mouthful.’
Chapter Sixteen
Washing up after supper, Monica paid particular attention to her favourite plate, which was an old one, decorated in blue willow pattern. It wasn’t just that she liked the colour and design, but she also thought of it as being friendly, somehow, unlike the cracked yellow one, which was definitely unfriendly – spiteful, almost. One of these days, she supposed, they’d be able to get some new china, and then everything would match and washing up wouldn’t be the same at all. From childhood, she’d thought of everything in the house, from the largest items of furniture down to teaspoons and table mats, as having particular characters. It was a feeling – and not the only one, either – that, she strongly suspected, had persisted long after she ought to have grown out of it. If I were to tell anyone about these things, she thought, they’d say I was mad.
Having finished the drying up, she thought she ought to look in on Dad in the sitting room, just to see if he wanted anything, but he was fast asleep with the newspaper in his lap. He was obviously exhausted. Whatever he’d said about it just being his job, she still thought it was pretty unfair of them to give him a case where a man had killed his wife, after what had happened to Mum. It might have been five years ago, but all the same … She stood looking down at him for a moment, the sensation of fierce protectiveness welling inside her chest as it always did at such times, before going upstairs to her bedroom. A girl at the studio had lent her some fashion magazines to read – well, not read, exactly, becauseseveral of them were French, but look at – and she’d spent most of the day in happy expectation of a couple of hours by herself, immersed in a world of glamour and sophistication and colour. Not that there wasn’t plenty of that at work – she still couldn’t believe her luck in getting the job – but it certainly wasn’t much in evidence elsewhere …
Flopping down on her bed, she opened the first magazine and began working her way through pages of long-necked beauties with perfectly arched eyebrows, high cheekbones and expressions of serenely haughty composure, clad in gorgeous creations that, despite the ending of clothes rationing, you still couldn’t buy in the shops even if you did have the money. Stroking the swathes of shining material that gleamed from the pages like soft jewels, she imagined the texture of the cloth beneath her fingertips. Her fingers moved, seemingly of their own accord, from a gorgeous drape of satin to the model’s upper arm, and she found herself imagining how that might feel, were she to be touching it. It was quite impossible, of course, that she could ever find herself, in real life, stroking the skin of such a loftily beautiful woman, but all the same …
Her hand strayed to her own breast, and she stared down at the photograph, and then closed her eyes, imagining that the woman was touching her – and then the sound of a passing car recalled her, abruptly, to the present. She jumped, suddenly on fire with shame, and slapped the magazine shut. What was wrong with her? Other people didn’t have thoughts like that. She stared down at the magazine’s front cover where the model, chin raised, looked disdainfully away from her, as if in reproach. Whatever this feeling was, and its exact nature wasn’t something she could bear to dwell on in any specific detail, she knew for certain that it wasn’t – couldn’t possibly be – shared by anyone else, anywhere. Perhaps she really was mad. All the girls she knew talked about boys and got soppy over the male film stars. Her cousin Madeleine was always asking about the actors, what they were like and if they ever talked to her. She knew thatMadeleine was disappointed by the lack of information and shared confidences, but, no matter how hard she tried, Monica could never think of anything interesting to say on the subject.
She used to
Chapter Sixteen
Washing up after supper, Monica paid particular attention to her favourite plate, which was an old one, decorated in blue willow pattern. It wasn’t just that she liked the colour and design, but she also thought of it as being friendly, somehow, unlike the cracked yellow one, which was definitely unfriendly – spiteful, almost. One of these days, she supposed, they’d be able to get some new china, and then everything would match and washing up wouldn’t be the same at all. From childhood, she’d thought of everything in the house, from the largest items of furniture down to teaspoons and table mats, as having particular characters. It was a feeling – and not the only one, either – that, she strongly suspected, had persisted long after she ought to have grown out of it. If I were to tell anyone about these things, she thought, they’d say I was mad.
Having finished the drying up, she thought she ought to look in on Dad in the sitting room, just to see if he wanted anything, but he was fast asleep with the newspaper in his lap. He was obviously exhausted. Whatever he’d said about it just being his job, she still thought it was pretty unfair of them to give him a case where a man had killed his wife, after what had happened to Mum. It might have been five years ago, but all the same … She stood looking down at him for a moment, the sensation of fierce protectiveness welling inside her chest as it always did at such times, before going upstairs to her bedroom. A girl at the studio had lent her some fashion magazines to read – well, not read, exactly, becauseseveral of them were French, but look at – and she’d spent most of the day in happy expectation of a couple of hours by herself, immersed in a world of glamour and sophistication and colour. Not that there wasn’t plenty of that at work – she still couldn’t believe her luck in getting the job – but it certainly wasn’t much in evidence elsewhere …
Flopping down on her bed, she opened the first magazine and began working her way through pages of long-necked beauties with perfectly arched eyebrows, high cheekbones and expressions of serenely haughty composure, clad in gorgeous creations that, despite the ending of clothes rationing, you still couldn’t buy in the shops even if you did have the money. Stroking the swathes of shining material that gleamed from the pages like soft jewels, she imagined the texture of the cloth beneath her fingertips. Her fingers moved, seemingly of their own accord, from a gorgeous drape of satin to the model’s upper arm, and she found herself imagining how that might feel, were she to be touching it. It was quite impossible, of course, that she could ever find herself, in real life, stroking the skin of such a loftily beautiful woman, but all the same …
Her hand strayed to her own breast, and she stared down at the photograph, and then closed her eyes, imagining that the woman was touching her – and then the sound of a passing car recalled her, abruptly, to the present. She jumped, suddenly on fire with shame, and slapped the magazine shut. What was wrong with her? Other people didn’t have thoughts like that. She stared down at the magazine’s front cover where the model, chin raised, looked disdainfully away from her, as if in reproach. Whatever this feeling was, and its exact nature wasn’t something she could bear to dwell on in any specific detail, she knew for certain that it wasn’t – couldn’t possibly be – shared by anyone else, anywhere. Perhaps she really was mad. All the girls she knew talked about boys and got soppy over the male film stars. Her cousin Madeleine was always asking about the actors, what they were like and if they ever talked to her. She knew thatMadeleine was disappointed by the lack of information and shared confidences, but, no matter how hard she tried, Monica could never think of anything interesting to say on the subject.
She used to
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