Something Good (9 page)

Jane asked for the bill and re-read the message in her birthday card:
To my wonderful mum, all my love, Han xxx.
She looked up; their eyes met. Hannah detected a flicker of knowing, as if Jane was fully aware that the card had been hurriedly scrawled on the Bengal Star toilet.

As they left, Hannah could feel shame weighing her down, like a scratchy blanket she couldn't shrug off.

“J
ane!” gushed Veronica in the hallway—formerly
Max's
hallway, now seemingly
Max-and-Veronica's
hallway—as if they were long-lost friends who'd been reunited on some cheesy TV show.

“Veronica!” Jane said, her entire body tensing with the effort of trying to exude warmth.

“You look wonderful,” the hostess announced. Veronica's eyes made the journey from Jane's strappy suede shoes through long, purple skirt and black velvet top at astonishing speed.

“Thanks, so do you. Your dress is gorgeous.”

She gave a little shrug. “Just a little old thing I found at the back of the wardrobe. Anyway, don't just stand there. Come in, join the throng. You must be Hannah. Gosh, aren't you like your father? Those astonishing dark eyes, an absolute beauty. There's a fruit punch in the kitchen, Han. Come through and I'll pour you a glass. Now, Jane, what are you drinking?”

“I'll just have a—” Jane began, but Veronica had already swished into a kitchen populated by glossy strangers. Most of the women had backs and shoulders on display. No one appeared to weigh more than eight stone. The guests were chatting enthusiastically as if they'd known each other since babyhood; despite all these people, Jane noted with surprise that the kitchen had been refurbished with glossy white units, granite worktops and twinkling spotlights sunk into the ceiling.

Hannah hovered behind her like an anxious cloud. Max, who looked especially handsome in rumpled linen trousers and a pale blue cashmere sweater—Max in
cashmere?
—was engaged in an animated conversation with a man wearing domino-shaped specs. Jane tried to catch Max's eye. He turned away to open a curvaceous silver fridge and hand the bespectacled man a beer.

A cluster of women with gym-toned arms and deep tans were cackling throatily by the island unit. A couple of girls of around Hannah's age were sipping mysterious puddle-colored drinks. Who on earth were these people? Max wasn't party man. He wasn't a
cashmere
man. He was a biffing-around-the-shop-until-all-hours man, a man who'd cycle down to Kent—as if Kent were at the end of the street—and come home with a coating of mud and dead insects. Jane knew most of his friends, obsessive biking types who kept their hair cropped and their legs shaved. These party guests looked as if they'd need emergency counseling if they happened to encounter an oil can.

“Here you go,” Veronica said, emerging from the throng to hand Jane a champagne flute and Hannah a glass of the puddly stuff.

“Thanks.” Jane grinned fiercely at her, hoping it didn't look like a snarl.

Fixing on a wistful smile, Veronica gazed around the kitchen with a pride that suggested she'd refitted it all by herself. She was wearing a silver halter-necked dress and had somehow piled up all that tumbling hair on top of her head, although no clips or alternative holding devices were visible. Her skin was light brown and utterly smooth. She looked like she'd been molded out of toffee.

“Han,” she murmured, leaning conspiratorially toward her, “my daughter Zoë's dying to meet you. Be a darling and pop over. She's the blond one in the pink top.” Throwing Jane an uncertain glance, Hannah obediently threaded her way across the kitchen.

Veronica turned away to chat to a man with dense ginger hair and most of his shirt buttons undone. Jane made her way toward Max, but by the time she'd journeyed to the fridge he'd moved on. “Suzie Dellaware?” asked the domino-specs man enthusiastically.

“No, I'm Jane. Jane Deakin, a, um, friend of—”

“Ah, wrong person.” Despite her not being Suzie, he mustered the energy to give her hand a halfhearted shake. “Simon Hatterstone. Old friend of Veronica's. We're looking into production opportunities, hoping to strike up a deal. We're pretty confident in the product. What we're looking for now is a manufacturer with the same passion and energy.”

Jesus, did he always talk like a machine? She took a huge gulp of champagne, which crackled down her throat. “What's the product?” she asked.

“Snack range, top-quality ingredients sourced from all over the world—Chile, Peru, West Indies. Aphrodisiac qualities. Did you know that pine nuts are supposed to revive the, um, libido, Janet?”

