Sally (11 page)

R
ichard had his hand full of buttock.

‘I'll pick you up, shall I, eightish?'

‘No you shan't! We are to arrive separately!'

‘Why?'

‘Because, if you take me, then it won't be a surprise. And you'll recognize me which defeats the purpose of a masked ball utterly. And anyway, because I say so.'

‘Oooh, but say I don't? Say I mistake another for you?'

‘I'll give you a little sign.'

‘A little sign, and what will that be?' Sally ran her finger tip lightly and temptingly up Richard's fly. He let go of her buttock. With one arm he pulled her towards him; with the other cinched around her waist he kept her there, and sewed a kiss deep into her mouth. Her eyes smiled lasciviously at him. He let her go and watched her dress, craning for a last look at the two tiny dimples at the base of her back before they were swallowed away by denim.

The best thing
, thought Sally,
about sex in the afternoon is that it sends you on your way with a spring in your step and a euphoric energy to tide you through the rest of the day.

She had always loved New Year's Eve day and as she sauntered along Highgate High Street the shopkeepers to whom she usually smiled were now given a big wave.

‘Happy New Year, Miss Lomax!'

‘Happy New Year, Joe!'

‘Off dancing tonight, love?'

‘Certainly am!'

‘Dancing and Romancing?'

‘You bet!'

‘See ya next year, love!'

‘It'll be a good one, Joe!'

On a whim, Sally went to the newsagent and bought a packet of ten cigarettes, low-tar and mentholated. ‘Oh, yes, and a box of matches, please. Happy New Year.' She then went to the bookshop, old, musty, magnetic, and browsed the minutes away into three-quarters of an hour before selecting two recently reviewed, highly acclaimed novels. ‘You'll enjoy those, Happy New Year.' Her final stop was at the French
patisserie
where she ummed, ahhed and crooned and then chose a strawberry tartlet, gloriously red and glazed to glistening perfection.
‘Année!'

Back in her flat, Sally placed the books, in the bag, on the mantelpiece. She tapped them, deciding not to peek at all until she was on French soil. She then went into her kitchen and took out a cake fork and tea plate on to which she slid the tartlet. Kettle boiled, Earl Grey brewed and poured into a matching tea-cup and saucer, she retired into the lounge and settled down to a few minutes of luxury. Such times had to be conducted in silence. No television or radio, no rustling of magazines, no pencil in one hand hovering over a crossword. It had to be just Sally, her cake and her cuppa. Too soon, though, there was not even a crumb left despite a hopeful dabbing finger searching every inch of the plate, just in case. She burped quietly under her breath and sat a while longer, looking, as always, at nothing in particular. She enjoyed the friendly silence of her own company, she liked her little flat, and was content just to sit and look around her, itemizing her possessions, checking on her paintwork and scanning her heaving bookcase, smiling and nodding at favourite volumes as they came into view.

Well, this is no good, just sitting here like a lazy lemon. There's work to be done, a party to prepare for, a man to wow! Come on, let's have a fag, Sal!

Sally smoked self-consciously as she pottered from room to room. Every now and then she darted back to the kitchen to flick ash into the sink.

Disgusting habit, but what can one do when one does not possess an ash-tray?

The cigarette gave her a slight head-rush which she thought amusing, and she giggled out loud as she went into the bathroom to check how she looked, fag in hand, fag in mouth. Could she talk like that? No. She tried blowing smoke rings but couldn't. She checked how she looked sucking on the butt in side profile and again from the front. She watched herself inhale and exhale. Inhale and exhale.

Lordy, I feel dizzy!

She exhaled and smiled, watching the smoke whisper over her teeth and veil her face.

Nope! Smoking does not suit me at all. So I shan't.

With that, she threw the butt down the toilet and retrieved the packet from the lounge, took it outside and dumped it ceremoniously in the dustbin.

Sally ran a bath. Deep. She tweezed stray eyebrows and scrutinized her face for anything to squeeze. Nothing. She soaked for a while but found she was not in a luxuriating frame of mind so she shaved her legs and her armpits, showered off freezing cold (she'd learnt it from Richard) and then swooped her bath sheet around her. Getting dry was such a bore so she took the phone into her room and called Diana. Who wasn't in. So she called Richard, who was.

‘I've got nothing on.'

‘Neither have I.'

‘See you later.'

‘Alligator.'

‘Crocodile.'

Time to get ready, body is dry and silk-soft, hair likewise. What a lovely little dress you've bought, Sally.

