Enough! She said to herself.
That's it. I've had enough.
No more 'Cindy, get me this. Cindy, get me that. Where are you, Cindy?'
No more 'Cindy' either.
Today is mine.
Today is for me.
Not Cindy.
But me.
Ursula Oracod.
Today other people will do this for me and that for me and everything I want for me and do it when I please.
The middle of three sisters, one nineteen, the other sixteen, 'her' seventeen and the odd one out. Not lively and clever like Imogen, the oldest. Not sexily beautiful and bursting with confidence like Beatrice, the youngest. But—so they all said, sisters, mother, father, even her grandparents—plain, simple, ordinary, entirely unmemorable Ursula. The one whose name visitors forgot—and then called 'her' Cindy because that's what 'her' sisters called her. The one whose only feature people remembered, if they remembered anything about 'her', were 'her' sticking out ears, which she tried to hide by an elaborate exercise with a curling iron.
There was of course the other reason for being the odd one out. But that was unmentionable.
Her sisters were not the only ones who used her like a servant, worse in fact, like a slave (at least servants are paid). Her mother was just as bad. Now, since her seventeenth birthday, leaving her to do the weekly supermarket shopping on her own. 'Here's the credit card, darling, and some cash for a taxi home. I wish I had the time but I don't. A client to see all day. And this week, don't forget the Tropicana fruit juice Beatrice likes.'
Her father wasn't quite as bad. Sometimes, he even stuck up for her, and told whoever was ordering her about to try doing it for themselves for once. But he always received the same reply: 'But, Dad, I'm in such a hurry and Cindy doesn't mind, do you, Cindy?' No reply was awaited. And with three women against him, her father shut up. There being the unmentionable to avoid as well.
So Ursula was the family runabout, treated as such ever since she was thirteen when the unmentionable had been revealed. She wouldn't have put up with it, if she were as funny as Imogen or as quick-thinking as Beatrice. But she'd never been able to give as good as she got in either repartee or arguments. Nor was she any match for Imogen's knowledge of just about everything. (When and how did she learn so much? She never seemed to spend any time studying.) Besides, Imogen and Beatrice were best friends. So: odd one out again.
But today she had finally had enough.
Luckily, it was the summer holidays. Imogen had gone off to visit her latest boyfriend. (Never matching up to her required standard of body and brain, her boyfriends tended to last a month at most.) Beatrice was still in bed pursuing her beauty sleep and would not put in an appearance before midday at the earliest. Her parents were at work.
There was a summer outfit of Imogen's, a red top and forest-brown jeans by Karen Millen, that Ursula really liked but had been told by all and sundry was 'too sophisticated for you, not your style at all.'
She went to Imogen's room, found the outfit in Imogen's abundant wardrobe that smelt of her favourite scent, Flower by Kenzo, carried it to her own room and put it on.
There is justice in the world! It fit perfectly, touching in the right places and loose everywhere else. Till now she had thought she was too big around the hips to fit into anything of Imogen's, unless it was of the ultra sloppy fashion.
Next, the question of shoes. Neither her mother's nor Imogen's fit her. Beatrice had a pair of Geox Respiras she'd love to wear, and would fit, but they were in Beatrice's room, and asleep though Beatrice might be, going into her room would inevitably wake her. Ursula had read that when you see birds standing on one leg it means the half of the bird on the side of the raised leg was asleep, but the half on which the bird was standing was awake. She wondered if something like that might be true of Beatrice. Only half of her asleep at a time. Besides, if Beatrice was anything, she was territorial and possessive. She always knew when anybody had been in her precious room, even if you didn't touch any of her precious things. As for taking something, no matter how trivial, the result was a tsunami of recriminations it was best to avoid.
She'd have to make do with her own shoes. She chose a pair of black heels that were always comfortable and made her feel light on her feet.
She showered, dried her hair, put on a new bra and panties, did her best to spray-rigid her hair over her ears, and then put on Imogen's outfit and her own heels.
Looking at the result in the mirror, she was slightly irritated to find that the only part of her that felt comfortable was her feet. As for the rest, it wasn't Ursula. But it wasn't Cindy either, and today this was all that mattered.
II
The High Street wasn't busy.
Too early in the day.
Where should she start?
One of the department stores would offer the best range. She wasn't sure what range she wanted or what she was going to do. Except that whatever it was, someone else would be doing the doing.
In Camden House she wandered past the jewellery section (she wasn't in the mood for that just yet), and then the sections for Armani and Gucci and Prada, all tempting to poke about in, but kept for later when there'd be more people and she wouldn't feel so conspicuous. At the moment every assistant she went by looked beady and ready to pounce on her.
Now the cosmetics section. Makeup wasn't her thing. She never bothered with it. Mainly because Imogen and Beatrice bothered so much with it. But maybe she ought to?
She paused to look at the range on the first counter. She liked the little round cakes ranked in neat black boxes like lozenges of paint in a painting box. They appealed because she'd always liked painting, even though she wasn't much good at it. For the same reason, she liked the brushes you were meant to use to apply the makeup.
An assistant came up to her, a middle-aged woman in a tight black dress and white scarf, precisely made up and with hair that looked as if it wouldn't move even in a gale. A soldier in the battle for sales.
'Can I help you?' she asked with a smile.
'I was wondering,' Ursula said, summoning all her determination to be the one in charge, 'I was wondering which foundation would be the best for me. Maybe the sort that has an illuminating factor in it?'
She surprised herself. She had never uttered the words 'illuminating factor' before. She'd read them in one of Imogen's fashion magazines, and the words popped out of her mouth as if said many times.
'Let's see,' the assistant said, peering closely at Ursula's face. 'Lanc?me do a good range.'
She took a sample from a cupboard and laid it on the glass of the counter.
Ursula stared at it, not now as confident as a moment ago and not sure what to do or say next.
'You can try it, if you like,' the assistant said. 'The testers are here.'
Ursula hesitated. What she wanted was someone else to try it for her.
'Is it your day off?' the assistant asked.
