The Friends We Keep(69)
“Is it coming from here?” he prompted, the smile now seeming more forced.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “I don’t understand what you’re asking. You think I have a rooster?”
“Well. Technically, I’m asking you if you have a rooster. I’m hoping the answer is no because although, granted, we live in the countryside, I think you’ll agree that the houses are now far too close together to make roosters a viable pet.”
Maggie burst out laughing. “I’m not sure that anyone would consider a rooster a pet. They are livestock, and I think you’ll find that you are no longer in Notting Hill, or Barnes, or Shoreditch, or wherever you moved from before you lived here, but in the country, where every other building has cows, horses, goats, sheep, dogs, chickens, and yes, roosters.”
James Sullivan shifted uncomfortably. “Well, that may have been true until now, but the road association has met, and, hang on, I’ll read it to you.” He drew an iPhone out of his pocket and started to read from the screen, clearing his throat with some discomfort, it seemed. “. . . we are all in agreement that animals, or livestock, that impede the peace and serenity of those who live here, may not be allowed.”
Maggie frowned. “What road association?”
“The one the developers set up.”
Maggie let out a deep sigh and smiled at him. Poor man. He was so young. He really thought some fake road association was all he needed. “James.” She shook her head. “James, James, James. I have lived here for over twenty years, and for almost all of that time, I have had animals of some kind. In fact, the space that is now occupied by Wisteria Hall, and indeed all the other somewhat ridiculously named houses, was, until just before you and your lovely wife moved in, occupied by horses. I don’t really care what your road association bylaws say. I am not part of the association, and in addition to owning livestock, unless I am very much mistaken, I own the road and can keep it in any way that I see fit. I have to be really honest here, James. Had you knocked on the door and simply asked if I might consider getting rid of the rooster, I might have said yes. But that you chose to come over and throw some makeshift rule in my face has only served to piss me off.” Maggie stood up straighter, feeling emboldened. Perhaps the only good thing to come out of widowhood was that she no longer cared what people thought of her; life was too short. “I’m afraid the only thing I’m willing to do is to direct you to Boots, where I believe you’ll find they have some excellent earplugs. I recommend the wax ones rather than the foam. They keep out the noise much better. Bye-bye now,” she said, not giving the man on her doorstep a chance to say anything else. “Say hello to Emily for me, and do let me know if you ever want fresh eggs. The rooster has friends.”
Shaking her head, Maggie walked through the house, her bare feet making soft thumps on the limestone floor. She felt a certain pleasant satisfaction until she paused by the large mirror in the corridor, reluctantly turning her head, a reflex she hadn’t been able to master, even though she knew she wasn’t going to like what she saw. She had never cared particularly about her looks, but while married she had done the basics, dyed her hair to keep the gray roots at bay, brushed it, smoothed Oil of Olay moisturizer over her face, neck and décolletage, just as her mother and grandmother before her had done.
Since Ben died, she didn’t see much point in making an effort. Not that she made an effort for Ben, not for a long time, but she still felt she had to keep up appearances as, quite literally, lady of the manor. Not anymore. Her hair was no longer the vibrant red of her university years but was now a dull, faded umber streaked with fine lines of steel gray. Her eyes were punctuated by shadows, and deep folds around her mouth pulled her face down, folds that had not been there three years ago. These days, when she looked in the mirror, she saw her grandmother staring back, and not her grandmother in the prime of her life when she was a great beauty, but her grandmother toward the end, when she lived alone, riddled with dementia, in her grand old house in Somerset.
Maggie looked as old as she felt. She paused and examined her hair, scrutinizing the frizzy split ends, the gray roots. Would she have time to dye it before the reunion tonight? She hadn’t even considered it, but she knew it would be the first thing Evvie noticed. She looked at her watch. She could. No time for a hairdresser, but if she ran to the supermarket, she would definitely be able to manage a home dye job before driving in to the reunion.
Their thirty-year reunion. She hadn’t seen any of them in years, although Topher had been at the funeral. Not that she remembered much about it. Evvie wrote, but unsurprisingly couldn’t make it. Not that she expected her to. Once upon a time they had both been her closest friends in the world, her family, but that was many lifetimes ago. She and Evvie had lost touch completely. She had missed her for years, but didn’t expect anything from her now. It was another thing that felt like several lifetimes ago.
And yet today, she had to admit she felt excited to see them again. She wasn’t even sure until precisely this moment, looking at her hair and deciding, on a whim, to dye it, that she was going to be able to get herself to go, although she hadn’t told Topher that, had lied and said she would definitely come, even as she was thinking up palatable excuses to use on the day. She wasn’t sure if her desire to see her old friends could overcome her inertia, but she found that it had. She found the idea of revisiting them, and perhaps a bit of the person she used to be before she met Ben, the first thing in a long time that she actually felt a desire for.