Slave to Fashion

by Rebecca Campbell

  “I’m sorry if I’ve bothered you,” he said, putting the Ecstasy tablets back in his pocket and standing up to leave. “Liam’ll be in sooner or later, if you must see him, but it’s my honest opinion that you should go.”

  I felt guilty about wounding his pride. And that guilt proved to be the straw that broke this camel’s back. One fat tear ran down my cheek. I stared at the ceiling to keep the others in, and I prayed that no one was looking. Jonah sat down again.

  “Look, it’s me that should be sorry,” I said. “I’m sure you were only trying to help. It’s just that everything’s gone wrong since I met Liam. I’ve lost my job, I’ve lost my house, I’ve lost my boyfriend, I’ve lost my future. I’ve got to go and live in East Grinstead. My whole life is ruined.”

  “Yes, well, you see, Katie, this is the barren place I was talking about, and you’ve got some hard times to get through. But maybe I can help you. Look, I’ve got a flat not far from here . . . well, you know about that. I’ve been letting it out on a short-term basis. If you’re desperate for somewhere to stay, I can let you have it for a fair rent.”

  I was stunned. I couldn’t decide if it was kind or cruel. Ludo once told me that the ancient Greeks had the same word for poison and cure (don’t ask me what it was). This felt a bit like that. Obviously a chance to stay in London was welcome, but in that flat? Anyway, there were practical difficulties. The proposition at least had the effect of stemming my tears.

  “That’s very kind of you, but I haven’t a penny. I couldn’t afford the rent or the deposit. Not without a job. ”

  “Well, as for the deposit, I’ve never needed to ask for one. I’ve generally found that tenants are happy to be able to pay me for any damage.” I imagined they probably were, when confronted with the hammer, and the “Introduction to Nietzsche” tutorial.

  “Again, that’s awfully nice of you, but it doesn’t exactly help me if I haven’t got a job.”

  “Come on now, I find it hard to believe that a clever wee girl like you can’t find a way to earn a shilling. You’re rag trade, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose you could say that.” How Penny would have recoiled from the description!

  “I’ve a connection or two there. I’m owed the odd favor.” I speculated about what this might mean. I didn’t suppose Jonah’s contacts were with Harvey Nicks. Perhaps some sweatshop owner had arranged for the delivery of a horse’s head. I wondered how much he’d charge me to slip one into Penny’s bed. Probably take her all morning to realize it wasn’t Hugh with a hangover. But I was thinking seriously about the proposition. It was a desperate course, but what were my options? If there were any other way of staying in London, I’d have taken it.

  “Have a minute to think it over,” said Jonah. “I’m just going to the . . .” He hesitated, obviously unsure which word to use in front of a girl like me. “The . . . the, you know.”

  When he’d gone I saw something lying on the seat next to me. Something small and white. It was one of the Es. It must have escaped as he’d crammed the pills back into his pocket.

  Now this may sound a bit silly, as well as so very old-fashioned, but I’ve always rather liked Ecstasy. Not that I’ve taken it much—maybe three or four times, and the last had been at least two years before. It just wasn’t the sort of thing done in my circle, where cocaine was the indulgence of choice (after, depending on sex, Prada, and the love of underage boys). But there is something so good-natured and noncompetitive about E that it completely won me over. I scratched and fought all day at work, and I didn’t want to do more of the same in my leisure hours. Cocaine makes everyone from shop girls to supermodels feel and act like big-shot City traders, pumped up with machismo, and testosterone, and unnecessary braces. It makes people horrid and noisy. They feel great, but everybody not similarly tooled up hates them. E, on the other hand, just makes you nice. Boring and crap at dancing, perhaps, but nice. And happy. And seeing the little white pill there, I had an impulse. I wanted the easy way out. And, I thought, maybe it’ll help me say what I want to say to Liam. Without thinking further about the consequences, I took the E between my thumb and forefinger, popped it in my mouth, and swallowed it down with a gulp of gin and tonic.

