Women of a Dangerous Age (16 page)

Between them they undid the washing line that held the trunk shut. They knelt in front of it and opened it together. The sharp scent of mothballs rose up to meet them. Lou was first to speak.

‘Bingo.'

There was the same little blue and white dress that Ali had remembered earlier. It lay folded on top of a Laura Ashley print dress, sage green with tiny white flowers that she recognised as the one her mother wore at the last school sports day they went to together, the one where she won five red ribbons. One of them was still pinned to her mother's collar where Ali had insisted it went so
they could share her success. She struggled to catch her breath, as Lou put her hand on her arm.

Ali took out a folded fox fur stole and swung it about her neck. As she felt the softness against her face and smelled its faint perfume, she remembered her mother and father standing by the front door, dressed up, ready to go out for the evening. She almost could smell her father's hair cream mixed with pipe smoke, her mother's
L'Air du Temps
. She heard the rumble of his voice, the ring of her laughter. Two of the paws and a bit of mothball fell into her lap.

Lou picked up the animal parts. ‘Easy enough to repair.' She watched Ali lift up the clothes in the trunk, one after another.

‘But I don't understand. Why would she leave her clothes behind? That doesn't make sense.'

‘Perhaps she only took what she needed. Perhaps your dad trained her not to throw anything away, so they've just stayed here ever since. Gosh, this Jaeger camel coat's in mint condition.' She shook it out and passed it to Ali. ‘Very on trend, my dear!'

Ali slid her arms into the three-quarter-length sleeves. ‘I can't resist.' She gave as much of a twirl as the space would allow.

‘Looks great on you. Those wide lapels are just the thing these days.'

Lou turned back to the trunk but Ali closed her eyes and let her mind go blank. She felt a piece of paper in the pocket, took it out and unfolded it: a brief shopping list written in her mother's hand; on the reverse, a child's
painstaking writing. ‘I LOVE YOU MUM LOVE FROM ALI.' She stuffed the paper back where it came from. ‘I think I'll keep this.'

Lou wasn't listening. Instead she was holding up a deep yellow beaded evening gown, with front and back V-necks, the fabric overlapping from left to right with a small bow covering the zip fastening at the back. ‘This is fantastic. Your Mum had great taste.'

‘I don't remember her ever wearing that.' As she took the dress, Ali wondered when her mother might have worn it. Something she could never ask her father. Never.

How little she knew about her parents beyond her life with them, and even her memories of that were sketchy. Too painful. Nonetheless, her father's version of events didn't ring entirely true. How would her mother have survived without some sort of financial help? She hadn't worked for years, as far as Ali knew. He must know more than he claimed about where she went, otherwise nothing made sense.

‘You didn't say she was a dressmaker.' Lou laid the top drawer of the trunk beside her.

‘I don't think she was.'

‘Then who did all these belong to?'

Ali snapped to and knelt beside Lou to see what she was talking about. There, on the bottom of the trunk were neatly piled packets of dressmaking patterns – Butterick's, McCall's, Simplicity – each printed with coloured illustrations of the garments to be made.

‘They must have been my nan's. Look at the styles.' She
folded the dress and put it on the pile beside her. ‘But Mum obviously kept them.'

Lou was examining them. ‘Fitted jacket blouse with notched collar … buttoned shoulder tabs … centre front inverted pleat.' She picked up another. ‘These Audrey Hepburn-inspired blouses and these halter-necked sun tops – perfect summer stock.'

‘Then you must have them. All of them,' said Ali, beginning to pile them beside the trunk.

‘But they're vintage,' Lou protested. ‘I'm sure you could sell them to collectors.'

‘Then you do that if you don't want them. No one else is going to use them. Certainly not me or Dad.' She smiled at the idea of them sitting totally bemused in front of a sewing machine. ‘In fact, I think you should take some of these clothes if they're the sort of thing you can sell.'

‘I couldn't,' said Lou firmly, replacing the drawer and shutting the lid of the trunk. ‘Not your mum's stuff.'

‘But what good's it doing up here? Of course, I'll talk to Dad but I'm sure he'll agree. He wants the place emptied.'

‘I can't take them, Ali. They've got way too much sentimental value. What would you feel like seeing them hanging in the shop or being tried on by someone? These patterns are enough for me.'

