Before and After Read online

I picked up the phone to make a few calls. One was to a hairdresser, and this wasn’t an easy task for me. I was prepared to look like Sylvia for the evening, but I was not going to go the lengths of having all my hair cut off – an approximation would have to do. After all, I wasn’t going to be impersonating her, just giving Archie an impression of her.

  The next call was to the curator of the museum of modern clothes.

  “Yes, that’s right Flora Tate. No, no, only one night. Really? How kind of you. Well now how shall I describe it? It’s a wrap around, long chiffon dress. Very low cut with elbow length sleeves, printed in Celia Birtwell’s colourful tulip and daisy print on a black background, very floaty, with a slit up to the navel I would think. If you could courier it to me I would be most grateful. Please send my regards to your father, won’t you? Thank you.”

  That was that then.

  I studied the photograph more carefully. For such a sensual revealing dress no wonder Sylvia looked passive. She daren’t move. She probably had on a lot of underwear as well, and I noticed that her left hand in the picture was holding together the dress and the superfluous silk scarf at her throat covered her breasts. Ah Sylvia, the habits of the English middle class playing at being grown up and dressing up from the charade box are never really left behind, are they?

  I remembered the make-up that I had bought Bella as a present, and resolved to borrow them for Friday. They would have the exact colours needed for the look. What a shame that Biba had closed, I still missed it, although the make-up now had gone full circle again and the sooty eyes and plum coloured lips were now touted as being new. I have had the time and leisure to observe that fashion, with all its quirks and frou frou does indeed come round time and time again. Although some of it would never return of course. We now know that the Elizabethan habit of painting the face with lead is extremely dangerous, or the Regency fad for dressing in soaking wet clothes so that the dress moulded itself to their curves, giving them all nasty cases of pneumonia in the winter months. A pity really. Still, I like a little danger mixed with my pleasure, don’t you?

  I eagerly eat my eggs. They were done to perfection, each egg swaddled in cream and baked in the oven with a twist of sea salt and black pepper. The whites were milky firm and the golden yolks gloriously runny. Bella had a remarkably light hand in the kitchen, of that there was no doubt. Her bread today was a dark walnut one, satisfyingly moist on the inside and crunchy outside.

  This yearning, this need that Bella had to spend her life with bread was perhaps not so strange after all. It is the staff of life, as anyone who has witnessed the every day miracle of yeast and flour can testify. Perhaps we all seek comfort and security in things that others might well find banal or common place. Besides, we eat, or at least we purchase eleven million loaves a day in Britain, there has to be a shared love of such a commodity. This love of yeast and grain had taken root deep within Bella’s soul and I knew that she would never be happy without it. God forbid that she ends up living in Thailand or Japan where their natural carbohydrate is rice. Perhaps Bella was remembering a happier existence when she was the fat rosy cheeked wife of a miller in one of the many windmills that used to be such a prevalent sight in our country. I could see her now in a clean white linen blouse tucked into a woollen skirt, her hair braided and with a mob cap on, happily kneading the dough in her flag stoned kitchen stepping over a cat and her young children playing contentedly on the floor with some pieces of dough or a pile of wooden bricks. The window she stood at would overlook rippling fields of wheat dotted with poppies and the air would be clean and sweet. In that life she could quite reasonably expect to marry at fifteen and be pregnant at sixteen, of course she could well be dead and buried by the time she was twenty one, but then again a bus could kill her tomorrow in the twenty first century. And now all she could do was to tattoo her body and worry about failing exams that would never lead her anywhere and eat her breads with a guilty heart, noting the spread of her thighs as she did so. How much happier she would have been brushing with death at twenty one and loving with all her might her undemanding life. The girls of Bella’s generation sometimes pulled at my heart. A simple life was a hard choice for them. It seems soon that they will be forced into taking a degree to earn the privilege of making something as simple and life affirming as bread. Not qualified enough to be a dustman soon. Ridiculous.

  “What?”

  I realised that Bella had spoken my name several times.

