The Biggest Female in the World and other stories Read online

  ‘Hi there, Miss Bellingham! Haven’t seen you for a while.’

  Evelyn smiled in recognition, not only pleased that Kathleen still remembered her, but glad to have her surname officially confirmed.

  ‘How was your Christmas?’ Kathleen shouted above the noise of the drier.

  ‘Very quiet, but I prefer it that—’ The words died on her lips. Kathleen had already turned away. Well, the girls were exceptionally busy and couldn’t be expected to find time to stop and chat. A pity, though, she hadn’t asked for the drier to be turned down. It really was unbearably hot, and her ears in particular felt as if they were burning. She glanced around the salon, wondering whom she could call for help. There was no sign of Chloe or Debra, and she wouldn’t dream of disturbing Jan on such a minor matter. Never mind. If she viewed it in a positive light, the higher the heat, the quicker her hair would dry.

  She sat imprisoned in her own small world, the voices in the salon silenced by the self-important salvo of the drier. With that huge metal dome extending from her head, she must resemble some ageing spacewoman, about to lift off with a thunderous zoom. To distract herself from the noise, she started counting the hair-products shelved beyond the dryers: twelve shelves in all, each crammed with tubes and bottles. Could any woman really need such an array of voluminizers, protein rinses, colour enhancers, glossers, masques, defrizzers? In her day, it had been basic shampoo, with perhaps a little lemon juice or vinegar added to the final rinse, for blondes and brunettes respectively. Yet these products seemed to symbolize once more the very narrowness of her existence. Work apart, her entire life had lacked body, colour, gloss and shine, remaining dry and parched and meagre through each successive decade.

  When Chloe came to release her from the drier, the girl seemed still more radiant in comparison; her hair shiny-thick, her lips plumped up, her whole body full of health and verve and zest. And, as she set to work removing all the rollers, her earrings jounced and jangled, as if they too were vibrantly alive. Evelyn tried to picture her lying naked in the boyfriend’s flat, although again her imagination proved unequal to the task, until she added scenes from Daphnis and Chloe to help fill in the gaps. The resultant images were admittedly confusing: pirates, nymphs and grazing goats cavorting on a modern double bed.

  ‘Right, that’s the comb-out finished. D’you want a bit o’ lacquer?’

  ‘No thank you,’ Evelyn murmured, the sound of Pan-pipes fading, along with the creaking of the bedsprings.

  Chloe went to fetch the hand-mirror and stood holding it up, so that Evelyn could see the back view. ‘Well, do you like it?’ she asked, a touch of impatience in her voice, as if she had lost interest in her handiwork already.

  Evelyn bit her lip. No, she didn’t like it. As she’d feared, the curls were far too tight. Kathleen had always achieved a softer, more attractive style, not this crimped and formal look. But at her age, did it matter? There was no one to see her anyway, except the milkman and the paperboy. ‘Very nice,’ she said.

  Chloe helped her out of the gown, suddenly more solicitous – in the hope of a tip, no doubt. Evelyn gave her a large one – far more than she could properly afford – but the girl was young, with the whole of her life ahead of her, and probably badly paid. She would learn in time to be less brusque, more gentle with the elderly.

  As she stepped out of the salon and trudged towards the bus stop, it started pelting down with rain. The furious, spiteful downpour seemed to be taking vengeance on roofs, cars, pavements and hapless pedestrians alike, slamming against car windows, cascading along the gutters, turning flimsy umbrellas inside out. She scuttled into the covered shopping precinct, grateful for some shelter, and wandering idly from store to store, in an effort to kill time. However much she disliked her hair-do, she didn’t want to reduce it to a mass of sopping rats’ tails.

  Ambling past the café, her attention was attracted by the jeweller’s shop just opposite, and she paused a moment to look in at the window-display: earrings, pendants, bracelets, rings, arranged tastefully between slender silvered twigs. Then she meandered on again, only to stop dead, suddenly double back and steal into the shop.

  ‘Do you make earrings to order?’ she asked the man behind the counter: a wiry little fellow, with thinning sandy hair.

  ‘We can do, madam, yes. It depends on what you want.’

