The Reading Room Read online

  They both laughed, as the woman in question was named Lily.

  ‘Perhaps she’s hiding grey?’ suggested Maurice.

  ‘Maybe. I don’t think so, because I do her roots. If there is any grey, it’s not enough to write home about.’

  Maurice nodded his head knowingly. ‘Exactly. I think she’s concealing more than that. I mean, what’s she doing round here? That accent’s Somerset or Devon, isn’t it? Why come up to sunny Lancashire, eh? Imagine living in Devon, all those little fishing villages, the surf pounding on the beach—’

  ‘Hello, sailor,’ said Paul in the campest of his range of tones. ‘Does seem a funny thing to do, though. Fresh start, do you think?’

  ‘She’s running,’ Maurice insisted. ‘And she’s had to run a very long way.’ He turned. ‘Now, we’ve Mrs Entwistle for a perm – even though we said we weren’t doing perms any more. But if she wants to spend money having her hair assassinated, that’s her prerogative.’

  ‘Three blow-dries and two cut and blow-dry,’ Paul added. ‘Oh, and Sally’s coming down later to do some manicures and a bikini wax, so we’re booked for the morning, more or less.’

  But Maurice was back at the window. ‘Paul?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I swear to God there’s been a wedding ring on that finger.’

  Paul joined him. ‘Your name Hawkeye? How can you see that?’

  ‘Next time she comes in, you have a proper look. I’ll bet my Shirley Bassey outfit that she’s in hiding. Including the purple boa. She’s incognito, Paul.’

  ‘Incognito? Fronting a shop?’

  ‘Yes. Running a shop because that’s what she’s always done. Going blonde and travelling hundreds of miles because she had to. She’s got a business head on her. Blonde, but no bimbo.’

  ‘Your Shirley Bassey, though? Boa as well?’

  Maurice nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I can’t do Shirley Bassey. We’d get no bookings if I had to do Shirley Bassey. I haven’t the waist for it.’ At almost thirty, Paul had some difficulty when it came to the imitation of the female shape. Maurice, even though he was a couple of years older, had a smaller middle.

  ‘I know,’ said Maurice. ‘I always hedge my bets, don’t I?’

  Paul punched his partner before returning to the task of sorting bottles and jars. As he began to count perm curlers, he heaved a sigh. Some women never learned. A perm in this day and age? Preposterous.

  Maurice was still thinking about the woman next door. The unit had been empty for months, then she had arrived with all her bags and moved into the upstairs flat. Within a fortnight, she’d had all the ground floor decked out properly, and the florist business literally bloomed. Lily. It suited her. She was as pale as her natural colouring permitted, looking as if she had stayed inside for a long time.

  Inside? Had she been to prison? When she came to get her hair done, she indulged in little or no conversation. Her past was not pure white – of that he felt certain. There was a sadness in her, something that cut very deep, a horrible emptiness. Was she lonely?

  ‘Have you seen that other pair of ceramic straighteners? Another weapon to help kill hair off, I suppose.’

  Maurice got on with the job. In time, he would come to know her.

  Lily Latimer sat upstairs in the lotus position. Yoga had helped keep her sane, but her sanity tank had started to run low of late, as she had tired herself out with the new venture. She concentrated on her breathing and muttered her own mantra, a saying much used in Lily’s life these days. ‘Carpe diem.’ She had to seize each day and get through it like some alcoholic on a set path punctuated by points and tiny goals. Sad, but true – it was the only way forward.

  Lancashire was all right. It was as good a place as any other, and it was far enough away from the situation she wanted to avoid. Although it wasn’t a case of want, was it? Absolute necessity was nearer the mark.

  The people here were friendly, though the accent had presented her with some difficulty at first. ‘Carpe diem.’ They spoke slowly, at least. Her landlord was a different matter altogether, as he came from Liverpool. His words were delivered at a speed similar to that of water emerging from her Karcher power washer, an item designed to shift dirt, weeds, moss and any other unwanted matter that might cling to the exterior of a building. But he seemed a jolly soul, and his wife was pleasant enough. ‘Carpe diem,’ she repeated, a slight smile on her lips.

