By the Time You Read This

by Lola Jaye

  “Mom, I’d love to stay among fifteen screaming little girls all day, but I have a shop to run and bills that won’t pay themselves!”

  Abbi ran in looking cute in a pair of bell-bottomed jeans with pink stitching, hair up in a bun and curly tendrils on each side of her head. She was definitely growing up.

  “Lois, can you come and take some pictures of me and my girls?”

  “Your girls?” I said, surprised at how much of a teenager she was sounding.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you eight or eighteen?”

  “Lois, are we going to do this or not?” she replied haughtily, as I followed her to the lounge where I was instantly reminded of my own birthday parties. Of the last one, especially. Corey handing over that LL Cool J tape; which along with The Manual and Dad’s camera, has to be one of the best presents I had ever been given.

  Abbi and her assortment of “girls” posed like mini Gwen Stefanis.

  “Erm, you in the red…”

  “My name’s Michaela!” snapped the girl.

  “Could you move in a bit, I want to get you all in the shot!”

  Michaela and the girl with large pigtails and a bit too much strawberry lip balm continuously giggled as I snapped away. The session took longer than an hour, of course, due to the incessant questions (“Have you really taken a picture of Kate Moss?) and the insistence they view (and argue over) every single shot.

  “Thanks for that, Lois,” said the Bingo Caller, appearing at the doorway. He looked tired.

  “That’s okay.”

  “Kids can wear you out, right?” he said, perhaps reading my thoughts. I smiled a goodbye and as soon as I was out of the front door, found myself in the path of Corey.

  “You look as bad as I feel, Lo Bag.”

  “Cheers! Blame Abbi and her ‘girls’ demanding I take photos of them in every corner of the house!”

  “Say no more.”

  We walked together and the nerves appeared.

  “How are things, Corey?”

  “Could be better. It was good being at the old man’s. Spain was great, basically because I wasn’t here. No reminders, you know. Hey, let me carry that big ol’ thing,” he said, placing the strap of my heavy camera case over his own shoulder. “Where was I? Oh yeah. Space. Space to think about what I really want.”

  We stood by the bus stop.

  “And did you manage to figure that out, Corey?”

  “You are kidding? What with Dad’s mad girlfriend Soli and all those sangrias? No way, Lo Bag.”

  I smiled.

  “Seriously, though, I did manage to think through a few things. And I even came to a couple of conclusions…”

  “Two, huh? Clever boy!” I said, staying with the joviality, while Corey’s look became more serious.

  “Care to know what one of those conclusions was?”

  The familiar red blob came into view. “That’s my bus. You’d better tell me quickly!”

  “Maybe another time,” he said, handing back the camera.

  I stepped onto the bus, loaded with ambivalence. Wanting to go, but also wanting to stick around to listen to whatever Corey had to stay.

  “See ya, Lo Bag!”

  I turned back, but Corey was gone.

  Twenty minutes later, I hopped off the bus in time to find a young woman peering through the window of K Pics while muttering on her cellphone. A paying customer, I hoped.

  Some weeks were slow, on others I had too many pictures to take and not enough hours. It was never as simple as just taking a few snaps; they had to be airbrushed, at times with special effects (one lady wanted her eyes to literally sparkle, complete with mini stars floating from the eyelids!). Aware of how work obsessed I could become again, I was keen to adopt a sort of work/life balance, so agreed to a cinema trip with Carla.

  However, she stood me up.

  “I’m so sorry, babe. As I was about to leave, Markus came down with something. He’s quite sick. Sorry, babe, will make it up to you. Promise!” she said when she finally called three hours after we were supposed to meet. “He’s waking up, Lois. Got to go!”

  If you find you’re always hearing “sorry” from the same person or perhaps YOU always seem to be the one saying “sorry,” perhaps the friendship needs to go back to the drawing board. Wipe it clean and start again—or place it carefully in the bin. Some things need to be looked over from time to time. Reanalyzed, if you like (something I can say that as a man I have never had to do. Okay, maybe once when Charlie kept running to the toilet every time a round was due).

  It would be a lie to say I’d never thought of life without Carla. She had a selfish streak that grew with each new boyfriend. We wanted different things; we were so different. But somehow I’d gotten used to her ways, and that in itself was comforting. Plus, I hardly had a mass of best friends vying for my expert make-up tips.

