Slave to Fashion

by Rebecca Campbell

  “Well, Katie,” continued Penny, “that may or may not have been the case. Ludo told me the facts, and we might have been prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. But that isn’t why we’ve called you here. You’ll have noticed that Cavafy has been kind enough to come along. In fact, he’s why we’re here. He came to me yesterday with a story, you see; a story he’d been told by Angel.”

  Enlightenment arrived, dazzling, terrifying. This was nothing to do with Malheurbe. A rush of nausea hit me. It happens a lot to bulimics. But still, I had to fight.

  “For God’s sake, Penny, you know Angel has always had a crush on me. Whatever he says is tainted.”

  “My boy, he don’t lie,” Cavafy said quietly, but with intensity crackling along the edges of the words like static electricity.

  “Let’s get to the point, Katie,” returned Penny. “Did you know that Liam Callaghan and young Angel were friends?”

  “No, not friends,” interrupted Cavafy pedantically. “Just acquaintances, who have sometimes drinks together.”

  “As you please, Cavafy. And what do you think boys talk about when they have their little drinks? Boys like Liam Callaghan? Cut flowers? The stock market? Or maybe, just perhaps, girls?” Penny was actually rather good at sarcasm. “Put yourself in Liam’s shoes, Katie dear. Try to imagine being a boy. A boy who’s just been to bed with someone as pretty and clever and well placed as you. Wouldn’t you have a sly little boast about it, mmm? I would.”

  So, there it was. Liam had blabbed. Perhaps he knew that Angel was sweet on me, perhaps he didn’t. Either way, good little Angel went running straight to his dear daddy. And dear Daddy happened to be Penny’s old friend.

  Cavafy spoke.

  “Katie, you know I always like you. You know I want you for my boy, because he like you so much, too. But when I hear about this with that driver, I was angry. So, you too good for my Angel, but not too good for this Irish person? It’s not right, I say to myself. Not right for Penny, not right for her Ludo. Who is also good boy. Now maybe I am sorry that I came to Penny with this story. But I thought it was better from a friend.”

  “Thank you, Cavafy,” said Penny. “As ever, you have the instincts of a gentleman.”

  No doubt you are wondering at my relative passivity through all this. My natural instinct was to rail at the lot of them. Who did they think they were to sit in judgment over me? It was absurd. But I felt drugged and drained of energy. My legs and arms were heavy and my mind numb. It wasn’t guilt. It was just that I’d done the math. I had the heavy brigade ranged against me, and all I had for defense was the small child’s “I didn’t do it” when her face is covered in the same chocolate that’s smeared on the walls and the carpet and the curtains. But no one’s ever said I was a quitter. Fight on, however feeble the weapons.

  “Look, Penny, Cavafy, I’m not saying Angel’s made this up. I’m fond of Angel, and I’m sorry it never worked out for us. It’s Liam. Liam made a pass at me the last time I was at the depot. He sort of lunged, and I slapped him down. Men hate that, and so he’s made this all up to get back at me, or to boost his ego, or just to cause trouble. I don’t know.”

  “Good try, Katie, but it won’t wash, it really won’t wash.” Penny knew she had the upper hand, and she was smooth and unruffled. “Your French paramour proved that this is part of a pattern. And anyway, I’ve spoken to Liam. He’s distraught.” I bet he is, I thought. “Did you know he’s married? That he has two children?”

  She paused, waiting for the information to sink in. I was frozen. Blindingly obvious, of course. Why else the borrowed flat? Why else the curious evasions? So maybe it was just a bit of stupid male bragging on Liam’s part and not an attempt to get even. How much had Penny made him wriggle? I wondered. Had she wheedled or had she bullied? She could do good cop, bad cop all by herself.

  “He has much more to lose than you. According to his story, you told him you were desperate for a ‘quick fling’—really, how sordid—before ‘settling down’ with Ludo. He says it was you who lured him. And frankly, I believe him.” And then she added in an aside to Hugh, “He’s one of the best drivers we’ve ever had.”