  She was doing well. In the week to come, she had to cover two funerals and one wedding. Weddings were her real forte, as she was a qualified interior designer, but her certificates no longer counted, as they had been issued under another name. A change of identity was all very well, but a person had to ditch the good along with the bad. There could be no half measures, but she would be doing a great deal more than flowers in a few days’ time. The wedding would be a triumph, word would spread, and she would be as busy as she had ever been in Taunton. Yet she must not shine too brightly, had to make sure that her work hit none of the national glossies or newspapers, because if it did, all she had achieved would be for nothing. Worse, it would be dangerous.

  Lily sighed. She missed home, and she knew that it showed. These lovely people wanted to get to know her, but something in her appearance held them back. She wasn’t ugly, wasn’t even ordinary-looking, but something in her eyes had died. Killing Leanne and inventing Lily had hurt. Ma and Pa were dead, and she had no brothers or sisters, but she’d known some special folk at home. After a long time away, she had been welcomed back with open arms – there had even been bunting and home-made signs to tell her that she was loved, that she had been missed. How sweet freedom had tasted then. Yet how terrifying freedom could be once its implications became clear. Today was her birthday, and there was no one with whom she might share the joy of having survived for twenty-eight years.

  ‘Carpe diem.’ Without a word to anyone, she had upped and left in the middle of the night. Her house and shop were now on the market, and she had brought with her a minimum of furniture, as her exit had needed to be more than simply discreet. She felt terrible about that. Ma’s furniture was still there, was to be sold with the building in which it had stood since her grandmother’s day. Day. Seize it. ‘Carpe diem.’

  Thoughts of Gran and Grandpa sent her back more than a quarter of a century. Theirs had probably been among the first organic farms, though they might not have known what that meant. Grandpa had declared himself to be a ‘natural farmer’, one who disapproved of chemicals and kept their use to the barest minimum.

  She remembered shows with huge horses pulling ploughs, competitions to win first place on one draw across a field. The feet on those beasts had been as big as dinner plates, and all the surrounding hair, known as feathers, had been combed to perfection. Until the plough race had started, of course. Prizes. Gran’s apple pie from a secret recipe she had taken to her grave; Grandpa’s tomato sausages made in his own kitchen – a proper kitchen with huge dressers and a table big enough for Henry VIII and his whole court. The parlour with its display of trophies, teapot always back and forth to the kitchen, scones with clotted cream, home-made strawberry jam, wine produced in a barn . . .

  This was definitely not yoga. This was long-term memory, mind-pictures of a time when life had been sure and steady. Safety? Did she have to go all the way back to Grandpa’s farm to feel a sense of security? Perhaps most people found true warmth only in childhood, when love was unconditional and all decisions came from reliable elders. It was no use wishing she could go back. No one could go back.

  The phone rang. Lily stood up and grabbed the instrument from her desk. ‘Hello?’

  ‘That you, Leanne? If it is, happy birthday.’

  ‘Hello, my lovely. Thanks for the card. No. I’m Lily. Remember that. If you forget everything else, remember my new name. Though you can call me Lee, I suppose. What’s happening?’

  ‘Sorry. We’ll be with you in a few days. Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Of
course I am. But never forget – I’m Lily. Cassie will have to learn that, too. How are you, Babs?’

  ‘OK. Glad I don’t have to change my name. It’ll be OK, won’t it? If I keep my name? And is there enough room?’

  Lily glanced round the flat. ‘It’s all right. Big sitting cum dining room, kitchen large enough for a breakfast table, and I’ve given you and the babe the big bedroom. Until I find a house for myself, we’ll manage.’

  ‘See you soon, then. I’m more or less packed.’ Babs paused. ‘I’m a bit scared. It’s a very long way, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but the natives are friendly. They won’t eat you – they trapped a Manchester United fan last week, so they’re not hungry. Like snakes, they eat about once a month.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  Lily said goodbye, then sat on a sofa. How many lives had been altered beyond recognition during recent years? How long was a piece of string? She picked up a pad and wrote twine. There’d be plenty of that needed when she did her wedding garlands. Was there enough white satin ribbon? Would the three of them manage living here together? Bridesmaids – what was the colour of their dresses? She had a piece of the material in the desk, so that was OK. The landlord of the shop and flat had been approached, and he was cool about the arrangement, didn’t mind Babs and Cassie coming to live with her. The bride was wearing oyster satin . . .

