Olivia’s Luck (2000) (9 page)

“Ah.”

“And Mummy should get out more,” Claudia said firmly. “Don’t you think?” She rounded on her godmothers.

“Oh yes, absolutely,” they chorused quickly.

“Mrs Parker, Clarissa’s mother in
The Faraway Island
, was devastated when Mr Parker went off to America, but she busied herself, and lo and behold, he came back!”

“So – how do you suggest I busy myself, my darling? Bustling round the kitchen baking scones? A bit of embroidery, perhaps? Then lo and behold – ”

“Oh no,” she interrupted scathingly, “those are just meaningless chores invented for the enslavement of women. No, I thought you could go to the pub with the builders.”

I gulped at this child of mine.

“Why not?” she insisted. “They go out every single night to the Fox and Ferret before picking up their curries. Well, you could go with them, Mum, get a curry too. You like curries.”

“And some tinnies too, perhaps?” murmured Imo.

“Good idea. And then when Dad comes over to pick me up, you could be down in the caravan, watching telly with them. It’s tactics, Mum. I saw it on
EastEnders
. Bianca did it to Ricky. You’ve got to get Dad to wake up a bit, make him jealous!”

“Right, darling.” I nodded. Tactics. From a ten-year-old girl, drawing on an eclectic mixture of fifties boarding school books and contemporary soaps.

“And you’ve got to find yourself, too,” she declared importantly.

I sighed. “Even if did, my love, I’m not sure I’d recognise her.”

“Oh, don’t be so wet,” she retorted. “It’s just a case of getting out and about. I mean, Nanette’s
always
asking you over.”

“Oh God, not Nanette, Claudes.”

“Who’s Nanette?” pounced Molly.

“She lives in The Crescent,” said Claudia, turning to her. “She’s always having things called fork suppers with men in blazers called Clive, and Mum never goes.”

“I think you get the picture,” I muttered drily, clearing the glasses.

“Sounds rather fun,” grinned Molly maliciously. “Where exactly does this Nanette hail from?” She got up and peered out of the window, knowing that, such was the nature of The Crescent, most houses could be clearly seen.

“There, over there on the end.” Claudia joined her, pointing eagerly at a lighted window with frilly Austrian blinds. As I joined them, to my horror we saw a hand wave back.

“Oh God, she’s
seen
you, Claudes. She thinks you’re
waving?
”

“Well, that’s OK.”

“And now she’s disappeared! She’s probably coming over!”

“Well, fine, that’s fine. She can have a drink. I like her, Mum.”

“And I do too, darling. She’s very kind, but – ” I spotted her garden gate opening. “Oh no, she is coming over – hide!” I dived down under the table. “Tell her I’m out,” I muttered, face pressed down into the rush matting.

“Mummy, that’s silly. She’ll
know
you’re here; your friends are here, for heaven’s sake. Of
course
you can’t hide.”

“I think Claudia has a point, Liwy,” said Imogen. “And anyway,” she paused, lifting the curtain again and peering out of the window, “if Nanette looks anything like Cruella de Vil I’m afraid it’s too late.”

There was a familiar crunch of gravel, then “Coo-ee!” – and a rap of jewelled knuckles at the door. Claudia flew to open it, and two seconds later in came Nanette, just as I was crawling out.

“Olivia! Goodness, you’re always crawling around under that table! Every time I pop by you seem to be down there looking for something!”

“Dropped my lipstick this time,” I muttered, since make-up was the first thing that came to mind as I looked at her face. Blimey, she always wore the works, but tonight it looked as if she’d applied it with an industrial high-pressure hose. Mid-fortyish and resplendent in a tight cerise sweater which had a sequinned bird of prey lurking ominously over one shoulder, skin-tight white pedal pushers and high pink mules, she also had lipstick all over her teeth when she grinned.

“Nanette, it’s lovely to see you,” I lied as I scrambled up. “Um, come in and sit down. We were just having a drink. This is Molly Piper, by the way, and Imogen Mitchell, my best friends.”

“Oh, really?” Nanette looked enchanted, especially by Imogen, and extended a bony, suntanned hand. “Gosh, and what a shame, I’d
love
a little drinky but I can’t stop, I’m afraid. I’m just on my way out to my evening class. It’s my sexual awareness and crochet group tonight, you see, but I’ve heard
so
much about you both,” she lied, “and I’m thrilled to meet you at last!”

“You too,” murmured Molly and Imogen, looking totally fascinated and agog at this vision.