'Yes,' Ursula said.
'The sort of job you need to look your best, I expect?'
'I… help out with a family.'
'An au pair?'
'That sort of thing.'
'I was an au pair once,' the assistant said, 'when I was about your age. It was hard work. I really needed my day off, when I didn't have to think about doing anything for anybody but myself.'
'Yes,' Ursula said. 'That's right.'
The assistant waited a moment before saying, 'Why not consult our Lanc?me representative, if you aren't sure? She's here this morning and I think she has a bit of time before her first client. I'm sure she'd be happy to help.'
Ursula hesitated, wondering about the cost.
The assistant leaned towards her, and giving her a complicit smile said quietly, 'There'd be no charge, of course. And no obligation to buy. It's one of our services.'
Ursula smiled back.
'All right then. Thanks.'
'Follow me,' the assistant said, and led her to an area where there were a couple of high chairs and mirrors lit like the mirrors in theatre dressing rooms. She introduced her to an older woman, also in the uniform black dress with white scarf, who asked her to sit down.
The light was so bright and the mirrors so sharp they showed every pore and fleck in Ursula's face, and seemed to exaggerate the fright of her hair, a sight from which she turned her eyes in embarrassment.
The Lanc?me lady spoke with a strong accent, rasping her rrrrs, which Ursula decided was French.
'Je parle fran?ais aussi,' Ursula said, in a showing-off sort of voice which she used when feeling defensive, and always regretted afterwards.
'Très bien. Done, what mademoiselle rrrequires is a good cleansing.'
Ursula was about to say 'I had a shower before I came out,' but this time she held her tongue.
And so the makeup makeover began.
At first, Ursula was on edge, never having been the object of minute close inspection before, except by her dentist, and that wasn't the same thing at all.
Soon, she settled back into comfort, enjoying the business of being pampered, 'cleansed', 'prepared' and applied with foundation by finger, and eyeliner by pencil, and blush by brush, and then it came to the lipstick.
'Which would mademoiselle prefer? Lanc?me L'Absolu Rrrouge Rrrendez-Vous, verrry nutritious, or the Colour Fever Daring Rrrose, verrry rrred? L'Absolu Rrrouge I think would be nice, does mademoiselle agree, hein? The Colour Fever is too too rrred for mademoiselle. L'Absolu Rrrouge is subtle. And will bring out the colour of her pretty eyes.'
Her eyes had never before been called pretty.
She was so pleased she heard herself say, 'I'll trust your choice. You're the expert.'
'Merci, mademoiselle. L'Absolu Rrrouge, then. Bon.'
Her face finished, the assistant who had helped her first was called over. There was clucking and compliments and exclamations of 'La différence!' from the Lanc?me lady, and 'Beautiful!' from the other one.
But then the first assistant turned to the Lanc?me lady, 'The hair?'
'I am not a hairstylist,' said the Lanc?me lady rather sharply.
'Still,' the other one said. 'Maybe something could be done to help. A pity not to…'
The Lanc?me lady studied Ursula in the mirror and began fluffing and flicking about.
'Oui, yes, well, peut-être…'
'You could manage something,' the other said.
'Something better than this anyway,' the makeup expert said with Gallic scorn. 'Mademoiselle's style is certainly dérrrangé.'
The other assistant went off to attend to a customer and the Lanc?me lady began flummering with Ursula's hair.
An hour and a half had gone by when all was done.
Ursula stood up and considered herself in the mirror, turning this way and that, the Lanc?me lady standing back, hands clasped in the manner of a nun.
She was amazed.
Was this herself?
Was this her?
Was this Ursula Oracod?
The question blurred her mind and her vision.
She liked it and she didn't like it.
It was her and it wasn't her.
III
She got up and left the store in a daze of confusion.
On the street she stopped for a moment and people swerved by her.
She tried to think whether she had thanked the makeup specialist, but couldn't remember. She did remember that the assistant who had helped her first had smiled at her as she passed the cosmetics counter and said, 'You look lovely. A new woman.'
A new woman?
Was she?
She didn't feel new.
She felt like Ursula Oracod dressed up to play a part in a film.
Thinking this, she only half-heard the wolf whistle. Never having been whistled at before, she paid no attention.
Then she heard it again and a rough male voice shouting from across the road, 'Over here, darlin'!'
She looked.
The building opposite was caged in scaffolding.
The wolf whistle again. From somewhere on the scaffolding.
She saw him. A builder wearing a yellow hard hat, a mucky white T-shirt and jeans, with tools hanging from a belt round his waist. He was leaning on a rail and grinning at her.
When he saw her looking at him, he made an obscene gesture with his tongue, laughed, and shouted, 'Any time, sweetheart, any time!'
All she could think of was that Imogen and Beatrice would have snapped out an amusing put-down without a second's pause. But she could think of nothing, only felt humiliated and embarrassed.
She set off aimlessly down the street, wanting to get out of earshot of the man on the scaffold before he could shout anything more, and from passersby who were staring at her and grinning.
She passed a Costa coffee shop. Thought that having a coffee would be a comfort, turned back and went in.
There was a queue of six or seven. Two girls not much older than herself were serving. As usual chattering to each other about their night out last night, taking hardly any notice of the customers.
When it came to her turn there was the usual robotic mantra: kind of coffee required, large, small or medium, take out or have in, and anything else?
She ordered a café latte medium. And when it came to paying riffled in her bag for the money, which, as usual, had somehow burrowed its way to the bottom and hid among her other stuff.
'Let me,' said a man next to her, who was paying for his own coffee, and handed over the money before she had time to object.
'I've got it,' she said, still scrabbling.
'My pleasure,' the man said, picking up her coffee as well as his own.
She was going to object and say no, when she remembered her rule for today. Other people must do things for her, not her for others. If this man wanted to pay, let him. No skin off her nose, after all. She hadn't asked him to.
'Over there?' the man said, nodding towards a table with two seats by the window.
She followed him because there was no option and sat down.