  True to form, when we met up again Carla asked if I’d photograph her wedding without mentioning her “no show” the other night.

  And I agreed because she was my best friend.

  Twenty-nine; two nine; twenty add nine. Whichever way you pronounced the words, they still allowed me to imagine the sight of a great big bulldozer swiftly heading my way. Yes, I was officially twenty-nine years old, and while it stunk like fresh shite I still wasn’t as devastated as Carla, who as always got there a few months before me, refusing to answer her phone for a week, surrounding herself with brochures about “face decreasers” and basically undergoing intense hibernation.

  The last year of your twenties. Don’t waste it, babe. Do something silly. Not too silly, mind, but something you’ve wanted to do but thought might offend! You’re still young! But I know me writing it down probably won’t make you believe it. Anyway, you’ve still got twelve whole months to get away with whatever you decide, so get going!

  Shall I tell you what I did?

  Of course I’m going to have to give a toned-down version. Oh, but wait a minute…you’re twenty-nine now, so I suppose you can handle it.

  Okay.

  It was 1982 and Charlie wasn’t bothered about hitting the big three-oh (as he liked to call it) while I groaned about it being my first ticket to granddad-dom: slippers, pipe, that kind of stuff. So after work one day, instead of the pub, we decided on a club over in Wands-worth. Now you have to understand, Charlie had a wife and two kids, I had you and your mom—we hadn’t been clubbing in years and so much had obviously changed. The music…Ultravox? Clothes. I mean, flares were cool (sorry) but some of the lads were now wearing tight trousers with long shirts and…ruffles. I mean, ruffles! This is almost too painful to write about. Anyway, needless to say, we felt like a right couple of “uncles” floating into the club that night, the young kids gazing at us with pity and wonderment. Perhaps wondering why we weren’t at home snoring in the armchair. Looking back it probably wasn’t the right club to go to (I’m more into Barry White than Visage), but we didn’t exactly have a pool of reference to choose from and we were looking for the seemingly impossible—a club that catered for the not too young, but not too old either. The confusion! Anyway, there was (clearing of throat) a certain young lady giving Charlie the eye. He got all flustered and, being the alpha male that he is, thought he’d try out his chatting-up skills—you know, just to see if he still “had it.” I stood by with my pint and watched the scene unfold.

  Charlie: “I saw you watching me from across the room, babeeee.”

  Girl: “Really? I thought you did!”

  Charlie: “Fancy a drink, then?”

  Girl: “Great!”

  Charlie: “So do you come here often?”

  Girl: “Yes, me and my friends.”

  Charlie: “Far out!”

  Girl: “So, are you Monica’s dad then?”

  Charlie: “Who’s Monica?”

  Girl: “A friend of my sister’s. Was hoping you were, so we could all get a lift” she said, pointing to a mixed posse of guys in frilly tops.

  Need
less to say, we left sharpish (with Charlie vowing to keep his stud days a fond memory and spoil the wife for at least a month).

  And you know what? I wish we had stayed. I wish we’d borrowed some ruffled shirts, painted our eyelids black, and laughed and bopped the night away to that new romantic music, sliding home in time to hear the birds singing. Really, as I write this manual, I so wish I had, Lois.

  So, believe me when I say something happens when you get to thirty, and I’m not telling you what as it’s a little unique to everyone.

  For now, just do something silly.

  With stars on, Dad

  I managed to drag Carla away from Markus and her duvet long enough to jump onto a bus to the West End.

  “So, you’ve taken me out of my home, away from my fiancé, to do…what, exactly?”

  “Get stupid!” I roared in the middle of Trafalgar Square like an unhinged woman. Scarily, no one gave me a second look. “I want to do all the things I missed out on when I was younger!”

  Carla rolled her eyes. “Oh, like having sex, you mean?”

  “No! I dunno, when’s the last time I got drunk?”

  “Never. Even when we went to Spain you only drank about two cocktails.”

  “There you go then. Let’s get drunk! It’s my birthday and I only have twelve months until I’m thirty! Come on!”

  As I said it, I realized that in essence I did have a whole year to “get stupid” but I figured I should start now. Besides, I’d be expanding the business soon.

