nappies every couple of hours and stuff.’

  ‘You’re talking yourself out of it, I can tell,’ Nina told her. ‘Just think of it as a chance to do your revision in peace and get paid for it at the same time. What do I look like, will I do?’

  Nina did a twirl. Emily inspected her, head to toe, slowly. ‘You look fine. Your hair looks really good and I like that suede shirt thing.’

  ‘It leaves ginger-coloured flecks on the black trousers, that’s the only trouble.’ Nina fussed at the hem of the shirt.

  ‘Better let me have it then,’ Emily suggested swiftly. ‘Teenagers don’t care about things like that.’

  ‘How true.’ Nina leaned down and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelt delicious, like strawberries. She remembered suddenly the scent of newborn babies’ heads, something primitive and beadily dampish, making her want to lick the downy scalp like a mother cat.

  Lucy was born ten whole years ago, she thought; probably the next one I’ll get that close to will be Emily’s own. Unless of course Joe brought his new baby to their monthly lunches. Nina imagined it clinging in a denim sling, suspended like a baby ape. They’d have to go to an Italian restaurant where babies were cherished and given a breadstick to chew. Or perhaps there’d just be no more lunches.

  ‘Emily darling, don’t let Lucy watch too much telly. I’m only going over for a quick drink, I’ll be back for a latish supper. You could get yourself and Lucy something earlier if you like. There’s plenty of pasta in the fridge.’

  ‘S’pose,’ Emily conceded, returning to her magazine. ‘Have fun.’

  Nina could hear party noises as she crossed the road. Paul’s house was closer to the Common, with a small alleyway along the side of it that the residents had got accustomed to using as a dog-walking short cut while the house had been empty. They’d all have to go back to trailing round the long way now, up to the main road and along past the riding school. Henry, to her surprise, was sauntering towards her from his own house, hands as ever stuffed in the pockets of his old jeans and his matted blue sweater showing he made no concession to silly social niceties.

  ‘Do you mind arriving with me or would you prefer to go in alone while I hide in the hedge for ten minutes so no-one mistakes us for a couple?’ Henry asked politely.

  ‘I think I can just about tolerate being seen with you, just this once,’ Nina laughed, pushing open the gate of number 26, ‘As long as it doesn’t become a habit.’

  ‘Not bloody likely,’ Henry retorted, ringing the bell.

  The door was opened by a child, a girl of about nine wearing army camouflage trousers, a paratroopers’ red beret, and with her face striped with mud coloured make-up. So there is a wife, Nina thought, or at least a partner. Henry saluted: ‘Neighbours reporting for drinks duty,’ he said. ‘Corporal Henry Perry and Field Marshal Nina Malone. Or have you gone back to Dyson?’ he added. Nina shook her head, ‘Well not yet.’

  The child looked at Nina, put a finger to her temple and twiddled it in the universal ‘completely crazy’ gesture, glancing sideways at Henry.

  ‘Do come in. I’m Megan. I see you’ve met Sophie.’ Nina heard a gasp from Henry and took a look at her new neighbour, who had appeared behind the child. Megan Brocklehurst looked like a walking flower; a hibiscus came to mind, or a pale scabious. She was wearing several layers of white floating fabric (in early April) each piece of which had an asymmetric hem and so accurately gave the impression of layers of petals that it looked decidedly peculiar to see a hand holding a glass protruding from among the folds. Her stomach bulged gently with pregnancy, and she looked the absolute definition of ‘blooming’. Her face, tiny among clouds of blond hair, was the kind of perfect heart-shaped one on which they would originally have based the drawings of Snow White.

  ‘I expect you know everyone here much better than Paul and I do,’ Megan said, ushering Nina and Henry into the sitting room and towards the drinks.

  Nina looked around the room quickly. As in most of the Crescent’s Victorian houses, this was a room that had been two smaller ones knocked through. There were large french windows overlooking the back garden, and in the high brick wall at the far end of the garden Nina could see a small door which would have led out to the Common in the days before the Council had been round issuing all the residents with official padlocks but no keys. No curtains were up yet, and the plain cream walls bore the sad grubby oblongs of other people’s taken-down paintings. The floor was a rich syrup-coloured parquet which must have been hiding its lustre under the former occupants’ figured green Wilton for a good fifteen years. It was quite crowded, so this was either far less impromptu a gathering than Nina had thought it would be, or the entire Crescent was as downright nosy as she was. She recognized most people from simply seeing them going in and out of cars, gates and doorways over the years. One or two were fellow early-morning dog walkers; Nina could see posh Penelope in her caramel cashmere and guessed from the lifeless expression of the man she was talking to that she was lecturing, as ever, on the rather fascist topic of the compulsory spaying of mongrels.

