Just Between Us (40 page)

‘What will we do now?’ she said brightly. ‘You choose.’

Amelia chose more swimming, followed by a walk in the town which led mother and daughter past a shop that had an entire section devoted to sparkly pens, cute lurid pink and purple notebooks and pencil cases decorated with marabou, sequins and feathers.

‘Why do I get the impression that you were here earlier?’ inquired Stella, smiling as Amelia headed straight for the pen department.

‘We were, but Nick said we should get back to the hotel and Jenna said we’d come back later on our own and buy things. She said she’d come with me and it would be all right because she’s a teenager. That’s almost as good as being a grown-up.’ Amelia pottered away and Stella idly looked at the fridge magnets. Normally, these wise little gems made her laugh. But she didn’t feel like laughing. She tried to work out what she
did
feel like. Then the word came to her: failure. She felt as if she’d failed. She’d found the man of her dreams and he came, like she did herself, with a certain amount of emotional baggage. Instead of being able to make it all work, she had made the whole situation worse. Faced with a fifteen-year-old girl’s implacable hatred, she hadn’t been able to accept that Jenna was entitled to her opinion. Accustomed to being liked and loved by everyone and accustomed to being treated with respect, Stella had not known how to deal with such naked hostility. The result was a disaster. She was stressed, Nick was even more stressed, and their dreams of a blissful united family looked a million miles away.

‘I think I like this one best,’ announced Amelia, holding up a silver pen with a pink hula girl on the top.

‘That’s lovely,’ said Stella. She bent down beside Amelia and kissed her fiercely on the cheek. ‘I love you, Amelia.’

Amelia’s beaming smile was her reward. ‘Love you too, Mummy.’ She held up a miniature notebook decorated with cartoon kittens. ‘Can I have this too?’

Worn out by her busy day, Amelia was happy to flop in front of the cartoon channel in the small adjoining room of their family suite. When they’d checked in, there had been an option of having a family suite with two rooms joining onto the master bedroom instead of one. Stella was glad she’d said no. Sara and Jenna shared a room opposite.

There was no sign of Nick so Stella assumed he was with
the girls. Satisfied that Amelia was happy, she sat down on the bed and phoned her mother.

There was no answering machine in Nettle Cottage.

‘Freddie doesn’t believe in them,’ Rose had told Stella. ‘She says that if anybody wants to speak to her that urgently, they’ll keep trying.’ After seventeen rings, Stella hung up and tried her mother’s mobile, not really expecting anything. Rose had seemed only too happy to fall in with Freddie’s
mañana
attitude to telecommunications and rarely switched her mobile phone on.

‘I’m afraid I can’t come to the phone right now but please leave me a message,’ said Rose in calm, low tones.

Hearing her mother’s voice made tears prick behind Stella’s eyes. She hung up abruptly. What message could she leave?

I wish you and Dad were back together, because then it would feel as if some part of my life was still normal. And I could tell you all my problems instead of bottling them up because your problems are bigger than mine.

She devoured the mini-bar chocolate-coated nuts and then opened a small bottle of white wine to drink in the bath.

‘How are you getting on?’ she asked, peeping her head round the door to look at Amelia who was glued to the TV.

‘OK.’

‘I’m going to have a bath, Amelia, and then we’re going to get ready for dinner.’

But Amelia was back in thrall to the television.

The bubbles were up to her neck and her wine was almost gone when Nick arrived. He leaned down and kissed her tenderly.

‘Will I wash your back?’

‘Lovely.’

Resting her head on her knees, Stella closed her eyes and let Nick use a sponge to gently massage soap into her back.

‘That’s lovely,’ she murmured. ‘It’s a pity you can’t get in too,’ she added. With Amelia next door, she wouldn’t dream of it.

‘Tonight.’ Nick planted a kiss on the nape of her neck.

‘After dinner, when everyone’s in bed,’ he said, ‘then I’ll let you wash my back.’

‘Not just your back, surely?’ Stella countered wickedly.

‘No,’ he agreed, moving the sponge lower to rub rhythmically at the base of her spine. ‘Not just my back.’

