Before and After (3 page)

I
saw her hand stretch out, as if she wanted to stroke it.

I
smiled at her. Later, perhaps.

She
reclaimed her hand, looking embarrassed.

I
stood in the middle of her room, allowing her to stare at first at my hair, and then her gaze travelled down towards my breasts that were visible through the sheer fabric of my shirt.

She
blushed, and dragged her eyes away.

I
smiled at her again and rescued her from herself.

“Well,
if you give me a few hours to nap and acclimatise myself after my journey, I’ll come down and take tea with you. Earl grey, no milk, no sugar. Oh, and I do like some toast, do you? Perhaps with some of Maria’s cherry jam? Perfect. Thank you so much, see you later.” I guided her towards the door and closed it firmly behind her. As an after-thought, I opened it again and called after her, “Oh, and
please
don’t concern yourself with the redecoration of my room, I’ll organise that for tomorrow, shall I?”

I
had time to see the look of blank surprise on her face before I closed the door again, making sure that I turned the key in the lock.

I
bounced experimentally on the bed. It was a little soft for my liking, but adequate. I lay back on the rosy surface and pushed a pillow under my neck. I allowed myself ten minutes of blank staring at the ceiling, which is always
so
reviving, that I can’t think why they don’t teach it in schools these days. Perhaps they do? They seem to teach practically anything nowadays. What
is
Social Studies exactly? Then I prowled the room.

Every
drawer, every surface I explored. No nook or cranny was too small to escape my attention. I found a safe at the back of a fitted wardrobe which foxed me for a while, but fortunately I had had a good teacher and the Frink-Hazzalbon method, although painstakingly slow, revealed itself to be successful. The contents were disappointing. A pearl necklace, nothing much to write home about either, a truly hideous Victorian emerald brooch, a few assorted diamond rings (all the stones were flawed, as I discovered after a quick look with my jewellers glass) a bundle of letters from Archie to Sylvia (Really! The sentimentality of the English is astonishing) and some deeds to properties that I kept out to read later.

There
was a cream telephone by the side of the bed, and I looked at it thoughtfully. I was undecided about my next move, and paused with my hand over the telephone.

If
anything, I am impulsive by nature and the feeling of indecision crippled me. I simply wasn’t used to it. Perhaps this is what other people felt like? You know, the sort that if you offer them a cup of tea, they stand on one leg making a screwed up face as if they were being asked to name all the American states in alphabetical order, or to spell rhinoceros backwards. Ridiculous – and yet, something stilled my hand over the telephone.

I
touched the phone and picked the handset up, cradling it thoughtfully against my cheek. I jumped to a decision, and almost before I could change my mind I dialled the number of the stuffy financial institution where Archie Amble worked.

“Hello,
Archibald Amble’s office.”

“May
I speak to him please, it’s a matter of some urgency.” I said firmly to the husky voiced secretary who no doubt prided herself on guarding her boss’s precious time.

“And
who may I say is calling?” the dulcet tone enquired.

“Well,
you may
say
that Marie, Queen of Rumania is calling but it wouldn’t be strictly true would it?” I said tartly.

“Umm,
no, I suppose – well who is calling?”

“Flora
Tate. And please hurry, it’s rather urgent.”

“And
can I ask what the call is referring to?” the little minx continued.

“No
you most certainly cannot. For all you know it could be a matter of life and death, or at the very least something of an
extremely
personal nature –“

“Is
it?” The voice interrupted breathlessly. I couldn’t help but admire her candour and curiosity.

“Anyway,”
the girl’s voice continued, embarrassed by the momentary lapse in her professionalism, “He’s in a very important meeting and simply cannot be disturbed.” She finished the sentence with an air of triumph.

“In
that case,
simply
tell him that his wife, Sylvia Amble requires his presence at home at four
sharp
this afternoon, or I simply shan’t answer for the consequences. That gives him approximately twenty nine minutes to get home. Thank you. Goodbye.”

