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Bianca unwrapped the parcel, which turned out to hold a tiny bottle of French perfume; she unstoppered it with some difficulty and almost reeled from the musky scent. She always wore light floral perfumes, and could not imagine herself wearing this, but she smiled at her son who was watching her eagerly.
‘Mmm... gorgeous... Thank you, Tom. I love it.’
‘Put some on, then!’ he urged.
She cautiously dabbed a little behind each ear and Tom leaned over to inhale the smell.
‘Great,’ he said in satisfaction.
Bianca caught Vicky’s eye and silently warned her not to make one of her tart comments. Looking at the clock on the kitchen wall, she said, ‘Time’s getting on... Sit down Tom, and eat your porridge. We’ll have to go soon.’
He threw himself into his chair and picked up his spoon. ‘This is a porridge sort of morning, isn’t it? Listen to that rain. Are we going out to dinner tonight, for your birthday? We always used to when...’
He stopped and looked at her and Bianca swallowed, a bitter pang of sadness hitting her.
‘Yes, Dad always took us out on my birthday—I think that’s a great idea,’ she said gently.
She had told them to talk about Rob whenever they felt like it, she wanted to keep him alive for them, but these spiky little moments were always happening; they would start a sentence then remember, and look at her guiltily. Were they over their grief but aware that she wasn’t? Bianca felt that sadness again, shadowed by a sense of guilt towards her children—it was quite normal, after all, for people to get over a death; she didn’t blame them for that. After Rob died she had determined to be both mother and father to them—she hadn’t wanted to make them feel they must never mention their father in case they hurt her. She wanted to set them free to enjoy their lives—not make them anxious and uncertain.
‘Let’s eat Chinese!’ Vicky suggested.
‘Oh, yeah! Terrific,’ said Tom.
‘OK, I’d like that,’ Bianca said, picking up her cup and draining the last of her coffee. ‘I’m going to get the car out of the garage—hurry up, you two! Don’t forget your briefcase, Tom—and your games kit.’
The rain fell in the same relentless way as Bianca drove to work later, having dropped off her children. It was still raining later when she was dressing the window of Zodiac Fashions, the little boutique she and a friend ran.
‘We did much better with the January sales than I’d dared hope, and I’m really pleased with the new spring styles. I... Are you listening? What’s the matter with you?’ Judy Turner suddenly realised that Bianca had stopped work and was just standing in the window, gloomily gazing out into the almost empty, rain-washed street.
One hand absently tucking stray strands into the otherwise immaculate chignon in which she habitually wore her black hair, Bianca turned round, sighing. ‘Apart from this weather, the fact that I am now forty, and that I’m utterly fed up, you mean?’
Judy put down the account books she had been working on behind the counter. ‘I’ll make the coffee, you watch the shop, then you can tell me all about it.’
‘I just did!’ Bianca called after her departing back, then got on with the window-dressing, easing a bright yellow dress on to a haughty-looking model whose arm kept getting stuck in one position.
Bianca normally enjoyed this job; it gave her a chance to indulge her creative streak, finding accessories to go with a garment or a season, making the window look so attractive that women hurrying by simply had to stop to look at it. Today she wanted an air of spring; she had put a line of little yellow fluffy chicks along the front, sprays of pink apple blossom were pinned on the sides and the models would be carrying spring flowers—all artificial, of course, but they were surprisingly real-looking and had cost far more than real flowers would have done. You could use them again and again, however, which made them cost-efficient.
When Judy came back with the mid-morning coffee, the window was almost finished, and she went outside briefly to assess it, coming back with a smile. ‘It looks great! I love the chicks—pity we haven’t got a mother hen to go with them. You’ve got a real flair for window-dressing—didn’t you say you once went to art school?’
‘I started at college, taking an arts course, but then I met Rob and by the end of my second year—’ Bianca broke off, a little pink, laughed, and finished, ‘Well, I was pregnant, so I left without finishing the course.’
Judy laughed too. ‘The old, old story. But couldn’t you have gone on with your studies? Why did you have to leave college? Were your parents difficult?’
‘They weren’t too pleased at first, but they were very good about it. That wasn’t why I left college. I can’t blame anyone else for that. It was my decision. I simply wasn’t interested any more. I had this strong urge pushing me along—I wanted my baby, I wanted to be a wife and mother; I didn’t want college. Later on I wished I hadn’t been so stupid and I could have kicked myself for not finishing my course, but at the time all I knew was that I was obsessed with going along a different road.’
‘Did Rob feel the same?’
‘He was very keen to get married, too. He was much older than me and he wanted to start a family, have a home. So we got married in a hurry, my parents gave us some furniture, his parents gave
us the deposit on a flat. Rob had a good job, of course, so we could manage without me going out to work. I stayed at home and looked after Vicky. I didn’t want to leave her with some stranger. I wanted to look after her myself.’
Bianca’s dark blue eyes were smilingly wistful as she sat down to drink her coffee. ‘I sometimes think those were the best years, those first years, we were so happy!’
‘You still miss him, don’t you?’
‘Every day.’
Judy gave her a look in which affection and concern mixed with faint impatience. ‘It has been three years, Bianca! You should be over it by now. I mean... I know you loved him and the two of you were very happy together, but you can’t go on grieving forever; it isn’t right. Life has to go on, and, after all, you’re still young.’
