A Face Without a Past

A Face With a Story

Mum, you do understand, right? Its just the office. The people there are serious, businesslike. You cant just show up in that.

In what, Claire? In what, exactly?

Helen stood in the hall before the mirror, buttoning up her dark navy coat. Just a regular coat, nothing fancy. She bought it three years ago in Marks & Spencer; it still fit perfectly. Claire watched her from the doorway, twiddling the strap of her bag. Her long nails had a flawless manicure. The stylish haircut had cost, Helen knew, as much as she would spend on groceries in a fortnight.

In that coat, with that face. Mum, you know Ian Howard will be therehes the managing director at Luminance Beauty Group. This isnt just anyone.

I know. And what about my face?

Claire closed her eyes for a moment. That was the unbearable partnot that her mother didnt understand, but that she did, completely, and still asked.

Mum. You look She tried to soften it. Natural. All the women there are very polished. Its just a different standard.

Polished means Botox, does it?

Not necessarily Botox. Just

Just no wrinkles. Thats what you mean.

Helen turned to look at her daughter. Calmly, not hurt, just a hint of curiosity, which somehow stung more. Claires mouth opened and closed.

I didnt mean

Im just dropping off documents. Im not turning up for a beauty pageant. You said yourselves the courier let you down, and the meeting will fall apart without those papers. I can always leave them with reception if its easier.

No, Claire sighed. No, thats notJust fine. Lets go.

They stepped out onto the street. April couldnt make up its mind this year: sunshine in the morning made you want to shed your coat, only for the clouds and a biting wind from the Thames to swoop in by lunch. Helen walked tall, coat fastened all the way up, not one hint of a slouch. Shed never slouched. Claire remembered how, as a child, her mum would stand her against the wall and say, Stand up straightyoure not an old lady yet. Now, Claire checked her own posture, while her mum simply walked, the way she always had.

The tube was a five-minute walk. They kept silent. Helen glanced at the houses, the pigeons, the puddle at the kerb that passers-by skirted. Claires thoughts raced ahead to the meetingwould Ian Howard be in a decent mood? The documents were needed yesterday. Kat, their logistics manager, would get an earful. Then, she noticed that she was thinking about her mums wrinkles, and felt something awkward about herself. She pushed that aside.

The Luminance Beauty Group office occupied two floors in a business centre on Great Portland Street. A glass façade, a concierge in a logoed waistcoat, automated passes. Helen hadnt seen anything like it before. This was the first time in three years that Claire had brought her there. Not because she was hidingjust no real reason before. They always met at home, or sometimes at a café near Helens flat on Chiswick High Road. Somewhere familiar and low-key.

Here, Claire swiped her pass, stay close.

Helen did just that, looking around. The lobby was pale grey, with a glass vase of white orchids on the desk. Behind it, a young woman looked up and gave Claire a trained, professional smilethe sort you see on everyone in these buildings. Helen took it in quickly; Claire was already heading for the lift.

Sixth floor.

There was a mirror in the lift. Helen caught her reflection and Claires beside her. Claire stared at her phone. Her face was flawless, as though every excess line had been erasedtidy, lovely. Helen thought her own face was alright, too: a fan of lines at the eyes, deepening creases at her mouth, brow less smooth than in her forties. Shed lived every wrinkle.

That one between her brows emerged when her father died. She didnt cry thenjust frowned. They say if you frown long enough, it leaves a mark. It did. The one at her right mouth cornerfrom laughter, proper laughter, the kind you count as fortune. Crows feet, honest proof: squinting at the sun, looking at things with delight, searching for something further off.

The lift stopped. Claire put away her phone.

Mum, please. Just hand over the folder and thats it, alright? Ill walk you out afterwards.

Dont fuss about me. Go do your work.

The sixth floor opened up into a bright, open-plan space. White desks, people at laptops. Posters from ad campaigns on the wallsHelen recognised some faces. Not the actual people, but those same faces selling her creams on TV. Close up they seemed unreal: too perfect, like a single person in fifty mirrors from different angles.

