I’m not even reading these days. You know all those doorstep-sized Victorian novels I used to get through? Ravenously? I look at them now...on my new mantlepiece, all their spines happily broken, thin white lines scored on them to show how well-read I am...and now I can’t be bothered. I picked up The Woman in White today and couldn’t get into it. One of my favourites. I cleaned the cooker instead. Even the grisly bits under the rings.
They’re too big, those books. And, in them, no one goes on normal. Or not very. And there’s no sex. I don’t know why I never saw that before.
lots of love...
Mandy.
Aunty Anne took her to Jenners. As they passed through the tall double doors and shushed into the dark, perfumed, cavernous interior of the store’s ground floor, her Aunty pushed two fifty pound notes into her hand.
“What’s this?”
“Your Uncle Pat wants you to buy something nice to wear.”
“What?”
“He wants to take us all out for dinner, and...”
Wendy jumped to her own defence. “What’s wrong with my own clothes?”
“Nothing,” hissed Aunty Anne. “But...” She shook her head. “Look, are you going to argue about being given a hundred quid?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he shouldn’t spend his money on me. He’s already putting me up, and...”
“Just take it. He’s got stacks, remember. And I’m not getting any of it, after all.” Aunty Anne hurried over to the Elizabeth Arden nook.
“Wait a minute,” Wendy went after her. “Did you ask him for this?”
Aunty Anne ignored her. Wendy asked again.
“I just said that perhaps you could do with some new...”
Wendy could have slapped her. “You’d no right to ask him for money for me! And there’s nothing wrong with what I wear!” She looked down at herself, at her denim shirt and jeans, her scuffed trainers. Then she was aware of the other women swishing past the cosmetics counters. Glamorous women with sunglasses pushed up and perched on top of their heads, their hair slick, all dressed up in satin trouser suits.
“You’re a child,” Aunty Anne snapped. “Someone has to take you in hand, tell you what to do. Your mother can’t anymore.”
Wendy turned red. “My mother never tried to, anyway. Even when she was here.”
“Hm,” said Aunty Anne. “She let you all go your own way, didn’t she?”
Wendy nodded. “What’s wrong with that?”
“It doesn’t always work. Sometimes people...have to be guided more.”
“Rubbish.”
“Nobody’s ever told you how to dress, Wendy.”
“I don’t need telling! I’m happy how I am.”
“But everything you wear looks so...cheap.”
“You mean tarty?”
“No—cheap! Like you’re wearing things out of a cheap shop.”
“Most of my things come from charity shops.”
Aunty Anne gave a look as if to say this proved her point. She ran a hand over the display of lipstick tips. Wendy thought of dog’s willies.
“It’s got nothing to do with you,” Wendy snapped. “It’s not up to you to see I get brought up like a proper little lady.”
Aunty Anne looked sceptical.
“Don’t look at me like Mary Poppins.”
“Ha! Don’t you have a temper, eh?”
Wendy stomped off.
Aunty Anne found her in the ladies’ department. There was a whole display of tartan slacks with elasticated waists. “It’s all clothes for old women up here,” said Wendy.
“Not all,” her Aunt said coaxingly, and nodded to a section where they had flouncy, silky, ribboned gowns. Wendy rolled her eyes.
“That’s what they wear to...like, university balls and stuff. Horrible.”
“What would you like to wear?”
Wendy shrugged. Aunty Anne offered her the hundred pounds again and this time, with a sigh, Wendy took it.
“You touched a nerve,” Wendy told her. “Ever since I’ve been in this town, I’ve felt like I’m not dressed right. I was comfy at home, the way I was. I never thought about it.”
Aunty Anne was nodding sagely. Wendy went on. “Here, I’ve felt like I ought to look different, be different...change myself somehow. Is that because it’s a big city and everyone’s so smart?”
Aunty Anne was fingering the collar on a nice suit. “Partly that. It’s also your age. You’re bound to want to change.”
“I don’t want to. I just think maybe I should.”
“Try things out,” said Aunty Anne. “You can afford to.”
Wendy looked at the ladieswear. “Not here, anyway.” She stashed her Uncle’s money away.
Aunty Anne was looking at her strangely.
“What?” Wendy prompted.
“You’re doing very well.”
“Thanks. What at?”
“Settling in here. It can’t be easy. Getting used to the flat, living with new people. Your Uncle Pat isn’t the easiest person to live with. I should know.”
Wendy felt like laughing. Next to Aunty Anne, she thought, Uncle Pat was a doddle.
Aunty Anne said, “He’s very fond of you. I can tell.”
They were heading for the escalator. Wendy smiled. “It’s hard to tell with him. He’s so skitty.”
“He likes you a lot,” said Aunty Anne. “He said last night, what a tonic you were to have about. Because you’re not old or ill.”
Wendy, smiling, shook her head. “I’m not old or ill.”
“So you’re doing really well.”
“Well, thanks!” They were back in the hall of perfumes, where the counters gave of a pale, chill light. Aunty Anne headed straight to the samples. Wendy said, “You sound like a school report.”
Aunty Anne squirted herself with a small green bottle, sniffed her wrist a grimaced. “You’ve made a good start. He’ll not forget you.” Then she gave Wendy one of her significant looks. “Do you want to try this?”
It was the most awful flowery scent. “No, thanks.” Wendy was suspicious. “What do you mean, not forget me?”
Aunty Anne tutted. “You know...in his thingy, his will. When he passes away, eventually.”
“How can you think that!”
Aunty Anne smiled kindly. “Of course I can! I can think it on your behalf, you silly thing. I can’t think it on my own behalf. I won’t be getting anything. Not his poor ex-wife. And I don’t expect to.” Anne put down the last of the samples and rubbed both