‘Rubbish. I've had my moment with them. That's plenty. Besides, I've got these.' She held out her right hand where her mother's rings shone under the light. ‘They're enough for me. Them and the coat.'

For the rest of the afternoon, the two women got on
with clearing one small area of the attic at a time. As they made their way through one case after another, one box then another, they limited their conversation to debate over whether the contents were destined for the tip or for recycling. Bin bags were filled, tied and labelled, before being lugged down the stairs and into the front room. For Ali, the ruthless approach was the only way. If she allowed herself to get emotional over what they found, she knew she'd never get out of there. Besides, it wasn't her mother's clothes she was looking for, it was answers to the questions that she'd used so much effort to suppress for so many years. And it was obvious she wasn't going to find them there.

Ali was already fifteen minutes late. She pushed through the one of the glass doors into the bright hotel foyer, her face smarting from the cold. She walked across a large patterned Persian rug towards the oak-panelled concierge's desk on the left. Having dealt with a fur-wrapped matron quizzing him about local restaurants, the concierge turned to Ali. ‘Can I help?'

‘I'm meeting a Don Sterling.' Saying his name out loud made her even more nervous. She rested her hand on the desk, then focused on taking off her gloves as she willed her composure to return.

‘Oh, yes. Mr Sterling asked me to direct you to the bar.' He pointed through a door opposite the desk. ‘Through the dining room.'

In that split second, Ali saw her choice. She could turn and walk out of the hotel alone into her future or she could enter the bar and risk reconnecting with her past. She thought of the Don she had once known, charismatic and wayward. How would he have changed? She looked out into the street, slipped her gloves back on and, grasping
the lapels of her coat with one hand in anticipation of the icy wind outside, took a step towards the front door. As she did so, she caught sight of her reflection in a large gilt-framed mirror. What she saw was a woman in her prime, looking good if a little tired, in charge. That was enough to tip the pendulum in the other direction. She was the one in control here and she was being ridiculous. Meeting Don would have as much or as little effect on her life as she allowed. She was struck by the realisation that not only did she want to see him, she wanted him to see her. She wanted him to know that she had changed too, that his leaving her hadn't destroyed her. She remembered with shame the final letter she had sent him, pleading with him to come back, to which he never replied. She had arranged to have supper with Lou in a couple of hours' time, forestalling any possibility of staying with him too long. Before she had time to change her mind again, she crossed to the door of the restaurant–bar and walked through.

Since agreeing to meet him, she'd kept thinking of their last days together. She had lost him the moment Greenpeace offered him a place on one of their boats. It was the career break he'd been waiting for. During the weeks that followed, she pleaded, begged, shouted, but he insisted on going it alone. He loved her but he was too young to be tied down. They walked in silence out of their dilapidated one-bedroom flat to catch the bus to Heathrow. Don was bright eyed with excitement while Ali concentrated every effort into not letting him see how much his decision was tearing her apart. That was not the way to make him come back. Instead, she added another layer to the veneer of self-control she'd first
developed when coping with her mangled emotions following her mother's disappearance.

They'd queued at the check-in, her hand in his for the last time. They'd made small talk in a café surrounded by other travellers, noisy and unforgiving, promising to keep in touch, neither able to say what needed to be said. He'd be back, he said. One day. Eventually, he'd stood up and led the way to the departure gate. She felt as if her heart was being ripped out of her as he kissed her goodbye, then watched as he presented his boarding card and passport. He turned to wave once, giving a last smile in her direction before he disappeared behind the screens. Still she held back the tears.

And now, he had come back.

She entered the restaurant, passing through the busy tables towards the brilliantly lit bar at the back. Who would have thought the country was in the grip of a recession? There were plenty of young men and women here desperate to be seen, spending the cash that allowed them to be. She scanned the crowd sitting on the bar stools, pushing round them, drinking cocktails, chattering. Not a familiar face among them, all about half Ali's age, she guessed. This was the sort of place that Don would have run a million miles to avoid when she'd known him. How incongruous to be meeting here now. As she approached the bar, she saw that to its left, the room extended to where low-slung leather sofas and chairs were arranged in a much more intimate, dimly lit space.