Claire! called someone. A woman in a business suit came striding over. Did the documents arrive? Ians been waiting.

Yesmy mum brought them, and Claire hesitated ever so slightly on mum; Helen caught it. This is Julia, my manager.

Nice to meet you, said Helen, offering her hand. Helen Roberts.

Pleasure, Julia shook her hand before turning to Claire. Folder, please. Ill take it straight inno time to lose.

Wait, Juliathis one has extra materials. I need to explain whats in which section.

Julia sighed, checked her watch, and relented. Alright. Come on, then. Mrs Roberts, if youd like to sit by the window, just over there. Wont be long.

Helen sank into a low grey sofa. Claire disappeared with Julia into the office. Helen was left alone, except for all the people, each fixed on their screens.

She removed her coat and laid it across her knees. From her bag, she took a small thermos. She always brought her own coffee for long outingsa habit from her council office days. Twenty years in the local records office had taught her not to count on someone elses coffee. She poured a cupful into the lid and took a sip. Good coffee. Brewed at home, proper grounds, with a pinch of cardamom.

Nearby, something dropped. Helen looked upa man in his thirties, glasses, stooped over to rescue his phone.

All right? Helen asked.

Yes, thanks. He smiled. Are you here on business?

My daughter works here. Im just dropping off some papers.

Got it. Coffee? He nodded at her thermos.

Yes. Homemade. With cardamom. Fancy trying?

He laughed, surprised by the offer. No, no thanks. Ive already had three from the machine. Im starting to shake.

That wont do you any good.

He nodded. I know. Deadline, you see.

Helen knew that word. Claire had explained it about three years back.

The corridor at the end of the office was divided by a glass wallbehind it, meeting rooms. A small group emerged, four of them, chatting as they walked. At the front, a tall man in a pale jacket, greying hair, upright posture. He was talking to the woman beside him, who nodded and wrote things down.

Helen didnt recognise him straight away; it took a moment for memory to click into place. The walkthat was it. She remembered that walk, even though more than thirty-five years had passed. He always walked that way: shoulders back, confident but without that show-off swagger. Ian Howard, from the year above at school. Ian Howard, who in sixth form was always being sent out of chemistry for thinking out loud instead of just writing formulas.

She didnt pretend she hadnt noticed himdidnt hide behind her thermos or bury herself in her phone. She just sat, waiting. Maybe hed spot her, maybe not. Equally possible.

He saw her. Stopped mid-sentence. The woman with him took a few more steps and looked back inquiringly.

One sec, Angela, he said. And walked over to the sofa.

Helen set her thermos on the table.

Helen? he said. Not a question, more a statement. Certain, but he said it aloud to be sure.

Ian Howard, she replied. Upper Sixth Form.

He laughed, short and genuine.

Upper Sixth. Thirty-six years.

Thirty-seven. The reunion was last year.

I missed it.

Most people did.

He gazed at her, and only after a moment did Helen spot what was unusual. The look on his face wasnt the usual professional once-over shed come to expect from people like him. None of that instant assessment shed long since learned to detect. He looked simply, pleasedeven, as if he was seeing something hed long hoped to see.

How did you end up here? he asked.

My daughter works here. Claire Thomas, marketing.

Thomas he knitted his brows, then nodded. I know. Shes good. You brought the paperwork?

The courier bailed. I live closerit was easier to sort it myself.

Well done, he said matter-of-factly, not patronising. Helen, you you look great. No, actually, you look he paused for words. Do you remember Mrs Baker, our English teacher, used to say some people have a face with a story? Thats what you look like.

Helen smiled. Mrs Bakeryes, she remembered her well.

She said that about Dickens characters.

And about you. After you wrote that essay on Elizabeth Bennet. Do you remember? You wrote that Lizzie got more beautiful as she aged, because her face showed depth and honesty. Mrs Baker read it aloud to the class.