  ‘Well, I was thinking of a pair of hoops in eighteen-carat gold.’

  ‘We have plenty of hoops in stock, madam. Would you like me to show you a few?’

  ‘No, I want something very particular.’ Gesturing emphatically, she described the small gold bar across each hoop, the gold italic letters dangling from those bars.

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem, madam. Though, as you say, they’ll have to be made to order, which means we’re looking at a price of at least nine hundred pounds.’

  Her mouth dropped open. ‘Nine hundred?’ she repeated, tempted to bolt straight out of the shop.

  ‘Yes, madam. Maybe more.’

  She remained rooted to the spot, torn between unselfishness and longing. Over the years, she had given literally thousands to the UNICEF Emergency Fund. Would it really hurt to cancel the standing order, just for a short while?

  Yes, it would. More children would die of malnutrition, or be mutilated by landmines, suffer drought and famine, fail to reach their natural—

  ‘And they’ll take a good six weeks to make.’

  Was the salesman trying to put her off, refusing to take her seriously, refusing to believe that such a shabby, undistinguished-looking spinster could actually raise the money, or even last another six weeks, without collapsing in a heap of skin and bone? In fact, she would need that long, just to make up her mind, let alone rearrange her finances.

  ‘Would you like to reconsider?’ The man was clearly puzzled by her silence.

  Silence not for her. There was a roaring in her ears, as if she were still sitting under the drier, the dials turned up dangerously high. Still saying, doing nothing, she continued to wrestle with herself.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, I don’t quite understand. Do you want to go ahead, or not?’

  She glanced around the shop, relieved that it was empty. No one else must hear this statement of betrayal: betrayal of her principles, betrayal of the vital work UNICEF was doing. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I do.’

  ‘Right, I’ll need to take some details. Please take a seat, while I fetch the order pad.’

  A normal chair, with arms, and a nicely padded seat. Guiltily she sank into it, trying to avoid the heaving throng of amputees and lepers, starving babies, victims of child rape, now pouring into the shop, stretching out their arms to her in silent supplication, each more desperate, needy, ravaged than the last.

  The man returned with his order pad, and half-a-dozen pairs of earrings, arranged on a blue velvet cushion. ‘I’ve brought some basic hoops for you to look at, so that you can let me know what size you want. And whether you’d prefer them in plain gold, or with a slight patterning, like this.’

  All at once, an extraordinary sense of elation began bubbling in her chest – so strong and overwhelming, it suppressed her guilt and shame; even drove the hordes of victims clean out of the shop. Trying to seem businesslike, she scrutinized the hoops, although there was no doubt about her choice. She had to have the earrings closest in size and style to Chloe’s. ‘This large pair, please,’ she said, ‘but with a bar across each hoop, and the name spelled out in letters hanging from the bar.’

  ‘And what name would that be, madam?’

  The tingly, bubbly feeling was spreading through her body, electrifying her bloodstream, enlivening every cell. She didn’t hesitate. ‘Chloe,’ she breathed, closing her eyes a moment, so she could concentrate on Daphnis: the rugged, foreign-looking man from the poster in the hair-salon. Both he and she were naked; his deft, bewitching fingers sliding up across her breasts, up further to her earlobes, as he fastened the gold earrings: his token of undying love, his preci
ous wedding gift.

  His voice was trembling with emotion, his breath warm and deliriously thrilling in her ear, and every shepherd, nymph and goatherd from every pastoral romance began showering down confetti, as he whispered that incredible ‘I will’.

  Table For Two

  ‘Table for two, madam?’

  ‘Er, no,’ she murmured, shrinking from the maitre d’, an overbearing figure, who had fixed her with his cold grey eye. ‘For… one.’ Was that pity on his face – pity, with a trace of contempt – or was she just imagining it? She rushed to justify herself. ‘It was for two. I mean, we booked for two a week ago. Name of Spencer-Scott. But my friend …’ Ditched me, she refrained from saying; broke off the relationship three days before this anniversary dinner. ‘He, er, couldn’t make it in the end. Something came up at his work, you see, and …’ She was babbling now, not making any sense. Why should he be working on a Saturday night?

