Free The Haunting of Harriet by Jennifer Button Page A

brought an excitement, an added frisson of danger that fed her addiction and exaggerated the glitz behind the dark exteriors of the nightclubs she frequented. She was hooked on being “naughty” and this war was the perfect excuse to indulge her bad behaviour. A car would call each night and whisk her away to her secret life.
    Harriet took to hiding on the corner of the landing, out of her mother’s view, watching for her to make her appearance. She was still a very beautiful woman and to see her in all her glory was like being at the cinema. Her long evening gown, a fox fur draped over wide, padded shoulders, sleek, cinnamon hair caught up in combs and braids and those long red talons flashing as she placed a black Sobranie in its holder. The click of the small silver lighter before its bright orange flame leapt up to meet it, catching the watcher in the spell that was Alice. Seeing those wonderful sculpted lips purse as they sucked hard and long; the practised tilt of the head before the thin coil was released from a perfect oval to begin its long journey around the elegant head, lingering for a moment before continuing on up to the top of the staircase, growing weaker as it climbed higher and higher. It was straight out of the movies. At the bottom of the stairs the cigarette was stubbed out. Long gloves were pulled on and with a final pout of reflective approval she was gone. As the front door closed Harriet would sneak into the temple, stand before her mother’s altar and mimic the sensuous action she had witnessed so many times. First she ran her tongue along her teeth to remove any trace of red then a quick flick at each corner of her mouth with the fourth finger of each hand to ensure a perfect finish. Next, ignoring her well chewed rather grubby nails, she would balance her pencil between her first and second fingers and adopting an affected pose would blow a kiss at her reflection, before sweeping onto the landing and beginning her descent to the ring of rapturous applause from her “audience”.
    Not that Harriet had ever seen a film. Her mother considered all picture palaces dirty flea-ridden places that decent people did not frequent. But as Harriet only ever viewed her mother from this unnatural distance she may as well have been made of celluloid. She observed her without the warmth of physical contact. She just watched, the image of her mother’s ritual etching itself into her memory. The brushing of the hair, the drenching of the spray from the fascinating array of bottles displayed on the dressing-table would stay with Harriet for the rest of her life, enabling her to recall the smell of her mother. Simply by closing her eyes, she could conjure up the exact sensation of silk or fur against her skin. Nobody ever saw her creep into her mother’s room and pull cinnamon threads from that ivory brush to hold against and compare with her own. Jabbing at her freckles with a loaded powder puff she watched them vanish beneath a thick layer of fine white dust. This caress by proxy was the closest she got to actually touching her mother. She never felt the warmth of her mother’s skin. She judged by appearance. In winter it was as cold and forbidding as alabaster and in the summer that pale golden sheen was far too exquisite to be touched, defiled by dirty fingermarks.
    Harriet dreamed of being beautiful. She too wanted to be sculpted out of polished marble. Her mother was precious, valuable; a rare object to be worshipped from afar or at least at arm’s length. She was like the Chinese vase on the hall table, beautiful, expensive but breakable. Where this creature disappeared to each night or at what time she staggered back was never questioned. George must have known about his wife’s escapades but her nocturnal shenanigans were of little interest to him. It suited both parties admirably for him to turn a blind eye. For her part, Harriet needed the love of her father. At night in her dreams he was strong