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fed Tuppence, and … and …’

      ‘And it’s Friday night,’ remarked Antonia, with controlled irony. ‘I know.’ Her mother usually played bridge on Friday evenings. ‘Okay, Mum. I’ll ring again on Monday as usual.’

      With the receiver replaced on its rest, Antonia found her will to go and make herself something to eat had been sadly diminished. The kettle had switched itself off in her absence, and allowing herself to slide disconsolately off the arm of the sofa, she subsided on to the cushioned seat. She always had this awful sense of emptiness after speaking to her mother and Susie, and it was incredibly difficult not to give way to a totally selfish desire to burst into tears.

      But self-pity was not something she allowed herself to indulge in for long, and presently Antonia got up from the couch and went to make a cup of tea. A pizza she had bought in the supermarket on her way home, was soon heated under the grill, and putting her cup and plate on a tray, she carried them back into the living room.

      The portable black-and-white television her mother had insisted she brought from home to keep her company held no interest for her, and propping the paperback novel she was presently reading on the cushions beside her, she tried to become involved with its cardboard characters. But it was no use. Susie’s face kept intruding, and after eating half the pizza, Antonia put the book aside and turned on the radio.

      The music programme she tuned into was soothing, and depositing the tray on the floor, Antonia curled her long legs up beside her. Had she really done the right thing by taking this job? she asked herself, for the umpteenth time, feeling the familiar sense of melancholy stealing over her. Was the fact that she had been looking for suitable employment for over three years a reasonable excuse for accepting a position so far from home? Uncle Harry, her mother’s brother, had certainly thought so; but then, he had done the same more than twenty years ago, so he was biased.

      ‘It’s not as if you’re a slip of a lass,’ he had remarked candidly, when he drove up to Newcastle to offer her this flat. He was referring to Antonia’s height of five feet eight inches, of course, and to the fact that she was five years past her twenty-first birthday. ‘And you have been married,’ he added, as if that was some further qualification. ‘Your mother won’t have to worry that you’ll get yourself into trouble, if you see what I mean.’

      Antonia did see, and Uncle Harry’s words were valid. Her marriage to—and subsequent divorce from—Simon, had certainly taught her to be wary of the opposite sex. But as she had no intention of allowing any emotional relationship to develop, he could have saved his breath. Once bitten, twice shy, she quoted a little bitterly. She was free now, and self-supporting. No man was worth the sacrifice of surrendering those basic liberties.

      Saturday was not one of Antonia’s favourite days of the week. It was the day she cleaned the flat for a start and, like Sunday, it was inclined to drag. Uncle Harry, who lived in Wimbledon, had suggested she should go to them on Sundays, for lunch, but Antonia did not think it was fair on Aunt Mary. Their own two sons, and their wives and families, often turned up for lunch on Sundays, and although that first lonely weekend in London Antonia had taken them up on their offer, she had felt an intruder. They had tried to make her feel at home, but they had their own lives, their own friends; people they could talk about, but who meant nothing to her. After several awkward interludes, when Antonia had been excluded from their conversation, an awkward silence had fallen, and Antonia had never repeated the experience.

      Perhaps she was too sensitive, she thought wearily, as she was vacuuming her bedroom. Perhaps if she had gone every Sunday, she would eventually have fitted in to their lives. The trouble was, they had not known what to say to her, beyond asking about her mother and Susie. The subject of Simon was apparently taboo, and when she would have explained that she had long recovered from the effects of his rejection, Aunt Mary had steered the conversation into other channels.

      Later that afternoon, as she sat in an armchair drinking a well-earned cup of tea, she became aware of the sound of furniture being shifted in the room above. Apparently, Celia and her friend were getting ready for the party, Antonia reflected, half-enviously. It was years since she had attended anything but family get-togethers. Her marriage to Simon had cut her off from all her college friends, and when they split up, it simply wasn’t possible to pick up the threads of her social life as if nothing had happened. Besides, there had been Susie to consider, and Antonia had tried to keep her life as stable as possible. But, after the divorce, the house she and Simon had bought with their savings had had to be sold, and Antonia had had no choice but to take her mother’s advice and go back to living with her.

      Realising she was allowing herself to sink into a state of depression, Antonia got up from her chair and carried her cup into the kitchen. Then, flexing her aching shoulders, she walked into the tiny bathroom that adjoined her bedroom. Turning on the bath taps, she squeezed some scented bath gel into the water, and then turned back into the bedroom to find herself some clean underwear.

      Ten minutes later she was soaking in the deliciously perfumed water, feeling the tensions she had been experiencing easing out of her. Even the uncertain weather beyond her windows, that sent raindrops pattering against the pane, no longer had the power to depress her, and she relaxed lazily, allowing her thoughts to drift.

      Perhaps she should go to the party, she mused reflectively. After all, she had been invited, and she didn’t want to offend Celia. She was a nice girl, and she hoped she would be happy. No doubt this young man of hers—what was his name? Reed … Gallagher? No doubt, he was capable of supporting her in the manner to which she was accustomed. Celia would never be expected to do her own housework, or look after her own children, not unless she wanted to, of course. Antonia already knew that Mrs Francis paid a twice-weekly visit to the apartment upstairs: Just to give the place the once-over! as she put it; and whenever there was to be a party, the catering van from a very exclusive establishment was generally to be seen outside.

      The water was cooling by the time she got out of the bath, and after drying herself vigorously to restore her circulation, Antonia slipped on the pink towelling bathrobe her mother had bought for her at Christmas. Her hair needed drying, and collecting the hand-drier from the cupboard, Antonia seated herself in front of the dressing-table mirror. Removing the towel she had wound around her head while she got dry, she surveyed her reflection wryly. At least, she had no problems about what to do with her hair, she thought, tugging a brush through the damp strands. Shoulder-length and straight, it defied any attempt she made to put curl into it; and although once she had gone so far as to try perming, the result had been so awful, she had never tried again.

      Dry, the toffee-brown ends tipped silkily against her shoulders. Combed from a centre parting, the two shining swathes framed the oval contours of her face, a feathery fringe brushing eyebrows that were several shades darker. Examining her skin for any unsightly blemish, Antonia had to admit that the polluted air of London had done nothing to mar it. Hazel eyes, which could look green in some lights, looked back at her from between her lashes, their slightly elongated shape giving her face a mildly interesting look. She was not beautiful; she knew that. Although she had good bone structure, her mouth was too wide, the lower lip too full. In the early days of their relationship, Simon used to say she had a sexy face, but she had long since dismissed any claims he made. Simon had wanted to get her into bed, and he had succeeded. The result had been Susie, and the rest was history.

      Abandoning this particular train of thought, Antonia got up from the mirror and expelled her breath heavily. What was she going to do? she asked herself. Go to the party; or consign herself to another night of self-recrimination? She was becoming far too morose and introspective, she thought; and dull, painfully dull! Just because she had had one bad experience, she was allowing its aftermath to colour her whole outlook on life. All right, so she didn’t want to get involved ever again. She didn’t have to. She could still enjoy a party, with no strings attached.

      The problem of what she was going to wear if she did go loomed next on her horizon. What did one wear to an informal party of this kind? She could wear jeans, she supposed, or cotton trousers; but as she wasn’t absolutely sure how informal informal was, she decided it would be safer to stick with a skirt.

      The fitted wardrobe

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