He looked about thirty, blue suit, white shirt, red, blue and green striped tie, loosened at the neck and the top button of his shirt undone. He had a hard face, tight lips, spiky nose, iron-grey eyes and black hair in crinkly little waves. One thing she didn't like was hair in crinkly little waves.
'Having your coffee break?' the man asked when they had taken their first drinks.
'No,' she said, the irritation caused by his hair sharpening her voice.
'Day off?'
'Sort of.'
She looked out of the window to stop herself from looking at him.
They took another drink as if in rehearsed unison.
'I work in an insurance office across the road,' he said.
'Really?' she said, automatic politeness making her look at him but trying not to show interest.
'I know. Dull.'
'Is it?'
'Well paid, though.'
'That's something.'
'Enough to run an SLK 200.'
'Sorry?'
'A Mercedes-Benz. Two-seater. Vario roof. Compressor. Cruise control. Silver. Very fast.'
She was meant to be impressed.
'Is that so?' she said as flatly as she could.
'Not interested in cars?'
'No.'
More coffee.
'Ever had a run in a Merc sports?'
'Never.'
'You'd enjoy it.'
She said nothing.
'Just name the day and time.'
Imogen would have told him to get lost because of his brazen approach. Beatrice would have accepted and then dumped him, because she was up for anything and would have liked telling about it afterwards. Typically, Ursula didn't know what to say. Half pleased that this man wanted to pick her up; half annoyed by his cheap pass. Not to mention his hair. And thought again, as when she was wolf whistled, that it was only because of the way she looked today that this was happening. It had never happened before, not here where she'd been a few times, not anywhere.
'Got to go,' she said, and stood up.
'Don't know what you're missing,' he said. There was a hardness in his tone now that resembled the hardness of his face.
'Nor you,' she heard herself say just as hard and quite unthought, which made her smile with pleasure at herself. 'Thanks for the coffee,' she added, and left.
Now what? Where now?
Aimlessness was not her. She disliked being without a plan. Each morning, when she woke, she spent a few minutes going over what she would do that day. It was her sisters and her mother interrupting her plans by asking her to do this or that that annoyed her more than doing things for them. If their wants had been part of her plans she'd never have minded.
But today she had set off without any plan in mind. And now she was feeling the miss of it.
Then she remembered there was something she wanted to do. Borrow from the library a new book by one of her favourite authors, Griselda Walsh.
She crossed the road and walked down the High Street to the central library. Here she was in familiar territory. She'd spent many hours doing homework and preparing for exams away from her sisters' noise and their demands. And anyway, she liked being surrounded by books. They were comforting and stimulating. She felt more at home among them than she did anywhere else except in her own room.
As soon as she entered the library she felt better. Felt she was herself again.
She made straight for the section of 'New Books'. A librarian she'd seen often before was there, tidying the shelves, a young man with a shaggy little beard whisping from his chin. She had always wanted to clip it off because she thought it was silly and he'd look better without it. She guessed he grew it to try and look older, but even with it he still looked like a lanky boy. He said nothing to her, didn't even look, as she scanned the shelves, but then, he never had said anything or paid her any attention, even when he had checked out books for her, except for the usual routine questions.
When she couldn't find what she wanted, she turned to him and said, 'Is The Lover's Inspection by Griselda Walsh in yet?'
The librarian looked at her—looked her over as if she were a new book cover would be more accurate—smiled—which was also a first—and said, 'We put six copies out this morning and they're gone already.'
'Rats!' she said, crestfallen. 'You're sure there's none left?'
'She's very popular at the minute,' he said.
'She's one of my favourites,' she said.
'There's copies of her earlier titles,' he said. 'I can show you.'
'I know where they are,' she said. 'And I've read them all.'
'Not your first time here, then?'
'No! What makes you think it is?'
'Haven't seen you before.'
She was about to protest and put him right, but held her tongue. Instead, she said tightly, 'Never mind. Forget it.'
And was turning to leave in a huff when the librarian said, 'Hang on a mo!'
She stopped and turned to him.
He looked round to make sure no one was in ear shot, moved close, and said hardly above a whisper, 'There's a copy in the office. I was keeping it to read before shelving it. I'll let you borrow it, if you like.'
The same thing again! Ursula thought. First a wolf whistle, then a coffee pickup, now him! He doesn't recognise me, even though he's seen me loads of times. But now that I'm all dolled up in someone else's flashy clothes, and with a face plastered with makeup, and hair sculptured in a style I would never have thought I'd be seen dead in, he turns on the charm and tries to bribe me with his condescension.
She felt like telling him to get stuffed. But why not let him play court in his pathetic way? she thought. Let him give me what I want. When—smiling to herself—he's not going to get what he wants!
So she said, coyly, 'Really? That's so great of you!'
The librarian returned with the book concealed in a Co-op plastic bag, and handed it to her with a wink, saying, 'Sorry about the bag. Bought a sandwich for my lunch and don't have anything else to put the book in.'
'No problem, thanks.'
'When you bring it back, can you give it to me similarly disguised?'
He was such a boy, passing secrets, she rather liked him after all, and smiled, saying, 'Sure. Of course.'
'I'm Martin, by the way. If I'm not around, ask for me.'
'I will. I'm Ursula.'
'And by the way,' he said up close again, 'did you know she's in town this morning?'
'Who?'
'Griselda Walsh.'
'Really? Where?'
'The Queen's Hotel. Her publishers are holding a sales conference for their reps and main booksellers. She's giving a talk about her next book. Her autobiography apparently. Due next year. I tried to get in, but no go for lowly librarians.'
'What a shame! At the Queen's?'
'Yes. Maybe you should go. Hang about in the lobby or something. Pretend to be waiting for somebody. You might see her. Get an autograph even.'
His boyish enthusiasm imbued her with unusual confidence.
'What a good idea!' she said, warming to him even more. 'Why not?'
'Wish I could come with you, but I'm on duty at the desk till five today.'
'I'll go. I'll try.'
'Come and tell me, if you see her.'
'I will.'
