Read Online Gracious Living by Andrea Goldsmith - Free Book Online Page B

self: well-groomed, stylish, tasteful. Elizabeth had always been described as a fine-looking girl, cultivated without affectation, but then, as her mother often said, good breeding always shows. She had finely-textured skin of middling shade, greyish eyes of the correct size and shape, and auburn hair cut to the shoulders with a nice bit of curl. She was quite short, just five feet two, with a roundish figure that was never described as fat. As Elizabeth admired the effect of the ensemble, Liliana put her head around the dressing room door to say hello.
    ‘Lovely to see you,’ she said, in her carefully crafted Italian accent. ‘You’re looking more like your mother every day. She was in last week, for a pretty little grey silk suit.’ Liliana nodded at Elizabeth’s outfit and adjusted the collar of the jacket. ‘I know she’d like that. Mm, very nice.’ Elizabeth smiled at the compliment and decided to take it.
    She strolled up the street towards her car, swinging her bag and looking at the window displays. She smiled at familiar faces and they smiled back, everyone so friendly – she really should try to get out more. Suddenly, at the end of the row of shops, Elizabeth stopped, a new boutique had opened. The window was draped in startling clothes of blowsy cloudy Indian prints that would reveal the outline of the body; and there was denim too, several pairs of jeans decorated with brightly coloured embroidery. Elizabeth did not wear jeans, they were not ladylike, Mrs Bainbridge said, and only very loose girls would be seen in them.
    These were years when denim was an issue, when denim represented much more than durability, years when on black and white television respectable people watched the denim-clad youth of San Francisco, flowers and beads adorning their thin bodies. ‘Thin with drugs,’ Diana Bainbridge said, ‘drugs notdieting, and certainly not happiness. Besides, truly happy people don’t need to advertise it. These people protest too much with their peace and happiness.’ And while denim was not entirely to blame for the declining moral standards of youth it had made a significant contribution – so Mrs Bainbridge said.
    Elizabeth stood on the footpath staring in at the darkness of the tiny boutique with its outlandish fashions. She ran her hands over her sensible beige gaberdine skirt, her button-through olive-green check blouse, and stared at the window. She raised a hand to her face to brush aside a stray strand of hair and the putrefying smell of stale, boiled vegetables seeped into her nostrils.
    Not at all ladylike.
    She wiped her hands on the beige gaberdine and entered the shop. The smell of incense was strong, stronger even than boiled cabbage. Elizabeth breathed deeply. The shop assistant inquired if she needed any help, and then left her alone to browse. At Liliana’s they assisted you, assisted you constantly, with a shirt to match the skirt you were trying, a sweet little jumper to complement your navy trousers, gossip about who had bought what for which occasion and whether you would be wise to wear the blue or the black for the Nethercott cocktail party. At Liliana’s browsing was known to be unprofitable. When Elizabeth was still without a selection several minutes later, the woman offered some help.
    ‘Let me have a look at you,’ she said, turning Elizabeth to face a mirror. And then she touched her. Touched Elizabeth’s shoulders, her arms, her hips, murmuring as she went. ‘Ah-hah,’ she said, ‘mm.’ Touching and murmuring.
    No one had touched her for months. In the long period after Ginnie was born when entire days were spent in feeding the child, Elizabeth would turn to Adrian for comfort – a gentle cuddle, not much – and Adrian would offer sex which she most certainly did not want. More recently, when she would not have minded sex, any physical contact would do, Adrian had not been interested. Occasionally her mother put an arm around her shoulders and gave her