That certain age, p.1
That Certain Age, page 1
Elizabeth Buchan
* * *
THAT CERTAIN AGE
Contents
Chapter 1: Siena
Chapter 2: Siena
Chapter 3: Barbara
Chapter 4: Barbara
Chapter 5: Siena
Chapter 6: Siena
Chapter 7: Barbara
Chapter 8: Barbara
Chapter 9: Siena
Chapter 10: Siena
Chapter 11: Siena
Chapter 12: Barbara
Chapter 13: Barbara
Chapter 14: Barbara
Chapter 15: Siena
Chapter 16: Siena
Chapter 17: Barbara
Chapter 18: Barbara
Chapter 19: Siena
Chapter 20: Siena
Chapter 21: Barbara
Chapter 22: Barbara
Chapter 23: Siena
Chapter 24: Barbara
Chapter 25: Barbara
Chapter 26: Siena
Acknowledgements
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth Buchan lives in London with her husband and two children and worked in publishing for several years. During this time, she wrote a biography for children: Beatrix Potter: The Story of the Creator of Peter Rabbit (Frederick Warne). Her first novel for adults, Daughters of the Storm, was set during the French Revolution. Her second, Light of the Moon, took as its subject a female undercover agent operating in occupied France during the Second World War. Consider the Lily, described by the Independent as ‘a gorgeously well written tale: funny, sad, sophisticated’, won the 1994 Romantic Novel of the Year Award, and Perfect Love was reviewed by the Good Book Guide as ‘a powerful story: wise, observant, deeply felt, with elements that all women will recognize with a smile – or a shudder’. Subsequent novels include Against Her Nature (‘a modern day Vanity Fair brilliantly done’ – Mail on Sunday), Secrets of the Heart (Penguin), Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman (Penguin) and The Good Wife (Penguin), which have been international bestsellers.
Elizabeth Buchan recently completed a stint on the committee for the Society of Authors, and was a judge for the 1997 Whitbread Awards and chairman of the judges for the 1997 Betty Trask Award. Her short stories have been published in various magazines and broadcast on BBC Radio 4.
For further information on Elizabeth Buchan and her work, please go to www.elizabethbuchan.com
PENGUIN BOOKS
THAT CERTAIN AGE
Praise for Elizabeth Buchan:
‘This perceptive, beautifully written book brings fresh perspective to an age-old situation… For women of all ages, a poignant, unforgettable novel’ You Magazine
‘In Buchan’s witty hands, it is fate, the most satisfying entertaining mischief maker, which proves the undoing’ Sunday Times
‘Buchan is brilliant at creating memorable characters’ Sunday Mirror
‘Extremely readable, well-written, funny and sad’ Daily Mail
‘A compassionate and thoughtful portrait of a marriage in crisis and a woman bent on survival’ Woman & Home
‘Buchan’s portrayal of Rose’s emotions – from shock, betrayal and anger to a gradual acceptance of her situation – sets this novel apart from other tales of midlife crises’ Good Housekeeping
‘Bravo to Buchan’s witty, wise and wonderfully readable novel’ Sunday Express
‘Buchan is a cut above the rest in this field’ Sunday Mirror
‘Fresh, compassionate and alarmingly perceptive… I love it’ Sian Phillips, actress
‘What a terrific book!’ Fay Weldon
‘Intelligent and uplifting’ Sainsbury’s magazine
‘Miss Buchan skilfully sets the serendipitous scene where hungry Nemesis hovers… This is a compelling read’ Country Life
‘Bitter-sweet charm’ Sunday Tribune, Dublin
‘The Revenge is not about cutting up his suits or pouring away his collection of vintage wines, for Elizabeth is much too subtle a writer for that… a resonant and excellent novel’ SW
‘Celebrates human resilience and flexibility… confirms her skill as a storyteller’ Independent on Sunday
‘In this latest of her acutely intelligent novels, Buchan proves she is not only a powerful romantic novelist, she is a nice one too’ The Times
‘A finely written, intelligent romance’ Mail on Sunday
‘Beautifully observed and richly detailed, the writer’s powerful prose has the ability to move emotions’ Evening Herald
‘A finely balanced, superior love story’ Sunday Mirror
‘Enthralling, sophisticated story telling’ Woman & Home
‘A thoughtful, clever examination of a marriage – and a life – at the crossroads’ Sunday Mirror
For Fanny
She felt the largeness of the world and the manifold wakings of men to labour and endurance. She was part of that involuntary, palpitating life…
George Eliot, Middlemarch
CHAPTER ONE:
Siena
I have so many laments filed away. My hair is greying… I’ve lost my suppleness of mind and body… My figure is ruined… Never, never again will I feel as I used to…
The cries of woman can be very loud. Plaintive and corrosive… grief-stricken and despairing… strident. We stay at home, crowded by yeasty little bodies, our oh-so-efficient captors, and weep noisy tears into the sink. We go out to work and shriek at the difficulties. Biology has arranged to keep tight tabs on us. Fillies at the rodeo, lined up to be broken in by ovaries and uteruses.
