Cathy Kelly 3-book Bundle (83 page)

Things had never been quite the same at the regular coffee mornings since the great orgasm talk, when the speaker that Lisette and Kitty organised, a woman named Pandora, concluded her presentation by passing around small mirrors and inviting people to find a quiet corner or, if they were totally comfortable with their femininity, ‘just do it in the middle of the room’, and examine their female beauty.

‘You mean, look up my you-know-what with a mirror?’ squawked a girl called Rita.

‘Naming your body correctly gives it dignity,’ intoned Pandora, clearly used to such interruptions. ‘Embrace your womanhood, admire your labia, your vulva and your vagina.’

‘Thought a vulva was a car,’ sniggered someone else, who’d drunk too much to even hold on to the little mirror and kept dropping it on the floor.

Even Kitty, four martinis and a cigar along–mere coffee wasn’t enough for this morning–wasn’t entirely sure about the self-examination bit. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen herself; she had. During one of her early love affairs she had studied herself using a cheval mirror, and really she considered what she saw with the thought of the man in question looking at it later. But that was different, in the heat of lust. She was no prude, she’d had lovers and she knew it was all in working order in that department, but she still felt that Georgia O’Keeffe’s painted flower versions of female sex organs were prettier than the real thing. Men’s bodies, now they were beautiful.

Kitty was bored, she realised. Bored with her life and bored with not having a job. But, as her friend Mairead bluntly
pointed out to her one day, she wasn’t really qualified to do anything.

Only Mairead would get away with saying such a thing, Kitty reflected.

Mairead was not the sort of woman to attend a ladies’ coffee morning. She worked in an architect’s office, kept all the architects doing what they were supposed to be doing, and knew she was generally considered a bit of a bitch.

‘Women are called bitches if they’re strong and powerful,’ she remarked. ‘Men are just ambitious. Talk about double standards!’

The conversation about Kitty’s boredom and lack of practical work skills was now over. Anyway, Kitty consoled herself, Anthony earned enough that she didn’t have to work. As per her feminist beliefs, they had a joint bank account and there was never any talk of Anthony ‘giving’ her money for the housekeeping.

Kitty had once tallied up how much a housekeeper/ laundress would cost to keep their house running and shocked Anthony with the amount.

‘That’s what I should be paid,’ she said proudly.

Anthony hadn’t argued at all.

‘Unlike most men, he clearly recognises your worth,’ said Mairead.

But Kitty wasn’t so sure. Still, the Nelson family had enough money to get by and, now that the children were older, she might go to college as a mature student and get herself a degree. That would be exciting.

She was better off without him.

She’d find somebody much better.

The words echoed in Kitty’s ears as she sat alone and miserable in her kitchen. They were what her friends said when Anthony packed his bags and left.

‘A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle!’ That
was from Gwen, who loved slogans and was going through a phase of displaying words on her T-shirts that most people were shocked to read, never mind say out loud.

‘Kitty, you’re fabulous, you were tied to him for far too long.’ That was from Mairead, who thought that marriage was a form of legal slavery and couldn’t understand why women would put themselves through it in the first place.

Kitty blocked out the fact that, mere months before, Mairead had been delighted with Anthony for not behaving like the average chauvinist pig and appreciating Kitty’s worth.

What was wrong with living in sin? demanded Mairead. Sin was entirely fabulous–at least it was fabulous the way Mairead explained it. Kitty always felt it was a little disloyal to think it, but Mairead and her boyfriend, Timmy, didn’t
look
like wild free souls who were at it like knives every night, dancing around their semi-detached house in the nude, having rampant sex so loud so that the neighbours called the police in alarm.

Still, if Mairead reckoned that living in sin was where it was at, maybe she was right. Maybe Kitty had made a huge error in marrying Anthony all those years ago when she’d been pregnant with Iseult. But Anthony had had a good job, he’d offered a solution. Kitty had always been pragmatic.

‘Find yourself a decent man who understands who you are and doesn’t want to live his life in the confines of a patriarchal society,’ Mairead counselled. ‘He’ll need to be the sort of fella who’ll take on the kids as well.’

This, Mairead added, could be the big stumbling block.

Mairead wasn’t that keen on children herself. She never went on with any of that
Timmy and I weren’t blessed with children
malarkey. She saw it more of a benefit to be without them. You couldn’t parcel up a small baby and take it along to a rock festival, could you? Precisely.

Because of that, she didn’t quite understand what Kitty was going through. Mairead might proclaim that Kitty should get herself another man now that Anthony had upped and left
her, but who was going to take on a woman with two children? Nobody, that’s who.