  There’s always the little moment of disappointment with illicit drugs, when nothing happens. The teenage dreams of instant gratification or sudden brilliant visions featuring Abyssinian maids and dulcimers and caves of ice and secret pleasure domes never come true. I looked around. Everything was the same. But you know you have to just roll with it and carry on doing whatever you’re doing, until you suddenly find that you’re flying.

  Jonah came back.

  “Still no sign of Liam,” he said. “He may not be in tonight at all. Perhaps you’d better leave.” He smiled what I think was meant to be a kindly, paternal sort of smile. I could have sworn there was a faint rumbling as the tectonic plates of his face shifted. If I’d been in California, I’d have screamed. I didn’t believe him.

  “But I’m having such a lovely time here with you, anyway. Nietzsche and things. And I’m still thinking about the offer. You didn’t say how much the rent was.”

  He mentioned a sum. It was less than I was paying for a hovel when I was a student. Kilburn was up-and-coming. It had the Jubilee line and . . . and . . . Irish bakers and Halal butchers. What was there to lose?

  I was going to say yes when I began to feel queer. I’d forgotten about the E. But this didn’t feel quite right. My toes had gone numb. Perhaps it was just pins and needles from sitting still. Or maybe the drink.

  “Just going to the loo,” I said, and stood up a little unsteadily. I put a hand out and flapped at air for a second, until Jonah caught me.

  “I think maybe you’ve had enough to drink for tonight.”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said. “Just need to pee.”

  The room was doing strange things. It had become a huge concertina, played by a drunk. Somehow I made it to the ladies’. I splashed some water on my face. The sink was full of fag ends and toilet paper. I stared at myself in the cracked mirror. I looked truly dreadful. My hair was matted with sweat. My makeup was all wrong. I tried to fix it, but I couldn’t work the zip on my bag. I took a few deep, urine flavored, breaths and thought I felt a little better. I found my hairbrush and pushed it through my hair. Have to go home, I thought. Get Liam another time. Probably won’t come. Money for a taxi. Borrow from Veronica.

  I opened the door and there he was, at the center of a group of young men and women. They seemed to have just burst in that moment. They were laughing at some story he was telling them. I saw Jonah going toward them. Then he saw me, and the tectonic plates shifted again, to what might have been concern. What was happening to my legs? My legs weren’t there. I looked down. I could see them, but they weren’t there. And then I couldn’t see them, either. All I could see was carpet, swirls of red and gold. I could feel it against my cheek, dusty and hot. Someone was pressing my face down into the carpet. Pushing me under it, to where everything was black and silent.

  CHAPTER 15

  Nadir

  “Katie? Can you hear me?”

  “Mmnngh.”

  “Katie, do you know where you are?” The voice was sharp and strict. I’d nodded off in the classroom again. It must be double physics.

  “Mmnngh.”

  “Katie, your father’s here.”

  I opened my eyes. Everything was very bright, so I shut them again.

  “Katie, try to wake up. Do you know where you are?”

  “Saphics.”

  “Katie, you’re in St. Mary’s Hospital.”

  I opened my eyes again. There was a black nurse. Machines. My throat was sore and my head hurt. What had she said? My dad was here? It was my wisdom teeth. No, that was years ago, and the pain was much worse. They’d bashed them out with baseball bats or blasted them with TNT. Then another face loomed over. A big face. Easter Island. Not Daddy. And I remembered. Remembered some things. Images. The car
pet. Jonah came close and whispered in my ear.

  “Hello.”

  “Am I all right?”

  “Yes,” said the nurse over Jonah’s shoulder. “You’ve been very lucky. You’re a silly girl. Thank God your father was there to look after you.”

  “What happened?”

  “Have you heard of ketamine?” said the nurse.

  “No.”

  “It’s a tranquilizer used for horses. Some dealers sell it as Ecstasy.” The nurse bustled off, humming and tutting at the same time, which was some trick.

  Jonah leaned closer. “I brought you in last night after you collapsed. I’ve told them I’m your father. It was the only way they’d let me stay with you. I need your help here, Katie. Play along with this and you can stay in the flat for six months without paying anything. And there’s other things I can do for you.”