But as I explained to Charlie, my husband, thanks to science, biology can be handled. One can keep it at arm’s length. So far, I had managed to ignore the ticking of the biological clock, with a clean, simple career schedule and, please, Charlie, let me keep it that way. He had asked me to keep the case under review, and added that men cried too: it was just that they were not heard.
This was not to say the issue between Charlie and me was resolved, far from it, but I held him close after he made that particular remark (not bitterly, but with his lawyer’s matter-of-factness), whispering into his ear that I loved him.
‘And I love you, too, very, very much,’ he responded, and ran his fingers through my hair. But I knew he was troubled. The question of whether we should have children – or not – was well-trodden ground between us, yet journey as we might over it, beating through the thickets of questions and arguments, we never agreed on the final destination.
‘Am I cheating you, Charlie?’ Am I? Was I?
I watched him carefully pack a parcel for his nephew’s seventh birthday (a fake scar for the cheek, an inflatable cushion that emitted a rude noise if sat on and a starter pack of Meccano). He applied the last slick of Sellotape. ‘Do you think I’ve made it large enough?’ he asked. ‘I want it to be a really big parcel and the most fun.’ He sat down and wrote the card: ‘To Nat, my favourite nephew, love, Uncle Charlie. PS Will you come paint-balling with me?’ Then he drew a dinosaur on the back of the envelope, sealed it and said quietly, ‘I have no idea if you’re cheating me or not. I’ll have to wait to find out.’
Why didn’t I say to him, ‘I have enough in my life. It’s so full, so busy, so absorbing that I don’t have room for anything else.’ Because I know Charlie would have pushed back his floppy hair and replied, with one of his sweetest smiles – which seemed to embrace a secret vision of good things like a dog’s wet nose pushing into your hand, sunlight falling on a cradle, ‘We can make room. Of course we can make room.’
I envied Charlie his certainty and his immaculate generosity.
Lucy Thwaite (35) [ran the notes on my latest assignment] is a mother of three. Plans to return to work in catering. Needs smart, practical, adaptable wardrobe. The problem? Since birth of third child (5) she has put on weight and lost confidence. ‘I’m at my wit’s end… I hate my body, hate looking at it, and always wear baggy clothes…’
Lucy Thwaite’s case notes had been sent over by Jenni from Fashion, This Week with the schedule, which gave me approximately four days to think over and sort out the said Lucy. The accompanying photograph revealed a woman whose features were set with a mix of exhaustion and fury. Even to the untrained eye, the sorting out of Lucy Thwaite would take more than a week.
Jenni, who hunted out my subjects and did the preliminary research, had spotted it too. ‘Caged,’ she said, on the phone, ‘and battering bars to get out.’
In general, the spectre of unhappiness in my clients stirred pity – which made an uneasy bedfellow with the requirement in a fashion consultant to be frank. But life is a series of polarities, and I was the white knight riding to the rescue, bringing cheer and a little tough-talking on the point of my lance.
