Summer in Mayfair

by Susannah Constantine

  ‘A gimlet. Remember you are talking to a waitress.’

  ‘Wasn’t sure if you had that in Australia.’

  ‘It’s not a feral outpost, love. We have moved with the times.’

  Esme felt embarrassed, ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘I’m teasing you, silly moo. Anyway, you’re a Pom from the back of beyond and I’m an immigrant from the penal colonies. Guess that makes us quits,’ said Cece, wrapping a light scarf around her neck as she headed for the door, calling out, ‘Won’t be long,’ as she slammed it behind her.

  Esme still felt like she’d put her foot in it. Cece was way more worldly than she. The way she conducted herself with such confidence was won only through experience and having to stand on her own two feet. Esme had a way to go. She tried to picture Cece at Culcairn. It was not an obvious match. Cece was at home on the fringes. They both had what the other didn’t.

  Esme went to the bathroom. Cece’s open make-up bag was a mess of shimmer and glitter in colours Esme wouldn’t have thought to paint on a wall let alone her face. A half-used packet of contraceptive pills sat on the edge of the sink. She squeezed a blob of toothpaste onto her finger, still a little paranoid after Bill’s remarks. It tasted old and chalky. She rubbed it into her teeth and rinsed, slooshing her face and back of her neck at the same time. It was hot and sticky. Her cheekbones had a cap of sunburn, as did the tip of her nose.

  The minuscule kitchen area was stuffed with crockery and bags of spices. Three terracotta pots grew herbs on the window sill. She opened the window and jumped when a skewbald cat slunk into view and carefully tiptoed around the herbs and into the sink. It lapped at the water that dripped from a mixer tap. Esme hadn’t noticed the opened tin of Whiskas next to the chives. She didn’t like cats. Found them untrustworthy and sly. Mrs Bee had one, a serial bird-killer called Shifty. When it wasn’t out murdering, it cleaned every inch of its body with its rough tongue. He still looked like a renegade. Mrs Bee adored him which was probably why Esme resented him. Ridiculous to be jealous of a cat. But she stroked the new arrival out of duty to Cece.

  ‘I see you’ve met Dingo.’

  Cece put two carrier bags down on the counter. One clanked and the other rustled.

  ‘Yes. He seems very friendly.’

  ‘He’s not. Horrible thing. Real bastard. He humps all the females and gets them pregnant. Last year I had two litters in my garden.’

  ‘You have a garden?’

  Esme looked out of the window. She hadn’t noticed the small patch of uncut grass and weeds out back. It was fenced by wooden slats topped with razor wire. The latch on the gate dangled from its hinges and was wedged open just wide enough to slither through from the mews that ran behind.

  ‘More of a needle park. Keep meaning to do something with it or rather hoping that my neighbours will. If it looked nice, maybe smack-heads wouldn’t use it to jack up.’

  Whatever Cece was talking about sounded hardcore. Esme realized she had a lot to learn about this side of London life – not least the language.

  ‘Why do you feed Dingo if you don’t like him?’

  ‘He’s a good mouse-trap. Haven’t seen one since he’s started to hang out here.’

  Cece pushed Dingo off the counter and took a bag of ice out.

  ‘Grab two glasses,’ she said, opening a cupboard.

  Esme chose two tumblers and opened the Smirnoff. She poured a couple of fingers into both and topped them up with Rose’s lime juice. Cece added the ice and stirred the drinks with her finger. The cordial swam in waves as it diluted the alcohol.

  ‘I got some cheese and crackers too. And olives. Come on, let’s sit on the balcony and watch the world go by.’

  She took out two folding chairs and moved a side table between them for their drinks and ‘nibbles’.

  ‘Not much to see but nice to get the sun on our faces. I can’t believe how hot it’s been.’

  She pulled up her skirt and stretched out her already tanned legs. Esme hoiked up her smock.

  ‘Just take it off. No one will care and anyway all the opposite windows are too dirty to see through.’

  It was true – and upon looking more closely it seemed that London’s pollution had staked an indelible claim on all the glass and everything white, staining everything a dusty grey, including a washing line below, straining under the weight of five pairs of large pants and one enormous bra. Next to it, a woman balancing on her Zimmer frame struggled up the steps to her front door. She wore a floral print skirt with thick tights and slippers. Her cardigan fell off one shoulder. It was hard to see her face behind a mop of oily grey hair.