‘Mummy, can I have some chocolate from your fridge?’ came Amelia’s voice.

Nick’s hand moved out of the water rapidly.

‘No, darling, we’re going down to dinner in a few minutes. Do you want to change into your blue dress or will I do it for you?’

‘I will,’ said Amelia grumpily.

Nick rinsed the soap from Stella’s back. ‘Are you having a good weekend?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied, eyes shining up at him. ‘It’s still hard with Jenna. Is she ever going to learn to deal with me?’

‘I don’t know, Stella.’ Nick put the lid on the loo and sat down. ‘I’m doing my best but she is so set against the idea of my being with anyone but her mother.’

Stella stood up in the bath, soapy water streaming from her body. She wrapped herself in a huge bath towel from the heated rack. ‘Can’t you tell her that’s the way it is…’ She broke off. What she wanted to say was why couldn’t Nick explain to Jenna that he loved Stella and wanted her treated with respect. She tried again, determined to be careful not to hurt him.

‘Kids need to be told things, Nick.’

‘Amelia is eight. She listens to you, every word you say is important to her,’ Nick said tautly. ‘One day, that will change, Stella. She’ll look at you differently, she’ll do the exact opposite of whatever you tell her to do, she’ll be a pre-teen and then a teenager. You can’t tell kids what to do when they get to Jenna’s age; they don’t obey orders.’

‘I’m not saying you have to order her,’ Stella said wearily, ‘I’d just like her to be a bit nicer to me.’ Even saying it sounded pathetic, like a child in the playground whining that another child wasn’t friendly to her.

‘Stella, I’m doing my best,’ Nick said. ‘It’s not going to happen overnight, right? You’re going to have to live with it for now.’

He strode into the bedroom and Stella sighed. Another magical moment shattered.

Nick sat in a chair and watched the news channel as Stella dressed in silence. As she struggled to zip up her long suede skirt, Stella grimaced. Even her waist was betraying her. Her parents were in mid-life crisis, her stepdaughter hated her and she was getting fat. Life was just too good.

‘How about we drop in to Granny and Aunt Paula on the way back home?’ Nick had been talking in that cheery voice all day Sunday.

Sara and Amelia were the only ones who seemed to be responding to it. Jenna was monosyllabic in the back of the car, staring gloomily out of the window as soon as they’d set out from Moon’s hotel.

Stella was reading the Sunday supplements in the front seat, to the astonishment of Sara who said she didn’t know anyone who could read in a car.

‘Mum gets ill if she reads in the car. She can’t read on trains either,’ Jenna had added loudly.

Stella gritted her teeth and managed to stop herself asking if Mummy could read at all. She hated herself for being so childish but Jenna brought out the worst in her.

‘I’d love to see Granny but I’ve got to be back by six,’ Sara pointed out. ‘I’m going out tonight.’

‘With the love of your life?’ teased her father.

‘A gang of us are going out for a pizza because we don’t have another exam until Wednesday, and you can’t study all the time,’ Sara said. ‘Isn’t that right, Stella? Too much studying is bad for you.’

Sara was sweet, Stella thought fondly. She made such an effort to keep the atmosphere relaxed.

‘You’re absolutely right, Sara,’ she replied. ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’

‘Is that what happened to you?’ muttered Jenna under her breath.

Stella stiffened.

‘Shut up,’ she heard Sara hiss. ‘Don’t be such a bitch.’

Stella stared at the page she was reading as if it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen. She wouldn’t betray how much she was hurting. Nick couldn’t have heard Jenna’s comment or he’d have said something, wouldn’t he?

‘I don’t think we’ll have time to visit Granny’s then,’ Nick said presently. ‘We’d only have time for a pit stop and you know your Gran, she likes long visits.’

‘She has a cat called Lady, doesn’t she?’ asked Amelia.

‘You’ve been to my gran’s house?’ asked Jenna sharply.

‘We had butterfly cakes and Lady sat on my lap,’ Amelia revealed.

‘Do you like cats?’ asked Sara quickly.

