Elegance and Innocence: 2-Book Collection

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.

I recoil violently. ‘Don’t touch it!’ I snap. ‘Just leave it alone.’

But he won’t. ‘No, Ouise, there’s just this little dark mark,’ and he licks his finger, the way your mother used to do when you were a kid, and begins to rub even harder. ‘Hold still, I’ve almost got it.’

But I know what he’s after and it isn’t a mark, it’s a suppurating boil that’s taken a good ten minutes and two different products to hide and now he’s only making it worse.

I push him off. ‘Just leave it I said! Can’t you understand English? Get off me!’

The bus lurches up to our stop and I race down the aisle ahead of him, while he struggles, laden with shopping, behind me. ‘What’s got into you, anyway?’ he says, as we clamber off. ‘Why are you so touchy?’