“No, I must get some.”

“You'll notice a big difference.” His luxuriant eyebrows did a mini-dance.

“I hadn't realized Veronica made snacks,” Jane added, focusing on a fragment of crisp that dangled from his bottom lip. “I thought she treated people with mineral deficiencies.”

“She's expanding,” Simon explained. “Aiming for a major aphrodisiac line in leading health food stores by the end of next year. It's a big leap—” his hand bounded from the worktop toward the newly quarry-tiled floor “—but she's a gutsy woman.”

“I'm sure she is,” Jane managed to say, but Simon had already turned away and was exclaiming, “Ronald!” with livid enthusiasm, as if this might be the manufacturer with passion and energy that he'd been looking for.

Jane drained her glass, swiped another from a tray on the island unit and headed for the living room. This, too, had been spruced up with remarkable speed. Sofas were festooned with oatmeal throws and furry oatmeal cushions—everything, Jane realized, was a slight variation on the oatmeal theme. She felt as if she was drowning in porridge.

An oval tray drifted toward her as if carried on some mysterious air current. It took her a moment to register than the tray was being carried by a boy; an embarrassed-looking boy with doleful brown eyes and a blunt, heavy fringe. He slumped to a halt next to Jane. “Oh, thank you, um…sorry, I don't know your name—”

“Dylan,” the boy said flatly.

“Hi, Dylan.” Jane peered at the canapé tray. On closer inspection these revealed themselves to be miniature versions of ordinary foods: tiny chips and slivers of fish wrapped in doll-sized newspaper cones; sausages like sections of earthworm emerging from mashed potato mounds. There were pizzas the size of milk-bottle tops, teeny twirls of spaghetti piled on to some kind of biscuit base. All this Lilliputian food was making Jane feel enormous and unwieldy and suddenly not hungry at all. “I might have something later,” she said. The boy showed no sign of continuing his journey.

Max was doing the rounds, refilling glasses. He greeted Jane with a fleeting kiss on the cheek before being swiftly redirected by Veronica to talk to the ginger-haired man. Hannah had sidled off somewhere; the loo, probably, and Jane didn't blame her. They shouldn't have come. It had seemed important to Max, but what did it matter whether she was here or not? Veronica's hand was clamped firmly upon his right shoulder. Jane decided to track down Hannah and escape; it was her only hope of feeling normal again.

“The packaging will be crucial,” Veronica was saying. “It's a lifestyle we're selling—a
dream
.” And Jane got it, finally: this wasn't Max's housewarming party but one enormous, mingling business deal. Max probably hadn't realized it himself.

“So,” Dylan murmured, giving Jane a start, “what d'you think?”

She'd forgotten he was there. “Think of what?” she asked.

He narrowed his eyes and indicated Veronica. She was laughing heartily now, her entire body aquiver beneath its flimsy silver covering. “Mum,” he said.

“That's your mum? I didn't realize. I'm Jane, Hannah's mum—you've probably met her…” Dylan nodded. “I can't find her anywhere,” Jane added. “She must've sloped off on her own.”

“I'll look out for her.” Dylan picked up a minuscule pizza, nibbled its edge and dropped it back onto the tray.

Max had worked his way to the window, where he was standing alone. He looked tense, Jane decided, as if interior designers had forced entry while he was at work and filled his home with things he'd neither chosen nor wanted. Out of the corner of her eye Jane watched Veronica creep up behind him. Her thin, bronzed arms snaked around his waist from behind, the hands clasping at his middle like a buckle. “Come on, babe,” she chastized him, “you're being unsociable.”

Simon with the domino-specs sidled up next to Jane. By now the champagne had surged to her head. “Veronica,” he mused, “has astounding vision, doing this place up….”

“It's actually Max's house,” Jane said before she could stop herself.

“Max?” The man frowned.

“You know—Max who's standing by the fireplace. You were talking to him by the fridge.”

“Oh,
that
Max.” He laughed heartily, as if the party was stuffed with several hundred interchangeable Maxes, and Jane had foolishly omitted to specify which one she meant. He frowned at her. “I forgot to ask. What do you do?”

“I work in a nursery.”

