Lizzie looked at the pair of velvety, bejewelled shoes which
133
Sasha was holding out to her. There was a slight movement of her nose, almost undetectable, but insofar as it could be detected, upward.
“Where did you buy those?” she asked. And then, before Sasha could reply, Lizzie continued, “I saw a pair just like that in Marks and Spencers the other day. Did you get them at Marks?”
Sasha froze. “Marks? Marks?” Her voice wavered, but then became steely. “Certainly not. I got these from a shoe boutique in William Street. If you care to look at the label, you’ll see exactly where they’re from.”
Lizzie reached out and took the shoes from her mother.
She looked inside and shrugged when she saw the boutique’s label.
“Not really the sort of shoe I like to wear,” she said. “Of course, they might suit you. In fact, I’m sure they do. Don’t get me wrong.”
“I’d never force you to wear my shoes,” Sasha retorted.
Lizzie smiled. “Just as well,” she said. “I’m a six and you’re, what are you – size eight?”
Sasha did not reply. In one sense she was an eight, but she could fit perfectly well into a six-and-a-half, provided she did not have to walk. But she was not going to be drawn into a discussion with Lizzie about shoe sizes. It was typical of her daughter, she thought, just typical, that she should walk into the house on a day like this, a special day when they should all be getting ready to enjoy themselves, and start an argument about shoe sizes. It was all so
just look at Raeburn.
Todd glanced at his watch. Bruce might arrive at any moment, but there was time for a whisky before that. He had picked up some of Sasha’s anxiety over the evening, which was inevitable, he supposed, in view of the fact that they were the organisers; a whisky would reassure him. He poured himself a small glass of Macallan and wandered into the drawing room where Lizzie was standing by the window.
“I’m very grateful to you,” he said quietly. “I know that you don’t always enjoy these things. But it means a lot to your mother that you’re coming tonight. So thank you.”
Lizzie continued to look out of the window. “I don’t mind,”
she muttered. “I didn’t have anything else on.”
“Even so,” said Todd. “It’s good of you.”
He heard a door close behind him and he turned round to see Sasha coming into the room, holding a plate of sliced brown bread and smoked salmon. She put the plate down on a table and came to his side.
“You look so good in your kilt,” she said, turning to Lizzie.
“Your father does look good in it, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Lizzie, without any great enthusiasm.
Todd shot her a glance. He did not mind if she was lukewarm about what he was wearing, but it would be nice, would it not, if for once she complimented her mother.
“And your mother looks good too, doesn’t she?” he said. “With that magnificent dress. And the shoes.”
Lizzie looked Sasha up and down. “Silk organza. Fish-tail hem, I see,” she said.
“Fish what?” asked Todd.
“Fish-tail hem,” repeated Lizzie, pointing at Sasha’s dress.
“You’ll see that it’s higher in the front – shows her knees – and then goes down at the back like a fish tail. Very popular among the twenty-somethings.”
Todd looked at Sasha, who was staring at her daughter. “Well, I like it very much,” he said. “Twenty- something, forty-something
– what’s the difference?”
135
“Twenty years,” said Lizzie.
Sasha bent down and picked up a piece of buttered brown bread with its small covering of smoked salmon. For a moment Todd wondered whether she was going to use it as a weapon, but she popped it into her mouth and quickly licked the tips of her fingers.
“Actually,” Sasha said, “I had this dress made up for me from a photograph I saw in
“Teens?” asked Lizzie.
Sasha looked at Todd. He saw that she had coloured, and that her lower lip was quivering. He turned to his daughter.
“Do you have to be like this?” he asked. “Do you have to say cruel things? Do you have to upset your mother?”
Lizzie’s expression was one of injured innocence. “But I didn’t say anything,” she protested. “I merely said that