Iseult was eighteen and Charlotte was fifteen, nearly grown up, but still they carried on like children. Kitty thought back, mistily, to when she was eighteen. God, the things she’d done! Her mother hadn’t had a clue.

‘Mum,’ a timid voice broke into her remembering. It was Charlotte. If there was one thing Kitty hated above all others, it was timidity and Charlotte was very timid. Kitty was always trying to knock it out of her. Charlotte took after her father. Not that he’d been timid when it was time to leave, stupid bastard.

‘Don’t squeak, Charlotte!’ she roared. ‘You’re not a mouse.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ said Charlotte, sounding even more terrified. ‘I just wondered about dinner, and I have to get you to sign my homework notebook.’

‘Sign your homework notebook? What have you done?’ demanded Kitty. This was a turn-up for the books. Charlotte never normally put a foot out of place and the signing of homework notebooks was usually a device to alert the parents some misdemeanour.

‘Oh, it’s just to say that you got the letters about the Inter Cert mock exam,’ Charlotte said.

I should have known, thought Kitty. Now Iseult, there was a girl who was always putting a foot wrong, bless her. She’d been suspended in her final year for giving cheek in English class. Well, she’d been perfectly right to do so, in Kitty’s opinion. That mad old bat who taught the class hadn’t a clue. It was important that Iseult could put her point of view about what they were studying, and an honest argument, well, that was hardly rude, was it? But the school had been very upset and so, typically, had been Anthony.

‘She’s got a bit of fire in her belly, that’s all. Takes after me. What’s wrong with that?’ Kitty had demanded. ‘Nothing,’ Anthony had said dully.

She should have known then that he was going to leave her, should have seen the signs. God knows why the coward didn’t do it earlier.

The day he left, she’d been on the verge of telling Anthony that Iseult wasn’t his child after all. God, she’d have loved to have done it, but a moment of sanity prevailed. All right, Anthony was an old fuddy-duddy and as he’d believed Iseult was his daughter all these years, he’d undoubtedly stand by her. Probably stoically say fatherhood was about more than biology. But it would be messy if she told him, messy and involving questions about why she’d married him in the first place. And it might affect his ability to put his hand in his pocket and maintain them all.

‘You won’t suffer financially,’ he’d said as he left.

Damn right she wouldn’t.

Well, she’d show him, she’d get another man. Mairead was right, that’s what she needed–another man and a bit of wild sex. That would show bloody dried-up old Anthony that he should never have left her.

Rex was perfect. Sexy and a bit wild despite the suit and old school tie. He was also a wonderful lover. They used to meet when Rex could escape from the office at lunchtime while Charlie was at school. Kitty had briefly wondered if the neighbours thought it was odd that the handsome man dropped into her house so often in the afternoons, staying for an hour or so, but then she stopped wondering. Let other people with their dull lives think what they liked.

It went wrong, though. One day, they lay in the bed where Anthony used to lie–Kitty liked that, it made her feel better. The sex had been fantastic. She liked this bit too, this lying nude and talking.

Kitty lifted one leg up high like a ballerina testing her pointes, and admired it. Rex admired it too.

‘I love your body,’ he murmured, and ran a hand down the
bare leg till he reached the apex of her thighs where she was still damp for sex. ‘You’re always ready for it, aren’t you?’

Kitty’s leg lowered a little.

‘I hate those women who don’t like sex–stupid cows. You’re a real woman.’

Kitty stretched her calf again, luxuriating in his praise. Rex was the most amazing lover and praise from him was praise indeed.

‘You’re almost like a man, do you know that? I think that’s what makes you special.’

The ballerina leg dropped.

‘What do you mean?’ she demanded.

‘You’re tough, you’re like me, that’s a compliment,’ Rex said. ‘You’re not one of those women who whine that they want to be loved or taken care of–do they have any idea how off-putting that is? That neediness?’ He was warming to his theme and he sat up and reached for his cigarettes. ‘Want one?’

Kitty sat up too, pulled the sheet over her bare breasts and took a cigarette. She felt she needed one.

The nicotine hit the spot.

‘What’s all that about anyway, that “I need to know what you think” rubbish?’ he went on.

Kitty normally didn’t feel out of her depth either talking with men or in bed with them, but she was beginning to feel this scene was leaving her grasp.

‘What does
who
mean when they say that?’ she asked.

‘Oh, this other woman I’m seeing. Well, a girl,’ he said.

Kitty made a mouselike squeak and pulled the sheet closer. ‘Girl?’ she muttered.

