Sleeping Beauties Page 18

  ‘Pardon?’ said Betty.

  ‘I Said What Did Your Training Salon Look Like?’

  ‘Bauhaus!’ barked Betty.

  Chloe jumped. ‘No need to be rude about it,’ she said. ‘I only wondered.’

  *

  She had done her best. And she had to admit that of them all, Number Three was by far the most promising.

  Chloe had succeeded in emphasizing lips which could be controlled in what they said, and diminishing eyes which could not.

  ‘You’ll do,’ she said cheerfully, tucking down the neckline of the pearl-grey silk a little more. ‘Now chin up. Smile. And stick out those tits.’

  ‘What?’ said Betty, since they were standing nearby.

  Chloe raised her voice. ‘I said pucker those lips.’

  So Gemma did both as she went over to Betty to pay. Betty took the money, peered long and hard at Gemma’s finished face, and said to Chloe without smiling: ‘Very nicely done, dear. The Film Star look.’ And closed down the till for the night.

  She watched Gemma leave, saw the spring in her step, the roll in her hips, and she said to Chloe as the door was finally bolted, ‘Sad you know, but none of those screen goddesses, not one, ended up happy ever after.’

  ‘Who cares,’ said Chloe, shrugging. ‘You can cash up now. I’m all finished.’

  23

  As soon as her taxi turned the corner and the Beauty Parlour was out of sight, Margery realized that she had forgotten a rug. Oh well, Reginald would just have to sit on her skirts, wouldn’t he?

  She said as much to the taxi driver, but he was far too involved radio contacting his base to make conversation. His ears had gone very red, she noticed, and you could tell he was upset. She, of course, felt wonderfully calm and happy. A Beauty Parlour did that for you.

  Willingly as a Christian en route for the lions, the taxi driver helped her carry the things from the road, through a small coppice, over a field, down a short rutted lane and into another field, next to the honey farm. Bees buzzed about them as they walked, single file, carrying the bags and boxes. The day was hot. The Beautician had been right though – in all this heat it was very refreshing to be knickerless – much cooler. She’d just have to be very careful where she sat.

  The lovely young Chloe had told her how you got taxi drivers to help: you paid them only when they had completed the service you required. He therefore followed her as pack mule because he could do nothing else. As would Reginald Postgate in due course.

  The taxi driver was glad that the only observers of this deeply humiliating scene were dumb animals: a field of extremely silly-looking sheep; numerous voles, mice, and hedgerow riff-raff who very sensibly hid; wise bees who knew that nothing in human terms could compete with the strangeness of their apiary theatricals and kept away; skulking wasps, assorted insects and one small human who was supposed to be on a three-hour cross-country with his class, and who pointed out to his best friend Wilkins that he could see no reason for not cheating, given that his ambition was to become rich enough to own a sodding car, and who therefore stayed behind a tree with a can of Fanta while his plebeian classmates ran past. The small boy stared at the sight (uncommon in Hinkley Wood), and wondered what a woman, at least as old as his mother, was doing dressed up like Goldilocks, with her face painted to match, and carrying what appeared to be a teddy bear’s picnic into the woods.

  The taxi driver, fearing the bees and wasps and feeling not a little waspish himself, said sarcastically, ‘Rug? Sure you wouldn’t like me to run back and fetch one for you?’

  It occurred to him to wonder, as he waited for her to pay, how she would get back. Conscience fluttered around him, nearly settled, then flew off to join the bees. Let her work that out for herself. Nutters.

  It did occur to him that Beadle might be about with his secret camera, but she was too serious about it all, and too barmy-looking by half. All the same, he did not swear once, just in case, so that if Beadle was about he wouldn’t suffer the humiliation of being beeped every few seconds during the showing of his exploits on telly.

  He was disappointed, when he left, that no one leaped out of the bushes. For a moment he thought a skulking small boy might be part of a plot, but he made no move. At any rate, the woman couldn’t be Beadle; both her hands were the same. He shrugged. Pity really.

  After he had gone came the loving ritual.