“But what I
have
brought,” Nanette went on, brandishing a leather-bound book, “is my diary, and I intend to pin you down once and for all, Olivia!
So
sad about all this ghastly business,” she murmured
sotto voce
, turning to Imogen and Molly, for all the world as if I wasn’t there. “Of course she’s told you…? Well, of course she has and, actually, I’m afraid everyone knows. Half the county’s talking about it – but don’t you think she should get out more? Show that randy old so-and-so – Oops,” her hand went to her mouth, “scuse my French, Claudia. You know how I adore Daddy really – show him just who’s boss around here?”

“I’ll get Mummy’s diary!” chirruped Claudia happily, as my friends nodded mutely at her. “Here!” She grabbed it off the dresser and handed it to Nanette.

Two heads then bent low together, as my daughter and my neighbour compared, conspired and pencilled in, with Molly and Imogen – less wide-eyed now, and more highly amused – exchanging mouth-twitching, eyebrow-raised glances.

As I scrubbed a plate savagely in the sink, I found myself turning, and looking with new-found hatred at Nanette’s jet-black hair. So. She adored ‘randy Daddy’, eh? So perhaps it was her? Yes, why not? She was local, they’d been seen together in a local restaurant, she was probably a sex maniac, so yes, perhaps it was Nanette that Imogen had seen, in a blonde wig? Nanette – Nina – of course. My eyes flew to the breadknife on the side. I could plunge it into her back right now, just as she bent over the diary, watch the blood spurt out, see the horror on my friends and my daughter’s faces. I frowned. Would they instantly call the police? Where exactly would their loyalties lie? As I gazed at her, wondering what the devil I’d do with the corpse – freezer perhaps? Compost heap? – I suddenly came to. I shuddered and turned back to the sink. God, I was a low form of life, wasn’t I? Capable of anything at the moment. And, of course, this was a form of madness, I thought miserably. I suspected anyone and everyone, including my kind neighbour, who wasn’t my type – or Johnny’s either come to that – but who was only trying to help, and had simply come over to invite me to supper. Nanette snapped her diary shut, satisfied.

“Friday next week then. Nothing too formal, more of a smart but casual affair, six or maybe eight of us in all, and I’ll make sure you’re suitably paired off, Olivia.” She tapped her pencil on her diary and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Ye-s, I’ll probably do something fairly simple, a salmon en croute perhaps, with a choice of desserts – tirimasu, banoffi pie, that sort of thing – oh, and I’ll probably be wearing my beige suede suit, Olivia – you know, my Gucci.” She shot Imogen a quick look to tell her she knew her labels. “So maybe something like your silk palazzo pants? With a new sweater? I gather Romano’s in Radlett have got a sale on at the moment, maybe we could – ”

“Thank you, Nanette,” I interrupted weakly, “that would be lovely, and don’t worry, I’ll sort myself out, sartorially speaking.”

“Super,” she beamed, “and I’ll make sure the guest list is suitably yummy, particularly
a Vautre cote a toil
” Nanette had somehow discovered our French ancestry and had a disconcerting habit of breaking into Franglais at a moment’s notice. Imogen and Molly were looking more and more enchanted.

“So!
A bientot, mes cheries
, and don’t forget, Olivia, Friday the ninth, eight for eight fifteen, canapes on the patio, Kir Royales in the conservatory, be there or be square! Toodle-oo!” And with that she bustled out backwards with a dinky little wave.

“Toodle-oo!” chorused my friends and daughter joyfully.

The moment the front door closed behind Nanette I chucked a plate in the water, strode to the counter, seized the breadknife, raised it high above my head, and with a blood curdling screech of “HYAA-AACK!” plunged it straight into the heart of a granary loaf.

“Traitors!” I bellowed. “The lot of you!”

“Oh, Mum, it’ll be fun!” insisted Claudia, giggling.

“Of course it will,” gasped Imogen, wiping her eyes. “It’ll be brimming over with gorgeous Clives, and possibly a few Nigels too. You’ll love it!”

I thought back to when we were at school, scanned the rows of desks, searching for the girl I wanted: frizzy-haired, cunning-eyed, mean-spirited, never sharing her sweets, let alone her homework, very smelly feet. “I would rather,” I said carefully, “spend an entire weekend in Brenda Archdale’s company, massaging her toes with my teeth, than endure the evening that is about to befall me.”

“Oh God, really?” Molly looked suitably shocked for a moment. Then she caught Imogen’s eye and they both dissolved into giggles. They clutched each other for a moment, until abruptly Molly froze. Her eyes bulged. “Oh
God
!” She squeaked, snapping her legs together. “Help!”