‘Don’t worry, lover, she’s not like you, nothing to you,’ he added, patting her fondly. ‘Just a little romance I have going–a man has to settle down sometime. But she’s not in your league, Kitty, my love. Doesn’t do sex,’ he said, and smiled wolfishly.
‘Her mother would kill her and she’d never be able
to go to Holy Communion again.
For the love of God, what’s her mother got to do with it? Or the Church. It’s not like I asked her to screw me on the back pew!’

He seemed to find this hysterically funny. Normally, Kitty liked hearing him laugh. He was a great big bear of a man and his laughter was like a bass drum roll but now, Kitty felt bleakness wash over her. She was his bed person, someone he had sex with, she saw this only too clearly. In his eyes, because she didn’t ask any of the usual female questions, that meant she wasn’t so much a woman as an honorary man.

Her enjoying sex on the same level as a man meant he didn’t need to treat her with any emotional kindness. Enjoying unencumbered sex, which she thought of as striking a blow for her own feminism, made Rex think she wasn’t interested in love. She was fine for sex but nothing more.

It was a horrifying thought. Where was the equality legislation now?

Get down on your knees every day and say thank you. Even if you don’t feel grateful all the time, practise it, and one day you will appreciate all the good things. And that’s one of the greatest gifts of all.

The morning following Iseult’s triumphant first night, Charlie used her skill in the make-up department to hide her exhausted face and red-rimmed eyes.

When they’d got home the previous night, she’d sobbed her heart out to Brendan and told him about the implications of the play.

He’d held her tight while she cried. ‘Your mother really is the limit, she’s a crazy woman sometimes,’ he said, which was shocking coming from Brendan.

‘You’ve never said anything like that before,’ Charlie sniffled.

‘It’s tricky with families,’ Brendan murmured, kissing the top of her head. ‘If I moaned about your mother, I’d never be able to take it back. It would always be there. So I don’t. But she is a bitch sometimes. I know you want her to be proud of you, Charlie, but you don’t need it. You’re a much better mother than she’s ever been, for a start.’

‘Am I?’

He held her at arm’s length, astonished. ‘Of course. You’re a brilliant mother. You know the way she has a thing about my mother, because she worked and reared all of us at the same time?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie slowly. They’d never actually talked about this and she’d nurtured a vain hope that Brendan had never overheard Kitty’s rude mutterings about Jenny.

‘I reckon it’s the same with you. You show her up because you’re such a good mother and she wasn’t, despite all her talk of how she gave you and Iseult the chance to be who you wanted to be. That’s all crap. She wasn’t cut out to have kids, she’s far too selfish. But you are, and it kills her to have anyone do anything better than she did.’

‘Is that what you think?’

Brendan nodded. ‘Mikey adores you, so do I. I know that might not be enough–’

She stopped him by putting her finger up to his mouth. ‘It is enough,’ she said. ‘Absolutely enough for me.’

‘And the only way you’re going to know the truth behind Iseult’s play is to ask one of them.’

Charlie would have to pluck up the courage.

She’d barely slept at all that night, lying in the dark in a burning rage as she thought of all the things she wanted to say to her mother and Iseult, and never had.

She’d drifted off to sleep at half five, and when Brendan woke her at seven, he brought her a cup of tea and toast and marmalade.

‘I love you,’ he said, sitting on the bed as she blearily stared at the tray and tried to focus properly.

‘I know, love, thank you.’ She gave him a grateful smile. What was wrong with her? She had a wonderful husband and a wonderful son. It was about time she stopped hoping for approval from her mother and sister. They were locked in their own little world of two. Let them stay there.

The atmosphere in Kenny’s that day was gloomy. Nobody knew anything for sure, but there was a sense, a
frisson
that all wasn’t well. People from the fifth floor had been heard murmuring the DeVere name. Long-time Kenny’s staff shuddered at the notion of their beloved department store becoming a part of the DeVere empire.

Everyone had a story about something they’d heard from someone on the fifth floor, and don’t tell anyone else, but the auditor’s report was bleak. Kenny’s was in serious trouble.

‘Selling up to DeVere’s is probably the only way we can survive,’ Shotsy said to Charlie as they shared an early-morning coffee in the Hat Box Café.

‘Perhaps a total change is the answer,’ said Charlie blithely. ‘Sell it all, and start again.’

Shotsy blinked. ‘What’s got into you?’

Charlie was cutting her muffin for something to do. She wasn’t even hungry, didn’t know why she’d ordered a muffin.

‘No, let me guess,’ Shotsy went on. ‘It’s your bloody mother again, isn’t it? What’s she done now?’

Everybody, it seemed, had seen that morning’s gossip column where Iseult and her mother were photographed, looking at each other adoringly. The columnist hadn’t actually reported Kitty’s proclaiming how proud she was of one daughter, while the other daughter stood beside her looking aghast. At least she’d only hinted at a family row, didn’t say it outright.

