Elegance and Innocence: 2-Book Collection - Kathleen Tessaro

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pelts some organic, vine grown tomatoes into a wooden bowl. ‘Who cares?’

      ‘Top Shop,’ I tell him.

      ‘Top Shop!’ He stands amazed. ‘My girls shop at Top Shop!’

      ‘No, they do not.’ Nicki slams the fridge door. ‘No one you know shops at Top Shop.’

      ‘They do now. How much were they?’

      ‘Nothing, thirty-five pounds.’

      ‘No way!’ The whole concept of buying a garment for as little as thirty-five pounds is new to him.

      ‘Dan, leave us alone. We’ve got work to do,’ Nicki commands, pointing to the door.

      But he lingers on, unfazed. ‘Why don’t you shop at Top Shop, Nicks?’

      ‘Don’t call me Nicks.’ She’s chopping something with a knife and pieces are flying everywhere.

      ‘Come on,’ he persists, ‘why don’t you buy a cute pair of trousers like Louise?’

      She turns, knife raised, eyes narrowed into two tiny little slits. ‘Because, my darling, I don’t need to shop at Top Shop. I can afford to buy decent clothes from a proper designer. We all do the best we can with what we have and Louise has done very well. It’s not easy for girls on a budget and then of course, certain figures are, shall we say, more challenging than others.’ She turns back and the knife hits the cutting board with a crack.

      For a moment, there’s absolute silence. Dan stares at Nicki in disbelief.

      ‘My God, but you’re a rude bitch,’ he says at last.

      Nicki turns around again and looks at me. Her eyes are dead, like a shark. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant …’

      Dan turns to go. ‘I’m sorry, Louise. I really am.’

      ‘Don’t you dare apologize for me!’ she shouts after him.

      He’s gone and the kitchen is quiet. ‘So.’ She turns to face me, smiling. When she speaks, her voice is like honey. ‘Would you like tuna in your salad?’

      ‘No. No, thank you,’ is all I can say.

      She swivels around and continues chopping. ‘Suit yourself.’

      Nicki and I never get beyond page fifteen. We decide we have artistic differences and have gone in different directions. We never noticed it before, but now it’s all we can see.

      Considering that I used to see her twice a week, I should miss her more than I do.

       H Husbands

       There are three types of husbands:

       1. The Blind Man, who says, ‘Isn’t that a new suit, darling?’ when he at last notices the ensemble you have been wearing for the past two years. There really isn’t any point in discussing him, so let’s leave him in peace. At least he has one advantage: he lets you dress as you please.

       2. The Ideal Husband, who notices everything, is genuinely interested in your clothes, makes suggestions, understands fashion, appreciates it, enjoys discussing it, knows just what suits you best and what you need, and admires you more than all the other women in the world. If you possess this dream man, hang on to him. He is extremely rare.

       3. The Dictator, who knows far better than you what is becoming to you and decides if the current styles are good or not and which shop or dressmaker you ought to go to. This type of man’s ideas on fashion are sometimes up to date, but most often he has been so impressed with the way his mother used to dress that his taste is, to say the least, about twenty years behind the times.

      Whatever type of husband you have, my advice is to make the best of it and to try to tame your expectations of him. Even the most devoted man is bound to be distracted at times and forgetful, despite all the efforts you have made to charm him. If you are wise, then you will allow it to pass unnoticed. It is better to develop a strong sense of your own style than to rely too heavily on the opinion of another … even that of your husband.

      I’m handing my husband, the Blind Man, a fresh cup of tea.

      I walk across the living room and place his cup on the small round table beside him.

      He looks up.

      ‘You’ve lost weight,’ he observes.

      I stand like a rabbit frozen in the headlights of a car. ‘Yes,’ I concede.

      And for a moment I think he’s going to notice. For a very long second it looks like he’s going to register the fact slowly but surely everything about me has changed. I’m wearing my hair differently. I’ve bought several new items of clothing. I’ve started to seriously go to the gym. For weeks now I’ve been making dozens of tiny little adjustments and silently waiting for some sort of response.

      And now here it is; he’s noticed.

      And then, just as quickly, I don’t want to know. After years of being invisible, the sudden spotlight of my husband’s attention is too much to bear. It infuriates me.

      As it happens, I’m in luck.

      ‘Don’t get too thin,’ he says, disappearing again behind the Sunday papers. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m safe.

      I pick up the Style section of the Sunday Times and perch on the edge of the sofa with it. Wait a minute. Why is that a relief? What are my motives for changing the way I look if I don’t even want my husband to notice?

      I’m doing a pretty good imitation of a woman reading the paper, but what I’m really doing is gathering my thoughts about me.

      I’m changing. Fast. It started off gradually enough, but now it’s snowballing. I can’t explain it; things that were perfectly acceptable a minute ago are suddenly intolerable. At first it was only the clothes but now it’s seeping into everything – the way I eat, sleep, think. I steal a glance at the figure hidden behind a wall of newsprint on the other side of the room. Here’s the rub: can I hide it from him? And do I want to?

      I can hear him chuckling. ‘That television show Clive’s in has got terrible reviews.’

      Clive Foster is my husband’s arch-rival and we hate him. I say ‘we’ because this is part of the glue that keeps the relationship afloat. There’s a kind of camaraderie in tearing successful people down, like a shared hobby. And Clive is one of our favourites. Not only is he a similar physical type to my husband, which means they’re always up for the same roles, but he’s also considerably more successful. If that weren’t reason enough, they’re at present sharing a stage night after night in The Importance of Being Earnest. My husband spends most of the evening trying to upstage him and Clive retaliates by cutting off his laugh lines. It’s an ugly business. But mostly we hate Clive because he’s out there, enthusiastic and determined and that’s deeply threatening to people like us.

      He laughs again. ‘My God! They’ve even singled him out! “Clive Foster is horrifically miscast in the role of Ellerby”! Splendid!’

      ‘Poor Clive,’ I murmur.

       Poor Clive?

      Unexpectedly, I feel for Clive. Yes, Clive, who used to be the household embodiment of all that is evil and loathsome. Suddenly, getting what you want, thrusting yourself centre stage and taking risks doesn’t seem so offensive. What is distasteful is the way we hide behind our own sterile mediocrity and take pleasure in the failings of someone who at least has the courage to try.

      That’s when I start to lose the plot.

      ‘Poor Clive,’ I say again, only louder this time.

      The paper comes down and my husband looks at me like I’m

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