Bed of Roses. Daisy Waugh
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Scarlett talking animatedly, or – no, it’s only Ollie, actually. Ollie’s voice, yelling something angry, followed by a loud crash. The words ‘stupid ugly bitch’ ring out across the lovely lawn. But both women are relaxing, taking a well-deserved break from the stresses and strains of work, work, work and motherhood. They both pretend not to hear, and then, after a decentish pause, Kitty says (it could have been either of them; they tend to take it in turns), ‘Isn’t it marvellous how well the children get along?’
Scarlett Mozely is Kitty’s only child, the fruit of a passionate month with a Moroccan cab driver, who has long since driven away. Scarlett was born with lopsided facial features and a twisted back which, though she doesn’t need a wheelchair, means she will probably never be able to walk without crutches. She and Geraldine’s son, Ollie, are both at Fiddleford Primary, and both in Fanny’s class, although a year apart. They loathe each other.
‘But I get the impression the chap,’ says Geraldine, keen to stick to the sujet du moment, ‘that incredibly handsome American who whisked her away at the end—’
‘Louis,’ Kitty prompts impatiently. ‘He’s called Louis, Geraldine.’
‘Louis – he’s not actually her boyfriend.’
‘She must be mad. Why ever not?’
‘They didn’t embrace when they arrived, did they? They hugged in a sort of non-boyfriendy way, don’t you think?…Plus, Dawn was behind the bar at the pub on Friday night,’ Geraldine adds. (Dawn is Geraldine’s daily.) ‘She was watching them very closely. After all, she’s got Derek at the school, hasn’t she? Is he called Derek? I can’t remember. Skinny boy. In Ollie’s class. Ollie and Scarlett’s class, excuse me.’
Kitty has no idea. Nor any interest. ‘And the pub would have been empty, I suppose. With everyone being at the limbo. So she’d have got a good look…’
‘Dawn says Miss Flynn was knocking back pints of Guinness. With whisky mac chasers. Guinness and whisky mac chasers!’
‘Yes. And were they canoodling?’
‘She said not. She said definitely just talking. But Miss Flynn was crying her heart out at one point. She must have been quite upset.’
‘Christ,’ bursts out Kitty suddenly. ‘You don’t suppose he’s gay, do you? What a waste!’
Kitty adores young men.
As might be expected, given her frolicsome lifestyle, Kitty has aged a good deal less elegantly than her rich, selfdisciplined friend, Geraldine. Kitty’s long straight hair has been dyed so often it’s devoid of any colour at all any more, and she’s put on stones since the early days, when she and Geraldine were at Oxford together, and she, Kitty, was meant to be the sexy one; the doe-eyed Brigitte Bardot lookalike who was going to set the world on fire…
She still has the doe eyes, except nowadays they’re watchful and puffy from alcohol. She’s broke. Lonely. Lazy. She drinks like a fish. But she still has a certain blowsy allure. She dresses in white, always; wafts around in a cloud of musky scent and French tobacco, and when she flirts, which she does continually, she flirts with true and reckless intent. She’s good company but a dangerous friend. Fortunately for Geraldine, her soft-speaking, cerebral husband Clive has never appealed to Kitty – and nor (though Kitty might not believe it) has she ever greatly appealed to him.
In any case, Kitty’s action-packed sex life has always been a source of irritation for Geraldine. It’s one area where Geraldine has always felt outdone. Especially since she’s been married. She and Clive happen to have a strongish marriage (Kitty, on the other hand, has never maintained a relationship for longer than a few months). Clive and Geraldine work together, plan together, agree with each other on most things they consider to be important. They quite like each other. But they don’t have much sex. ‘Gay or not, my love,’ Geraldine says, annoyingly brightly, ‘young Louis is probably just a tad – too – young – for you, don’t you think?’
Kitty chortles. ‘I doubt that very much.’
‘Either way, you’ll probably never lay eyes on him again.’
‘Ah-ha!’ Kitty rolls over on to her belly, rests her chin in her hand. ‘Top Secret gossip: Mrs Hooper says he was asking at the post office about places to rent! Apparently, Ms Flynn isn’t allowed to know. But we are. He’s a photographer, Mrs Hooper says. From Louisiana. Of course one can tell. He’s got that innate masterfulness about him, hasn’t he? From all that slave owning, I imagine. They all have it. In the Southern States…I can never resist a Southern boy, can you?’ Kitty says ‘Southern’ with a silly Southern accent, and doesn’t wait for Geraldine to reply. ‘Anyway, Mrs Hooper says he works freelance for some of the London newspapers. She says he’s looking for a place to live.’
‘Oh. Well then, I’m wrong, aren’t I?’ says Geraldine. ‘If he’s moving down here – if he’s keeping it secret from her
– then he and Fanny Flynn must be lovers. Or if not then he certainly wants them to be. Which rather knocks you out of the frame, old girl. Sorry.’
‘Not necessarily, it doesn’t.’
They fall silent a moment, recover their good nature.
‘I say, though,’ Geraldine says brightly, ‘you know Clive actually went up and talked to her, after she came back to the hall. And she’s obviously rather a troubled young lady, because when Clive told her he was a solicitor she wouldn’t stop talking about stalkers. Legal rights of. Imagine that!’
‘So she’s a stalker?’
‘Either that, Kitty, or she’s got a stalker. Which I think is the more likely scenario.’
‘Oh! But who could possibly be stalking her? In Fiddleford!’
‘Well, she wouldn’t say, would she?’
Suddenly Kitty gasps. She even sits up. ‘Geraldine! You don’t think – Grey McShane!’
For one delirious moment they will themselves to believe it. Without success.
‘One can’t help thinking, though,’ Geraldine moves blithely on, ‘if a girl does wander through life ripping her shirt off at the slightest provocation, she is running the risk of attracting unwanted attention from – you know – these sort of ghastly, obsessive perverts. Don’t you think so? I know it’s not fashionable to say so. But that’s just the way of the world.’
‘Exactly…Absolutely.’
‘Clive says she was being very obtuse. Absolutely wouldn’t go into specifics. But one can’t help wondering…I mean, it’s certainly intriguing, isn’t it?’
Just then Ollie comes rushing out of the house, screaming like a toddler. He, too, when he calms down enough to speak, remains stubbornly obtuse. Absolutely won’t go into specifics. But it turns out his PlayStation is broken, and that Scarlett is to blame.
‘Oh, baby,’ coos Geraldine, ‘never mind. I’m very proud you were generous enough to let Scarlett have a go with it.’
That isn’t quite what he’d said.
‘Yes, well done, Ollie,’ says Kitty. ‘Did Scarlett say sorry nicely?’
‘No.’
Kitty clicks her tongue. She wishes Scarlett would remember that she’s in Ollie’s house, playing with Ollie’s toys, and that really, given Scarlett’s physical and material disadvantages, she should count herself lucky that such a nice-looking boy with so many nice-looking toys is willing to have anything to do with her. Besides which, weather allowing, Kitty very much plans to place herself and her daughter beside Ollie’s lovely new swimming pool for most of the coming summer. It makes everything so much more awkward when the children refuse to get on. ‘Where is she, anyway?’ Kitty asks.
‘Inside, probably. Smashing something