“Serves you bloody well right,” I said callously as I reached into Henry’s changing bag and chucked her a nappy. “Here, try this on for size.”

A
few days later I was lying in bed mulling it over. Nina.
Nina
, for God’s sake. Who on earth was called Nina these days? It sounded so pre-war, like she wore a cardy and slippers, or sold smellies in Boots, or even – yes, that’s it – maybe she was foreign? Nina Mouskouri – no, no that was Nana – or, OK, Nina Simone? Oh God, I couldn’t compete with that, I thought hastily, some dark, exotic, dusky maiden. No, far better she was the cardy type. Or could it be an aristocratic name perhaps? I wondered, with a jolt. Wasn’t one of the Mitford sisters called something like – No. No, that was Nancy. I sighed and turned over, bunching up the pillow – then stared. Claudia was beside me, feigning sleep, eyelids flickering. I groaned.

“Oh darling, you said you’d try not to
do
this any more.”

“I know, but I couldn’t sleep. And anyway, Daddy’s not here, so there’s plenty of room.”

Well, there was no arguing with that. The sun was also streaming persistently through the curtains now, so I turned back and seized the clock, peering myopically at it. Twenty to eight.

“Claudia! It’s twenty to eight!” I shot up like a rocket.

“I know.”

“Well, don’t say I know, flaming well get a move on! You’ll be late for school – again!”

She rolled out of bed, pulling the duvet with her, and dragged herself to her bedroom. “That, Mother dear, was precisely the idea,” she muttered sardonically.

I flew around the room looking for clothes, desperate for a shower but knowing there wasn’t time, listening to Claudia slowly opening drawers and dragging her feet. Hardly the sounds of frenzied activity.

“Claudia, come
on
!”

“I
am
!”

I sat down abruptly on the bed feeling a bit of head rush. I held my fingers to my temples. Oh God, I shouldn’t have yelled like that so early in the morning. It always made me feel nauseous. And anyway, so what if we were late, just for once? Sometimes Claudia had a point. I flopped back on the bed. She was so like me in so many ways, and so unlike me in others. Aesthetically speaking, it was plain to see we were a mother-and-daughter act: skinny-framed, beaky-nosed and wide-eyed – which, together with pebble glasses and an unusual dental arrangement, was not a combination Claudia enjoyed at ten years old – but, as I kept assuring her, she’d grow into her looks, as I had done.

“What, and end up looking like you?”

“Is that so terrible?”

“No, but it’s just a bit boring to already know what I’m going to look like in twenty years’ time.”

This was classic Claudia. Not exactly bored with life, but resigned to it, slightly world-weary. She excelled at school academically, but didn’t find it particularly stimulating, so almost as if to compensate, in a minor way, she’d recently become something of a troublemaker. She avoided all games and sports citing her asthma – although these days that was rare – she cheeked the younger teachers – taking care not to tangle with the battle-axes – and wore her skirt hiked up at a ridiculous angle, socks well down, tie in her pocket along with her chewing gum. On one ghastly occasion recently, she’d even been caught stealing a comic from Smiths, whilst ostensibly on a school trip.

“I can’t believe she did that!” I’d shrieked down the phone to Molly.

“Why not? We’ve all done it.”

“We have?” I’d gasped.

“Of course. Remember the make-up counter in Boots? Max Factor lipsticks? Those quiet afternoons of jiggery-pokery on the way home from school?”

“No! Not me. That was always you and Imo.”

“Ah, perhaps.”

“And you were at least fourteen!”

“So she’s precocious. Relax, Liwy, it’s nothing outrageous. She’s just showing a healthy lack of respect for authority. Just ground her for a few days.”

“How can I ground her when she’s not allowed out yet!” I’d shrieked.

Nothing outrageous, I’d thought, putting down the phone, but all the same, all acts of rebellion that I, at ten, would have been horrified by. Mine had always been a timorous spirit, eager to please, careful not to offend, yet Claudia seemed unable to pledge allegiance to any values that conflicted with her own. I grudgingly admired her for this, knowing full well from whence it came. She got her looks from me and her balls from Johnny.

The one time Johnny and I had really seen her shine, and revelled in the reflected glory, was when she took the lead as Alice in Wonderland in the school play. She’d left the rest of the cast standing, and when we’d congratulated her afterwards – full of pride as so many parents patted her on the back, then whisking her away to the hamburger joint of her choice by way of celebration – she’d confided that the reason she’d loved it so much was because she could pretend to be someone else. This had filled me with dread.