  ‘Hi, Mabel!’ shouted Cece.

  ‘Evening, Cece,’ Mabel shouted back gruffly.

  ‘This is Esme. She’s very posh and has never seen knickers as big as yours before.’

  ‘Cece!’ whispered Esme, quickly looking away.

  ‘Need any help, Mabeline?’

  ‘Fuck off, yer bleeding Aussie. I’m not dead yet,’ she shouted.

  Mabel struggled to find the lock with her key and kept dropping it.

  ‘Urgh, it’s painful to watch. I’m just going to let the old bat in. She’ll hate me for it but will pass out if I don’t, then we’ll have to take her to A&E.’ Cece crawled back inside and Esme heard her trotting down the stairs.

  Esme watched as Cece took the keys from Mabel and helped her inside. As predicted, she shuffled on without so much as a thank you. Cece closed her knocker-less door by pulling the letterbox. But her return to the flat was interrupted by the arrival of a dented Ford Cortina.

  The car pulled over and a cloud of smoke escaped the window, as a dark-haired man leant out with a cigarette hanging from his lips. It jiggled up and down as he spoke. Esme couldn’t make out his features clearly but she could tell he was attractive. He looked like he owned the road – obviously not caring that a truck was honking at him to move on. Cece took the cigarette from his mouth, took a quick drag and dropped it on the road. Embers glinted on the tarmac before Cece stubbed it out with her heavy boot. She leant into the car and kissed him hard.

  Beaming, Cece burst into the flat for the second time and sat down and sipped her now-watery gimlet. She lit a cigarette and exhaled quick words behind the billowing smoke.

  ‘Guess what?’

  ‘What? Who was that in the car?’

  ‘Dan. The guy. My soon-to-be boyfriend. We’ve only snogged so far but…’

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘Not long. He’s a journalist. Reports for the local paper but he’s a gifted writer. He’s working on a novel. It’s an incredible story and beautifully written. He showed me some of his poetry too.’

  ‘A poet? Can’t get more romantic than that, although I’d rather a musician. In a band.’

  ‘Dan is very cool. Dreamy good-looking. He came by to say he wanted to go to Heaven tonight. I told him about you and said we can all go together. You have to come.’

  ‘Heaven?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the coolest club in town.’

  Esme reached for the packet of Silk Cut. ‘Can I have one?’

  ‘Sure. It doesn’t get going there till at least eleven.’ Cece took hold of Esme’s hand and looked at her watch. ‘That gives us hours to get ready.’

  Esme’s heart sank. She was in the same predicament as she had been with Javier. A tempting invitation but the sense that she’d be in at the deep end – with no idea about the place they were going to or what she should wear. Maybe she could try the sequined bolero she’d bought.

  ‘Dan is going to meet us there.’

  The idea of going out with a guy Cece fancied wasn’t ideal. She’d be playing gooseberry as her partner in crime. Nerves curdled her hopes of conquering London’s nightlife with her new friend but she swallowed them along with the last sip of her gimlet.

  ‘Jump in the shower and I’ll pick an outfit.’

  When Esme returned, Cece had laid a selection of clothes on the sofa bed.
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  ‘Try this on,’ she said, handing her a stretchy tube.

  Esme headed towards the bathroom.

  ‘You are a right prude, Esme. Change in here, I’ve got tits too, you know.’

  Standing in her bra and pants, she pulled the tube over her head, unsure if it was a top or a skirt. As she rolled it down her body she worked out it was a skin-clinging, off-the-shoulder dress. Esme felt as good as naked.

  ‘Wow,’ sighed Cece and passed her a pair of fishnets. ‘What size feet do you have?’

  ‘Five and a half.’

  ‘Lucky… same as me. Try these for size.’

  Esme put on the gold T-bar sandals and went to the mirror.

  ‘No! Don’t look yet. I want to do your make-up and hair first. Sit down.’

  She did as bid and Cece set to work on her face. First came the foundation which Cece smeared and dabbed on her skin. Next, she pulled an alarming shade of turquoise from the make-up bag.

  ‘Close your eyes.’

  Esme felt slow careful brushstrokes colouring her lids.

  ‘Keep them closed.’

  The crease of her eye was lovingly tended by a smaller, softer brush that blended the eyeshadow.

