She always kept her eyes averted when she went out of the gate, as if it was too painful even to look at.
Now Joy tended Hayden’s garden. She pretty much kept the house in vegetables and wittered endlessly on about the delights of keeping chickens, which Hayden steadfastly tried to ignore. He might not be able to refuse waifs and strays, but he was definitely putting his foot down at the prospect of chickens.
The curtains were open and the moonlight lit up the room, falling on the piano and making it gleam. It was a baby grand that had once belonged to Elton John. He couldn’t even remember now how he came to own it. There’d been a frenzy of rash purchases in the early days, before he’d pretty much lost all interest in material things. Most of them were now unused, covered in dust sheets in the upstairs rooms. Hayden put the statue down on top of it and stroked its gleaming surface.
He didn’t come in here often these days. Mainly he kept to his room upstairs, where he watched what was going on in the world through the television – all of it profoundly depressing or banal. When he could stand the television no longer, he read. He used to prefer crime fiction, but now he couldn’t read anything that involved death or violence so he stuck pretty much to biographies, most of which he found interminably dull. There were celebrities that were on their third volume of exposé – baring their souls, every aspect of their sordid lives, when they’d barely done anything to write home about. He’d been asked to do his own one on several occasions and had always refused point-blank. That hadn’t stopped a dozen or more ‘unauthorised’ biographies about him being published, where some desperate author had written a work of fiction about him and had called it fact. He’d given up trying to sue.
Sometimes he even listened to music. But not often. And never his own songs. He couldn’t stand to have the radio on now as he never knew when one of his hits might pop up, and that was simply too painful to bear.
When he used to go out, he’d be in a shop or a café and, quite unexpectedly, he’d hear his own voice. It sounded so strong, so hopeful, that he couldn’t handle it and would have to leave. Only when he was back in the safety of his own home, behind his tall gates, would he stop shaking. It happened so often that eventually it was easier not to go out.
This room – which used to be his favourite – was long, the whole length of the house. Near the front bay window there were three cream sofas grouped together round a log burner. One wall was entirely covered in bookcases – a kind of library, which he must have dreamed up during a pretentious phase. Though, if you looked closely, it was mostly stocked with commercial fiction. There was a distinct lack of worthy, leather-bound tomes. There were a few classics, mainly stuff he’d read as a child. Perhaps one day he would buy a really good collection of worthy books to immerse himself in. Now he preferred stories that washed over him, chewing-gum for the brain. Novels that he didn’t have to become emotionally involved in. The tacky stories of love gone wrong were Laura’s choice. The grisly crime thrillers, once his own passion, were now nothing more than dust magnets. The biographies were a new and growing addition but he was tiring of them already.
The other wall was covered in his awards. Gold and platinum discs for this, that and the other. One was for his worldwide hit ‘My For Ever Love’, which largely funded this house and was one of those pension songs that normally come along once in a lifetime for a songwriter. He had churned them out on a regular basis.
Hayden hadn’t decorated this place. He’d had a designer in while he was away on tour making sure the cash rolled in. The whole place was bland, inoffensive, lacking character. And had cost a fortune. The wooden flooring in here was something special, but he couldn’t even remember what now. He did, however, remember gasping at the price, even then when he was spending money like water.
Now he was glad that the house was so minimalist, a blank canvas. This was really the only room that held memories. He realised that he’d actually forgotten what it looked like in natural light as it was so long since he’d been in here during the day.
Opening the lid of the piano, Hayden tinkled a couple of the keys. The sound was wrong and loud in the still house, but he slid on to the seat anyway, even though it felt alien to him. He sat motionless and breathed deeply.
The moonlight shone directly on to the picture of Laura too. She smiled out of the darkness at him and he couldn’t help but smile back. He did it so little these days that his cheeks felt tight and his lips stuck to his teeth. Even he recognised that was a bad thing.
‘Hi,’ he said to the photograph. ‘It’s been a while.’