Id forgotten.

I havent.

From somewhere deep in the office, Claire appeared, walking briskly with the folder, staring at the floor at first. Then she lifted her gaze, saw her mother and Ian Howard talkingnot the chit-chat of a director and an outsider, but like people with history.

Claire walked over, her pace slowing.

Ian, heres the folder. Everythings in ordertabs on each section.

Perfect, he took the folder without looking. Claire, did you know your mum wrote the best essays at school?

Claire blinked.

NoI didnt.

We were at school together, in parallel classes. Ian turned to Helen. Are you in a rush? Angela, can you move my next appointment by an hour, please? Ill be out for lunch.

Angela nodded, someone well-used to rescheduling meetings.

Ian, dont you have work?

It can wait. Theres a decent café downstairsalthough judging by your coffee, Helen, you could give them pointers.

Homemade. With cardamom.

Always liked cardamom, he grinned at Claire. Come down too, if youve got time. Half an hour wont change anything.

Claire hesitated, looking at her mother, at her coat, the thermos, the lines at her mothers eyes now arranged in a calm, slightly surprised smile. And at Ian Howard, looking at her mum in a way shed never seen men look at womenexcept maybe in old films: with real interest, no judgement, no sizing up, the kind Claire herself was so used to she no longer noticed.

I can spare twenty minutes, Claire said. Ill let Julia know.

The café on the ground floor was small and unexpectedly cosy for a business centre. Three little tables by the window, bar counter, aroma of warm pastries. They ordered coffeeHelen just wanted black, no syrups. Ian asked for the same. Clairesomething long and milky with vanilla, as she always did.

They sat in a comfortable pause, the sort you keep with people you dont need to fill time with.

Soyou worked in records all your life? Ian asked.

Twenty-two years. Then I took early retirement. They offered, I thought about it and took it.

Regrets?

No. Ive got time now. For books, theatre, and my garden on the allotment.

Serious gardening, really?

Whats funny about that?

Nothing, he fiddled with his cup. I just cant imagine having time for an allotment. Think itd be nice, though.

It really is, Helen nodded. When youre digging beds, you stop overthinking. Just dig.

Claire sat back, observing. It felt odd. At work, Ian Howard was always the composed, sharp MD in his perfect jacket. At home, her mother was mum. Mum with cardamom coffee and gardening, with her rules about natural materials and retorts to awkward questions. Two separate worlds, never meant to meet. Now, here they were, chatting about gardens, and it felt normal.

Mum, you never mentioned being at the same school, Claire said.

You never asked.

But you knew where I worked.

I did. But its his office, not my business to turn up. So I never did.

Shame, said Ian. I would have enjoyed it.

Helen looked at him. Ian, you always did know how to say the right thing.

Its not flattery. Its true. He kept his tone steady. You know, Helen, Ive been in the beauty industry for twenty years. Thousands of faceson adverts, billboards, clients at events. What sticks are the faces with something inside them. Not the ones without lines, not after all those treatments. Faces where you can see a persons liveda face with a story.

Claire didnt look at him. She stared into her vanilla latte, feeling something unpleasant below her ribsnot pain, but a slow ache of realising youve been wrong but cant admit it yet.

Beauty industry doesnt encourage that kind of thinking, Helen observed. Other standards.

I know. I helped set those standards. He paused. Doesnt mean I believe in them.

Then why?

Its a business. He shrugged, not apologetic, not guiltyjust matter-of-fact. People want to buy hope. I sell good products. Thats more honest than most.

Helen nodded, Fair enough.

Claire glanced from her mother to Ian, suddenly seeing them differently than half an hour ago. Ian Howard was always her professional lodestonealoof, results-focused. Her mother was a conundrumnever fitting in, always asking awkward questions, living by her own rules, which Claire thought shed outgrown. Now here they were, talking about gardens and business, understanding each other without explanation. There was something between them that wasnt about agea rootedness, a knowledge of who you are without needing to prove it every morning.