'Great! And enjoy the book.'
'Thanks again for letting me have it.'
'No prob, Ursula. Be seeing you.'
Have I made a new friend? Ursula wondered as she left the library and walked to the hotel. There's a turnup for the book! A friend with a whispy beard. Well, at least he likes books and reading, which is more than I can say about some people I could name.
IV
The hotel lobby was bustling.
As she approached, Ursula was a touch nervous, less sure of herself than when Martin had suggested she go there. What would she say if one of the hotel staff accosted her? She was not familiar with hotels and their ways.
Inside the lobby was a large notice on a kind of easel displaying the message:
RODNOCK PUBLISHERS
SALES CONFERENCE
PRINCESS DIANA HALL
Ursula considered the situation.
The clock behind the reception desk said ten fifty.
When, she wondered, was Griselda Walsh giving her talk?
Maybe if she found her way to the Princess Diana Hall there'd be a notice showing the programme, or someone she could ask.
It wasn't difficult to see where the Hall was. A sign pointed the way up a staircase to the first floor. Various people were climbing the stairs, most of them carrying black linen bags with a logo on them in white and the word RODNOCK under it.
The people with the bags were coming out of the restaurant beside the lobby, no doubt from their morning break, to judge from the incense of coffee drifting out.
With a resurgence of confidence that surprised her, Ursula followed the Rodnock crowd and arrived at an open area in front of the Hall. Tables with black covers draped over them, each with the Rodnock logo and name on them, lined one wall. On the tables were sheaves of paper, piles of what looked like catalogues, and copies of books displayed on little stands. Large posters of book covers were stuck on the wall behind the tables, and equally large pictures of the faces of what Ursula assumed must be writers, because she recognized a couple of them.
The largest poster of all, and most prominently displayed, was a book cover with the title Words of My World and the name Griselda Walsh. Beside this was an equally outsized photograph, head and shoulders, of Griselda Walsh, which Ursula recognised from the covers of the many Griselda Walsh books she'd read.
Slim young women in white blouses and smart tight jeans and black leather boots were standing behind the tables, talking across the tables to Rodnock-bag-carrying men in suits, who were apparently asking questions, but more likely, to judge by their body language, flirting with the young women, who wore smiles as tight and smart as their jeans.
Ursula was about to approach one of the tables to ask about the time of Griselda Walsh's talk, when the doors of the Hall opened and everyone started to go inside. Including the young women behind the tables.
At which Ursula's confidence slipped again. She remained where she was, wondering what to do next.
Within a couple of minutes everyone had gone inside and the doors of the Hall were closed again. Ursula felt conspicuously isolated standing alone in that large space. Instinct drew her to the tables, where she looked for the information she wanted among the documents littered there. She searched until she discovered a page with the Rodnock name and logo on it and the title Sales Conference Programme.
She scanned down till she came to:
11.00-11.25 Children's book editors present new books.
11.30-12.30 Griselda Walsh.
12.45-2.00 Lunch in the Prince William Restaurant.
She was considering this and wondering whether she had the nerve to hang around in the hope of seeing Griselda Walsh, when a voice behind her said, 'Have they gone in?'
She turned, to find Griselda Walsh a few feet away, unmistakably her, though somewhat older than the photograph displayed on the wall and on the covers of her books. Or, to be honest, more than somewhat. Her bobbed hair was white and her face, though well made-up, obviously wrinkled. She was slim, dressed in a sleek linen shift in autumn colours, a pale blue silk scarf loosely wound round her neck, the long ends drifting below her waist. But the effect was spoilt by a pair of reading glasses dangling from a silver chain round her neck.
Ursula was so taken aback she couldn't speak.
'Have they gone in?' Griselda Walsh repeated.
'Oh! Yes,' Ursula said. 'Yes—'
'Damn!' said Griselda Walsh. 'I thought I'd sit in on this session and assess the atmosphere and the audience before my session. Were you waiting for me?'
'Yes,' Ursula said, wondering how she knew.
'Jock said he'd make sure one of his girls was deputed to look after me. What's your name, dear?'
'Ursula,' Ursula said still in shock.
'My goodness, Ursula, but it's chilly down here, don't you think? Is it like this in the hall? I hate air-conditioning, don't you? It's always so cold and artificial. I never think it's real air at all, do you? You couldn't do something for me, could you? There's a linen jacket in my room. On the bed. I thought of wearing it and decided against at the last moment. Wrong! I never learn! Could you pop up and get it for me?' She approached Ursula, and handed her a piece of plastic like a credit card. 'Here's the key to my room. Five-four-five. I really would like to attend this session and rev myself up for the fray. I'll sit at the back so as not to disturb the current proceedings.
Could you bring the jacket to me? Very good of you, dear. You girls are always so efficient. And always so well turned out and such good-lookers. I don't know where Jock finds you all!'
She turned, went to the Hall door, opened it with elaborate caution, and slipped inside before Ursula could find her voice again.
What else could she do but as she'd been asked?
As she waited for the lift, she couldn't help laughing at being mistaken for one of Jock's girls—whoever Jock was—by the famous Griselda Walsh.
But when she got into the lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor the thought suddenly hit her: My favourite author, and what does she do? Calls me dear when she's never met me before and knows nothing about me, and treats me as Cindy just because she thinks I'm a member of somebody's staff! What a cheek! Just because she's a famous author. Because what is it she's doing, Miz Famous Walsh? She's treating me like a Cindy!
On the heels of this thought, admiration turned to bile.
I am not your dear, Ursula said to herself as the lift ascended. You do not know me. And I am not a girl on someone's bimbo staff! I will not be Cindied by anyone, not even by you, Miz Griselda Walsh! I am Ursula Oracod I will have you know, Miz Walsh. And today is my day out, when other people do things for me not me for them.
What's more, Miz Walsh, I hereby declare and swear I will never be anyone's Cindy dear ever again.
And I also hereby announce, she continued to herself as the lift doors opened, that you, Miz Griselda Walsh, are no longer one of my favourite authors. You were a favourite author of Cindy Oracod. Therefore you cannot be a favourite of Ursula Oracod.