  The man consulted the list of bookings, glancing up impatiently. ‘But, madam, that table was booked for seven-thirty, and it’s now almost ten to nine.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’ She should have rung and cancelled, but for the last three days she’d been in a state of near-paralysis, lying on the sofa, staring at the wall. And, of course, she’d never had the slightest intention of coming on her own. The very thought was repellent. But just half an hour ago, she’d suddenly leapt up from the couch, changed her clothes, grabbed her coat, and come rushing out to Anatole’s, in the desperate but ridiculous hope that he might be here, after all. Yet a glance around the restaurant showed every table occupied by a couple or a cheery group. Dining as a single was social suicide, especially on a Saturday, and in a ritzy joint like this.

  ‘And I’m afraid it’s taken now, madam. We held it for an hour, but …’ He completed the sentence with a dismissive shrug.

  He hoped she’d leave – that was clear enough – but she’d be damned if she’d creep out, now she had made the effort to get up and get dressed. Why shouldn’t she have a decent meal, instead of dining on regrets and tears? Anyway, Neville might still come. Her email had been playing up, so he could have left her a message that simply hadn’t come through, telling her he’d changed his mind and would join her rather later than arranged. ‘Isn’t there another table?’

  The maitre d’ perused the list again, raising just one eyebrow: another wordless gesture calculated to reduce her to a pulp. Then, reluctantly, he led her to a table – the worst table in the place, of course, stuck in a dark corner, and close to the swing doors, where a bevy of mostly foreign waiters were dashing in and out.

  The table was laid for two, thank God. With any luck, the other diners would assume she was waiting for someone – as, actually, she was. Neville might be on his way by now; even feeling remorse. She tried to assume an expression of calm expectancy, but at that very moment, a tall, snooty-looking waiter glided over and started clearing away the second set of cutlery and glasses. The action seemed to dash her hopes, as if fate were saying, ‘Who d’you think you’re kidding? Of course he won’t turn up.’ But it was too late to make an exit. She’d die of shame if she had to face that maitre d’ again and tell him she wasn’t dining after all. Yet her humiliation was now on public view – everyone aware that she was abandoned and alone. Indeed, the couple at the adjoining table were already glancing her way. She met the woman’s eyes – a raddled blonde with a plunging neckline, exposing too much freckled flesh, sitting opposite an attractive guy who seemed too young for her. They were clearly celebrating. A bottle of champagne stood cooling in an ice bucket, and the woman was flamboyantly dressed in a flounced silk frock, with flashy earrings, diamond rings and an ostentatious orchid spray pinned to her décolleté. As she watched, the man groped his hand across the table and began stroking the ringed fingers, lovingly and sensuously.

  Lizzie looked away. The waiter was still bustling around, fetching her the menu and the wine-list, lighting the small scarlet candle that stood beside a silver vase containing one red rose. Both rose and candle seemed totally inappropriate to her present jilted state, as did the presence of a pianist, dressed in full-fig tie and tails, trilling out romantic tunes from a heart-shaped white piano in the corner.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, madam?’ the waiter asked, with an obsequious bow. At least he was polite, not treating her as a loser or pariah. The trouble was, she didn’t drink – well, rarely more than half a glass of wine. And it was always Neville who chose the wine and drank the rest of the bottle. He was something of a wine buff, who liked to indulge in long discussions about vintages and regions before making any decision, whereas for her the stuff was simply red or white. ‘I’ll just have some wine with my meal, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Of course, madam. Would you like to order now?’

  ‘Er, I’m not quite ready yet.’ Why did everything she say sound so apologetic? She had every right to be here. Didn’t she?

  ‘I’ll be back in just a moment,’ he said, unfolding her damask napkin with a flourish, and laying it on her lap.

  ‘Fine.’ Nervously she opened the menu, which, with its leather cover and old-fashioned italic script, looked as self-important as a Bible. Not only was it cumbersome to hold, but all the dishes seemed extremely rich and complicated, when her stomach yearned for simple comfort food. And the prices were exorbitant. How on earth could she afford it, without taking out a loan?

