competition.
Josh was now painstakingly dealing out the cards. Looking up and glimpsing the expression on Maxine’s face, he said in matter of fact tones, ‘They’re OK ‘I suppose. But none of them is as good as Mummy. She was prettier than anyone.’
‘Really?’ Maxine was intrigued. ‘I’d love to see some photos of her.’
‘We’ve got loads,’ said Josh cheerfully. ‘I’ll bring them downstairs later and show them to you.’
She looked hopeful. ‘We could do it now’
‘We have to play poker first,’ he replied firmly. ‘And I need to buy some new batteries for my Gameboy tomorrow, so we can’t stop until I’ve won at least two pounds.’
It took some deft manipulation on Maxine’s part, but she managed; a respectable forty minutes later, Josh was two pounds and twenty pence up and he hadn’t noticed the sleight of hand which had been necessary in order to achieve it.
‘Well done,’ said Maxine, clearing away the cards with some relief. ‘Go on then, run upstairs and find those albums. I love looking at other people’s photographs.’
Particularly when they belonged to Guy Cassidy. And there were hundreds of them, depicting his life over the past decade. Josh steered her through the albums, pointing with pride to the many pictures of Veronique. ‘That’s Mummy with Ella, just after she was born. This is me with Mummy in Regent’s Park when I was four. And this one’s Mum and Dad at a party in St Tropez. He’s laughing because Sylvester Stallone just asked her for a dance and she said no.’
Veronique Cassidy had certainly been beautiful. Maxine pored over the close-ups which revealed stunning blond good looks in all their glory. Even more dauntingly, she had been a natural beauty, never over-embellishing herself, simply allowing the exquisite basics to speak for themselves.
But what shone through most of all was happiness. Maxine knew instinctively which of the photographs of his wife had been taken by Guy. And those featuring the two of them together were almost unbearably poignant. Their obvious love for each other shone out; it was almost a tangible thing.
Quite uncharacteristically, she felt tears pricking at the back of her eyelids. Something approaching envy curled in her stomach; not for Veronique, but for their shared happiness.
Looking at them with their arms around each other, Maxine was reminded that she herself had never been in love, not really. Her own experiences were of a string of tumultuous and usually short-lived relationships where lust had figured high on the agenda. Instinctively drawn to men whose volatile personalities mirrored her own, it was almost as if she was ensuring that the affairs wouldn’t last. For all their similarities, she and her partners never seemed to have much in common in so far as ordinary, day-to-day living was concerned. Within weeks of the initial dazzling attraction, boredom would set in and she would find herself looking for a way out.
Invariably, the way out involved another man.
Yet she was, it seemed, doomed to failure. In a deliberate attempt to break the sad and sorry pattern she had got herself involved with Maurice Stanwyck and that, thought Maxine ruefully, had turned out to be the biggest mistake of all. Poor, pedantic Maurice, hell bent on conforming to his mother’s ideas of success, simply hadn’t been able to cope with a wayward fiancee. And she in turn had tried to conform, she really had, but all she’d managed to do in the end was to hurt and humiliate him.
Returning to London last week to pick up her belongings, she had attempted to apologize.
The meeting, however, had been an awkward one. Maurice, his stiff upper lip super-glued into place, had initially betrayed no emotion at all. Then, after twenty minutes of following her around whilst she packed her cases, his guard had dropped. Maxine had been forced to endure the far more harrowing ordeal of listening to him as he begged her to change her mind. At one point he had been on the verge of tears. All she’d been able to do was to remind him how miserable she would undoubtedly have made him if she’d stayed, and what a disaster she would have been as a corporate wife.
Poor Maurice, she thought now, gazing numbly down at the photographs of Guy and Veronique in her lap. She hoped he’d put the experience behind him and find himself another more suitable girlfriend soon.
Josh, meanwhile, was still sorting through the piles of photos which hadn’t made it into the albums. Thrusting a selection into Maxine’s hands, he said in matter-of-fact tones, ‘This is us after Mummy died. That’s me when I was seven, on my new bike. That’s Ella’s birthday party when she was five. And these are some of Dad’s girlfriends.’
It was as if Guy had deliberately chosen women who in no way resembled his wife.
Veronique, with her straight blond hair and Madonna-like beauty, couldn’t have been more different from these gypsy-eyed, dark-haired females who pouted and smiled for the camera and who were evidently trying too hard to impress.
The difference in Guy, she observed, was equally apparent. Just as earlier she had been able to tell at a glance which photographs of Veronique had been taken by him, so now she could have guessed which of those featuring him had been taken after her death. It was almost indefinable, but there nevertheless; a hardening of the expression in the eyes ... the loss of carefree pleasure .. . concealed sorrow reflected in the wryness of his smile.
Feeling uncomfortably as if she was intruding upon his private grief, Maxine bundled the photographs together and handed them back to Josh. Ella, still sucking her thumb, had fallen asleep at her side.
‘They’re lovely.’ Maxine smiled as Josh replaced them with care in the cardboard box.
‘You’re lucky to have so many pictures of your mum.’
‘Yes.’ The boy looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t have forgotten what she looked like but Ella might have. She was only young when it happened.’
She wondered how he felt about the string of subsequent girlfriends but sensed that she had done enough prying for one night. Outside, it was growing dark. It was past both children’s bedtime. Tugging tentatively at Ella’s thumb, Maxine found it plugged into the rosebud mouth as firmly as a sink plunger.
‘Come on, I’m still on parole. Your father will shoot me if he finds out how late I’ve let you stay up. You take the photographs back upstairs and I’ll carry Ella.’
They Think It’s All Over was about to start on TV. Josh said jealously, ‘What will you do when we’ve gone to bed?’
