Royals

by Emma Forrest

  I hate stiff upper lips. I hate stiff crinoline. I hate stiff collars. I hate them.

  As we rode the slate waves, I listened to ‘Because the Night’, which Bruce Springsteen had given to Patti Smith and she’d written extra verses while she waited hours for her husband Fred ‘Sonic’ Smith to call from tour. And how Patti, underground street poet punk priestess, had ended up somewhere she was never supposed to be: at the top of the charts. Amazing. Except she didn’t need to be there. She’d still be Patti Smith without the mass adulation. Debbie Harry would not be Debbie Harry without the adulation. Diana wouldn’t be Diana without the adulation. She’d be silly and posh and pointless.

  It had been an accident, too, my time with Jasmine. What my father had done had been on purpose, but getting inside her, my time with her, that was like creeping into the roof of the London Coliseum when nobody was looking. She didn’t mean for me to be up on her roof. Every beautiful memory I have with her wasn’t something she planned for me, it’s just that she’d been looking the other way, or a gate had been left open. It happened once, at the park, the park keeper had forgotten to lock up at night, and though I wasn’t doing much of anything, walking through and stepping onto the children’s merry go round, it felt expansive, enlightening, even with the discarded Monster Munch packets at my feet, because I wasn’t supposed to be there.

  The trip with the ugly people over the ugly waves lasted about two hours and all the way I knew: this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I wish I’d never seen the ballet or been on the roof or got let into a Jamaican after-hours club, or tasted a Parisian croissant at dawn so I wouldn’t know how boring my memories would be from now on.

  I felt ill as I walked through my front door and even sicker when I saw my family. ‘Was it wonderful?’ Mum asked.‘Yes,’ I said.

  I went to get her the croissants I’d bought her, then remembered that I’d eaten them. I should have brought her the enamel inlaid gun and I could have turned it on my father. He’d have died with beauty, having lived without it.

  My brothers were watching football. I thought how terrible the players’ uniforms were, who would play for a team with such colours, and how ugly my brothers looked in their tracksuits. I became obsessed with beautiful tracksuits, designing a tracksuit made from the kimono fabric very close to the one I’d seen on the lady in the museum. Eventually I got to produce it. That was the peril, designing became a way to always have an alternative narrative, a better, more beautiful ending. Experience strained through imagination; my designs have always told, not so much the story of my life, but what I’ve wished my life could be.

  I stayed in my room, lying in my bed, knowing the friendship was irretrievably fucked, that my gate to a beautiful life was gone. How could I have thought that portal would stay open? As soon as she told me about her mum, as soon as I talked her into sharing her worst memory, I’d talked her into leaving me. I looked at the picture she’d stuck up of Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift. Jasmine hated me, now. If I were to crash my car near her home, she’d let me choke on my teeth. She’d let me lose my screen career when I lost my looks, and say to the powers that be, ‘Why would anybody want to look at him?’

  She was a spoiled princess marinated in childhood trauma and she felt intoxicating but was clearly toxic. She hated me and I hated her back. I started to cry because I wanted so much to have her near again.

  CHAPTER 15

  I finally agreed to go with Mum to my aunties’ girdle shop in Bethnal Green. ‘Get you out of bed.’ As we walked, she said, ‘I’ve never seen a face like that on somebody whose just come back from Paris.’ I didn’t want to tell her what had happened. Now she’d met and come round to Jasmine and was even excited about her, I didn’t want to tell her I’d been exiled, like Jews in the Middle Ages, banished from a country in which they’d happily settled. Spain, maybe, because of the heat and architecture, because I thought of Jasmine as such a radiant superstructure. I still fight that survivor’s instinct, that people are countries and they’ll always expel you in the end.

  I daydreamed about Monty and Liz and how they had truly loved each other. Could I have been something else for Jasmine? Married her? Had children? Maybe we’d both have kept lovers, but we could have had a home together and a family. I fantasised about it the whole way there.

