Lydia
Lydia
Lydia walked toward Mandel Community Center, thinking that it looked even more run-down and neglected than it had before Christmas, as if it had already given up the will to survive. Unlike Lydia herself, who was wearing a midnight-blue 1960s Christian Dior jacket, which cinched at her waist and flared out over her hips, along with a double strand of pearls, so lush and luminous that they’d almost have looked real, if they hadn’t been so huge.
“You drown yourself in all these tent-like clothes,” Daphne had told her. “Like you’re hiding from the world. You should emphasize those marvelous curves! Isn’t it funny that we never appreciate how attractive we are until we look at photos of ourselves in five years’ time? Believe me, from where I’m sitting, you’re a complete knockout. Now, let’s try Dior. He was a master of the fuller silhouette. Fashion isn’t frivolous, my dear. It’s armor . Dressed in Dior, you can take on the world. See?”
And Daphne had turned Lydia to face the full-length mirror. The woman who had stared back at her was a different Lydia—confident, successful, attractive. Wearing Daphne’s clothes made her walk differently, talk differently, feel differently. She might not stop traffic, but she at least looked like the sort of person who’d never be mowed down on a pedestrian crossing by a yellow Fiat Uno.
Then Daphne had added, “We just need to do something about that ghastly hair,” which had ruined the moment a little.
Despite Lydia’s protests, Daphne had insisted she took the pearls and four or five outfits home with her. “They deserve more outings than I can possibly give them, even in the most optimistic of scenarios,” she’d said.
When Lydia had appeared at the breakfast table this morning, Jeremy had choked on his croissant.
“Is that new?” he’d said.
“No. Very old,” she’d replied. Which was the truth.
“You should wear it more often,” he’d said, before returning to his newspaper. Even Jeremy’s compliments came in the form of instructions, Lydia realized. Nevertheless, it was the first compliment Jeremy had paid her for as long as she could remember, and she’d waited to feel the thrill of that, only to find that she didn’t care. Well, not much, in any case.
Lydia frowned. Why was there a crowd outside the hall? There must have been around thirty people, many of whom were holding phones aloft, crowded around the statue of the benefactor with the prolific cocaine habit.
Lydia pushed her way through the melee. It was easier to do that when one wore Dior, she found. And to use words like “melee.” And to cope with sitting across the table from your philandering louse of a spouse without plunging the butter knife into his carotid artery. Good grief, was wearing Daphne’s old clothes actually turning her into Daphne?
The sight in front of her made her laugh out loud. The pompous brass figure of the disgraced businessman on the plinth was sporting a fabulous pair of large and perky pink knitted breasts with prominent knitted nipples, a flouncy, flowery knitted skirt, and flowing knitted blond tresses. And he—or she?—was holding a placard reading Save Mandel Community Center for the Community!
A florid, cross-looking man pushed through the throng beside her. He was carrying a huge pair of scissors.
“Move out of the way!” he shouted. “Clear the area!”
He grabbed the knitted skirt in one hand and opened the scissors with the other.
“STOP RIGHT THERE, EDWARD FUCKING SCISSORHANDS!” came a shout. Daphne. Obviously. She was brandishing her walking stick above the heads of the crowd like a sword.
“This needs removing,” said the man, as the crowd began to protest. “It’s disrespectful.”
“This is CREATIVITY! YOU UTTER PHILISTINE!” said Daphne. “It’s the work of the infamous Hammersmith Banksy of yarn bombing. Yarnsy, if you like. Do you want to be the official who’s all over the internet for destroying a unique work of art?!?”
Daphne gestured at all the phones surrounding them, trained on the altercation.
“Argh!” said the man, closing his scissors, turning on his heel and beating a retreat, jacket pulled up around his head to avoid the cameras.
The crowd cheered. Lydia wiped a tear from her eye. The good kind of tear, this time. It was a miracle she had any tears left. She’d cried so many buckets recently that surely she must have lost weight?
“You were wonderful, Daphne,” she said as she unlocked the hall. But Daphne didn’t look buoyed with success. She looked troubled, playing nervously with the emerald bracelet around her delicate wrist. Seeing Daphne disconcerted was hugely disconcerting.
“What’s the matter?” asked Lydia.
“Do you think there’s any chance that video footage of me won’t end up on the internet?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not,” said Lydia. “Did you see how many people were filming? You might even go viral. I know how you feel, though. Ever since I hit fifty, I’ve hated seeing myself on film.”
“If only it were that simple,” murmured Daphne. Lydia wasn’t sure if Daphne was talking to her, or to herself. “Time is running out.”
“Hey, you’re the youngest seventy-year-old I’ve ever met! You have oodles of time left!” said Lydia. But Daphne just looked at her blankly, as if she’d been speaking in a totally different language.
“CLEAR THE PAVEMENT! SAVE OUR COMMUNITY CENTER!” came the recorded voice from Anna’s loudspeaker outside. Followed shortly afterward by Anna herself, hair dyed a neon pink, and Ruby. Ruby looked a little tired, as if she’d had a busy night.
“Did you see the wonderful statue outside, ladies?” said Lydia.
“Yes! Isn’t it amazing?” said Anna.
“They’re calling the mystery yarn bomber Yarnsy, you know,” said Lydia.
“Are they?” said Ruby, with a little smile. “I rather like that.” She sat down and, as always, took her needles and wool out of her bag. The exact same shade as the naked, knitted breasts adorning the statue outside.
“I wonder who he, or she, could be?” said Lydia, staring at Ruby, who was staring at her knitting.
“I expect they want to remain incognito,” said Ruby. “It’s all about the mystique, isn’t it?”
