“Mummy,” I said. “How are you?” I tried my best to steady myself.
“Never mind how I am. Where were you?”
“I’m sorry, Mummy,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I was . . . I was with a friend, visiting another friend in hospital, actually.”
“Oh, Eleanor,” she said, her voice oozingly oleaginous, “you don’t have friends, darling. Now come on, tell me where you really were, and I want the truth this time. Were you doing something naughty? Tell Mummy, there’s a good girl.”
“Honestly, Mummy, I was out with Raymond”—there was a snort—“visiting this nice old man in hospital. He fell in the street and we helped him and—”
“SHUT YOUR LYING LITTLE CAKE HOLE!” I flinched, dropped the book, picked it up again.
“You know what happens to liars, don’t you, Eleanor? You remember?” Her voice was back to sickly sweet. “I don’t mind how bad the truth is, but I won’t tolerate lies, Eleanor. You of all people should know that, even after all this time.”
“Mummy, I’m sorry if you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Raymond and I went to hospital to visit a man we’d helped when he had an accident. It’s true, I swear it!”
“Really?” she drawled. “Well, that’s just delightful, isn’t it? You can’t be bothered to talk to your own mother, and yet you spend your Wednesday evenings visiting some geriatric, accident-prone stranger? Charming.”
“Please, Mummy, let’s not fight. How are you? Have you had a good day?”
“I don’t want to talk about me, Eleanor. I already know all about me. I want to talk about you. How is your project coming along? Any news for Mummy?”
I might have known she’d remember. How much should I tell her? Everything, I supposed.
“I went to his house, Mummy,” I said. I heard the click of a lighter and then a long exhaled breath. I could almost smell the smoke from her Sobranie.
“Oooh,” she said. “Interesting.” She took in another lungful and expelled it with a sigh. “Who’s this ‘he’”?
“He’s a musician, Mummy.” I didn’t want to tell her his name quite yet—there is a power in naming things, and I wasn’t quite ready to cede it to her yet, to hear those precious syllables rolled in her mouth, for her to spit them out again. “And he’s handsome and clever and, well, I think he’s the perfect man for me, really. I knew it as soon as I saw him.”
“That all sounds rather marvelous, darling. And you went to his house, did you? Tell me, what did you find there?”
I sniffed. “The thing is, Mummy . . . I didn’t actually . . . go inside.” This wasn’t going to be easy. She liked doing bad things, and I didn’t. It was as simple as that. I spoke quickly, hoping to head off the inevitable criticism. “I just wanted to have a quick look, make sure he lived somewhere app . . . appropriate,” I said, stumbling over the words in my haste to get them out.
She sighed. “And how are you supposed to know whether it’s nice if you didn’t go inside? You always were overcautious and lily-livered, darling,” she said, sounding bored.
I looked at my hands. The chipped green nails looked so garish in this light.
“What you have to do, Eleanor,” she said, “is grasp the nettle. Do you know what I mean by that?”
“I think so,” I whispered.
“I’m simply telling you that you mustn’t keep pussyfooting around, Eleanor.” She sighed. “Life is all about taking decisive action, darling. Whatever you want to do, do it—whatever you want to take, grab it. Whatever you want to bring to an end, END IT. And live with the consequences.”
She started to talk quietly, speaking so softly that I could hardly hear her. This, I knew from experience, did not bode well.
“This man . . .” she murmured. “This man sounds as if he has some potential, but, like most people, he’ll be weak. That means that you have to be strong, Eleanor. Strength conquers weakness—that’s a simple fact of life, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” I said sullenly, pulling a face. Childish, I know, but Mummy does tend to bring out the worst in me. The musician was very handsome and very talented. I knew, as soon as I set eyes on him, that we were destined to be together. Fate would see to that. I didn’t need to take any more . . . decisive action, apart from ensuring that our paths crossed again—once we met properly, the rest was, surely, already written in the stars. I suspected that Mummy wasn’t going to be pleased with this approach, but I was more than accustomed to that. I heard her breathe in, then out, and felt the soft menace through the ether.
