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As an investment banker, her father had done well in the Seventies and Eighties. Zoe had gone to St Paul’s, where she had worked hard enough to get a very satisfactory nine O levels. Her parents had confidently expected her to go on to university and had been shocked when she had told them what she wanted to do instead.
‘Hotel management… but why, darling?’ her mother had asked, obviously perplexed.
‘Because I like looking after people,’ Zoe had told her calmly. ‘I enjoy organising them… being bossy and managing.’ She had given them a wide laughing smile. ‘Of course I won’t always be working for someone else,’ she had assured them. ‘One day I shall have a hotel of my own. Perhaps somewhere abroad… Spain… Benidorm,’ she added teasingly.
Of course they had been disappointed, but eventually they had given way, as she had known they would. They knew nothing of discipline or coercion and had no defences against her stubborn insistence that she knew what she wanted to do.
Against all the odds, Ben liked them, although he considered they were no match for her.
She knew that if she had wished it her father would gladly have financed her, giving her an allowance, buying her a better car than the ten-year-old Mini which took her to and from work… even paying the rent on a decent flat; but once she had made up her mind to move in with Ben she had decided that she would live on what she earned. Not that Ben resented her parents’ wealth. To do so, he had once told her, would harm him much more than it could harm them.
Her mother picked her up from the station. At forty-six she still showed traces of the pretty girl she had been, the prettiness now softened and transmuted into a polished elegance.
As she kissed her affectionately, Zoe said, ‘You look good! I like the new hairstyle, it suits you.’
Heather Clinton smiled. ‘I wore it like this in the Sixties, straight and bobbed.’
‘Only then it was the same colour as mine,’ Zoe teased. ‘Not blonde.’
And then she had gone braless, and worn skimpy little shift dresses that showed more of her body than they concealed, and in those
days her body had been worth showing, her skin glowing with health and youth, honey-tanned, sleek and firm.
Now, despite her aerobics classes, despite the expensive body preparation she used, she was beginning to be aware of the first beginnings of an unflattering loss of tone, an awareness that, no matter how hard she tried, it was impossible for her to recapture that golden, silky-skinned glow which David had loved so much.
Had he noticed its loss too? Did he, as she did herself, compare her to younger, fresher-skinned women and find her wanting?
She glanced at her daughter, half anxiously, half enviously. Zoe was all the things she had once been; so like her and yet so very different from her.
‘Daddy’s had to fly to Jersey,’ she told Zoe. ‘So I’m afraid it will just be the two of us.’
‘Never mind,’ Zoe told her. ‘We’ll be able to have a good gossip. How about having lunch somewhere together? That Italian place… I’m starving.’
She grinned to herself as she saw the uncertain sideways look her mother was giving her clothes: black leggings, black lace-up boots, a silk turtleneck sweater which she had swooped on with glee in a second-hand shop and, over the top of it, a thick bulky cotton-knit sweater which was really Ben’s.
In contrast her mother was wearing a casual but very obviously expensive cream linen skirt and jacket, teamed with the plainest of plain ivory silk shirts, her nails elegantly buffed and free of polish, just as her hair was free of lacquer and her face of heavy clogging make-up. Her only jewellery was her wedding and engagement rings, and the pretty trio of gold Cartier bracelets Zoe’s father had bought her for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.
Over lunch it was Zoe who skilfully controlled the conversation and who then, as a penance for not confiding in her mother about her own and Ben’s hopes for the new restaurant-cum-hotel, allowed Heather to take her into her favourite dress shop and buy her a new outfit.
Her mother had pulled a slight face over her choice of brilliantly patterned Lycra cycling shorts and a top which she claimed clashed appallingly with it, but Zoe had smiled indulgently, refraining from pointing out that her generation had its own fashions and its own tastes and kissing her mother affectionately as they waited for her purchases to be wrapped up.
When her mother announced uncertainly that it was her evening for her bridge lesson, Zoe heroically concealed her amusement and gravely assured her that no, she did not mind at all.
‘Ben will probably be home by the time I get back,’ she assured her mother, hugging her warmly.
Only when she got back, Ben had not returned, and after the warmth of her parents’ home, with its unpretentious and unfussy but oh, so discreetly expensive décor, the flat seemed even more unwelcoming than ever.
Here on the tatty basic furniture there were no carefully treasured silver-framed photographs, no pretty pieces of Chelseaware… no cleverly chosen objets d’art… no paintings. No, there were none of those things, but there was love, Zoe reminded herself, and then she stood still, frowning, the forefinger halting that she had been dragging lazily through the permanent film of dust on the black ash table which Ben had assembled and which had joints which were nothing like true.
There was love in her parents’ home as well, wasn’t there? Of course there was, she reassured herself. All through her childhood and then her teenage years she had been aware of that love, and had taken it for granted. Too much for granted? After all, among their generation her parents were unusual in remaining together.
On her way up the stairs she had collected the post. Two bills, a bank statement and a thick white typed envelope which she was dying to open.
It was addressed to both of them, and she was nearly sure it was something from their backer. What did it contain? News about the property he intended to purchase? She could feel the excitement starting to uncoil and fizz up inside her.
Hurry up, Ben, she pleaded silently. Hurry up. She could have opened the letter, of course, it was after all addressed to both of them, but like a little girl she wanted to share the surprise with him… to share the pleasure… or the disappointment.
It wasn’t going to be a disappointment, she assured herself firmly. Ben was the one who was the pessimist, not she…