  She spread out the circular white tablecloth, embroidered with honeybees, and smoothed it lovingly over the grass. Upon this she set the honey sandwiches, the honey-glazed ham (sliced thinly and elegantly), the little individual brown rolls of bread, the butter still ice-hard from its coolbag, the sweet little amber tomatoes which she scattered on the white linen as if they were jewels, the hydromel, still fizzing slightly but smelling delicious, honeyed cakes of fond memory – how it all began, she would say – pretty pots of almond and appleblossom honey, all fitting into the circular snowiness of the tablecloth (circular for sweet food): the whole thing looked like a feast for the gods.

  She was delighted, and spread out her pretty skirts so they were not creased, folded her hands in her lap, and waited. She sat very still, only shifting occasionally from the strange discomfort of sitting on the grass without benefit of underwear. The heat of the day was fierce. It was a little after four. He should be here soon – traffic was bad on Fridays.

  She knew he would come. Her map had been absolutely accurate; he would find the place. Nothing would pass her lips until he arrived. She felt a little trickle of moisture run down her face, but she sat on imperviously, skirts spread, hands dutifully folded, waiting, waiting.

  The boy, watching from the undergrowth, took bets with himself on how long she would stay like that, so still, even when the bees came buzzing about her and then the wasps, chasing off the bumblers and setting themselves up for a good feast on the picnic. He waited until his growling stomach told him it was time to leave – he was thirsty, he was tired, above all he was aware that not many yards away was a feast of tuck. He crept out. Perhaps the woman was asleep? He could maybe just edge his way forwards and reach out from behind her?

  Margery heard. She turned, the light of hope in her eyes, a welcome about her lips – he had come, he had come – she screwed up her eyes against the sun – he had not come.

  ‘Hallo,’ said the boy.

  ‘Go away,’ she said fiercely, for she had seen the look of hope in his eyes too, and this feast was not for the likes of him.

  And he didn’t want any, either, for as he drew closer, what had seemed so delicious was repulsive.

  The butter had melted to oil, the ham was curled and dry, its brown-edged line of fat white and glistening in the sun, the honey sandwiches cockled upwards revealing the glaze of sweetness below, now dotted with happy insects and crawling, delight-dazed wasps, the tomatoes had lost their sheen, the tablecloth its sparkle, ants fed in determined relays, beetles crawled, and Margery – as if woken suddenly – began to itch.

  The boy looked at her face and then he was glad to escape, glad to leave all this, whatever it meant, for she was frightening. There were brown streaks running down from her lashes, smears and smudges where she had brushed investigating insects away, her eyes were swollen and puffy, with lids that were patchy brown and one cheek glowed russet, the other dirty white. She was scratching somewhere beneath her skirt, scratching and scratching, rhymically without sign of relief. And he didn’t like her expression much either – it was scary and odd.

  ‘Yah!’ he said suddenly, ‘Yah!’ and then he got up and ran for dear life.

  Margery, jerked back into the world again by the boy’s yell, ceased to scratch and reached across the tablecloth for one of the bottles, the hydromel, for she was thirsty. She drank some and felt better for it. A pity to waste all this food. She broke some of the bread rolls, which were crisp by now, opened one of the special pots of honey, spread it thickly and began to eat. She drank more. She ate more. She cried a little when she began devouring the hon
ey cakes, because that was how it all began. Those beautiful new teeth he had created for her, those beautiful appointments when it was only him and her and the honey world. She ate on.

  As she opened the second pot of honey she heard his voice telling her that he had done his best, that they should last her lifetime, that she could eat all the honey cakes she wanted if she cleaned her teeth. ‘Do that,’ he said, ‘and you will stay away from the dentist’s chair a good long while.’

  And then the voice, his voice, ceased, the tape rewound itself, went back and repeated, ‘Clean them very carefully ... stay away from the dentist’s chair ... clean them very carefully ... stay away a good long while.’

  So she went on eating and eating, digging her fingers into the honey pots, licking them clean, washing it all down with ambrosial drink. It shouldn’t, she counselled herself, as she settled back on the grass in the evening sun, it shouldn’t take long for the sweetness to get to work. It would probably begin right away.

  She had almost forgotten the Makeover. It was so long ago and so lovely. She felt so attractive with her frock as well.

