The History of Us

by Jonathan Harvey

  Adam was unable to get a signal in this subterranean eatery, but that didn’t stop him pretending to punch in numbers and talk loudly to various imagined friends, which caused quite a few of the other customers to look over, unimpressed or beguiled.

  ‘What does it sound like when it rings?’ he asked.

  ‘No idea. But I bet it’s a beautiful sound. Like a magical, heavenly dawn chorus!’ And again we laughed.

  Adam was such good fun. I’d always thought that when his writing didn’t take off after the dire reviews for his second play – I couldn’t for the life of me remember the title right now, but it was something to do with Standing on the Brink of something or other. Anyway, whatever it was, it was an INCREDIBLY pretentious title, considering it was about a woman who worked in a sweet shop. Clearly based on his mum – I’d always thought that he’d slump into a depression. Thus far, he hadn’t.

  ‘Anyway. Come on. Gossip about Kathleen. Shoot.’

  It amazed me that he and Kathleen had remained such good friends. I knew on one level he loved her, but fuck me, he loved to slag her off.

  ‘I’m not speaking to her.’

  ‘Why not?!’

  ‘She’s having a nose job.’

  I clutched the table, threw my head back and howled.

  Oh, that was too much. That was too funny. Kathleen? Sheepish little Kathleen was having PLASTIC SURGERY?

  ‘But why aren’t you speaking to her? That’s a genius idea! Our little Kath? Going all Hollywood?’

  ‘Well, exactly, it’s just bloody ridiculous. Who does she think she is? Miss Ellen?’

  ‘But if she hates the one she’s got . . .’ And we all knew she hated the one she had.

  ‘I’ve told her. It lends her character.’

  ‘She needs it,’ I added, with more bitchiness than I’d intended. Must’ve been the champagne.

  ‘It’s the most interesting thing about her,’ he agreed.

  ‘God, you’re outrageous.’

  ‘I know. Oh. And she’s applied to become a fucking trolley dolly. She’s got ideas above her airport, that one.’

  ‘Stop making me laugh!’

  ‘Comes with the turf, kid,’ he said, pretending to rearrange his bust, sounding for all the world like Bet Lynch from Coronation Street.

  The turf he was talking about was his new role in life. He had recently ditched any pretensions about wanting to have another play on because, he had decided, ‘I now realize I was destined to be centre stage. Not at the back taking notes.’ Adam was now a fully fledged drag queen, performing several nights a week at a variety of gay bars, pubs and clubs, calling himself Josie Jumpsuit. I thought that was a dreadful name but he, of course, was convinced it was genius. Kathleen and I had been to see him perform a few times and, although he was a bit rough around the edges, he had actually made me laugh. He lip-synched very well to several singers and cracked a few off-colour jokes in his Liverpool brogue, often picking on various members of the audience. He had once pointed me out and said I was ‘the least convincing tranny he’d seen in years’. It had got a massive laugh from the ‘crowd’ – there were about twenty old men in a sticky carpeted pub in Putney – so fair play to him. Who was I to deny him his moment of glory?

  Now he seemed to spend his days scouring second-hand shops for different jumpsuits to wear at night, often taking them home and getting the ever-ready-to-please Kathleen to customize them so that they were a bit more sequinny and glamorous. I imagined her sat in their Harmony Heights flat, hunched over that sewing machine like she was in a sweatshop. Since the closure of Hyper Hyper both Adam and Kathleen had tried their hands at various things, between periods on the dole. Kathleen had tried to be a fashion designer, with zero luck. Now she worked several jobs; the latest was, she screen-printed sets of white bed linen with various patterns and sold them at Greenwich market. She was doing OK for herself, apparently. Amazing what people could do when they put their minds to it.

  But trolley dollying? Our little Kath? I couldn’t see it myself. Nothing about her reeked of the jet set.

  ‘Everything OK with the flat?’ I asked.

  Adam nodded. ‘Great, thanks, you’re a star.’