“Happy New Year, everyone!” said William, walking into the room with a woman who looked younger than Lydia. “This is Amy.”
“You’re much more youthful than our regular membership,” said Anna.
“Either that or she has a miraculous skin-care regime. Do give me your secret,” said Ruby.
“I’ll have whatever she’s having!” said Anna, with a cackle.
“Leave the poor girl alone,” said Daphne. “Amy is William’s daughter-in-law. I invited her.”
“Hi,” said Amy, with a meek, cautious little wave, reminding Lydia of how terrifying she’d found all her social club members when she’d first met them. How terrifying she still found them, actually. Despite having read You Are a Badass: How to Stop Doubting Your Greatness and Start Living an Awesome Life . Twice.
“I’m sure Lydia has a thrilling, age-appropriate activity planned, like basket weaving or needlepoint, but Amy is a hairstylist, and has very kindly offered to create a salon for us all, right here. And she’s starting with Lydia,” said Daphne. “It’s a new year, new you session.”
“I’m doing the washing and cutting,” said Amy, “and my two daughters are coming to do color and blow-dries.”
“I’m really sorry, but I don’t think my entertainment budget will stretch to all that,” said Lydia.
“I’m paying, Lydia,” said Daphne. “And Amy’s very kindly agreed to give us a hefty discount. Don’t argue. It’s my money. At least, I earned it, in a manner of speaking, and I’ll spend it how I like.”
Before she could open her mouth, Lydia was thrust into a chair and draped in a gown while three women washed, colored, cut, and blow-dried her hair. From time to time one of her seniors would stand in front of her and go “oooh” or “aahhh.” She had no mirror, so was entirely unsure what was going on with her head, but the amount of hair gathering in piles on the floor was a little worrying. This was definitely not the “light trim” she usually asked for.
“How did your husbands die, if you don’t mind me asking?” said Daphne to Anna, who was sitting next to Lydia having her pink hair blow-dried.
“The first ate poisonous mushrooms on toast, silly man,” said Anna, pointing at the first of the tattooed, crossed-out names on her underarm. She then progressed down the list, pointing at each name in turn. “The second had a terrible allergy to bees and managed to disturb a hive when he was in our attic laying down some insulation. Number three fell overboard from a cruise liner. Drunk, obviously. Number four was a trucker, like me, and his brakes failed on the M62. And number five went missing. They found a neatly folded pile of his clothes on Bournemouth Beach, but his body was never recovered.”
“Gosh. What a very unusual collection of accidental deaths,” said Daphne. “Did they have life insurance, by any chance?”
“What are you trying to say, Daphne?” said Anna.
“Nothing,” lied Daphne. “Just how terribly unfortunate for you. More so for them, obviously.”
Finally, Amy pronounced Lydia finished.
“Wait!” said William, as he tied his scarf over her eyes.
“Don’t mess up the blow-dry, William!” said Amy.
They led her, blindfolded, into the entrance hall and placed her in front of the large, floor-length mirror on the wall, then all gathered around her before William removed his scarf.
“Ta-da!” he said.
The woman standing in front of Lydia, in the beautifully cut jacket and pearls, had her mouth wide open in shock. She looked like Lydia, but several years younger, far more confident, and…yes, just a little sexy. She had light-brown hair, highlighted with silvery-blond streaks, cut in a choppy bob that framed her face, gave her actual cheekbones for the first time in years, and accentuated her green eyes.
The woman in the mirror started to cry. Again.
“Aahh. I think she likes it,” said Ruby, whose head was covered in pieces of tinfoil, clapping her hands together. Anna had persuaded her to add some blue streaks to her black-and-silver hair.
“For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together,” said Daphne. “Women in Dior never cry in public. Or at all. The only emotion they show is disdain, with a touch of boredom.”
“Excuse me,” boomed a man in a suit, who they hadn’t even noticed come in. “I’m from the council planning department. You must be the architect from the developer’s.” He was looking right at Lydia.
“No,” she said. “I’m afraid not. The office asked me to tell you she’s had to cancel. So sorry. I’m sure she’ll contact you to refix.”
The man turned on his heel and left, cursing under his breath. Lydia was rather thrilled with her quick thinking, but even more by the fact that she’d been mistaken for an architect.
“Nice improvisation, Lydia,” said William. “Art would be impressed.”
“It sounds like they’re not hanging around for the official vote at the end of the month,” said Ruby. “They’re drawing up plans already. It’s obviously a foregone conclusion.”
Everyone fell silent.
“Where is Art, anyway?” said Lydia, keen to change the subject that had dampened everyone’s high spirits. “I’ve not been able to get hold of him. Is he away?”
“No, he’s very much not away,” said William. “He’s holed himself up in his house and won’t come out. He does that whenever he can’t deal with life. It took me nearly a month to prize him out the last time this happened.”
“I’ll try calling him,” said Daphne. “I was planning to hand Margar—Maggie over to him today.” She gestured at the dog, who was looking rather pleased with herself after her shampoo and blow-dry.
Daphne took out her phone and pulled up her contacts. Everyone watched as she listened to the ringing tone.
“Hello,” she said, after three or four rings. “You’re not Art.”
There was a long pause, before she said, “Oh, I see. Yes, I’m his wife. The silly man’s obviously forgotten to take his meds again. Which supermarket? OK, I’ll be right there.”
“What’s happened?” said Lydia.
“Art’s in a spot of bother,” said Daphne, pulling her coat from the hook. “But nothing we can’t fix.”
“I’ll come with you,” said William.
“No, you stay here, William. I know what part he’s playing, and luckily I’m a better actor than he is,” said Daphne, as she pushed open the door to the street, nearly knocking over a woman who looked very much like an architect who’d been stood up by the council planning department.