I
replaced the phone, happy at least that I had reached a decision and acted upon it.

I
knew that Arabella and Hal were already in the house, all that was needed was Archie to appear and I could go downstairs and start my work. I gathered all the presents together and spent some time in front of the mirror tidying my hair under the turban. There. That would do admirably. My eyes glittered like frosty diamonds in my pale face, making them impossible to contradict. The drops are only needed the first few times upon meeting a new client, and one should never use them more than once a week, so it was important that I met the whole family today. Taking a deep breath I unlocked the door and descended the stairs.

Rule
Number Three

‘
One
should
always
take
tea
—
never
,
ever
give
it
.
’

I stood for a second or two outside the door to the drawing room straining my ears to catch a stray word of conversation. It’s a great conceit, by the way, that eavesdroppers rarely hear anything good about themselves. You can normally hear something which you can turn to your advantage, which in my opinion beats ‘good’ any old day.

I
could hear nothing and I wondered if I had indeed got the right door. I pushed it open, and saw the tableau of figures with relief. The air was thick with a fog of polite curiosity and tension. A typical family gathering, I suppose. I say suppose, as I have never had the blessing, or the curse, of one myself. I was immediately greeted by Marmaduke. We’d got the measure of one another now and I firmly directed him to the rug in front of the empty fireplace, where he dutifully sank back down regarding me with a friendly expression.

Sylvia
looked astonished at this, and caught the eye of Arabella who was lounging on a yellow brocade sofa.

Yellow,
by the way,
is
the colour of insanity and never makes for a satisfactory background unless you happen to be blessed with skin the colour of darkened ivory, which Arabella most definitely had
not
. Hers was the usual pink blotchy red that comes with teenage hormones and a predisposition for the addiction of sugar.

Hal
was standing in the window and had turned towards me on my entrance. He had the bones of a man behind the gawkiness and undeniable sulkiness of the middle class teenager. He was going to be one of those youths who elicited sighs from both sexes. But, not just yet.

I
noted the tea tray on the table and smiled genially at everyone. By my calculations Archie had about five minutes to get here, so I settled myself next to Arabella on the sofa, wincing slightly at the reflected yellow glare.

“Well,
here we are,” I said inanely, trying to ignore Hal who was staring at me so hard that I think it could well be termed as gawping.

“You
must be Arabella,” I turned to smile at her, “Of course I’ve already met your mother and Marmaduke, so you,” I turned sideways awkwardly in my seat and looked up at Hal, “Must be Harry.”

He
awkwardly crossed the room to shake my proffered hand. The handshake was damp and a little cloying, but I didn’t hold it against him. I know what sort of effect I can have on testosterone ridden young men. I smiled sweetly at him and had the undeniable pleasure of watching a sweep of colour flood his face and neck. I studied him as I watched his blush deepen. A slight sheen of sweat pearled his brow, and I guessed that he was desperately wondering if his deodorant was working whilst trying not to care one way or another in a sort of Goth meets James Dean attitude.

“Shall
we wait for Mr Amble?” I said, tearing my amused eyes from Hal and looking at the plate of hot toast.

“Oh,
no, daddy never gets home before seven, and even then” - Arabella replied, already greedily reaching for hers.

As
if to prove her a liar, Marmaduke leapt to his feet and made welcoming yips at the door, wagging his tail with such ferocity the tea tray was in danger of toppling over. We all had heard the front door and turned expectantly to the noise of footsteps rushing across the hall.

The
door was flung open and Archie Amble, all six foot two of him, burst into the room.

“My
god, Sylvia, what the hell is going on, I was in a meeting with Sir George when I had the most extraordinary message, are you alright…” his voice tailed off as he took in the sight of his ordinary family gathered round an ordinary tea tray with me in the midst, like an exotic creature of the darkness, or, should you wish to be more prosaic, a cuckoo, albeit, a smartly gleaming jet black one, perched next to his chubby daughter.

