She had a habit of doing this: shouting, ‘Ha!’ at the end of a sentence to show you she was joking. A bit like writing ‘LOL,’ on a text. Only spoken, well, shouted.
As we came back into the apartment, I heard a toilet flush and went about flicking the kettle on and chucking a green tea bag into a mug that was emblazoned with the logo for Cake! on its side. I’ll never forget the lecture I got on my first day when I was introduced to ‘the Mug’.
‘Holly, this receptacle is dearly, dearly precious to me. It was a gift from Cameron Mackintosh on the opening night of Cake! at the RSC all those many, many years ago. You do not need me to tell you that Cake! is still running to this day and has played in all four corners of the globe. And yet this is one of the original pieces of merchandise and is therefore incredibly special, unique. Wash it carefully, treasure it, cosset it and please . . . never put it in the dishwasher.’
‘Yes, Miss di Marco.’
‘If that logo ever fades, it’ll be like the ravens leaving the Tower.’
‘Yes, Miss di Marco.’
‘I might actually die.’
OK. She liked her mug.
Sometimes I wanted to hurl the mug, or her, out of one of the picture windows. Her apartment was always bathed in light (except at night-time, natch) because of the floor-to-ceiling windows. And the views of Tower Bridge to the north and South London to the south were delicious. But surely the windows would look better with a Sylvie-shaped hole in them? This was awful. I had to stop my murderous thoughts about Miss di Marco.
Sylvie was a household name. (‘Like Canesten,’ I often joked to my flatmate, Gracie.) She had had a varied career in her sixty-five years (though Wikipedia still claimed she was only fifty-seven, and it was part of my job to keep it that way). She’d been an overnight success in 1977 playing Marie Antoinette in the musical Let Them Eat Cake! She had taken the show to Broadway and topped the British charts with the show-stopping torch song from it, ‘Misunderstood Queen’, the hi-energy version of which continued to be a floor-filler at many gay clubs even now. From then on she won leading roles on both sides of the Atlantic until the inevitable happened and she hit some God-awful age for a woman like fifty, or maybe forty – it might even have been thirty – and the roles dried up. Then there was the Smiths debacle. Now she toured the country and the world with her one-woman show S for Sylvie, S for Star. She continued to live in the style to which she was accustomed, in the penthouse apartment, people jumping to every click of her fingers (me, mostly), a string of younger lovers always at her bedroom door. (‘Usually running for the hills,’ I would joke to Gracie.) She had made a lot of money, slept with some very famous men and was the most insecure person I had ever met. Often insecurity can manifest itself in appealing shyness or self-deprecation. If only. Sylvie channelled hers into a kind of bombastic dictatorship. She didn’t blow so much hot and cold, like my mum had, just a continual hot.
The only thing that seemed to make her happy was her son, Radisson. I know, Radisson. ‘That’s not a name – it’s a hotel,’ is what Gracie had said when I told her. Radisson was thirty-four (just three years older than me), aloof, grumpy, spoilt and devastatingly handsome. Not my kind of handsome: he was all floppy fringes and cheekbones like BMX handlebars; I preferred something more unconventional. But that didn’t stop Sylvie assuming I fancied him every time he came to visit, which was fortunately infrequently since he’d moved to the States a few years back.
‘I saw you looking!’ she’d chirrup when he left the room. ‘Well, I can’t say I blame you, dear. If he wasn’t my son . . . Ha!’ and then she’d emit a throaty chuckle. At which point I usually changed the subject.
I knew Sylvie was going to be in a particularly foul mood this morning, as her manager, Monty, had emailed me overnight to forewarn me. Sylvie had been availability-checked for a new musical about the life of Dusty Springfield and had been overjoyed. ‘Dusty, darling! Little ol’ me! I love Dusty. Love, love, love her . . . She was so . . . iconic! So much in common, darling!’ But then, to her horror, she had discovered that the producers were considering her for the part of Kay, Dusty’s mother. Despite her insistence that she would only play it if Kay was changed to Dusty’s slightly older sister, the producers wouldn’t budge. Sylvie had then gone to the opening night of a new musical in the West End, which she was also furious about not being in, and had proceeded to get extremely drunk at the after-show party. Monty’s email explained she had not been seen since midnight last night, when, while cavorting with one of the young stars of the show on the dance floor, she had fallen into an artificial fire.
