Ah, but Marianne. Not a first wife, but certainly a trophy wife. Renewer of love, restorer of faith; the basis of his new family, harbinger of happiness to come. If anything, Marianne has improved with age. The slightly lumpy chin, the faint pot belly, the chunky thighs that used to irritate him when they were courting, have vanished in the preservation process, and she is as slim as a supermodel, her cheekbones like Audrey Hepburn’s, her nose snipped like Paris Hilton’s, the three-point jawline of Alicia Silverstone. Dressed in hipster jeans and a little broderie anglaise top, she reminds him vaguely of Kate Moss.
He lays her gently out on the plastic sheeting, lights his neroli candles and starts the ritual. He tests the temperature of the oil, warmed gently on the stove, on the tender skin of his inner elbow and, judging it right, pours a drizzle on to her beautiful shoulder. Watches it spread. Inhales the aroma and smiles: sweet almond, white soft paraffin, and essential oils – neroli, sandalwood and vanilla – from the hippy shop in Balham. It’s a ladylike scent, spicy yet clean, and it hides the smell of decay.
Palms flat, he reaches out and helps the oil on it way. Strokes his way over the shoulders, down the arms. Takes each hand and massages it all the way up to the fingertips, one by one. He is proud of his skill, of the fact that he has given her eternal life. Her fingernails, buffed and filed back to evenness, though a little short after her struggle to break free, are still perfect, still flexible and roundly pointed, painted once a month to match her toes. He talks to her as he rubs; makes circles with his fingertips and works the magic potion in. There, my darling. We’ll keep you beautiful. Her skin so cold in the muggy air, so soft, almost papery, beneath his hands. You like that, don’t you, my love? he asks. You know it’s all for you.
He works slowly, methodically. Is determined that no breath of outside will taint his darling, damage her purity. It takes nearly an hour to oil her head-to-toe, then he dresses her, gently, gently: pink silk French knickers and a white lace bra (padded, but only slightly, just to replace what has been lost), and then a chic little black dress from the Trinity Hospice shop: a cast-off, he knows, but as good as new with its short pleated skirt and light crêpe bodice. Two silver bangles on the delicate wrists, a single stone of amber on a pendant between the jutting collarbones, matching droplets in the holes in her ears.
When he’s done, he sits her in a chair and slowly, delicately, cleans her face with Clarin’s cream cleanser, massages it with oil, pressing in above the jaw to encourage the plumpness back upwards, and replaces her make-up. Marianne needs little work. Black liquid eyeliner and a set of eyelashes, a couple of coats of mascara to bind them to the fading originals. Some blush to emphasise her spectacular angles and a touch of burgundy to thicken her slightly thinning lips.
He steps back to admire his handiwork, Alice glaring balefully, neglected, from the corner. I really must get rid of you, he thinks, spitefully. I hate the way you make me feel so bad. It’s not her fault she came out better than you did. It’s not her fault she’s beautiful. He snatches up a tea towel from the draining board and throws it over her face. If she can’t be good, she must live with the consequences.
Marianne sits, poised and graceful, in her chair, her green glass eyes gazing in rapture at the light fitting. Just one more duty, one more gesture of care, and they’re done. He opens one of his fold-up chairs and puts it behind her, fetches the bowl of almond oil and dips into it the soft bristles of a Mason Pearson hairbrush. One hundred strokes for beauty; it’s in every manual from the Romans to the Victorians. One hundred strokes for beauty.
He counts out loud as he brushes, enjoys the feeling of her hair running through his fingers. You like that, don’t you, my darling? You like it that I make you lovely. Her hair is long and dark, and lustrous because of the oil, though every week a few more strands come away on the bristles of the brush.
Chapter Eighteen
The trick is to know the territory better than the punter does, and to look so out of it that he’s off his guard. And not to let him see your face, much. Not that most of them are looking. They don’t look at your face much, when they’re thinking with their dicks.
She may have the reading age of an eleven-year-old, but Cher knows what makes the blood rush away from the brain. There are things you learn in school, and things you learn in Britain’s better care homes. You need to look young, you need to look dirty and you need to look desperate. She’s good at that. She’s had a lot of practice.
On Brad Street, there’s a house with a broken side gate where no lights have shown for months. She rings on the doorbell, waits for a response and, when none comes, slips into the dark little cave of the side-return and organises herself.