TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

“For this blind date I am Margo,” said Molly, jettisoning a pair of laddered tights in favour of black lace topped stockings she had bought in Harvey Nichols for a small fortune. 

                  “Try not to ladder those,” said Cosima dryly, watching her sister tear open the packet with ragged nails and her usual impatience.  “Though, for the record, I’m against this sort of pretence.  The right man will love you for your faults.  No one loves perfection.  It’s nauseating.”  She dragged on her cigarette and felt the gentle creaking of Molly’s houseboat as a larger vessel motored by, causing the Thames to ripple into waves.  “You should do something about your nails, a woman’s hands say an awful lot about her, or are you going to admit you’re a sculptress?”

                  “I’m not ashamed of being a sculptress and I’m not ashamed of being me.  Once he’s fallen in love, I will drop the act.  I just don’t want to be the chaotic, scatty creature that seems to scare men away.   Men want refinement, elegance.  They want women who are groomed.  If it wasn’t so, I’d be happily married by now.”  She sighed and raised her dove grey eyes, so deep and dreamy they caused Cosima’s heart to stumble with affection. Why they didn’t stir the heart of a man, Cosima didn’t know.  “Look at you,” she continued.  “You’re polished like a Garrard diamond and have a gorgeous husband and children and a perfect life.  Perhaps I’m in the wrong city, but there’s no one out there with a Molly shaped space in their heart, only Margo shaped ones.”  Cosima chuckled, but underneath she felt pity for Molly who had always been different.  As if she walked a little out of step with the rest of society, or sung a little out of tune.  Their mother said it was because she was so creative that her mind was on higher, more spiritual things. Surely there was a man out there to whom those differences would be endearing.  A man who would laugh when she left her handbag in the back of a cab, who would roll his eyes fondly when she mis-spelt the simplest word, who would pay a housekeeper to tidy up after her and not mind when she filled the cupboards with wounded birds she rescued from the mud at low tide. 

                  “I’ll do your nails,” said Cosima, opening her Fendi bag and reaching for her manicure wallet.  “I’ll also do your hair, if you like.” Molly’s face brightened in surprise. Cosima shook her head and tapped her sister’s hand with a nail file.  “What sort of a sister would I be if I let you walk out with ragged nails and a bird’s nest on your head?  It takes more than Wolford stockings to shine like a Garrard diamond!”

When Molly stepped into the trendy bar in Mayfair, she caught sight of her reflection in the large gilt mirror that hung on the wall behind the reception desk.  She stared at the confident, urbane woman who stared back.  She did not recognise her.  Unlike Molly, Margo was the kind of woman one would not be surprised to see in such a place.  Cosima had pinned her corkscrew curls on top of her head and carefully made up her eyes with smoky brown shadows and mascara.  She was pleased with the result, not because she believed herself beautiful, but because she believed herself to be someone else.

She followed the waitress through the tables, trying to walk steadily on her heels, acutely aware of the lace at the top of her thighs that scratched slightly.  She was more accustomed to jeans than the short black dress she had saved up to buy at Browns.  Then the waitress turned and she found herself standing in front of a tall, sandy haired man who had just leapt to his feet to introduce himself.  “I’m Max,” he said, and his eyes did not waver from hers.  His handshake was firm, rather too firm, for she winced, and he apologised.  “I’ve done little more than shake hands with people all day,” he explained.  “It’s the London literary fair, you see.  I’ve lost all sense of my own strength.”  Molly didn’t care.  His eyes were the palest blue, like a tropical sea, his smile wide and boyish, his voice grainy like sand but most of all she noticed the lines on his skin.  They were deep and chiselled, around his mouth when he laughed and at the corners of his eyes, even when his face was in repose.  She wanted to run her fingers across them, but instead she sat down.  “You look beautiful,” he said, and he looked at her so intensely, she knew he meant it.  She settled into the seat and crossed her legs.  She felt light with joy and every bit as beautiful as he said.  For one night, at least, she had managed to leave Molly and her clutter at home.

