Before and After Read online

  “And who may I say is calling?” the dulcet tone enquired.

  “Well, you may say that Marie, Queen of Rumania is calling but it wouldn’t be strictly true would it?” I said tartly.

  “Umm, no, I suppose – well who is calling?”

  “Flora Tate. And please hurry, it’s rather urgent.”

  “And can I ask what the call is referring to?” the little minx continued.

  “No you most certainly cannot. For all you know it could be a matter of life and death, or at the very least something of an extremely personal nature –“

  “Is it?” The voice interrupted breathlessly. I couldn’t help but admire her candour and curiosity.

  “Anyway,” the girl’s voice continued, embarrassed by the momentary lapse in her professionalism, “He’s in a very important meeting and simply cannot be disturbed.” She finished the sentence with an air of triumph.

  “In that case, simply tell him that his wife, Sylvia Amble requires his presence at home at four sharp this afternoon, or I simply shan’t answer for the consequences. That gives him approximately twenty nine minutes to get home. Thank you. Goodbye.”

  I replaced the phone, happy at least that I had reached a decision and acted upon it.

  I knew that Arabella and Hal were already in the house, all that was needed was Archie to appear and I could go downstairs and start my work. I gathered all the presents together and spent some time in front of the mirror tidying my hair under the turban. There. That would do admirably. My eyes glittered like frosty diamonds in my pale face, making them impossible to contradict. The drops are only needed the first few times upon meeting a new client, and one should never use them more than once a week, so it was important that I met the whole family today. Taking a deep breath I unlocked the door and descended the stairs.

  Rule Number Three

  ‘One should always take tea—never, ever give it.’

  I stood for a second or two outside the door to the drawing room straining my ears to catch a stray word of conversation. It’s a great conceit, by the way, that eavesdroppers rarely hear anything good about themselves. You can normally hear something which you can turn to your advantage, which in my opinion beats ‘good’ any old day.

  I could hear nothing and I wondered if I had indeed got the right door. I pushed it open, and saw the tableau of figures with relief. The air was thick with a fog of polite curiosity and tension. A typical family gathering, I suppose. I say suppose, as I have never had the blessing, or the curse, of one myself. I was immediately greeted by Marmaduke. We’d got the measure of one another now and I firmly directed him to the rug in front of the empty fireplace, where he dutifully sank back down regarding me with a friendly expression.

  Sylvia looked astonished at this, and caught the eye of Arabella who was lounging on a yellow brocade sofa.

  Yellow, by the way, is the colour of insanity and never makes for a satisfactory background unless you happen to be blessed with skin the colour of darkened ivory, which Arabella most definitely had not. Hers was the usual pink blotchy red that comes with teenage hormones and a predisposition for the addiction of sugar.

  Hal was standing in the window and had turned towards me on my entrance. He had the bones of a man behind the gawkiness and undeniable sulkiness of the middle class teenager. He was going to be one of those youths who elicited sighs from both sexes. But, not just yet.

  I noted the tea tray on the table and smiled genially at everyone. By my calculations Archie had about five minutes to get here, so I settled myself next to Arabella on the sofa, wincing slightly at the reflected yellow glare.

  “Well, here we are,” I said inanely, trying to ignore Hal who was staring at me so hard that I think it could well be termed as gawping.

  “You must be Arabella,” I turned to smile at her, “Of course I’ve already met your mother and Marmaduke, so you,” I turned sideways awkwardly in my seat and looked up at Hal, “Must be Harry.”

  He awkwardly crossed the room to shake my proffered hand. The handshake was damp and a little cloying, but I didn’t hold it against him. I know what sort of effect I can have on testosterone ridden young men. I smiled sweetly at him and had the undeniable pleasure of watching a sweep of colour flood his face and neck. I studied him as I watched his blush deepen. A slight sheen of sweat pearled his brow, and I guessed that he was desperately wondering if his deodorant was working whilst trying not to care one way or another in a sort of Goth meets James Dean attitude.

  “Shall we wait for Mr Amble?” I said, tearing my amused eyes from Hal and looking at the plate of hot toast.

