Pleasant Vices (19 page)

‘Da da da, de da da dum,' someone starting singing
The Stripper
quite loudly and Jenny, enjoying the moment pulled up her skirt higher and turned round to give the girl behind the counter a good view of her bottom and the tops of her thighs. She glanced mockingly over her shoulder, daring the assistant, whose thickly mascaraed eyes were as big as bath-spiders, to refuse her request.

Jenny's skirt was up to her hips by now and Sue, like the straight man in a double act, was prodding at her flesh. ‘Look at that!' she demanded, as everyone stared. ‘Lumpy cellulite! That stuff's a con!'

‘Give her the money!' yelled a voice from the crowd.

‘Yeah, go on. They make a fortune on this!' came a cry of support.

The assistant hurriedly opened the till and shakily counted out the notes, handing them, with the fastidious tips of her lacquered nails, across to Sue.

Jenny, suddenly coming to her senses, lowered her skirt, patted it decently into place, and felt a blush coming on. ‘Thank you,' she said, with as much dignity as she could muster, and the little group gave her a round of applause. Only when she dared look up and take the money from Sue did she notice that one of the figures now hurrying away, the only one not laughing delightedly, was Carol Mathieson.

‘Oh good grief, did you see? That was Carol. She's everywhere, that woman. Now it will be all round the Close.'

‘Who cares?' said Sue airily. ‘And anyway, isn't the fight for justice one of the Mathiesons' favourite themes? And just think,' she whispered loudly, ‘you got the price of half a blow-job just for showing your knickers!'

Carol was still trembling when she got home. She carefully eased the white Peugeot past the trucks parked in the Close and parked as near to her front door as she could. Quickly she hauled her Marks and Spencer carrier bags full of economy packs of chicken into the kitchen and flung them crossly into the depths of the freezer without the thorough labelling (re date of purchase and intention of use) that they usually got. Those two, she thought, Jenny and Sue, they just didn't care how they behaved. She felt offended that she, Carol, who had chosen her home with such care, should have ended up living a stone's throw from the sort of woman who was prepared to flash her bottom in a respectable department store just for the sake of a bit of a refund. If the twins had been with her, imagine what they'd have thought! Grown-up people were supposed to have standards, grown-up people of a certain background were supposed to
set
standards. Carol filled up the fridge haphazardly with packs of dolly-size vegetables, miniature carrots, baby beans and tiny, embryonic cauliflowers, and then went upstairs to the attic. The telescope was already focused on the Tennis Club and there they were, those two careless, wicked women, giggling on the balcony and tearing recklessly into great slabs of what looked like garlic bread. They were laughing, probably, at their own cleverness, Carol guessed in outrage. Well they'd better not behave like that in the Close, she thought, resolving to have a Little Word. She swivelled the telescope round and refocused on Jenny's conservatory. Whatever they were doing in her house, those
Picture This!
people, it seemed to involve putting most of Jenny's kitchen furniture into the garden. What a pity it wasn't about to rain.

Outside the school it was easy to see which mothers, that day, had daughters taking the school's own entrance exam. Smiles were fixed, there was much hearty laughter and fake dismissal of their own children's chances of success. Jenny, climbing out of her Golf, heard one mother boasting that her daughter, in the car that morning, had
completely
forgotten her entire six times table. Another was saying that she had spent the whole evening before working out how to do Venn diagrams and was still none the wiser, her child having had no clue either. It was immoral, really, putting these girls through such a distressing selection process, Jenny considered, taking her place anxiously at the foot of the school steps. Ceci Caine, too eager to hear what Harriet's day had been like to let Jenny drive her home, came and stood next to her.

‘You know, it's not right is it?' Jenny said, glad to have someone to hear her thoughts. ‘The school willingly took on all these little girls at the age of four, not knowing which would turn out to be the infant prodigy and which, as they put it so tactfully in school reports, the late developer. It's as if they've reached judgement day, where only those who'll be absolutely no effort to teach will get to stay on.'

Ceci looked wary, as if Jenny had confessed to sympathy with the wrong political party. ‘Yes, but surely you want Polly to go through school with girls who can match her ability, don't you? It's so much more
stretching
.'

