Читать книгу The Woman Who Met Her Match: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you need to read in 2018 - Fiona Gibson, Fiona Gibson - Страница 12

It’s a cool and breezy Wednesday morning and, after Stu’s prickliness, I’m looking forward to throwing myself into a day at the store.

I didn’t bother replying to Antoine’s message last night. Instead, I went straight to bed, finally drifting off to the muffled chatter and laughter of Cam and Mo in Cam’s room. No one had surfaced by the time I got up. I dressed quickly in my La Beauté tunic and the required smart black trousers, and applied my make-up – dark eyes, red lips, my professional face – on autopilot.

As I emerge from the tube station a text pings in from Cecily: I have a theory about the lovely Antoine. He’s newly divorced and thinking, hmm, who can I contact from my past? And you were top of his list!

I smile, amused by her line of thinking. The thing is, when you’re single, married friends are especially keen for you to ‘get out there’ and enjoy some dating adventures. Perhaps they miss that flurry of excitement, and want you to have some fun for them to enjoy, safely, from the sidelines.

I stop outside a closing-down Rymans and reply: Top of the list? Very much doubt it. Will keep you posted! And so to work, where I know precisely what my role is, and what’s expected of me – unlike with the rest of my life.

*

‘The lovely thing about this day cream,’ I say, spreading a little across my customer’s finely boned face, ‘is that it’s like wearing nothing, but all the time it’s keeping the cells plumped up for at least seven hours, whilst helping to stop moisture evaporating from the surface …’

‘You mean it doesn’t sink in?’ she asks.

‘Well, yes, it does, but a very fine layer sits on top of the skin, acting as a protective barrier.’

‘Do you actually know this?’

This takes me aback. I was surprised, actually, that this older woman agreed to come to the counter as I approached her. She’d glided in – tall, perfectly poised with erect posture – just after we opened this morning. I’d expected a brisk ‘no thanks’ and for her to saunter straight past.

‘All our products have taken years to develop,’ I explain, ‘and when something new is launched we all try it over a few weeks. This is the cream I use every day.’

She smiles knowingly. ‘Of course it is, but then, you have to say that.’

‘I’d never recommend anything if I didn’t feel confident that it works.’

She touches her cheek. ‘It does feel rather nice, I have to say.’

I smile. ‘Would you like to try some of our new make-up colours too?’

‘Oh, is there any point at my age?’

I study her for a moment. What a face she has: almost sculpted, with an amazing complexion, her green eyes as striking as a cat’s. In her mid-sixties perhaps, she is a vision of elegance in a simple blue cotton dress and a lace-knit black cardi. Her silvery bob, not a hair out of place, hangs neatly at her pointed chin.

‘I think there’s a point at any age,’ I say, ‘if it makes you feel good about yourself.’

She frowns briefly. ‘Oh, go on then, why not? It’s just, I’ve never been a make-up person, I’ve never actually worn lipstick …’

‘No, well, I can do something very subtle for you.’

‘And I do have something coming up – an important presentation which I’m actually quite nervous about. Silly, I know, at my age …’

‘Not at all,’ I assert.

She blinks at our array of eye shadows, looking quite baffled. ‘Anyway, I’m thinking that make-up is somewhat necessary for such an occasion. It’s just expected, isn’t it, that one looks … polished these days? Could you give me some advice on that?’

‘I’d be delighted to,’ I say. ‘I’m Lorrie, by the way …’

‘Gilda.’

‘Don’t worry, Gilda, I won’t do anything outlandish. Neutrals are best when you want to look professional. So, I’ll start with our new primer …’

A small frown. ‘I have no idea what primers do.’

‘They just form a smooth base for make-up,’ I explain, ‘and contain tiny light-reflecting particles—’

‘I don’t want to look like a mirrorball!’

‘Oh, you won’t, because when I apply base over that …’

‘So base goes over the … what’s it called again?’

‘Primer.’

Gilda chuckles. ‘The base coat …’

‘Well, sort of …’

‘Like I’m a roughcast wall.’

I laugh, because she really is astoundingly beautiful and I don’t think she’s even aware of the fact.

She sits bolt upright as I apply a light cream base, and seems to be paying rapt attention as I talk her through the make-up. ‘I’m using this neutral beige over your lids,’ I explain, ‘and some darker brown close to your lashes and along the socket line – this gives an impression of depth …’

‘Not too much, please,’ she murmurs.

‘No, I promise it’s not a lot. Just a smudge of liner and some brown mascara, it’s much softer than black …’ I add blusher and a subtle brownish-rose lipstick. Although it is a full face of make-up, the effect is subtly enhancing.

‘So what do you think?’

Gilda swivels towards the mirror. ‘Oh!’ She regards herself for a moment.

Hell, she’s horrified.