  I looked at him without quite comprehending. I made my mind work over what had happened. I’d taken the pill. So it wasn’t Ecstasy. I was stupid. I couldn’t really blame Jonah, but he was obviously terrified that I would say that I had got the drugs from him. I could use this.

  “The police are going to want to talk to you. They won’t charge you, because you haven’t even taken a banned substance. And even if you had, they’d only caution you—no record or anything. But if you tell them I gave you the stuff, then that’s me done for supplying, even though you nicked it off me.”

  “Rent free for a year.”

  Jonah smiled, looking relieved. He’d probably expected hysteria. “That’s a hard bargain you drive. Nine months. And I’ll see about that job.”

  “Nine months, then.” Nine months in which to rebuild my life. I could do it. I knew I could do it. One thing preyed on my mind. Something I read about. Something that happens when you faint.

  “Jonah?”

  “Yes, child?”

  “Back in the pub, when I passed out. You know, in front of . . . everybody.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “Did I, you know . . . did I do anything?”

  “I’m not with you.”

  “I didn’t . . . wet myself, or anything, did I?”

  “Not that anyone would notice. Not . . . anyone else.” Oh, God.

  “Thanks.”

  So I spent a night in intensive care and another night on a mixed ward with the wretched of the earth. Wherever I looked there were colostomy bags and varicose veins and arthritic hips. A telly was always flickering in the corner of the ward, but the sound was never loud enough to hear what was going on. I could tell the nurses didn’t like me, but the doctors lingered. I wasn’t very ill. It seems that ketamine poisoning isn’t at all serious, as long as you don’t die.

  The police came, a him and a her. He was baby faced and chinless, and she had the little feet and tired eyes of a ballerina. They were much less strict than the nurses. I gave them a detailed description of the two boys who pressed the pill on me. One was a virtual midget, with “eyes that burned right through you.” The other was a gormless beanpole, with four studs in his nose, protruding goofy teeth, and an elaborate limp. I got the policeman to go through a variety of silly walks until he hit upon the correct one, in which the right foot undertook a little epicycle at the midpoint between backswing and follow-through. And yes, I thought I’d recognize them if I saw them again. And yes, I’d be happy to point them out in a lineup.

  They wouldn’t be pressing any charges against me. I’d suffered enough.

  I’d given Jonah Veronica’s address, and he promised to send someone to collect my things. He said he’d have the place looking spick-and-span by the time I got there. I was still unsure about his generosity. Could he really be so scared of what I’d tell the police? I suppose drug dealing, if that’s how they’d see it, would mean a couple of years inside. Or was it the philosophy? But taking pity on me didn’t sound much like the lion renouncing all values. Nor did guilt. Not very Nietzschean at all, I thought. Perhaps he fancied me. Was he setting me up in a love nest? That, at least, I could understand. But it didn’t seem to ring true. There was something otherworldly, almost monkish, about Jonah. I suppose the truth is that you never really quite get to the bottom of why people do things, except in books.

  On Wednesday morning a handsome young registrar, with a mop of curly hair that made me think of my poor lost Ludo, said I was fit to go. He gave me a lecture about drugs and made me promise to call a special help line if I was tempted again. As he walked away, he glanced back over his shoulder and smiled. I thought he was going to ask me out, but his courage failed him, and he fiddled instead with his stethoscope.

  Jonah had said to phone him when I was ready to leave.

  “I’ll send an associate of mine to collect you,” he said when I called.

  I liked the sinister sound of “associate.” As I stepped out of the horrid hospital nightie and into my civilian clothes, I speculated on who it might be. I was expecting some underworld heavy, a grandnephew of the Krays, perhaps, or a Yardie hit man. I was disappointed and not a little embarrassed to find a less formidable figure stumbling down the ward toward me. It was the funny little man from the pub, the one who thought deaf people weren’t really deaf. Amazingly, I could remember his name: Pat.

  “Hello there, miss,” he said, looking intently at the pattern in the hospital lino. “I’ve come for yez.”

