‘Heavy,’ I murmur, irked by my sentimentality at having kept all this rubbish and the sheer arrogance of the man in criticising my body when he sported a matching pair of back creases and receding temples (which I know is the real reason he used to shave his head, and not, as he pretended, because he wanted to look like Jason Statham).
‘I’ll have you know these thighs jog round the park three times a week,’ I mutter slugging back an ice-cold mouthful of sauvignon blanc.’ Well, perhaps only twice, and it’s more of a power walk than an actual jog, but still . . . ‘These thighs can do a hundred lunges – if they have to,’ I continue. ‘Thighs, goddamn it, that can wrap themselves round a lover’s neck like a python!’ Admittedly not something they’ve had much practice in recently but, hey, all they need is a bit of limbering up . . .
I balance my glass on the side of the bath, and grab the loofah and a bar of soap. Raising one pink shiny thigh out of the bubbles, I lather it like a war veteran proudly shining up his medals. Round and round in little circles, clockwise, then anticlockwise, polishing the outer thigh first, then switching my attention to the inner. Plunging the loofah back into the water, I switch thighs. Rhythmically brushing backwards and forwards. Up and down. Side to side. Sloughing off dead skin, pounding cellulite, kneading dimples.
A thought strikes me. Why is it never like this in movies? How come every Hollywood director seems to be under the illusion that women don’t lie in bubble baths pumicing the hard skin on their feet or applying thick layers of Jolen cream to bleach their moustaches? Oh no, they writhe around in masturbation heaven, soaping breasts, trickling water from flannels between their legs or rubbing a cold wine glass against their nipples. All, of course, in full makeup.
Honestly, if men knew the truth they’d be so disappointed. I pat the thick layer of cream bleach I’ve applied to my top lip. Nope, not ready yet – another five minutes. Discarding the loofah I reach for the razor and inspect the blade. It’s stuffed full of bristles from the last time I used it. And it’s the last one. Damn. I wish I had a new packet. The last time I used a blunt razor I’d cut my legs to ribbons. But what’s the alternative? Spend the weekend with legs like my old German teacher?
Without further ado I give the blade a quick rinse under the tap and get to work, cutting through the lather with well-practised strokes. Shin, calf, ankle, knee. Ouch. I watch a spot of blood appear like a red bubble on my leg.
‘Shit.’ Grabbing the flannel I fold it into a makeshift bandage and am just pressing it to my knee when the phone rings. I listen to it echoing in the hallway. I wonder who it is. Probably Jess, I decide, then remember she’s in Delhi. And it’s not my father as I spoke to him earlier today. He’d just read an article about how they’ve started teaching yoga to cats in Hollywood, and was wondering if Billy Smith might fancy some classes for his birthday. I smile. My father’s an artist and a little eccentric, but I wouldn’t change him for the world. If only the same could be said for my stepmother . . .
I decide against answering it and submerge myself in the duvet of scented bubbles as I wait for the answering-machine to pick up. It’s probably my stepmother calling to annoy me about something anyway. Although there is a slim possibility that it’s Daniel, calling in reply to my drunken text.
As the thought occurs to me I’m unsure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, considering the text: ‘I miss you. Fancy sex with an ex?’ That was the tequila talking, not me: I don’t miss him, I hate him. And I certainly don’t want to sleep with him. I hesitate. Should I make a dash for the phone?
Oh, sod it. Sliding back into the bubbles, one leg dangling out of the bath, I reach for my glass and take another mouthful of wine. Whoever it is can wait.
After what feels like forever the phone stops ringing and I hear the answering-machine click on. I wait to hear my stepmother’s affected voice. Ashamed of her working-class Manchester roots, Rosemary adopts an accent not dissimilar to the Queen’s.
‘Hey there . . .’
Hang on a minute, since when was my stepmother a man? I feel a jolt of something – I’m not sure if it’s panic or excitement. Oh, my God, it’s not Daniel, is it? But then I register that this man has an American accent and I feel a flash of foolishness – and something that feels like disappointment.
‘I’m calling about the ad you placed in . . . er . . . hang on . . .’ There’s the sound of rustling pages. ‘It’s called . . .’
