Her mother had raised her eyebrows when Beatrice told her the reason she was asking her to babysit. ‘Is there something going on I should know about?’ Deborah had asked.
‘Definitely not,’ Beatrice had replied, then went on to explain why she was going out to dinner with him, and that it was purely platonic.
Her mum hadn’t been entirely convinced. But why should she be, when Beatrice wasn’t entirely convinced herself? Her feelings for Mark Stafford hadn’t been platonic back then, and they weren’t platonic now.
She put the finishing touches to her make-up and sat back to check her appearance. She couldn’t do anything about the fine lines around her eyes (whatever claims they made, no creams were able to reverse the effects of aging) but she looked okay. She’d done her best, and she just had to accept that she wasn’t twenty anymore. Or even thirty. She’d be happy with thirty. Thirty wasn’t even halfway. Forty, on the other hand, could very well be.
She’d already laid out her dress, and she shimmied into it, contorting herself into odd shapes as she struggled to do up the zip. With the addition of a clutch bag and a pair of heels, she was ready.
Hearing her parents let themselves in and Sadie’s excited voice, she hurried downstairs, hanging onto the handrail, worried she might fall. Maybe she should change into her boots? The heel wasn’t as high, but they didn’t really go with the dress.
‘Hello, darling, you look nice,’ Deborah said, scanning her from head to toe.
‘I said that!’ Sadie cried.
‘Thanks, Mum.’ Beatrice turned to Sadie. ‘Where’s your sister?’
‘Here.’ Taya was slouching against the living room wall. She didn’t look happy. Beatrice wanted to ask her what was wrong, but she didn’t have time because the doorbell rang.
Mark was here.
Her heart leapt, missed a beat, then thudded as it caught up with itself, catching her by surprise and she coughed to cover it.
Lifting her coat off the hook in the hall, she hurried to open the door. Sadie was right behind her, and the child managed to squirm through it before it was fully open.
‘Would you like to see my toadstool costume?’ she cried, launching herself at Mark.
Mark gave her a hug, his eyes meeting Beatrice’s. She shook her head. ‘Your mum and I will be late if we don’t get a move on. Another time,’ he said.
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Anyway,’ Deborah piped up, ‘it’s not finished yet, young lady.’ She was gazing curiously at Mark.
Beatrice sighed. ‘Mark, you remember my mum and dad?’ Her dad was hovering in the background.
‘I do. Nice to see you again.’
Deborah said, ‘You too, Mark. How are your parents? Well, I hope?’
Beatrice stepped in, saying, ‘We’ve got to go,’ and she ushered him away from the door. ‘Bye, girls. Bye Mum, Dad. I won’t be late.’ She pulled the door shut behind her and blew out her cheeks, wishing she had arranged to meet him at the restaurant.
They fell into step, their breath clouding in the cold air, and Beatrice hunted around for something to say. ‘How did the art class go?’
He glanced at her. ‘You heard?’
‘It’s all over the village.’
‘Oh, god. Nothing bad, I hope?’
‘The class loved it, but didyou?’
‘I did, actually. I’ve never really thought about the process before – not consciously – so I think I learnt something too.’
‘Melanie is a hoot, isn’t she? She’s been singing your praises.’
‘She’s lovely.’ He glanced at her again. ‘So are you. I mean, you look lovely. Very nice.’
