‘Wine?’ she shouted over her shoulder.
Esme gave the thumbs up.
‘How d’you know Suks?’ asked a small girl with round eyes and pageboy haircut. ‘Were you in Verbier with her?’
‘Er, no. I work with her at the gallery,’ replied Esme.
‘I must ask Suki if she’s doing next season. Nice to meet you.’
And with that the girl turned away to talk to someone else.
Esme found a patch of wall and leant against it, making an effort to look purposefully stranded. The couple next to her were talking about weekend plans and she tried to introduce herself but lost her nerve when they didn’t even pause for breath. Suki hadn’t left the bar and was laughing with a bunch of friends. Any normal person would barge over and gatecrash the jolly assembly, she supposed, but Esme was too shy. She had always found it easier to get along with the older generation; felt less judged. These people came from the same family background as her, she guessed, but she couldn’t have felt more out of place than if she had been on Mars. Trying to blend in to the background, she couldn’t wait to get away. When Suki finally returned and thrust a glass of wine into her hand, Esme didn’t even have a chance to say a thing before she turned back to the bar and the crowd of friends gathered there.
Esme necked her wine as quickly as she could then, not wanting to embarrass Suki, caught her eye and cheerily waved goodbye.
‘See you tomorrow,’ mouthed Suki, blowing her a kiss.
Once again, Esme gave the thumbs up and left.
Chapter Eight
The smell caught and coalesced in Esme’s nostrils. Unidentifiable spices, exotic scents mixed with the mundane. Tarmac and sweat, garlic and ginger with musky overtones. A far cry from The Lodge kitchen that smelt of her childhood, all Delia Smith recipes, coal tar soap and the occasional whiff of dog blankets.
A clock stuck on the side of a graffiti-covered building told her she had time to kill before meeting Cece.
It wasn’t wholly a lie that had got her here. The words ‘wealthy’ and ‘art collector’ had been fibs, but ‘Australian’ and her meeting location were accurate. Securing a prospective buyer in the art world was never guaranteed but as she knew from dealers who contacted her father when they had something to his taste, it was always worth the punt. But although Bill didn’t know that what lay beneath her request for the afternoon off was a lie, she did and she felt guilty. He had been so generous to her, not least with his friendship, but he was more her parents’ generation than her own and she was desperate to make friends her own age. And, she reminded herself, she had been working her tits off.
All her senses told her she was entering a hub of integration and multi-culturalism. Foreign languages crossed swords in the air, their tone urgent and purposeful. This was the sound of commerce, tradesmen making what money they could from people who, by the looks of them, had precious little. All genres of music were playing, the beats clashing, representing the variety of mods, rockers and punks loitering with no intent other than to pose. Pink Floyd and Peter Tosh boomed from stalls manned by hippies and Rastafarians hawking mysterious ingredients.
To Esme, it was a heady, eye-opening place. She knew Bill and Suki would shudder at the fast-food containers that spilt out of rubbish bags yet to be collected. The putrid waste boiling in the heat and discarded boxes from the stalls were punctuated by small groups of punks sitting on the pavement, rolling cigarettes. It was a far cry from St James’s. But she didn’t see the dilapidation, rather the opportunity. It was a new side of life to experience. The boys wore as much black eyeliner edging their lips and eyes as the girls. Their Mohicans stood rigid as weapons. It occurred to Esme that they were dressed for the battlefield of social alienation. Were they really as angry as they looked or just making an empty assertion to get noticed?
Esme felt completely out of place. A foreigner in her city of birth. It was at once intimidating and exciting. Dressed in her conservative clothes, it was she who stood out as the minority. Everyone around her was cool, a cacophony of fashion statements defined by music. Everyone was part of a clique and she worried that she would be held up as some kind of fraud. She was beginning to feel a sense of rising panic. Looking around she wondered which clique she could join and what one garment might transform her? There were stalls selling hippy flares, leather jackets, ripped T-shirts, slogan T-shirts, platform boots and battered Dr Martens. A cheesecloth dress looked like the best option and easiest to slip over what she was wearing. She could put her dated jeans in a bag and pray no one noticed her stubbled legs.
