“No.”
“Not fair the way some people get to stay blonde.”
“Actually, this isn’t natural.”
“You’d never guess.”
This time there was a point bedded down in the small talk that spiked through. “Probably best if you wear a wig then.”
I flinched, but tried to hide it. “Yes.”
As she got out a box of wigs, I put your dress over my head and felt the much-washed soft cotton slip down over my body. Then suddenly you were hugging me. A fraction of a moment later I realized it was just the smell of you, a smell I hadn’t noticed before: a mix of your shampoo and your soap and something else that has no label. I must have only smelled you like that when we hugged. I drew in my breath, unprepared for the emotional vertigo of your being close and not there.
“Are you okay?”
“It smells of her.”
PC Vernon’s maternal face showed her compassion. “Smell is a really powerful sense. Doctors use it to try to wake up people in a coma. Apparently, newly cut grass is a favorite evocative smell.”
She wanted me to know that I wasn’t overreacting. She was sympathetic and intuitive and I was grateful that she was there with me.
The wig box had every type of hair, and I presumed wigs were used not only for reconstructions of missing people but also for the victims of violent crimes. They made me think of a collection of scalps, and I felt nauseated as I rummaged through them. PC Vernon noticed.
“Here, let me try. What’s Tess’s hair like?”
“Long. She hardly ever cuts it, so it’s ragged round the edges. And it’s very shiny.”
“And the color?”
PMS 167, I thought immediately, but other people don’t know the colors of the world by their Pantone Matching System numbers, so instead I replied, “Caramel.” And actually, your hair has always made me think of caramel. The inside of a Rolo, to be precise, liquidly gleaming. PC Vernon found a wig that was reasonably similar and nylon shiny. I forced myself to put it on over my own neatly cut hair, my fingers recoiling. I thought we were finished. But PC Vernon was a perfectionist. “Does she wear makeup?” she asked.
“No.”
“Would you mind taking yours off?”
Did I hesitate? “Of course not,” I replied. But I did mind. Even when I woke up, I would have pink lip and cheek stain applied from the previous night. At the small institutional sink, with dirty coffee cups balanced on the rim, I washed off my makeup. I turned and caught sight of you. I was stabbed by love. Moments later I saw that it was just my own reflection caught in a full-length mirror. I went closer and saw myself, scruffy and exhausted. I needed makeup, properly cut clothes and a decent haircut. You don’t need any of those to look beautiful.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to improvise the bump,” said PC Vernon. As she handed me a cushion I voiced a question that had been itching at the back of my mind, “Do you know why Tess’s landlord didn’t tell you she was pregnant when he reported her missing?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. You could ask Detective Sergeant Finborough.”
I stuffed a second cushion under the dress and tried to plump them into a convincing-looking bump. For a moment the whole thing turned into an absurd farce and I laughed. PC Vernon laughed too, spontaneously, and I saw that a smile was her natural expression. It must be a facial effort for her to be genuinely serious and sympathetic so much of the time.
Mum came in. “I’ve got you some food, darling,” she said. “You need to eat properly.” I turned to see her holding a bag full of food, and her mothering touched me. But as she looked at me, her face turned rigid. Poor Mum. The farce I found blackly comic had turned cruel.
I looked back at Mum, acknowledging and answering her question without a word being spoken. Yes, you were pregnant; yes, you hadn’t told her; and yes, now the whole world, at least the TV-watching world, would know about it.
“Who’s the father?”
I didn’t reply—one shock at a time.
“That’s why she hasn’t been to see me for months, isn’t it? Too ashamed.”
It was a statement rather than a question. I tried to appease her, but she brushed my words aside, using her hands in a rare physical gesture. “I see he’s going to marry her at least.”