Claire, said Ian, did you know your mum was the sharpest girl in our year?

Not the sharpest, Helen corrected.

Absolutely the sharpest. But you never showed off. You waited until everyone else answered and then, quietly, just pointed out what was missing. Usually, you were right.

How do you remember that?

Because I was always the first to blurt out an answer, he laughed. And you gently corrected me. I remember, because it stung. Then it got interesting.

Helen chuckled gently. Claire watched her mother and realised she hadnt seen that lightness for yearsnot that her mother had been unhappy, just that she hadnt witnessed her so simply at ease. Maybe it was her own fault for not allowing it.

I should get back, Claire said, standing, sling bag in hand. Mum, you alright?

Im fine. Take your time. Give me a ring after.

She pressed the lift button, checked her phone, and started to type to her friend Sophie, You wont believe whats going on here, but deleted it. Too personal.

The lift doors closed. Back on the sixth floor, Claire passed the sofa where her mother had sat not long before. On the table, the thermos cap remained.

Julia called to her from the desks.

All sorted? Ian Howard got the papers?

He did.

Good. What did he say?

Said its all in order.

Excellent. Julia was already leaving. By the way, how does Ian Howard know your mum? Saw them go out together.

They were classmates, sort ofdifferent years.

Julia raised an eyebrow.

Really? Did he say anything?

About?

Well, did he mention her?

Claire saw Julias lookthe slightly gossipy interest that signals office talk.

They just had coffee. Not seen each other for thirty-seven years.

Julia nodded with a well see sort of look, then bustled away. Claire sank into her chair, facing numbers on a screen she should have finished yesterday. In the windows reflection, young trees by the street were starting to go green.

She thought about what shed said that morning at the mirror: You look natural. How it soundedunlike a compliment, more like a criticism. As if natural was something to hide.

Three years at Luminance Beauty Group had taught Claire its lingo: transformation, a better you, the idea that modern women neednt accept what they see in the mirror if they dont like it. Beautiful language. PersuasiveClaire believed in the quality they sold. Good products, honestly made.

But now she was wondering. A better version of yourself always seemed to mean a younger versionsmoother, unmarked, untouched by life. Yet Ian, who wrote the slogans, insisted it was faces with stories that you remember.

She opened her phone: an old photo of her mother, last summer on the allotment, cup in hand, sunlight catching her face at a gentle slant. Every line visible. And a face so alive that sitting a metre away at her desk, Claire felt a lump in her throat.

She didnt analyse it; she just closed the photo and opened her spreadsheet.

Down in the café, Helen and Ian had a second coffee.

So, how are you anyway? he asked. Married?

No. Divorced ages agotwenty years, actually.

Tough?

On and off. Hard at first, then alright, then good. The usual.

Me toogot divorced about eight years back, he admitted. Kids?

Just Claire. You?

Twomy sons up in Manchester, my daughters still here in London, married but no grandchildrenyet. He smiled, so far.

Looking forward to grandkids?

Not sure how to answer that. Say yes, it feels like pressure; say no, its a lie.

Honest answer.

I try. He met her eyes, Helen, can I ask you something personal? You wont mind?

Try me.

Why didnt you put yourself back out there after the divorce? Didnt you ever feel lonely?

Helen paused to really consider.

I didfor the first few years. Then you get used to it. Then so used to it you dont even notice, and one day it hits you that being alone and being lonely are two different things. I actually like my life.

And I can tell. Youre not saying it to convince meor yourself. Youre just being honest.

Helen looked out the window. People hurried past outside, some on phones, some with bags, others simply looking ahead.

Ian, would you say youre happy?

He didnt answer straight awaywhich was a good sign. People who answer that instantly dont think much about it.

Mostly, he said at last. Works good, my kids are healthy, Im alright. But yes, theres something missingI cant always put my finger on what.