  The swine. Why had I trusted him? But still I couldn’t work up a useful head of righteous indignation. I was sinking. I had to consciously and laboriously move my lips and tongue to speak. And all I could do was bleat: “This is just madness, this whole thing. Where’s Ludo? I want Ludo.”

  “By now Ludo will have gone away. I thought it was best to send him out of town for a while. There’s some project looking after eagles. . . .”

  “Guarding their eggs,” added Hugh.

  “Eggs? But who’d want to eat eagle eggs? Anyway, I’ve sent him to Mull, or Muck, or somewhere. We all agreed it was the healthiest thing.”

  I wasn’t going to cry.

  “What happens next?”

  “Well, obviously you’ll have to move out of the flat.”

  “But you can’t do that! It’s where I live. I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  Penny ignored my words, not even bothering with a “Well, you should have thought of that.” She just plowed straight on:

  “And we really don’t think it’s appropriate that you carry on working here, either. I’m sure that you can see that that would be impossible.” With one sharp nail she pushed something toward me. “In this envelope you’ll find a month’s wages, which I think is quite generous, and a reference, which, all things considered, is also rather generous. Sukie, by the way, is taking over.”

  “Bitch,” I said, but without any real force. I suppose I was thinking about Sukie as much as Penny.

  “Come on now, Katie,” said Hugh, tearing his eyes away from the pattern in the carpet. “You know the rules. You took a chance and you lost. Can’t blame Penny for this. You know, I’ve always thought you were a splendid girl, and I wish you well for the future, but you must see we . . . they have to let you go. Penny and Ludo.”

  That was it. If I’d lost Hugh, then I’d lost everything. And now I had lost everything. Bang! flat; bang! lover; bang! job; bang! everything.

  “We’ve put your things in there,” said Penny, pointing to a cardboard box under my desk, which I now noticed was clear. I could see my red fluffy pencil case, a gift from Veronica, sticking out the top. I’d kept it as another reminder of how far I’d come.

  “When am I supposed to move out of the flat?” I asked. This was my public admission of defeat.

  “I’ve arranged for a taxi to collect everything while you’ve been here.”

  “But that’s outrageous. Surely you can’t do that. And what things? How can I fit all I own into a taxi?”

  “Katie, you weren’t planning on taking any furnishings, were you? I understand that Ludo bought everything. And how well I remember you arriving in a taxi. As you came, so shall you go.”

  “You just can’t do this.” It was my final stand, and all I had left emotionally went into it, just as all my material possessions were in the taxi.

  “Oh, but Katie, we can. You’ve been living a dream. You thought you had become one of us, one of the people who matter. Well, you hadn’t, not really. We just let you pretend for a while. And now it’s time to wake up.”

  I then had one of my light-headed insights, which you are quite entitled to view as a fantasy, if you prefer. Hugh, Cavafy, Penny—these were no longer real people, but before my eyes they were transformed into representative figures, or symbols. Hugh was a former city type, a stockbroker, or trader, or bond dealer (I’ve never really understood the difference); Cavafy was a factory owner; Penny, an entrepreneur, of sorts. It was capitalism in all its glory—Finance, Commerce, the Means of Production, all ranged against me. I was being officially crushed by the system! Okay, so Hugh wasn’t exactly a hotshot, and Cavafy’s factory barely brought in enough to pay the mortgage on the semi in Hitchin, and Penny’s entrepreneurial skills were qualified by incipient dementia, but then being rubbish at the job never stopped the Scarecrow,
Tin Man, and Cowardly Lion. I thought, I must tell Ludo about this, he’ll love it, but of course I was never going to see him again.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Katie, you’re a clever girl, you’ll think of something.”

  Then Penny and Hugh and Cavafy made those faint “Meeting over” noises, little sighs, an “ah,” and a restrained smacking of lips. Hugh gallantly picked up my box and walked with me down the stairs. When we were safely down one flight, he turned and said, “I thought one month was a bit tight, so I’ve made it up to three. Keep it to yourself. Penny’ll go through the roof if she ever finds out.”

  The tears now were rolling down my face, but I only count it as crying if you sob, and I definitely would not be sobbing.

