The Peacock Emporium(43)

“He didn’t, but that’s good.”

“Turnover’s up by—erm—around thirty percent on the first quarter. And I—I’ve just done my first inventory.” The words sounded solid, reassuring, not the kind of words uttered by a feckless, irresponsible flibbertigibbet.

He nodded.

“I might have to take some tips from you soon about VAT. It looks impenetrable to me.”

“It’s just practice.” He had been staring at the portrait of her mother. Suzanna glanced behind the counter, and saw it resting against the wall, facing outward. Her mother’s enigmatic smile, which had never appeared maternal, now seemed inappropriately intimate in the public space. Jessie had loved it, saying she was the most glamorous woman she’d ever seen, and urged her to put it on the wall. Now it made Suzanna feel guilty, although she couldn’t be sure why.

“What’s that doing here?” He cleared his throat as he spoke.

“I’m not selling it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I was—”

“We’re not that badly off for money.”

Her father paused, as if he were weighing up his possible responses. He let out a little breath. “I was just curious, Suzanna, about what it was doing in a shop.”

“Not ‘a shop,’ Dad. You make it sound like I was trying to offload it. My shop . . . I was going to put it on the wall.” Defensiveness had made her snappy.

“What would you want to put it in here for?”

“I just thought it would be a good place for it to go. It doesn’t—it doesn’t really fit at home. The house is too small for it.” She couldn’t help herself.

Her father eyed it sideways, through narrowed eyes, as if he found it difficult to look directly at the image. “I don’t think it should be left down there.”

“Well, I don’t know where else to put it.”

“We can take it back to the bank if you want. They’ll store it for you.” He looked sideways at her. “It’s probably worth a bit of money, and I doubt you’ve got it insured.”

He never expressed any emotion when he talked of Athene. Sometimes, Suzanna thought, it was as if when she had died he had decided she would be of no more lasting emotional importance to him than some distant relative who lined the upstairs corridors. The limited family history that had been made public to her and her siblings showed he had moved pretty swiftly on to Vivi after all. At other times she wondered if he had battened down his emotions because he found the memory of Athene just too painful, and she felt the familiar flush of her own implicit guilt. There were no boxes of clothes, no well-thumbed photographs. Only Vivi had saved any remnants of her: a yellowed newspaper cutting about the wedding of “the Last Deb,” and a couple of photographs of her on a horse. Even those were only brought out when Douglas was elsewhere.

Her dad’s presence in her shop, so apparently devoid of any emotional reaction, had the reverse effect on her. Is it so impossible for you to express anything about my mother? Suzanna suddenly wanted to shout. Even if it is supposedly for my sake, do you have to pretend she never existed? Do I have to pretend she never existed?

“You could hang it in the picture gallery.” The words hung, too loud, in the air, Suzanna’s voice holding a faint tremor of challenge. “Vivi wouldn’t mind.”

Her father had turned away from her, was bending to examine a piece of Chinese silk.

“I said Vivi wouldn’t mind. In fact, she suggested getting the frame mended, and putting it up. Quite recently.”

He picked up one of the miniature silk purses, examined the price, then placed it gently back on its pile. The timing of those actions, and the faint criticism she felt they implied, caused something to swell inside her, unbidden and unstoppable. “Did you hear what I said, Dad?”

“Quite well, thank you.” He still wouldn’t look at her. There was an excruciating delay. “I just . . . I just don’t think it’s appropriate.”

“No. But, then, I suppose even if they’re just on canvas you don’t really want women cluttering up the ancestral line, do you?”

She wasn’t sure where it had come from. Her father turned very slowly, and straightened up before her, his expression unreadable. She had the sudden sensation of being a small child found guilty of some misdemeanor and waiting, in silent terror, to discover her punishment.

But he simply replaced his hat on his head, a measured gesture, and turned to the door. “I think my parking meter’s probably running out. I just wanted to tell you that your shop looks very nice.” He lifted a hand, his head inclined toward her.

Her eyes had filled with tears. “Is that it? Is that all you’re going to say?” She heard the shrill tones of a teenager in her voice, and knew, with fury, that he had heard them too.

“It’s your painting, Suzanna,” he said as he left. “You do with it what you want.”



* * *



—

There was almost no sign of blotchiness left on Suzanna’s face when Jessie returned, entering the shop apparently in midconversational flow, although she was plainly by herself.

“You can’t believe the ice cream they sell now. When I was her age you were lucky to get a Strawberry Mivvi, or a Rocket. Do you remember those? With the different-colored stripes? Now it’s all Mars bar lollies, Bounty this and Cornetta that. Unbelievable. And more than a quid each. Still, they’re so enormous you wouldn’t need lunch as well.”