“Don’t you go getting sidetracked, now, Eleanor—don’t go ignoring Mummy, will you? Oh, you think you’re so smart now, don’t you, with your job and your new friends. But you’re not smart, Eleanor. You’re someone who lets people down. Someone who can’t be trusted. Someone who failed. Oh yes, I know exactly what you are. And I know how you’ll end up. Listen, the past isn’t over. The past is a living thing. Those lovely scars of yours—they’re from the past, aren’t they? And yet they still live on your plain little face. Do they still hurt?”
I shook my head, but said nothing.
“Oh, they do—I know they do. Remember how you got them, Eleanor. Was it worth it? For her? Oh, there’s room on your other cheek for a bit more hurt, isn’t there? Turn the other cheek for Mummy, Eleanor, there’s a good girl.”
And then there was only silence.
13
On the bus to work on Friday, I felt strangely calm. I hadn’t drunk vodka after the chat with Mummy, but only because I didn’t have any, and I didn’t want to go out alone in the dark to buy some. Always alone, always dark. So, instead, I had made a cup of tea and read my book, distracted occasionally by my flashing green fingernails as I turned the pages. I’d had enough of tropical fruit for the time being, and needed something more conducive to matters of the heart. Sense and Sensibility. It’s another one of my favorites: top five, certainly. I love the story of Elinor and Marianne. It all ends happily, which is highly unrealistic, but, I must admit, narratively satisfying, and I understand why Ms. Austen adhered to the convention. Interestingly, despite my wide-ranging literary tastes, I haven’t come across many heroines called Eleanor, in any of the variant spellings. Perhaps that’s why the name was chosen for me.
After a few, familiar chapters, I went to bed and did not sleep at all. A night without repose, however, seemed to have no ill effects, surprisingly, and I felt bright and alert as the bus made its way through the morning traffic. Perhaps I was one of those people, like the late Baroness Thatcher, who simply did not require sleep? I picked up a copy of the free newspaper that is always discarded on bus seats, and began to flick through it. An orange woman I’d never heard of had got married for the eighth time. A captive panda had apparently “reabsorbed” its own fetus, thereby ending its pregnancy—I looked out of the window for a moment as I tried and failed to understand the reproductive system of the panda—and, on page ten, evidence had been uncovered of the systematic and widespread abuse of underage boys and girls in a series of care homes. The news stories were reported in that order.
I shook my head, and was about to discard the newspaper when a small advertisement caught my eye. The Cuttings, it said, with a logo of a bullet train hurtling along a track. I noticed it because the answer to twelve across in yesterday’s crossword had been Shinkansen. Such small coincidences can pepper a life with interest. I looked at the content, which appeared to be an announcement of forthcoming events at said venue. Sandwiched between two artistes I’d never heard of was a listing for Friday. Tonight.
There was the name of a band—obviously, I’d never heard of them—and there, in smaller font, was the musician! I dropped the paper, picked it up again. No one had noticed. I ripped out the advert, folded it carefully and placed it in the inside pocket of my shopper. This was it, the opportunity I’d been waiting for. Written in the stars, delivered to
me by fate. This bus, this morning . . . and tonight.
I looked up the venue when I got to the office. It seemed that he would be playing at 8 p.m. I needed to shop for a party—and now a gig—outfit after work, which did not leave much time. Judging by the website, The Cuttings seemed to be the sort of place where one would feel most comfortable when fashionably attired. How, then, would I manage to be there for eight, dressed and ready? Ready to meet him? Was it too soon? Should I wait until another time, prepare properly? I’d read somewhere that one only gets a single chance to make a first impression—I’d dismissed the trite phrase at the time, but perhaps there was some truth in it. If the musician and I were going to be a couple, our first encounter needed to be a memorable one.