Thats an honest answer.

You say that like honestys rare.

It is, Helen replied. Especially in certain boardrooms.

He glanced at her and they shared a silence that was comfortable, almost preferable to talking.

Helen, can I have your number?

What for?

So I can ring you.

And what would you do with it?

Because I enjoy talking to you and, if Im honest, he gave a half-smile, I could do with someone around whos not afraid to set me straightnicely.

Helen produced her phonea sturdy old Nokia, but reliable.

Give me yoursIll ring it now; youll have mine.

She keyed in the number. Ians mobile buzzed.

There you go. Its done.

Great. Ill call you.

Fine.

They finished their coffees. Ian checked his watch, sighed.

Angelas probably getting anxious.

Go ondont let the company falter on my account.

No regrets then, that you came?

Helen pulled on her coat. I didnt comeyou brought me.

Either way.

No regrets, she said simply.

He got up, and they left. At the lifts, he stopped.

Helen.

Yes?

You know, youre beautiful. I know everyone says thatbut I mean something else. He paused, searching for the right words. Youre beautiful in the way thatwell, things that age as theyre meant to are beautiful. An old tree, a piece of good china, an old city street. Theres something in them you never find in the new.

Helen looked at him. Im not china, Ian.

He laughed. Noyoure better.

The lift arrived. He stepped in.

Expect my call, he said.

Well see.

The doors closed.

Helen waited a moment, then walked out past the concierge, by the orchids, and pushed open the glass doors. The April wind was just as sharp. She did up her buttons.

Her phone sat silent in her pocketno call from Claire. She was probably working. Helen walked to the corner, the stop for the bus to the tube. She didnt wait; she walked instead. No hurry. She watched the city, the trees, the pale new leaves just emerging.

That evening, Claire rang. Helen was home, stirring soup.

Mum, did you get back alright?

Hours ago.

Howre you?

Fine. Just heating up some soup.

A pause.

Mum, I wanted to say

Dont, Claire.

No, let me. What I said this morning about your facethat was

Claire.

What?

Ever made soup from what you thought was leftovers?

Whats that supposed to mean?

Nothing special. Sometimes something needs to look all wrong before it turns out right. Honestly, its fine.

Claire was quiet.

Whats Ian like? Did youlike him?

Who says like him? We were at school together, you know.

Alright. Did you get on?

Helen stirred her soup.

He hasnt changedall his thoughts come out of his mouth.

That good or bad?

Its rare, these days.

Did he say hed call?

Said he would.

And you gave him your number?

I did.

Another pause while Helen could sense her daughter digesting this, and she didnt rush her.

Mum, how do you feel about it?

Havent decided yet. If he does ring, well see. If notnothing really changes.

Youre always so calm.

Not always. Calm is something you have to learnwith enough years.

Claire murmured something under her breath, then, Mum, will you come out next week? Id like to go somewhere nice for a meal. Just us. No rush.

Of course.

Ill pick the place.

Not too trendy, though. I feel lost in those.

Just a good place. I promise.

Helen ladled soup into her bowl, set it on the table, sliced some bread. Dusk was falling. London glowed with that evening light Helen loved since childhood, from another street, another life ahead of her.

She ate her soup, not thinking of anything special. Tomorrow, the plants on the window sill needed watering. The library closed early on Saturdays. She was almost out of butter again.

The phone sat on the table, silent. That was fine.

She wasnt waiting for a call. Or not-waiting. She just ate soup and looked out the window.

The next week, Claire went about her days with a new slant on things she couldnt quite shift. At meetings, she eyed campaign posters and thought of that allotment photo. Over lunch with Sophie, who went on about the latest lift-tightening procedure, Claire nodded automatically, but her mind wandered. Ians words echoed: faces with stories. Hed said it not as a pretty phrase, but as someone who really knew the business.

