The Peacock Emporium(63)

“I don’t have any bric-a-brac,” she had said pointedly.

“You can’t tell me all of this stuff is for sale,” said Mrs. Creek, staring at the display on the back wall.

Mrs. Creek had then segued effortlessly into a story about dinner dances in Ipswich and how, as a teenage girl, she had supplemented her parents’ income by sewing dresses for her friends. “You know, when the fashion first came out, people here were scandalized. We’d spent years scrimping on fabric during the war, you see. There was nothing. Lots of us went out dancing in dresses we’d made from our own curtains.”

“Really,” said Suzanna, flicking on switches and wondering why Jessie was late.

“The first one I ever made was in emerald silk. Gorgeous color, ever so rich. It looked like one of Yul Brynner’s outfits in The King and I.”

“Are you having coffee?”

“That’s very kind of you, dear. I don’t mind keeping you company.” She sat on the seat near the magazines, looking inside her bag. “I’ve got photographs somewhere, of me and my sister. We used to share dresses then. Waists that you could stick your hands around.” She breathed out. “Men’s hands, that is. Of course, you had to nearly suffocate yourself with corsetry to get the look, but girls will always suffer to be beautiful, won’t they?”

“Mm,” said Suzanna, remembering to take the sugared almonds from her bag, and place them under the counter. Jessie could take them over later. If she ever decided to turn up.

“She’s got a colostomy now, poor thing.”

“What?”

“My sister. Crohn’s disease. Causes her terrible trouble, it does. You have to make sure you don’t bump into anyone, you know what I’m saying?”

“I think so,” said Suzanna, trying to concentrate on measuring coffee.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Jessie. She was dressed in cut-off jeans, with lavender-colored sunglasses on her head, looking summery and almost unbearably pretty. She was followed closely behind by Alejandro, who stooped as he entered. “His fault,” she explained cheerfully. “He needed directing to the good butcher’s. He’s been a bit shocked by the state of the supermarket meat.”

“It is shocking, that supermarket,” said Mrs. Creek. “Do you know how much I paid the other day for a bit of pork belly?”

“I’m sorry,” said Alejandro, who had registered Suzanna’s set mouth. “It’s hard for me to discover these things on my own. My shift hours never match anyone else’s.” His eyes held a mute appeal that made Suzanna feel both appeased and irritated.

“I’ll make up the extra minutes,” said Jessie, shedding her bag under the counter. “I’ve been hearing all about Argentinian steak. Tougher, apparently, but tastier.”

“It’s fine,” Suzanna said. “Doesn’t matter.” She wished she hadn’t seen the look that had passed between them.

“Double espresso?” said Jessie, moving behind the coffee machine. Alejandro nodded, seating himself at the small table beside the counter. Suzanna wished she hadn’t worn these trousers. They picked up lint and fluff, and the cut, she saw, made them look cheap.

“We don’t really eat meat,” Jessie was saying. “Not during the week, anyway. Apart from chicken it’s too expensive. But I do love roast beef. For Sunday lunch.”

“One day I will find you some good Argentinian beef,” Alejandro said. “We let our animals get older. You will know the difference.”

“I thought old steers were meant to get stringy,” said Suzanna, and immediately regretted it.

“But you tenderize your meat, dear,” said Mrs. Creek. “You beat it with a wooden thing.”

“If the meat is good,” said Alejandro, “it should not need beating.”

“You’d think the cow had been through enough.”

“Beef dripping,” said Mrs. Creek. “Now there’s something you never see in the shops anymore.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Suzanna was starting to feel queasy. “Jessie, have you finished that coffee?”

“You never told us”—Jessie turned to Alejandro, leaning over the counter—“about your life before you came here.”

“Not much to tell,” said Alejandro.

“Like why you wanted to be a midwife. I mean, no offense, but it’s not a normal profession for a bloke, is it?”

“What is normal?”

“But you’d have to be pretty comfortable with your feminine side in a macho country like Argentina to do what you do. So why do you do it?”

Alejandro took his cup of coffee, and dropped two sugar cubes into the thick black liquid. “You are wasted in a shop, Jessie. You should be a psychotherapist. In my home it’s the most prestigious job you can have. Next to a plastic surgeon, of course . . .”

Which was, Suzanna thought, as she began to unpack a new box of bags, a pretty neat way of not answering the question.

“I was just telling Suzanna I used to make dresses. Have I shown you these ones?” Mrs. Creek held out a fan of battered photographs.

“They’re beautiful,” said Jessie, obligingly. “Aren’t you clever?”