The Child(73)

“And there must have been parties,” Kate said, smiling expectantly. She loved hearing showbiz gossip, that mixture of glamour and the fabulously mundane—Hollywood and hemorrhoids.

“Lots of parties . . .” Miss Walker began but trailed off uncertainly and busied herself with the tray.

“Goodness, you must have seen some things,” Kate said.

“I don’t really remember, dear,” the older woman said as she stood up and made for the kitchen.

Kate sat alone and wondered what she’d said.

When Barbara reappeared, she’d put on fresh lipstick, a red gash dominating her face.

“You look nice.” Kate smiled.

“Just a bit of lippy. Gives you a boost, doesn’t it?” Miss Walker said, pleased.

“I hardly wear makeup now,” Kate said. “Too much fannying about and no one notices anyway. You get to a certain age and paff! You’re invisible. People look straight through you. They look startled when you speak. My friends have all noticed it.”

“You could do a lot with your face,” Miss Walker said, reaching to brush Kate’s wayward hair back. “Lovely cheekbones. And I could get rid of those bags easy as winking.”

The women looked at each other. “I’ll get my box of tricks,” Miss Walker said and disappeared into the hall.

The box was large and well traveled, its pink vinyl cover discolored by its adventures.

“Come on, sit in the light by the lamp. Let me have a proper look,” Miss Walker said.

She got out her sponges, which looked permanently stained TV-personality orange, and began dabbing Kate’s face.

They smelled unwashed and Kate tried not to mind.

“Now then, look up while I do your eyeliner,” Miss Walker said, bending over Kate, her voice confident and younger, somehow.

“Lovely eyes, Kate. You need to do more with them. Now blink.”

Kate did as she was told and tried to enjoy the pampering.

“Blusher? Just a hint, I think. We all need roses in our cheeks, don’t we?”

“Goodness, do you remember when we used to put it on in stripes, in the seventies?” Kate laughed. “We looked like Hiawatha.”

Miss Walker laughed, too. “I loved that look. All smoky eyes and statement lips. You can keep the natural look.”

“I bet you knocked them dead,” Kate said. “I’d love to see a photo of you from then.”

Miss Walker hesitated, lip brush in hand. “Okay. I think I’ve got some somewhere. Just blot your lips on this tissue while I look.”

She brought back a handful of black-and-white studio shots.

“Oh my God, you are stunning in these,” Kate said, genuinely impressed. And then stopped, dead.

“I turned a few heads,” Miss Walker said shyly.

Kate didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. She kept looking at the glossy photos of Barbara Walker. She was one of the women with the dead eyes in Al Soames’s Polaroids. She recognized the arch of the eyebrow, the hair. Kate took another sip of Cinzano. She didn’t know what to do or say. She couldn’t just blurt it out. Did Miss Walker know?

She was still chattering about her modeling days, laughing over her memories.

“They must have been falling at your feet,” Kate said, trying to keep the conversation going. “I’d love to borrow one to show to the photographer I work with. He’ll be so impressed. Who was your most famous conquest? Mick Jagger?”

Miss Walker laughed. “Don’t be daft,” she said. “I wasn’t in his league. You can take one if you like.”

“Were you living here, then, Barbara?” Kate said.

“At number 63. I told you the other day. I rented a room with a shared bathroom. It was a great big place. My friend from work, Jude, lived there, too.”

“Right. Who else? No men? In the house, I mean?” Kate asked.

“Jude didn’t bother with men really—too much trouble, she said. Jude had her work and her daughter to keep her busy. Until Will came along . . .”

“Oh?” Kate said, leaning forwards.

“Will Burnside,” she said and Kate was taken aback by the bitterness in her voice.

“Who was he?” Kate asked. “Not a favorite with you, then?”

“No, he was horrible.”

“Horrible? How was he horrible?”

“He wasn’t what he seemed. I just didn’t like him. But Jude did. She was absolutely smitten with him . . . I moved out, anyway. Changed job. Had a fresh start.”

“Was number 63 one of Al Soames’s houses?” Kate asked.

And Barbara Walker closed her eyes. It was as if she had shut down. Kate sat forwards and touched the older woman’s arm to remind her she was still there, and the eyes opened.

“Are you okay, Barbara?”

Miss Walker tried a watery smile. “Sorry, dear. Memories, that’s all. Can catch you unawares, can’t they?”

“You look a bit wobbly, Barbara,” Kate said.

“I am,” Miss Walker said, her voice quavering. “You see, people are not what they seem. You see them on the street or at a party and they look like normal people, but they’re not. Sometimes they’re not.”

“What do you mean, Barbara?” Kate said. One minute she was sipping flat Cinzano and lemonade, the next taking confession while wearing platform shoes. No one could say journalism was predictable. She waited.