  ‘It should last the day if you are careful,’ Chloe had said when she left the salon. Well, she had been careful, hadn’t she? She touched her face. It seemed all right – a little sticky here and there, but not too bad. How he would have loved it. She knew perfectly well what had happened – the first Mrs Postgate had stopped him in some way. Margery would have to deal with that. Meanwhile, meanwhile – perhaps she would just lie here for a while, warmed by the sun, and have a little sleep before setting off home. How? Well, well, she thought, yawning, cross that bridge when I come to it.

  The boy brought his father to see. Parents never believed you, but this time they had to, because there she was.

  ‘Poor thing,’ said his father, and he touched Margery’s arm gently. She woke. She had a slight headache, but nothing too bad.

  ‘I need a taxi,’ she said, when the boy’s father enquired if there was anything he could do.

  ‘Tall order round here,’ smiled the man.

  ‘Well, I shall just have to walk.’

  Not so much to carry now. She began clearing up the debris, singing ‘Honey-pie ... You are driving me crazy ...’ Suddenly she yearned for him, so much that she felt she was melting somewhere in the region of where her knickers ought to be. Mrs Postgate! Old Queen!

  Already she could feel the voracious sugar in the crevices of her teeth.

  The man said, ‘Perhaps I could drive you to a taxi rank?’

  ‘That,’ said Margery, staggering a little so that the boy giggled and the man held her arm to steady her, ‘would be very kind.’

  ‘Wait here,’ said the man, and he went to collect his car.

  But no taxi would take her. Not a drunken middle-aged woman who must be living rough and whom they would probably be lumbered with.

  So the man took her.

  He asked her for her address and she gave it to him, crystal clear, very firm. It was not, however, an address in Kingston upon Thames, but an address in a rather grander area of London. It was a shame to waste the Makeover that pretty girl at the salon had achieved. She wanted Reginald to see it, at least, before she washed it away. And besides, she was quite looking forward to confronting Mrs Reginald Postgate, vile woman, and would prefer to do so now while she was dressed for it, and while her face was done so nicely.

  She knew the address. Had even visited the street in secret. The man said, ‘Where now?’ and she pointed, a smile on her lips; how kind he was.

  Somehow the Old Queen had found out. Or he had been stricken with conscience (how like him that would be) and felt he could not seek the blossom of happiness after all. The girl at the Beautician’s had said it might happen. She said that men were notoriously difficult to wrench away from their homes and families but that There Were Ways.

  ‘Like what?’ Margery had asked.

  ‘Little love letter, or confirmation of a hotel. Something tucked in a pocket so that when Number One finds it, the balloon goes up.’ And she had smiled, and winked, as she checked Margery’s rouge for symmetry.

  ‘Nearly there now,’ said the driver.

  ‘Very kind indeed,’ murmured Margery. ‘Doesn’t the heat make you tired?’ And she gave a little belch which the driver ignored, while the boy in the back giggled ostentatiously.

  Margery sat up, smoothed her ruffles which were now sadly limp, the full skirt creased and stained, and wished she had a handkerchief to mop her face. She would have asked the driver for the duster she saw tucked in his side pocket, but he was frowning with concentration. Ah well, she decided, needs must, and she took the hem of her frock in her fingers and brought it to her face. The driver, no longer concentrating, turned to ask where exactly she needed to be dropped, focused on his strange female passenger apparently playing peek-a-boo above the edge of her frock, revealing her curvaceous and completely naked torso below, and braked so sharply that the picnic items were hurled about.

  ‘That was good, Dad,’ said his son from the back.

  A remark too ambiguous for comfort.

  She left all her unloaded stuff by the side of the road, watched the car drive off with a confused expression on her bedraggled face, shrugged – for what was such unpleasant changeability in all this happiness – and walked the rest of the way up the road. It was not far, and now that the evening was well on it was cooler. Nice neighbourhood. Large houses. She could be happy here. She gave her hair one more pat, smoothed her frock one more time, and entered the gate, walking firmly up the path.