His
look was of a man that had been thwarted of a drama. Here he was, dragged screaming out of a pat on the back type meeting with awful Sir George, the very least his wife could do would be to be found foaming at the mouth on the hearthrug. As it was she looked just faintly surprised and was holding a cup halfway to her lips.

“My
fault,” I practically purred, “But I do find that a hint of trouble always gets a secretary beetling away delivering messages. I suggested that you might well like to be at home with your family for tea, that’s all.”

Archie
glared at me, and opened his mouth to say something. What, we shall never know, as I wrong footed him by handing out the presents.

Gifts
are
so
disarming.

I
took the opportunity of introducing myself formally to Archie, letting my shawl drop slightly.

“Flora
Tate, by the way. I’m so glad you could come home for tea. Now then, would you like some of Maria’s delicious cherry jam on your toast, or are you a Gentleman’s Relish sort of chap?” I enquired sweetly, holding Archie’s arm and guiding him towards a chair. Archie fairly tottered onto his seat, like an elderly rheumatic taking the cure at Baden Baden. I let him stare at the region of my chest for a while, before engaging his eyes with mine and then settled myself beside Arabella again, draping my dark clothes as attractively as I could around me.

Arabella
was rummaging through the make up I had given her holding up the lipsticks to the light. Her face which was blurred with puppy fat looked truculent, but I could tell that she was pleased to receive what she deemed to be an adult gift. Hal was fondling his key fob, and Sylvia held her chamois bag and skirt feebly on her lap. (I’d reserved the giving of the tiara for another occasion). Archie held his leather folder far away from him, as if it might detonate at any minute.

“Now
then,” I said, sitting as upright as I could in the sofa, whilst balancing a cup and saucer on my lap, “Isn’t this pleasant. A family tea, how very charming. I was sure Archie that you wouldn’t want to miss this.”

Archie
Amble was subsiding gradually into his chair and I was relieved to see that he was willing to be sweet talked. Most men generally are. I studied his face as I continued my chatter. He was trying to measure me up, as for a coffin, perhaps? Or was it to see if I would fit into his bed? I couldn’t tell yet. His first layer of thoughts were easier to read - disgruntlement of being called away from work for no obvious reason - and yet lurking behind this stratum was a dawning of humour and willingness to be carried along for the ride, which boded well for me.

There
was a tap at the door and Maria entered, bringing more hot toast and some milk. The family had noted her entrance, but didn’t talk to her, so I thanked her and she smiled uncertainly at me. I noted an unwarranted degree of fear in her eyes as she looked at me but put it down to the well-known paranoia of the Eastern Bloc. Then it dawned on Sylvia Amble that Maria was lurking at the door, and that she was wearing a woollen overcoat, complete with a square headscarf tied around her neck.

“Oh,
Maria, is it your night off?” Sylvia asked tentatively.

Maria
nodded and edged towards the door.

Archie
frowned, no doubt already sampling in his mind some of the slimy pasta, or even worse, chewy casserole that Sylvia was about to concoct.

“In
that case,” I said grandly jumping to the rescue, “Hal and Bella will be my sous chefs for the night and I will prepare for you my infamous fish soup.”

I
had of course no intention of doing any such thing and had taken the precaution of booking a table for five at a local restaurant - but - it helps to show willing.

There
was as I had predicted a wail of muted alarm from Bella and Hal, and a murmur of disquiet from Sylvia.

“Well,
if you insist not, then I suggest that we all go out tonight. We’ll meet in the hall at seven.” I gave a deferential smile to Sylvia, implying that we women knew what we were doing when it came to the feeding of a family.

I
settled back on the sofa and idled half an hour away by pretending to look at the make-up that I’d bought for Bella. It gave me a good opportunity to study the family at close range. I could tell that having tea together was a novelty for them. Of course, with me sitting in their midst they were at their most polite but they were all wrapped in their cocoons of foggy unawareness and didn’t talk to each other at all.

