Helene’s boned underpinnings. Her shoes were high, usually decorated with gold buckles or monograms, and were too tight, so that the fronts of her feet swelled up like two pads of unbaked dough. She wore her dark hair loose and down to her shoulders in what she probably imagined were careless, tumbling locks, and although her jewellery was plentiful, large and inclined to chink, it was real, and added to the impression that Helene was really a prosperous, protein-filled gypsy rather than a retired opera singer. Valerie considered that Helene was doing well for fifty-five but not as well as she herself would when it came to it in fifteen years’ time, if she carried on doing the Rosemary Conlon video and stuck to her Nimble.
She parked in Queen Square and walked up Gay Street to the Circus, preparing the excuses she would have to give for Andrew and composing, partly for herself but mainly for the benefit of the other members of the Circus Music Group—Helene, Jim and Phil (Adele hardly counted in that sort of way)—the right facial expression for the patient, understanding chief inspector’s wife that she aspired to be.
‘No Andrew?’ Helene was swift to conceal the splinter of annoyance in her voice. ‘Oh dear, he is busy, poor man! Is it the woman in Camden Crescent? I saw it in tonight’s paper and just shuddered. Poor woman. But you’re here, Valerie, dear!’ Helene, splendid in lace-knitted teal flecked with bronze and with toning eyeliner, pulled her across the threshold. ‘Everyone’s here. Come on in.’
Valerie made her way along the hall towards the drawing room door with Helene following and talking rapidly to her back. ‘What a
dear
little jersey. You are lucky, you look so nice in simple things. I always look so dull in ordinary jumpers, but I expect that’s just years of being on the stage. One always thinks
costume
when one should be thinking nice sensible clothes for the colder weather! If only I could wear classics! Go straight in! There’s a surprise waiting!’
Damn her, Valerie thought, she didn’t even give me a chance to say it was cashmere. From the doorway she took in at once that there were extra people here. Not Adele, who would probably be down in the basement kitchen preparing coffee. Jim was sitting in his usual place in the small armchair by the gas fire; Phil also was perched in his corner of the deep sofa. But beside Phil sat a new couple who were looking up expectantly. The woman jumped to her feet and advanced. The man rose sluggishly and stood behind her.
‘Meet the surprise: our wonderful composer, Cosmo Lamb! This is Cosmo and this is his lovely Poppy,’ Helene gushed. ‘Poppy Thwaites. Cosmo is our composer-in-
residence,
I could say. They’re staying here for the duration, they’re almost family! This is our dear Valerie.’ She beamed round the room. ‘Oh, this is a moment! Isn’t it? Everyone? For the group? All of us, giving our talents, sharing the language of music. Joining together, giving whatever we can, whoever we are, that’s what I love about it!’
Valerie tried to smile but her lips pursed instead into a pink little cat’s bottom of disapproval. Helene was being at her most—
unreal
was the most generous way Valerie could think of it. In the face of exuberance like this something in Valerie invariably shrivelled up and refused to play along. A woman of Helene’s age should not be saying these things. Helene knew as well as Valerie did that you do not go through motherhood, in Helene’s case with its own very particular difficulties, and come out of it going tra-lah about anything much, not sanely or sincerely, anyway. Now the particular difficulty in person, Adele herself, was edging past with a loaded tray and shuffling over to the grand piano on the far side of the room. Valerie watched the girl’s serious face and the slightly tilted head as she stooped to deposit the tray on its closed lid.
Helene suddenly broke off from her eulogy
She parked in Queen Square and walked up Gay Street to the Circus, preparing the excuses she would have to give for Andrew and composing, partly for herself but mainly for the benefit of the other members of the Circus Music Group—Helene, Jim and Phil (Adele hardly counted in that sort of way)—the right facial expression for the patient, understanding chief inspector’s wife that she aspired to be.
‘No Andrew?’ Helene was swift to conceal the splinter of annoyance in her voice. ‘Oh dear, he is busy, poor man! Is it the woman in Camden Crescent? I saw it in tonight’s paper and just shuddered. Poor woman. But you’re here, Valerie, dear!’ Helene, splendid in lace-knitted teal flecked with bronze and with toning eyeliner, pulled her across the threshold. ‘Everyone’s here. Come on in.’
Valerie made her way along the hall towards the drawing room door with Helene following and talking rapidly to her back. ‘What a
dear
little jersey. You are lucky, you look so nice in simple things. I always look so dull in ordinary jumpers, but I expect that’s just years of being on the stage. One always thinks
costume
when one should be thinking nice sensible clothes for the colder weather! If only I could wear classics! Go straight in! There’s a surprise waiting!’
Damn her, Valerie thought, she didn’t even give me a chance to say it was cashmere. From the doorway she took in at once that there were extra people here. Not Adele, who would probably be down in the basement kitchen preparing coffee. Jim was sitting in his usual place in the small armchair by the gas fire; Phil also was perched in his corner of the deep sofa. But beside Phil sat a new couple who were looking up expectantly. The woman jumped to her feet and advanced. The man rose sluggishly and stood behind her.
‘Meet the surprise: our wonderful composer, Cosmo Lamb! This is Cosmo and this is his lovely Poppy,’ Helene gushed. ‘Poppy Thwaites. Cosmo is our composer-in-
residence,
I could say. They’re staying here for the duration, they’re almost family! This is our dear Valerie.’ She beamed round the room. ‘Oh, this is a moment! Isn’t it? Everyone? For the group? All of us, giving our talents, sharing the language of music. Joining together, giving whatever we can, whoever we are, that’s what I love about it!’
Valerie tried to smile but her lips pursed instead into a pink little cat’s bottom of disapproval. Helene was being at her most—
unreal
was the most generous way Valerie could think of it. In the face of exuberance like this something in Valerie invariably shrivelled up and refused to play along. A woman of Helene’s age should not be saying these things. Helene knew as well as Valerie did that you do not go through motherhood, in Helene’s case with its own very particular difficulties, and come out of it going tra-lah about anything much, not sanely or sincerely, anyway. Now the particular difficulty in person, Adele herself, was edging past with a loaded tray and shuffling over to the grand piano on the far side of the room. Valerie watched the girl’s serious face and the slightly tilted head as she stooped to deposit the tray on its closed lid.
Helene suddenly broke off from her eulogy
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