“Is your mother an economist or a qualified careers adviser?” I said. Casey stared at me. “Because, if not, then I’m not sure that her advice was necessarily informed by the latest data on earnings projections and labor market demand,” I said, quite concerned for her future prospects.
“She’s a travel agent,” Casey said firmly, as if that settled the matter. I let it drop—it was no concern of mine, after all, and she seemed happy enough at her work. The thought did strike me, as she painted on various coats of various varnishes, that she could have perhaps combined the two professions by becoming a dog groomer. However, I elected to keep my counsel on the matter. Sometimes, when you tried to help with suggestions, it could lead to misunderstandings, not all of them entirely pleasant.
She placed my hands into a small machine which was, I assumed, a hair dryer for nails, and a few minutes later the deluxe pampering was done. All in all, the experience had been rather underwhelming.
She advised me of the price—it was, frankly, extortionate. “I have a leaflet!” I said. She nodded, not even asking to check it, and deducted the requisite one-third, stating the revised amount, which still left me reeling. I reached for my shopper. She said “Stop!” in a very alarming fashion. I did.
“You’ll smudge them,” she said. She leaned forward. “I’ll get your purse out for you, if you like?”
I was concerned that this might be some elaborate ruse to part me from even more of my hard-earned cash, so I watched her like the proverbial hawk as she reached inside my bag. Too late, I remembered the unfinished remains of the egg sandwich which lay within—she gagged ostentatiously as she removed my purse. A slight overreaction, I felt—yes, the odor which escaped was somewhat sulfurous, but still, no need for pantomime. I kept my eyes fixed on her fingers (unpainted, I noticed) as she extracted the required notes and replaced the purse in the shopper very carefully.
I stood up, ready to take my leave. Her erstwhile companion had returned, and cast a glance at my hands, their tips gleaming green. “Nice,” she said, her tone and body language implying strongly that she had little interest in the topic. Casey became slightly more animated. “Would you like a loyalty card?” she said. “Have five manicures and the sixth one’s free!”
“No thank you,” I said. “I shan’t be having a manicure again. I can do the same thing myself at home, better, for nothing.” Their mouths fell open slightly, but with that I was off, making my way back out into the world, dodging the squirters and the sample-pushers on my way past the perfume counters. I longed to be outside in natural light and fresh air again. The gilded confines of the Beauty Hall were not my preferred habitat; like the chicken that had laid the eggs for my sandwich, I was more of a free-range creature.
I got home after work and opened my wardrobe. What to wear to a party? I had two pairs of black trousers and five white blouses—well, they were white originally—which I wore to work. I had a comfortable pair of slacks, two T-shirts and two jumpers, which I wore at weekends. That left my special occasion outfit. I’d bought it for Loretta’s wedding reception years ago, and had worn it on a handful of occasions since, including a special visit to the National Museum of Scotland. The exhibition of newly discovered Roman trove had been tremendous; the journey to Edinburgh, far less so.
The train interior had been more like a bus than the Orient Express, replete with hard-wearing fabrics in stain-concealing colors and gray plastic fittings. The worst thing, apart from the other travelers—my goodness, the hoi polloi do get about these days, and they eat and drink in public with very few inhibitions—was the incessant noise from the loudspeakers. It seemed there was an announcement every five minutes from the mythical conductor, imparting sagacious gems such as large items should be placed in the overhead luggage racks, or that passengers should report any unattended items to the train crew as soon as possible. I wondered at whom these pearls of wisdom were aimed; some passing extraterrestrial, perhaps, or a yak herder from Ulan Bator who had trekked across the steppes, sailed the North Sea and found himself on the Glasgow–Edinburgh service with literally no prior experience of mechanized transport to call upon?
The special occasion outfit was, I realized, somewhat outmoded now. Lemon was not a color that suited me particularly well—fine for nightgowns, worn in the privacy of my bedroom, but hardly suitable for a sophisticated gathering. I’d go to the shops tomorrow and purchase something new; I’d be able to wear it again when I was out at a restaurant or at the theater with my true love, so the money would not be wasted. Feeling happy with this decision, I made my usual pasta con pesto and listened to the Archers. There was a convoluted story line involving a very unconvincing Glaswegian milkman, and I did not particularly enjoy the episode. I’d washed up and settled down with a book about pineapples. It was surprisingly interesting. I like to read as widely as possible for many reasons, not least in order to broaden my vocabulary to assist with crossword solving. Then the silence was very rudely interrupted.
“Hello?” I said, somewhat tentatively.
“Oh, so it’s ‘Hello,’ is it? ‘Hello’—that’s all you’ve got to say to me? And where the hell were you last night, lady? Hmm?” She was playing to the gallery again.
“Mummy,” I said. “How are you?” I tried my best to steady myself.
“Never mind how I am. Where were you?”
“I’m sorry, Mummy,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I was . . . I was with a friend, visiting another friend in hospital, actually.”
“Oh, Eleanor,” she said, her voice oozingly oleaginous, “you don’t have friends, darling. Now come on, tell me where you really were, and I want the truth this time. Were you doing something naughty? Tell Mummy, there’s a good girl.”
“Honestly, Mummy, I was out with Raymond”—there was a snort—“visiting this nice old man in hospital. He fell in the street and we helped him and—”
“SHUT YOUR LYING LITTLE CAKE HOLE!” I flinched, dropped the book, picked it up again.
“You know what happens to liars, don’t you, Eleanor? You remember?” Her voice was back to sickly sweet. “I don’t mind how bad the truth is, but I won’t tolerate lies, Eleanor. You of all people should know that, even after all this time.”
“Mummy, I’m sorry if you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Raymond and I went to hospital to visit a man we’d helped when he had an accident. It’s true, I swear it!”
“Really?” she drawled. “Well, that’s just delightful, isn’t it? You can’t be bothered to talk to your own mother, and yet you spend your Wednesday evenings visiting some geriatric, accident-prone stranger? Charming.”
“Please, Mummy, let’s not fight. How are you? Have you had a good day?”
“I don’t want to talk about me, Eleanor. I already know all about me. I want to talk about you. How is your project coming along? Any news for Mummy?”
I might have known she’d remember. How much should I tell her? Everything, I supposed.
“I went to his house, Mummy,” I said. I heard the click of a lighter and then a long exhaled breath. I could almost smell the smoke from her Sobranie.
“Oooh,” she said. “Interesting.” She took in another lungful and expelled it with a sigh. “Who’s this ‘he’”?
“He’s a musician, Mummy.” I didn’t want to tell her his name quite yet—there is a power in naming things, and I wasn’t quite ready to cede it to her yet, to hear those precious syllables rolled in her mouth, for her to spit them out again. “And he’s handsome and clever and, well, I think he’s the perfect man for me, really. I knew it as soon as I saw him.”