‘Yes, I’d love a kitten and a puppy and a rabbit.’ Amelia longed for a menagerie.

Jenna said nothing for the rest of the trip, even when they stopped for coffee. It was nearly five when they arrived at Wendy’s house. Stella hadn’t wanted to be with Nick when he dropped the girls off but as Sara was going out, and Stella’s home was at least twenty minutes further on, it seemed most sensible to arrange things this way. Stella’s curiosity to see Nick’s ex-wife’s home just about balanced out her nerves at having to go there.

Set in a pretty coastal suburb, all the houses in Athens Valley estate were detached. Halfway along the main road into the estate, Nick turned right into a shrub-lined driveway. ‘White Elms’ said the wooden sign on the granite gatepost. To Stella’s eyes, White Elms was huge, three times the size of her terraced place in Delgany Avenue. It probably had five bedrooms and certainly more than one bathroom. A twinge of jealousy sparked inside her and she instantly felt angry with herself for giving in to childish emotions. It was ridiculous to feel any envy for this big house. After all, Wendy only had the house because she and Nick had split
up. Despite her lovely home, her marriage had broken down and she was struggling with a difficult teenager. She deserved Stella’s sympathy. And yet, Stella still felt shocked. Although she knew that Nick was comfortably off, she didn’t think he was really wealthy. But then divorce was expensive. Obviously, Wendy had bought this big house with her settlement. Get a grip, Stella, she told herself. Don’t be so childish.

Jenna clambered out quickly without so much as a goodbye.

Sara gave Amelia a little kiss on the cheek. ‘Bye, Amelia,’ she said. ‘Be good.’

Stella turned back in time to see her daughter’s little face glow with pleasure.

‘I will,’ she said happily.

‘Bye, Stella,’ Sara said. ‘Thanks for the weekend.’

‘No, thank you.’ Stella was serious. Without Sara making an effort, the whole weekend would have been even more nightmarish, if possible.

‘Won’t be long,’ Nick said to her.

When they were gone, Stella switched the radio from the rock station that Nick had tuned to for the girls’ benefit and found something more soothing.

‘Mummy, I want to go to the bathroom,’ said Amelia plaintively.

Oh no, that was all she needed.

‘You’ll have to wait, darling.’

‘Why, Mummy?’

‘Because Nick’s coming and we’re in a rush,’ Stella said. If Amelia wet herself, they were not walking up to Wendy Cavaletto’s house and asking to use her bathroom.

‘But, Mummy,’ wailed Amelia.

‘Look, here’s Nick,’ said her mother with relief as Nick hurried out.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Wendy wanted me to have a look at Jenna’s computer.’

Stella smiled but her fingers dug into the sides of the passenger seat.

‘Did you have a nice weekend, Amelia?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Amelia, twirling her new pen with the hula girl on top.

At least that makes one of us who enjoyed it, Stella thought grimly.

Kenny was all fired up over styling Joan’s first big show.

‘Native American is the look I see,’ he said. ‘Sleek black hair with a sheen to it, plaits and long ponytails, and the make-up has to be Apache princess.’

Holly, who was in charge of writing down Kenny’s creative nuances, jotted it all down.

‘Not too out-there,’ requested Joan, who was sitting crosslegged on the floor arranging and re-arranging Polaroid photos of her collection, as she worked out which order she’d show it in. Each graduate could show from eight to twelve pieces and Joan, who’d worked intensively on her collection, was going for the maximum, which meant twelve models and twelve different, but cohesive, looks.

‘I don’t want to detract from the clothes,’ Joan insisted. ‘This show isn’t about hair and make-up. Some of the most influential fashion buyers in the country will be there. I want them to notice my clothes, I want to grab them by the nuts.’

Holly giggled. Kenny nodded. ‘Absolutely, I agree. But the make-up and hair have to be strong.’ He picked up one of the Polaroids. ‘I love your new look,’ he said. ‘I was worried about the funky, graffiti and pearls T-shirt thing, because that sort of stuff doesn’t last.’