In a quiet corner sat a tall, slim, middle-aged man. There was no mistaking Donovan Sterling. His wild black curls
had been snipped into submission and had turned a steely grey, instead of jeans and a T-shirt he wore a dark suit, but she'd have known him anywhere. As he looked up towards the bar, he saw her and immediately his face lit up. As he began to smile that all-too-familiar smile, the years rolled away and Ali felt herself smiling back.

‘Ali! You came. I was beginning to think …' He left the sentence unfinished as he stood to greet her. He touched her arm as he kissed both her cheeks.

‘Of course I came.' She thanked God for the discreet lighting that hid her blush. Suddenly she felt as wound up as she had on their first date. Then, he had taken her to the local Odeon. They'd sat in the back row, smoked and kissed. She had been so nervous that she'd emptied his packet of Rothmans onto the floor as she tried to take one. Result: they'd missed a crucial chunk of the film as they scrabbled to find the fallen cigarettes.

‘Sit down, sit down. A drink?'

She asked for a Sea Breeze, praying the vodka would steady her. While he signalled the waiter, she removed her coat and gloves and sat down opposite him.

Don turned back to her. ‘Well! You haven't changed a bit.'

Caught in the full beam of his attention, she was uncomfortable, disconcerted by the unsettling effect he was having on her. She laughed off his remark. ‘Don't be silly. Of course I have.'

‘Well, we're both older, of course. But that's not what I meant.'

Close up, she couldn't but notice his eyes were a paler
hazel brown than she remembered, now edged by crow's feet and shadowed underneath. The nose was the same straight line, but the lips were thinner and the slight cleft in the chin less pronounced. Frown lines crossed his forehead. His old features were all there, but gently blurred by age. She fidgeted, looking round for the waiter, as Don gazed at her without offering any other words of explanation. His silence was unnerving her, so she broke it.

‘So what brought you back to England? I thought I'd never see you again.' That's better. Steer the conversation on to more neutral ground.

‘Long story.' He smiled again, a smile that took her back more than twenty years. ‘But as soon as Susie and I split up, I couldn't get back fast enough.'

Susie? Of course he must have had other relationships since they parted but, despite being aware of that, she felt peculiarly let down.

‘What about your children?' she asked, trying to blot out the happy sensation of having found something that she had lost. She reminded herself why she was here. Tying up loose ends. That was all.

‘Didn't I say? No, I didn't have kids. In fact, Susie's my second wife. She walked out a year ago to be with someone else. My closest buddy, to be precise.'

‘That's awful! How long were you married?' Asking the question was like the twist of a knife in her gut. Once, a long time ago, she had been the one who was going to be his wife, for better or for worse.

‘The first time? Ten years. She never wanted children. Thought there were enough in the world who needed help
without us adding to them. Then Susie already had a son from her first marriage and she was adamant she didn't want any more. We lasted eight years together.'

He sounded quite matter-of-fact as he described the two women. So life hadn't necessarily been kinder to him than to her. They had both had to make their own accommodations.

‘What about work? The last I knew, you were on one of the Greenpeace ships. What happened then?'

‘I needed to get a proper land-locked job and settle down.' He laughed.

‘Settle down! I never thought I'd hear you say that.' The Don she knew had always been charged with energy, wanting to explore and experiment. Deep down, perhaps she had always known she'd never be able to keep him but his enthusiasm and his wanderlust, with his desire to make a difference, were among the qualities that made her love him.

‘Nor me. I didn't want to leave the organisation but it was time. I've stuck to some of my principles though. I've worked for various NGOs ever since. Susie's father underwrote the last lot I was with. He's a big fish out there. Very wealthy. His involvement made it harder for me to get away. But in the end I finagled things and now I'm involved in setting up an organisation dedicated to defending human rights all over the world. I think I told you. I'll be travelling a good deal but the head office is in London. Besides, I wanted to come home.'

Based here? She hadn't expected that. ‘Where will you be living?' She concentrated on the way the light fell from the wall sconces, illuminating the prints of Hogarth's
Marriage à la Mode
below them as she tried not to imagine them together in her flat. What was she thinking?

‘Not sure yet. I'm still finding my way around again. I'll probably rent, then buy. But enough about me. I really want to know what's happened to you.'

Finding it less unnerving to be the one doing the talking, Ali embarked on the story of her career, just as she'd told it to Lou, at one point removing the white gold chain from her neck to show him the pendant in the shape of a single wildflower that she'd designed in pavé-set diamonds.