As she trotted into the kitchen on her kitten-heeled slippers, sporting a headscarf (no wig for once), massive shades and a kimono, she growled, ‘Is my banquette coming today?’
‘Thursday.’
‘Oh.’
I heard her rapping her fingernails on the marble countertop. God, that hideous sofa she’d ordered. It was the most garish thing I’d ever seen.
She stopped rapping. ‘How was the . . . thing?’
‘Funeral? Oh, it went as well as can be expected, thanks.’
She clicked her fingers, summoning up the words. ‘The flowers. They liked?’
I wasn’t sure who ‘they’ were, but I nodded all the same. ‘They very much liked, Sylvie, yes.’
‘Oh good. Gooooood.’ And then she emitted a wry, guilty smile. ‘Sylvie has the teensiest of hangovers this morning.’
Despite being from Nottingham, Sylvie spoke with a transatlantic drawl. I couldn’t help it. For bedevilment I ventured, ‘So, what’s the latest about Dusty?’
The smile froze on her face. She twitched a bit, then started pawing at my hair. She would do this a lot, invade your personal space. Usually when she wanted something or was lying. This time it was the latter.
‘I slept on it, darling, and I’ve decided. I don’t wanna play lezz.’
I gulped. Did she actually just say that? She grabbed my arm. Tight. OK, so she was still making out she had been offered the lead part. Er . . .
‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not homophobical, darling. Not me, not I, not Sylvie, no! Why turn my back on my fan base? And let’s be honest, I have drunk, myself, from the fur cup once or twice.’ She looked around the kitchen, as if remembering, eyes darting across the floor. ‘I had Melody Andrews on these very Fired Earth tiles.’
I had no idea who Melody Andrews was.
Sylvie turned her head quickly to look at me. ‘It was when Radisson was very young. He was at kindergarten. I had to finish her off with one of his skittles. But no. Not this year. I don’t wanna play . . . confuuuuuused sexuality, you know?’
I didn’t know. But nodded all the same. ‘Very wise. And at least it means you don’t have to cancel Canada.’
‘Exactly!’ and she clicked some imaginary castanets and stomped her feet à la flamenco dancing. ‘I cannot let my beloved Canadian fans down, darling. Canada’s such a wonderful country, you know? It’s so . . .’ she searched for the right word, then found it, ‘Canadian.’
Biting my lip, I managed a quick ‘I couldn’t agree more’, then poured her some green tea. I was dreading going to Canada with her. I know most people would be thrilled about a trip abroad with work, all expenses paid, but the truth of it was, I would not get a minute to myself and would have no opportunity to see anything of the country I was visiting. Once out of the comfort zone of her Central London apartment, Sylvie was even more incapable of doing anything for herself. I would be with her twenty-four seven. The only time I’d get to myself would be when she was sleeping. And as she was an insomniac, that would be hardly ever.
Now my back was turned to her, I heard her say, ‘Have you put on weight? Have you? Have you put a bit of weight on?’
Don’t let it get to you, Holly.
I didn’t respond, but she continued, ‘Yes, you have. You’re not . . .’ She swallowed her breath. ‘No, you can’t be.’
She sounded so dismissive.
‘Can’t be what?’
‘Pregnant, dear.’
‘Why couldn’t I be pregnant?’
‘Well, you don’t have a boyfriend.’
‘Sylvie, I’ve had a boyfriend for four years. Although –’ my voice faltered ‘– we recently split up. We hardly saw each other, but—’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m too busy.’
‘Well, now your mummy’s died, maybe you’ll have time to find a new boyfriend. What was the old one? A fireman?’
‘A violinist.’
She emitted a throaty cackle, sounding like the woman who used to say, ‘Rrrrrené,’ in ’Allo ’Allo! and said, ‘Excellent fingering technique, no?’
I said nothing. Of course what I’d meant was I was far too busy running around after her to go looking for love or nurturing love or, well, loving anything or anyone except the task in hand. Nannying her.
