Short and Sweet Part 10

She caught Jeff studying her just as closely and blushed. *I a it was all my fault, I'm afraid. This mix-up, I mean. I put the advert in without telling my daughter. I was so worried about her, you see .a.a.'

When she had finished explaining, he smiled and patted her hand. *I'm to blame as well. I like reading the POSSIBILITIES column, and nagged my son into answering your daughter's advert.'

*Why?'

*It was so fresh and appealing. She sounded delightful.'

*She is.'

By the time they'd finished their coffees, the place was full of young people, loud music was throbbing out, and the waitress had twice asked them if they wanted anything else.

*Let's get out of here,' he said with a grimace.

As they stood outside in the late evening sunshine, he asked hesitantly, *Would you care to have dinner with me? Not if you don't want to a I'm not trying to force myself on you, heaven forbid.'

It was the uncertainty in his voice and face that did it. *Why not?'

Over dinner they got talking about their children again.

*It wasn't fair of your daughter to dump this on you,' he said. *You put yourself at risk tonight. I could have been anyone.'

*Well, your son wasn't much better,' she countered. *He completely forgot about his date.'

*In fact, it'd serve the pair of them right if .a.a.' he hesitated.

He has a cheeky little boy's grin, she thought. I do like him! *If what?' she asked, intrigued.

*Well, I just thought .a.a.'

Sara rang up on the Sunday evening. *Sorry I haven't been in touch all week, Mum. I've met this fabulous guy. I won't be over till next weekend, I'm afraid. Bill's a well, he's rather special.'

*No worries. I've been a bit busy myself. In fact a' Beth took a deep breath a *I've met someone, too.'

*What?'

*Yes. You remember the young man you were supposed to meet, the one from POSSIBILITIES? Well, I went to the cafe for you and a we had dinner a and I'm seeing him again.'

*Mum, you can't be! Mum, he's far too young for you!'

*I'm not that old. We're meeting in the same cafe on Friday night.' She remembered the speech she and Jeff had worked out and launched into it. *I don't think age differences matter all that much, actually. Not when two people get on well.'

*But Mum-'

*I can't chat any more now. I'm just on my way out.'

She put the phone down and fled, ignoring it when it started ringing.

*I did it!' she said breathlessly to Jeff the following evening when he came to pick her up.

He put his arms round her and waltzed her round the coffee table. *So did I. I phoned my son this morning. He's very worried that I've got myself tangled up with a young woman who's after me for my money.'

*What other reason would anyone go out with an old fogey like you for?' she teased.

*Same reason someone would go out with an old biddy like you,' he retorted, his eyes so warm and admiring she felt a thrill run through her.

When they were sitting in the cafe on the Friday evening, however, Beth felt nervous. *Do you think they'll turn up?'

*Sure to.' He chuckled. *I'm looking forward to seeing their faces when they realize they've been had.' He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips. *Can we go on meeting, Beth? Afterwards, I mean. I'm really enjoying your company.'

She tried to ignore the blush that crept up her face. *I'd like that. Very much indeed.'

And when he leaned across to kiss her cheek, she didn't even notice how the two people by the door were staring at them, how they b.u.mped into one another as they both tried to push their way between tables.

*Mum!'

*Dad!'

Beth and Jeff turned as one, then exchanged quick smiles. *I'd forgotten about them,' she whispered.

*So had I.' He gave her hand a squeeze and grinned at his son. *Something wrong?'

Three months later, Sara split up with Bill. At the wedding she sat next to Mark and it was obvious they got on like a house on fire.

Their newly-wed parents exchanged smiles as they both gave speeches, then Beth whispered to her new husband, *I think this has distinct possibilities for those two, don't you?'

Remaking Emily Baker.

Anna's Notes.

This story is another about Emily, my favourite short story character of all. I had to find out what happened to her after she married Tom, you see.

It was 2,000 words when I first wrote it, but since then I've rewritten it a couple of times and somehow it's grown to 6,000 words. I don't rule out more tiddling and giving Emily her own book one day.

It was inspired by my first and only visit to a very expensive beauty salon. After I became allergic to make-up, I got my eyeliner tattooed on, something I've never regretted. And I got the idea for this story too. Good value for money, don't you think?

*I'm forty-six today,' Emily told her reflection. She pulled a face at the mirror but something made her linger in front of it. After a few moments more of scrutinizing herself, she sighed and added, *And I look it, too.' Her hair needed cutting and her body looked shapeless in that baggy old tee shirt.

It's time I pulled myself together, she decided, drawing herself up. She still missed Tom dreadfully, always would, but nothing would bring him back again, so she'd better get on with making a new life for herself. Other widows did it and so would she.

That thought sent a tiny trickle of excitement through her veins a quickly followed by guilt.

Stop that, she told herself sternly. You can't feel guilty every time you enjoy yourself, my girl. You could have another thirty or forty years to live, if you watch how you go.

The phone rang.

*Happy birthday, Mum!'

*h.e.l.lo, Katie darling.'

*Don't forget you're coming to tea with us tonight. Do you want Don to pick you up?'

*Goodness, no. What do you think I've got my own car for?'

*All right. And there's no need to dress up. It's just family and we don't mind what you look like.'

Emily stiffened.

*Are you all right, Mum? You've gone quiet.'

*Yes, love. I'm fine.' Emily glared at her reflection in the mirror. It was merciless, that mirror. It told her she wasn't fine. She was a mess.

*I'll see you later, then, Mum. I must dash now or I'll never get everything done.'

Emily put the phone down. *They might not mind what I look like,' she told the mirror, *but I do. I mind very much.'