“Ah, horticulturist?”

“No, it's a day care. You know—for little children and babies.”

For a moment he looked as if he were struggling to clear a blockage in his throat. “Right,” he muttered. Then, clearly registering that nursery workers didn't feature in his realm—and were unlikely to be bristling with passion and energy—he adjusted his specs, brushed the crisp crumb from his lip and lurched to the safety of Veronica's glittering entourage.

T
he girl was wearing jeans and a tight pink T-shirt with the words You're Only Jealous emblazoned across the chest. From her seated position on the back step, Hannah gave the T-shirt a fleeting smile. She'd seen the girl in the kitchen—been ordered by Veronica to talk to her—but had chosen to duck out to the back garden instead. The girl loomed over her now, hands firmly planted on hips. “D'you smoke?” she asked.

Hannah shifted position. “No thanks,” she said.

The girl bobbed down to sit beside her. “I'm not offering you one. I
need
one, absolutely choking for a smoke. You out here for some fresh air or what?”

“It was just…really crowded in there.” Hannah was unaccustomed to some brazen stranger invading her territory and demanding fags. Despite the cold, damp air, she'd felt quite content on the step that overlooked the dead-looking plants and half-collapsed fence at the bottom of her dad's new garden. It looked as if no one had bothered with it for decades. A split traffic cone lay on its side in a tangle of weeds. Hannah had been imagining the nighttime creatures that might emerge and start prowling about if she was patient enough.

The girl rummaged in a sparkly purse, which dangled from a fine plaited cord from her shoulder. Her arms were bare and goose-pimpled. “Hey,” she announced, “the cig fairy's been.” She extracted a single squashed cigarette from her bag. “Got a lighter? No, course you don't. Shit. I'm Zoë, by the way. You must be Hannah.”

“That's right.”

“You've met Veronica? That's my mum. Complete embarrassment, forcing your poor dad to host this party only…what is it? Six weeks since they met? She'd have had it at ours only we've got the builders in, fitting a wet room, which Mum's decided is an absolute must-have. Must've read about it in one of her stupid magazines.”

Hannah laughed, even though she didn't know what a wet room was. It sounded like something you'd have
fixed,
not fitted. “How old are you?” Hannah asked.

“Sixteen.”

“Does your mum know you smoke?” Damn, why had she asked such a juvenile question? So many aspects of being young involved trying to act older than you really were—being cool and knowing when you were floundering inside. It was hugely stressful.

“Yeah, she gets on at me a bit,” Zoë said, twirling the unlit cigarette between her fingers, “but she's not really bothered. Doesn't get that involved. Especially now she's going out with your dad.”

Hannah cringed inwardly. “Is it…serious, d'you think?”

“Reckon so. It's all, ‘Max this, Max that.' God, it's freezing out here—want to come round to my place?” Zoë swiveled round to face her. She had vibrant blue eyes, plump, glossy lips and a husky voice that hinted at mischief. Her fair hair fell around her face from a messy centre parting.

“Won't they worry—” Hannah began.

“Mum'll figure out where we've gone. She'll be cool. You coming or what?” Zoë sprang up from the step. A strip of perfectly flat, tanned tummy appeared between her T-shirt and jeans.

“What, just us?” Hannah asked.

“Why not?”

“I saw you in the kitchen. I thought you were with a friend.”

Zoë rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, her,” she muttered. “Some tedious girl my Mum lined up for me to be friends with. I choose my own friends, okay? Come on, let's go.”

 

Hannah had never seen a bedroom like Zoë's. The walls were cream, the enormous bed shrouded by a fluffy white throw and a neat line of cushions in varying shades of putty and plum. One of the pillows was a sausage shape and looked hard as a rock. Hannah wondered if Zoë used it for sleeping—it would crick her neck, surely?—or if it was just for decoration. “It's gorgeous,” she said, gazing around her. Zoë smiled but said nothing, as if not wishing to distract her new companion from her appraisal of the décor.

The walls were bare apart from three gold-painted capital letters which spelt “ZOË”. Where had she got an
e
with the dots, Hannah wondered? Perhaps it been carved especially for her. She did strike Hannah as the sort of girl to whom people gave specially made things. The floorboards were painted off-white, and three shelves housed perfectly aligned CDs. There were no books that Hannah could see. She realized she was trying to breathe in a quiet, tidy manner.

