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The last of the snow was just turning to sludge on the New York pavements when she got a phone call in the middle of one chilly night. Her grandfather had died in London. She flew home later that day, coolly working out as she sat on the plane that she was going to have to leave New York for good. She couldn't live on one side of the Atlantic while her grandmother was alone on the other side.
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After the funeral she flew back to New York, but merely to wind up her affairs; give in her notice to Schewitz and Quayle, pack up all her possessions and arrange for those she wanted to keep to be shipped to England, and sublet her apartment for the rest of her very expensive lease. That had been the easiest part of leaving New York. Apartments were like gold dust; she had been overwhelmed with eager apartment-hunters from the minute she contacted an agency.
Spring had definitely arrived when she got back to London; within a few days the trees had come into fat, sticky bud and green leaves showed everywhere. Judith was staying with her grandmother for the moment. Mrs Murry seemed to her to have shrunk over the past few years; as light as a child and very thin, only her silvery hair and lined skin betrayed that she was seventy, a fact she would otherwise have denied and certainly resented. She refused to behave as though she was old and she kept trying to persuade Judith to go back to New York.
'I'm not helpless, you know. Don't worry about me. Good heavens, anyone would think I was a child!' she protested.
'I'm not going back to New York unless you come with me—and you know you wouldn't leave this house. We're not going to have another long argument, are we? I'm in a hurry, I'm going to have lunch with Ruth.' They had been arguing for weeks, ever since the funeral. Mrs Murry might be small and frail but she was incredibly stubborn. She never gave up on a fight, but Judith was her flesh and blood, she had the same obstinacy and determination.
Sulkily Mrs Murry said: 'Give my love to Ruth and the children,' and Judith left to catch her bus. It was a fine April day; the sky impossibly blue and the air fresh and sweet. In that brilliant light London's ancient familiarity had a novelty which surprised. Judith absorbed what she saw with pleasure while her mind was preoccupied with more mundane thoughts. Sooner or later, and probably sooner because she was going to need the money, she was going to have to get another job. She could go back to the London office of Schewitz and Quayle, of course, but she had been quite high on the career ladder in New York; doing a highly responsible and demanding job and earning a very good salary. She might not get an equivalent offer here.
In many ways she regretted the sudden break in her career. She had enjoyed working in New York; she liked the people she worked with, was fascinated by the job she did and loved the city itself. If it had not been for her grandfather's death she wouldn't have thought of coming back.
She couldn't discuss any of this with Mrs Murry, who would merely urge her to go back to New York. In spite of her grandmother's protests Judith suspected that Mrs Murry was relieved to have her back home; she simply did not want to admit it, she did not want to feel she was pushing Judith into staying. Mrs Murry was prickly and independent, but Judith wanted to be on hand whenever her grandmother needed her. When she was a child, her grandmother had always been there when Judith needed her.
Judith's father had died when she was six and his wife and child had gone to live with his parents. Her mother had got a job and left Judith with Mrs Murry during the day. When Judith was fourteen her mother had married again. Judith had never liked her stepfather much; he wasn't unkind to her, merely indifferent, especially after her mother had given birth to his two sons. He had taken them all to America and Judith had felt an outsider in the little family. She had worked hard at school to compensate for her increasing isolation at home, too worried and miserable to make many friends, she had grown increasingly homesick, too. She longed for her grandparents, for London and everything she had grown up with, and as soon as she had left school she had come back to live with her grandparents, getting a job in a London bank. At the time it had been the only offer made to her, she hadn't intended at that stage to make a career in banking, but when she was twenty-three her boss had been transferred to the New York office and had asked Judith to go with him. She had decided it would be good for her career to accept and had rapidly risen in the firm, moving up whenever her boss did. She would miss John Atkins; there had never been any romantic tinge to their relationship, but they had been firm friends and trusted each other. John wasn't the marrying kind; he was too set on becoming a very big wheel in international banking.
'You can't be serious! You're throwing away a marvelous career!' he had protested when she resigned, and she had known he was right, but some things were more important than careers. Whatever her grandmother pretended, her life was going to be very lonely now and Judith was not going to leave her in London without a relative in the world.
The bus pulled up with a jerk and she suddenly realised she had reached her destination, so she leapt up and sprinted to the stairs, taking them two at a time.
'Hey, miss, you can't jump off when we're going!' The bus conductor swung towards her and she grinned at him as she jumped. She landed lightly and waved, and he scowled back at her, his cap tilted back on his head.
The only friend from her schooldays with whom she had kept in touch had been a girl whose parents lived across the road from the Murry house. Ruth had got married when she was twenty-one and Judith had been one of her bridesmaids. The other had been Ruth's younger sister, Barbara. They had hardly been a matching pair. Judith had looked gloomily at Barbara as they both stood in front of the mirror on that wedding morning. She had been tempted to refuse to go through with it; people would smile behind their hands as she and Baba walked behind Ruth.