Sophie, two years older, was meticulously turned outnew procedures every quarter, threading, fillers, something serious every year. Her face was smooth, uncreased. Claire had always been a little envious. Now, she found herself wondering: but what lies underneath? A mean thought; Sophie was a good friend. Her face didnt make her better or worse.

But the thought lingered.

On Wednesday, Ian wandered through the open-plan, pausing at Claires desk.

Claire, hows the Natural campaign coming?

Naturalthe new preservative-free line. Right on schedule: concept presentation next week.

Great. He was about to retreat, then stopped. I called your mum yesterday.

Claire looked up.

Yes?

Were meeting Saturdayfor a walk. She mentioned not having been to Hampstead Heath in years.

She loves Hampstead, Claire nodded, truthfully.

I know. She told me. You dont mind, do you?

It was a strange question from a director to a junior, and both knew it. He was asking as a person, not the boss.

Not at all, Claire said. Shell enjoy it.

He nodded and carried on. Claire watched him go, realising her motherwho had arrived with the folder because the courier hadnt, in that navy coat and with that thermos, with a face she, Claire, had called natural that very morninghad changed something. Not in the office, not in Ian, but in Claire herself.

It was an unsettling realisation. Slow, like a splinter. Not painful, but there.

She opened up the Natural campaign document and reread her intro: embracing yourself and natural beauty as a market trend. All the right words, for all the right audiences. Shed written themwell, convincingly.

Now the words felt a bit different. Not false, but describing something from outside, not in. As if embracing yourself was what you wrote in a brief, and the real people who actually did that showed up with their own coffee, unapologetic about laugh lines.

On Friday evening, Claire turned up at her mothers. No warningshe just arrived. Helen answered in her dressing gown, book in hand.

You didnt call ahead?

I just fancied it.

Oh, come in then. Ive got the kettle on.

The Chiswick flat was just Claire remembered from childhood. Same layout, different wallpaper, more shelves of books with every year. Geraniums and an aloe on the windowsill. The comforting smell of something cooking.

Had dinner?

No, straight from work.

Sit down, Ill warm it up.

Mum, honestly

Sit, Helen repeated, not sternly, just firmly, and Claire sat.

As her mum clattered in the kitchen, Claire looked at the family photos. One showed Helen in her thirtieslong hair, bright with laughter, an infant Claire in her arms. Helen, simply beautiful, needing no explanation.

Helen set a plate downstewed potatoes and beef. Simple, but the aroma made Claire realise how properly hungry she was.

Here you go. Helen sat opposite, tea in hand. Tell me.

Tell you what?

Why youre here. Just because is fine, but youve got the look of someone deep in thought.

Claire ate a little, then put down her fork.

Mum, I want to apologise. Not just like on the phone, but properly.

You already did.

Not completely. Its not just what I said about your face. Itswell, Ive been looking at you wrong for so long.

Helen held her mug in both hands. How?

As something to fix. Or to hide. Claire chose words carefullyit wasnt easy. You dont use fillers, dont really do much makeup, dont dress the way we do in the office. I always assumed you just didnt care about your appearance.

And?

And thats wrong. You do care. You just go about it your way. You look as you do because you want to, not because you dont know the alternatives. Its your choice.

Helen nodded slowly.

Wheres all this come from?

IanMr Howardsaid something. About faces with stories. And about you, at school. Said you were the cleverest.

He always did have a way of exaggerating.

I dont think so.

Helen set down her cup.

Claire, I havent been upset with you, you know. I understood where it came from. You work somewhere image is part of your job; you see it every day. No surprise you start to see the whole world that way.

But thats not right.

Its professional bias. Everyone gets it. Archivists, nurses, whateverknowing when it gets in your way is the main thing.

Claire watched her mother. That was the trickher mother never lectured, never said I told you so, never turned situations into lessons. She just explained, as if it were obvious, no judgment.

Were you angry with me?

A bit, this morning, Helen admitted. Not at what you said, so much as hearing you hesitate to say mum out loud. That stung.