“Is it always as neat as this?” she asked, picturing her own room with clothes strewn all over the floor and drawings pinned haphazardly onto the grubby walls.

“Mum does it,” Zoë said, flopping on to the bed. “She's a perfectionist. Tidiness freak. Bleaches coffee cups, disinfects the phone, that kind of mental behavior. Sick really. We have a cleaner of course, but she only comes three times a week and lounges about reading Mum's mags. I've caught her.” A smile zapped across Zoë's face. “Here, sit on the bed, get comfy. You're making me nervous.”

Hannah perched next to Zoë, wondering what to do next. “I like this color,” she ventured, indicating the walls. “It's kind of peaceful.”

“Thanks. I chose it—it's called calico.”

Hannah didn't know what to say about calico. She focused her gaze on a
Cosmo
magazine on the floor. It was still wrapped in cellophane with a free polka-dot makeup bag. “Don't you think they're crap?” Zoë asked.

“What?”

“Those mags. All these free gifts—just bribes, aren't they? It's the same old shit inside—how to be orgasmic, make him
die
for you. Stuff you've read a million times over.”

“Yeah,” agreed Hannah, although she'd only ever managed one hasty flip through
Cosmo
. Amy's mum had left a bedraggled copy on the side of the bath, that night of the vodka and orange. Hannah had managed to read roughly one third of an article entitled “The Only Sex Advice You'll Ever Need,” her eyes skidding over phrases like
deep satisfaction
and
erogenous hotspots
before Amy had started banging on the door, saying she was desperate and if Hannah didn't hurry up she'd have to pee in the garden.

“It's Mum's,” Zoë added. “She buys every magazine known to woman—files them in her office. They're like her gods. ‘Oh, I worship thee at the altar of
Cosmopolitan
…'” She laughed throatily and unbuckled her sandals, kicking them off the edge of the bed.

Hannah had never met anyone of her age who wore high sandals with jeans. Their straps looked like orange spaghetti. “Where's her office?” she asked.

“Upstairs. She pretends she's doing paperwork but really she's hiding from me and Dylan. Did you meet my weirdo creep little brother yet?”

“No, I—”

“Well, you will. Take no notice of him. Want to try my new body oil?” Zoë bounded off the bed. “It's grapefruit and lime flower. Meant to awaken your inner temptress or something. Here, roll up your sleeve.”

Zoë snatched a curvaceous glass bottle from the dressing table. Obediently, Hannah pushed up her sleeve. The oil felt expensive as Zoë rubbed it in; almost precious. “Got a boyfriend?” Zoë asked.

“No,” Hannah said, then heard herself adding, “There's this boy, he's a bit older than me. Ollie, goes to theater workshop. We're just friends really—nothing happened for ages—but last time I saw him he kissed me.”

“So, are you going out?”

Hannah glanced down at
Cosmo
as if it might throw up some kind of answer. “I think I've blown it. I was supposed to see him tonight—he's having a party—but Mum forced me to come here and I don't have his number or address and I only ever see him at theater—”

“Hey,” Zoë said gently, “things could be worse. If you'd gone to his party you'd never have met
me
.”

Hannah mustered a smile. “Now he'll think I've stood him up.”

“When d'you see him usually?”

“Mondays after school.”

“Only two days 'til Monday. There are loads of other Mondays, Han. You've probably got, um, about eight million more Mondays in your life. It's good not to make yourself too available.” Put that way, it made perfect sense. Why hadn't Hannah thought of it like that? He'd be waiting for her, wondering why she hadn't shown up, which would make him want her even more.

And so the hours passed, with Hannah feeling so right in the calico room with Zoë and her Stila makeup and knack for saying the right thing. She found herself spilling out all the Ollie stuff. She even told Zoë how gutted she'd been when her dad had moved out of the old house, leaving her worry dolls trapped under the floor. She wasn't even embarrassed when her bag fell off Zoë's bed and her inhaler rolled out. All Zoë said was, “Better put it back in your bag, 'cause you don't want to lose that, do you?”

Hannah was opening up to this exotic stranger who wore orange sandals with jeans, and it felt so good.