The Girl Next Door (8 page)

‘That’s awful.’

‘Awful for her. I don’t really remember him. So I’ve never missed him.’

‘But for her.’

‘It got worse. I think what he did to her, leaving like that, stopped her from thinking she was worth anything. He really did a number on her, you know? I mean, if you want to do that to your wife, and your kid, then that’s about you, right? You’re screwed up somehow. But he never told her that, and you could see that she always thought it was her.

‘So she had a succession of lousy boyfriends. Men who didn’t treat her well, because she didn’t expect to be treated well. Some were worse than others. She lived with a guy for six or seven years, when I was a teenager. He was the worst. He crossed the line, from neglectful to cruel. Never to me – I don’t think she’d have let that happen. But to her. And I saw it. She’d got herself trapped – they’d moved in together, and she didn’t have money of her own – he didn’t want her to work. Oh, he was a pig. He wanted a maid, not a girlfriend – and she couldn’t see a way out.’

‘Sounds awful.’ Charlotte couldn’t help comparing Emily’s experience with her own. Middle‐class parents, married for thirty‐five years, Church on Sundays.

Emily nodded. ‘She was a beautiful woman, my mum. Really stunning. By the time she was thirty‐five, she looked fifty.’

‘Is she… still alive?’

Emily smiled. ‘She is. She’s single. Has been for a few years. She got herself back on her feet. I think the truly terrible boyfriend – Len, he was called – I think he did her a favour, in a way. She woke up. Decided it was better to be alone than be with someone who made you feel worthless. She has a job – a good job, in a contractor’s office in Portland. She put me through college.’

‘She must hate you being so far away.’

‘Yes and no. She’s always been totally determined about me. She wants all the things for me she hasn’t had for herself. She wants me to be a success. To be independent. Never to need a man, or let myself be with someone who isn’t good enough – who doesn’t appreciate me enough. You know. Normal mother stuff, but times about ten.’

Charlotte smiled.

‘God. Must be the wine talking. Did we finish that bottle? I’m sorry. You invited me here to talk about plants, and I’ve given you my life story.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘I never do this.’

Charlotte giggled. ‘Me neither.’

They smiled broadly at each other now, each recognizing in the other something that might be the beginnings of real friendship. In Emily’s experience, that was rare in this city. She didn’t often solicit it, and it rarely presented itself this way. She’d lived in her last apartment building for two years, and there was no one there she would still see now that she had moved.

She knew she was a product of her mother’s experience. Fiercely independent, self‐contained, a nightmare to date.

Not that she’d done much of that. She didn’t trust men. Or particularly like them. Her childhood had paraded before her a cavalcade of everything she never wanted in a man.

She wasn’t sure she could ever see herself married. She was too cynical. ‘What about you, Charlotte? Men in your life?’

Charlotte snorted. ‘Only in print.’ She gestured to the shelves behind her. ‘Seems to me that we’re polar opposites, Emily. You’ve no romance in you, and I’ve nothing but.’

Emily laughed. ‘Really?’

‘My whole life, I’ve dreamed of the big romantic scene – the big gesture…’

‘The knight on the white horse?’

‘Something like that.’ She laughed, too. Emily wasn’t laughing at her. Not like Madison would be.

‘So… end result? Two spinsters. One wants nothing, one wants everything. And we’re both alone.’

‘God – spinsters. What a terrible word! Does anyone still say spinster any more?’

‘I’ve a friend from college who married an Englishman. Their wedding certificate has her down as a “Spinster of this Parish”.’

‘That’s terrible… so Victorian.’

There was a sudden knock at the door, but Madison didn’t wait for an answer before she burst in. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Emily and Charlotte sitting there. Her eyes narrowed a little, but she still smiled her big white Hollywood smile at them.

‘Am I missing a party?’

‘This is Emily. Emily just moved into the apartment upstairs. Emily – this is Madison. Madison Cavanagh. She lives next door.’

‘Hello.’

‘Hi.’ Madison waved. ‘Welcome.’

‘Thanks.’

‘So you two know each other?’

‘Only from the gardening committee.’

‘Oh, that. How’s it going…?’ She didn’t sound particularly interested in the answer. Actually, she didn’t even wait for the answer. ‘Charl – have you got bathroom tissue? I’m all out.’

‘Hang on.’ Charlotte disappeared into the bathroom.