  “Flora, I said, you umm, you won’t tell anyone about my tattoo will you?” Bella said anxiously.

  “It will remain a secret till my dying day,” I said.

  It might well remain a secret till her dying day too, if I didn’t get a move on with encouraging Fiachra.

  Bella gave me a near professional foot rub and I closed my eyes with contentment. I knew that Friday was going to be very taxing indeed, so I resolved to conserve my strength and rest as much as I could. I let my mind dwell on the type of marble that I would buy myself when I left the Ambles. Perhaps a fat black onyx threaded with gold would be nice.

  Rule Number Fourteen

  “Not all events are predictable—the shifting of the earth, the moving of passions or sorrows. And all are interlinked. So it is that a shoe-heel can snap in South London and a boot maker in Bolton becomes a millionaire.”

  I wracked my mind to remember if Archie was a broker or a banker? What’s the difference? Who cares? I wished yet again that I had access to the notes. Frankly anything to do with money makes me lose the will to live. Oh, yes, of course I like my own – who doesn’t? But grubbing about all day with other people’s money strikes me as a very unsatisfying occupation. And the jargon – percentages, rates, bonds, hedges, gilts, really. Too much, much too much. I keep my money in a delightful bank that I’m sure hasn’t seen a computer and never will do. They are courteous, charming, ruthlessly efficient and extend an overdraft of £100,000. What? Where is it? Where do you think? Switzerland of course. (They also send marvellous chocolate every Christmas which should be enough to have you all schlossing to open an account there.) I know that the saying goes that war torn Italy produced Michelangelo, Da Vinci and the Borgias and peaceful Switzerland only managed the cuckoo clock, but they really do make the most excellent money handlers. So discreet, they make me forget my own names sometimes. You also have a private box of course. I keep my grandmothers jewels there and various sentimental mementoes from my interesting childhood. I say ‘interesting’ as in the Chinese curse. But still, every time I go there I always allow for at least an hour or two to sit in a steel lined room with just a table and chair and my private safe. Immense pleasure. I decided that strictly speaking I should do some revision sur l’Internet on Archie’s work as I would have to endure Friday night with him and his colleagues, but although the spirit was willing the flesh was very weak indeed. I consoled myself with the thought that if necessary I could mutter a few phrases and leave it at that. Besides, men like to show off horribly to women and I really couldn’t be expected to bother my pretty little head about all of that financial stuff, could I?

  Instead I called a few acquaintances to see if I could find out anything about Archie’s boss, Sir George.

  The first few calls were fruitless and then I hit gold. Anthony Rockminster, part time model, part time personal trainer to the stars and my personal Übergossip revealed all to me.

  “Flora, how lovely to hear from you. Are you in town for long?”

  “Well, that all depends really, but not for that much longer I hope. We must have lunch before I leave. Now then, do tell me all you know about Sir George and his wife Patricia.”

  “Where shall I start? Well, my dear, Patricia is a soak, and a thwarted lesbian. I know it’s ugly. But no other word for it, very unhappy, very rich and very keen to discover who it is that Sir George is seeing every week.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Oh Anthony, please don’t be a tease, by the way what’
s that awful noise in the background?”

  “The prime minister.”

  “Poor soul, what is he doing?”

  “Sit ups, and not very well. Only another hundred to go.”

  “Anyway do go on.”

  “Well, as I was saying, Sir George is immensely rich, immensely powerful and not unattractive in that sort of middle aged English way–

  “Yes?”

  “Can you not guess?”

  “No!”

  “Oh yes. He arrives chez moi every Friday evening with a simply marvellous present, of course I have to get him dressed and out by nine as I need to get ready for the sashay down Old Compton Street by ten, but honestly Flora the gifts do make it worthwhile.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, Rolex watches, Cristovelli rings, a Ferrari, a Harley, Armani suits, you know, only the usual tat that us boys can’t live without.”

  “No cash then?”

  “Flora!”

