The Men in her Life

thinking that this was destined to be a good shopping day, which was ridiculous because it was impossible not to make a successful purchase of lingerie in M & S. Holly had made up her mind to quit while she was ahead, when, like a mirage in the dark desert of winter woollens, she spied the Christian Lacroix section dancing with mismatched colours and eccentric fabrics.
    The dress was long and lycra, it felt like a bathing costume and it fitted her like Michelle Pfeiffer’s catsuit fitted in Batman 2. The pattern was a funky combination of Greek vase painting and go-go girl in turquoise and yellow. Holly stepped outside the fitting-room and twirled, admiring herself, so pleased with the look she decided to see if they had a jacket that went with it.
    ‘What do you think?’ she asked the assistant, as she flipped through the rails. It was a rhetorical question. She knew she was going to have the dress. It was made for her. And then she saw the assistant’s face, and even though it did not have writing on it, Holly could clearly read the words ‘mutton dressed as lamb’.
    ‘Yeah, great!’ the assistant said, but seconds too late.
    Holly turned and went back to the fitting-room. Now, when she looked in the mirror, she saw that her breasts were not quite as high as they used to be and the tops of her arms not as thin. The lines on her face became crevasses as she stared. A couple of years before she had one day, without really noticing, passed the age where she could buy stuff from Miss Selfridge and pass it off as designer. (Suddenly angora just didn’t look like cashmere any more, and she was too old to show her midriff). Now another important rite of passage had gone by without her being aware of it. She had passed the age where she could buy designer that looked like Miss Selfridge. It was all downhill from here. She should have known, Holly told herself. It was a bad shopping day. First vampire, then mutton. In the cool pastel cube of her changing-room, Holly sat down and wept.

    Tom had just learned to pedal the tricycle tractor Philippa had given him.
    ‘Not near the pool!’ Clare shouted.
    It was a dangerous garden for a child, filled with steps and climbing roses with sharp thorns.
    ‘He loves his tractor, doesn’t he?’ Philippa said.
    The miniature farmyard machine complete with trailer looked ridiculously out of place in this sophisticated, long-established garden.
    ‘He loves everything you’ve given him. He’s been thoroughly spoilt,’ Clare said, smiling.
    On the first day, Philippa had swished them off in a taxi to Brent Cross where she had purchased everything Tom pointed at in the Early Learning Centre. The house was now scattered with brightly coloured plastic, and the dining-table had feathers of paint with flat edges where Tom’s brush had swept over the side of the giant-size sugar paper.
    ‘Perhaps he’ll want to come again,’ Philippa said tentatively.
    ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get him to leave...’ Clare said. Their bag was packed and waiting for them in the hall. They had said their goodbyes, and promised to visit again soon, and then Tom had asked for just one more go on his tractor.
    ‘Why not stay a while longer?’ Philippa asked as the two women watched him hurtling around.
    ‘I’ve got things to sort out...’ Clare said, ‘I have to make arrangements with Joss...’
    She still did not feel comfortable in Jack and Philippa’s house. There were too many memories there. She and Philippa had managed to keep the ceasefire, but it was a delicate truce. Sooner or later resentment was bound to ambush them. She did not want to be her mother’s enemy again, but it was too soon to be her friend.
    The house in Cornwall could not stand empty for too long in case Joss decided to move back in. She wondered if he was staying with Pepe and Vivienne and what mischief he had been making in her absence. All the poets and their wives would have fallen upon this juicy morsel of human distress. She could imagine their comments as they chewed it over, salivating... I never thought Clare was strong enough for him. Surprised it didn’t happen ages ago... and, with a grudgingly admiring laugh, Joss is so bloody capricious... Clare didn’t think that there was much chance of her job in Vivienne’s shop still being open when she returned.
    ‘Are you OK for money?’ Philippa asked her suddenly.
    Clare just laughed.
    ‘I’d like to give you some... a lot... however