against her Church’s stress on chastity, obedience, modest dress and self-abnegation.
‘And do you work as an artist now?’ Nicholas enquired. ‘Actually, we’re looking for a painting for our sitting-room, so if you have anything we could see …’
If only, Maria thought. She had sold nothing since two tiny watercolours, way back in 1968, and had painted depressingly little during most of her adult life. For many of those years, she had, in fact, worked in galleries, but more as a glorified sales assistant than as a dealer in fine art. And such jobs had been hard to find in rural Northumberland. Even those galleries that did exist only managed to survive by making frames and selling art materials .
‘I’m sorry, no,’ she said, embarrassed at being the centre of attention and even by her voice. The others’ Oxbridge accents made her own Northumbrian burr seem somehow more pronounced.
Fortunately, Chloe changed the subject and began extolling some fantastic day-spa she’d discovered near Sloane Square. ‘Amy, if you feel in need of a boost, book yourself in for a “pamper-day”. I had one last week and it was total and utter bliss! It started with a mud treatment. Mud draws out all the impurities in the skin, you see …’
A pity she hadn’t known, Maria reflected, then she could have utilized the facilities of the deplorably muddy lane beyond the cottage. Judging by the pre-lunch conversation, these modish thirty-and-forty-somethings all tended to favour a hedonistic lifestyle – although it had struck her as peculiar that, while they had no time to cook, ‘me-time’ was apparently no problem. Fiona met her personal trainer for daily sessions in the gym, Caroline ‘couldn’t survive’ without her weekly facials, and even Alexander had actually admitted to having Botox treatments. And, as for manicures and nail extensions, they were clearly
de rigueur.
‘I’ve been using our local nail-bar,’ Deborah observed, returning to the subject. ‘But I’m not exactly thrilled with it, so maybe I’ll change to your place.’
Maria studied Deborah’s nails: super-scarlet, super-long. Wasn’t it just a tad absurd to waste an hour or more varnishing or extending ten outgrowths of dead keratin?
‘Yes, I highly recommend it. In fact, I intend to be a regular now, and in just a few years’ time, we’ll be going
en famille.
You see, they already do men’s grooming days and they’re about to introduce these special pamper-packages tailored to the under-fives.’
Maria found it hard to countenance that tiny tots at playschool were in desperate need of body-wraps or pedicures. She knew her mother would be horrified by these lives of high consumption and high debt. Economy had always been Hanna’s watchword, since, if you did have money to spare, your duty as a Christian was to give it away to those in greater need. She would scrape out the last morsel from every can and carton; fry left-over Christmas pudding in slices, long after Christmas Day; iron the Christmas wrapping-paper so it could be reused the following year; save scraps of soap, to be melted down into a serviceable new bar. And, because she and Hanna shared a home, she herself had adopted similar practices. Now, she worried that perhaps Amy had resented such a frugal way of existence and that her present pursuit of wealth and power was simply an overreaction. Although, in all other ways, of course, she and Hanna had showered ‘their’ child with love. Indeed, ironical as it might seem, it was
she
who had made her daughter confident, ambitious and with a deep sense of inner worth, so determined had she been to compensate for those first two years of neglect.
‘What do you do as your job?’ she asked Fiona, the blonde and bosomy woman on her left, once the conversation had moved away from beauty salons.
‘I’m a headhunter, like Amy, only I specialize in financial services ratherthan in marketing and retail. I see my role as a
‘And do you work as an artist now?’ Nicholas enquired. ‘Actually, we’re looking for a painting for our sitting-room, so if you have anything we could see …’
If only, Maria thought. She had sold nothing since two tiny watercolours, way back in 1968, and had painted depressingly little during most of her adult life. For many of those years, she had, in fact, worked in galleries, but more as a glorified sales assistant than as a dealer in fine art. And such jobs had been hard to find in rural Northumberland. Even those galleries that did exist only managed to survive by making frames and selling art materials .
‘I’m sorry, no,’ she said, embarrassed at being the centre of attention and even by her voice. The others’ Oxbridge accents made her own Northumbrian burr seem somehow more pronounced.
Fortunately, Chloe changed the subject and began extolling some fantastic day-spa she’d discovered near Sloane Square. ‘Amy, if you feel in need of a boost, book yourself in for a “pamper-day”. I had one last week and it was total and utter bliss! It started with a mud treatment. Mud draws out all the impurities in the skin, you see …’
A pity she hadn’t known, Maria reflected, then she could have utilized the facilities of the deplorably muddy lane beyond the cottage. Judging by the pre-lunch conversation, these modish thirty-and-forty-somethings all tended to favour a hedonistic lifestyle – although it had struck her as peculiar that, while they had no time to cook, ‘me-time’ was apparently no problem. Fiona met her personal trainer for daily sessions in the gym, Caroline ‘couldn’t survive’ without her weekly facials, and even Alexander had actually admitted to having Botox treatments. And, as for manicures and nail extensions, they were clearly
de rigueur.
‘I’ve been using our local nail-bar,’ Deborah observed, returning to the subject. ‘But I’m not exactly thrilled with it, so maybe I’ll change to your place.’
Maria studied Deborah’s nails: super-scarlet, super-long. Wasn’t it just a tad absurd to waste an hour or more varnishing or extending ten outgrowths of dead keratin?
‘Yes, I highly recommend it. In fact, I intend to be a regular now, and in just a few years’ time, we’ll be going
en famille.
You see, they already do men’s grooming days and they’re about to introduce these special pamper-packages tailored to the under-fives.’
Maria found it hard to countenance that tiny tots at playschool were in desperate need of body-wraps or pedicures. She knew her mother would be horrified by these lives of high consumption and high debt. Economy had always been Hanna’s watchword, since, if you did have money to spare, your duty as a Christian was to give it away to those in greater need. She would scrape out the last morsel from every can and carton; fry left-over Christmas pudding in slices, long after Christmas Day; iron the Christmas wrapping-paper so it could be reused the following year; save scraps of soap, to be melted down into a serviceable new bar. And, because she and Hanna shared a home, she herself had adopted similar practices. Now, she worried that perhaps Amy had resented such a frugal way of existence and that her present pursuit of wealth and power was simply an overreaction. Although, in all other ways, of course, she and Hanna had showered ‘their’ child with love. Indeed, ironical as it might seem, it was
she
who had made her daughter confident, ambitious and with a deep sense of inner worth, so determined had she been to compensate for those first two years of neglect.
‘What do you do as your job?’ she asked Fiona, the blonde and bosomy woman on her left, once the conversation had moved away from beauty salons.
‘I’m a headhunter, like Amy, only I specialize in financial services ratherthan in marketing and retail. I see my role as a
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