Jenny saw Polly elongated, pulled like elastic between her family and the stringent academic requirements of Fiona Pemberton. All those dance classes Polly loved so much, would she have time for them in the senior department, where homework was supposed to take God-given priority? To Ceci she said, ‘I'm not sure. I mean they've all been OK together this far, haven't they? And anyway, maybe Polly is one of those who won't be staying.'

‘Oh surely not . . .' Ceci murmured automatically, bored with the ritual comforting that had been going on for weeks among all those mothers who had doubts.

‘Mum, Mum! It was really hard!' Polly came shrieking out of the main doors and hurtled down the steps. Jenny hugged Polly, relieved that she did not look too concerned by the difficulty of the exam. How worried should anyone of ten have to be?

On the way home, Polly wheedled for chocolate eclairs and a banana milk shake, taking full advantage of Jenny's sympathetic mood.

‘Well, I'll buy some eclairs, but I think I'd really like to go home and see what they're doing to the house. Apparently it's an ad for breakfast cereal.'

‘Perhaps I can be in it,' Polly said eagerly, pulling down the vanity mirror in the car and making actressy faces into it. ‘I'd really love to, more than anything!'

Jenny was touched by the child's shiny-eyed enthusiasm. ‘OK, let's forget the cakes and go and see what's happening.'

Since that morning, the population of trucks and vans had increased as Laura Benstone's drive now also overflowed with vehicles. How many people does it take to photograph one Christmas gift catalogue, Jenny wondered, quickly telling her brain not even to think about it as she started adding up the stylists, props people, designers, directors and multitude of hangers-on that could well be leaning against Laura's limed-oak kitchen units at any one moment, fingers artistically curled round coffee mugs.

The scene in Jenny's own house bordered more on the chaotic than the creative. Somewhere offstage, probably in the conservatory, there was shouting. Hugo strode about in the hall crossly, his expensively cut hair was up on end from frantic runnings-through with the fingers, exposing thinning patches of scalp, his mobile phone poking rudely from the waistband of his jeans. A greeny-pale, ginger-haired girl of about Polly's age was sitting on the stairs looking tearful, and being inadequately comforted by her worried-looking mother, who listlessly patted her child on the shoulder and whispered unheeded encouragement to her.

‘Everything all right?' Jenny called brightly to no-one in particular as she hung up her jacket, well aware that everything was obviously far from all right and hoping someone would tell her what was going on. Ominous bucket-clankings came from the kitchen and Polly dashed in to have a look.

‘Ugh puke! Someone threw up!' she yelled, backing out again.

‘Sorry about that. Don't worry, Belinda's mopping.' Hugo smiled wanly at Jenny, who wanted to get past him into her kitchen. With practised skill he blocked the doorway and treated her to one of his less convincing smiles. ‘Spot of trouble with our little star,' he hissed viciously, glaring towards the unhappy child on the stairs. ‘It seems milk products don't agree with her terribly well.'

The child's mother, sensing criticism, glared back. ‘That much milk wouldn't agree with anyone. My Gemma may be sensitive, but she
is
a professional. You should have got all you needed in less than five takes.'

‘If she could have
done
all I needed in less than five then obviously I would have done,' Hugo snarled back. ‘Now I'm stuck with the set, the product, the crew and no actor. What am I supposed to do now?' He bellowed into the kitchen, ‘Kev! Call Castakid would you? Get me another brat!'

Polly slid out of the kitchen doorway, and smiled winsomely up at Hugo. ‘You've got me, if you want me. I'm not allergic to anything, and I could
live
on breakfast cereals,' she purred, willing him to see her as a perfect solution. Hugo looked Polly up and down with hostile speculation and her smile widened into her version of a cute-kid grin. Hugo made a speedy executive decision.

‘Get the Carmens out, Belinda!' he yelled into the kitchen. ‘I've found us another little star!'

‘Wait a minute,' Polly said, turning suddenly business-like, possibly at the thought of having her hair curled. ‘How much do I get paid?'