She rifled through a rail capped by dust and chose a frock in a small floral print with a smocked bodice. It had balloon sleeves and tiny buttons down the front.
‘How much is this, please?’ she asked a young man bare-chested beneath an open waistcoat which revealed multiple bead necklaces and a peace sign pendant. He flicked his long hair and looked at her as if she was an audience member in a crowd of adoring fans.
‘Two quid, man,’ he replied, holding out a ring-encrusted hand.
With diminishing resources and her salary yet to be paid, every coin that left her purse brought Esme closer to the shame of having to ask her father for a loan. Although even if she had known exactly where in France he was, she was determined not to turn to him for help – she didn’t want him to think she’d failed at her bid to stand on her own two feet. Esme counted coins and handed the stallholder the money, which he in turn totted up.
‘Need another penny.’
Surly git, thought Esme. And as she looked in vain for somewhere to get changed, she realized she was about as far away from the luxe changing rooms of Belleville Sassoon as she could get. She ducked behind a rail of clothes but it gave her precious little cover.
She put the dress on over her T-shirt and reaching underneath, she undid her zip and slithered out of the trousers, careful not to reveal any more flesh than was absolutely necessary. It was a bold move, but worthwhile. Dressed as she had been, she’d felt more exposed than she did now.
‘Jerry’ll buy those jeans off you if you wanna sell them. His stall is two down. Karma boutique.’
With her jeans around her ankles, she looked at the stallholder, embarrassed that he had seen her undress. She quickly kicked the trousers off over her shoes, grateful for their wide legs.
‘Oh?’ She felt herself redden.
‘You’re not from here, are you?’ He’d clearly marked her as a tourist.
‘Is it that obvious?’ Esme replied, relieved to have the attention diverted from her fumbling attempt to get changed.
‘Yeah. Your skin is too clear to be a London girl.’
Well, at least it wasn’t her gauche demeanour or unfashionable get-up that gave her away. But as he sized her up his attention now seemed slightly sleazy.
‘I live in London, actually,’ she said, gathering herself to move on.
‘If ever you want to do some modelling, here’s my card.’
He handed her a flyer saying ‘Models Wanted’, above a photograph of two girls sucking lollipops. It was clearly suggestive and not a fast track to Vogue. Esme didn’t know what to say or how to rebuke the offer. Given her awkward semi-striptease to get into the dress, she felt like she had asked for this. The man obviously assumed she would be more than willing to get her kit off for money. Shame flooded her. She gave the flyer back.
‘I’ll take that, thank you, asshole.’
The paper was swiped from her hand and torn in two. It was Cece.
‘This guy, Esme, is a sordid pig-fuck’ – she leant over the trestle table laden with clothes, her face inches from his – ‘get lost, loser.’ Then she turned back to Esme. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
Wow. How did Cece have the balls to do that? She looked like a woman not to be messed with. Esme hadn’t recognized her at first because her hair had changed colour. She had dyed it black and worn it gelled at the sides and swirled into a Mr Whippy quiff. Her pale skin glowed in c
ontrast. The bib of her denim dungarees worked hard to cover her bare breasts partially on display through a string vest. Dressed in her smock – which a moment ago seemed like her ticket to blending in – Esme felt dowdy. She looked back at the ‘sordid pig-fuck’ and was given a wink and lick of his lips. Revolting man.
‘How have you been, hon? It’s great to see you,’ said Cece giving her a hug.
‘Busy. Had to lie to leave work early. But I’m so glad I did. This place is wild!’
Her enthusiasm seemed make little impression on the worldly Australian. This was clearly Cece’s natural habitat – rebellion was in her DNA. Esme wondered how long it had taken for Camden to become Cece’s normal and if there would ever be a time for her when London would feel as familiar as the Scottish Highlands.
‘Christ, me too. Haven’t had a day off since I saw you. But last night I went to bed before the sun came up, so all is good.’