Hayden had taken the photograph himself, out on Hampstead Heath, not far from the house. He’d bought a new camera and was trying it out. Something else that lay abandoned in a drawer. After what happened, he never wanted to take another photograph of a living being ever again. The bloody things should be banned from the earth. Some cultures believed that taking a person’s photograph stole their soul. He was a firm believer in that now. Sometimes they stole more than that.
Every weekend, when he wasn’t away on tour, he and Laura had liked to walk up on the Heath together. Until it became impossible. Once the paparazzi got wind of it, they were stalked whenever they ventured out for a stroll. They talked about getting a dog – but then they’d talked about lots of things that they never did.
His fingers moved over the keys again. Like an automaton, he played the opening bars of ‘My For Ever Love’, the song that was never far from his mind. He knew without even trying that the words wouldn’t come out. His throat was closed tightly. Even sustained conversation was difficult. There was no song left in his heart. After a few more notes, his fingers stopped moving too.
The song had been written for Laura. She was the one who was supposed to be his for ever love. But she wasn’t.
Chapter Thirteen
‘I am going to introduce you to the shopping experience of your life!’ Crystal throws her arms wide.
We’re standing on Oxford Street in front of a very large fashion store. The clothes in the window are so garish that they’re making my eyes hurt. I have Sabina clutched tightly by the hand. If she’s frightened of the crowds, she’s giving no indication of it.
‘Primark?’ I say.
‘Exactly!’ She grins at me. ‘Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life! This is a place of many wonders.’ She links her arm in mine and marches me through the front door. It is, indeed, like entering a different world. The light’s bright, glaring. Loud music pumps out and along one wall there’s a display of video screens showing giant-sized women strutting about. Racks and racks crammed with every conceivable colour of clothing stretch out ahead of us.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘No,’ I admit. And I’m a little bit frightened now that I am here, but I don’t tell Crystal this.
‘Good God, you have led a sheltered life,’ she tuts.
‘I haven’t very much money, Crystal,’ I remind her in a quiet voice. I think of all of our savings in the bottom of the holdall back at our new house. I’ve brought one roll of £100 with me, still bound by its elastic band, which seems extraordinarily extravagant. It’s the most money I have ever had. I looked carefully at my funds this morning and know that they have to last me a long time.
‘Let me worry about the cash today.’ She pats my arm in a kindly way. ‘Count this as my treat. I’ve had a good week at the club. Lots of tips.’
I didn’t hear what time Crystal came home, but this morning she didn’t rise until ten o’clock, which meant that I waited a long time for her, as Sabina and I were having breakfast at seven. Joy came down and said a cursory hello to us and took her two slices of toast into the garden as it’s a sunny day. Mr Daniels – Hayden – didn’t come down at all.
‘I must leave some money to buy Sabina a school uniform too,’ I remind her.
She dismisses me with an airy wave. ‘You worry too much, girlfriend.’
Perhaps I do, but I think that
I’m right to be concerned. There’s so much to take into consideration in our new life.
This morning, after she had eaten breakfast, Crystal took me into Hayden’s office which is at the front of the house, and telephoned the local school. She’s made an appointment for us to go to see the headteacher and I’m anxious about it already. At Sabina’s old school, they all knew her when she was a bright, chatty child and, when all that changed, they helped her, the teachers and pupils alike. I wonder what they’ll make of my solemn, silent daughter at a new school. I’m frightened that she won’t be liked or that she’ll be bullied. What if they won’t take her and she has to go somewhere different, for children with special needs? I feel sick at the very thought.
‘Don’t worry about that yet. School stuff is as cheap as chips in supermarkets,’ Crystal assures me. ‘You’ll know that better than me.’
But I don’t, as Suresh always gave his mother the money to buy Sabina’s uniform. I have no idea how much these things cost, and that’s what worries me.
‘We’ll go there as soon as we know she’s got a place.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You, on the other hand, need a complete makeover,’ Crystal says as we’re swallowed up by the shop. ‘Today’s shopping is just for fun! You’ve gotta ditch all that drabness. You’re a young, pretty woman and you look like a downtrodden old hag. In a nice way, obvs.’