I know, I couldn't resist it. It's from that shop that I've only ever drooled in front of. I shouldn't've. But I just had to. I want to knock him for six tonight.

But you have already done so, you know.

Mmm, I want to make sure.

It's black crêpe, isn't it? Completely straight, two little darts giving it a perfect line. It's just above your knee, just right. Sleeveless though, mightn't you be chilly?

No, not once I'm at the party. Look, do you see how cleverly the zip is hidden at the back? It feels heavenly on.

It suits you, fits beautifully.

Look, little Dupion court shoes too!

Perfect. What knickers have you chosen?

At first, I wasn't going to wear any at all. But it is December. I know Richard goes wild for those little white cottony ones but I've never had black silk panties so I bought some. I'll make sure he likes them.

Let us see your mask, Sally.

Just look at my mask! I know it's bad to brag but I'm terribly pleased with it. See how it fits snugly over the bridge of my nose? And then dips down over the tops of my cheeks? Catherine's is more elaborate but I decided against any wild flourishes. I just studded the edges alternately with silver sequins and little pearls, then I attached the soft downy black feathers over the brow. I wanted to look swan-like, or cat-like, or something. But it fits well, doesn't it? It's awful when a mask is lop-sided, or reveals more of one eye than the other.

It fits, Sally. Perfectly.

Actually, it's rather nice to wear. You can sort of hide behind it. It's as if I can see out but they can't see in.

Go on, one last check in front of the mirror, then you'd best be on your way.

I hope I arrive after Richard. I've never really been in a situation where I can make my big entrance. It is my prerogative after all!

Check your flat, Sally, the gas, the plugs, the windows. Close the curtains, the doors. Double lock. Outside lights on. Off you go, off to the Ball, Sally Lomax. Have the most wonderful night. And Happy New Year.

See the Mini chortle down the road, heading for West London and a night of festive celebration. See its precious load: a young woman, decked out in her finery. She looks almost beautiful. Not classically, not even that classy, but there is something about her that is enchanting and rather lovely. She smiles and she is excited, anticipating an evening of fun and frolics. The lights turn orange but tonight our usually pedantic driver throws caution to the wind and accelerates through, a rush of adrenalin adding to her fizzy mood. Does she not seem happy, her fine mask coddled in tissue on the seat beside her? She is happy and she tells herself so out loud. You can see her mouth it as she drums on the dash-board:
I am happy, I'm really happy.

So one year is on its way out and the next is tangibly near. What does it hold in store? Sally has no idea. If she's at the metaphorical steering wheel, as she intends to be, she believes she'll journey through it safely and soundly.

But what if someone else takes the wheel, uninvited? Sally hasn't thought of that. And if there is someone else there, where will they take her? And will she let herself be taken?

Just now, however, it is Sally's New Year's Eve and she is looking forward to it very, very much.

‘B
ob! It's completely wonky. Up on the left, up on the left!'

‘Stop flapping, would you? Is that better?'

‘Up on the bloody left!'

‘There.'

‘Now the streamers, now the streamers!'

‘Where?'

‘Door frames, door frames!'

‘Leave me to it, you old bag! Go and get yourself ready and then lie down for half an hour.'

Catherine obeyed. Their parties were always a success, but if she didn't fret and if certain things weren't left to the last minute it could surely be a bad omen.

I must try and calm down. I really must. Just in case.

Catherine's period should have come the previous morning so she was hoping and praying, silently and desperately.

If I am, then I must keep calm. Just in case.

She lay down on their bed and wondered if the faint nausea was due to pregnancy and not pre-party nerves. Bob woke her half an hour later and she had no recollection of falling asleep. Deeply too. His usual kiss on the nose had been ineffectual, a good shake was required. She clambered into her rich violet silk two-piece and gave him a twirl. He marvelled at her elegant beauty. Dark and sinuous like a willowy, giant anemone. Bob put on a loud Hawaiian shirt and a pair of garish Bermuda shorts. The ensemble clashed violently.

He looks quite revolting
, marvelled Catherine,
but he looks the part!

Catherine breezed around, placing bowls of nuts and nibbles on every available surface. Bob stuck himself at her dressing-table mirror and wrestled with his diving goggles, trying to find a way to make them fit snugly without forcing his lips and cheeks into a rubbery and uncomfortable contortion.

Well, I'll just have to suffer for my art until all the guests have seen it on, then I'll tip it up on to my head. But that bauble clonks me in the eye, so I'll just adjust it – slightly. There.