  Megan handed Nina a glass of white wine and grimaced apologetically at the state of the room. ‘Appalling to ask people in while the house is still so shabby, but I thought it might be a good way to find out who were the best painters and decorators in the area. I thought that between most of the Crescent’s inhabitants, I should be able to assemble a useful list of artisans. Do you find you
all end up using the same people?’

  ‘To be honest I wouldn’t know. Joe and I always did our own painting, though now I’m having Henry in to help. My brother’s got quite a useful address book of plumbers and electricians though. I don’t actually know what the others here do,’ Nina said, laughing, ‘I must confess I haven’t really been much of a joining-in type of neighbour. Just the usual hellos and goodbyes and Merry Christmas,’ she admitted.

  ‘Oh well I hope that will change,’ Megan said with a smile, ‘because haven’t you got a daughter of about Sophie’s age?’

  ‘I’ve got Lucy, she’s ten.’

  Megan grinned delightedly, showing a perfectly straight set of teeth as white as her dress. ‘Oh that’s terrific. Sophie’s nine. It would be lovely if the girls could be friends. We’ve got Sam as well, but he’s only five and, well boys just want to kick a ball around and don’t care who they see. Sophie hasn’t met anyone here yet, though I’m sure that’ll change when she starts school on Monday.’

  ‘Which one? Lucy’s at St Clement’s.’

  ‘Oh good. That’s where Sam and Sophie will be going. Sophie’s already decided she likes it, because they let the girls wear trousers. As you can see, she’s hardly the frilly frock type.’

  Unlike her mother, Nina was tempted to say. Megan had tiny, delicate wrists and shining fluffy golden hair, like a brand new Barbie doll. Joe would, if he was still around, be offering his services as complete house renovator. He’d be reviving the old custom of borrowing cups of sugar, anything to spend time lolling on Megan’s sofa gazing at her delicate features and making a total besotted fool of himself. Henry was hovering nearby, staring shamelessly at this vision of ultra-feminine loveliness. Beside her, Nina felt far too tall and clumsy. As she made neighbourly conversation with various guests, going over the grumbles by which they were linked (17’s overhanging willow, the strange drainy smell outside 33, 19’s perpetual builders), she imagined that her arms and legs were growing longer like Pinocchio’s nose. She slid her feet out of her shoes and leaned against the wall, trying to feel smaller. It was the first time she’d ever felt uncomfortable about being tall.

  ‘More wine?’ Paul Brocklehurst appeared at Nina’s side with a bottle. He was the same height as she was and she was looking straight into his eyes. She’d never been able to do that cute looking up thing that she’d always despised small women for doing. It was something irritating that she’d seen when women were appealing to a man’s strength. Even Sally did it. Once at the gallery, Nina had watched in astonishment as Sally, capable and independent as she normally was, had shimmied up to a browsing customer, eyes wide and helpless, and coyly proffered a coffee jar with a stubborn lid to be opened. ‘Thank you so much,’ she’d then gushed, leaving the man convinced he’d achieved a historical engineering milestone.

  ‘How could you do that?’ Nina had asked her.

  ‘The jar is now open, my nails and my temper are intact and it gives men simple pleasure to be asked. Easy,’ Sally had explained. How pathetic of men to be so easily pleased, Nina had thought. She still thought it was something to do with eye level and putting yourself in a diminutive position. She and Joe had been on the same level and she caught herself wondering if he, standing next to Catherine, would be tall enough to kiss the top of her head. That would be disgustingly cute.

  ‘Are you planning to do a lot to the house?’ Nina asked Paul, watching Henry, across the room, grab an opportunity to slide into place next to Megan. She wondered if he was asking if she needed help painting her ceiling. One upward appeal from those delphinium eyes and he’d probably roll on his back to be tickled.

  ‘Not a huge amount. Structurally it’s fine and the kitchen is bliss. The vendors slapped in a new IKEA one so it would look good just for selling and it happens to be one we’d have chosen, so that’s all right. I suppose it’s mostly just a matter of paint. Megan is good at colour. I’m an architect, more interested in form and function. And people. I’ll be working from home, office upstairs,’ he waved his glass upwards and drops of wine fell to the floor. He rubbed at them with his foot. ‘So I feel the need to meet the neighbours, find out who’s around for the odd coffee and chat when inspiration deserts me.’

  ‘Henry’s very reliable for that,’ Nina told Paul. ‘He’s a painter, the art sort so he’s always up for skiving if you don’t mind oil paint smeared all over your worktops and a lingering smell of turps. Goodness knows what he actually lives on. Otherwise it’s the usual suburban morning out, evening home, not a lot of casual dropping in. We do have the odd barbecue though, and there’s Bonfire Night on the old bit of waste ground next to number 19, and it’s quite good around Christmas.’

