Monday morning, three days after Charles Delacorte’s funeral, I determined I could do something about my marriage. I could eat the attractive, delicious, well-balanced meals Ben prepared. And if in so doing I gained a pound, so be it. Somewhere along the pathway to becoming the perfect wife I had forgotten that I had needed Ben’s help to keep trim; I had stopped letting him support me in this very important area of my life. We had been more of a team, more married, in the days when we were friends.
If only… if only we could have a second chance. I made a second determination. At nine-thirty, give or take an hour, I would pick up the phone and dial Ann’s number.
Magdalene and I were alone in the kitchen, but I was barely aware of her until she said, “If it’s something I’ve done to upset you, Giselle, I’d rather you told me straight out. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings, I’m not as frail as I look.” She picked up the milk jug with both hands. “I draw strength from doing for others.”
I believed her. The kitchen was a changed place. Strung above the window were brightly painted egg shells sprouting tiny plants. A patchwork rug lay on the floor, a doily draped over the back of the rocking chair, and a new army of statues topped one of the cupboards. But the biggest change was in Magdalene herself. She wore a secret glow that perked up her dusty sparrow face. She and Poppa still weren’t speaking beyond essentials, and she continued to cross herself every time he came into the room. But there seemed something different about the way she did it. Had Charles’s untimely demise brought home to her the temporary nature of all things, including extramarital flings?
“You haven’t done anything to upset me, Magdalene. I’m just a bit preoccupied.” A nicer person would have reassured her with a hug. My uncooperative arms dangled at my sides. In a few minutes I must take that long walk to the phone.
“You’ll just be saying that, but it’s not in my nature to poke and pry.” Opening the garden door to admit Sweetie, her expression clouded. “Hm! Here comes Mrs. Malloy.”
“Morning!” Roxie rattled the supply bag at Sweetie. “Not another in the world like the little moppet, is there? Only scratches to come in when she has to go.”
Magdalene and Sweetie bristled. Hurriedly, I mentioned the post Roxie had in her hands.
“Don’t get excited, Mrs. H. Nothing of interest.” She licked her index finger and continued to flip through. “Nothing but bleedin’ bills, by the looks of it.” She whapped the envelopes on the table and prissied her lips at Magdalene. “We can’t get letters from France every day, can we, Mr. H.’s Ma?”
My mother-in-law hadn’t mentioned any foreign correspondence. She avoided my eyes and got busy stroking Sweetie; her lips were tight. Roxie dumped the supply bag on the table and gave me a lavish smile. “How’s Mr. H. and the restaurant coming along?”
“Ben’s at Abigail’s now. It’s going to reopen for lunch tomorrow.” I leafed through the envelopes and put them in the wire rack. I didn’t want either of the women to realise how scared I was that he wouldn’t be given a fair chance to live down the… my past.
Roxie unstoppered the all-purpose bottle. “My guess is things’ll be all right. There’s always them what like to live dangerously.”
Spoken from firsthand experience? Did that two-tone hair and madam makeup hide a face I didn’t know?
“Mr. Flatts’s back on the job, is he? Not nursing his dart wound so he can sue Sid Fowler?”
I started to say that Freddy was again an employee, but was cut off by my mother-in-law.
“Mrs. Malloy, this isn’t my house but-”
Roxie looked right, then left. “You could’ve pulled the wool over my eyes.”
“-and I’m never one to criticise, but the last time you were here you did miss three finger marks on the left side of the cooker.”
“Ooooh!” Roxie snarled a breath which tripled the size of her bosom. “Begging your royal pardon, I must not have had the time. I’m that busy these days putting fresh water in all them little birdbaths you’ve got dotted around the house. And there’s not even a budgie in the house!”
Magdalene crossed herself.
“And another thing!” Roxie smacked her lips. “Haven’t I been telling Mrs. H. until I’m purple as this hat that I don’t dust little graven images.”
A blessing on my house. I was driven from the kitchen, driven to phone Ann. Out in the hall I seized the telephone off the trestle table and trailed its cord into the drawing room. Closing the door, I deposited the phone on a chair, shoved another chair against the door, and paced the room. Ready or not! Hands shaking, I picked up the phone, put it down, picked it up again, and dialed. Ann answered at the second ring.
“Ellie! Lovely to hear your voice.”
“And yours.” I was appalled at how calm I sounded. “How are you feeling?”
“Serene. In so many ways this has been harder on you than me.”
Indubitably true, if the suspicions of Flowers Detection were correct.
“Ann, you are incredible.” My voice splintered. “You make me ashamed of myself. There you are getting on with your life while all I’m doing is making the most terrible botch of mine.” Again, true.
“Ellie,” her voice rang with sincerity. “Clearly you need to talk, really talk. Would you like to come over here?”
“Now?”
“What better time?”
I had to wash my hair, grow my nails…
I drove, rather than taking the bus, because the odds as always were excellent that the Heinz would break down midway. That damn car!
Ann met me at the door of the shop, put up the Closed sign, and led me through the amber velvet curtains, across the storage room, and up a flight of varnished stairs into the flat. On first coming here I had been intrigued by Ann’s collections. Music boxes, clocks, crystal, jade, salt cellars, and inkwells crowded the sitting room. Now the place had a narcissistic look. The many photos were all of herself, most of them taken in childhood with some singer of forgotten fame. Several were inscribed, Me with the wonderful so-and-so. My misgivings intensified when I saw, newly pinned to the collar of Ann’s white crepe blouse, a blackbird brooch. She closed the door. The very ordinariness of her smile made my skin prickle.
“Would you like a sherry?” She moved to a table covered with a tapestry cloth and crammed with decanters, some with price labels on them.
“No, thank you.” My fingers brushed a silver frame surrounding the image of little Ann gazing idolatrously into the face of the songbird Sylvania. “I… I am avoiding alcohol at present on account of its being a depressant.” Far smarter not to think about what I was going to say or the consequences. Get on with it and get out of here.
“I understand.” Ann smoothed down the sides of her maroon and black skirt and perched gracefully on the arm of the horsehair sofa.
“No, you don’t!” I crossed to the window and flung my arm around my eyes. “You’re too good, too decent to have any idea what is going on inside my head. All the anger! The feeling that all men are beasts!” Was the great Sylvania smirking at me?
“May I hazard a guess as to what is distressing you so? You feel guilty because you don’t pity me… you envy me.”
My neck came up, almost snapping off my head. Thank God for long hair. It is forever tumbling down and providing something to do for one’s hands.
“Ann, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.” She crossed her ankles, inserted a cigarette in a jade holder, and lit up. “This, for instance.” She blew out a curl of smoke. “When Charles was alive, I couldn’t have a cigarette in peace. I couldn’t do anything in peace, even dislike him.” She leaned back and exhaled. “There, I am finally telling you the truth. All the other stuff I told you regarding my relationship with him was rubbish, invented according to the rules of…”