Christine was the kind of woman who had actually looked good in an Yves Saint Laurent jumpsuit.
She was only 22 when she had Daniel, 25 when she had Anaïs. They had different fathers and both had offered to make a decent woman of her. Christine was of the opinion that she already was a decent woman and it seemed entirely bizarre to her that they felt duty bound to marry her.
She would say "Both my children were conceived in love." and that was enough in her world. She was a devoted mother, now and then, and made raising two children on her own look effortless. The childhood she chose for them was dubious by most peoples standards, moving the tight family unit of three around haphazardly from the north of England, to London, to Paris, depending on where her mood and love life took her. As a hairdresser she got work wherever she went, and quickly. The gossipy nature of her work, and the ease with which people confided in her, meant that Christine and her children would always be quickly ensconced wherever they landed.
She spoke with a soft northern accent, having grown up in St Helens, a product of adoring working class parents who were amazed at her natural glamour, which had presented itself from birth. Her older sister Shirley would always say,
"Our Chrissie's been like that since she were born. She could put on lippy before she could say a word!"
Anaïs always thought it was Christine's voice that held the magic; the silky soft vowels and the affectionate, almost camp turn of phrase, calling everyone "Sweetheart" and touching people softly on the arm. It seemed to hypnotise them.
Anaïs and Daniel were used to orbiting around Christine's popularity. She would fascinate men, and women did not appear to resent her for it. She was always absolutely herself. She knew who she was and never showed any signs of self-doubt. It had simply never occurred to her to worry about life. Even now in her early sixties she did not let age, or any concept of it, affect her. She had a look going that had become her own, and modified it slightly over the years "just to bring it up to date". The beehive she had perfected in the sixties still remained in a softer, looser way, now a silvery blonde. The heavy eyeliner was obligatory and applied quickly and adeptly immediately on waking. Always. She wore high heels everyday and walked everywhere, only driving (terribly and much too fast in borrowed cars) if absolutely necessary.
These days she had a rent controlled apartment in the city, up numerous flights of stairs, which suited her existence and kept her young, or so she said. Her windows would be open whatever the season to let out the cigarette smoke and "let in the air".
Daniels father, according to Christine (whose grasp on the string of lovers she had liaised with was vague to say the least) had been a sweet northern boy with twinkly blue eyes and an impish grin. A drummer called Pete, who was in some band or other that used to play in the local dance hall. "Such a lovely boy" she would say fondly "just not ready for the world". The apparent scandal caused by Christine's refusal to marry Pete was what prompted her to remove to Paris for a bit. And there whilst working part-time in a Parisian hair salon she had dated a fellow northerner, who had been in France for business reasons. And that was how Anaïs came to be in the world. "You could have dated someone French, Mum," Anaïs would say,
"I did love, its just your father was English that's all!"
"English. And married."
"Oh don't Sweetheart, I brought you up never to judge." Shirley was most insistent that marriage could only be successful if it were somewhat elastic in its flexibility. "Anyway I have you, pet. Something to remind me of my Parisian days!" She laughed and rolled her eyes. Her passion for life and love was irrepressible.