see, and before she could talk herself out of it – she forced a smile on to her face and started to walk towards them.
10
‘Charles.’
If you put her on the stand, made her swear on the Bible, Jen would have to say that he jumped. Certainly he took an almost imperceptible step away from the woman as he turned to see who was calling him. And there was also no denying that he
looked panicked for a split second when he realized it was his daughter-in-law. Then he forced his features into a smile, but she knew him far too well. She could tell that it wasn’t genuine.
‘Jen, what a lovely surprise.’
For a moment, Jen didn’t know what to say because, having intended to suggest lunch, she now couldn’t imagine anything she wanted to do less. Or what she could talk about in its place.
‘I’m on my way to meet someone.’ She looked at her watch hammily, as if to emphasize the point. ‘I was just going to stick my head round the door to say hello, and then rush off again. And then … here you
are … in the street.’ She could almost feel the wave of relief as it flooded his face. She would be gone in a moment.
‘Well, it’s always good to see you, even if it’s only in passing,’ he said, making as if to move away.
Jen took a step forward, extended her right hand to the young woman at Charles’s side. She wasn’t letting him get away that easily.
‘Hi, I’m Jen. I’m Charles’s daughter-in-law.’
As she waited for the woman’s response – ‘Hi, I’m X, I’m Charles’s mistress’ maybe? Or ‘I’m a prostitute he’s hired for a quick one, we were just arguing about the fee’ – Jen got the
chance to give her a quick appraisal. She was even younger than Jen had thought at first. Late twenties, maybe. Thirty at the most. She was taller than Jen, something that, despite all her better instincts, always made Jen feel a little inadequate. She noticed the woman’s brown, thick,
shiny hair, worn long and loose, her dark eyes and her slim figure. OK skin. Attractive but not a head-turner. Quite ordinary, really.
Jen always noticed when women had good hair. Her own was out-of-control curly. The hours of her life she had lost to hair straighteners would have added up to a lifetime for some animals. Not elephants, maybe, but guinea pigs, say, or hamsters.
She lived in fear of drizzle or humidity. She fantasized about chemical blow-dries and months of smooth silky locks. Who cared if the formaldehyde took years off her life? At least she would be a sleekly coiffeured corpse. Luckily for the two girls, they had inherited their father’s
family’s poker straightness. Dark brown for Simone, and Jen’s all-out red for Emily.
The irony of regularly dying the roots of her hair a colour she had hated her whole childhood was not lost on Jen. For the record, she loved it now. Once she was out of an environment where people shouted ‘Ginger’ (to rhyme with
‘wringer’, not ‘whinger’ because that, somehow, turned a colour into an insult) at her at every available occasion, she had started to revel in her difference. Possibly at about the same time as some artsy boy she was
seeing
had told her she reminded him of a Titian painting. She had never claimed she wasn’t superficial.
She had inherited the colour from Rory’s side of the family, apparently. It had bypassed him but his grandmother, he had informed her when she was little, had had a fine head of flaming locks. It had made her feel special when he’d
told her that. Connected to ancestors she had never known.
These days she tended to keep it in a ponytail, in an effort to minimize potential weather-induced horrors. Now she felt herself tuck a strand that had come loose behind her ear. A reflex action that, if you knew her well, would probably have
been a dead giveaway that she was feeling awkward. It was her default gesture when she didn’t know what else to do with her hands. Ever since she had realized that, she would try to
10
‘Charles.’
If you put her on the stand, made her swear on the Bible, Jen would have to say that he jumped. Certainly he took an almost imperceptible step away from the woman as he turned to see who was calling him. And there was also no denying that he
looked panicked for a split second when he realized it was his daughter-in-law. Then he forced his features into a smile, but she knew him far too well. She could tell that it wasn’t genuine.
‘Jen, what a lovely surprise.’
For a moment, Jen didn’t know what to say because, having intended to suggest lunch, she now couldn’t imagine anything she wanted to do less. Or what she could talk about in its place.
‘I’m on my way to meet someone.’ She looked at her watch hammily, as if to emphasize the point. ‘I was just going to stick my head round the door to say hello, and then rush off again. And then … here you
are … in the street.’ She could almost feel the wave of relief as it flooded his face. She would be gone in a moment.
‘Well, it’s always good to see you, even if it’s only in passing,’ he said, making as if to move away.
Jen took a step forward, extended her right hand to the young woman at Charles’s side. She wasn’t letting him get away that easily.
‘Hi, I’m Jen. I’m Charles’s daughter-in-law.’
As she waited for the woman’s response – ‘Hi, I’m X, I’m Charles’s mistress’ maybe? Or ‘I’m a prostitute he’s hired for a quick one, we were just arguing about the fee’ – Jen got the
chance to give her a quick appraisal. She was even younger than Jen had thought at first. Late twenties, maybe. Thirty at the most. She was taller than Jen, something that, despite all her better instincts, always made Jen feel a little inadequate. She noticed the woman’s brown, thick,
shiny hair, worn long and loose, her dark eyes and her slim figure. OK skin. Attractive but not a head-turner. Quite ordinary, really.
Jen always noticed when women had good hair. Her own was out-of-control curly. The hours of her life she had lost to hair straighteners would have added up to a lifetime for some animals. Not elephants, maybe, but guinea pigs, say, or hamsters.
She lived in fear of drizzle or humidity. She fantasized about chemical blow-dries and months of smooth silky locks. Who cared if the formaldehyde took years off her life? At least she would be a sleekly coiffeured corpse. Luckily for the two girls, they had inherited their father’s
family’s poker straightness. Dark brown for Simone, and Jen’s all-out red for Emily.
The irony of regularly dying the roots of her hair a colour she had hated her whole childhood was not lost on Jen. For the record, she loved it now. Once she was out of an environment where people shouted ‘Ginger’ (to rhyme with
‘wringer’, not ‘whinger’ because that, somehow, turned a colour into an insult) at her at every available occasion, she had started to revel in her difference. Possibly at about the same time as some artsy boy she was
seeing
had told her she reminded him of a Titian painting. She had never claimed she wasn’t superficial.
She had inherited the colour from Rory’s side of the family, apparently. It had bypassed him but his grandmother, he had informed her when she was little, had had a fine head of flaming locks. It had made her feel special when he’d
told her that. Connected to ancestors she had never known.
These days she tended to keep it in a ponytail, in an effort to minimize potential weather-induced horrors. Now she felt herself tuck a strand that had come loose behind her ear. A reflex action that, if you knew her well, would probably have
been a dead giveaway that she was feeling awkward. It was her default gesture when she didn’t know what else to do with her hands. Ever since she had realized that, she would try to
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