The Nelson family turned out in force for Thursday’s first night: Iseult, her mother, the redoubtable Kitty, and sister, Charlie. One does wonder where the talented Iseult Nelson gets her ideas for family squabbles,
the article read.

‘Probably thought you’d sue,’ Shotsy said, when Charlie filled her in on what might have got written. ‘Pity you don’t sue your mother, old bag.’

Charlie had giggled. It felt good to laugh.

‘What was the after-show party like, anyway?’ Shotsy asked.

‘I was so angry with her, I didn’t go. Said I had a headache and went home.’

‘Well done you!’ said Shotsy approvingly. ‘A bit more of that is what your mother needs.
Proud of one of her daughters,
indeed.’

‘It was horrendous, I felt about two inches tall,’ Charlie admitted.

‘Iseult should have said something,’ Shotsy went on crossly. ‘She’s almost worse, Charlie. Your mother’s always been mad as a bicycle, but you’d think Iseult would stand up for you now and then.’

‘It’s not really Iseult’s fault,’ began Charlie.

‘Has she been on the phone this morning, asking if you’re all right, then?’

‘No.’

Iseult hadn’t bothered to phone and find out how her sister was feeling, seeing as she’d missed the after-show party. According to the papers, the success of the play had directors queuing up to work with her, and she was in talks about a new play at London’s Donmar Warehouse theatre. Too busy to phone her sister and answer the questions Charlie dearly wanted to ask: ‘Is it true that you’re not Dad’s daughter? And if so, when did you find out and why didn’t you tell me? Don’t I deserve to know?’

‘There’s a pair of them in it,’ Shotsy said. ‘Kitty and Iseult.’

And you don’t know the half of it,
Charlie thought.

‘Hiya, Shotsy and Charlie.’

Dolores put a tray down beside them, two chocolate brioche buns on her tray. ‘Might as well make use of the staff discount while the store’s still open,’ she said.

‘Don’t be defeatist,’ said Shotsy, shuddering at the sight of the buns. She was having a triple espresso, as usual.

‘It’s not defeatist,’ Dolores said. ‘I overheard Lena speaking to Tom about a meeting with the auditors, and she said something about Ingrid having to make a decision soon. See?
They’re not talking about whether to repaint the façade. They’re talking about selling–they have to be. It’s been like a ghost town since David died. If they close the place down to revamp, we could all be out of a job.’

Charlie thought about this and found that, strangely, she didn’t care all that much. She loved Kenny’s, loved the family atmosphere, but in the past week, since sitting through Iseult’s play and feeling her life shift on its axis, she realised that you could survive change. Nothing stayed the same, after all. What was important was how you managed the change. That, and having the people you loved around you, was what mattered.

Charlie was due to work on Saturday, but woke up feeling ill.

She lay listlessly in bed, unable even to sip the tea Brendan took up to her.

‘I’ll phone and tell them you’re sick,’ he said decisively.

‘No, I’ll be better–’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You need to stay at home in bed. It’s all your bloody mother’s fault,’ he added.

Privately Charlie agreed with him.

Mikey had football that morning, and once the pair of them had gone off, Charlie lay there with the remote control in her hand and flicked through the channels. She was deep in
Oprah
when the phone rang.

‘Hello, Charlotte,’ said her mother. ‘I’ve been phoning your mobile, but it’s off. I thought you worked on Saturdays. Are you sick?’

‘You missed your calling as a private investigator,’ snapped Charlie, and they were both a little surprised. Charlie never spoke like that to Kitty.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Well, I don’t need to talk to you,’ Charlie said.

‘I’m coming over,’ Kitty went on.

God, she was a one-woman army, Charlie thought. She
decided to hang up, but it was too late: her mother had already done so.

Charlie had, on occasion, put on make-up before her mother arrived because she didn’t like the inevitable ‘You look shattered!’ expostulations when she didn’t.

Today, she stayed in bed, wrapped in her dressing gown, a bulky cream towelling creation that was very cosy but did nothing for her face or figure.

When her mother’s furious door-bell ringing started, she went downstairs, opened the door, and marched back up to bed.

‘You’re not well,’ said Kitty in surprise when she followed Charlie up.

‘What are you here for, Mother?’

Again, Charlie surprised herself. Where had this tough-cookie character been hiding all her life? Or perhaps she’d always been there but obscured because Charlie had thought that being a chameleon was the way into her mother’s heart. She tried so hard to make her mother love her, trying to be everything her mother wanted, blending to fit in with every backdrop, and she’d always failed.