After a drink in the bar Max asked Molly out for dinner at a small Italian restaurant around the corner.  The night was balmy, sugar scented.  There was a slight breeze that caused the leaves to rustle on the lime trees in the square and the sky was a pale, watery blue upon which wispy clouds floated, reflecting the pink of sunset.  The serenity of the evening served to enhance its romance and Molly found she had no trouble walking the short distance on her precariously high heels. 

Max asked her all about herself.  He seemed transfixed.  The more intensely he gazed into her eyes the more she felt the need to lie.  He was pleased with what he saw; she feared that if she let down her guard his interest would wane.  It had happened before.  So she chose her words carefully, delighting in her new persona.  It gave her confidence, being Margo. However, when she went to the powder room she noticed that there was a small ladder forming at the heel.  She swore under her breath and hoped that he wouldn’t notice.  She straightened up, smoothed down her dress and reapplied the lipstick that Cosima had lent her.  She was excited.  She had never met anyone like Max before.  She had never been desired by anyone like Max before, either.  She strode back out into the restaurant and as soon as she sat opposite him she forgot all about the ruined stocking.

It was past midnight when Max accompanied her home in a taxi.  They stood beneath the streetlamp on Cheyne Walk and he took her hand in his and shuffled awkwardly on the pavement.  “I’ve really enjoyed your company tonight,” he said, the smile causing the lines to deepen on his face.  “I’d like to see you again.”  She felt herself blush and lowered her eyes.  “Maybe we could cook up some spag on your houseboat.  I’ve always wondered what those boats are like inside.”  Molly was horrified at the thought of him seeing her messy, tiny home – the place Cosima always referred to as the hamster hutch.

                  “Oh, I think your house would be more appropriate,” she said, laughing nervously.  He turned away and cast his eyes over the Thames that now glimmered beneath a bright crescent moon.

                  “I’ve got builders at the moment,” he said, shaking his head.  “Let’s go out for a pizza.”

                  “A pizza,” she agreed with relief.  “A pizza would be great.”  Then he bent and kissed her burning cheek. 

                  “Actually,” he began.  He stared at her for a long moment, as if deliberating something important.  Then he ran a hand down her cheek and sighed resignedly.  “No matter.  I’ll call you tomorrow.”  Then he was gone.  Molly took off her shoes, rubbing her sore toes for a second before skipping down the pontoon to her house.

Cosima was having breakfast when the telephone rang.  The children were tucking into their cornflakes and Julian had left for work.  “Darling!” she exclaimed when she heard her sister’s breathless voice.  “How did it go?”

                  “Amazing!” Molly enthused.  “He’s gorgeous.  It worked. The hair, the nails the dress, the whole thing.  It worked.  He said I was beautiful, and he stared at me all evening.  I’m in love. So in love!”

                  “Did you really tell him you were called Margo?”

                  “Yes, but I’ll tell him the truth.”

                  “When?”

                  “I don’t know, sometime.  There’s no hurry.  I’ll make something up,” she said happily. 

                  “That’s what I’m worried about,” Cosima commented cynically.  Molly wasn’t capable of making something up.  “He’ll resent you for lying.”

                  “No he won’t.”  Molly’s voice dropped a tone.  “Don’t ruin it for me, Cosima.  I’ll sort it out.  For the moment, I’m enjoying myself.” 

Max called as he had promised he would.  Molly was in the bath beneath a rack of dripping clothes.  She lay back enjoying the cold drops that landed on her forehead as she chatted to Max as she would to an old friend.  They agreed to meet for a pizza the following week.  She would tell him her real name then.  It seemed absurd to continue the pretence now that they knew one another better and obviously enjoyed each other’s company.