Madison smiled, but it was vague and distracted. She played with her hair, flicking it back behind her shoulders. ‘Got a date. Got to be ready in ten. Haven’t even figured out what to wear…’

Emily nodded. Madison looked as though she was ready to go out already. Charlotte reappeared with a roll of tissue. Madison grabbed it, air‐kissed Charlotte and headed for the door.

‘Thanks a million. Gotta run. I’m seeing Tom tonight.’

Charlotte had no idea who Tom was. ‘Have fun!’

‘You know me. I always do. Good to meet you, Emily. Have fun yourselves, with your garden stuff.’

Was Emily paranoid, or was Madison smirking?

Charlotte closed the door behind Madison, who had left it slightly ajar.

‘Woah! She’s lively.’

‘She is. She’s nice, though.’ Emily raised an eyebrow. ‘Really. She is.’

Emily knew Charlotte was nice. About Madison she was not convinced.

Next door, standing in just a bra and panties as she pulled clothes from her closet, throwing rejected items on to the bed carelessly (they’d end up at Tom’s tonight, she knew – he had a high floor on 1st Avenue and a great view of the East River), Madison reflected that Emily was just a little too good‐looking for her liking. Unpolished, maybe. A natural beauty. But a beauty nonetheless. And friendly with Charlotte already. She’d have to keep an eye on her.

Madison was the type of girl who knew within five minutes of walking into a room at a party, or a restaurant, or a boardroom, whether she was the most attractive woman in there or not. Normally, she was. She knew what designer you were wearing, whether your hair colour was natural or enhanced, and what you weighed, to within 10lbs or so. Emily was pure Banana Republic (this was a minus, not a plus), a natural platinum blonde, and 120lbs dead, lots of muscle.

One to watch indeed.

Eve

Eve wasn’t at all sure about this outfit. It came from the right store. It bore the right label. It was a good colour for her. Hadn’t the girl in the shop said so? Mind you, she’d gushed so enthusiastically about everything Eve had dared leave the changing room wearing that Eve had been tempted to come out in her underwear and see if the girl said what wonderful things the flesh tones of her bra did for her eyes. She’d rather lost her credibility when Eve had heard her tell the somewhat matronly woman in the cubicle next door that leggings were a look that worked at any age.

The perils of saleswomen on commission. They practically rushed you the minute you walked into the store – ‘My name’s Claudia, if you need any help. Have you seen this new shipment that just came in?’ This dress was green – apple green. Not a colour she would ever have worn at home. And a dress. Who wore those at home? On and on the woman had gone, about how incredibly simple a dress was to wear, leaving Eve to wonder what exactly was so complicated about wearing trousers and a top. Getting them on the right way around? She said Eve ‘just had’ to buy the dress. That the colour ‘just popped’ on her. And that it would look adorable with a cute little flat, which Eve took to mean a shoe. So literally that she’d gone straight downstairs to the shoe department and told the tall man with his hands clasped neatly behind his back that she was in desperate need of a ‘cute little flat’ to go with it, pulling out a corner of the dress to show him the colour. They meant ballet shoes. These
were
cute, actually. They had a little silver cut‐out at the front, and all important ‘toe cleavage’, apparently. This meant that Eve’s slightly square feet were pushed into the shoes in such a way that the lines between her toes were clearly visible, and was, she gathered, a good thing. She thought it looked a little like the foot fetishist’s equivalent of builder’s bum, but what did she know? She was just grateful the dress she’d chosen did not require a four‐inch heel of the sort that New Yorkers appeared to be able to long‐distance run while wearing.

She’d let a woman at the make‐up counter ‘do’ her face, too, which was very unlike her. She remembered being goaded by Cath into having it done at the Guerlain counter in Harrods once, just before she married Ed. She’d looked ghastly – like Barbara Cart‐land’s love child, Cath had snorted – and she’d gone straight to the one‐quid‐a‐go washrooms to rub it off. This was much better. She looked like herself – just a slightly more flawless version. The girl had been triumphant about her ability to cover all Eve’s broken capillaries and rosacea. Eve hadn’t known she had either, but was duly grateful that they had been camouflaged. They’d managed to unpink her cheeks, which was nothing short of miraculous, and she’d left with a pretty heavy bag full of products and a promise that this was easy to recreate at home. Hum. She’d even had her hair blown ‘out’ (apparently, this was what you called a shampoo and set).