I knew this top was a mistake the minute I put it on. It’s just I really fancied wearing it. The upside was, it was a really pretty, floaty white top with a sort of Indian paisley design and was tight at the top but all billowy at the bottom. It was too short to wear as a dress (unless you were incredibly racy) but looked great, I thought, with skinny jeans and bejewelled flip-flops. The downside was that from some angles it looked like a maternity smock.
‘Or are you a little bit Dusty?’ Sylvie cooed. And then giggled. At least someone found her funny. I had no idea what she was talking about.
‘Sorry?’
‘You know. Maybe that’s why you split up with your boyfriend. Maybe you’re a little bit . . . Dusty?’
‘No, Sylvie. I’m not even a teensy bit Dusty. Toast?’
‘Bacon sandwich, darling. May as well join you in Team Porkypants. It’s not like I’m going to be the ingénue anymore.’ She sighed.
I couldn’t help it. ‘Well, you’ve still got to fit into last year’s costumes for Canada,’ I pointed out.
Even with my back to her I felt the dirt of the look she was giving me.
‘Did your mother commit suicide?’ she hissed. I turned and looked at her, stung. She shrugged. ‘It’s just you have a terribly vicious tongue sometimes. Very cutting. Almost knife-esque. Hope you didn’t . . . upset her, darling.’ I thought she had finished. Then she breezily continued, ‘Make it two bacon rolls. I have company.’
And with that she spun on her heel and headed back to bed. Company. Poor chap.
Looking in the fridge, I saw that there was no bacon. I called through to her, ‘There’s no bacon, Sylvie!’
No response came. I heard a soft chuckling. Then what sounded like the muffled noises of a man waking up in a state of panic and realizing he’d made a really horrendous mistake, or maybe I just wanted it to sound like that.
‘Sylvie! There’s no bacon!’ I tried again.
‘Well, go to the fucking shop! Jesus! Or is that too much for your little brain to handle? In this life, Holly, you need things? You have to go out and buy them. No wonder your boyfriend left you!’
Her bedroom door slammed.
It made Michael whimper.
I cursed her aggressively under my breath and headed out.
Sylvie’s favourite deli was wedged between a bookmaker’s and a haberdasher’s on a back alley off Tooley Street, a stone’s throw from her flat. The avuncular owner, Frank, was past retirement age, past caring but not past it. He was Italian by birth and still had a strong undercurrent of the accent mixed in with his cockney. Every time I entered his shop, he called the same thing – ‘Here she comes! When you gonna marry me, baby?’ – and he’d hold his arms out like he wanted to hug me.
I’d always have to reply, ‘You’re a married man, Frank – I couldn’t!’ and then look to the till, where his wife, Esther, sat with a fat grin on her face, biro-ing bras on the Page Three girls in the Sun. I’m not sure which radio station they had vibrating through their tinny transistor, but it always seemed to be playing Duran Duran.
‘What does that bitch want today, hey?’
I loved that he didn’t just call a spade a spade, he called it a dirty great shovel.
‘She’s out of bacon.’
‘Bacon, bacon. I cut you some nice bacon.’ And he went about sawing thin slices of bacon off a big, leggy-looking hunk of meat. ‘So, you gonna jack it all in and run away with me, baby?’
‘Frank! Duh! Not in front of Esther!’
Again Esther chuckled, even though she heard this conversation almost daily.
‘Oh my God, I did not ask you! How was your mummy’s funeral?’
‘Oh, it was . . . OK, thanks. Lovely service.’
‘You will miss her big time, eh, baby?’
‘Er . . . yes.’
‘So sad.’ He looked like he might cry.
‘Yes.’
‘Lot to sort out after funeral.’
‘Yes.’
‘Lot of shit to attend to. Know what I mean, baby?’
‘I do. A shitload of shit.’
This tickled him.
‘And your daddy, he’s dead too, yeah, baby?’
‘He is.’
‘Little orphan Annie, innit?’
‘Innit,’ I replied, though my cockney was unconvincing.
‘So . . . what’s going on with the house they lived in, or was it council?’
‘No, it was theirs. I’ve put it on the market. I got an estate agent round yesterday.’
‘Bad times, innit?’
‘Well, I don’t want to live there.’
‘And you get all the money from that, right?’
I nodded. Right. It felt wrong, somehow, me benefiting from the death of my parents. Before I could explore this further in my head, my phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Sylvie. I answered with a quick hello.