I nodded to myself, having made up my mind. I’d go to the shops straight after work, buy a new outfit and wear it to the concert. Oh, Eleanor, it couldn’t be that easy, could it? I knew from experience that life was never this straightforward, so I tried to anticipate any potential problems and how best I might address them. What would I do with the clothes I was currently wearing? The answer came to me easily: my shopper was big enough to hold them. What about dinner? I am not a woman who functions well on an empty stomach, and it would be embarrassing to faint at his feet for any reason other than an excess of emotion. Well, couldn’t I purchase some food from a café after work, and still manage to arrive at The Cuttings for 7:45 p.m.? Yes, I could. That would allow me plenty of time to select a seat near the front for the best possible view. My view of him, and his view of me, of course. All of the problems solved.
I couldn’t resist a quick look online to see if he was as excited as I was about tonight. Ah, thank you, Twitter:
@johnnieLrocks
Soundcheck: done. Haircut: done. Get your fat backsides down to Cuttings tonight, mofos.
#nextbigthing #handsomebastard
A man of few words. I had to google “mofo” and must confess to being slightly alarmed by the result. Still, what did I know of the wild ways of rock stars? They used an unfamiliar argot that he’d teach me in due course, no doubt. Could the lessons start tonight? It was hard to believe that, in a matter of a few hours, I’d be in his presence. Ah, the thrill of anticipation!
I had a missive for him in my shopper which I hadn’t sent yet. Another sign that fate was smiling on me today. Earlier in the week, I’d copied out a verse for him, one I’d always loved, using a Bic Biro. What a cost-effective miracle of engineering this instrument is! I’d selected the card with care: it was blank, and the front displayed an etching of a most endearing hare—long ears, powerful legs and a surprisingly assertive face. It was gazing upward at the moon and stars, its expression impossible to fathom.
Greeting cards are preposterously expensive, given that they are fabricated from a small piece of printed cardboard. You get an envelope with it, I suppose, but still. You would have to work for almost half an hour in a minimum-wage occupation in order to earn enough to purchase a nice greeting card and a second-class stamp. This was a revelation; I’d never actually sent a card to anyone before. Now that I would be seeing him tonight, however, I had no need to attach a postage stamp. I could present my humble gift in person.
Emily Dickinson’s beautiful poem is called “Wild Nights—Wild Nights!” and combines two elements of which I am inordinately fond: punctuation, and the theme of finding, at long last, a soul mate.
Lovely. I read the poem over again, licked the glue of the envelope with care—it was deliciously bitter—and then wrote his name on the front in my best handwriting. I hesitated as I put it back in my shopper. Was tonight really the best night for poetry? My reluctance was strange; the card was bought and paid for, after all. I wondered, however, whether I might be better off waiting to see what happened at the gig before taking things to an epistolary level. There was no need to be reckless.
Five o’clock took forever to arrive. I traveled on the underground into town for speed, and went into the closest department store to the station, the same one where I’d purchased my laptop. It was 5:20 p.m., and the store would close in less than an hour. Womenswear was on the first floor (when did Ladieswear become Womenswear? I wondered) and I took the escalator, being unable to find the stairs. The shop floor was vast, and I decided to request assistance. The first woman I saw was matronly, and did not seem well placed to dispense fashion advice. The second was in her late teens or early twenties, and therefore too callow to advise me. The third, in the manner of Goldilocks, was just right—around my age, well groomed, sensible-looking. I approached with caution.
“Excuse me, I wonder if I could possibly ask for your assistance?” I said.
She stopped folding sweaters and turned to me, smiling insincerely.
“I’m attending a concert at a fashionable venue, and I wondered if you might assist me with the selection of an appropriate ensemble?”
Her smile broadened and looked more genuine.
“Well, we do offer a personal shopper service,” she said. “I could make you an appointment, if you like?”
“Oh no,” I said, “it’s for this evening. I really do need something right now, I’m afraid.” She looked me up and down.
“Where is it that you’re going?”
“The Cuttings,” I said proudly. She stuck out her bottom lip, nodded once, slowly.
“What are you, a twelve?” I nodded, impressed that she had been able to size me up so accurately by sight alone. She checked her watch.