So she was supposed to have emerged from her frumpy little English chrysalis into a beautiful New York butterfly. This was her moment. Like when Cher takes the day off in
Moonstruck
to get her grey covered before she appears in front of the Lincoln Center and Nicholas Cage falls in love with her. And Julia Roberts after she gets the treatment in Beverly Hills and shows Richard Gere what a Pretty Woman she really is. And the mice step back from cartoon Cinderella after they magic up a pink chiffon number.

This was not quite how it was. Kicking off the cute little flats – which were actually a bit sore already – and rubbing her toes ruefully (oh, toes of toe cleavage), Eve dialled Cath, hearing the phone ring at the other end of the line twice before she remembered that if it was 5.30 here, it was 10.30 at home, and a bit late for chats of a sartorial nature. Geoff answered, with a hint of panic. Geoff panicked easily, she remembered.

‘Sorry. It’s me, being completely stupid about the time difference.’ She heard Geoff exhale. ‘Were you asleep?’ she asked, guiltily.

‘Just about. But on the sofa, so it’s just as well you reminded me to shift.’

‘Don’t thank me. What about my sis?’

‘Not sleepy at all. Just got in from her book club, matter of fact. Though from the smell of her, I don’t know why they don’t just drop the pretence and call it the tequila club.’

Eve heard her sister in the background. ‘Oy, you cheeky sod. We do read the books, you know. Before we start the drinking part.’

‘If you say so, you old lush. I’ll pass you over. Lots of love, Eve…’

‘We do read the books!’ Cath’s familiar voice and her English accent washed over Eve like her old polyester Mothercare blankie. She did miss it. The other day she’d stayed up until after midnight, watching
The Vicar of Dibley
on DVD, hooked on the accents and the innuendo. The wise, measured voice of David Dimbleby, streamed through the BBC website, could practically reduce her to tears, and she daren’t look for Jenni Murray.

‘I know. I heard. What was it this month?’

‘
The Kite Runner
. Five yeses, one no, two maybes, but not sure one of those counts, since I’m pretty certain she just watched the film and faked it. You can’t ever get anyone to be really honest about a book like that, anyhow. Emperor’s new clothes. Richard and Judy are the new Moses, you know, handing down the rules of reading on tablets of stone. We’re all just disciples.’

‘Haven’t read it.’

‘Shame on you. See the film. What’s up? I don’t think you called to discuss the finer points of literature. And anyhow, Geoff’s right. Tequila has been taken.’

‘I don’t look right.’

‘You just realized? Ha ha.’

‘Shut up. I’ve got this corporate dinner thing. Well, not really. It isn’t business. Ed’s set it up so I can meet the girlfriends or wives, or whatever they are, of his colleagues. His idea of trying to help me assimilate. I want to look the part. Spent $300 on a dress and shoes that hurt and had my hair done and got some amazing yellow stuff for my cheeks that makes me look a bit less… windburned…’

‘All sounds wonderful.’

‘But I still don’t look right. Or, at least, I don’t feel right.’

‘I know… you’ve forgotten to put on your attitude.’

‘What do you mean, you daft mare?’

‘I mean no dress in the world will make you feel like you fit in there if you don’t waltz in acting as if you do. Think it and it shall be so, little sis.’

‘You make it sound so easy.’

‘Because it is.’

‘And so nauseatingly New Age.’

‘But you know I’m right.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Bugger off and have fun and call me in the morning…’

She did.

‘And… ?’ They’d always started and ended conversations in the middle, as though the intervening minutes, hours or days had never happened. Ed and Geoff laughed about it.

‘Fun? Not sure I’d call it that.’

‘Tell me all. Pol’s at school, George is plugged in to
Dora the Explorer
. I’ve just made a cup of tea – I’m all yours for at least ten minutes, which saves me from unloading the dishwasher… what was the restaurant like?’

‘Gorgeous. Downtown, full of trendies. Had a round roof, like you were sitting in the bottom of a barrel, you know, and all these branches stuck everywhere, with fairy lights. Very pretty. Amazing food, though they do serve these family‐of‐four portions, which is ridiculous, because, apparently, women don’t eat in this city. I kept thinking about that scene in
Gone with the Wind
where Mammy is force‐feeding Scarlett before the barbecue at the Wilkes’. I was hearing a voice in my head saying “it ain’t fittin’, it just ain’t fittin’”, every time I lifted my fork to my mouth. Cocktails, of course. Those you can, apparently, drink with impunity.’