Judith was slightly built, fine-boned, sallow-skinned and straight-haired; with slanting dark eyes which mostly looked down because at that age she was very shy, a mouth which was slightly too large and a small, snub nose. Her figure was like a boy's; breasts tiny, hips narrow, legs skinny. She was grateful if she passed unnoticed; it had made her face burn to hear people say: she's so plain! Neither Ruth nor Barbara were ever called plain. Ruth was small and cuddly and curly-haired and had a smile like the sun rising. She was kind and warm and cheerful, from the age of fourteen she had boys queueing up to take her out, and her confidence attracted people while Judith's shyness made them avoid her. Judith did not mind the fact that Ruth was so popular because Ruth was her best friend and she was fond of her, but Barbara was another kettle of fish Barbara was beautiful. In Ruth's company, Judith was never aware of her own appearance—when she was with Barbara, she felt plain.
Not that Baba went out of her way to stress the difference between them. Baba wasn't malicious, there wasn't a spiteful bone in her body, it wasn't her fault dial she was so ravishing that people stared and gasped when she walked past. She had great soft masses of honey-blonde curls, wide-open baby blue eyes and a perfectly shaped pink mouth. Her figure was all curves; full, high breasts, a small waist, smoothly rounded hips and long, shapely legs. When she was a little girl, Ruth used to call her Shirley Temple, and in many ways that was exactly her image; sunny-tempered and sweet-natured and full of vitality. Baba was amazingly old-fashioned, too. Any man who took her out imagining that he would get her into bed soon discovered his mistake, and retired with a slapped face. Her parents adored her, she should have been totally spoilt, but she had grown up without altering very much. At twenty-one she was almost the same girl she had been at twelve, in spite of having been a fashion model for three years. In every way, Baba was amazing, but she still made Judith feel plain.
That was precisely how she felt now as Baba opened the front door of Ruth's house; her figure tightly encased in white jeans and a silky black top with a very low neckline. Giving Judith a glowing smile, she said: 'Hallo, how are you? Ages since I saw you—you look wonderful, so brown!'
'You look fabulous yourself,' said Judith with rather more honesty. She had not seen Baba since she got back from the States. Ruth had come to her grandfather's funeral and they had talked for a while afterwards. When Judith got back from settling her affairs in New York, she had rung Ruth and been invited over for lunch, but Ruth had not mentioned that Baba would be there.
'Come on in; everyone's in the garden,' said Baba, and swayed off along the narrow hall on ludicrously high heels. 'I'm sorry about your grandfather; he was a darling, I was very fond of him. How's your grandmother bearing up?'
'She misses him, but she won't show it.' Judith sometimes wished her grandmother was not quite so independent, but she admired her for her strength of will. 'Are you having lunch with us, Baba? How's the modelling going? Still very successful?' She had seen a woman's magazine cover from which Baba's face stared out only that morning, so obviously Baba's career was still rising.
'Oh, there's lots to tell,' Baba said, and threw her another of those too-beautiful smiles; they never quite seemed real, any more than Baba did, anything approaching perfection is somehow uncomfortable. Judith had often wished she could dislike Baba, it would make it easier to bear those amazing looks, but Baba had persistently refused to do or say anything to make it possible, which, in itself, was maddening.
'I might be going to make a film,' Baba told her.
'Good heavens,' Judith murmured, wishing she could sound more incredulous and awed but hardly even surprised. The only thing which would really amaze her about Baba was if she ran off with the milkman or went bald. Good luck was something which had rained relentlessly into Baba's lap, for as long as Judith had known her.
'In Hollywood,' Baba added.
'Where else?' Judith said almost wearily. 'What sort of film is it?'
'It's about a model—it's that book, you know, the best-seller everyone was reading last year. It isn't settled yet; we're waiting to hear if I've got the part. The director has been auditioning hundreds of girls, but my agent says he's very keen on me.' Baba halted on the little patio at the back of the house and gave a deep sigh, giving Judith one of her wide-eyed looks. 'But even if they offer it to me I don't know if I could bear to go. '
Ruth had got up from the lounger on which she had been sunbathing, taking off her sunglasses and dropping them on to the book beside the goldfish pool. She came over to hug Judith warmly. 'You're looking better than you did at the funeral. How's Mrs Murry? Why didn't you bring her with you? I was expecting her. '
'She isn't up to talking to people yet, but she sent you a message—her love and she hopes you'll come
over soon and bring the children.' Judith glanced towards them and smiled. They were perched on the rim of the goldfish pond, dragging shrimping nets through the lily leaves. 'I don't recognise them!' she said, and Ruth laughed.
'Of course you don't—when you were home last, Stevie was in his pram and Julie was just starting to walk.' Ruth pulled the nearest child down and swivelled her to face Judith. 'Say hello to Auntie Judith.'