  After finding a squat for us to live in a few years ago, I had eventually managed to get their names on the list for a housing association flat, of which they were now proud tenants. The deal was that since I had helped them get it, I could stay there whenever I wanted. It was a roomy two-bedroomed place in Paddington, and the lounge was big enough for me to treat the sofa bed as my pied-à-terre whenever I needed it. Not that I’d needed it that much recently, what with me practically living with Mr Love.

  I had become rather reliant on Mr Love, as recently it had become apparent that at the grand old age of twenty-five I was somewhat past it. With his blessing I had done some glamour modelling, and for about a year I had been popular on the pages of certain tabloids with my top off, lip gloss on my nipples and a faraway look in my eyes. I was flavour of the month for all of about a month, as I was seen as exotic and different in that tits-out world on account of my skin colour. But my heart had never been in it, and when I’d had the chance to record a record, I’d jumped at it. ‘Do Me in Ibiza Old Town’ had bombed. And who had been my manager through these ill-advised journeys? Mr Love.

  I had enjoyed, briefly, the attention of getting my top off, after years of wondering if I was as good as white girls and believing from my mother that I had to work twice as hard as them to prove my worth. Well, in the glamour world, that just wasn’t true. Just by taking my top off and revealing my (hitherto in my eyes) cumbersome breasts, I discovered a welcome power over men. And that power was pretty intoxicating.

  However, my mother proved to be right, ultimately. I had no longevity as this kind of model, because on the whole it seemed the largely white Sun-buying public preferred their girls Caucasian. And unless I wanted to venture into porn, which I most certainly didn’t, then there just didn’t seem to be any sort of future in it for me.

  Mr Love didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t seem to mind what I did. He had actually appeared to enjoy the idea of other men ogling my semi-naked form. Mind you, he’d been convinced I was the next Madonna as well. He got me my record deal, for what it was worth. And, as he kept pointing out, Samantha Fox had done it – why shouldn’t I?

  Well. Possibly because I hadn’t had the talent in the first place.

  I knew my limitations, and I had rapidly discovered that it’s one thing being the best singer in your church choir; it’s another to compete with experienced recording artists in the cut-throat world of the music business.

  I had enjoyed my brief flirtation with fame. But no-one wanted their thirteen-year-old buying ‘that dirty lady’s’ record once they found out what my previous career had been.

  It was during my glamour days that my mother stopped speaking to me altogether.

  And now I was in a bit of a pickle. I’d been out of the normal workplace for too long. If I applied for a job in an office now, what would I put on my CV? Two years getting my baps out for magazines and newspapers? A number 83 hit record with a Europop beat? That wasn’t going to convince anyone I was any good at photocopying.

  I occasionally got recognized. But it was mostly men in unappealing raincoats. The sort with stains on. And I doubted they were in any position to find me work.

  Well, there was one job offer I’d had lately. But I CERTAINLY wasn’t going to be taking that one up. I almost told Adam about it, but pulled back, doing one of those lousy ‘Guess what? Oh . . . nothing . . .’ exchanges so often heard in soap operas.

  There was no need for me to tell him about Black Orchid.

  When the bill came he offered to pay it, citing as his reason that ‘Josie’s quite flush this week’, so I let him. And as I trudged off into the daylight, the prospect of Mr Love proposing to me made my heart soar.

  But why should it soar? I’d never told him I loved him, despite him telling me several times. An
d – if I was honest with myself – this was because I didn’t love him. I loved the life he gave me, but could I honestly describe my feelings for him? What I loved was that he was my meal ticket. And right now, with so few other options on the table, that was something I was prepared to suck up.

  Besides, I was careless. I was fearless. I was bold and invincible. Nothing could hurt me – I had reinvented myself as an ice queen.

  Who needed feelings, when Mr Love had cold, hard cash?

  I realized I sounded very much like a prostitute.