  ‘You make yourselves sound like an antisocial bunch. Last place we lived, everyone was forever in and out of each others’ houses. Drinks, parties, Sunday lunches, all that.’

  ‘Sounds idyllic,’ Nina said, suddenly envious. ‘Why on earth did you leave?’ Paul’s face clouded for a moment. ‘Oh this and that,’ he said breezily. ‘Work, mostly. We architects, we have to move on to stay fresh.’ There was something else behind his ordinary reply, Nina thought. If I wasn’t directly on his eye level I wouldn’t have noticed that.

  Nina stayed longer than she’d intended and gravitated towards the kitchen. It seemed to be full of women and a high, squawking noise level, as if inevitably, having cruised the room, lone females should congregate together for comfort. She and posh Penelope sat at the table polishing off a bottle of oaky Chardonnay and grumbling about absent husbands.

  ‘Oliver went to work in Dubai. “Only for three months, think of all the tax-free lucre,” he said. And then he met a nurse. On the plane out, would you believe.’ Penelope waved her glass at Nina. ‘They’re having twins.’

  ‘Oliver and the nurse?’ Nina asked.

  ‘No, our hosts, Megan and Paul. Poor buggers. Got a cigarette?’

  Penelope looked past Nina, round the room and towards the door. She looked vaguely hopeful, Nina thought, as if there might be an outside chance that a replacement for the adulterous Oliver might be just beyond the fridge. Nina realized she’d been doing the same, scanning the gathering with the tiniest corner of her mind wondering if there might be an adventure worth having among the men not yet met. All of them, apart from Henry, seemed to be there as anchors for their partners. The husbands stayed in one spot, discussing golf, BMWs and their cholesterol levels. The wives circulated, talking of education, au pairs, diets and tennis and then returned to partner-as-base. Some of them wandered into the kitchen, and sat for a while with the single women who could smoke without risk of being told off, before starting to look edgy, and sensing a need to go back and be sure of their men.

  ‘Where are all the lone men? All the ones abandoned by their partners?’ Penelope was murmuring drunkenly. ‘Where do they go? You never see them drifting around at parties looking lost. I just know now that I’ll never live with anyone else again.’

  Nina looked at her face that in its lines and folds inadequately patched with make-up held all the signs of great disappointment and lost hope.

  ‘I don’t know. Home to Mum, bedsits with Kentucky Chicken, or maybe they go straight back out into the fray again, like getting back on a horse. Perhaps they’re all out there looking for another Mrs Right, in case it’s worth a shot.’ She giggled, thinking of Joe and the speedy moving-in of Catherine. ‘It usually is, and pretty quick.’

  I’m not going to end up like Penelope, Nina vowed to herself, jolly and shrieking in party kitchens but with eyes like a bereft soul. I’m going to go on out and have a good time, like Sally. With Sally.

  Graham took the balaclava that he used for night bird-watching and winter plane-spotting into the sitting room where Monica was waiting eagerly for Crimewatch UK to start. The balaclava was hand-knitted in finest alpaca, made to last by Mother when he was about twelve, had just taken up plane-spotting and was thought to be in need of protection from chills. Back then, it had been an
embarrassing item, swaddling his head and making him feel conspicuous. Now everyone at the airfields had them, bought from army surplus stores and worn with nonchalant pride. His own was softer though, comforting even when he just felt it nestling in his pocket, soft like a sleeping rabbit. He didn’t put it on now, just held it so Mother would see it and assume he was telling the truth.

  ‘Popping out for a bit,’ he said from the doorway. His shoes were by the front door, ready to be slid on fast before she thought of too many questions to ask.

  ‘Going for a drink?’ Monica asked, barely looking up.

  ‘Well I might stop for just a pint, on the way back. There’s a barn owl by the Common, just on the edge. I thought I’d go and have a look.’ He took a deep breath, to stop himself rambling on. Keep it simple, don’t over-explain. Then she won’t get suspicious. Crimewatch was just starting and Monica lost interest in the comings and goings of her son. She didn’t want to miss a second of the programme, being always convinced that she recognized most of the criminals and that she alone knew just how they should be punished.

  Graham slipped out of the room and picked up his coat from the bottom of the stairs. She wouldn’t come out now, he thought with a small gleeful grin, wouldn’t see him going out in his navy blue jacket instead of the old Barbour he’d normally wear for owl-watching. He drove away from the house quickly, for once not putting on his seat belt till he was round the first corner, heading for the High Street. He just hoped he’d be able to stop grinning like an escaped madman before it was time to meet Jennifer. He also hoped, really really hoped, that she’d be there.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘The parents are going out to lunch today to talk about my gap year. They’re going out together,’ Emily told Chloe as they sat in the sixth-form cloakroom avoiding compulsory midweek assembly.