  She studied the list of starters, each more pricey and elaborate than the last: escargot and wild mushroom pie; oysters grilled with ginger chilli and coriander; carpaccio of sea bream, with crab fritters and red onion marmalade. What in God’s name was carpaccio? Not that she could touch it. The very thought of crab or oysters, let alone escargots, brought a surge of nausea rising to her throat. And the main courses sounded equally florid, if not downright gimmicky: parmesan-crusted veal on sesame spinach, with roasted garlic gnocchi; pan-fried fillet of black dorade, with char-grilled fennel, saffron tagliatelle and roast red pepper salsa. What she really fancied was a soft-boiled egg with Marmite ‘soldiers’, or a bowlful of her mother’s chicken soup. She closed her eyes a moment, to see her mother in the kitchen, chopping onions for the soup. She could hear her soft, consoling voice, murmuring as she worked, ‘There, there, little Lizzie, everything will be all right.’ The picture paled and faded. Her mother was just ashes now – ashes and a rosebush in Mortlake crematorium.

  She glanced at the couple beside her, to see what they were eating. It was difficult to tell because the food was exuberantly garnished with sauces, salsas, coulis and even fruits and flowers, which concealed any meat or fish or fowl lurking underneath. Besides, the pair of them were gazing into each other’s eyes, clearly more concerned with billing and cooing than with what was on their plates. Odd, she mused, that Neville never looked at her like that. In fact, he always seemed embarrassed by any sort of eye contact, and certainly wouldn’t feast on her face, as this man was devotedly doing. Yet the guy’s partner was not only older than him but distinctly less good-looking. The blonde hair was demonstrably false, and the freckles were so numerous, they could be regarded as a blemish, rather than simply cute. So what on earth was her secret? Claiming a man’s complete attention was definitely an art – one she’d failed to master herself, despite the fact she wasn’t unattractive: slim (though it took effort), with greenish eyes, decent teeth and a reasonable complexion. And she was much younger than Neville, not older. None the less, he had thrown her over, discarded her like a broken shoe.

  She dragged her attention back to the menu, concentrating more now on the prices than the food. Even if she picked out all the cheapest items, she’d still be forced to work overtime in order to meet her other bills. Though, with Neville gone, at least she’d have more time for her job, which had been sorely neglected of late.

  She decided on the poussin, not only because it cost the least, but because it didn’t come with a whole raft of embellishments. And salad to start, though, of course, it wasn’t billed
as salad, but as ‘a medley of lime-dressed Kentish lettuce, radicchio and dandelion leaves.’ The price was daylight robbery, especially as dandelions were free for the picking in any patch of waste ground. As a child, she had gathered them by the armful for her rabbits and her guinea pigs. And as for Kentish lettuce, was it really any different from any other sort of lettuce? And even radicchio was now distinctly passé – according to Neville, anyway.

  Still, at least she’d made a decision, not that anyone seemed interested in actually taking her order. Waiters were bustling to and fro, in and out of the swing doors – she could feel the draught on her back as the doors opened and shut, opened and shut – but there was no sign at all of her waiter. Perhaps he’d gone off shift, forgotten all about her. She should have brought a book or, better still, her knitting. She might have finished Neville’s sweater – though, of course, now he’d never see it. Why had he ended the relationship, she asked herself for the thousandth time, when they’d been together a whole year? All he’d offered as an explanation was the enigmatic statement that it was ‘time for him to move on’. She suspected that she bored him, or was too passive and submissive, but then it wasn’t easy with Neville to take a more dominant role. He liked to be in charge, to dictate all the moves.

  There was a sudden plangent cadence from the pianist, as he finished playing ‘A Fine Romance’, before launching into ‘Some Enchanted Evening’. Every love song seemed bitterly ironical to someone who’d been dumped; their very titles a mockery. Yet she felt a certain bond with the fellow – a youngish, fairish, plumpish guy, who seemed, like her, essentially alone. No one was paying him the slightest attention, as he sat marooned in his corner, pouring a veritable flood of emotion into the music, while people chattered heedlessly above it.