But when they sat laughing over pizza she did not want to ruin it.  She was now ashamed that she had thought of it and contrary to what she had told Cosima, she hadn’t managed to come up with a good reason for lying.  She had borrowed a pair of brown suede trousers and jacket from Cosima.  She knew she looked chic.  Her manicure had lasted.  This time she let her hair down so that it cascaded over her shoulders in bouncing corkscrews.  She had washed it, removed the pieces of plaster that had stuck there, sprayed herself with expensive scent she had stolen from Cosima’s handbag.  Max complimented her and once again she felt his flattery singe her cheeks pink.   In the middle of dinner, however, his mobile telephone rang.  The ringing was shrill and intrusive. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for it in the breast pocket of his jacket.  When he heard the voice on the other end his face flushed and his eyes darted anxiously to Molly.  As he stood up the chair scraped noisily across the floor.  All she heard was the word ‘darling’ and then he had gone outside, where he paced up and down the pavement, scratching his head.  Molly felt her stomach plummet.  They had talked about many things, she thought they had just about covered everything, but on reflection he hadn’t told her anything about his personal life.  Nothing at all.

Max came back, sat down and poured himself a glass of wine. He looked flustered.  His hair had blown about on the wind and now stood up in tufts.  He was pale.  He suddenly looked tired.  “I’m so sorry.  Mother trouble,” he explained shiftily.  But Molly knew he was lying.  What son would call his mother ‘darling’?  Molly wanted to ask him if he was married, or recently divorced.  But he swiftly changed the subject and the moment was gone.

If it hadn’t been for the telephone call in the middle of dinner she would have melted with pleasure when he later kissed her on the wall that overlooked the Thames.  His touch was gentle, his mouth soft and sensual.  He was a good kisser, and Molly closed her eyes in an attempt to shut out the silent protests that cried out in her head.  She thought of coming clean about her name, the clothes, the make-up and showing him into her chaotic world.  Perhaps it would encourage him to come clean too, about the female voice on the other end of the telephone.  But his kiss was so delicious she didn’t want it to end.  She decided to live in the moment rather than face the uncertainty of the future.  It would resolve itself, she thought.

On parting she suggested they meet on the weekend, but he said he was busy working, so they made a date for the following week.  Molly forgot about the telephone call until their next meeting when something else fuelled her suspicions.  Max hired a boat, and they motored up the Thames with a picnic basket full of smoked salmon and champagne.  It was romantic and perfect in every way until Max opened his wallet to pay the skipper and Molly caught a glimpse of blonde hair and large blue eyes.  She felt the ground fall away beneath her and held onto the side of the boat until her knuckles turned white.  It was only when she was alone in her houseboat that she realised she had left her handbag on the boat.

“Cosima, there’s another woman,” she wailed to her sister.  “First the telephone call, then the photograph.  He won’t invite me back to his house, says there are builders, but now I’m not so sure.  He claims he’s working weekends.  I’m not stupid.  I can put two and two together, even if I’m too dyslexic to spell it!”  Cosima handed her sister a hanky, swept the clothes off the bed and sat beside her, gathering her into her heavily perfumed arms.

                  “There’s only one way to find out,” she said solemnly.

                  “I can’t ask him…”

                  “Follow him home.  At least you’ll find out if he’s lied about the builders.”

                  “I can’t be so devious!” Molly protested.

                  “Of course you can, sweetheart.  When a man like Max is at stake, you can commit murder.  If he hurts you, I’ll happily commit murder myself.  He seemed so perfect, the rat.”

                  “No one’s perfect.”  Molly began to sob.

                  “No one.  Not even me!  You know, I don’t shimmer like a Garrard diamond.  I just got lucky.  I found a man who didn’t mind whether I shimmered or not.  So shall you.  But next time, be yourself.  You’re adorable, even if you need a good ringing out like a soggy dishcloth!”  Molly began to laugh, but she felt desperate inside.