  Mr Love was already home by the time I got back, remarkably early for someone who constantly claimed to be at the cut and thrust of the international movie business, even though in all our years together he’d had two tiny credits on some straight-to-video movies. ‘Runner’ on one and ‘additional material by’ on the other. But then he always said movie development was a long, laborious process with constant disappointment and rejection. I could hear him rattling pots and pans in the kitchen so I called a quick ‘Only me!’ as I walked through the apartment.

  The evidence was everywhere that Bolshy had been, things we’d left lying around neatly put into piles on various surfaces, something that didn’t bother me but I knew drove Mr Love mad. Why won’t she put THINGS AWAY?! I nipped into the bedroom to throw my jacket on the bed, which was when I saw another pile. A pile of all my clothes on the bed, next to an open suitcase.

  ‘Blimey!’ I said, ‘Bolshy’s taken this pile malarkey a bit far, hasn’t she?’

  Which is when I sensed him behind me. I swung round. He was looking sheepish in the doorway.

  ‘Shit. I wanted to get to you before you saw that.’

  And in that moment, I knew that this pile was less to do with Bolshy and more to do with him.

  And there was only one reason a man put his girlfriend’s stuff out in a pile next to an empty suitcase.

  It meant he was dumping her.

  Mr Love was dumping me.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked with an imperious tone, the implication being that I knew and heartily disapproved.

  ‘Come into the kitchen.’

  So I did. I followed him in and saw a bubbling shepherd’s pie on the side.

  ‘I want you to have this.’

  Mr Love grabbed a bulging envelope from the tiny table at the end of the kitchen and handed it to me. It felt heavier than it looked, and when I looked inside I saw it was full of twenty-pound notes.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘There’s a thousand in there. Look on it as severance pay.’

  ‘You’re dumping me?’

  He looked like he didn’t like the sound of that. He was looking very pale. He usually looked red and flustered in the kitchen, even if he was just reheating something bland that his former nanny had cooked four hours earlier.

  ‘This was never really going to work, was it?’ he said, and even though I knew on paper it would look like a question, I knew that this was very much his statement of fact.

  ‘I don’t know, St John. You fucking tell me.’ Ooh, his pet hate, women swearing!

  ‘Well, look at you.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘A second-rate Page Three stunner?’

  ‘Oh, please!’

  ‘A pop-star wannabe who even Song for Europe wouldn’t touch?’

  ‘That was a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Are you really the sort of girl that Mummy and Daddy are going to approve of? I think not, Jocelyn. Definitely not.’

  ‘Why don’t you chuck the other thing in, while you’re at it?’ I practically spat. ‘I’m black as well.’

  ‘That’s unfair!’ he bleated. ‘I have many black friends, as well you know.’

  ‘Just a shame I’ve never met them.’ Which was a lie. I didn’t find it a shame at all.

  ‘Well, I had two black friends at Eton,’ he said rather pompously.

  ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Nothing.’ But any idiot could see he was lying. Something had.

  ‘Have you met someone?’

  ‘NO!’ He said it with such force it felt like the shepherd’s pie would bounce off the side.

  ‘Methinks the Hooray doth protest too much!’ I cackled, with just the right amount of glee.

  Mr Love folded his arms. ‘Well, it’s not my fault, is it?’

  ‘What’s not?’

  ‘It’s Mummy and Daddy.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They think it’s high time I settled down. And maybe they have a point.’

  ‘Ah, so they’ve introduced you to someone.’

  ‘No. Yes. Well, I met her years ago, if you must know. And yes, we’re to be betrothed.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Jemima.’

  I suddenly felt nauseous. It took all my willpower not to vomit over him right there and then.

  ‘And what’s the thousand pounds for?’

  ‘To help you . . . start a new life.’

  ‘Right.’

  I pushed past him and headed for the bedroom, where I started shoving all my clothes into the case. I thought he’d follow me in and change his mind, or apologize, or . . . God knows what . . . but instead I heard him getting plates and cutlery out.

  ‘You going to stay for some pie, baby girl?’

  ‘WHAT AM I? TWELVE?’ I roared, creating a noise that surprised even me.