She had trouble working out how to use the plastic key. In her irritation and nervousness, she put it into the little slot above the door handle the wrong way up, panicked for a second, till, trying again, she found it had to be a certain way round and up.
The door admitted her to a large room furnished with a bed the size of which would have accommodated all five of the Oracods at one go (not that she'd like that), a sitting area in front of a window the length of the outside wall, with a two-seater sofa in blue leather, a wide armchair, and a coffee table with a glass top on which was a vase of red and white roses, and a large tray bearing the remains of what must have been Miz Walsh's breakfast. (Not that she could have eaten much, as there were slices of toast in a rack, half a jug of orange juice, and an assortment of little bottles of jam and marmalade left untouched.) On the wall opposite the bed was a desk with files and a laptop on it, a mirror on the wall behind it, and next to the mirror a black flat-screen TV. On the wall above the bed was a picture of a seascape. A built-in wardrobe with sliding mirror doors occupied the little entrance hall, opposite which was a door standing open into a bathroom tiled in cream marble, a round hand basin with gold taps set into a mahogany stand on which were bottles and other toilet items and a considerable quantity of what Ursula assumed must be Miz Walsh's makeup, all of this reflected in a wall-length mirror. Opposite the hand basin was a deep bath and a separate shower cubicle and against the far wall a lavatory. Thick-looking white towels were draped from rails on the wall beside the basin.
She had never seen a room so sumptuous, except in magazines of course.
The author's linen jacket was on the bed.
Ursula picked it up and went back down to the first floor.
Ursula hesitated outside the Hall. The last thing she wanted was to be noticed and found out.
She opened the door a crack. The room was in semi-darkness. She could see over the heads of the audience a PowerPoint projected onto a screen at the front and a young woman in a black business suit standing at a lectern to the side of the screen, her voice amplified through loudspeakers.
'It is such a sweet story,' she was saying. 'The breakthrough for this author we've been waiting for. It'll sell like hotcakes, I promise!'
At which the audience broke into applause.
Ursula spotted Miz Walsh's white hair. She was in the back row only a few steps from the door.
Ursula took her chance while the audience was applauding to slip in, hand the linen jacket over the author's shoulder, drop it onto her lap, and slip out again before anyone was any the wiser.
She walked to the stairs and down to the lobby as quickly as she could without attracting attention.
It was only when she was crossing the lobby towards the front entrance that she realised she was gripping the key to Miz Walsh's room as if her fingers were paralysed round it.
She stopped on the spot, swore at herself for her stupidity and stood for a moment, indecisive, between the urge to flee and the urge to do the right thing.
While she was standing there a man in a suit, like the others now in the Hall, went past her, looking her up and down as if assessing a pile of goods in a shop, and that decided her.
She turned, walked to the lift with a new determination, rose to the fifth floor, and entered room five-four-five again.
Having acted on the impulse of the moment, now she was in the room, her nerve failed her. And suddenly she felt hungry.
She sat in the armchair and gobbled up the slices of toast and drank the remains of the orange juice as if she hadn't eaten in days. It was comforting and made her feel better at once.
She was beginning to relax when there was a knock at the door.
She sat still while her heart raced. Surely it couldn't be the author? She'd be giving her talk by now. And anyway, why would she knock?
The knocking again, followed this time by a man's voice, 'Room service.'
Ursula kept still, more from fright than intention.
Then she heard a key being inserted and the door opened.
A young man in hotel uniform—maroon waistcoat, white shirt, black tie, black trousers—came in, saw her, stopped short and said, 'Oh, sorry, miss! No one answered. I've come for the breakfast tray.'
Ursula was still too shocked to say anything. The young man took the tray, turned at the door, looked at her, said, 'Sorry to disturb you,' and left.
The intrusion had panicked her. But now a thought came to her and with it a renewed determination.
She undressed, flinging her clothes—Imogen's clothes—onto the bed, followed by her bra and panties, and went into the bathroom, where she turned on the shower, used the loo while the water was hotting up, then got into the cubicle and with a sense of release so pleasurable she laughed out loud, shampooed her hair from the little bottle provided, soaped herself vigorously with the little bar of soap provided, rubbed herself hard all over with the face cloth provided, then stood, face up, eyes closed under the showerhead, while the refreshing water sluiced away the shampoo and the soap, and with them the hair spray and makeup the department store specialist had taken so long to apply, and which since the moment she had left the store had oppressed her with a sense of fraudulence and caused her to be treated as someone she was not and knew now she did not wish to be.
When she got out of the shower, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the door of the wardrobe opposite the bathroom. It was such a relief to be clean, to be free of clothes, to be only herself, her own flesh and bones.
Why is it, she asked herself, that I feel better with nothing on? Why do I prefer to be naked than in clothes? I think I'd like to be naked all the time!
She regarded herself, that way and this, up and down.
I'm sure I look better naked, she told herself. And I feel whole.
That's it! she thought. When I'm naked I feel whole. I never feel right in clothes. Whatever I wear feels wrong. I can never find anything that looks right everywhere on me. Clothes seem to separate my top half from my bottom half, my head from my body. Without anything on I'm all one.
V
A quarter of an hour later, Ursula was sitting in the armchair, dressed only in a luxurious bathrobe with the hotel's name blazoned on the chest, which she had found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She was reading Griselda Walsh's new book while she cooled off and her hair dried.
She calculated that Miz Walsh would be gone to at least twelve thirty and probably not return to her room till after the conference lunch, at which she would be a guest of honour, wouldn't she? Plenty of time before she needed to dress, hand in the key at reception, pretending she had found it on the floor, and leave without being discovered.
Miz Walsh had treated her as Cindy. Using the author's room to turn Cindy into Ursula wasn't exactly what Miz Walsh had intended. But Cindy decided it was a gift anyway.
But she was only a few pages into the book when there was a knock on the door again, and the same voice saying, 'Room service.'