‘Well, I have to say …’ She peers more closely. ‘Yes, I actually like it. Gosh, that’s a surprise. It did feel like an awful lot of stuff you were putting on …’

I exhale with relief. Although I always care, it seemed especially important that Gilda – a lipstick first-timer – was happy with my handiwork. ‘It probably did, if you’re not used to it …’

She hops down off the stool. ‘And I couldn’t be doing with all that every day, good lord no …’

‘No, of course not. But for a special occasion – for your presentation …’

‘Yes, quite. You know, I think I might have a go myself.’ She smiles. ‘I’ll take them, please.’

That’s a bonus. I didn’t expect a sale. ‘Which products were you thinking of? Here’s everything I’ve used today …’

I lay out the make-up on the counter, which she peruses carefully.

‘Oh, I’ll take the lot, darling. You’re very talented, I can’t quite believe how, well …’ She pauses and checks her reflection again. ‘… How damn good I look!’

‘You look wonderful. I’m so glad you’re happy.’

I ring through her purchases and watch her stride away.

‘God, she was gorgeous,’ exclaims Helena, who’s just returned from her break. ‘I’d love to be like that when I’m her age. It gives me hope. And wasn’t she pleased! Isn’t that a great feeling?’

‘It is,’ I say truthfully, because that’s what I love most about my job: seeing a woman light up with pleasure after I’ve applied her make-up. We get to know our customers a little, too, albeit for the short time they’re perched on our stools. We hear about new relationships, break-ups, difficult mothers, career triumphs and disasters – the whole range of life’s dramas. Making up someone’s face is such an intimate thing. Often, a woman opens up, more than you’d ever imagine.

‘You’re definitely coming out tonight, aren’t you?’ Helena adds.

‘Yes, of course. Looking forward to it …’ It’s Helena’s birthday today – her thirty-sixth – reminding me that I’m by far the oldest team member here. As one customer put it, ‘It’s nice to get advice from someone who understands mature skin.’ Ouch. She was right, though, and even our younger customers – barely twenty, some of them – seem to enjoy my rather motherly approach. I reassure myself of this on rare occasions when I panic about being put out to pasture.

At lunchtime, having picked up a sandwich, I install myself on a bench in the nearby tree-lined square and check my phone. Antoine has messaged again.

Hope you don’t mind me getting in touch, Lorrie. I knew it was you right away. You have hardly changed at all.

Oh, please – flatterer. Yet I can’t help smiling.

Where are you? Still in Yorkshire?

I take a fortifying bite of my sandwich and type:

Hi Antoine,

Lovely to hear from you. It was quite a surprise, I have to say. I’m in London – I’ve lived here pretty much all my adult life actually. East London, Bethnal Green. I live with my two teenagers and our lodger, Stu. Life’s really good. How about you? Where are you living these days?

I’m poised, waiting for a reply; I can see he’s online with his little green light on. There’s a burst of laughter from a group of young women all stretched out on the grass. Despite the cool breeze, their skirts are hoiked up to maximise tanning potential.

Life is good thank you, he replies. I live in Nice – very different from that sleepy place I grew up in, where nothing ever happened! Do you remember it? I have very happy memories of my time with you. :)

Hmm. So he likes a smiley emoticon. Could it be interpreted as flirty, or would that be a wink? I’m not au fait with the language of commas and dots. Another message appears:

I have two teenagers too, Nicolas and Elodie.

Lovely names, I reply.

Thank you, of course I think so! And yours?

I have Cameron, who’s seventeen – everyone apart from his grandma calls him Cam – and Amy, she’s fifteen. She spends every spare moment at basketball training. Cam loves music and wants to be a sound engineer – or at least he thinks so. It’s all rather vague at the moment.

They sound like great kids. Mine live with their mother in Paris so it’s a long way. But we see each other when we can. They are fifteen and thirteen and growing up fast. It’s hard to believe we were just teenagers ourselves when we met that summer! Do you remember?

Does he actually think I have no memory at all?

Yes, of course I remember, I reply, then add a smiley :)

Amy would be appalled. I’ve glimpsed her texts – they are littered with emoticons – but she reckons there’s a cut-off age (twenty) for their usage.

Having finished my sandwich now, I’m starting to feel slightly ridiculous, sitting here on tenterhooks for another message. I can virtually hear Stu, carping into my ear: ‘Your pupils are massive and you’re all flushed! Jesus, Lorrie, look at the state of you …’

Amazing wasn’t it? Antoine types. The best time!

Wow – that’s a bit … suggestive. Fragments of his long-ago correspondence – the spidery handwriting with its distinctly French-looking loops and curls – flutter into my mind as I get up and drop my sandwich wrapper into a nearby bin. I’ll never forget you, he wrote in his letters back then. I’ll always love you, my beautiful Lorrie.

I stop at the corner of the street. Five minutes left of my break. I type a message, feeling emboldened now.

Can I just ask what’s made you get in touch with me now, after all this time?