  I yanked the zip round with such force that the end of it came off in my hand. I double-checked I had the envelope of money. And without even a backward glance I walked out of his apartment, and out of his life.

  Out on the street, I wondered where I could go. I took out my mobile phone and called Adam’s number. But of course there was nobody in, and they clearly hadn’t decided to invest in an answering machine, so I eventually hung up. Kathleen would be working her evening job and Adam might by now be on his way to performing in some seedy dive bar.

  I had a key to their place. I could just go and let myself in, bed myself down.

  But part of me didn’t want them to be able to tell me, ‘I told you so.’ Even if they hadn’t told me so. I didn’t want to see that look in their eyes. That look that said, See? You’re just like us. You didn’t deserve that life. And here you are. Back in the gutter. Back to square one.

  Still. A thousand pounds was a lot of money. I could get the deposit on my own place with it. But if I was going to get my own place, I would need to find a way to fund my lifestyle. I had developed rather expensive tastes since living with Mr Love. I didn’t feel ready to give them up now.

  I furtled in my handbag till I found what I was looking for.

  A business card. Black with swirly silver writing. The outline of a shiny red rose. A name.

  Tina di Antonio

  And the name of her business.

  Black Orchid

  No explanation of what the business was. Just a number.

  I returned to my mobile phone. Dialled the number, heard it ring out, then a very sexy voice answered, almost purring down the line.

  ‘Hello? Black Orchid?’

  ‘Tina? It’s Jocelyn Jones.’

  ‘Jocelyn. Darling! To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘I’d like to come and talk to you.’

  ‘Superb.’

  She gave me the address of a house in West Kensington. I hailed a cab.

  Looked like I was going to become a Black Orchid girl after all.

  London, 2015

  The deal with Finty is off. Her girlfriend is dead set against it. It was news to me that she was even a lesbian, if I’m honest. She’s one of that new breed where you can’t tell. The sort of girl Sue Perkins would go out with.

  ‘It’s about the most interesting thing about her,’ I commented coolly to Ross when he told me. Before adding, ‘She doesn’t go out with Sue Perkins, does she?’

  And he said he didn’t think so, and very much doubted it.

  I’d tend to agree.

 
When he told me the deal was off, it was like it was the worst news in the world. It was like a scene from a World War II movie where someone rushes into the parlour and says, ‘It’s happened. We’re at war. Bally Hitler.’ Only this time as we sat drinking tea we didn’t hear any air-raid sirens or bombs dropping. Actually, it’s hard to hear anything happening outside when you live this high up.

  The Finty situation is incredibly annoying. It’s back-to-the-drawing-board time. Ross paces the flat, cursing Finty’s girlfriend.

  ‘Finty’s up for it. Course she’s up for it, she’s ambitious as fuck.’

  ‘So why don’t we do it?’

  ‘Girlfriend’s a loose cannon. All it’d take would be for her to go to the press saying this is a sham for publicity purposes, and your career would be over. OVER.’

  ‘There’s no need to say it twice.’

  ‘They’d never believe another word you said.’

  ‘Yes, I’m not stupid, Ross.’

  ‘They’d be like . . . you can’t trust a thing she says, or . . .’

  ‘OK, Ross, I get the fucking picture!’

  That shuts him up. But only temporarily. He turns on me, like some cheap villain in a Sunday-afternoon Western.

  ‘Are you on your blob?’

  ‘Oh piss off, Ross.’

  ‘Just remember, you. The only reason you’re one of the most hated women in Britain, the only reason you keep a roof over your head and a shitty little weave on your skull’s coz of me. It’s this brain that gets you the column inches, as well as yours.’ And he does a dramatic tap on his head.

  I have to stop myself from saying, ‘Oh, is that where a brain is?’ but I know to just ignore him when he’s in one of his angry, belligerent moods. The superior ice-queen mode won’t cut it now. I know what will.

  ‘So. What are we going to do?’

  It’s a great ploy of mine. In just a few words I appeal to his vanity by acknowledging I would be nothing without him. He laps it up. Nods his head a lot.