‘Loot,’ we say in the same beat.
Shit.
I vault out of the bath and dash naked into the hallway, dripping soapy water on to the floor. Keep talking, I pray, lunging for the receiver with slippery fingers.
‘Don’t hang up.’ I pant, tearing the phone from its cradle – then remember that if this is a prospective flatmate, I’m a prospective landlady. And I should sound like one. ‘I mean, good evening,’ I say, adopting my best telephone voice. My stepmother would be proud.
‘Oh, hi, yeah. I was . . . er . . . calling about the ad.’
‘And you are?’ I demand, and then cringe. What on earth am I doing? I’m trying to rent my room. I need to sound friendly, laid-back, cool. ‘Sorry, you caught me in the bath, I was trying to find some clothes—’ I break off – I sound like one of those peak-rate 0870 numbers. ‘I mean, hi, I’m Heather.’
‘Oh, hi,’ he says. Followed by an awkward pause. He’s probably deciding whether or not to hang up, I decide, and assume I’ve blown it. Well, would I rent a room from me?
‘I’m Gabe.’
Hmm. What an unusual name. Momentarily I wonder what Gabe looks like. Being American, he’s probably tall, broad, with really good teeth – unless, with my luck, he’s short, fat and balding. And what if he is? This is a prospective lodger, not a date.
‘Right, I mean . . .’ I grapple for some witty quip, then give up. ‘Cool!’ I blurt, closing my eyes in shame. ‘Cool’ is not a word you want to be saying if you still bear the remnants of a childhood Yorkshire accent: it comes out as koo-elle – which is not cool.
Thankfully the stranger doesn’t notice, or if he does, he doesn’t comment. ‘Erm . . . so I was wondering . . . about the room?’
The room. I snap back.
‘Is it still available?’
‘Well, there has been a lot of interest,’ I lie, standing next to the window. It faces directly on to my gorgeous neighbour’s and, unable to resist, I lift the edge of the blind and peek round the side to see if I can catch a glimpse of him.
‘Oh, well, in that case, don’t worry about it. I was only looking for something short-term.’
‘Short term?’ My ears prick up.
‘Yeah, I’m here in London for three weeks, maybe a month.’
I like the sound of a month. It’s nice and temporary. It’s four weeks, which, at a hundred and fifty pounds a week, is . . . I do some mental arithmetic . . . Enough to pay off one credit card. And if I get my arse in gear it might just be long enough for me to find a job that will hopefully pay so well that I won’t have to share a loo-seat with a total stranger.
‘But I haven’t made a decision yet so I’m still interviewing people,’ I add, accidentally jerking the blind. It shoots up, leaving my window bare and exposed, not to mention myself. At the exact moment that my neighbour is drawing his curtains.
‘Agggh!’ I shriek.
There’s silence at the other end of the line, and then, a few seconds later, ‘Er, hi . . . Sorry, I dropped the phone . . . uhm . . . Are you still there?’
Gabe sounds tentative. No doubt it’s taken him a moment to pluck up courage to pick up the receiver. ‘Er . . . yes . . . I’m still here.’
‘Are you OK?’
Having jumped away from the window, into the corner by the mirror, I glance sideways at my reflection. ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I reply, in a strangled voice. Oh. My. God. So this is what my neighbour just saw. Boobs, streaky mascara, wet hair, a cream-bleach moustache and naked thighs. Naked heavy thighs.
‘Are you sure??
??
‘Absolutely,’ I reply firmly, edging forward to peer round the corner like a sniper. I glance back across the street. ‘Him’ is still at the window. No doubt frozen with shock. I throw myself to the ground in an army dive.
‘Agggh.’
‘Perhaps this isn’t a good time . . .’
‘No, now’s a good time,’ I pant, inching forward on my elbows as if I’m on an assault course. I wince as the sisal matting gives my nipples a nasty case of carpet burn. ‘In fact . . .’ Reaching the coat rack I stand upright, grabbing a jacket from a hook. I wrap it round myself protectively. ‘Why don’t you come along and take a look at the room, see if you like it? See if you like me.’ I laugh nervously.
