44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [48]
“You’re looking thin,” Sasha said. “You’re not on one of those faddish diets, are you? Really, the damage those people do! Doctor what’s-his-name, and people like that. I’m not suggesting that one should over-eat, but one wants to have something to cover one’s poor skeleton.”
She pushed the plate of iced cakes over the table towards her daughter.
Lizzie pushed them away. “No thanks. And I don’t think I’m looking particularly thin. In fact, I’d say I’m about the right weight for my height.”
Sasha raised an eyebrow. Lizzie was flat-chested in her view, and a judicious coating of plumpness might help in that respect. But of course she could never raise the issue with her daughter, just as she could say nothing about the dowdy clothes and the lack of make-up.
Taking a cake, Sasha cut it in half. Marzipan: her favourite. Battenberg cakes were hard to beat, particularly when dissected along the squares; she had little time for chocolate cake – sticky, amorphous, and over-sweet substance that it was.
“You know,” she said, discreetly licking at her fingers, “you could do rather more with yourself than you do. I’m not being 100
The Facts of Life
critical, of course. Not at all. I just think that if you paid a little bit more attention to your clothes . . .”
“And my face,” interjected Lizzie. “Maybe I should do something about my face.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your face,” said Sasha. “I said nothing about your face. You have a very nice face. I’ve got nothing against your face.”
“In fact,” said Lizzie, “people say that I look quite like you. In the face, that is.”
Sasha picked up the second half of her cake and examined it closely. “Do they?” she said. “Well, isn’t that nice? Not that I see it myself, but perhaps others do. Surprising, though.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” said Lizzie. Sasha laughed lightly. “Now,” she said, “that’s enough about faces. I’ve got something much more important to talk to you about.”
39. The Facts of Life
“Something important?” asked Lizzie. There was doubt in her voice: what was important to her mother was usually rather unimportant to her.
“Very,” said Sasha, glancing about her, as if those at neighbouring tables might eavesdrop on some great disclosure. “You will have heard that the ball is coming up. Soon.”
“The ball?”
“You know,” said Sasha. “The Conservative ball. The South Edinburgh Conservative Ball.”
Lizzie looked bored. “Oh, that one. That’s nice. You’ll be going, I take it. I hope that you enjoy yourselves.”
“We shall,” said Sasha, firmly. “And we’d very much appreciate it if you would come in our party. Both Daddy and I. We’d both appreciate it. Very much.” She fixed her daughter with a stare as she spoke. A message was being communicated. The Facts of Life
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Lizzie looked at her mother. She was so sad, she thought. Imagine living a life in which the highlight of one’s existence was a political ball. How sad. “Depends,” she said. “Depends when it is.”
“Next week,” said Sasha. “I know I haven’t given you much notice, but it’s next Friday, at the Braid Hills Hotel. It’s such a nice place for it.”
Lizzie pursed her lips. She was in a difficult situation. She did not want to go to the ball, but she was realistic enough to understand her position. Her parents paid her rent and gave her an allowance. She accepted this, in spite of her pride, and she understood that in return there were a few duties that she had to discharge. Attendance at the Conservative Ball had always been one of these. This was what her mother’s look meant.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll come.”
Sasha looked relieved. “That will be very nice.” She picked up her table napkin – paper! – and removed a crumb of marzipan from the edge of her lower lip. She would have liked to have licked her lips, and would have done so at home, but she couldn’t in town. “We’ll make up a small party. Daddy’s arranged that.”
Lizzie, who