  It was a decent enough living space. Lily was fairly sure that the landlord wouldn’t object if or when the rent book went over into Babs’s name if or when Lily moved out. Babs could front the shop sometimes, and that would leave more time for Lily to do her wreaths and bouquets.

  She stood up and paced about. There wasn’t a lot of storage for toys – she would buy some colourful plastic boxes. Cassie’s dolls’ house was probably the largest thing Babs would bring in her little car – that particular toy would have to go into the bedroom. It was big enough, she thought when she opened the door to survey it yet again. The whole flat had been carpeted in tough, natural-coloured sisal, and that should survive most of Cassie’s spills. Poor little Cassie, not yet two years old, and having to be dragged away from home just because Leanne, now Lily, had got herself into a bit of bother. Well, more than a bit . . .

  It would be silly to leave that fortune in the bank. Grandpa had always said that money should earn its keep by going to work, and he had been wise. How long had he saved for that prize bull? Oh, she couldn’t remember. But his money had been put to work, and Grandpa had done well.

  Lily’s money was . . . different. Some of it was unearned, yet she had paid for it. She supposed it was funny money, though its source had hardly been amusing. There was family money, and she was the last survivor. She would buy a house nearby.

  At a front window, she stood and stared at the square FOR SALE sign across the road. It was a large, rather grand building next to the Catholic church, but she dared say that she could afford it. Babs and Cassie would stay here, while she went to dwell in splendid isolation, rattling about in a house big enough for seven or eight people. There was a tree in the front garden that looked at least a couple of hundred years old. The place was too big. Silly.

  Was it, though? Investment was never a bad idea. And the house was utterly unlike anything Leanne Chalmers might have dreamed of owning. Leanne liked cottages, beams, cosiness, coal fires and Christmas trees. Lily was more elegant, surely? Perhaps she would go and look at the house tomorrow. Or she might wait until Babs arrived, because Babs usually gave a forthright opinion on any subject about which she was questioned.

  She walked to the fireplace and gazed at herself in the mirror. ‘Should I have brought them to live here?’ she asked the face in the glass. No wonder people did not meet her eyes. ‘I look quite dead,’ she told the vision before her. The radiance of youth had gone, had been stolen away and left to rot beneath years of torment. Yet it was a good face, well proportioned, the sort of face painters seemed to use. Perfect? No. Without character was nearer the mark. Blonde hair and huge weight-loss were sufficient to disguise Leanne, and she scarcely knew herself.

  ‘I offered them a home because I want Cassie. There, I’ve said it aloud.’ So much for altruism, then. How splendid her behaviour seemed on the surface. She appeared to be rescuing someone whose ordeal had mirrored her own, whose freedom had also been curtailed – but was she really doing that? Was she? Or had this desiccated female decided to cling to a child, someone on whom she could lavish attention in return for love?

  There was, she concluded, no way of knowing oneself completely. A person existed in the world and became a reflection, like this one in the glass, because humanity allowed itself to be shaped by feedback, by the reactions of others. ‘In the end, we become whatever the rest choose to perceive. We believe each other’s lies.’

  She must go down and bury her face in freesias. They reminded her of Ma. Today, she needed to remember her mother. She needed to be grateful.

  ‘Chas?’ Eve Boswell stood in the doorway of the bedroom she shared with her husband. How far could he get in a flat as compact as this one? ‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ He kept disappearing. One of these days, he would disappear with half a pair of her size fives planted on his backside. She called again, but he failed to reply. She knew he hadn’t gone down to the shop, because a blue light above the door to the stairs was shining brightly, proving that the alarm was still on. With thousands of pounds’ worth of alcohol and tobacco on the ground floor, the place needed a good system.

  A face appeared above her head, and she clasped a hand to her chest as if terrified. He was going from bad to worse, she decided. What the hell was he doing in the roof space? Another hiding place for dodgy gear? ‘You are one soft bugger,’ she told him.