The splinter twisted a bit.

Mum

Thats enough. Eat up before it gets cold.

Claire ate. Helen sipped tea. The April rain beat steadily on the ledge, a calming drum.

Mum, are you glad he rang? Ian?

Helen gave a little half-smile.

I dont know yet. Its nice, though. No one calls me just for a chat these days.

And tomorrowHampstead Heath?

Well see about the weather.

Mum, thats not really an answer.

Its an honest answer. I dont make plans further than the day after tomorrow.

Claire finished. Helen cleared her plate and brought more tea.

Arent you scared? Claire said.

Of what?

Well starting something. At your

She stopped. Helen waited, expectant. Claire nearly said your age, which would have been as bad as you look natural.

You mean at my age? Helen said, cheerily.

Yes. That wouldve been unfair, too.

Just as much. Helen shrugged. But honestlynot anymore. I used to be. But by fifty-two, fear of something ending badly fades. Whats scarier is never starting at all.

Thats wisdom.

Its just living. Wisdoms too big a word for it.

They sat a while. Claire called herself a cab, Helen packed some leftovers for her. As Claire pulled on her coat, Helen watched from the kitchen doorwayher good girl, a bit lost in her polished world, but a good one. Shed find her way.

Do call round next time, no occasion needed, Helen said.

I will.

And no need to keep apologising. Once is enough.

Alright.

Go on, your cabs outside.

Claire left. Helen closed the door, returned to her book, then set it down to stare out. The rain was stopping, wet asphalt shining in the streetlights. She thought briefly of Iannot romantically, not nervously, just as something new and as yet undefined. A pleasant uncertainty. She hadnt looked for it, or expected it, or wished for it. Shed just delivered some documents for Claire.

Saturday was lovely. Hampstead Heath greeted them with the scent of old leaves and fresh grass, trees in that state between bare and glorious green so the sky glimmered through. They walked by the ponds. Helen explained how shed come here every childhood Sunday; almost nothing had changed.

You grew up nearby?

Down on Finchley Road. Five stops on the 82.

I was by Swiss Cottage, Ian said. We might have crossed paths here long before school.

We might, Helen agreed.

Fate, eh? he said, a little teasingly.

Coincidence, she said.

You dont like fate?

Not when people use it to excuse random chance. It removes responsibility.

For what?

For choices. For examplechoosing to stay yourself when the world wants you to change. Not fate. Thats a choice.

He looked at her. You mean beauty treatments?

I mean everything. Including that.

Did you ever think about it?

I did. At forty-eight. A friend tried to talk me round. Went to a consultation, sat in the waiting roomwatching all the women come out identical. Not bad, just hidden somehow. And I realised: thats not for me.

They reached a weathered old bench beneath an elm; Helen paused.

Shall we sit?

Lets.

The bench was flaking, but solid. They watched as a dog darted by, its owner whistled from the bushes, children pedalled past.

Ian, she said, are you asking me something serious?

Yeah.

Go for it.

You know I didnt ring you just for old times sakenot just because of school.

I guessed.

You mind?

Helen watched the little rings on the pond.

Im fifty-eight, Ian.

Im sixty!

So, were old enough not to make big promises.

Exactly.

Well, then. I dont mind.

He just nodded. They sat quietly, gazing at the water. The cityoffices, posters, wrinkle-free faces, slogans about better versionsfelt miles away. Here, an old bench, a gentle park, two not-young people with lives needing no explanation.

Helens phone buzzed. She checked: Claire.

Answer it, Ian said.

Later.

Nogo on, its your daughter.

Helen answered.

Mum, are you busy now?

Bit, yes.

Are you on Hampstead Heath?

I am.

Good, Claire said. A seconds silence. Ive booked a restaurant for next week. Not trendy, promise. The foods proper. You mind if I bring someone?

Who?

My friend Sophie. I want you to meet her. Youll get on.