Crossing to the wardrobe she pulled out her favourite blue dress, scowled at it and put it back, then flicked along the whole rack of clothes. They were old-fashioned or nondescript, and many of them were faded. For how long had she been dressing like that? Why had no one told her she was so shabby?

Not even her Greenie friends had said anything. She smiled at that thought. Well, they wouldn't. They weren't the sort to care about dressing up or plump Anisha wouldn't keep wearing those baggy trousers in shockingly bright colours.

*Just about everything I own is old-fashioned!' she told the half-empty wardrobe, which still looked strange without her husband's clothes. Poor Tom! He hadn't had much to boast about, either. She hadn't even liked to give his clothes to the charity shop, except for his best suit, and had thrown most of his things into the rubbish bin out of shame. Well, bricklayers weren't paid to look smart, were they?

At the end of the row of hangers was the new black dress. She took it out of its polythene dust bag, stroking the soft crepe reverently. She would wear this tonight. It was the only smart thing she had. She and Katie had nipped into town to buy something for the funeral and for once, she hadn't even looked at the price. She'd needed to look her best in order to face all the fuss without making a fool of herself by bawling her eyes out.

*I can afford a bit of a spend-up now, though,' she said, thinking aloud. Did all widows talk to themselves? She'd spoken to herself at the supermarket the other day while she was loading shelves and young Karen had stared at her as if she was going senile.

The thought of the supermarket didn't please Emily, either. It had been interesting at first, going out to work and meeting people a not to mention wonderful to have her own money. But the novelty had soon worn off. The job at the supermarket was boring, the manager treated you like dirt and she was fed up to the back teeth of it. Perhaps she'd get herself another job. Yes, that'd be somewhere to start with in her new life a finding a more interesting job.

She went downstairs and opened the newspaper to scan the columns of *Job Opportunities'. But it didn't take her long to realize she didn't have any of the skills they needed. She could use a computer now, and do emails, but she couldn't do anything fancy on it. She'd even forgotten how to touch-type, it was so long ago that she'd studied typing.

With a sigh she turned to *Domestic Help Sought' and the advert nearly jumped out at her. Housekeeper required for senior executive and family. Must be competent cook. She was qualified for housekeeping all right. She'd spent her whole life keeping her house nice. And she was a good cook, even though she hadn't had much chance to practise the fancier dishes she'd learned about at night school.

She got as far as the hall, but there was another mirror over the phone and it was just as unkind as the one upstairs. This executive and his family would take one look at her and say, *No, thank you.' She knew they would.

Setting the receiver down, she walked back into the lounge and switched on the television.

*Job search!' announced a bright-eyed young woman with an impossibly thin body.

Like a walking skeleton, she is! Emily thought, but for some reason she continued to watch.

Good jobs were scarce, it seemed.

*Tell me about it!'

Dozens of applicants for each one, so you had to make a really good first impression.

*I'd never impress anyone, not in a million years.'

Qualifications were important.

*That lets me right out.'

You had to write everything about yourself in a resume. Tears filled Emily's eyes. Her information wouldn't even fill a page. Housewife. Mother. Grandmother. Circ.u.mstances kept remaking her life, but always as an attachment to other people. Not as a teacher or chef or scientist a or even as a secretary, which had once been her ambition.

She got angry with herself and switched off the TV, picking up the weekend magazine. The advert leaped off the page at her.

*Do you need a makeover?' Ha! She certainly did!

*BEFORE' showed a young woman with frizzy hair and an unhappy expression. *AFTER' showed the same young woman, barely recognizable with a new hairstyle and subtle make-up. She looked gorgeous.

Emily stared at it, then began to nibble her thumb. Why not do it and try for a more glamorous look? Well no, not glamorous. She didn't think she could manage that, but perhaps smart. She could manage smart if she tried, she was sure she could.

She read the advert again.

Should she? Did she dare?

Of course she should! What was she hesitating for? What had she to lose?

Going back into the hall she dialled the number in the advert, then panicked and put the phone down as soon as it started ringing. What if they really could work miracles? How would it be if she looked too different? People might laugh at her, call her mutton dressed as lamb.

Or a they might look at her with more respect.

Coward! she thought. You've turned into a coward as well as a frump, Emily Baker. She stopped in shock. More and more she was calling herself by her maiden name, she didn't understand why. She had to stop and try to understand that. Perhaps it was because that was the last time she'd been herself. Not Tom's wife. Not Gavin and Katie's mother.

Taking a deep breath, she dialled again.

*Beauty International. How may we help you?' cooed a young woman's voice.

*Do you do those makeovers on older women?' Emily demanded. *I'm forty-six and I look a right old mess.'

*Of course, madam. Our service can help anyone.'

*How much do you charge?'

*Three hundred dollars for a complete makeover, madam.'

Emily gasped and couldn't speak for a minute, so shocked was she at the amount.

The voice became husky and confidential. *I know it sounds a lot, madam, but just think what you get. A hairstyle by Mr Benjamin himself a and he's the best hairstylist in Perth, I do a.s.sure you a and a facial and remake by our Mrs Wentworth. She used to be in films, you know. She's done the stars, she has. There's no one to touch her for make-up, I promise you. And finally our Miss Dashley will take you shopping for a new outfit. She has a real eye for what suits people and she knows all the best places.'

Emily found herself smiling. Well, they'd certainly earn their three hundred dollars with her! They'd have an impossible job making someone like her look glamorous. Oh, why not? With all that insurance money just lying in the bank she could easily afford to spend a bit on herself.

She'd had no idea that her Tom had taken out such ma.s.sive life insurance, but then, he'd always tried to look after her.