  We drove back to Kilburn in his ancient Ford Escort van. Pat’s lank brown hair was smoothed down neatly except for one tuft that stuck out at right angles above his left ear. He was wearing a blue anorak, buttoned tightly at the neck but otherwise open. On one side the nylon had melted, leaving the charred white filling exposed. The coat smelled strongly of meat, as though he’d recently handled carcasses. I tried to open the window, but there was just a jagged chromium stump where the handle-turny thing should have been. As he drove he peered through the filthy windscreen, a look of intense concentration on his face.

  “So you work for Jonah, then?”

  “I do a bit of work for him now and then, now and then.”

  “He’s been very kind to me,” I said, fishing for more information.

  “Oh sure, he’s a great one for all sorts of kindness. Unless you’re a Hegelian. He has a fearful hatred for Hegelians, the whole lot of ’em. I’ve heard him say it many a time. I’d go so far as to say he’s prejudiced. I’ve never been to Hegelia meself.”

  Was that a joke? Before I had time to work it out, he began to blather at high speed about how the Pyramids in Egypt and “them other places, like Africa and suchlike,” were built by aliens. That at least filled the rest of the journey.

  I’d never been to Kilburn in the daytime. The High Road was solid with traffic; the pavements teemed with life. It had the feel of a Cairo or Calcutta (I imagine: I haven’t been to them, either), not because of the racial mix or the obvious poverty, but more because of the straining effort, the energy, the propelling urge to make, buy, sell, live. Stalls spilled out of shopfronts. Housewives haggled. Children wailed for sweets. A window had a sign saying, EVERYTHING ONE POUND. For a moment I thought that it meant that you could have literally everything, the whole stock of toilet rolls and bin liners and cigarette lighters and cheese graters and fine crystal decanters and imitation Barbie dolls, all for a pound.

  We arrived. Pat leapt around to my side to open the door.

  “Can’t get out from in,” he said, and I think I understood.

  The hallway was as smelly and cluttered as I remembered. However, I was convinced that a different bike lay in pieces on the carpet. Oh, and the cat poo was gone. The flat was something else.

  “Fixed it up a bit for yez,” Pat said shyly. There was a strong smell of paint, and all the walls gleamed white. I looked around. The mattress now had a base and a plain headboard. My clothes had been put into a big black wardrobe and a chest of drawers, both new additions to room. The kitchen was spotless and had one or two additions: a toaster caught my eye. There was a new table in the living room, with fou
r chairs, each by a different father. There was a tiny vase of daisies on the table.

  “Got yez some flowers,” said Pat, pointing.

  Suddenly I felt very tired and weepy. I suppose I was still weak from my brush with ketamine. I gave Pat’s hand a squeeze, which made him blush and wriggle.

  “I’ll be going, then,” he said. “Jonah’ll be in to see yez tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much,” I replied, and he fled.

  It was eleven o’clock. I lay down on the bed and tried to think. After all the disasters and fiascos of the past few weeks, I seemed to have hit some kind of a ledge. I could now either start the climb back up the near vertical cliff face, or I could slip and fall the rest of the way to the rocks below. But for now I needed to sleep. I looked for the handholds and footholds, but I was too tired. Tired, so tired.

  I woke up hungry at three. I’d seen a supermarket on the High Road, and the word readymeal flashed in neon before my eyes. I looked in my purse. I had fifteen pounds. An hour later and half a bottle of wine and an individual fisherman’s pie to the good (although this particular fisherman seemed inordinately fond of potatoes and flour and rather scornful of fish), I settled down on the small couch in the living room.

  Jonah had been good over the flat. I could do something with it. I’d enjoy that. I’d never really had a place all to myself. And Kilburn wasn’t that bad. Compared to the alternative, East Grinstead, it was the Garden of Eden. So living was solved. But working was still a problem. And money. I had little faith in Jonah’s contacts. I suspected the closest he had been to the fashion industry was sewing the arrows on prison uniforms. My best bet still seemed to be retail. But it was dispiriting to think how low I would have to stoop before I escaped the bad smell I had left behind me. That could mean chain stores. I shuddered.