Sylvia
sat by the empty fire stroking the buttery soft green skin of the bag. Her head hung low to her chest and she listened, as I did, to the banter of her eldest son and her daughter. She was an attractive woman, although the lost orphan look that she had cultivated was not suitable in anyone over the age of sixteen and over nine stone. Her once fair hair was a faded oatmeal colour and cut in a shoulder length bob. Her clothes had been bought somewhere like Jaeger more than a few years ago, the jumper was snagged and the skirt was baggy, but they still held some style. Her mouth turned down at the corners in a permanently disappointed droop. Her eyes were the clear pale blue of the non reader and non drinker, and were accentuated by the hideous, and dated, blue eye shadow that she had applied this morning with an indifferent hand. An air of gentle defeat sat over her like a cloud. This cloud seemed so real to me that for a moment I could have sworn that I saw small drops of moisture cling to the woollen nape of her jumper and bead her hair like pearls.

The
effect was curiously draining, and I had to wrench my concentration away from her.

Archie
by contrast was blooming with health. His skin was clear and his brow unfurrowed. He gazed from time to time at his wife whose stillness drew the eye.

It
was soothing to sit amongst a family that I hadn’t yet had time to assimilate into my being, soothing and stimulating at the same time, like sipping a strong black coffee whilst nibbling half a valium.

When
the phone rang, both Hal and Bella were keen to answer it, but Hal got there first taking the phone into another room to talk about something incomprehensible to do with rugby. Bella looked disappointed, and the fleeting look of similarity to her mother was strikingly clear.

“After
I have asked your father if he and Hal would kindly bring my trunk to my room, perhaps you’d like to help me unpack?” I said quietly to her.

She
nodded, and like the biddable child she was, obediently stood up.

In
the end Archie dragged the gardener from his task of salivating over pornography in the shed, rather than asking his son to help him up the stairs with my trunk. I introduced myself to Jack Blair and handed him the book of photographs. Jack mumbled his thanks through his gums and turned the book over suspiciously in his hands. I don’t think he trusted any reading matter that didn’t have a pull out centre fold. Between Jack and Archie my trunk was delivered into Mr and Mrs Amble’s bedroom, and I thanked them profusely.

“I
say umm, Miss Tate –“

“Oh
do call me Flora,” I interrupted Archie.

“Yes,
well Flora, why are you in my bedroom?” Archie asked, looking around his room as if he were making an inventory.

“Oh
Sylvia insisted, I didn’t have the heart to refuse and then of course Dr Cavilleri will be
so
pleased that I’ve taken his advice to heart. Anyway, a change of rooms will do you all the world of good. I think Sylvia has given you your own bedroom at the end of the corridor if I’m not mistaken, whilst she has taken up residence next to Bella. Separate rooms can be
such
a blessing after the long haul of a matrimonial sentence, I always think, don’t you agree? More
private
somehow.” I said, smiling at him in a candid way.

He
stared at me and then turned on his heel out of the room.

“Don’t
forget, seven in the hallway,” I called genially after him.

Bella
was standing in the middle of what was her parent’s bedroom, staring at my well-travelled trunk. She slowly opened it, and carefully started to hang up my clothes in what had been her mother’s wardrobe, pushing the familiar clothes aside, to make way for the strange.

Further
down the corridor Archie Amble was leaning in the doorway of what was now his wife’s room.

“Remind
me again who the hell this painted jade, this black
crow
of a woman with the yellow hair is?” he demanded.

Sylvia
sighed and said wearily, “Darling, I’ve told you often enough. Flora Tate is
the
life planner, or guru or whatever you want to call it. I showed you the article in The Times, and the one in Vogue. Do you remember the couple we met in Portugal, you know, the Jarvis’s? Well, they recommended her and honestly, they couldn’t speak highly enough of…”