“I’m not happy in my skin, Troy. I’d feel better if I had less of it!” She gave a weak laugh.
“There’s too much pressure on women these days to be thin. Thin doesn’t mean happy.”
“But it means married.”
“Not necessarily. There are plenty of men out there who like fulsome women. You’re not fat. Fat is Rev. Beeley.”
“She also happens to be five foot tall.”
“A gnome, darling. Which is why she’s unmarried. No one wants to marry a gnome.”
“A Womble?”
“Seen any lately?”
“Haven’t been to Wimbledon Common for years.”
“You’re a proper height and a gorgeous, voluptuous shape. You should celebrate your size, not hide under clothes made for women four sizes larger than you. I’m going to give you a killer hairdo.”
“What’s the point? There aren’t any single men in Hartington.”
“I bet there’s somebody here, right under your nose.”
“You?” She gazed at him longingly.
“If only,” he sighed. “But I’d make you even more miserable. You need a man to make love to you, not to put you on a pedestal and worship you while he makes eyes at the postman.”
“Not our Tony?”
“Not specifically, no. There has to be someone in Hartington. Isn’t that what happens in romantic novels? The heroine always ends up with the local man she’d never noticed before.”
“I’ve looked at every man who walks down the street. Perhaps I’m not destined for marriage. I’m destined to envy other women with prams and pushchairs, fridges scattered with school drawings and timetables. I’d make a good wife. I’d cook him delicious dinners, run him hot baths, massage his feet after a busy day, organize his life like a secretary. I’d give him roly-poly children and a bit of roly-poly myself. I’d make him happy. But all the good I have to give is turning sour in my belly. If I don’t find someone soon I’ll ferment into vinegar and won’t be of any worth to anyone.”
“You talk a lot of nonsense, Etta. You’ve got plenty of time.”
“But I don’t want to be an old mother.” She clutched her belly. “I want to have children while I’m young enough to run in the mothers’ race.”
“You’ll always be young enough to make the picnic.”
“But what’s the fun in making a picnic on a Zimmer frame?” She watched pieces of her hair drop to the floor like feathers.
“It’ll happen and when it does I’ll be more than a little jealous.” He watched her smile. “God made me gay to torment me.”
“He made you handsome to torment me,” she giggled.
“At least we can laugh about it. That makes it bearable.”
“Just. There comes a point, though, when laughing isn’t enough.” They gazed at each other in the mirror, across the insurmountable space that separated them, suddenly serious. He bent down and planted a kiss on her exposed neck.
“I do love you, though,” he said, frowning.
“I know. And I love you. You’re my friend. Hell would be a place without you.”
Derek Heath began on the cottage the following week with the help of his two sons. Their radio, an old machine splattered with layers of paint, was positioned on the windowsill as they ripped out the kitchen units and retiled the floor to the sound of Queen’s We Will Rock You. Derek’s older brother, Arthur, came out of retirement to help. Dressed in immaculate white coveralls, he mended the leak in the sitting room and repapered the walls. Mrs. Underwood brought them trays of tea and biscuits, lingering to chat longer than was necessary. Mr. Underwood joined her, finding jobs to do by the river to justify his presence. The moment Storm and Gus finished school they left their bikes on the gravel and hurried to the cottage to watch. Derek patted them affectionately, remembering his own boys as children, musing at the rapid passing of time. He gave Gus small tasks while Storm helped pour the tea and hand round biscuits. Miranda watched them tear out Mrs. Lightly’s memories and felt a moment’s regret. This was “their” cottage. It was where she had left the scrapbook. She couldn’t help but feel ashamed of her callous disregard for the woman’s past.
Fatima came for an interview. She was a big-featured woman with brown skin and small brown eyes, her head covered in a scarf. Her lips were full and when she smiled the gaps between her teeth were large and black. She was short and round in the middle, like a honeypot, her feet clad in sandals and white socks. Before Miranda could explain what she wanted Fatima silenced her with an extravagant sweep of her hand. “I know how rich people like their houses cleaned,” she declared in a thick Moroccan accent. “You won’t be disappointed. Fatima clean your house until it shine.” She flashed Miranda a wide smile, a gold filling catching the light. “Fatima know.” She was decisive. Miranda was left no option but to hire her. “You have made the right decision,” she exclaimed portentously. “You will not regret it.” Miranda returned to her desk to write an article for Eve magazine on the joys of self-employment, and wondered how all those other self-employed mothers managed to get anything done!