Now that she knew it was pure DNA that had altered the picture, the please-everyone chameleon was gone. ‘I thought you were upset the other night,’ Kitty said lamely, and sat on the bed.

‘I was upset for two reasons,’ Charlie snapped. ‘Can you guess what they were?’

‘I didn’t mean to say it like it sounded to that reporter,’ Kitty began. ‘Of course, I’m proud of you–’

‘
Of course!
’ roared Charlie, and suddenly she didn’t feel ill any more, she felt invigorated. ‘What do you mean, “of course”? You’ve never told me you felt proud of me, never. It was always Iseult–and I love her, don’t get me wrong, but it’s hard to always come second best. And now I know why.’

Under her usual layer of make-up, Kitty blanched.

‘My father isn’t Iseult’s father, is he?’

It was like watching the energy go out of a prizefighter.

‘I don’t know why she put it in the play,’ Kitty said.

‘I doubt if she knew she had,’ Charlie said. ‘But it was what made you love her more, wasn’t it? Whoever he was, you loved him more than my father, and you love her more than you love me.’

‘No I don’t!’ roared Kitty. ‘I love you too.’

‘You don’t!’

‘Yes I do!’

They glared at each other furiously.

‘All right, I screwed up!’ Kitty shouted. ‘I was never Mrs Perfect Bloody Mother. Iseult was easier because she was more like me. Tougher. You were so gentle; I could see you watching me with those big sad eyes when I did it wrong. Nobody else needed to point out my failings in the mothering department, just one look at your little face was enough. Motherhood is supposed to be instinct, we’re all supposed to be able to do it. Bloody monkeys do it, why couldn’t I?’

‘Is that it?’

‘That’s enough!’ Kitty said. ‘You’re not considered a woman if you’re a useless mother, never forget that. Well, you’re good at it. Mikey worships the ground you walk on.’

It wasn’t a false compliment. Kitty meant it, Charlie realised.

‘He does, doesn’t he?’

‘I never had that, not with either of you.’

‘What about Iseult’s father?’

‘I was pregnant when I married your father. He doesn’t know, never will.’ She didn’t plead. Kitty held her head high. ‘I love you, Charlie, and I’m sorry about the other night.’

‘How did Iseult find out?’

‘I told her once when I was drunk, told her not to tell you.’

At least, Charlie realised, it solved the mystery of why Iseult hadn’t shared that information with her sister.

‘Stupid mare for putting it in a play,’ Kitty went on. ‘Iseult has no sense when it comes to some things. You’d never have done that. You can keep a secret, at least.’

Charlie couldn’t help herself: she burst out laughing. It was as close to a rapprochement as anyone would get with her mother.

Kitty laughed too, then took advantage of the change in mood. ‘Would you not get rid of that hideous dressing gown, Charlie? I know Brendan’s not the type to stray, but merciful hour, no man would stay with a woman who wears that to bed.’

Charlie looked down at the dressing gown. Brendan had given it to her a few years ago for Christmas. She loved it.

‘No, Mother,’ she said cheerfully, ‘it’s like the rest of me: take it or leave it.’

When her mother was gone, Charlie felt unaccountably better. Lighter, almost. She showered, dressed and on impulse, picked up her anti-gratitude diary and read it from the beginning. It was strange to read her own words and yet time lent a dispassion to her reading. From that distance, she could see glimpses of the child who’d always wanted to please her mother and had grown up not appreciating the value of pleasing herself.

Both her mother and Iseult said what they thought and did what they wanted to, irrespective of who it hurt or affected. Charlie ran every sentence and every action through her mental filter first to see if it might hurt anyone else.

But since she’d been writing this gratitude diary, she’d seen the patterns in her behaviour and learned, slowly, that she really couldn’t please all the people all the time.

She needed to start pleasing herself first.

The phone rang and she answered it automatically.

‘Charlie?’

It was Iseult and she didn’t sound like her usual, wildly confident self.

‘Hello,’ Charlie said coolly. She might have felt better about the whole thing but she wasn’t letting Iseult get off scot-free.

‘Mother just phoned me. Oh, Charlie, I never meant you to find out this way. I didn’t think anyone would realise…well, I almost didn’t realise it myself. I wasn’t writing about us but–’

‘Iseult,’ interrupted Charlie, ‘I’d rather not talk about this over the phone. Can you come round?’

‘Well, I’m busy and I have a stack of meetings this morning because everyone’s so excited about the play–’

There was the pause where Charlie knew she was supposed to say that
of course
Iseult was too busy, Charlie must have been mad to even ask; after all, Iseult could see Charlie anytime. But Charlie said none of these things. She merely said ‘oh,’ and waited calmly.