About Rachel Hore

Rachel Hore worked in London publishing for many years before moving with her family to Norwich, where she taught publishing and creative writing at the University of East Anglia before becoming a full-time writer. Her latest novel, The Love Child, was a Sunday Times bestseller.

The story

Who Am I Now?

After her husband left for the office Mrs Trevor Whitfield waited in the lofty hall, listening as quietness settled over the house. Her felt hat lay fallen, and as she returned it to its hook she caught sight of her reflection in the hallstand mirror, the face so pale and startled, she hardly knew it to be hers. Grave blue-grey eyes, a straight little nose, a tender rosebud mouth like a child’s. With a swish of satin she moved closer. Who was this ghostly, unformed creature with its halo of fine brown hair? Perhaps if she stared long enough a truer, sharper image of Myra Whitfield would emerge. She couldn’t think what that might be like.

The mantelpiece clock tinkled a muffled half-hour from the drawing room and Myra snapped into life. Mrs Green would be here at any moment with her pink overall and her Marigolds and her latest opinions about Mr Profumo, and would cast Myra a disapproving frown if she wasn’t dressed. Then Myra needed to fly to the butcher’s to fetch chops for Trevor’s dinner before catching a bus into Norwich to meet Margie and Lulu at Jarrold’s for coffee at eleven.

What to wear? She padded upstairs as fast as her fluffy mules allowed. Her pale blue frock with the large white buttons always drew compliments. Yes, that was best for a mild June day.

In the end she arrived at Jarrold’s department store with three-quarters of an hour to spare. She paused briefly in the perfume hall to breathe the fragrant air before making her way to the cosmetics. Plenty of time to browse! But as she picked up lipsticks from their clean, bright stands she lost interest. Exotic Pink or Red Hot? Did it matter? When she replaced the capsules in their slots she accidently rattled the stand and they toppled like skittles.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ a pretty sales girl said, deftly catching a rolling Red Hot. ‘If you buy two there’s sixpence off foundation in the same range.’ The girl’s painted complexion was porcelain perfect, her scarlet lips as luscious as ripe strawberries. Not like a real person’s at all.

What is she hiding?, Myra wondered, but did not ask. Instead she murmured, ‘Thank you, I’m only looking today.’ She turned away, and her eyes raked a display of jewel-coloured handbags. No, she had a cupboardful at home already. A summer dress, then, for the Higsons’ garden party. Trevor had said she could have something new. She beetled off towards the escalator.

Coasting up to Ladies’ Fashions she surveyed the displays spread out below and the tops of people’s heads. Usually this gave her a powerful soaring feeling, but it didn’t today. What was wrong with her? Not the time of the month, that had been and gone she remembered with a now familiar little pang. No sign of a baby yet. She didn’t yearn for one, but it seemed to be expected of her and she’d like to know that she could for when the right moment came.
.
Trevor wasn’t worried. ‘There’s plenty of time,’ he soothed. Sometimes she wondered if he was secretly relieved and liked the routines of their newly married life, too much to change.

She stepped off the top of the escalator, steadied herself and stared round, before plunging off hungrily down an avenue of flouncy dresses. Polka dots, narrow stripes, dainty sprigged patterns assailed her from both sides. She stopped eagerly to part hangers and examine necklines, rubbed starched poplin between her fingers, gathered one frock then a whole swathe, and swept off to the fitting room where a matronly assistant showed her to a booth.

A swish of curtains and she was left alone with bright lights and a long looking glass. Quickly she donned dresses, twisted to catch her reflection from all angles, shed them and cast them aside, Her sighs grew heavier. Large polka dots overwhelmed her small face, the striped frock pinched at the waist, a white dress with navy piping sagged at the bust. The assistant came to scrutinize.

‘You’ve a lovely figure, madam, I’m sure a stitch or two at the shoulder would make a difference.’

Myra stared at herself in dismay. I look like a wedding cake with my face poking out of the top. ‘It doesn’t suit me,’ she murmured ‘Nothing suits today.’ Suddenly she didn’t want a new dress, didn’t need one, not really.

‘Never mind, madam.’ The assistant smiled. ‘I have days like that myself.’