This time, she wasn't so panicked.
'What do you want?' she called back.
'It's room service, miss,' the man said. 'I need to speak to you.'
'What about?'
'Private, miss.'
Fearing he'd go on shouting and draw the attention of other guests or staff, she opened the door enough to see him. He wasn't in hotel uniform but just his white shirt and a pair of old jeans, and a large canvas bag hanging from his shoulder. And he wasn't really a man either, but a boy not much older than herself.
'What do you want?' Ursula said, trying to be authoritative but her nerves sounding in her voice.
'This isn't your room, is it?' the boy said. 'It's the author's, Griselda Walsh's. I know because I brought her breakfast this morning.'
Ursula stared at him.
The boy waited a moment before saying, 'Have you permission to be here?'
'She sent me to get something for her,' Ursula said.
'So why are you in a bathrobe?'
Ursula was stuck.
'I'll have to report you to security,' the boy said. 'Because if they find out I knew you were here when you shouldn't be, I'll get the sack, and I can't afford to lose this job. We're supposed to report anything unusual. You might be a thief… or a terrorist.'
'Don't be so ridiculous,' Ursula heard herself say.
'You'd be surprised what goes on in hotels,' the boy said. 'So what are you doing here?'
Ursula opened the door wide and said, 'Nothing. Just… nothing.'
The boy laughed. 'So I tell security there's a girl in room five-four-five who's doing nothing, do I?'
'I mean I'm not doing anything wrong.'
'Except using someone's room without permission.'
Ursula felt close to tears.
'I was just… I don't know… having a day out.'
'A day out?'
'Yes.'
'You'll have to come up with something better than that.'
'Look… I came to the hotel to try and see Griselda Walsh because I like her books, and she found me and thought I was one of the staff or something and asked me to get a jacket from her room because she was feeling cold and she went into the meeting and I came and got her jacket and gave it to her but forgot to give her the key and I was feeling a bit, well, annoyed, because I'd had a makeup makeover and been whistled at in the street and made a pass at by a man in Costa Coffee and I felt upset at being treated like I was a, well, like something I'm not, and when I found I still had the key I came up and had a shower to wash off all the makeup and stuff and was cooling down afterwards and I was going to hand in the key when I left but you came for the tray and now you've come back accusing me of being a thief or a terrorist and I know I shouldn't have done it, but that's why.'
The boy gave her a wary look.
'Please don't report me,' Ursula said. 'I'm harmless, really I am!'
'All right,' he said. 'But I think I'd better make sure you leave without taking anything and the place is tidy. Then I'll see you out of the hotel and that way everything should be all right.'
Ursula let him in, and closed the door.
They stood at the foot of the bed looking at each other.
'I can't go till I get dressed,' Ursula said. 'I'll use the bathroom, OK?'
The boy nodded.
Ursula collected her things and went into the bathroom. She was trembling all the time she was dressing.
When she came out, the boy was sitting in the armchair, his bag on his knees.
'You're not in uniform,' she said.
'Finished my shift at twelve.'
Ursula sat on the bed and pulled on her shoes.
'What's your name?' the boy asked.
'Ursula Oracod. What's yours?'
'Paul. Paul Taylor.'
'Hi.'
'Hi.'
'Look,' Ursula said. 'I'm sorry. I've been stupid, I know.'
'It's OK. No problem. It's just, I mustn't lose this job. I need the money.'
'I'll tidy the bathroom, make sure it's as I found it.'
'No, I'll do it. I know how things are supposed to be.'
He got up and went to the bathroom.
'Done,' he said, coming back.
Ursula stood up. Paul looked round the room, squared off the bed cover, checked the bedside tables, and adjusted the vase of flowers on the coffee table.
'What about the key?' Ursula said. 'I was going to hand it in at reception and say I'd found it.'
'That's a bit risky. Reception might ask for your details. I'll hand it in myself. Where did you take her jacket?'
'To the Princess Diana Hall. I met her outside there.'
'OK, that's where I'll say I found it. I'll take you down, see you out, then hand in the key. OK?'
'OK. And look—thanks.'
'Yeah, well! I'll tell you something. I'm not too keen on Griselda Walsh. I brought her breakfast this morning and all I got was complaints. She wanted it at eight thirty. I was ten minutes late. I couldn't help it, room service is busy at that time. Then she rang down and complained the coffee wasn't hot, so I had to rush up with another pot. When I got here she nagged on about the toast being cold, which has nothing to do with me, I just carry the stuff. I told her that and she said I was being cheeky. Forward was the word she used. Forward! When I left she phoned reception and put in a complaint about the inefficiency of room service, gave them my name, and said I'd been rude to her.'
'How did she know who you were?'
'We wear name tags on our jackets. My boss gave me a telling off. So she really got up my nose. Some guests do. Whatever you do there's no pleasing them. They seem to think you're their personal servant and have nothing else to do but look after them.'
'Sounds as if you don't like your job much.'
'I don't.'
'So why do it?'
'I need the money to go to art school next year. And the hours suit me. I'm finished at twelve, and the rest of the day I can do my own work. I need to build up a portfolio of drawings and paintings to qualify.'
'You want to be an artist?'
He suddenly blushed, looked shy, put his head down, and said, 'We'd better go.'
VI
Outside, Ursula waited.
She hoped Paul would leave by the hotel's main entrance.
Which he did about ten minutes later.
She caught up with him as he walked down the street.
'Hey—you again!' he said, smiling, and stopping to face her.
'Hi,' Ursula said. 'Look, I'm sorry I did that. I mean, nearly got you into trouble.'
'No problem.'
'But I'd like to thank you. Could I buy you a coffee? Or maybe we could have something to eat?'
'One of the few good things about being on room service is there's always plenty to eat. You should see what people send back untouched.'
'OK. Just a thought. Thanks, anyway.'
She was turning to go when Paul said, 'Hang on a sec. It's a nice day. I've been inside since six this morning. I wouldn't mind a walk in the park. If that doesn't sound too corny.'