  ‘I’m in the loft,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘Seeing if the pitch is enough to give us a bit of an office and somewhere to put our Derek. He’s been getting on my nerves. I heard accountants were boring and quiet, so why can’t he stick to Mozart or something of that sort, music fit for an educated man? If I hear one more note of his hippy-hoppy stuff, I’m off back to Anfield.’

  Eve tutted. ‘I must phone the Kop and tell the team it can rest easy, because Chazzer Boswell’s on his way. You’ll be able to shout advice from behind the goal mouth again. Now.’ She waved the shirt she was carrying. ‘How many people have worn this, eh?’

  ‘Only me,’ he replied with his usual cheeky grin. ‘Why?’

  ‘Butter wouldn’t melt,’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘Did you clean the car with it? Or have you leased it out to the bloody fire brigade?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It’s a good shirt, is this. I know because I bought it myself personally with my own money, all on my own, just me, with nobody. It was thirty quid in the sale. Have you no sense?’ She tapped a foot. ‘Delete the last bit, Chas. I stopped looking for sense in you years back. Liverpool’s loss is Lancashire’s gain, isn’t it?’

  He stared at her for a moment, then announced that he mustn’t have any sense, because he’d married her, hadn’t he? But thinking aloud was never a good idea when Eve stood within earshot. ‘You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Eve,’ he said by way of apology. ‘Except for when LFC won them five cups and Man U got sod all.’

  She wouldn’t laugh. Every time a bone of contention was dug up, he made her laugh. He’d got her to marry him and to have Derek by making her laugh. There would have been another ten kids by now if she hadn’t lost her equipment to cancer, because she’d never stopped bloody laughing at him except for when she’d been in hospital. Private hospital – he’d seen to that, hadn’t he? Chas was the best man in the world, and she would kill him in a minute – as long as he didn’t make her giggle. ‘Get down here,’ she ordered. ‘Make yourself useful. The washing machine’s vomiting again. It’s a drip at the moment, but I’m expecting Niagara any time now. They’ll be swimming in to buy booze downstairs.’

  He smiled again. ‘Another thing, love. It’s not Lancashire – it�
��s Greater Manchester.’

  Eve was ready for that one. She’d had to be ready for ever, because Chas had a quick brain and a quicker mouth. ‘You ask this lot round here – them over fifty, anyway – and they’ll tell you where to shove Manchester. Now get down here and see to that machine. I’ll take the washing down to Mo and Po – they can put it in their machine when they’re not doing towels.’

  He climbed down the ladder. ‘I hope it’s not catching,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wash my underpants with theirs, and I might come over peculiar.’

  She hit him with the shirt. ‘They’re nice men.’

  ‘Lovely,’ he answered, striking a pose. ‘Tell you what, though, babe. Their drag act is something else, according to our Derek. Did you know they’re going on Britain’s Got Talent?’

  Eve laughed helplessly. ‘Oh, God,’ she moaned, holding her aching side. ‘Can you imagine the look on Simon Cowell’s gob when he cops a load of that? He’ll have a heart attack.’

  ‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow.’ He thought for a moment. ‘No, I take that back. Cowell speaks his mind. He could become an honorary northerner the way he talks without dressing up. There’ll be enough dressing up when Mo and Po walk out with their six-inch heels and eyelashes to match. I can see that panel now – she’ll be on the floor laughing herself sick, and Piers Morgan won’t know whether to laugh or cry. Face like an open book, that’s his problem.’ He went off to stem the tide in the kitchen.

  Eve made the bed and straightened the room. She’d work on him again later, she promised herself. He was sticking to his guns, because he didn’t trust anyone, but she was fighting for a house. They owned the whole row of shops and flats, so he could well afford it. He didn’t want anyone else living and working here, because he was always up to something. A few of those somethings had put his brother in Walton jail for three years, yet Chas was still taking chances. It had been just luck and a good following wind that had kept Chas out of prison, and he should start behaving. He was near enough to fifty to have a bit of sense, and she wasn’t too many years behind him.