  ‘Half open your eyes.’

  A mascara wand painted her lashes in thick sweeps. They felt wet and clumpy.

  ‘Blink,’ Cece ordered.

  At first her lashes stuck together but they soon dried and she felt the tips prickle her skin.

  ‘Pretend to kiss.’

  Esme pouted as Cece applied blusher on her cheekbones and around her hairline.

  ‘This sculpts the face.’

  ‘How come you know how to do this, Cece?’

  ‘I’m obsessed with make-up. See that board?’

  It was the first time Esme noticed the cut-out magazine pages. A wall of photographs showing portraits of girls modelling all manner of make-up. Heavy, light, glowing, shimmering. Each was a mask of disguise. There was one shot which showed a before and after. The girl looked nothing like her natural self. Esme hoped for the same outcome.

  ‘And now the lips. Smile.’

  Esme stretched her lips over her teeth, not daring to breathe. Cece wielded a slippery wand of bright pink over her mouth, then smacked her lips together, beckoning Esme to do the same. She stood back and looked at her work.

  ‘Oh my God, Esme, you are going to die!’ she said, waving the lip-gloss like a baton.

  ‘Can I look now?’ Esme was dying to see the transformation.

  ‘Not before I’ve done your hair. Just needs to be fucked up a bit. Won’t take a sec.’

  Grabbing a large can of Elnett, she told Esme to tip her head forward, and sprayed. And sprayed and sprayed until her hair became candy-floss stiff.

  ‘Flick back.’

  There was no gentle swoosh. Esme’s hair flew back in one clump, like a trapdoor. She gulped a fresh breath and gently stroked her tresses. Rigid. This was not going so well. Everything felt gloopy, gluey and stiff. The dress had ridden up her thighs and the tights were digging into her toes. She felt trapped.

  ‘Stand up.’

  Esme rose and pulled the dress down as far as it would stretch.

  ‘Don’t do that. Be more relaxed. You are a woman in control of your sexuality. Confidence is what men find attractive. OK. Are you ready? Close your eyes until I say.’

  Cece guided Esme in front of the mirror. She prayed she didn’t look like she felt.

  ‘Open!’

  Esme took an involuntary step back and trapped a gasp with her hand. She didn’t recognize herself. At all. The creature before her would have been swept past the ropes at Studio 54. Never, in her life, had she ever thought she would look like this. Tall, slim and stunning. But it wasn’t her. She had been possessed by Jerry Hall.

  ‘Fucking hell, Cece! What have you done?’ The words mixed with nervous laughter.

  ‘It was all there, hon. Just needed to be brought out by a bit of magic. And how long did it take? Fifteen minutes? You look fucking unbelievable. I’ve got my work cut out now to match up to you.’

  Esme put her hands on her thighs and turned from side to side looking at her reflection. Her body was entirely on display but no cleavage was showing. This prevented the look from being slutty. She couldn’t stop staring at herself.

  ‘Thank you so much, Cece. I love it!’

  ‘Go and celebrate with another drink whilst I get myself ready. Cigs are on the table.’

  Esme floated out onto the balcony and posed for a non-existent audience. She lit a cigarette and held it with exaggerated elegance, like she had seen Princess Margaret do when she was a child. She poured another drink and it went down in a few gulps. She took off her watch, remembering what the Princess said about wearing one in the evening – ‘Makes you look like you are waiting for time to pass so you can leave at the earliest opportunity. And no watch has ever added elegance, however fine.’

  Music came on from inside. And then there she stood. Cece the ring-mistress. Esme had never seen anything like it. The vision before her wore gold sequined hotpants, a red boob tube, a man’s tail-coat and her top hat. Her heavily kohled eyes sparkled with a top layer of glitter which dusted down and over her cheekbones. Her lips were a vivid red. She burst into laughter.

  ‘That’s exactly the reaction I hoped for. Close your mouth, love, it’s only clothes and camouflage. The real me is still somewhere here underneath all this crap. Come over here.’

  The two girls looked in the mirror grinning with excited anticipation. Esme felt as fabulous as Cece looked. They were a team of two and she was thrilled.

  ‘The night awaits…’ said Cece.

  Chapter Nine

  Around the corner from the club Esme pulled her heels from her handbag and swapped her ballet pumps. The Tube had been empty but she was glad to have been in flats going up the escalators and along the echoing tunnels. Heels weren’t her natural footwear and she felt her calves cramp up.

