don’t come out of nowhere; you dreamt what you wanted to dream.
No, that’s not true! she thought angrily. She could not accept that. She hadn’t wanted to dream about some strange man making love to her; she had never even thought of such a thing, not in her waking moments.
My unconscious…she thought, biting her lip. But she knew it wasn’t that simple; she couldn’t dismiss it as something conjured up without her knowing anything about it. It had been her who was dreaming about a stranger making love to her.
And who was he, anyway, that stranger who had shown up so mysteriously in her dream? Who had she substituted for Rob?
She tried to remember something about him—anything—but his face was blank, she couldn’t recall a thing about him, except that it had not been Rob. There had been no sense of recognition, or familiarity—she must have conjured him up out of her imagination, an admission that made her blush.
Oh, for heaven’s sake! Dreams didn’t mean a thing, anyway! When you were asleep your mind ran haywire, conjuring up a cinema show made up of memories, imagination, fantasy.
She looked at herself in the mirror, a woman of forty, with long, loose black hair hanging down her back, widely set apart blue eyes with pale lids, fine black brows, her face really still quite smooth considering she was now officially middle-aged. No wrinkles anyway—unles you counted a few laughter-lines around the eyes and mouth, a faint sadness in the eyes, too, because grief carved its impact on the face as much as laughter did.
She pulled a face at herself angrily. At your age you should have stopped fantasising. That’s for kids. You’re not a kid any more. Forty today! I can’t believe it. Where did the time go? Is that a grey hair? She peered at it closer, decided it was just the way the light fell, but it would come soon, of course. Age was a juggernaut rolling down on you; you couldn’t get out of its way. Before she knew it she would find herself with grey hair, lined skin. how long before she had false teeth? Oh, shut up! she told herself and turned to step under the shower, pushing away the depression creeping up on her.
Mornings were closely timed in this house; there was a lot to do before they could all start their day and she needed to concentrate.
When she was dressed, had put on light make-up and combed her hair up into a smooth chignon at the back of her head, she knocked on Tom’s door and got a sleepy groan from him.
‘Get up, Tom! It’s a quarter to eight!’ He had an alarm clock, which would have gone off by now, but it never seemed to wake him up. Fifteen and healthily active from morning till night, when he did go to bed and stop running and jumping around, Tom could sleep on a washing-line and would probably sleep through an earthquake. She had to bang on his door every morning before he woke up.
Vicky came out of her room without prompting, yawning, brushing her short, curly fair hair. Although her mother found it very hard to believe, Vicky was now nineteen, and for two years had been working in a large department store which insisted on its staff wearing what amounted to a uniform—a black skirt, white shirt and black cardigan. Staff could buy them in the store at a generous discount, and could wear any style they chose, so long as they kept the overall colour scheme. Black and white suited most women; on Vicky they looked exceptionally good because of her blonde colouring. She wore her clothes with panache, moving gracefully on high black heels. Her skin had a warm pink glow, her eyes were large and bright and her pink mouth a cupid’s bow. Vicky was pretty and was enjoying her life so far, although she had recently begun to put on a bored expression and talk with what she believed to be sophisticated cynicism.
‘God, what horrible weather. Raining again,’ she said, and her mother smiled to herself at the drawling tone.
‘Yes, it’s going to be another wet day.’
Downstairs, Vicky put on the kettle for tea or instant coffee while Bianca made porridge for breakfast; Vicky looked at it with horror. ‘No, thanks—all those calories!’ She poured herself orange juice, had her usual tiny slice of thin toast. She was barely five feet two and was terrified of putting on weight, which, admittedly, she did easily.
Tom rushed in, having apparently dragged on his school uniform anyhow before splashing cold water on his pink face but not bothering to put a comb through his straight dark hair.
Bianca was pouring his tea. She looked at him and made a face. ‘Oh, Tom! You look as if you’ve slept in your clothes!’
He grinned, a large envelope in one hand, a brightly gift-wrapped parcel in the other. ‘Happy Birthday, Mum!’ He bent over the table to kiss her on the top of her head.
‘Oh, thank you, darling,’ she said, smiling up at him. She had begun to wonder if they had forgotten—usually their father had reminded them.
Vicky looked guilty. ‘Yes, Happy Birthday, Mum. I’m getting your present later today; I’ll give it to you tonight.’
Over her head Tom mouthed something at his sister; Bianca suspected it was rude from the glare Vicky gave him. They argued all the time; sometimes she wondered if they always had, or if it was only since their father died; she didn’t remember them being so ratty with each other when Rob was there—or was it simply that they had changed since they began growing up?
Grief gnawed inside her again. Rob would have loved to be there to watch Tom play for his school, score the goal that won a match…
She looked at the birthday card blankly for a second, then made herself look properly. It was funny—a cartoon with a joke message; she laughed and handed it to Vicky to read.
‘Oh, ha ha,’ Vicky said disagreeably, dropping it on the table.
‘Don’t you get porridge on my card!’ Tom said, snatching it up again.
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