  I kissed Anthony down the phone and thoughtfully stared at the ceiling for a while. I might or might not reveal to Sir George that I knew Anthony, but it was very re-assuring to know that I had the choice. I picked up the photograph of Sylvia on her honeymoon and tucked it into my bag as I prepared to leave the Ambles for the hairdresser’s.

  I picked my way through the rubble and dust of downstairs, waving to the builders as I went. I popped my head around the kitchen door to see that Archie had left for work early. Oh. But it was Friday, and he always left early. I must find out where he goes. There was only Bella and Marmaduke in there, both of them looking sulky.

  “What’s the matter Bella?”

  “Fiachra’s gone to get some plaster or something, apparently they’ve found damp, and now they’re worried about something called subsidence,” Bella said despondently.

  “Oh, I see. And Maria?” I asked, looking peremptorily around the kitchen.

  “In her bed,” Bella said, moving her head sideways to indicate Maria’s room.

  Good grief, I thought crossly as I strode to the door, we can’t have everyone in bed. One is enough, surely? I opened Maria’s door without knocking and saw that she was huddled in her bed like a hibernating bear. Her room was simple with the exception of the flurry of religious pictures tacked onto the wall and a statuette, of – well, a velvet statuette of Jesus. Most unsanitary I would think seeing that velvet of all materials collects dust and bacteria like there’s no tomorrow.

  “Well?” I asked standing at the foot of her bed with my arms crossed.

  “Miss Flora, I, I do not feel so well today,” Maria whispered, drawing the sheets up to her chin and staring at me with large eyes. I’d never noticed before what a bovine face she had. Long lashes lapped at her big brown eyes, giving her an almost attractive look – if you like cows, of course.

  “What’s wrong with you Maria?”

  “I, I would like to see Father Absolom.”

  “I don’t think we need a priest in the house! I would be very happy to fetch you a doctor if you require one, but if you don’t I suggest you get up and start work. Goodbye.”

  I closed the door with no little force behind me and told Bella that she should take Marmaduke to the park and then come home and start making lunch.

  “How about a cheese and spinach pie? I would think it’s just the thing for someone who’s been driving around London all day in the appalling traffic.”

  Bella nodded enthusiastically and I stepped smartly outside and onto the pavement. I decided to walk to the hairdresser’s, eschewing the services of a black cab that drove slowly and hopefully past me. I thought about the vision of Maria huddled under her blankets and found myself frowning in annoyance. The standard of domestic service in this country had spiralled downwards, almost out of control. Of course, after the First World War it was hopeless really, all those tweenies deciding to go into factories to do their patriotic bit, leaving the mistress of the house unable even to boil an egg, let alone clean the pantry. And who can blame them? A lot more matey and fun I would imagine even in an armaments factory than being at the beck and call of some dragon of a lady of substance. So we lost the family tradition of service. And with the demise of the Tories it seems that all of the domestic staff now in London hail from Eastern Europe (the stalwart Filipinos have all deserted the greyness of England and work for huge amounts of dollars back in America). And say what you will about the Eastern block, they do produce a very odd sort of servant, I mean, for a start they are all either wildly overqualified (most of them were civil engineers, or opticians back home) or come from such a peasant background that they are still horribly in touch with their earthy roots and can’t seem to settle in the metropolis.

  Maria was just displaying that sort of serf stubbornness that made me side with Katherine the Great. How dare she loll around in bed just because she felt like it? Good grief, if I stayed in bed every time I felt like it I dread to think of the consequences! I was also concerned about Archie, I had found him the other night staring into a cup of cold tea, rocking gently backwards and forwards in his kitchen chair like one of those poor men that centuries ago had been diagnosed with melancholia and sentenced to bedlam. I could only hope that my plans for Friday would cheer him up immensely.

  I walked unheedingly past the people crowded on the streets of London. They were the usual ragtag collection of shoppers, commuters, housewives and bewildered tourists clutching maps and cameras. All very inappropriately dressed, of course. Surely I’m not the only person who thinks that running shoes, or trainers, should only be worn on the running track or tennis court? There was a young woman in front of me wearing such a pair of hideous rubber footwear, completing an otherwise almost acceptable wardrobe that as I passed her I couldn’t help but comment on it.