Hell, why not? I want to know what he wants, and I’ve been far too reserved lately. Take the date with Ralph. What possessed me to just sit there, being pleasant, while he told me I was clearly very fond of my cake? Why didn’t I say, ‘Actually, that’s incredibly rude of you and, while we’re at it, I really couldn’t give a toss about what Thomas Trotter is trying to “say” with his caged Brillo pads’?

I hover, staring at my phone like a fixated teenager. Perhaps Cecily was right, and Antoine is newly single and working his way through the list of all the women who’ve been in any way significant to him. Who would I have, if I was playing that game? Without David, there is literally no one. There have been others, of course – a few forgettables before I met him, then more recently Pete Parkin from the electricals department at work, with whom I had a brief thing about three years ago, until he left to take up a deputy manager’s position at Holland and Barrett. But he’d hardly feature on any list; in fact, I suspected we’d only got together because we were both lonely and ended up chatting at a work leaving do. We had absolutely nothing in common, and the sex, which happened just a handful of times – accompanied by the shrill squawks of his parrot in the living room – was a rather dismal affair.

I moved a few months ago, Antoine replies. I’m still sorting through papers and photos, trying to throw things away. Do you find it hard to let go of things?

Oh, yes. Our loft is stuffed with boxes and bags containing David’s possessions. His books, paperwork, numerous shirts with frayed collars that he refused to throw away: they’re all there, waiting for decisions to be made about their destiny.

Once, I got as far as packing up a dozen or so shirts for charity. I was halfway to the shop when I glimpsed a faded blue one poking out of the bag – the one David always took on holiday and threw on over a T-shirt when the beach turned cool. I pulled it out of the bag and briefly buried my face in it, certain I could smell his sun-warmed skin and not caring whether passers-by thought I was crazy. Then I hurried home and bundled the bag of shirts back into the loft.

That, Antoine types, is when I found pictures of us!

I stare at my phone. Pictures of us? I don’t remember many being taken, and the only one I have from that trip is of Valérie and me, sitting rather unhappily on the edge of her bed. I am smiling tensely and Valérie is pulling off one of her socks.

Really? I type. I am amazed you have any from that long ago.

Yes, he replies instantly, it was lovely to see them. You know, I couldn’t believe you had travelled alone, all the way from Yorkshire, with that piece of paper your mother typed. You were brave. Anything could have happened to you …

Something did happen to me.

I thought you were clever, brave and beautiful …

My heart seems to slam against my ribs.

Look, here’s one of the pictures …

My breath catches as a photo appears. It’s a little fuzzy, and at first it’s hard to believe it’s really us. He’s probably photographed the old print with his phone. But I remember it being taken now, by one of Valérie’s friends on a blisteringly hot day. Antoine and I are standing on the old stone bridge in the village, squinting a little – or at least I am – at the camera. He is looking at me, and his slim brown arm is slung around my shoulders, pulling me close. I have dreadful hair – yellowy highlights clashing against my natural brunette, the style verging perilously close to mullet – but I look so happy. Both of us do. You can see it clearly, shining out of our faces, even from a thirty- year-old faded print.

Wow, I type.

It’s lovely, he replies.

Apart from my highlights!

Highlights?

Those yellow stripes in my hair …

I swallow hard, poised to walk back into the store, wanting to remind him that his letters became rather blunt (‘Valérie learns karate but broke shoulder!’) before petering out altogether. I could tell him about my prowlings in the hallway at home, waiting for the postman, or the fact that I lied to Gail Cuthbertson, the mean girl at school, when she asked if I still had ‘that French boyfriend’.

‘Yes, if it’s any of your business.’

‘Let’s see a photo of him then.’

‘Don’t have any.’

‘Yeah, ’cause you made him up!’

Of course I don’t hold grudges: not like my mother, who’s still prone to muttering about my father’s unwillingness to fix a dodgy plug – ‘It’s like he was waging a campaign to electrocute me, Lorrie. Like he wanted to shoot thousands of volts through my body!’ And they broke up thirty-six years ago.

‘Can’t you just let it go, Mum?’ I implored her the last time she dredged it up. ‘It’s a very long time ago and he’s safely on the other side of the world. No one’s going to get electrocuted now.’

‘Maybe Jill will,’ she muttered, with a trace of gleefulness.

So, no – of course I’m not bitter about a teenage romance that fizzled out.

I thought you had lovely hair, Antoine replies now.

A busker starts playing a harmonica incredibly badly as another picture appears on my phone: the two of us again, this time lying on our backs in some grassy place – the goat farm perhaps – photographed from above. I guess his friend must have taken it. Of course, it was long before the days of selfies. My T-shirt is rumpled and slipping off one shoulder, and I am smiling broadly; that pouty photo face, the one all the girls do now, hadn’t been invented then. Even if it had, I’d have been too filled with happiness to remember to pull it.

I stare at the picture, no longer registering the throngs of people all around because I’m just seeing me, a young girl madly in love for the very first time. My vision fuzzes as Antoine’s message appears:

I have to tell you, Lorrie, it was the summer I came alive.