1985
Felicity Mainwaring sat before her dressing-table staring at herself critically in
the looking-glass. She was forty-five years old and looked fifty. Her scrupulous
dieting and rigorous exercise routines ensured that there was not a single extra
ounce of weight on her body but where once she had been merely thin she now looked
scrawny. Exercise may keep the muscles firm but it doesn't prevent lines from forming
or preserve the youth and elasticity of the skin. After the shock of her husband's
death from cancer a year ago, she had begun to look her age and dyeing her hair to
hide the threads of grey merely served to make her look harder than ever. Unsparing
though she was of herself, Felicity couldn't see that the matt black hair aged her
and that it was no longer in keeping with her skin tone. She rather liked it and,
turning her head slightly, she approved the severe geometric cut that she had stuck
to since Mary Quant first made it famous in the sixties. Mark had always admired
it; that and the fact that she had never become flabby and careless of her appearance
as her friends had. Her success here was partly to do with their decision to remain
childless which meant that there was plenty of time and money to be spent on her
appearance. Even when Mark's cancer had been diagnosed and he had died shortly afterwards,
she had never regretted that decision. It was possible that children might have been
a comfort but it was more likely that they would have required consolation themselves
and Felicity preferred to look after number one.
It had been a cataclysmic shock. Mark had hardly ever been ill. And he was doing
so well in his career. Ever since he had passed out from Britannia Royal Naval College,
he had gone from strength to strength within the submarine service. Great things
were promised him: he was, in naval parlance, 'a flyer'. He had shot ahead of all
his oppos such as Tom Wivenhoe, George Lampeter and Mark Webster, and his eyes were
firmly fixed on Flag Officer rank and more. So were Felicity's. She imagined, with
enormous pleasure, rubbing Cass Wivenhoe's nose in the dirt. And now it was all over.
Felicity raised her chin, narrowed her eyes and examined her neck. It was there that
ageing showed quickest. Turning this way and that, rather like a sharp-eyed bird
sizing up its lunch, Felicity studied herself. She'd taken to wearing high-necked
jerseys and was delighted with the piecrust-collared shirts that Princess Diana had
made the vogue. She found them very flattering. After all, there was no point in
letting herself go because her husband had died. Mark would have approved her determination
to keep the flag flying. Perhaps it was a little easier for a woman whose husband
had been away so much. She was used to being alone and had long since equipped herself
with a circle of friends and amusements with which to ward off loneliness and boredom
and, if she were to be brutally honest, Mark had become a little dull towards the
end, his mind and will so firmly bent on his career. It went without saying that
she'd been all for it. Nevertheless, promotion-chasing is a full-time occupation
and Mark had become preoccupied and less companionable. She missed him. Of course
she did. They had been well matched: shrewd, ruthless, self-seeking. Because they
had been so alike there had been no need to dissemble and they had, therefore, found
the other's company restful.
Well, it was no good going over and over things. Felicity added a few last touches
to her skillfully applied maquillage and sat back satisfied. At least she still had
George. It was odd that George, who had never married and who had saved Felicity
from loneliness on many occasions throughout her married life, had become much less
available since the funeral. He had given her to understand that it wasn't quite
the thing, under the circumstances, to advertise their relationship and that they
should wait a while before making anything public. Felicity could see the point.
George was still in the Navy and it might not do his career any good to be seen stepping
quite so hastily into the dead man's shoes.
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