  ‘I can’t walk in these bloody things, Cece.’

  ‘Just keep them on getting in then put those daggy flats back on to dance. No one will notice and I won’t tell. But it’s surprising how quickly you get used to them.’

  There were hundreds of people queuing and loitering outside the club. Boys wearing make-up. Girls in disco Lycra, T-shirts with offensive slogans, piercings. A gang of skin-headed oafs lurked yelling ‘Freaks and faggots!’ at the glittering, defiant crowd. Esme felt like an amateur despite fitting in on the surface. She was no more than a heavily disguised pretender infiltrating a defiant minority. Each and every one of these people was making a statement, be it sexual or railing against convention.

  Cece barged through the crowd shouting, ‘Excuse me. Sorry. Make way. Move over, fuckwit.’

  Moments later they were by the entrance and Cece was hugging a drag queen holding a clipboard. She towered over them in six-inch stilettos and a Dusty Springfield wig that added another foot to her height. She wore a full mask of make-up with false lashes that brushed her skin when she looked at her list. The tight sequined sheath left nothing to the imagination. Esme thought her magnificent, like some unworldly creature from Andy Warhol’s Factory.

  ‘Cecebella, you look D.I.V.I.N.E.’

  ‘Thanks, Tammy. So do you.’

  ‘And who is this sweet little thing?’ said Tammy, arching a heavily drawn eyebrow.

  Any remaining magic cast by her outfit vanished through Esme’s fishnets. She felt like a twelve-year-old dressed as Siouxsie Sioux.

  ‘This is my friend Esme. Isn’t she stunning?’ said Cece persuasively.

  ‘Low-hanging fruit, Cece. Look after her,’ said Tammy, and then in a voice pitched high, ‘Have a fabulous time, girls.’

  She gave a flamboyant wave and moved on to the next hopeful in line, smile vanishing and becoming once more the clipboard Nazi. Multiple personalities, thought Esme. Everyone seemed to have different versions of themselves that they were trying on for size. Would Tammy still b
e this hyper-drag queen when she was eighty? Did it matter? She felt no different to Tammy, dressed as a spangled rendering of herself for a few hours before the glitter would vanish come morning time.

  Some people were trying to bribe Tammy but it seemed it took more than money to get you in. It was all about attitude and having the right look. Esme overheard Tammy saying, ‘Your hair is wrong. Change your hair and I might let you in.’ The offending hair in question looked nothing out of the ordinary to Esme, but she guessed that was the problem. An ordinary cut had to be compensated by extraordinary clothes and a ‘fuck you’ swagger. The guy was pedestrian and dull, suited and booted more for a club like Annabel’s than Heaven. The kind of young man her father would approve of. He caught Esme’s eye with a beseeching ‘Help me?’ look, clearly recognizing her as one of his ‘kind’, which pissed her off.

  She blanked him and walked into the club.

  A full blast of sound came over her in a big wave. Heavy bass from floor-to-ceiling speakers punched the air, powerful and insistent. Esme felt pinned to the wall by the sheer force of it reverberating through her body, as physical as it was loud. Gay energy was bigger than life. Inside the ‘freaks and faggots’ were included, accepted, celebrated. It seemed you could be anyone you wanted; steel worker by day, sugar plum fairy by night. Everyone was ready to have a good time with absolute freedom. The diversity created a combustible energy.

  Cece shouted something in her ear but she couldn’t hear. She grabbed Esme’s hand and pulled her forward through the crush. They squeezed by semi-naked bodies dripping in sweat. The air was wet with perspiration and the anticipation of sex. Men moved with balletic grace, their torsos arching back as they lifted arms like wings, hips swinging in rhythm to the music. They didn’t miss a beat as the two girls passed. Esme bumped into one gyrating creature wearing a cap and a leopard G-string, making him lose his balance and spill his drink, but he just laughed off her shouted apology and kept on bumping and grinding.

  Already sticky, flushed and reeling from the overpowering atmosphere, they found a corner with two gold bean bags by a low table saying ‘Reserved’. It was quieter.

  ‘Tammy saved this for us. She’s such a darling,’ said Cece, who pulled out the vodka bottle bought earlier and two shot glasses from her bag. ‘Not supposed to do this but BYO, if you know what I mean.’