The two girls continued down the high street. The people, the beats, the dirt, the pulsating vibe made Esme feel alive. But more than anything, she got a kick out of sharing it with someone.
The sun was blistering and heat rose from the pavement, which despite the lack of rain still had puddles of God-knows-what collecting in small potholes. It was either water from cracked pipes or the juice of rotting fruit and veg seeping from bin liners. The artery of residential streets that fed off left and right looked derelict at first glance but she soon saw signs that they were densely packed. How could this be the same city that provided upmarket townhouses for her friends and manicured mews cottages with clip-hedged window boxes for Bill and his crowd?
She looked at the houses – pretty but in need of repair – with bicycles fighting for space outside and discarded shopping trolleys propped up against railings. Most of the cars looked like they had seen better days with many of their windscreens wallpapered with parking tickets. There were few people on the street but the noise of cohabitation clattered out of windows.
It occurred to her that money silenced a neighbourhood. Kensington and Chelsea were so quiet. Camden was so loud. Sirens blaring, people shouting, car doors slamming, stereos thumping. There was someone, somewhere, making noise at all times.
‘Who lives here?’ said Esme when her eye was caught by a wheel-less van propped up on bricks.
‘Squatters and smack addicts mainly. But also musicians and poets. We’ll go to Dingwalls one night.’
Esme had heard of Dingwalls, the infamous music venue where fights broke out as often as bands played. Whilst The Clash and The Sex Pistols’ music wasn’t her thing, she would have loved to have seen Debbie Harry.
They stopped at a stall selling more clothes.
‘Gotta be honest with you, Es. You need some new pieces. Have you been paid yet? This place sells some great stuff.’
‘Oi. What about this?’ she replied looking down at the new purchase.
‘It’s fine… but hardly cool.’
Esme ran her hands down the rough fabric of her smock. She wanted to be more like Cece but was her world too different from hers? How could she combine the two? On the one hand she was working in a job that required respectable conformity but on the other, she desperately wanted to break from her stuffy society roots. Could she be two people rolled into one? Was it possible to pull off two sides to her story? The country girl felt like her authentic self and had taken a lifetime to crystallize. But the life she had had in the country had disintegrated. It was time to work out who the adult version of her was to be. Could she fast-track the urbanite version of her in a genuine way? Could she pull off ‘girl about town’?
The quickest way to do this was through clothes, she decided. They were the most effective conduit to project your desired image for the day. With expert speed, Cece gathered a selection of pieces that Esme had no time to identify. They could have been dishcloths or couture. But instinctively she trusted this girl to choose the right thing for her, to take her out of her comfort zone. Despite Cece taking control, Esme didn’t feel she was judging her. Far from it. Cece seemed to be enjoying her role as stylist.
‘I’ll give you two quid for this lot,’ she told the stall owner.
‘You on drugs?’
‘No. Two quid. Take it or leave it. That’s two quid more than you had twenty seconds ago. Doubt you’ll sell any more of this shit today.’
‘Come on, love. You’ve got at least ten quids’ worth there. Call it a fiver.’
‘Three quid, and I’ll buy you a drink at the Palace,’ Cece said, pulling a Tesco bag from a patchwork sack hanging across her body and stuffing the clothes into it.
She handed the money over and told the guy she would see him soon, before he had time to protest. Instead he rolled his eyes and smiled.
‘Tequila shot, Cece.’
Cece laughed and gave the man a hug.
‘Thanks, Trev. I’ll buy you three.’
They knew each other? What was all that bartering about? The haggling must have been for Esme’s benefit and she felt bemused that Cece had put on this show. Was this how business was done? Would guests at Bill’s show try to beat down the cost? She doubted it as they’d frown upon haggling, too embarrassed it might give the impression of a dwindling trust fund. She would never have had the nerve to pay anything other than the asking price. Especially here where people were on the economic backfoot.
‘Don’t look so shocked, Esme!’ Cece said. ‘It’s how we do things here. Trevor knew perfectly well I wasn’t going cough up more than a few notes. But he is always going to try to get the best price and I will always beat him down. I got a boxful of bootleg tapes last week for 50p. Same price as a cup of tea.’