  “Your feet let down an otherwise attractive ensemble, my dear. Take my advice and go to Russell and Bromley, they have a sale on at the moment.” I said briskly as I sped past her.

  She stopped and stared at me, her mouth literally softly opening in surprise.

  “Wha – what did you say?”

  I halted and repeated myself watching as she brushed some badly highlighted blonde hair away from her face. Her eyes were heavily made up and her lipstick was a shade too bright for her age, but otherwise she was passingly attractive. She was weighed down with two carrier bags of groceries and had the look of a woman whom life has let down, more than once. Yes, if pushed I would describe her general look as thwarted, which is never very flattering, is it? I pointed at her feet and said, “You will always be the underclass and never be taken seriously if you continue to wear those.”

  I considered her as I spoke, and realised that it was going to be time for one of my R.A.O.K’s . The woman in question was struggling with a mixture of affronted incredulity and curiosity. I was sure that she’d never been stopped by a stranger before who commented on her choice of footwear. My Random Acts Of Kindness are often performed on young women, I find they generally have the most need for them, and then again they are usually so grateful. Also, if I am going to be strictly honest with you, they provide me with a much needed, and I think, well deserved sense of fun and fulfilment. “Now tell me, do you have the correct time?” I asked her, being careful to be gentle in my tone of voice, but making sure that I had eye contact with her.

  The woman glanced at her wrist, with the air of a subject caught on a hypnotist’s stage in the unwilling glare of a spotlight. (Which of course, she was, but didn’t know it.)

  “Well, I have a spare ten minutes, let me buy you something more suitable. Come along.” I smiled at her.

  I retraced my steps, leading by the arm and guided her into the Russell and Bromley shoe shop that we had just past.

  “Size?” I asked her.

  “What? Are you serious? I mean, I don’t think –“

  “Best not to think too much in my opinion and never look a gift horse in the mouth. Now then, I would judge you’re probably a six? Yes, I thought so. Now sit down and
pop those terrible things off your feet.”

  I waved at a bored looking shop girl who was desultorily chatting to another colleague at the back of the shop. She came forward and hovered in front of us.

  “Now then, we need a pair of stout yet stylish black leather boots for trudging the hard trottoirs of London, a pair of dark brown suede high heels, oh yes, those with the square toe and the grosgrain ribbon bow on the front, a pair of black medium heeled courts, that pair of dark red snakeskin pointed-toed, that pair of pale pink evening shoes, the ones with the diamante buckle and a pair of high heeled black ankle boots. All in a size six. As quick as you like. I shall be paying in cash and I have ten minutes.”

  The girl gave a strangled shriek and rushed into the bowels of the shop to find them.

  I turned my attention to my recipient.

  “Now then my dear, I’m going to have to be brutally quick, I’m afraid as I have an appointment. No, no, don’t interrupt me, I have very little time. Don’t worry, you’re my R.A.O.K for the month. Here’s some advice for you. Throw those dreadful things away and never wear them again unless you have a tennis racquet in your hands. Your hair is a shade too bright, as is your lipstick. The eyes need to be toned down a bit but I commend you on your nails, very admirable in such a dirty city. I would recommend you lose some of the rings, one is really enough and I’d always advocate a good signature scent. Anything from Chanel. I think with your colouring brown is really out of the question unless it’s that bitter chocolate shade, like those lovely suede shoes that you’ll soon be trying on, and scarves in the winter simply must be cashmere and need to be three times the size of the one you’re wearing. Are you paying attention? Good. Bags are overly emphasised, I think. One really good leather one is essential, of course, but then as it ages it becomes more attractive, so don’t worry too much about it. Bras are another thing all together. I’d suggest Rigby and Peller. Heinously expensive, but well worth it. Oh, look, here they are! Try the boots first.”