On meeting Lucy Thwaite at her home in the Midlands, it struck me that she had thought herself into the role of frump: she was prettier in the flesh and her skin had the lovely transparency that permanent fatigue sometimes gives women.
Lucy held out her hand, which was damp and soft when I took it. ‘I’m so excited. None of my friends can believe it.’ Her mouth twitched in a smile that did not reach her eyes.
Over the years I had made many mistakes, and to rely on first impressions was one of them, but I could not help recoiling a little from Lucy Thwaite’s intractable aura of misery.
‘You must come in. Do you want coffee? Mind the tricycle, that’s Johnny’s, my youngest, and – Oh, I’m sorry about the shopping. Just step over it.’
The house was a mess, as were many of the houses into which I stepped. A home was so naked, so revealing. Charlie and I hadn’t allowed anyone into our flat until it was perfect. ‘For better and for worse and for tidiness,’ we joked with each other, for we shared the desire to remain hidden and private.
Lucy’s kitchen was crowded with clothes, baskets and papers. She sat me down at the table and busied herself with the kettle and coffee. I cleared a space to put down my notebook among the cereal packets and papers, which included a cut-out of a small foot that had been glued on to a cardboard base through which laces had been threaded. It was a fragile thing, made in haste and inadequately gummed, but breathed childish optimism and determination. The label attached to it read: ‘Centurion’s boot, Hadrian’s Wall, circa AD 200’.
Lucy gestured at it. ‘I have the misfortune to send my children to schools that specialize in torture. Of the parents.’ Her eyes were dull. ‘Shelley came back last night and said she had to have a Roman sandal made by Friday. A Roman sandal! I don’t know what one looks like, nor do I care – but what am I supposed to do? One thing’s for sure, Derek won’t be around to act as cobbler.’
I couldn’t bear to make any comment, for I minded about that silly sandal.
Lucy dumped a mug of coffee in front of me. ‘Will I be famous?’ she asked.
I glanced at my watch – a gesture she understood instantly: she sat down at once. ‘Lucy, let’s talk about you. Could you tell me a little more about yourself?’
A shadow passed over the unhappy features. ‘That’s nice. I haven’t been asked about myself since…’ she rubbed her cheek ‘… since… I can’t remember.’
She seemed genuinely taken aback by the invitation, and I wondered about the equation that had brought her to this nadir. Fatigue and motherhood, clearly. But was there also an unkind husband? A sudden lack of money?
Maybe it was simpler than that. Unhappiness was an everyday, plodding thing, and one got used to it.
I knew all about that.
I extracted a pen from my red Tod’s handbag. Lucy’s eyes rested on it covetously. ‘That’s the one thing I do indulge in,’ she said. ‘A nice handbag.’
No surprise there. Big women are frequently compulsive handbag (and shoe) buyers for a simple reason: a handbag (or shoes) brightens up the image and allows one to acquire a fashionable badge without the ritual humiliation of shopping for large-size clothes. Vive the accessory.
‘In fact, I get through quite a few every year. Derek’s always telling me off.’
‘Better than getting through husbands, though.’ I was never quite easy about being a second wife. Ergo, I made jokes about it.
Lucy Thwaite stared at me, and there were tears in her eyes. ‘Is it?’
I smiled at her gently. ‘Why don’t we start?’
Twenty minutes later I understood more about Lucy Thwaite and her life than perhaps I wished to. The claustrophobic domesticity, perennial tiredness, lack of cash for little luxuries. I had encountered so many Lucy Thwaites.
Sometimes I asked myself what I was doing intruding into despair and these domestic muddles with my tough talking. It was so easy to rattle a few hangers in a wardrobe, issue strictures about cap sleeves (not for the older woman), colour and hems, then fly away on my magic broomstick, knowing I did not have to deal with them. And then I caught the glow of gratitude, a shy smile of pleasure, the tiny suggestion that a situation had changed and, suddenly, my contributions no longer seemed so clumsy, so witless.
I asked Lucy if I could check over her wardrobe, and she led me upstairs. On each tread there was a pile of folded (but not ironed) children’s clothes. A pair of muddy football boots and a cot took up most of the space on the landing.
