Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

‘Oh yes,’ I said. Carl had introduced me to cappuccino and espresso as he had to so many things. Conversation over fine coffee had not figured much in my life before I met him.

‘Come on, then, I’m due a break,’ she said. ‘They do great cappuccino at that new place round the corner.’

Mariette grabbed her coat and we hurried out of the library. ‘I haven’t got long,’ she said. ‘Let’s make the most of it.’

Mariette had lots of very dark curly hair, which bounced when she walked – the kind of hair I had always envied. Mine was straight and lank, and a sort of mousy nothing colour.

‘What are you staring at?’ she asked as she pushed open the double doors of a little coffee bar, which seemed really quite trendy for St Ives.

‘Y-your hair,’ I confessed haltingly. ‘I’ve always wanted hair like that.’

I thought I sounded fairly pathetic, but if I did, Mariette gave no sign. ‘Oh, we all want the hair we haven’t got,’ she responded with a giggle. ‘I’d love to have smooth, straight hair like yours, get sick to death of all these curls all over the place.’ She glanced thoughtfully at me. ‘Maybe you could do with some nice blond highlights, though,’ she ventured.

I think my jaw dropped. The idea of dyeing my hair, and peroxide blond at that, had never occurred to me. And I was a long way off being ready for it. I would just have to put up with the bland nothingness of my mousy hair, which, I have to admit, I did think rather suited the bland nothingness of the rest of me.

I was such an average sort of person; average height, average build, average-looking in every way. When I stood in front of a mirror I saw nothing remotely memorable. Brownish-grey eyes, regular features, a neat mouth, a small, snubby nose. I knew that my eyes were bright and my complexion clear and healthy-looking, but when Carl told me I was pretty I didn’t really believe him. Probably because nobody but Carl had ever said such a thing to me, and he loved me, so I assumed that he judged everything about me differently from the rest of mankind.

Mariette guided me to a glass-topped table in a corner by the window and as soon as we sat down she took a packet of cigarettes out of her bag. ‘Been dying for a fag all morning,’ she muttered as she lit up, drew in a deep, joyful breath and offered me the packet.

I shook my head. Carl didn’t approve of smoking. He was strongly anti drugs of any kind and although he enjoyed an occasional drink, particularly a pint or two of beer in one of St Ives’s many pubs, he loathed blatant drunkenness. Carl never liked to be out of control nor to see others so, apparently a legacy of his childhood. Carl had had an unconventional upbringing, mostly in Key West in Florida, the only son of parents whom he described, without a deal of affection, as the last great hippies.

A handsome young waiter came and took our order. He and Mariette obviously knew each other. He spoke with a strong French accent and seemed to enjoy saying her name, fussing around our table rather more than might really have been necessary. He had quite long wavy brown hair, which he was constantly brushing out of his eyes, and tufts of brown hair sprouted at the open neck of his spotless white shirt.

Mariette flirted with him outrageously. I was fascinated. I didn’t even know how to flirt. Her eyes followed the waiter as he moved around the room. ‘I think he’s got the cutest bum in Cornwall!’ she said, making a little sucking noise with her teeth.

I glanced at her in some alarm.

She giggled, something she did a lot. ‘Sorry, forgot you were an old married woman,’ she said.

It wasn’t that really, though. It was just that I wasn’t used to girl talk and certainly not Mariette’s brand of it. It would not have occurred to me to comment on the condition of a man’s bum. I had never sat chatting with a girlfriend talking about men, and had no idea how to join in.

Mariette was unfazed by my reaction. She was a few years younger than me, shorter and with a slight plumpness which might one day spoil her looks. But not for a long time. At twenty-two or twenty-three she was merely voluptuous. She was quite stunning in every way, with big brown eyes and that curly hair so black you could hardly believe the colour was natural, although somehow you knew it was. Her skin was pale and creamy, and her lips full and pink. Like me, she wore very little make-up, but I suspected that our reasons were rather different. She didn’t need make-up and jolly well knew it. I just didn’t have a clue how to go about putting on anything beyond a dash of mascara, a smear of foundation and a smudge of lipstick.

‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I’ve not had it since New Year’s Eve.’

I nearly choked on my cappuccino. ‘Oh,’ I remarked lamely.

‘Yeah,’ Mariette continued conversationally. ‘Went to a party with my Micky and all he did was get fruity with this tart from Truro. So I pulled her bloke – not that he was up to much. But then my Micky has the cheek to get all sanctimonious and chuck me up.’

The French waiter reappeared, to ask smilingly if there was anything else we would like.

‘Tell you later, darling,’ said Mariette shamelessly. The waiter’s smile widened. When he eventually carried our empty coffee cups back to the kitchen Mariette’s eyes followed his retreating bum. ‘What I couldn’t do with that,’ she murmured.

I was staggered. But I found myself giggling along with her. For me even such inconsequential events were an adventure, and I could not wait to get home and tell Carl about my new friend – although I did leave out our conversations concerning the merits of the waiter’s bum and the state of Mariette’s sex life.

As coffee breaks with Mariette became a weekly occurrence I began to relax and even join in the cheeky chat. Our gossipy sessions were a great novelty to me because Carl and I were always so totally immersed in each other that we had never felt the need to mix much with anyone from outside. In any case, we only felt really safe with each other. I even wondered if my new friendship with Mariette might cause him any anxiety, but he gave no indication that it did.

I was however finding myself drawn towards a lifestyle very different from anything I had ever experienced. Mariette’s independence seemed so appealing to me. Exciting even!

Although I had never handled money and was daunted by the vague prospect of ever doing so – Carl had always dealt with all of that, as had somebody throughout my life – I began to fantasise about earning some money of my own. I wondered if I might be able to get a job in the town, perhaps just part time. Anything that would allow me to stand on my own two feet at last, albeit just a little. And one day I mentioned it to Mariette in the library.

‘Good idea, I’ll ask around and see what’s going,’ she replied easily.

She had, of course, no idea what a monumental step it would be for me.

I was thoughtful when I left the library and began to walk up the steep cobbled streets towards our little cottage. One way and another, the idea of a job was becoming more and more appealing. It was early July and the sun was warm on my back. As I walked, dodging the holidaymakers, I could see the glow of the bay through gaps between the higgledy-piggledy mish-mash of buildings. The sight never failed to lift me, and I had at last begun to feel so strong and well, and unusually untroubled, that I decided to talk over my job idea with Carl.

Over our usual snack lunch of bits and pieces grabbed from the fridge, I mentioned as casually as I could manage that perhaps I might like to find a job one of these days, to have some kind of commitment outside our home.

Carl was eating an orange and struggling not to let the juice run down his chin. He was one of those people who always seemed to have a problem eating without dribbling or dropping something. I used to think it must be to do with the shape of his mouth and it always made me want to laugh, particularly watching him try to be so careful. Eventually he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and then rubbed both his hands down the sides of the paint-spattered blue cotton smock he always wore when he was working. He stared at me thoughtfully before he spoke. ‘It’s not so easy, you know, Suzanne,’ he said. ‘You’ve never worked; I think you would find it very stressful.’