  When we got there, I stood outside the shop, hoping still not to go in, its façade fading like my will to live. But the aunties saw us from the other side of the glass and came barrelling out, sucking us back towards them like we were bubbles in a milkshake. The Aunties would be a good name for a punk band; Edna and Marsha would not.

  ‘You’re here!’ they sang, waving their hands in the sky. They could have been waffling around a shtetl with Topol. I was about as depressed as I’d ever been, which was quite depressed.

  ‘How was the journey?’ asked Edna.

  ‘It was fine.’

  ‘You’re not too tired are you?’

  ‘Too tired for what?’

  Answering their questions without looking up, I was being not very nice at all, which hurt, because they were being so sweet.

  ‘We want you to see everything. We know how talented you are and we’ve wanted to show you the family business for so long.’

  They were excited I was there. They were pulling open drawers and getting out samples and they were proud of these clothes, just like I’m proud of my clothes. And I was being an arsehole, an arsehole to old people, and that’s the worst kind.

  But even as I was being unfriendly, refusing to meet their eyes when they asked me questions, asking them no questions at all in return, I was, under my lashes, taking small peeps at the corsets. I wanted to sit up and start unbuckling them to see how they worked, but I didn’t want to stop being sad, or couldn’t stop. I was on the train and I couldn’t get off without knocking myself about.

  But from under my lashes, I saw what looked like a corset made of wool trimmed with cotton lace, and that was interesting. But then there was a tan cotton twill with dark brown cotton lace and that was very interesting, because who’d have thought to render the erotic in such hey-ho colour combinations, the gentle lace with the sturdy twill? They had. These little old mushroom ladies. Marsha and Edna had thought of it.

  ‘It’s a family recipe,’ Edna said, ‘passed down, like the Italians do with their pasta sauce.’

  She stood very close as she spoke, and, since she was an unusual shape, she fit against me despite being low to the ground. I didn’t like the idea of Edna as a missing piece of my jigsaw puzzle.

  ‘I want spaghetti for dinner!’ said Marsha.

  ‘I wanted spaghetti for dinner yesterday but you said no!’

  ‘Well, now I’ve changed my mind. I’m allowed to do that? Who says I’m not?’

  It was interminable, but if I’d have been in a better mood, I’d have found it very sweet that they still had their defined sibling roles, even though they were in their eighties. And I’d have found it even sweeter, the sight of the low-hanging-titty crew boasting about the uplift factor of whalebone versus metal.

  I could see, despite forcing me there, they were getting on my mum’s nerves, too, because she said, ‘I’ll just go and pick up some fish and chips, shall I?’ though she might just have easily have said, ‘I’ll just go and stand over there, away from you.’ Her tone wasn’t hiding much. The cooler my mother and I became, the warmer the sisters were.

  ‘Yes, and we’ll eat them outside so they don’t make the merchandise smell.’

  ‘Yes. We can sit there. Or over there.’

  From Edna’s interest in precisely what angle at which we might sit, I wondered if she had herself harboured dreams at some point of artistic domination. She could have. Neither sister had ever married and, because of the time and place in which they were raised, that meant that they were both virgins. Like Jewish nuns.

  I watched my mum clack up the cobbled street and wondered if, by the time she returned, I would
have turned into one of them, that when she came back with the chips there’d be three mushroom sisters instead of two.

  ‘Well,’ I said, finally looking up, unable to carry on the charade without my mum to bear witness.

  ‘Well, it’s wonderful to have you here! You do look like your dad!’

  That made my skin crawl. I knew I’d have to become successful, not only because I deserved the acclaim, but so I could afford a nose job that would remove my father from my face. I tested whether or not they knew.

  ‘He’s not my favourite person.’

  ‘What?’ Edna asked. She poked her sister in her centre, like testing a cake to see if it was baked all the way through. ‘What did he say?’

  Marsha flicked away her sister’s hand. ‘Your dad works so hard.’