‘Catherine! Where's the string?' She appeared with the errant string and a piping hot canapé, a dazzling smile beaming from a cloud of purple-blue silk. Delicious.

‘You are a treasure, darling. Belle of the ball.'

‘And that's a hell of a bauble clonking your eye, Bob. Here, let me help.'

The beauty of a fancy dress party, although everybody initially moans wondering where they'll find the time and inspiration to make their costume, is that enormous effort is inevitably made by all and such parties have great atmosphere before the doorbell is even sounded. Bob and Catherine's parties were talked about for years: The Bad Taste Party for Bob's big three-o, The Flowers and Flares Party on their third wedding anniversary, Catherine's Sinners and Saints Party; all went down in the annals of record-breaking party history. And now the New Year's Masked Ball. They had transformed the ground floor of their home into a magical grotto. Black net, sprinkled with glittery stars, had been draped over and across all the ceilings. The long wall of the living-room was covered entirely with silver foil, the other walls adorned with burgundy crêpe-paper bows and swathes of steel-grey shiny material (Sally knew of the shop, £2 a metre).

The hallway leading in had been turned into an avenue of six-foot weeping figs (hired for the night). In the kitchen, reams of dark red velvet swagged the doorway and masked the cupboards that were not to be opened. The long, rustic beech-wood trestle table was covered with a starched white sheet and adorned around the edges with black crêpe-paper rosettes. On it, a glutton's wildest fantasy met the eyes. Bowls of new potato salad, sprigged through with wisps of dill; an enormous shallow dish heaped with leaves of ruccola, radicchio and oak-leaf lettuce, coloured exquisitely with borage flowers and dressed to perfection with Bob's famous vinaigrette. In between sat two mounds of Catherine's home-baked herbed bread but the eye was drawn compulsively to the centrepiece, a twelve-and-a-half-pound wild Scotch salmon lying pink-peach and fat on a bed of transparent-thin cucumber slithers. The fridge hid from view the two Pavlovas, one raspberry, one strawberry, both a foot high. The oven warmed the canapés, Catherine's forte. Mouthfuls of ecstasy; puff, filo and shortcrust pastries enveloped creative fillings of spinach (fresh), chicken (spiced) and mushrooms (wild), all treated to proportionately extravagant doses of cream, fresh herbs and the ubiquitous garlic.

(‘Bit anti-social, darling?'

‘Bob! You know everyone'll eat 'em!')

The guests arrived in a flurry and whirl of cloaks, coats and good cheer. At the doorstep bursts of laughter, coos of admiration and peals of excited chatter as the masks met. Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, the men for the most part went for the wildly eccentric and humorous, while the women opted for demurely bejewelled intricacy and opulent glamour. There were two Batmen and two stocking-headed bank robbers. Marilyn Monroe arrived with Margaret Thatcher. And while the bought masks were entertaining, those that were home-made were infinitely more impressive and deceptive. All manner of objects had been coaxed and teased into face-concealing devices. Friends with children had studied their comics, made fact-finding trips to Hamleys and plundered the dressing-up boxes. And nearly everyone admitted to having watched the odd
Blue Peter
programme hoping for ingenious ways to transform a cereal packet, a yoghurt pot and polystyrene egg cartons into the mask of their dreams (with a little help from double-sided sticky tape and that globby white glue).

Andy Dalken had taken it one step further. A partner of Bob's, at work he was famous for his waste-paper, paper-clip and used biro sculptures. For the party, he had taken a cereal packet, two sizes of yoghurt pot and a host of cardboard tubes from toilet and kitchen rolls, constructed them into a towering and intricate head-dress and sprayed them evenly with gold and silver paint. But he had also strategically added fairy lights and propellers. For the first half-hour he hardly spoke but flashed, whirred and twinkled when spoken to. Robert Tobias, an old rugby chum of Bob and Richard's, wheezed his way through the party, intimidating and unrecognizable behind a Second World War gas mask. Douglas Christian (also an old First Fifteener) arrived masked beyond recognition, delectably coiffured by a foot-high, Marie Antoinette wig, his face powdered white, his lips painted into a pert and very scarlet rosebud. Only his jeans and trade-mark tennis pumps gave him away. Alex Daniels, Catherine's errant younger brother, turned up on his motorbike in an enormous glitter-gold crash helmet and a slinky black catsuit adorned by a Groucho Marx jockstrap.