The Men in her Life

strongest urge to embrace her. If Philippa had asked for her advice when Jack was alive, Mo would not have been able to resist steering her towards something unflattering. On quiet days, the women who worked in the department would sometimes amuse themselves by choosing the garment they hated most and trying to flog it to some unsuspecting customer, usually a man buying for his wife or mistress, with no idea of style. But Philippa would never have asked her advice when Jack was alive. It was only without him that she needed help. Her confidence had drained away like the colour of her hair.
    ‘Is it for evening?’ Mo asked, knowing the answer, but trying her best to be professional.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How about velvet? Perhaps black with a nice rich colour over...’
    With her hand outstretched, Mo walked towards a line of velvet jackets in rich, luxurious dark colours with black hogging.
    ‘A bit too military,’ Philippa said, absently stroking the silky soft pile, ‘if there were something plainer... what about that?’
    She pointed at a short dark red velvet jacket with large covered buttons.
    ‘It reminds me of the skaters in Central Park,’ Philippa said wistfully, remembering all the times she and Jack had stopped to watch the quintessentially New York winter scene on their Sunday morning walks in the city that for so long had been half-way between them.
    ‘Do they do that in real life?’ Mo asked.
    Philippa looked at her, surprised.
    ‘Of course,’ she said, not unkindly.
    ‘Oh, I thought it was only in the movies,’ Mo said.
    ‘Well, you’re right in a sense. In the movies, they would wear a jacket like this. In real life probably more of a grey sweatsuit.’
    ‘But you couldn’t wear a grey sweatsuit to a film premiere,’ Mo said, laughing.
    ‘No,’ said Philippa, looking at her oddly, ‘no, you couldn’t.’

    * * *

    It was their last night in England . Tom was in bed asleep, their suitcases were packed in the hall. Tom had insisted that they bring the tractor in and put it beside the suitcases and all that remained for her to do was to find a way of forgetting it that would not lead to an unhappy departure. Clare looked at her checklist again. Every item was ticked.
    ‘What do you think?’ Philippa asked, walking downstairs with a bias-cut black dress underneath the red jacket. It was the third combination she had tried on.
    ‘I liked the black velvet trousers best,’ Clare told her.
    ‘Yes, so did I. Jack never liked trousers, though,’ Philippa replied with a sigh.
    Well, he’s not around to see them, Clare felt like saying but stopped herself. Her mother’s indecision and vanity were beginning to irritate her.
    ‘Look,’ she said, ‘would you mind babysitting Tom for an hour or two? There’s something I want to do in town...’
    ‘But it’s seven o’clock, everything’s closed...’
    ‘I won’t be very long...’
    ‘No, it’s fine,’ Philippa said, remembering her new, conciliatory self, ‘be as long as you want.’

    When Colette had suggested a nice quiet dinner, just the two of them, so that they could chat and reminisce and not get too drunk, Holly hadn’t believed her for a second, but when she came to pick her up and they began walking in the direction of the Criterion where Colette had said they were going to eat, she had a moment’s sinking feeling that her friend had grown so boring, that was really what she had planned.
    Then, just before the Trocadero, Colette suddenly stopped in her tracks.
    ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, I changed the venue,’ she said, ‘we’ll need to take a cab.’
    Automatically, Holly’s arm shot into the air as several black cabs raced past them, turning down the Haymarket. She had to step quickly out of the road as a white stretch limousine approached her.
    ‘Hey! I exist too, you bastard!’ Holly shouted, banging her fist hard on the front of the vehicle.
    The driver stopped the ridiculous car, jumped out and leapt round to the front.
    ‘Yeah?’ Holly asked with as much aggression as she could muster. Surely he wouldn’t dare to hit her in the middle of Piccadilly Circus ?
    ‘Your carriage awaits,’ the driver replied, with exquisite timing, and behind her Colette screamed with laughter.
    ‘We’re in this?’ Holly asked.
    ‘Yup! Although I didn’t quite plan it like that,’ Colette said.
    ‘God, you really show your roots sometimes,’ Holly told her, ‘this is so vulgar, you know what I mean?’ She looked