He handed the Polaroid to Holly, who had been just as surprised as Kenny to see the proof of Joan’s new fashion direction. Some of her collection did feature her trademark off-the-wall designs, but seventy per cent was made up of exquisitely cut and very wearable clothes; from floaty chiffon
dresses to a couple of business suits with a very Joan-esque twist of interesting linings and handmade buttons.

‘I know,’ Joan said. ‘The T-shirts and the graffiti stuff are for a diffusion collection. That’s the way to make money.’ Joan hadn’t learned the lesson of avant garde designers for nothing. ‘But tailoring and cut are where it’s at. If I’m famous for nothing more than graffiti, then someone will come along with something better and I’ll be yesterday’s news. I need staying power and that’s about real designs for real people.’

‘I love this new stuff,’ Holly said enthusiastically. ‘I’d wear everything here.’

‘That’s good’ coz I want you to be a model in the show,’ Joan said absent-mindedly.

Holly’s mouth dropped open.

‘Me? Don’t be silly. You’ve got models from the agencies. The college are paying for them, aren’t they?’

‘I want you too,’ insisted Joan.

‘I can’t,’ bleated Holly. ‘I can’t dress up and walk up and down in front of all those people.’ She’d die first. There was just no way she was going to do it, no way, no matter how much Joan begged.

‘Please, Holly. I’m getting my mother to model too. Real people is the theme of my show. Six foot models can make a sack look good but I want all the buyers to see that my clothes work on everyone. Please say you’ll do it?’

‘Yes, Holls, you’ll be gorgeous,’ Kenny added. ‘What’ll she be wearing?’

‘The wedding dress.’

‘Wedding dress?’ said Holly faintly.

‘Valkyrie warrior wedding dress,’ corrected Joan lovingly, extracting the Polaroid in question for Kenny and Holly to admire. ‘I haven’t shown you this one before. It’s a surprise.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Holly.

Photographed on a tailor’s dummy, the dress looked extraordinary: white chiffon with a pleated bodice handbeaded with seed pearls. The beading made up swirls and whorls in a pattern that reminded Holly of the decoration
on Viking longboats. A plait of fabric over one shoulder held up a flowing train, on which the beading was done with silver beads.

‘I’ve got a headpiece too; a skull cap with beading. You’d have to wear your hair in a long plait or maybe two plaits,’ Joan said.

‘Fantastic,’ murmured Kenny.

‘It’s beautiful, Joan,’ said Holly, ‘but the answer is still no.’

‘Ah, come on.’

‘I’m really sorry, Joan, I can’t.’ Holly was apologetic. ‘I love you and I’d do anything for you but I can’t do this.’

‘All you have to do is walk down the runway,’ protested Joan. ‘You’ll look amazing, I was thinking of you when I designed the dress. It’s got to be worn by someone who’s tall and dark and…’

‘…big,’ blurted out Holly.

Joan and Kenny regarded her crossly.

‘I wasn’t going to say “big”,’ pointed out Joan. ‘You’re not big. You’re a normal woman. In fact, better than normal. Most normal women would kill for a waist like yours. I don’t have a waist at all,’ Joan added, looking down at herself. ‘I’m the same all the way down…’

‘I can’t,’ repeated Holly.

‘You don’t have to,’ Kenny said, shooting Joan a look. ‘Don’t bully her, Joan.’

‘It was just an idea,’ grumbled Joan. She stared at the photo. ‘I could ask my cousin. She’s tall but she has short hair.’

‘I can sort out a wig,’ suggested Kenny.

Holly smiled at him gratefully. She might have been getting over her horrific shyness but marching down a catwalk really was a step too far.

Backstage at the fashion college final year show was nothing like Holly had imagined it to be. She’d had a mental picture of beautiful people squealing with delight and air-kissin
each other, in between wafting around in stunning outfits. Instead, there was an air of determined efficiency and everything was on such a tight schedule that there wasn’t time for such frivolities as air-kissing or wafting.

Racks of garments encased in see-through plastic divided up the room, and beside each rack were the designer’s friends/stylists with checklists at the ready. The models’ names were on each outfit, with corresponding shoes and accessories underneath.