  When we reached the street, Hugh felt for his wallet and gave me twenty pounds, saying, “And you’d better get a taxi back to the flat as well.”

  I can’t remember if I said thanks. I certainly didn’t mean to.

  The cab took me back through the depressing Sunday streets. The day had clouded over, and the sky seemed low enough to bump your head on. A phrase came to me from somewhere: the pathetic fallacy. I must have said it aloud, because the taxi driver said, “Sorry?” but I just shook my head.

  By the time we reached Camden, my inertia and unhealthy detachment had begun to peel away, and some of the old fire was glimmering. At least seven superb retorts came to me, and I writhed and gnashed at having submitted so meekly. If only I’d seen it coming, I could have fought them into the ground. I may not have saved my life, but I would have left them in need of a stiff drink. Instead, they had, I felt, pitied me. Never again.

  The taxi pulled up outside the flat, nose to nose with another. I didn’t tip the driver: I was going to need every penny I had.

  “You waiting for me?” I asked the second driver.

  “You Miss Castle?”

  “Mm.”

  “Then I’m waiting for you.”

  “Is your meter running?”

  “Not your problem, love. Young feller sorted it.”

  I looked in the back. It was filled almost to the roof with cases and black bin liners. There was just enough room for me and my box.

  But first I wanted to check round the flat, partly to see if there was anything of mine they had forgotten. My key turned in the Yale, but the door wouldn’t open. I shoved it with my shoulder. Still nothing. Then I saw that there was a new lock in addition to the old. Coolly I appreciated Penny’s thriftiness. Why go to the expense of changing the lock when you could keep me out and gain additional security by adding another? My heart hardened a little more as another layer of crystal was deposited on the inside.

  Back down the drive I stooped, on impulse, and picked up a stone. Without much thinking about it, I turned and flung it at the window, like a teenage thug. Sadly, I missed both the window and the house, and it bounced off the plaster two doors down. If only I’d paid more attention in PE.

  I climbed in the taxi and saw that an envelope was taped to the bulging beer belly of one of the black bags. I recognized Ludo’s writing. Before I could open it, the driver slid his window across and asked where to. At some deep level of my being, I’d always known what I was going to say when that question came, as it inevitably would. Known, but dreaded to admit it consciously to myself.

  “Tollington Road.”

  “That Finsbury Park? Off Stroud Green?”

  “Mm.”

  Veronica.

  We set off, and I read the note. This is what it said:

  Katie

  Mum phoned when I got back last night. She told me about you and that Callaghan person. If it hadn’t been for the French thing, I would never have believed her. But then if it hadn’t been for Callaghan, I would never have believed the French thing.

  Why did you do it, Katie? I loved you so much, and we could have been so happy. Was it because I wasn’t cool enough, or was it a sex thing? All I can think about is you with them. I banged my head against the wall to try to drive out the images, but it didn’t work. That’s why I can’t ever see you again. I’ve got to try to forget about you or I’ll go mad.

  I’m sorry about the flat. Penny insisted. You know it belongs to her. I said that I thought the lock thing was unnecessary, but she said she didn’t want you ever to set foot in the place again. The most amazing thing about all this is that she actually managed to be right about something. I suppose it’s the law of averages.

  I’m not going to be here when you get back. I’m flying out to the west of Scotland to work on a conservation project. It’s something I’ve been involved in for a couple of years, but you probably haven’t noticed. It was Penny’s idea that I go, but it was still a good one. I don’t know how long I’ll be there for. If they want me, I might never come back.

  I don’t blame you, and I don’t hate you. Part of me will always love you. I’m just so, so sad. I hope you have a nice life.

  L

  I tried very hard to laugh at the self-pity and the pomposity. But it didn’t work. And I’m going to have to end this chapter here, because I promised that I wouldn’t cry in it, and now I’m about to.

  CHAPTER 11

  The House

  of Mirth

  So I blubbed. There were tears of self-pity; there were tears of frustration; there were tears of anger. There were no tears of remorse. It lasted eleven minutes, just long enough to get to the Holloway Road (it’s a Sunday, remember). It was useful and it was good. Without the cry I would have remained in shock, paralyzed and unable to act.

