The Men in her Life

again... it’s more about style than anything else,’ Holly said, staring out of the window.
    The table in the Odeon bar looked over Regent Street . The early evening light was golden. Shoppers and office workers were strolling rather than hurrying, with jackets slung over shoulders, occasionally looking skywards as if unable to believe that the sun was still shining. There was definitely a different atmosphere in the air. Maybe things were really going to change tonight.
    ‘It looks nice, very sleek,’ Colette gave her assessment of the haircut.
    ‘Really? He put pomade on it, whatever that is. I thought it was the stuff men put on before Brylcreem was invented. Feels like a helmet. Every turn of my head, the hair goes too. Should I have it all cut off?’
    Colette appraised her again as if for the first time.
    ‘It would suit you, but it’d be different,’ was her considered opinion.
    Holly sipped her martini. It was so cold the vodka was slightly viscous. She lit her second cigarette and relaxed back into the armchair feeling almost completely happy.

Chapter 2

    Fifty feet away, almost directly beneath Holly and Colette’s table, although she did not know it, Holly’s mother Mo sat in a stationary Piccadilly line tube reading the paper. Everyone was so sure that Labour were going to win she wondered whether there was any point in voting. But she didn’t think she would forgive herself if she didn’t vote and then they lost in her constituency, although that was unlikely, since it had always been a safe Labour seat. And if Labour did win, as everyone was saying they would, then she would feel bad if she hadn’t participated in it. If Holly found out she would never hear the last of it.
    Mo turned to the recipe. She never made any of the dishes described but it was her way of reading the paper, just as she noticed other people turned straight to the television listings or the stars. The train started up again and slid into Piccadilly Circus . Crowds of people got on. Mo tucked her legs in as near to the seat as she could but someone still trod on her foot. She peered down at the toe of her black patent court shoe which was now decorated with the ghostly imprint of a trainer’s sole. It was too much of a squeeze to bend down and buff it up.
    At times like this Mo wished that she lived a bit nearer to the department store where she worked. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the journey hadn’t taken her right across the busiest part of town, from Knights-bridge to the East End . The trains seemed fuller than they had been, or perhaps she was just getting older. Lots of things that had floated over her head when she was younger irritated her now, like the way that all the foreign kids seemed to raise their voices a few decibels as soon as they got into the compartment. When she first arrived in London she remembered thinking how unfriendly everyone was, sitting silently in their tube train seats, staring into space, avoiding eye contact, let alone a chat. After thirty-odd years, she had almost become a Londoner herself.
    Mo tried to visualize what she had in the fridge for tea. There was a cod in butter sauce in the freezer which she could do with peas, but Eamon had said he might pop in and that wouldn’t be enough for both of them. There was a little supermarket near Holly’s old junior school where the polling-station was. She could pick something up there. Or perhaps they could have fish and chips. Mo stood up and pushed her way out to change at Holborn.
    The Central line was less full and there was room enough for her to open the paper again. She glanced at the television listings to see if there was a good film on that evening. She didn’t think she could be bothered with all the election-night swingometers and polls and things. When Holly lived at home she had always insisted they watch it. The last couple of elections, just out of habit, Mo had dutifully stared at the screen for as long as she could, but she didn’t really see the point. It didn’t change anything whether you watched or not. The only thing that was different was whether you woke up the next morning after a nice comfy sleep in your bed, or slumped in the armchair with a cricked n eck and a mouth tasting of last night’s food.
    Mo flipped idly through the news stories. It was all election stuff. She thought everyone would be glad when it was all decided. The campaign had been going on so long the papers were really scraping