The models themselves were sitting at the mirrored section which had been set up in the middle of the room, some in huge rollers, others leaning back in make-up chairs, their exquisite faces immobile, like beautiful blank canvasses ready for the make-up artist to paint on.

Bottles of mineral water and packs of cigarettes accompanied them everywhere.

Joan was very calm, thanks to a huge vodka and orange from Fiona.

Her mother and her cousin, Lizzie, were not calm. Faced with a phalanx of professional models in flesh-coloured G-strings with every rib showing, like so many elegant greyhounds, Mrs Ursula Atwood and Lizzie wanted to back out of modelling.

‘You can’t,’ insisted Joan, not thinking for a moment that either of her relatives would desert her in her hour of need.

‘I can,’ shrieked her mother. ‘I thought it’d be all normal people, not wall-to-wall models and us two like a pair of stray elephants.’ Ursula clutched her big pink towelling dressing gown tightly around her in a manner that suggested it was not coming off.

Lizzie, who was wearing a violently green kimono of Joan’s, nodded in agreement. ‘I’m not doing it either,’ she said, brave now that Aunt Ursula had put her foot down. Joan hadn’t explained things properly at all. She’d let on that this was some sort of happy family event where well-meaning relatives helped out by marching up and down a school hall, like the charity fashion show Lizzie had been to
where nobody minded that one of the amateur models had fallen off her stilettos. Instead, this was a professional event with real models, real hairdressers, a real audience – and two normal people who would stand out like sore thumbs. There was no way Lizzie was going to parade up and down like Two Ton Tessie in front of all those skinny beautiful people.

‘There’s only half an hour ‘till it begins,’ said Kenny, who
was
anxious about the show. Joan might be anaesthetised with vodka but he, being a professional, wouldn’t dream of touching anything other than still mineral water until it was all over. And he could tell that Lizzie and Ursula were deadly serious about not modelling, which meant that he and Joan had a big problem.

‘Mum,’ said Joan, ‘go on, put the dress on. It looks lovely on you.’

‘No,’ insisted Ursula. ‘I won’t. In fact, I’m going out to sit with your father. I’m not making a show of myself here. I only said I’d do it because you said I’d meet that lovely Merrill Anderson from the telly.’

She dived behind the rail of clothes and emerged a minute later wearing her blouse and plaid skirt.

‘Mum!’ said Joan, as the penny finally dropped. ‘You can’t mean it?’

‘I can.’ With that Ursula marched towards the door that led into the audience.

‘Go after her,’ Kenny hissed at Holly. ‘Make her change her mind. Coax her.’

Holly ran after Joan’s mother.

‘Mrs Atwood,’ she said, dodging between people and rails of clothes.

Ursula passed the door and was in the auditorium with the speed of a sprinter. Holly rushed after her and finally caught up as Ursula sat down beside Joan’s father.

‘Holly, love, I can’t do it,’ said Ursula. ‘I know she’ll be angry with me but there must be models there who can fill in. I can’t do it, honestly I can’t.’

‘Me neither,’ said Lizzie, flopping into the seat beside Holly.

‘But there’s nobody who can take your place,’ beseeched Holly.

‘You do it, then!’ said Lizzie tearfully.

There was no point saying anything else. Feeling that she’d failed utterly, Holly made her way back to the stage door.

‘Hiya, Holly,’ said a voice. It was Tom, seated at the back with Caroline perched beside him. In honour of the event, Tom was wearing the cashmere sweater they’d bought him for his birthday. Caroline looked as if she’d rampaged through Lee’s designer section like a hurricane, bought every expensive designer label item she could find, and was now wearing them all at the same time. Her ensemble included a Burberry raincoat, Chloé sunglasses perched on top of her head like a hairband, a Louis Vuitton handbag, a giant Miu Miu belt and a gaudily-coloured Moschino jacket. All together, the combination was a little hysterical.

Kenny himself had overseen Holly’s outfit, which was standard fashion hag black from head to elegant toe. A wool Joseph skirt, chiffon Whistles blouse and LK Bennett kitten heels. Beside her, Caroline looked like an expensively-decked-out Christmas tree.