‘Ali, this is exquisite.' He held it in his hand, turning it so that it flashed despite the dim light.

‘My most extravagant present to myself. I made it after I'd completed a commission for one of my Russian clients. Some of them have money to burn.' Their conversation ran on, with Ali remaining careful to stay on neutral territory as she brought him up to date with what had happened to those few mutual friends with whom she had kept in occasional touch. She didn't talk about the personal side of her life and nor did he press her to. She was relieved at not having to justify herself and the way she had chosen to live after he'd left her. Eventually she glanced at her watch. ‘My God, look at the time. I'm going to have to go.'

He stared at her so she turned away, busying herself by gathering up her things. Then he spoke in a whisper, almost as if he was talking to himself. ‘I should never have left.'

She froze. ‘Don't say that. It was all a long time ago and we've both moved on.' She didn't want to admit to him how long it had taken her to do just that. She dreaded his sympathy, his guilt or, even worse, his disinterest.

She thought she could read regret on his face. But what, she wondered, had he expected? That she was going to walk in and pick up exactly where they'd left off? How Lou would have loved that. Or had she imagined the expression because that was what she wanted to see? Whatever it had been, within a second, he had recovered himself. ‘Well, I wish you all the luck in the world.'

‘Thanks.' She leaned over to kiss him goodbye. Their lips met briefly and, just for that moment, she was transported back to the last, very different, kiss she had given him at the airport. She felt the pressure of his hands on her arms and withdrew herself. Lou would be waiting.

‘Take this.' He passed her a card. ‘It's got my details. I'll be staying here until I've sorted myself out. Perhaps we could get together again, maybe dinner. There's so much we haven't talked about.'

‘I'm not sure it's really such a good idea. Not now.'

‘Come on, Ali. Old friends, that's all.' He smiled. ‘Call me. Please. I'll be waiting.'

Old friends. Was that really what they had become? As she stood up, she relented. ‘Well, maybe.' She turned to go, anxious to get away before anything was said that she might regret. In her heart, she knew as well as he did that this wasn't just old business they were dealing with. She should never have come.

In the taxi, she sagged against the seat as she tried to impose some sort of order on her emotions. She had anticipated all sorts of reactions to seeing him – anger, sadness, even regret – but what she hadn't expected was to feel the pull, that sense of belonging she had all but forgotten. She
had believed she was in love with Ian, but the feelings she had for him were very different from what she was experiencing now. It brought their relationship into sharp focus. She had thought she wanted Ian but she'd been wrong.

 

‘Well?' Lou flung open her front door and rushed Ali through to the sitting room where she poured her a large glass of white wine. ‘What happened?'

‘Nothing, really.' Ali didn't want to talk. If she hadn't arranged to be here, she would have gone straight home to think about the implications of their meeting. Instead, she was going to be forced to share her reactions to Don before she was ready.

‘Nothing? Good God, woman. You meet the first and only real love of your life after twenty years in the wilderness – all thanks to him – and nothing happened! I don't believe you.'

‘Despite all the talk, you're still such an old romantic deep down,' said Ali, sitting down and taking a restorative swig of wine, her headiness making her take it slow.

‘Less of the deep! Just because I don't particularly want it for myself any more, doesn't mean I can't want it for you. So, tell me …'

Ali had not been to Lou's house before and, although the room was different from any of the minimalist white-walled interiors she favoured, she felt unexpectedly relaxed here. One of the dusty pink walls was almost covered with framed antique samplers, small and large. Turn a corner and there
were two rows of vintage fashion prints running above the fireplace. On the wall between the windows hung a floral dress framed in Perspex.

‘My mother's,' Lou explained, seeing Ali staring at it.

Ali looked around her at the rails of clothes pushed back against the wall, the jug of gaudy alstroemeria on a table by the window, the magazines and a couple of paperback novels on the floor. She envied Lou her relaxed patchwork approach to living. But she knew it would never be hers. Losing control: she couldn't even imagine what that might be like. Except when it came to sex, but even then she made sure she was the one in charge whatever her current lover might think. That was the trick of it. She could count on the fingers of both hands the number of times she had been completely spontaneous, at least since Don had left.