Sweet Revenge

with his narrow, scholarlyface and golden hair. She didn’t, as many women might have, feel a pang as she saw the man she’d loved so fiercely, and so briefly, reflected in the boy’s face. Philip was hers. All hers. He’d never given her a moment’s trouble, not even as a baby. Not once had she ever regretted her decision to have him, though she’d been alone, without a husband, without family. Indeed, it had never occurred to Mary to seek out one of those tiny, flesh-colored rooms where a woman could rid herself of a problem before it became one.
    Philip was a joy to her, and had been from the moment of conception. If she had a regret, it was that she knew he resented the father he’d never known and looked for him in the face of every man he saw.
    “Your hands are cold,” he told her. “You should be wearing your gloves.”
    “Can’t make change with gloves.” Mary smiled at the young woman who had a boy by the nape of the neck. She’d never had to corral her Phil that way. “There you are, dear. Enjoy the show.”
    She worked too hard, Philip thought. Too hard and too long for too little. Though she was coy about her age, he knew she was barely thirty. And pretty. His mother’s smooth, youthful looks were a source of pride to him. Perhaps she couldn’t afford Mary Quant, but she chose what little she had with care and an eye for bold colors. She loved to look through fashion and movie magazines and copy hairstyles. She might mend her stockings, but Mary Chamberlain was anything but a frump.
    He kept waiting for another man to waltz into her life and change things for her. He looked around the tiny booth that smelled forever of the exhaust from the street beyond. He was going to change things first.
    “You should tell Faraday to put more than that rickety old heater in here.”
    “Don’t fuss, Phil.” Mary counted out change for two giggling teenage girls who were desperately trying to flirt with her son. Mary passed the coins through the chute and muffled a laugh. She couldn’t blame them, really. Why, she’d even caught her neighbor’s niece—twenty-five if she was a day—making over Phil. Offering him cups of tea. Asking him to come in and fix her squeaky door. Squeaky door indeed.Mary slapped change down hard enough to make a round-faced nanny grumble.
    Well, she’d put a stop to that right enough. She knew her Phil would leave her one day and it would be a woman he left her for. But it wouldn’t be some fat-breasted cow a dozen years his senior. Not as long as Mary Chamberlain drew breath.
    “Something wrong, Mum?”
    “What?” Catching herself, Mary nearly blushed. “No, nothing, luv. Would you like to go in and watch the movie? Mr. Faraday wouldn’t mind a bit.”
    As long as he doesn’t see me, Philip thought with a grin. He thanked God he’d long ago eliminated Faraday from his list of possible fathers. “No, thanks. I just came by to tell you I have some errands to run. Want me to pick up anything at the market?”
    “We could use a nice chicken.” Mary blew absently on her hands as she sat back. It was cold in the booth, and would get colder yet as winter set in. In the summer it was like one of those Turkish baths she’d read about. But it was a job. When a woman had a boy to raise and not much schooling, she had to take what she could get. She started to reach for her imitation leather purse. It would never have crossed her mind to nip a pound note or two from the till.
    “I’ve got some money yet.”
    “All right, then. Be sure the chicken’s fresh.” She passed four tickets to a harassed woman herding two squabbling boys and a young girl with big teary eyes.
    The show would start in five minutes. She’d have to stay in the booth another twenty in case there were any stragglers. “Be sure to take the price of the chicken out of the tin when you get home,” she told him, knowing he wouldn’t. Bless him, the boy was always putting money in instead of taking it out. “But shouldn’t you be in school?”
    “It’s Saturday, Mum.”
    “Saturday. Yes, of course, it’s Saturday.” Trying not to sigh as she arched her back, she picked up one of her glossy magazines, already well thumbed. “Mr. Faraday’s going to have a Gary Grant festival next month. He even asked me to help him choose the films.”
    “That’s nice.” The little leather bag was beginning to weigh heavy in Philip’s pocket, and he was itching to be off.
    “We’re going to start