‘Hello, Tom, hi, Caroline,’ Holly said.

‘You’re going backstage,’ sighed Caroline. ‘That must be fascinating. I said to Joan that I’d love to be backstage just to see what it was like, but she said it was only designers and their assistants for security reasons.’

Holly nodded gravely at this whopping big lie. At least ten of Joan and Kenny’s friends had flitted backstage to bestow good luck hugs and squeal with delight at the clothes. Joan still hadn’t forgiven Caroline for that crack about the three flatmates trying to recreate
Friends
.

Holly perched on the chair in front of them.

‘Is everything going OK?’ asked Tom. ‘Only I saw Joan’s mother legging it out from the back. Isn’t she modelling for Joan?’

‘Last-minute nerves,’ Holly said, not wanting to be disloyal to Joan. Then she felt bad for not telling Tom the truth. He was her friend, but she didn’t want Caroline to know anything was wrong.

‘Tom says you were asked to model and you said no,’ Caroline went on. ‘You must be mad. I’d adore to be up there on the stage.’

Holly gazed at her. Caroline really was excruciating. Her vocabulary was limited to one word: me.

‘Being the centre of attention isn’t my scene,’ Holly said lightly.

‘Now, tell me about the party afterwards.’ Caroline was all business. She wasn’t really interested in Holly’s opinions. ‘It’s in the Happy Bunny Bar on Clarendon Street, right?’

Holly nodded and got to her feet. ‘I better go back.’

‘You see,’ said Caroline urgently, ‘I want to make sure everyone is there because we’ve got an announcement to make tonight.’

‘An announcement?’ Holly asked.

‘Not now, Caro,’ said Tom uncomfortably.

‘But yes, now. I can’t keep it all to myself!’ Caroline beamed at Holly and held out her left hand, on which sparkled a dainty sapphire which suited her tiny fingers. Holly’s first instinct was to gasp but she smothered it and managed to say ‘Ooh, how lovely,’ instead.

‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ said Caroline smugly. She splayed her fingers and admired her ring. Holly watched her, wondering how somebody as decent as Tom could ever want to become engaged to Caroline. Love clearly
was
blind.

‘Congratulations to both of you,’ Holly said, backing away. She couldn’t give Caroline a hug, she just couldn’t. It would be hypocritical. ‘I must rush.’

She fled to the safety of backstage where Kenny and Joan were tearing their hair out over the lack of tall, normally-built women to model two vital parts of Joan’s collection.

‘The wedding dress looks like a rag on Ivanka,’ screeched Joan, as she tried to pin her Valkyrie dress on a etiolated girl with mahogany plaits and the face of a angel. Ivanka looked like a child in her big sister’s dress. ‘The whole show is ruined.’ Joan looked desolate.

‘It’ll fit me, won’t it?’ said Holly.

Joan and Kenny looked up like dogs hearing the rattle of the can opener.

‘Strip,’ ordered Kenny.

Within minutes, there was a graceful ballet going on around Holly. Her hair was being sleeked down and plaited by the hairdresser, while Joan made a few last-minute alterations to the wedding dress because Lizzie wasn’t as slim as Holly. The make-up artist stood on a chair and worked on Holly’s eyes, painting feathery little strokes with her sable brushes, making Holly’s dark eyes appear huge and exotically Eastern. They were barely finished when Joan unhooked the wedding dress and Kenny handed over the evening dress that Ursula had been going to wear. It was too big.

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ Joan said hopelessly.

‘Beg your mother,’ said Kenny.

The show’s compère, a handsome singer who strenuously denied that he was gay, appeared. Merrill Anderson was forty, looked thirty thanks to so much Botox he hadn’t smiled in ten years, and was a huge hit with ladies unfamiliar with the sly sniggering of the gossip columns.

Kenny knew Merrill from the shop. Nobody was fussier over the cut of a jacket or the shape of a shirt collar than Merrill. Kenny batted his eyelashes. ‘Merrill, you look divine. We have one teensy, weensy problem and you might be able to help. One of our models is having second thoughts. Could you coax her onstage?’