Free The Facts of Life by Patrick Gale

erotic charge in his mind after the frustrating, over-stimulated hours they spent there. When he parked outside Thomas’s house and leaned forward, cooling his forehead, on the steering wheel, the scent of leather and a lingering trace of vanilla entered his thoughts and turned his grief to bewildering lust.

7
    ‘You
what
?’
    Sally’s mother was crouched on the end of her bed, her toes separated with wads of cotton wool while she coated their nails with varnish.
    ‘Not “pink”,’ she would exclaim to anyone who commented. ‘It’s
cerise d’amour
.’
    ‘You what?’ she asked again.
    ‘You heard,’ Sally said.
    ‘He
never
!’
    ‘Well thanks a lot.’
    ‘He took his time, though, didn’t he?’
    ‘Not really.’
    Sally fiddled with the brass doorknob, which was loose. Struck by a terrible thought, her mother paused a moment, varnish-brush in mid-stroke.
    ‘He hasn’t put one in your oven, has he?’
    ‘What if he had? What difference would it make?’
    ‘He’d be marrying you for the wrong reasons, that’s what.’
    ‘Since when were you so romantic?’
    ‘Who mentioned romance? Marriage is hard enough when you start off on the
right
footing. You didn’t throw yourself at him, did you? Didn’t go cheapening yourself?’
    ‘Of course not,’ Sally lied. ‘He just asked me.’
    ‘And you said yes straight away? Well of course you did. Can’t go calling their bluff at your age. Christ Almighty! Married at last! Well come here and have a kiss.’
    Sally came forward and stooped to the bed. She expected the usual, cursory, don’t-spoil-my-hair peck and was surprised by a hug that was actually tender. Then her mother quickly retreated into more characteristic gruffness.
    ‘And now you’ve made me cry! Give me one of those hankies quick before I wreck my face.’
    Sally reached for a handkerchief from the pile of ironing her mother had left on the bedside chair. Her mother took it with muttered thanks and dabbed at her eyes, which had already been pink and watery from an over-zealous application of cold cream. Then, seeing to the last of her nail-painting, she said, ‘You were always such a
dry
little girl. You weren’t one for dolls or princesses. No ribbons in your hair. And you never cried.’
    ‘I must have done.’
    ‘Well not while
I
was around.’
    ‘I had you for an example.’
    ‘I always tried to look nice for you, you know?’
    ‘I used to think your nails
grew
that colour.’
    Sally joined her mother on the bed although still kept at a distance by her careful labour.
    ‘Was I a disappointment to you?’ she asked cautiously.
    ‘No. Not really.’ Her mother stopped to consider then continued her work.
    ‘Well,’ she said, casually hurtful, ‘if I’m honest, I wanted a boy. I knew I couldn’t have any more after you.’
    ‘You never said,’ Sally sighed.
    ‘Complications in the birth, they told me. You’d understand, of course. Back then we never thought to ask for details. Anyway –’ she finished her nails briskly and screwed brush back into bottle ‘– you were the best of both worlds; brave as a boy, cunning as a girl.’
    ‘Cunning?’
    ‘You got your way. You always did. I admired that.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘So. Is he going to come and ask your dad’s permission?’
    ‘Certainly not!’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I turned eighteen several years ago. I don’t need permission. Your blessing would be nice, though.’
    ‘Oh,’ her mother snorted. ‘That. Well, I wish you well, of course I do. Marriage is no joyride – especially if you’ve a will on you like you have. At least he’s young. That way he’ll respect you and you can get him well trained. Well don’t go looking all old-fashioned! If you want wine and roses, you stay single, you know that. Marriage is a kind of business proposal when you get down to it.’ She carefully stretched out her legs before her to give her handiwork a critical once-over.
    Sally looked about