Looking down at my shalwar kameez, I fear that she’s right. I’m not that woman any more. At least, I don’t want to be.
‘We’re going to modernise you. Get rid of those pyjama things. Whoever told you that khaki is your colour must be blind.’
‘I’m used to dressing modestly,’ I venture. I want to cast off my clothes to start my new life, but I don’t want to abandon my culture.
‘I’ve seen loads of women wearing those in fab colours with sparkly bits and looking a million dollars. We could go down that road, but you need to change your image completely so you’ll be unrecognisable.’
‘But I still wish to be me.’
‘I get it,’ Crystal says. ‘No tits-out tops. No bum-skimming skirts. Though, to be frank, you’d look bloody great.’
Crystal is dressed more demurely today. She has on a tight white T-shirt and jeans. Her handbag, shoes and sunglasses are vibrant red. But it’s still clear that she’s a very curvy woman and has a lot of va-va-voom, as I heard someone say on an advert.
‘I like what you’re wearing,’ I tell her. ‘I wish I had the courage to be so bold.’
‘Let’s start there, then.’ She ushers me towards the rails with jeans on.
Once she’s assessed my size, she loads me up with different colours of denim – dark blue, pale blue. Then we spend a long time going through the racks of clothes and trotting up and down escalators in Crystal’s wake while she piles T-shirts into my arms, until I have a higgledy-piggledy tower. She pops a couple of pretty little cardigans on top.
‘What shoe size are you?’
‘Three,’ I say.
‘Christ,’ she mutters. ‘Those are child’s feet. Back in a mo. Get in the queue.’ She disappears while, as instructed, Sabina and I join the long, long queue which snakes towards the changing rooms.
‘Is this fun?’ I say to my daughter. ‘We’ve never been shopping like this before. Next it’ll be your turn.’
She smiles at me and, for the first time in a long time, I think that it reaches her eyes. I squeeze her hand. With Crystal around, it’s hard to feel sad.
Our new friend comes back, hands filled with shoes. Some of them look very high. ‘Here you go, Beanie.’
She dumps them all into Sabina’s arms and chases off again. This time she comes back with a little dress and two jackets.
‘I don’t think that I need all of these clothes.’
‘A capsule wardrobe, sweetie,’ she says. ‘That’s what Auntie Crystal is fixing you up with.’
I nod as if I know what she means.
‘You should think about cutting your hair too,’ she says. ‘Bin that dreary scarf. Go for a sharp bob and maybe dye it. A nice plum colour would suit you.’
It sounds frightening to me. Perhaps Crystal is right though. If I did change my hair, my complete image, then it would take me another step away from my old life.
She lowers her voice until I can only just hear her over the blaring music. ‘Have you thought about changing your name?’
‘No.’
‘I did. My real name’s Christine, but who wants a lapdancer called Chris? Crystal is much more exotic.’
‘I don’t know what I’d call myself.’
‘Maybe don’t change Ayesha, that’s really nice. But you could be Mrs Roberts or Richardson instead of Rasheed. Something like that. It would seem sensible. No need to do it formally. Stick to Rasheed for official documents, your benefits and stuff like that. Use Roberts when you’re out and about.’
‘Could I do that?’
Crystal shrugs. ‘Don’t see why not. It might give you an extra bit of protection. Just in case.’
Just in case Suresh comes looking for me, she means. Would he do that? I’d like to think that he could simply let me go, but he might feel differently about Sabina. He was never over-affectionate to her as a father, and a lot of our difficulties stemmed from the fact that he wanted a son and I was unable to give him one. That made me a failure as a wife in his eyes. Sabina is his only child and, as such, will he want to reclaim her like a prize? I can only hope that it’ll be too difficult to find us in this big, big city.