'Who cares if it is?'
They set off. The park was only a few minutes away.
'I come here quite a bit,' Paul said as they sauntered along the path through the trees towards the lake. 'I like looking at the people, and the ducks on the pond are always good for a laugh. I've done quite a few drawings here.'
'I like painting,' Ursula said. 'Or used to. But I was no good at it.'
'Did you draw?'
'No. Just paint.'
'You've got to draw if you want to paint well.'
'Why?'
'It trains your hand, and it makes you look very closely at what you're drawing. That's the main thing about art. Looking very closely. And for a long time.'
'I wish I could see some of your drawings.'
'You can. I've got some in my bag.'
They sat on a bench. Paul pulled a sketchpad out of his bag and opened it to show Ursula.
There were all sorts of sketches, some very quick, hardly more than a few lines, some more finished. There were some that were of small boxes arranged together, some of people sitting on park benches, some of children playing in the sand tray, a boy on a swing, a number of ducks on the water. And three of a nude woman sitting on a box.
Paul commentated as he showed Ursula each picture.
'I did the boxes after looking at some drawings by Morandi, who had a thing about boxes and bottles. Lovely drawings. Very still. Like drawings of silence. Very hard to do, though. Getting the arrangement right… I did these ones of the people in the park last week… I did the nudes in life class this week. I should do more life studies. It's important. And I need them for my portfolio.'
'So why don't you?'
'It costs too much. If you're not a student, you can attend life classes only if you pay. And I'm trying to save up for when I go to art school.'
Ursula looked at the drawings. They seemed very good to her. She wished she could draw as well.
'Can I do a drawing of you?' Paul asked.
'What, now, you mean?'
'Why not?'
'I've never been drawn before. What do I have to do?'
'Nothing. Just sit and watch the ducks. And we can go on talking. You can manage that?'
She smiled at him.
'I can manage that!'
'OK. Let's do it! Stay where you are.'
He propped himself against the arm of the bench, knees up, feet on the seat, took a pencil from his bag, propped his drawing pad on his knees, looked at Ursula sitting in profile at the other end of the bench, and started sketching.
For a while nothing was said. Paul worked at his drawing. Ursula watched the ducks. But all the time she was aware, even though she wasn't looking at him, that Paul was examining her closely. She felt as if his eyes were touching her, travelling over her face and body, feeling every curve and shape, muscle and bone. It was the strangest sensation she had ever felt. And it became so intense that she couldn't help speaking in order to release the tension building up inside her.
'Do you have brothers and sisters?' she asked.
'No. Only child. You?'
'Two sisters. One older, one younger.'
'That's nice.'
'Is it?'
'Isn't it? I'd quite like to have a sister. When I was little, I used to collect the tops off cornflake packets.'
'What?'
'The tops off cornflake packets. My mother said if I collected enough of them I could exchange them for a sister.'
'She didn't!'
'It's true.'
Ursula couldn't help laughing.
'Sit still. And look serious again.'
'But cornflake packets! And you believed her!'
'Didn't you believe your mother when you were little?'
That put a silence on Ursula.
Paul said, 'I used to go round the neighbours asking for the tops off their cornflake packets, till my mother found out and said it only worked if they were the tops off packets of cornflakes I'd eaten. I gave up after I'd saved thirty-four and my mother said it still wasn't enough.'
'She was only trying to make you eat your cornflakes.'
'Oh, how cynical you are, Ursula Oracod!'
'Yeah, well, maybe I am.'
Paul worked on.
'Can I have a look?' Ursula said.
'No,' Paul said. 'It's not right yet. I'm going to start again.'
He flipped the page over.
'Could you turn a bit and face me three quarters on?'
Ursula shifted into a new pose. Now she could see him as he worked.
He started again, looking as closely as before. She felt he was x-raying her, seeing right through into her insides.
'What do your parents think of you wanting to be an artist?'
'They're separated. My mother is married to someone else and lives in Scotland. Don't see her much.'
'You live with your father?'
'When they split up I was given the choice. Bad decision!'
'Why?'
'I was ten when they split up. I liked him then. We did a lot together. Football matches. Fishing. Gardening—he's a big gardener, and very good at it. But then I got the drawing bug. He didn't mind at first. But when I got serious about it, he wasn't so keen. Then when I decided I wanted to go to art school and be a professional artist, he really turned.'
'Why?'
'He doesn't know anything about art. And doesn't much like what he does know. Thinks it's only for the rich and what he calls the phonies and the pseuds and people with their heads up their bums. Not a job for a man. And how many so-called artists make a living out of it anyway? Et cetera. We had a big row about it. You get the idea.'
'I do.'
'So the deal is, either I get what he calls a proper job, or he'll chuck me out.'
'And that's why you're working at the hotel?'
'And why I'm saving up. When I get into art school, if I get in, I'll have to find somewhere else to live and pay my own way.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Nar! Don't be. I don't mind. I did at first, after the row. It really upset me then. But not now. Somehow, I like it. I like knowing I'll have to do it all myself without any help from him.'
'Why?'
'Because that's the proof it really matters to me. That I really do want to study art and be an artist. It's only when you're on your own, no one, nothing to fall back on, and people are against it, that you know you're really meant to do what you want to do.'
Ursula thought for a few minutes. Paul went on with his drawing.
'Parents are odd,' Ursula said.
'Yours too?' Paul asked.
'You could say.'
'Why, what's so odd about them?'
Ursula couldn't reply at once. She'd touched the unmentionable. The thing never talked about at home. The thing she'd never told anyone.
She looked at Paul, so absorbed in his drawing, looked at his eyes, which looked at her with an intensity that seemed to both see her and see through her. No one had ever looked at her like this before. And it was as if at that moment nothing else mattered to him except Ursula and the marks he was making on the paper that were her too as he had discovered her from the explorations of his eyes.
She felt excited and yet calm. It was as if he were seeking her out. Trying to understand her completely. It was thrilling.
His total attention seemed to draw from her like a magnet the truth she had never told anyone else.