‘When?’
‘Erm, next week?’ I’m playing for time. And sole usage of the Le Creuset pans.
‘What about tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’ I squeak.
‘Sorry, I forgot, it’s Saturday night. You’ve probably made plans.’
‘Um . . . well, actually . . .’ My voice trails off as I remember the truth. I have no plans. I’m single. I’m staying in alone. On a Saturday night.
‘Sorry, am I being your typical pushy American?’ His voice interrupts my awkwardness.
‘Yes, I mean no, no . . . not at all,’ I’m babbling. For Godsake, don’t be such an idiot, Heather, think of your credit-card bills. Think of your mortgage. Think of the fact that you’ve been advertising your room for weeks and this is the first reply you’ve had. ‘Tomorrow’s fine,’ I say quickly.
‘Awesome.’
‘Um . . . yep . . . awesome,’ I repeat. ‘Awesome’ is another word that can only be used by those with an American accent.
There’s a pause.
‘I’ll need your address.’
‘Oh, yes, my address . . . of course.’ I proceed to gabble it so quickly that he has to ask me to repeat it twice.
‘Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow. Around seven?’
‘Great, see you then.’
I replace the handset and lean against the wall. Reeling at the unexpected speed of events, I take a couple of deep breaths. Water from my hair trickles down my back and although it’s a balmy seventy degrees in the hallway, I shiver. Sticking my hands in my pockets to pull my jacket round me I feel my fingers brush against something. Soft yet scratchy. Puzzled, I pull it out. It’s that stupid lucky heather. How did that get there?
Walking to the bin I keep near the front door for junk mail, I’m about to toss it in when I notice a small package on my doormat. One of those freebies you get in the post. Only this time it isn’t some hideously flavoured new Cup-a-soup, or a trial bar of soap: it’s a packet of razor blades. Well, would you believe it? I pick it up. Now I won’t have to go out tomorrow looking half-woman, half-beast.
Chuffed, I hurry back into the bathroom and reach for my razor to swap the blade for a new one. Which is when I see that I’m still holding the sprig of heather. For some reason, I can’t get rid of it. Maybe it really is magical. Magical? I smile ironically. Heather Hamilton, what on earth’s got into you? Of course it’s not magical, it’s just a plant. Or is it a flower?
Twirling it between finger and thumb I gaze at the delicate white sprigs. Superstitious nonsense or not, it’s actually rather pretty. It seems a shame to throw it away. Filling the top of a deodorant can with water I place the lucky heather in its makeshift vase and pop it on the windowsill. For now, anyway.
Chapter Six
Along the banks of the River Avon a small group of art students are huddled round wooden easels. Before them rolls the Shropshire countryside, the layers of sky, fields and river the focus for their tubes of oil paint and brush-stuffed jam jars. This class is part of a summer-school programme run by Bath’s local art college and the students have travelled from Texas to take advantage of it. They’re being taught by Lionel, a robust, bearded man in his early sixties, who looks as if he’s travelled there in a time machine from the French impressionist era. Wearing a paint-splattered smock, a neckerchief, and a beret angled sideways over thick, black curls worthy of a man half his age, he’s striding round the class bellowing enthusiasm and advice.
‘Fabulous use of the magenta, Sandy.’
A large-chested woman beams and continues daubing vigorously.
‘Spot-on sketching, George Junior,’ he growls, slapping the tiny shoulder of an elderly man in Bermuda shorts. ‘Now let’s see what you can do with the real stuff.’ He snatches the pencil out of George Junior’s fingers and replaces it with a horsehair paintbrush.
‘Lionel!’
My voice catches my father by surprise and he swings round, smock billowing round him like a parachute. Waving at him from the wooden stile where I’ve been perched for the last five minutes, watching him proudly, I feel my heart tug. I’m very much my father’s daughter. Living in London I don’t get to spend as much time with him as I’d like, especially not now that he’s getting older, and I miss him. A wide smile stretches across my face and I yell even louder, ‘Lionel, it’s me!’