  “Oh, no, daddy never gets home before seven, and even then” - Arabella replied, already greedily reaching for hers.

  As if to prove her a liar, Marmaduke leapt to his feet and made welcoming yips at the door, wagging his tail with such ferocity the tea tray was in danger of toppling over. We all had heard the front door and turned expectantly to the noise of footsteps rushing across the hall.

  The door was flung open and Archie Amble, all six foot two of him, burst into the room.

  “My god, Sylvia, what the hell is going on, I was in a meeting with Sir George when I had the most extraordinary message, are you alright…” his voice tailed off as he took in the sight of his ordinary family gathered round an ordinary tea tray with me in the midst, like an exotic creature of the darkness, or, should you wish to be more prosaic, a cuckoo, albeit, a smartly gleaming jet black one, perched next to his chubby daughter.

  His look was of a man that had been thwarted of a drama. Here he was, dragged screaming out of a pat on the back type meeting with awful Sir George, the very least his wife could do would be to be found foaming at the mouth on the hearthrug. As it was she looked just faintly surprised and was holding a cup halfway to her lips.

  “My fault,” I practically purred, “But I do find that a hint of trouble always gets a secretary beetling away delivering messages. I suggested that you might well like to be at home with your family for tea, that’s all.”

  Archie glared at me, and opened his mouth to say something. What, we shall never know, as I wrong footed him by handing out the presents.

  Gifts are so disarming.

  I took the opportunity of introducing myself formally to Archie, letting my shawl drop slightly.

  “Flora Tate, by the way. I’m so glad you could come home for tea. Now then, would you like some of Maria’s delicious cherry jam on your toast, or are you a Gentleman’s Relish sort of chap?” I enquired sweetly, holding Archie’s arm and guiding him towards a chair. Archie fairly tottered onto his seat, like an elderly rheumatic taking the cure at Baden Baden. I let him stare at the region of my chest for a while, before engaging his eyes with mine and then settled myself beside Arabella again, draping my dark clothes as attractively as I could around me.

  Arabella was rummaging through the make up I had given her holding up the lipsticks to the light. Her face which was blurred with puppy fat looked truculent, but I could tell that she was pleased to receive what she deemed to be an adult gift. Hal was fondling his key fob, and Sylvia held her chamois bag and skirt feebly on her lap. (I’d reserved the giving of the tiara for another occasion). Archie held his leather folder far away from him, as if it might detonate at any minute.

  “Now then,” I said, sitting as upright as I could in the sofa, whilst balancing a cup and saucer on my lap, “Isn’t this pleasant. A family tea, how very charming. I was sure Archie that you wouldn’t want to miss this.”

  Archie Amble was subsiding gradually into his chair and I was relieved to see that he was willing to be sweet talked. Most men generally are. I studied his face as I continued my chatter. He was trying to measure me up, as for a coffin, perhaps? Or was it to see if I would fit into his bed? I couldn’t tell yet. His first layer of thoughts were easier to read - disgruntlement of being called away from work for no obvious reason - and yet lurking behind this stratum was a dawning of humour and willingness to be carried a
long for the ride, which boded well for me.

  There was a tap at the door and Maria entered, bringing more hot toast and some milk. The family had noted her entrance, but didn’t talk to her, so I thanked her and she smiled uncertainly at me. I noted an unwarranted degree of fear in her eyes as she looked at me but put it down to the well-known paranoia of the Eastern Bloc. Then it dawned on Sylvia Amble that Maria was lurking at the door, and that she was wearing a woollen overcoat, complete with a square headscarf tied around her neck.

  “Oh, Maria, is it your night off?” Sylvia asked tentatively.

  Maria nodded and edged towards the door.

  Archie frowned, no doubt already sampling in his mind some of the slimy pasta, or even worse, chewy casserole that Sylvia was about to concoct.

  “In that case,” I said grandly jumping to the rescue, “Hal and Bella will be my sous chefs for the night and I will prepare for you my infamous fish soup.”

  I had of course no intention of doing any such thing and had taken the precaution of booking a table for five at a local restaurant - but - it helps to show willing.