So, Molly resolved to get to the bottom of the mystery via the most devious means.  It wasn’t hard to find out his home address.  She simply telephoned the publishers he worked for and fooled his secretary into divulging the information she needed.  Cosima had agreed to drive her in her Mercedes.  They chose Saturday, for Max had claimed that he would be working.  It was raining.  One of those midsummer days where the rain is light but constant.  They sat in silence, Molly in a pair of old jeans she wore when she sculpted, and scuffed trainers, her hair drawn back into a ponytail.  She hadn’t bothered to wear mascara; it would only run, after all.  She bit her nails, scraping the varnish off with her teeth.  She appeared smaller, more fragile.  Cosima knew she would end up fighting the battle for her and had come prepared, with an extra-large tote she had bought at Tods.   

They arrived at the house.  It was a pretty blue cottage in a cobbled mews.  Cosima pulled up on the curb opposite and they sat in wait like a pair of thieves.  “I can see a woman’s paw prints already,” snarled Cosima, pointing up at the window boxes of red geraniums.  “Men don’t go to that sort of trouble unless they’re gay.”

                  “It’s a lovely house, isn’t it,” said Molly with a sigh. 

                  “I don’t think anyone’s in. It looks very quiet.  I’m going to go and peek through the window.”

                  “No, don’t!” Molly protested.

                  “Don’t be silly.  If he’s there, he won’t know who the hell I am, will he.  Just lay low.  Trust me.”

                  “No!”  Molly opened the door.  “If anyone’s going to look in there, it’s going to be me.”  She climbed out and stood in the rain.  She remained for a long while as the drizzle sprayed into her face.  She cursed herself for giving her heart away so easily.  She resolved never to give it away again, ever.  She’d be Molly and not strive to be someone else.  Perhaps she’d buy a dog.  A great big loyal hound. 

She walked slowly over to the window and peered inside.  The tears blurred her vision; she saw nothing but the rain.  Suddenly the door opened, and a woman’s voice called out.  “Can I help you?”  Molly caught her breath and turned.  In the doorway stood a woman with white hair, soft blue eyes and a kindly face.  “Are you all right, my dear?” she said, frowning in bewilderment.

                  “I..I..I’m..” Molly began but her voice faltered.  Then her eyes were drawn to a couple of people turning into the mews beneath a large black umbrella.  Their faces were hidden beneath it, but Molly recognised Max’s walk immediately.  She covered her mouth with her hand and bit her lip in horror.  In Max’s hand was the small, white hand of a little girl.  She skipped along beside him in an effort to keep up with his long strides.  When she saw the woman in the doorway, she let go and ran towards her. 

                  “Granny!” she cried happily, falling into her embrace.  “Daddy bought me a Barbie!” 

                  “Come inside, love,” said the grandmother, ushering the child in out of the rain.  The door closed and Max lifted the umbrella to see Molly standing awkwardly on the cobbles.  At first he didn’t recognise her with her hair scraped back and her eyes swollen with tears.

Before he could speak, Molly blurted with her usual impatience.  “I’m not Margo, I’m Molly.  I’m chaotic, untidy, and unfashionable.  I’m so dyslexic I can barely spell my own name.  I can’t wear tights because I ladder them. I’m vague, forgetful and I hate wearing make-up.  I’m here because I thought you had a wife.”  Max stood with his mouth agape in amazement.  Slowly he closed his umbrella and let it drop onto the cobbles.  He gathered her into his arms and kissed her wet mouth.

                  “I’m not married.  My wife left me and my seven-year-old daughter, Rosie, for an American banker she met on business in New York.  My mother helps out when she can.  I didn’t tell you because I thought it might scare you off.  I wanted to, but each time I tried, I bottled out.  I don’t care that you’re unfashionable and untidy and who needs to spell these days?  Besides, I can spell for you!”  He kissed her again.  Neither noticed the Mercedes quietly drive out into the road.  Finally, he pulled away and grinned, removing her sodden hair from the band and scrunching it in his fingers.                    “Let’s start again, shall we?” he said.

                  “I’d really like to,” she agreed with a sniff.  She took a deep breath.  “Hi, I’m Molly, it’s really nice to meet you.”

                  “Nice name, Molly,” he replied with a chuckle.  “I’m Max and it’s even nicer to meet you the second time.”