Lionel peers down into his half-moon glasses and smiles back as he recognises the figure in a red T-shirt and cut-off denim shorts as his only daughter. ‘Heather, darling,’ he bellows, abandoning his students and striding over to greet me. ‘What a wonderful surprise!’ Throwing his arms round my shoulders he pulls me into a bear hug. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Or did you, and I’ve forgotten?’ He rolls his eyes dramatically. ‘My memory’s getting worse. Rosemary fears I’m going senile,’ he confides, then laughs uproariously.
As he clucks and coos over me, I ignore his reference to my stepmother. ‘I’m sorry, it was a last-minute decision. Brian gave me the day off and I just got my car back from the garage so I thought I’d come and see you.’
Well, it’s partly true. Yes, it wasn’t until I’d woken up this morning that I decided I needed to escape London for the day. And, yes, I had really wanted to see my dad. But not calling beforehand? That was deliberate. I hadn’t wanted to let Rosemary know I was coming. If I had, she would have made some excuse about them having a prior engagement, or tell me she had one of her migraines, or suggest that perhaps another weekend might be better. This way, she can’t spoil things – but then again she did that when she married Dad.
‘Marvellous, marvellous,’ beams Lionel, releasing me from his embrace and turning to his students, most of whom are watching our reunion with interest. ‘Everyone, I’d like to introduce my beautiful daughter, Heather.’
‘Howdy,’ they chorus, in a strong Texas drawl.
I smile sheepishly. Dad is always showing me off like some prized possession: he even keeps a photograph of me in his wallet, which he insists on pulling out in front of complete strangers – embarrassing enough, without the fact it’s a school picture of me at thirteen with braces and a custard-dip fringe.
‘She’s a photographer,’ he continues proudly.
‘Wow,’ come the gasps of admiration.
Oh, no. I steel myself for the inevitable questions about supermodels and fashion shoots for Vogue. I always feel like such a disappointment when I have to admit the truth. People want to hear about exotic locations and the size of Kate Moss’s thighs, not someone-they’ve-never-heard-of’s wedding at Brixton town hall.
But, thankfully, I’m saved by my father’s appetite. Digging out his fob-watch from the pocket of his voluminous corduroys, he flicks open the brass cover. ‘Well, that’s about it for today, everyone,’ he declares. ‘It’s twelve thirty on the nose. Time for a spot of lunch.’
Lunch is back at the house. An imposing Regency building torn straight from the pages of a Jane Austen novel, it stands high on a hill in the centre of Bath, offering spectacular views of the town and surrounding villages. Built from honey-coloured stone, it boasts large sash windows that look out on to the walled garden filled with rosebushes, a gazebo and one of those vast lawns that have been mown into immaculate stripes. By anyone’s standards, it’s a truly
beautiful house.
I, however, hate it. It belongs to Rosemary and, like its owner, it’s cold and unwelcoming. Before she and Dad were married, he was living in our cosy cottage in Cornwall, with its uneven walls, tiny porthole windows and thatched roof. Now its used only for holidays and family get-togethers – Rosemary complained it was too small for her furniture.
What she’d meant was that the house reminded her of my mother.
Lionel bought it when Mum was first diagnosed. Hoping that the warmer climate and sea air might do her good, he sold our house in Yorkshire and moved the whole family hundreds of miles south to Port Isaac. Ed and I were still children, and had hated being uprooted, leaving our friends, Leeds United football team and Fred, our pet gerbil, whom we’d buried in the back garden. Our mother, however, fell in love with the place and her happiness was infectious, changing our minds but never her diagnosis. She had died less than three years later.
‘So, how long are you staying?’
We’re all sitting round the kitchen table. There’s my dad, me and my stepmother, who’d greeted my appearance with the customary tight-lipped kiss on the cheek, then complained that they probably wouldn’t have enough food as she hadn’t been to the supermarket. ‘I wasn’t expecting guests.’ She’d smiled woodenly, barely keeping the accusation out of her voice.
I turn to my father who’s cutting himself a large slice of Brie, his meaty hands gripping the cheese knife like a saw.
‘Just for the day,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to be back in London by tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ Disappointment clouds his face.
‘Oh, what a shame,’ coos Rosemary.