  Lobelias, she noticed, as she waited for the door to open, and pink verbena – lots of hanging baskets and well-tended tubs. She rang the bell again. That was what the woman spent her time doing, instead of spending it with a lovely husband like Reginald who needed care and attention. Well, she had come to give him that all right. A bee buzzed nearby; out for a last nip of nectar before closing time, he smelled her sticky face and settled near her mouth. She left it there and girded her naked loins.

  Mrs Reginald Postgate, who had been preparing barbecue dips by removing lids from Marks and Spencer cartons, and who hoped Reginald would answer the door, was stirred into life at the nightmarish sight of Margery, smiling with her mouth, glaring with her eyes. A bee attached to her lips as she opened them and said she had come to claim Reginald for her own.

  We Are In Love.

  Something like this would happen on the night of the Practice Barbecue.

  ‘I think you’ve got the wrong house,’ said Mrs Reginald Postgate, as indeed, she might be forgiven for saying.

  ‘I think not,’ said Margery.

  And the bee, dazed by the sun, dull-witted by the lateness of the hour, and seeing a haven, crawled into her mouth as she spoke.

  ‘This is number eight,’ said Mrs Reginald Postgate irritably, ‘and there is only my husband in.’ She could have added, At The Moment, and become even more ratty. Soon the guests would arrive.

  ‘I need your husband,’ said Margery, attempting to pick the bee from her mouth as she spoke.

  ‘There is an emergency number,’ said Mrs Reginald Postgate firmly. ‘Use it.’ And she barred the way.

  And then Margery screamed. A scream of pain. A scream not usually associated with the leafy byways of this part of London, and one which brought several neighbours rushing to their doors in shuddering excitement.

  Mrs Reginald Postgate looked embarrassed and perplexed. She tried to give a round-robin look to the assembled opened doors intimating that she knew nothing of this woman.

  Margery opened her mouth and the dying bee, sting spent, crawled out.

  From behind her Mrs Reginald Postgate heard her husband call, ‘What the hell was that? The chicken wings are burning.’

  From in front of her she heard a voice belonging to a navy and white sprigged frock, requiring much fancy bridgework, sing out, ‘Yoo-hoo, here we are then. Where’s Reggie?’ Followed by a half-plate in voile with hat-trim to
match saying, ‘Well, hallo at last. What a nice evening.’

  ‘Do you know,’ hissed Margery through her swollen mouth, ‘what the Queen Bee does when she’s had it? She Buggers Off! Go on – Bugger Off then...’

  And she ducked and wove her way round the astounded Mrs Reginald Postgate and into the hall, from whence she was heard to call ‘Reginald!’ Followed by his testy response of ‘What now?’

  ‘Where the bee sucks there suck I,’ sang the horrible voice, receding into the garden.

  ‘Honey-pie!’ it called. ‘Honey, honey-pie ... ’

  Mrs Reginald Postgate yearned for a quiet sit-down and a leaf through a catalogue. Reginald Postgate was decidedly cross anyway, given that the barbecue, as barbecues will, was being what he termed femininely fickle.

  She followed the horrible voice out into the garden. Behind her, following eagerly, came the navy and white sprig, the printed voile and a selection of Jaeger and Country Casuals. All just in time to see Margery, smile broader than Lewis Carroll’s feline, complexion as if it had been left out in the rain, lift her skirt high and say delightedly ‘Peek-a-boo, Reginald. Peek-a-boo!’

  24

  Caroline drank off two fingers of whisky. It was not a very sensible thing to do, expecially since the little trainee back at the Beauty Parlour had said she should watch her shattered capillaries, but then, Caroline was well past being sensible. She peered into the mirror – especially with these plum-coloured lips and siren-dark eyes. How very glad she was that she had not abandoned this plan. More glad than she could say, now. Because she had just learned that – if all went well – Rita was putting herself up as the Photographic Society’s Caterer. Rita and Bernie were going into partnership!

  Since learning of this cosy little scheme she had meekly submitted to being kept out of the kitchen by Rita (looking devastating in a short black frock, very high red heels and a winsome little white pinny tied round her teeny little waist) and to being given the minionlike task of polishing the glasses while Bernie was upstairs changing. At least that meant that he, too, was kept out of the kitchen and away from the temptation of tasting anything.