‘Right, we’re on,’ Crystal announces, and sure enough, we’re at the head of the queue. ‘Get in that changing room and show me what you’ve got hidden beneath that drab exterior!’
Chapter Fourteen
Standing in the cubicle alone, I pull off my tired and dirty shalwar kameez. The small, timid woman who stares back at me looks worn down by life, and tears fill my eyes.
Well, all that is about to change.
Sorting through the pile of clothes that Crystal has pressed on me, I first try on some jeans with a T-shirt and a pair of heels that are not as towering as the others and look as if I may be able at least to stand up in them.
I feel self-conscious as I survey my new attire. I’ve never before worn clothes that are so revealing: Suresh would never have allowed it. It’s as if I’m naked. The T-shirt says I WILL SURVIVE! in small pink letters in the middle of my chest. It’s still quite loose compared to how Crystal wears them, but it shows off more of my boyish figure than I’d usually be comfortable with. I try very hard to like what I see, to look at myself thinking that I need to throw off the downtrodden woman that I was and embrace the new, modern me. I must become a woman who can take control of her life and know what she wants from it. Taking a deep breath, I try to connect with the strange creature who gazes back at me and wonder if I could grow to like her.
A few minutes later, when I’ve composed myself, I totter out from the safety of the changing room to where Crystal and Sabina are waiting to assess me. Our new friend is standing with her arm slung casually round my daughter’s shoulders and I feel lucky that we have, by fate, landed in a house with kind people, with someone who has taken it upon herself to help us.
‘What do you think?’ I smooth down the T-shirt.
Crystal spins towards me and then stops dead. ‘Wow!’ Her eyes grow wide like saucers. ‘Look at you.’
Other people turn to do so and I feel myself flush.
‘You look bloody sensational!’ she cries. ‘Turn round. Give us a twirl.’
I hold out my arms and turn for her. As I do she smacks me soundly on the bottom. ‘That arse is something else. Wildly jel.’
I get a flashback to a slap across my face. A slap that made my teeth rattle and my skin burn. A slap that was rough and not intended as play. I push away the memory. It will not spoil my mood today.
‘This needs to go though.’ Crystal pulls off my headscarf and, self-conscious, my hand goes to my ha
ir. ‘No more hiding this light under a bushel. This has to go too.’ She grabs hold of my plait and slides off the restraining band, then runs her fingers through it to unbraid it. In my other life, I may have been offended by someone manhandling me like this. Now I feel lucky to have someone like Crystal to help me. I have a dear sister in Sri Lanka, Hinni, who I haven’t seen since I moved to England, and I miss her keenly. She would treat me in this way. I like the way Crystal touches me. It’s open and straightforward. It never occurs to her that it might make me anxious, and therefore it doesn’t.
She fluffs up my hair, draping it round my shoulders. ‘Get an eyeful of that, honey.’ Crystal drags me to the nearest full-length mirror and positions me in front of it. ‘I have to pay a fortune for extensions to get anywhere close to that lustrous mane.’
I’ve never worn my hair loose. Ever since I was a child, it’s been held back in a plait.
‘I thought you should cut it, but you look completely different with those clothes and with your hair down like that. That bastard husband of yours could be ten feet away from you and he’d never recognise you.’
I stroke my hair. ‘You think so?’
‘I know so.’ She turns to Sabina. ‘Isn’t Mummy pretty?’
My daughter nods her approval, and there’s a hint of a smile on her solemn face.
‘Do you really like it?’ I ask my child.
She nods again. Say yes, I silently beg. Please say yes.
But she doesn’t.
‘Try the dress on now,’ Crystal instructs. ‘Then it’s your turn next, Little Bean.’
Sabina looks excited at the prospect.
So I go back into the changing room and, before I take off the clothes, I look at myself in the mirror once more. A weary sigh escapes my lips. If I were a different person, I could carry off this look, but I’m not. I know that I can’t go out into the world looking like this. I can just manage it in the safety of my changing room, but not in public. I want to change my image, but I also want to remain true to myself.