“Follow me,” she said. It seemed that there were a variety of stores within the store, and she took me to the least prepossessing outlet. “OK, off the top of my head,” she said, “these . . .” a pair of ridiculously slender black denim trousers “. . . with this . . .” a black top, similar to a T-shirt but in faux silk, with a keyhole of fabric missing from the back.
“Really?” I said. “I was thinking more along the lines of a nice dress, or a skirt and blouse.” She looked me up and down again.
“Trust me,” she said.
The changing room was small and smelled of unwashed feet and air freshener. The jeans looked too small but, miraculously, they stretched around me and I was able to fasten them. The top was loose, with a high neck. I felt appropriately covered up, if nothing else, although I couldn’t see the cutout section at the back. I looked exactly like everyone else. I supposed that was the point. I kept the outfit on, pulled off the tags and placed them on the floor, then folded up my work clothes and put them into my shopper. I picked up the tags for the woman to process on her cash register.
She was hovering outside when I emerged. “What do you think?” she said. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”
“I’ll take them,” I said, handing her the bar codes.
I had forgotten about the security devices clipped onto the clothes, however, and we had quite a struggle to remove them. I had to come behind the desk, in the end, and kneel backward beside her so she could detach them using the magnetic machine fixed to the counter. We ended up laughing about it, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed in a shop before. After I’d paid, trying not to think about how much money I’d spent, she came out from behind the desk again.
“D’you mind if I say something? It’s just . . . shoes.”
I looked down. I was wearing my work shoes, the flat, black, comfortable pair with the Velcro fastenings.
“What’s your name?” she said. I was bemused. Why was my name relevant to a footwear purchase? She was waiting, expecting an answer.
“It’s Eleanor,” I admitted with great reluctance, having considered giving a false name or nom de plume. I certainly wasn’t going to tell her my surname.
“The thing is, Eleanor, you need an ankle boot with skinny jeans, really,” she said, as seriously as though she were a hospital consultant giving medical advice. “D’you want to come over to Footwear and take a look?” I hesitated. “I’m not on
commission or anything,” she said quietly, “I just . . . I just think it’ll really finish off the outfit if you’ve got the right shoes.”
“Accessories maketh the woman, eh?” I said. She didn’t smile.
She showed me boots that made me laugh out loud, so ridiculous were they in both heel height and narrowness of fit. Finally, we agreed on a pair that were sufficiently stylish but in which I could also walk without risk of spinal injury, thereby meeting both of our requirements. Sixty-five pounds! Good grief, I thought, as I handed over my card again. Some people have to live on that for a week.
I shoved my black shoes into my shopper. I saw her eyeing that too, then looking over at the handbag section. “Oh, I’m afraid not,” I said, “I’ve exhausted my funds for the time being.”
“Ah, well,” she said, “just stash it in the cloakroom and you’ll be fine.” I had no idea what she meant, but time’s winged chariot was hurrying near.
“Thank you very much indeed for your assistance, Claire,” I said, leaning forward to read her name badge. “It’s been invaluable.”
“You’re welcome, Eleanor,” she said. “One last thing: the store closes in ten minutes, but if you’re quick, you can nip down and get a wee makeover before you head out—Beauty’s on the ground floor beside the exit. Go to Bobbi Brown, tell them Claire sent you.”
With that she was off, the till already spewing out its reckoning of the day’s takings, bolstered in part by my own not inconsiderable contribution.
I asked to speak to Bobbi, and the woman at the makeup counter giggled.
“We’ve got a right one here,” she said, to no one in particular.
There were so many mirrors, I wondered if that might encourage a person to talk to themselves.
“Sit yourself up there, my love,” she said, pointing to a ridiculously high stool. I managed to clamber aboard, but it was not a dignified procedure, and I was somewhat hindered by my new boots. I sat on my hands, to hide them—the red, broken skin seemed to burn under the harsh overhead lighting, which showed up every flaw, every damaged inch.