Esme wasn’t shocked, just cross that earlier she had parted with two pounds without complaint. Determined to show Cece there was metal in her bones, she went up to the next stall and swooped with a magpie’s eye for a shocking pink sequined jacket.
She gave the bearded vendor a crumpled note.
‘Four pounds back, please,’ she said with gravel in her voice.
Cece looked at her with one brow arched and a smirk. She folded her arms, clearly enjoying Esme putting her example into practice.
‘One fifty.’
Esme glanced at Cece who gave subtle nod.
‘Thanks.’
‘Fuck, Esme! That was amazing. Let me look at that,’ she said, taking the bolero from her to look at the label.
‘You do realize this is Biba. Good as new too. Bargain!’
She may have straw coming from her ears but just for a moment Esme felt like she had won the Pools. Using her mother’s account card at Harrods had never given her the same rush, even though the clothes at Way In on the top floor were selected for girls her age. There was no victory, no bargain in buying clothes from London’s premier department store and anyway, she doubted that anyone with an ounce of street style had ever set foot in Harrods.
‘Have you been to Biba?’ she asked Cece.
‘Yes, its super-cool but I prefer Kensington Market, it’s cheaper and has great make-up. I got my tattoo there. Its next door to Biba where I’ll go for a coffee. The café is like a psychedelic garden and you sit on giant toadstools.’
‘Really? Sounds fun.’
‘We’ll have to go sometime. It’s great for people-watching too. Do you have a boyfriend, by the way?’
‘Not at the moment. Had one but he dumped me a while back. You?’
‘Yes and no. I’m working on it.’
Esme was certain Cece would have boys queuing up to go out with her – and, she imagined she’d mix with the kind of men she herself hoped to meet. A singer/songwriter or fashion photographer. That was the kind of boyfriend she wanted. Someone her parents would disapprove of. There was no way she wanted to end up as a customer-service wife. She didn’t want to play second fiddle to a man. He’d have to be supportive of her career and not just want to get hitched in order to produce an heir. To be honest, it didn’t matter if he was a toff but she was too you
ng to worry about getting married. For now, she wanted to have fun – she’d make it clear she wasn’t after her parents’ idea of an eligible bachelor, and the fastest way of doing this was surely to have a provocative boyfriend on her arm. Long hair, leather trousers and called Jim Morrison, that would be ideal. Him or David Bowie. Although even her father held a grudging appreciation for The Doors and had declared its lead singer ‘worthy of being sculpted by Michelangelo’.
Cece’s flat was on the first floor of white stucco house in Mornington Crescent. She had suggested Esme come back to try on her new clothes and have a play with make-up. If anyone else had suggested it, it might have sounded childish – like rummaging in a dressing-up box, but there was nothing backward-looking about Cece. Her Antipodean attitude was one of living for the day and making the best of every second. Esme found it easy to get swept up in her enthusiasm.
Her rented home had high ceilings and the faded grandeur of bygone times. Many of the original features remained. Tall windows opened onto a small balcony that looked over the crescent. It must have been salubrious once upon a time but the overground train line had tainted the paintwork grey. The whole place shook as the trains went by. Cece had made the most of what was essentially a studio, with a kitchenette, minuscule shower and a living room that doubled as her bedroom. Much of the contents had clearly been picked up at the market. Ethnic cushions, joss sticks held by a bronze Buddha and twinkly lampshades. In one corner, a mannequin wearing a top hat and feather boa teetered at an angle alongside a rail of clothes. Esme was struck by the myriad textures in Cece’s wardrobe: silk, satin, nylon, corduroy, velvet, tweed, knits chunky and fine. Fur, voile and sequins. She wished she’d had the money to buy more at the market.
‘Can I use your loo?’
‘Sure, hon. I’m just going to nip to the bottle shop. What do you like to drink?’
‘How about vodka and lime juice? You know, the cordial stuff?’ suggested Esme.
Summer in Mayfair Page 10