She caught the woman’s warmth and thanked her as she withdrew, then stepped into her own pale blue frock again, still warm with the shape of her. And glanced at the tiny silver watch that Trevor had given her as a wedding present. ‘Oh, Lor’,’ Myra said and she fumbled at her buttons. It was already eleven o’clock.

She arrived at the café flustered and breathless. Lulu and Margie were already seated, with steaming cups of milky coffee before them and a plate of iced cakes. They didn’t see her at first, and the way they leaned into each other, whispering, told her they were gossiping. They were great gossipers, these wives of Trevor’s friends. Perhaps, she thought wildly, they were talking about her, but the way their expressions cleared as she approached, made her realize she was wrong. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped and gave her most apologetic smile. ‘I was trying on frocks.’ A waitress appeared and she ordered a pot of tea.

‘We could do that later, couldn’t we, Margie?’ Lulu said. ‘Look at dresses, I mean.’

‘Maybe. I’m under strict instructions not to buy anything.’ Margie made a moue and twirled a blonde curl. She and Roger were saving up to move house. The others knew all about it, a large, detached place with a long garden off the Newmarket Road. Trevor was envious, but said that Roger being in sales must be making a mint from commission.

‘Looking’s all right, Margie,’ Lulu persisted. ‘And trying on. Anyway, I’ll need a whole new wardrobe soon.’ she patted her flat stomach and gave a bashful grin.

‘Lu, you’re not!’ Margie squealed.

‘I am! Due in February. We told Stephen’s parents last night. Mummy’s known for ages, of course.’ She bit into an iced cake. ‘I’m hungry all the time,’ she mumbled through her mouthful.

‘I was, with Mikey,’ Margie said. ‘After I stopped feeling sick.’ Margie had a little boy of two, but Roger’s mother had him on Tuesdays. ‘Marmite. That was my craving. I hate it usually.’

‘Eating for two,’ Myra said, a little wistfully. She eyed the cakes speculatively, but remembered the too-tight dress and thought she’d better not.

The waitress brought Myra’s tea and Myra poured it.

Lulu shifted her chair away. ‘Tea tastes awful now. Even the smell,’ she wailed.

‘I couldn’t drink coffee either,’ Margie echoed happily. ‘Or wine.’ The pair fell into a discussion about foodstuffs that they couldn’t and couldn’t eat whilst expecting. Myra tuned out as she sipped her tea. Was this how it was to be from now on, endless chatter about breastfeeding and painting nurseries while she sat mute? Worse, would she do it, too, if she started a baby?

‘What about a peek at their maternity wear?’ Margie suggested after they’d paid the bill. ‘I’d lend you some of my dresses, of course, Lu, but you’re awfully tall.’

Myra stood up, clutching her handbag. ‘I must dash,’ she said, unable to face trotting round after them. ‘Trevor needs some more shirts, you know and then… well…’

‘Oh, goodbye, dear,’ Margie said, looking surprised.

‘We’ll meet here next Tuesday, shall we?’ Lulu added politely.

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Myra said.

As she left the café she glanced back to see that they were deep in conversation again. She was forgotten. Feeling invisible and purposeless, she wandered over to the lift. The door slid open and she stepped inside.

‘Which floor, miss?’ a man’s voice prompted.

‘I –‘ she started. ‘The ground.’ Trevor didn’t need any shirts and there was nowhere else she wanted to go today.

But when the lift released her and and she set off towards the exit, her attention was caught by a sign that read Newly Published and she swerved towards it. Soon she was walking between tables stacked with beautiful books, breathed the pungent scent of paper. She stopped by one display, drawn to the bright colours. There was one book in particular that attracted her. A cluster of white roses blossomed on the jacket. She picked it up, opened it at random and read: ‘It was a strange stirring, a sense of dissatisfaction, a yearning that women suffered… Each suburban wife struggled with it alone… Is this all?’ Myra turned the pages, feverishly and her troubled feeling grew. She remembered examining her reflection that morning and wondering who she was, then glanced at the title, The Feminine Mystique. How beguiling.

Now she understood. This book was what she needed. Not lipsticks or new frocks. She looked about, nervously, in case someone she knew had seen her, but met only the warm, intelligent eyes of the young woman behind the counter. ‘That’s the book of the moment,’ the woman said with a serious smile. ‘Have you heard about it?’

Myra shook her head. ‘I’ll take it, though,’ she said firmly.

RACHEL HORE