  There was as I had predicted a wail of muted alarm from Bella and Hal, and a murmur of disquiet from Sylvia.

  “Well, if you insist not, then I suggest that we all go out tonight. We’ll meet in the hall at seven.” I gave a deferential smile to Sylvia, implying that we women knew what we were doing when it came to the feeding of a family.

  I settled back on the sofa and idled half an hour away by pretending to look at the make-up that I’d bought for Bella. It gave me a good opportunity to study the family at close range. I could tell that having tea together was a novelty for them. Of course, with me sitting in their midst they were at their most polite but they were all wrapped in their cocoons of foggy unawareness and didn’t talk to each other at all.

  Sylvia sat by the empty fire stroking the buttery soft green skin of the bag. Her head hung low to her chest and she listened, as I did, to the banter of her eldest son and her daughter. She was an attractive woman, although the lost orphan look that she had cultivated was not suitable in anyone over the age of sixteen and over nine stone. Her once fair hair was a faded oatmeal colour and cut in a shoulder length bob. Her clothes had been bought somewhere like Jaeger more than a few years ago, the jumper was snagged and the skirt was baggy, but they still held some style. Her mouth turned down at the corners in a permanently disappointed droop. Her eyes were the clear pale blue of the non reader and non drinker, and were accentuated by the hideous, and dated, blue eye shadow that she had applied this morning with an indifferent hand. An air of gentle defeat sat over her like a cloud. This cloud seemed so real to me that for a moment I could have sworn that I saw small drops of moisture cling to the woollen nape of her jumper and bead her hair like pearls.

  The effect was curiously draining, and I had to wrench my concentration away from her.

  Archie by contrast was blooming with health. His skin was clear and his brow unfurrowed. He gazed from time to time at his wife whose stillness drew the eye.

  It was soothing to sit amongst a family that I hadn’t yet had time to assimilate into my being, soothing and stimulating at the same time, like sipping a strong black coffee whilst nibbling half a valium.

  When the phone rang, both Hal and Bella were keen to answer it, but Hal got there first taking the phone into another room to talk about something incomprehensible to do with rugby. Bella looked disappointed, and the fleeting look of similarity to her mother was strikingly clear.

  “After I have asked your father if he and Hal would kindly bring my trunk to my room, perhaps you’d like to help me unpack?” I said quietly to her.

  She nodded, and like the biddable child she was, obediently stood up.

  In the end Archie dragged the gardener from his task of salivating over pornography in the shed, rather than asking his son to help him up the stairs with my trunk. I introduced myself to Jack Blair and handed him the book of photographs. Jack mumbled his thanks through his gums and turned the book over suspiciously in his hands. I don’t think he trusted any reading matter that didn’t have a pull out centre fold. Between Jack and Archie my trunk was delivered into Mr and Mrs Amble’s bedroom, and I thanked them profusely.

  “I say umm, Miss Tate –“

  “Oh do call me Flora,” I interrupted Archie.

  “Yes, well Flora, why are you in my bedroom?” Archie asked, looking around his room as if he were making an inventory.

  “Oh Sylvia insisted, I didn’t have the heart to refuse and then of course Dr Cavilleri will be so pleased that I’ve taken his advice to heart. Anyway, a change of rooms will do you all the world of good. I think Sylvia has given you your own bedroom at the end of the corridor if I’m not mistaken, whilst she has taken up residence next to Bella. Separate rooms can be such a blessing after the long haul of a matrimonial sentence, I always think, don’t you agree? More private somehow.” I said, smiling at him in a candid way.

  He stared at me and then turned on his heel out of the room.

  “Don’t forget, seven in the hallway,” I called genially after him.

  Bella was standing in the middle of what was her parent’s bedroom, staring at my well-travelled trunk. She slowly opened it, and carefully started to hang up my clothes in what had been her mother’s wardrobe, pushing the familiar clothes aside, to make way for the strange.

  Further down the corridor Archie Amble was leaning in the doorway of what was now his wife’s room.

  “Remind me again who the hell this painted jade, this black crow of a woman with the yellow hair is?” he demanded.