  With the return of clarity, two jobs pressed. I thought I’d better make sure Veronica was in, although where she might go to on a Sunday afternoon, I’ve no idea, unless it was to mooch around in the park on her own, sniffing and snuffling. At least I still had my mobile. I rang. A strange voice, young, male, gormless.

  “Yeah, hi?”

  “Hello, is Veronica there, please?”

  “Nah, she’s er . . . you know . . . out.”

  “Can you tell me when she’ll be back?”

  “Dunno.”

  Curse! Veronica was the last person in London without a mobile—concerns about brain tumors, biorhythms, and miscarriage (fat chance) put her off, she claimed.

  “Look, this is very important,” I said sternly. “Are you going to be in for the next twenty minutes?”

  “Yeah, probably. Why d’yer wanna know?”

  “My name’s Katie Castle. I’m an old friend of Veronica’s and I’m coming to stay. She must have forgotten. You’ll have to let me in.”

  Boy sounded like a cretin. I tried to remember who Veronica lived with. It was a big, sprawling, studenty house full of misfits and inadequates like Veronica. I’d only been there twice before, both also in emergencies (lost keys; first big row with Ludo over mess, which required elementary-level brinkmanship). Last time I was there the rooms were occupied by, as well as Veronica, an irritating pixie who edited a magazine about trampolining; a somber German, here to learn how to brood in English; a civil servant, anxious to talk about VAT; and a pretty, but malicious, jewelry designer, who specialized, apparently, in stealing people’s boyfriends. I’ve no idea what any of them were called. The cretin must be new.

  Okay, so accommodation sorted. Now for that cunt—I’m sorry, but occasionally there really is no alternative, so I say again—that cunt Liam. I had only his mobile number, the one he used for business. I’d programmed it into my Nokia under “clothing removal,” which had amused me at the time, but not now.

  First I had to think carefully about what to say. There were a number of possible approaches. I could rant and rave, which would make me feel better and would make him uncomfortable for the length of the phone call, but which was unlikely to reap much in the way of an objective improvement in my condition. I could be cold and malicious, threatening to use my contacts to destroy his business unless he recanted (with the intention of destroying his business anyway). I could employ some hybrid of t
hese two, ranting at him before cooling it and showing him the steel. I could use reason and point out to him the strong ethical reasons for recanting and saving my skin. I could kill him. I drew up a mental table to help me work it out:

  Advantages Disadvantages Marks (out of ten)

  1. Rant and Rave Get it off my chest; give him a hard time Makes me look like a loony; gives him the satisfaction of knowing he’s had an effect on me 6

  2. Cold Assassin Maximum long-term impact on Liam No immediate psychological release 7

  3. Hybrid of 1 & 2 Quite tricky to pull off Still potential for looking mad 8

  4. Reasoned Argument None No psychological release; no damage to Liam 1

  5. Kill Liam Maximum psychological release Likely to serve 10–15 years of life sentence 5

  Although the points system suggested the hybrid approach, I was still undecided when I pressed dial, but we were getting close to Veronica’s, and I wanted it out of the way by the time I arrived. After four nervous rings I was diverted to Liam’s voice mail. He had recorded a new message. This is what it said:

  “Hello, this is Liam Callaghan. I’m away for the next two weeks and I won’t be able to take on any new jobs until I get back. If that is Katie Castle, please, please stop harassing me and my family. I have had to inform the police about your activities.”

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  That was really it. Really, absolutely, and totally it. Now the whole world was going to think of me as a classic bunny boiler. I had under-estimated Liam. He had worked it all out, and I half admired him for it. Faced with the possibility of losing business through some kind of seedy association with mine and Ludo’s breakup, he had cunningly portrayed me as a psycho. Everybody used Liam. Everybody who used him left messages on his phone. The news would spread faster than Ebola in a Congo village. A weird noise came out of my throat, and it took me a couple of seconds to work out that it was a laugh.

  “You all right back there, love?” asked the taxi driver.

  “Fine,” I said, gasping for air. We were in Tollington Road. “It’s number 116, just here on the left.”