‘A hundred pounds! You're getting a hundred pounds just for gobbling down a bit of breakfast!' Daisy was appalled and trembling with envy. By the time she got home from school (late because of gym club, she claimed) the house looked boringly like home again. Daisy would have liked to give Hugo Hamilton the opportunity to see and discover her; perhaps he'd have been captivated by her excellent high cheekbones and long, slender legs. Instead, she was faced with Polly swanning around the kitchen being maddeningly big-time. Daisy stamped about crossly, chucking her school bag onto the rocking chair and kicking at the books that came tumbling out.

‘Well I deserved it,' Polly retorted, tossing her head carelessly so that her unfamiliar mane of tubular curls bounced. ‘After all, everyone I know will see me on television, looking like this!' she made a mock-mortified face and ran her fingers through the curls, secretly enjoying the springy texture and glancing sideways into the mirror to see if she really did resemble the tousled temptress she imagined herself to be. She pouted at her reflection and gathered the curls up onto the top of her head. If she started a career now as a child model and actress, she'd be well used to it by the time she was old enough for the real stuff. How impressed they'd be when she turned up for sessions and stripped off to pose with no fuss about anything but hiding a slightly bored yawn . . .

‘You know you look like bloody Shirley Temple!' Daisy said rudely. ‘I wish I'd been here. They'd have had to use me then.'

‘Oh no they wouldn't have, you're
much
too old. And spotty.' Polly made a sensible dash for the door and escaped just as Daisy was taking aim with a heavy maths textbook.

Jenny was vaguely listening to all this from the depths of the fridge as she searched for something to give them all for supper, and felt rather proud of Polly. The ginger child's mother, outraged that Polly had so easily taken over her daughter's job, had complained that her darling Gemma had been picked out of 200 at the initial audition and had trailed into town for three recalls before the final decision had been made. Perhaps Polly, who had got it right for the exasperated Hugo in just two takes, really was a natural. Gemma's mother had confided that Gemma paid all her own school fees out of her modelling and acting earnings, thus financing herself at a well-known stage school which would otherwise have been beyond the family's means.

As she slowly grated some cheese, Jenny wondered how much it would cost to have a basic portfolio of photos done so that Polly could be enrolled at Castakid and join the family workforce. At Daisy's age she had been starting a Saturday job, sweeping up in a hairdressing salon. She would never make the children pay for their own schooling, of course, but it would help if Polly's constant demands for dancing lessons and Megadrive games could be met from some of her own efforts. It might teach at least one of their greedy, all-consuming children the value of money.

Daisy was sulking up in her bedroom. She had had a dreadful day. Emma and Sophie had a secret and had been exchanging sly giggly grins. She'd tried to interest them in her forthcoming trip to the police station, and confided, in a bid for attention, her dread of being trailed along with a full set of parents to the depths of the Interview Room where she would have to come up with a promise to be law-abiding for ever and ever. The glamour-value of her crime, however, had now diminished, and whatever it was that Emma had done at the weekend, and that Sophie knew Emma had done, overshadowed poor Daisy. Daisy blamed her parents. She shouldn't still be grounded. She was getting left out of things and would need to be more extreme to get people to notice her. Her parents would only have themselves to blame if she turned to more serious crime.

She gazed miserably out of her window and up the Close towards the Mathiesons' house. Someone was in their attic, Paul probably, she thought. Carol had once mentioned that he had an office up there. She'd said it in a grand sort of way, as if Paul was so much in demand he had to have work-premises wherever he was. Daisy thought he didn't look much as if he was working, more as if he, too, was gazing out of the window. Knowing Carol, Daisy thought, poor old Paul was probably grounded as well.

Absentmindedly stir-frying vegetables, Jenny looked around the kitchen to see if there was any damage. The peach-and-cream-dragged paint on the skirting was very scratched, but she couldn't honestly remember whether or not it had been like that for years. That was one of the pluses of fancy paint finishes, they did very usefully blur imperfect textures and unevenness – rather as expensive foundation was supposed to do for skin. Ben shuffled into the kitchen, shoving the door open heavily so that it crashed against the wall next to it.