  Sylvia sighed and said wearily, “Darling, I’ve told you often enough. Flora Tate is the life planner, or guru or whatever you want to call it. I showed you the article in The Times, and the one in Vogue. Do you remember the couple we met in Portugal, you know, the Jarvis’s? Well, they recommended her and honestly, they couldn’t speak highly enough of…”

  “Do you mean that couple that sold everything to start a bloody fish farm in Wales?” Archie said disdainfully.

  “Was it Wales? And are you sure about a fish farm? I thought it was something to do with a zoo in Jersey anyway, the point is she helped their marriage considerably, oh and they didn’t sell everything, they lost everything on the stock market –“

  A look of pity and horror crossed Archie Ambles face.

  “ – and she is really very, very highly qualified in all sorts of things, an expert one could almost say, in all sorts of things. We were very lucky to get her, she has a waiting list, you know. And the weekly rate she charges is very –“

  “Wait,” Archie commanded, folding his arms across his chest to indicate that he was giving this matter his full attention, “Do you mean to say that we are giving her our bedroom, and we’re paying her as well? How much?”

  Sylvia named a sum that made her husband walk down the corridor and straight down the stairs to the drinks cabinet. There he poured himself a large whisky. It was the first time that he had done so at such an early hour in the middle of the week without being privy to some catastrophic news about the stock market or a disastrous cabinet reshuffle. He gloomily dredged his memory for domestic trivia, and remembered that Sylvia had indeed showed him several gushingly written, effusive articles about the benefits of a so called in-house life coach. He snorted with derision and knocked back his scotch in one gulp.

  Meanwhile in another part of the house Harry Amble was sitting on the side of his bed, looking with distaste at a badly made up brunette that graced the front cover of a popular magazine called Fit Totty. He was slowly rolling a joint, and normally this activity would be culminated in the usual adolescent masturbation sequence that he had practised to perfection. This time however it wasn’t so satisfactory. The brunette seemed too young, too tawdry, too charmless. He wondered about the possibility of such a magazine containing slightly older women – there must be one, surely?

  At the other end of a number 52 bus
route Maria Kandinsky was threading beads onto a silken cord. On her night off she came to the same cold, ill-lit room every week to perform the same repetitive task. She was engaged in making rosaries that she would sell to a man called Mishka for a small yet not insignificant sum, to top up her nest egg that she kept, as all good peasants used to, under her mattress. She’d stop off at the church on the way home and make desultory conversation with the other women there.

  Marmaduke was chasing rabbits in his sleep proudly showing off in his dreams a killer instinct to the poodle next door.

  Jack Blair had packed up and gone home to the certainty of a micro waved shepherd’s pie. He’d left the book of photographs in the garden shed. It seemed appropriate.

  The hour spent getting ready to go to dinner can be fraught, if not managed properly. For a start, it’s imperative to know what’s happening around you. If you are trying to relax with two slices of cucumber over your eyes it really can’t be done if you don’t know where all your charges are. Being in control is the most relaxing tonic in the world. I try and make sure I know exactly what my inmates are up to before I start to dress.

  I stored the deeds that I’d found in the Ambles safe in the secret compartment in my trunk, and carefully got dressed. I had a magnificent black leather cat suit from the 1960’s. It had been Mrs Peel’s from a hit TV series in the early seventies called The Avengers, and I thought that this would make the right sort of statement for this evening. My hair was a bit of a problem but I resolved the issue by winding it up into a bun. I applied my lipstick with a steady hand and allowed myself a slow lascivious wink to my reflection. Really, I had never looked better. There was a tentative knock at my door, and I guessed that it was the most biddable of the Ambles: Arabella. I was right.

  We walked down the stairs arm in arm, and I was gratified to see that the rest of the family were gathered in the hallway. Archie had not changed out of his dark well cut work suit, but Sylvia had thrown on a hideous beige silk scarf and a frumpy pair of pearl earrings. Hal was staring up at me as if being blessed with a visitation from on high. I squeezed Bella’s arm, “Goodness, what an attractive family you have,” I said as we joined them.