‘I’m going to cook tonight, so I need two organic chicken breasts.’
‘OK.’ And I said to Frank, ‘You don’t do chicken breasts, do you?’
‘No!’ she was yelling down the phone. ‘I want you to get them from Budgens.’
‘Budgens?’ I couldn’t think where Budgens was.
‘Yes, Budgens. In Belsize Park.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you deaf as well as stupid?’
‘Belsize Park? It’s miles away. I’m sure I can find somewhere round here.’
‘Listen to me, Holly. I want you to take public transport – none of your taxi shit – and go to Belsize Park and get me two . . . organic . . . chicken breasts.’
‘Why?’
I knew better than to question her, but I just didn’t understand the reasoning behind sending me somewhere so far away for something so simple. Her voice was icy when she eventually spoke.
‘I like them from there.’
‘There must be a nearer Budgens, surely.’
‘Belsize Park,’ she yelped, and hung up. I followed suit.
‘Go somewhere else, baby, and say you went up Belsize Park. She takes the piss, girl.’ Frank was very put out on my behalf. Even Esther seemed to be scrubbing a little harder with her biro.
‘No, she’ll ask to see the receipt.’
‘Tell her she can stick the facking receipt where the sun don’t shine. You know what I mean, baby?’
He was funny when he was angry. I paid for the bacon and bid him and Esther farewell.
As I trudged beneath the twin castles of Tower Bridge, I wondered whether Sylvie had done this on purpose to keep me out of the apartment while she had some sexy time with her overnight guest. I became less bothered about it then, though I couldn’t help but wish she’d just told me the truth and asked if I could keep out of the way for an hour or so. But then by doing that she would have been treating me as her equal, and no one was that, as far as she was concerned. A quick consultation on an app on my phone told me that if I walked to Monument Station, I could take the Northern Line direct to Belsize Park. The journey was going to take a good half-hour and, not for the first time, as I swerved the stressed busines
smen and -women hurrying to and fro along too-narrow pavements, I decided that this was no job for a grown woman. I looked to my right, seeing the gleaming glass rockets of Canary Wharf. I had no idea really what went on in there, but I imagined a lot of people were rushing around doing deals with Asia and big, global, important stuff. Around me, the City of London buzzed with urgency. Life-or-death decisions were being taken. Behind me was the 1960s tower block-a-like of Guy’s Hospital – how many operations were taking place there now? How many people were being cared for by doctors, nurses? Real life. Real stuff. And what was I doing?
Travelling six miles on a matter of the utmost urgency. To source two organic chicken breasts for someone’s supper.
I hated travelling on the Underground. I wasn’t claustrophobic in any other area of my life, but stick me on a Tube train and I was liable to come out in a sweat of anxiety that only a general anaesthetic could dry out. It was the heat, the way everyone had to squash into carriages, the way there was never anywhere to sit, as the seats were always taken. It was the way they came to a sudden halt in a tunnel just when you needed a massive wee, and the driver could never explain why he’d had to stop, except that he’d seen a red light. Jump it, for God’s sake! And the stations were no better. I always managed to walk behind an Antipodean with a maisonette-sized suitcase who had no idea where she was going, or a loved-up couple arm in arm who were taking in the scenery (crappy tiles and scrappy posters of Helen Mirren advertising jeans or a play), or a school party of under-twelves wearing hi-vis jackets and having either a bossy teacher who enjoyed shouting things like ‘OK, stand close to the wall! Remember what I said about safety, yes?’ or the trying-to-be-trendy type who attempted to laugh at their students’ jokes, or feel their pain, and were all heart and no dress sense. And that was before you even tried to navigate your way around the different-coloured lines and the illuminated signs for Southbound, Northbound, Eggbound, et cetera.
So imagine my delight when I found myself in a beautifully underpopulated carriage. I had my choice of three seats. I chose the one nearest the door and settled down to at least try and enjoy the twenty-or-so-minute ride to sunny Belsize Park. I nestled my bag in my lap and took out my iPad and zigzagged my finger over it, trying to look important, as if I was on my way to one of those life-and-death meetings, instead of heading to source eco-friendly poultry. It was then Frank’s words started ringing in my ears: And you get all the money from that, right?
The Girl Who Just Appeared Page 4