'They're odd,' she said. 'They're odd, because I'm not… Well… You see, after my eldest sister was born, Imogen, my mother had an affair. It didn't last long. She says it was an infatuation. A fling… My dad… well, he isn't my dad… but he was very busy, away a lot for his job… Anyway, my mother had this fling with another man. But she got pregnant with me. She told my dad… I mean not my dad but… she told him, and he went ape. But somehow they patched it up and he said he'd accept me as his so long as no one ever knew… And they kept the secret till I was thirteen, when Imogen overheard an argument they were having… They thought no one was in the house but Imogen was and heard them… And my father who isn't my father reminded my mother about her fling and me… Afterwards Imogen tackled them about it. And so my mother told me because she knew Imogen would if she didn't, because Imogen is like that. After that both my sisters… my half sisters… never liked me. They said I wasn't really their sister anymore, and… Well, that's it. That's why my parents are odd.'
Paul had stopped drawing while Ursula was talking. He looked at her now, not as a model but as the girl who was sitting with him on a park bench and had begun to cry.
'I'm sorry,' he said.
'Don't be!' Ursula said with the same tone of voice as Paul had used to her, and looking at him through water-eyes, smiled, and added, 'I don't mind. I did at first. But not now.'
Paul smiled back at her echoing his words.
'At least they haven't threatened to chuck me out,' she added.
'Maybe,' Paul said, 'we could both do with something to drink?'
Ursula nodded and wiped the tears away.
Paul handed her a paper hankie. 'I use them for making smudges on my drawings,' he said.
'More to being an artist than meets the eye,' Ursula said.
'More to being most people than meets the eye,' Paul said.
'That's for sure,' Ursula said.
They walked across the park to a café by the gate, bought a couple of cans of Coke and sat at a picnic table outside.
Ursula had recovered herself. Paul had gone quiet.
'Can I see your drawing?' Ursula asked.
Paul took his pad from his bag, opened it, and put it down on the table in front of her.
She was looking at herself as she had never seen herself before, and yet it was herself as she felt inside.
She was so surprised she couldn't say anything.
'You don't like it,' Paul said.
'I love it.' Ursula could only just get the words out. Tears were forming again.
'You do?'
She looked at him, eye to eye.
'I don't know what to say.'
'You're saying it,' he said.
He reached over, touched her cheek with a finger, and drew it down to her chin.
'Some people have beautiful faces,' he said. 'Or you think so when you first see them. But when you draw them, when you look really close, you find there's nothing much in them—nothing much behind them, if you know what I mean? And some people who you don't think are beautiful at first, when you draw them, you see they are, because of what's behind them—what's in them. And they are the faces that are really beautiful. Your face is like that.'
Ursula drank the last of her Coke and squeezed the tin till it crumpled.
They regarded each other. There was a new understanding between them.
'You know something?' Ursula said.
'What?'
'When I was in the hotel room I had a shower and afterwards I looked at myself in the mirror. And you know what?'
'What?'
'I realised I don't like clothes. I never feel right in them. I never seem to be me in them. But without clothes I feel whole. I feel myself.'
Paul smiled.
'Do you understand what I mean?' Ursula said.
'Sure I do. And do you know what?'
'What?'
'You looked a lot better after your shower than you did before.'
'How do you know?'
'Because I saw you dressed when I collected the tray and I saw you after you'd showered.'
'When I was in a bathrobe.'
'True. But you still looked better.'
'You really think so?'
'I do.'
Ursula waited a moment, to be sure she wanted to say what now came into her head.
'You know you said you needed to do more… what did you call them… life studies?'
'Drawings of nudes.'
'And how they are expensive and you can't afford them?'
'Are you going where I think you're going?'
Ursula gave him a wry smile. 'Maybe!'
'Would you?'
'I'd like to, if you would.'
'If I would what?'
'Like to draw me naked.'
He laughed. 'Would I!'
'Then let's do it.'
'You're sure?'
Ursula nodded.
'With one condition,' she said.
'Which is?'
'You're naked too!'
Paul roared and drummed a tattoo on the table with his hands.
'Why should men have all the fun?' Ursula said.
'OK,' Paul said. 'It's a deal.'
Now Ursula was bubbling with laughter.
'No, no! I was only joking!'
'But you're right. And you know what they say about jokes?'
'No, what do they say?'
'Jokes always tell the truth. So that's what you want! And that's how it will be. Both of us starkers!'
When they had got over their laughter, Ursula said, 'Where and when?'
'My house, tomorrow afternoon. My dad will be at work, not back till six. So we'll be OK.'
'What about I wait for you outside the hotel at twelve and you can take me home with you?'
'Good thinking.'
So it was arranged. And Ursula hadn't felt so happy since before the unmentionable was revealed.
On the way home she passed the library, but felt too excited to go in and speak to Martin. I'll see him tomorrow before meeting Paul, she decided. I'll tell him that I met Griselda Walsh and I've started her new book but already feel I've grown out of her books now. I won't tell him that they are Cindy's books, not Ursula Oracod's. And Cindy doesn't exist anymore. She never really did. Just like the stories in Griselda Walsh's books. They aren't real. They're only fantasies. Cindy liked fantasies. They comforted her. Ursula Oracod likes real life.
When she arrived home everyone was out.
She changed into her own clothes, put Imogen's back where she'd found them and sat in her room imagining tomorrow afternoon.
Imogen and Beatrice turned up an hour later. They were banging on, as usual, about their day's excitements.
Imogen had chucked her latest boyfriend.
Beatrice had bought a new pair of shoes.
They were planning an evening of boy hunting.
'Oh, hey, Cindy,' Imogen said, 'what's for supper? Could you rustle up a pizza for us? We need to change and get going.'
'No,' Ursula said. 'I couldn't. If you want any rustling done, why not do it yourselves for a change? And by the way, my name is Ursula, not Cindy. And that goes from now on. OK?'
She left them to their shocked stares, returned to her room, and managed to retain her victory smile until she had closed her door.