  ‘Kind of.’ Now I was making direct eye contact, but with my other hand I was fondling a corset, tracing the metal hooks with my fingers, a lingerie rosary.

  ‘Yes and he loves you lot so much.’

  ‘Right.’ Eight hooks. Eight hooks traced five times, metal notes played on a xylophone.

  ‘And he means so well,’ said Marsha, ‘Not in his actions so much as—’

  Edna jumped in: ‘Not in his actions? What else is there? I think he’s mean.’

  ‘No!’ Marsha said.

  ‘He was mean to us when he was young and he’s still mean,’ Edna said, surprising me.

  I gave her my full attention as I’d seen Jasmine do, to me, to nurses, to people in pubs. ‘He beats me up. He sent me to the hospital.’

  They looked at each other.

  Marsha wavered. ‘But it’s his spirit.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ snapped Edna, ‘What a dotty thing to say. Is there anything I can do to help, Steven? Maybe a cup of tea?’

  Marsha was relieved to be redirected. ‘Oooh, we have a customer.’ This seemed a rare event. It didn’t have much longer, this business, maybe a year, maybe a few months.

  I saw the shadow in the hallway and I should have known. Though I couldn’t have imagined her here, among us, I still should have guessed it was Jasmine.

  ‘Are you lost?’ Marsha asked.

  ‘No. I’m looking for Steven.’

  ‘He’s here!’ pointed Edna, like a sniffer dog, even though we were all of us a few feet from the other.

  ‘Hi there!’ she said, as cheerful as a skylark.

  I gave her the cold shoulder but she kept coming closer.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Your brothers sent me.’

  ‘I don’t really feel like seeing you.’

  I wanted to leap into her arms! My heart sang so loud it was like the echo you get on the Tube when you’re sitting next to someone wearing cheap headphones.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you think’s wrong with me? You dumped me in Paris!’

  ‘No I did not. You walked away. I thought you must need some time to yourself, so I let you go. So you could get your head together and calm down.’

  ‘He seems very calm,’ said Marsha. ‘He barely speaks above a monotone.’

  Jasmine tried to take my arm. ‘Shall we go and get some food?’

  ‘Mum’s doing it’.

  The finished opal ear cuff was on her ear.

  ‘You don’t get to say those things to me and then waltz back into my life.’

  It was the most I’d ever pushed back against her and she seemed genuinely bewildered. ‘Why not?’

  Then I thought of her dad waltzing in and out.

  ‘I’m sorry, Steven.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sorry,’ I answered, though I understood this was just how she’d been cooked.

  ‘I’m not very sorry. But I have to play the game if I want you to come and get lunch with me.’

  ‘You say such shitty things out loud.’

  ‘Ooh, a lovers’ quarrel!’ said Marsha, a director’s DVD commentary on the scene.

  ‘Why would I keep them inside?’

  ‘Because we’re English! Keep it in.’

  Jasmine took both my hands and looked into my eyes, motioning for me to take deep breaths in and out with her, like I was the spoiled child. ‘I’m a moon goddess. Today’s a waxing gibbous and that’s very good for casting spells. I think we should go to the countryside. You haven’t seen the estate yet. Come on. Do you have any wellies?’

  ‘I don’t have flippin’ wellies.’

  ‘I’ll loan you some. I’ll give you some! You can have them for ever! Just… don’t leave me behind.’

  ‘You left me!’ I said, again.

  The sisters were fascinated. It was the most fun they’d had in years. Marsha was having so much fun, her whole body was quivering and I was a bit scared she was going to turn from a mushroom into a new being, a fairy perhaps.

  ‘Oh, it was just a lovers’ tiff. You took it way too seriously.’

  But I remembered her face, how crushed she’d been.

  ‘But—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more.’ Jasmine exhaled. ‘I think it’s very dull.’

  She picked up a corset, as if it were a safe word.

  I stared at her, daggers, putting aside how deeply I’d longed for her all morning.

  ‘I’m allowed to buy corsets, aren’t I?’