Lucy’s wardrobe opened to reveal a full-length mirror inside the door. This is not unusual. It is positioned precisely so that women can shut away the image of themselves and, in many cases, contrive never to look at it.
‘Lucy, come and stand in front of the mirror.’
She whisked the bedspread straight. ‘Must I? Can’t you just look at me?’
‘’Fraid not. It’s part of the deal that you take a look.’
I took her by the shoulders and stood her fair and square. This was always a telling moment: revelation, breakdown or new dawn – I could never anticipate which.
She looked long and hard, and her plump shoulders tensed. ‘I hate my body,’ she spat at herself. ‘It disgusts me.’
If I’ve had no opportunity to talk to my client, I can usually get the picture within five to ten seconds of sifting through her wardrobe. Funnily enough, smell has a great deal to do with it. I swear I can smell the quality of their lives. Expensive scent. Cheap scent. Expensive, careful dry-cleaning, or the masked aura of sweat and making-do with too little money and too little time as the owner of the clothes rushes to cook, shop, ferry and guard her children.
Big women tended to have fullish wardrobes for they buy clothes on impulse, promising themselves they will fit into them one day. Lucy Thwaite’s contained less than I had calculated. Black trousers… tapered and too short. I pushed the coat-hangers this way and that. Embroidered cheesecloth blouse (relic from a Greek holiday?), a dress in an overlarge print with a front opening. A button was loose at the point where the material must strain across the bust.
‘Is this a favourite, Lucy?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s a dress, I can get into it, and it does.’
I pushed it to one side. These were the clothes of someone who had no time, no breathing space, no confidence. No joy. Who had been brought low, and whose every waking minute was taken up by someone else. Please. Come. Do. Make. The voices swelled so hard and fell so harsh on the inner ear that they blotted out other sounds, including the still, small call for help.
The rail was buckled in the middle and the hangers clicked into a clump. ‘I wore that coat in my twenties,’ Lucy offered. ‘Can’t bear to throw it away.’ She plucked at a pair of trousers with an elastic waistband. ‘Bought these when I was pregnant and I wear them all the time.’
A thought slid across my sunny inner landscape, a cheap, unwelcome, off-the-peg rip-off that elbowed its way into the glitter and dazzle of my haute-couture dreams and projects: This could be me.
In my office at home in the flat at Embankment Court, so close to the river that the rooms seem to float over it, I checked my messages and post. My business – the weekly slot in Fashion, This Week, consultant on fashion shoots, regular demands to contribute think pieces to the glossier magazines and intermittent radio and television work – ensured there were many.
Dear Siena, Please help me. I’m going to university in the autumn and I look terrible. I don’t have much money. Is there anything you can do to make me feel more confident?
I slotted the letter into the pending tray.
Dear Siena, We enjoy your column but we think you are often too harsh on your subjects. We are equal beings in the eyes of our Maker and our outer covering is of little significance compared to what is within. We feel we should remind you of this point…
I held that letter over the bin, preparatory to dropping it in, but changed my mind, got up and pinned it to the noticeboard instead. I liked the idea of God watching over wardrobes and their custodians. In my experience, He had not seemed the sort of deity who would busy Himself with the cut and fold of fabric. But since I had turned thirty-five, a milestone just as worrying as forty, I had discovered that my opinions had not, after all, been set in stone. On the contrary, a great deal of nipping and tucking was going on.
Now I had to think about Lucy Thwaite and there was not much time (there never was). How could I transform her, make her happier for… oh, an hour or so?
The phone rang. ‘Hi, India here.’
It was a sure-fire thing that if I was introduced to anyone called ‘India’, ‘Paris’ or ‘Georgia’, they were probably in my age bracket. Some maggot had worked into the collective psyche of my parents’ generation, prompting them to discard the duller ‘Caroline’, ‘Elizabeth’ and ‘Jane’ in favour of naming their children after the wider world. It was nice, and we – the continents and cities – liked it.
