The Peacock Emporium(105)

“You’ve forgotten the sugars. The ones from that box, please.”

“What?”

“The sugars, Suzanna. I asked for two sugars.”

She thought she might have entered a state where almost nothing could touch her. The pain of Jessie’s death had not lessened, but she knew that she was increasingly being cushioned from it by an encroaching numbness, a feeling that little mattered, that circumstances were genuinely beyond her control. Things seemed to be just gently slipping away, and she no longer cared enough to fight for them. It was easier just to allow herself to be carried with these strange new tides. Ironic, she thought, that just as she entered this passive state Alejandro had burst out of his. She could still feel the ringing in her ears from when he had slammed the board beside her head, the whoosh of air that told her he had become someone else. But, then, she didn’t think about Alejandro.

“It’s for the girl from the library. The one with the teeth—do you know her?” Suzanna placed the coffee in front of Mrs. Creek, and moved toward the remaining window, watching the passers-by, heads down, coats flying up behind them.

“You know, I haven’t done a wedding dress for . . . goodness, must be nigh on thirty-five years. You wouldn’t believe what they charge for a wedding dress now.”

It was raining again. As it had rained on the day that Alejandro had walked in and made them drink Mate. She glanced behind her at the shelf, and saw that his silver pot was still there, shoved behind a pile of things still to be sorted out after what everyone politely called “the accident.” She could barely believe she hadn’t noticed it until now.

“Yup, thirty-five years. The last one was for a wedding in this town too.”

“Mmm,” said Suzanna. She picked up the pot carefully, held it in both hands, feeling its weight, its smooth silver contours. I’m sorry, Ale, she said silently.

“Beautiful it was. White silk, cut on the bias. Very simple, a bit like what the girls like today. I modeled it on a dress Rita Hayworth wore in . . . Ooh, what’s that film where she was a real vamp? Gilda, is it?”

“I don’t know,” said Suzanna. She lifted the cool pot and held it against her cheek, feeling it warm gradually against her. The transformation was comforting.

“The bride was a bit of a fast piece too. Ran off—what was it?—two years after the wedding?”

“Oh.” Suzanna had closed her eyes.

“What was her name? Unusual name. Atalanta? Ariadne? Athene something. That was it. Married one of the Fairley-Hulmes.”

The name took several seconds to register. Suzanna turned her head slowly toward Mrs. Creek, who was blithely stirring her cup, her woolen hat beside her on the table. “What did you just say?”

“Pretty girl. Had an affair with a salesman, of all things, and left her husband with the baby. Except it wasn’t his baby. Oh, they kept it quiet, but everyone knew.”

Time stopped. Suzanna felt as though the shop was rushing backward, away from her, as Mrs. Creek’s words dropped heavily into the space between them. “That was it. Athene Forster. You probably won’t remember the Fairley-Hulmes, you being so long in London and all, but they were a big farming family out here when I was a girl.” She took a sip of her coffee, oblivious to the frozen figure by the window. “Lovely dress, it was. I was very proud of it. I think I’ve even got a picture of it somewhere. I felt awful afterward, though, because I was in such a rush to finish it and I forgot to sew a piece of blue ribbon into the hem. We used to do that, you know. Just for good luck. ‘Something old, something new . . .’” The older woman gave a shrill cackle. “Years later, when I found out the girl had gone and bolted, I said to my husband, ‘There you go. It must have been my fault . . .’”





23


Rosemary’s cat was dying. The fact that they had all known it was coming, had expected it for several years, did not make it any less sad for Rosemary. The tired, bony animal, now featherlight, its flesh lost to the various tumors, slept almost continually, waking only to stagger across the kitchen to its water bowl, often soiling the floor as it went. Vivi hadn’t complained about cleaning up after it, despite her husband’s private expressions of disgust. She knew that Rosemary was aware that the cat had to be put down but, seeing the old woman’s barely contained sorrow, she had not wanted to add to it.

After breakfast on the morning after the children’s visit, the uncommon cold meant that the fires were lit for the first time that autumn, and Rosemary had appeared in the doorway of the annex to ask Vivi if she would mind calling the vet out. When he arrived, she asked Vivi to place the cat in her arms, and held him there, stroking him with arthritic fingers. Then she told her daughter-in-law gruffly that she would be fine on her own now. She could still talk to a vet by herself, thank you very much.

Vivi had backed out, the vet briefly meeting her eyes, and closed the door behind her, feeling unaccountably sad.

An almost indecently short time later, the vet had emerged, said he would send his bill, and announced that, as per Rosemary’s instructions, he had left the body in a special bag by the back door. He had offered to dispose of it himself, but the old lady had said she would like her cat to be buried in her garden.

“I’ll get Ben to help,” Vivi said, and that morning, ignoring the rain and the wind, she and her son had donned windbreakers, dug a hole just deep enough to keep the foxes away, and laid the old animal to rest, as Rosemary’s impassive face watched out of the window.