  Edna stepped in. ‘Of course you are, darling. Well. You’re very slim, you don’t need taking in much.’ Between them, the sisters pushed me aside.

  ‘How old are you, Jasmine?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘Perfect! In my father’s day, when he first launched the store, ladies endeavoured to have waists the same size as their age. So let’s try you on a tight lacer. Take off your shirt. Don’t be shy.’ And she pointed at me. ‘We’re all certain he’s a gay.’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet!’

  Marsha whispered to her sister: ‘That’s not the right term. They prefer to be called “homo”.’

  Jasmine shook her head. ‘He hasn’t decided yet,’ and then, taking the corset, added, ‘actually, I want to wear it on the outside.’

  I had to shake myself out of my crossness to back her up. ‘It’s a good look. A plain white T-shirt. It’s provocative. You could do a whole line like that, Edna, of corsets meant to be worn outside the clothing,’ and of course the light bulb went off in my head. It was maybe Jasmine’s light bulb that I was using to see my own thoughts with. The thing about a muse is that it can be hard to tell what was your idea and what was theirs.

  The sisters buzzed around each other, satellites orbiting. They acted as if they were just offering good service, but I could tell they were competing for Jasmine’s attention. Just like anyone who crossed her path. Old ladies with Yiddish accents were no less immune than hot Jamaican nightclub bouncers.

  ‘The flanking bones here, in this one, are whale…’ Edna said, trying to take over the sale.

  ‘Are they really from a whale?’ Jasmine gasped.

  ‘Of course! Don’t look so sad. I bet he had a good life.’

  ‘Until,’ said Marsha, ‘he was killed by those awful Japanese!’

  ‘I love the Japanese!’ screeched Edna.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Marsha.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Edna conceded, ‘but I do love their fashion. Their lovely art. All them red lips and camellias.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like them if they was torturing you.’

  Edna thought about it. ‘No. I wouldn’t like that. Did you know that the most popular musical in the history of Japan is Fiddler on the Roof?’

  ‘Well, that will be because of “Tradition”,’ Jasmine said, hooking herself into the corset and the sisters to her.

  ‘That’s it exactly. They relate to it.’

  ‘You should come for Shabbat dinner,’ said Marsha, turning more mushroom-like with the mention of supper.

  I demurred.

  ‘I wasn’t asking you, I was inviting her.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Jasm
ine said.

  I shot her a look. ‘She’s not Jewish.’

  ‘I can tell that,’ said Marsha. ‘Look at her lovely nose!’

  Now I shot her a look. ‘It’s no better than ours.’

  ‘I think it is.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed her sister.

  Now I was really annoyed. ‘How can you be so self-loathing and yet want to parade around your Shabbat for her?’

  ‘Maybe we want her to parade around our Shabbat, liven it up.’

  ‘It’s lively!’

  ‘It’s beautiful, you should come.’

  ‘I’d love to come!’ she said again. ‘Can I bring him?’

  I knew our fight was over (even though she’d shown up here to tell me we were golden again) when she asked if she could bring me to the crappy Shabbat, I knew we were back on. I didn’t want to go, though.

  ‘If you have to.’

  And they each poked me in the ribs, the sisters, then Jasmine joined in and poked my ribs too, forgetting entirely how it was we met and how I’d only recently been clutching them with moaning pain. I couldn’t figure out if I was still elated or just annoyed now, but that’s all good practice for life. Most of what Jasmine put me through – most of what she took me through – was practice for life.

  ‘You are a handsome boy, though,’ said Marsha, at this point so fungal she was practically floating in a soup of carrots and legumes.

  ‘He is!’ agreed Jasmine. Clearly she was in the mood to agree with anything they said. ‘He looks like Montgomery Clift, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Marsha.

  ‘I can see it,’ chimed Edna, delighted.

  ‘I can’t,’ her sister insisted.

  ‘I see it,’ said Jasmine, the final word. ‘And I’m his Elizabeth Taylor.’

  ‘She converted!’ said Edna.