  “Oh big deal. I’ve got drunk loads of times!”

  “In a strip club?”

  “Excuse me?” Carla stopped in her tracks like a car coming to an abrupt halt. “Did I hear correctly?”

  “You did!”

  “Ohmigosh, let’s go now, quick, before you change your mind!” She grabbed my hand excitedly. And all I knew at that silly, frivolous moment was that I had to live silly—if only for one night.

  Tincurbelle’s opened the doors to women every last Thursday of the month according to their Internet site.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this!” I giggled as Carla explained to the macho bouncer why she wouldn’t be presenting him with her cellphone number any time soon. A huge neon light flashing the word “Tincurbelle’s” glowed before us.

  “What are you waiting for then?” asked Carla as the rejected bouncer reluctantly opened the door for us. I knew that after reading Dad’s entry I had to do something out of the ordinary because I had never really let go of my inhibitions before.

  Ladies’ night at Tincurbelle’s had a “no male customers before ten” rule that ensured any inhibitions regarding male strip joints were left behind, as women were free to scream, chuck (panties) and desire without fear of reprisals from hubbies and boyfriends riddled with low self-esteem (Markus, case in point). The venue remained dedicated to female pleasure and the odd hen night judging by the small group currently surrounding an overweight blonde dressed in a curtain veil and L plates. My mind drifted to Corey and his failed wedding and Carla’s impending one. Time for a drink, I decided.

  “Are you listening?” snapped Carla, bundling me into another room. “The main event’s about to start!”

  I bought another drink and was yet to feel the effects, something I wished would hurry along if only to block out the effects of the so-called male stripper who suddenly appeared on stage, a rather average looking, if not beer-bellied man dressed in tight fitting James Bond attire. The familiar theme tune pulsated through the room as the crowd roared its approval.

  The women jostled wildly as, piece by piece, “Jamie” Bond clumsily removed every item of clothing to reveal a generous girth and a bum in need of Clearasil. Of course, my expectations had clung on to the hung-like-a-horse six-packed type currently gyrating on the company’s website.

  “Hello everyone!” he shouted. The crowd squealed and roared as he began a descent into the world of hip-thrusting and swirling his body out of tune to the music (not blessed with the dancing skills of Justin Timberlake, clearly). But as soon as he requested his very own Pussy Galore, a bevy of eager volunteers sprang forward in apparent hunger for this man’s generous amount of flesh. Carla, absorbing every moment, squealed with delight as I merely shook my head in bewilderment. Dad’s words were popping into my head as I decided to make the best of this night and really let my hair down, so to speak. So I grabbed her hand and began the arduous journey to the front, pushing, shoving and almost kicking our way through the crowd of screaming, swaying women, quickly gaining entry to the most envied position in the club.

  The front row.

  Where I, despite my initial embarrassment and not knowing where to aim my eyes, enjoyed the remainder of the show.

  “That was brilliant!”

  “He was awful, Carla!”

  “Yeah, I know that, but that’s the point I s’pose!”

  “We must do something next week. Or next month? Or maybe in a few months as I’m going to be flat out with K Pics, hopefully.”

  “Wow, I knew it wouldn’t last! Anyhow, I’ve had a lovely night. Thanks for this, I really needed it.”

  “Things tough at home?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said awkwardly with a wave of a perfectly manicured finger. “Don’t spoil a brilliant night.”

  The next morning I awoke to the feeling of fifty woodpeckers pecking at my head, a mouth reeking of rotting chicken and the doorbell ringing incessantly.

  “All right!” I groaned as, across me, on the left-hand side of the bed, a body stirred. My mind wandered back to the night before. The strip club. The stripper. The taxi home. The body in my bed didn’t move, merely grunted its disapproval as I leaped over it to answer the door.

  “Who is this?” I asked through the intercom.

  “Markus.”

  I buzzed him in.

  “Where is she?” he asked, no “hello,” nothing.

  “Carla’s upstairs.”

  “She’d better be,” he said, pushing past me and into my room.

  “Hey, you can’t just barge in there!” I called out.

  “Carla!” he said harshly, shaking her awake, a little too roughly for my liking.

  “Don’t you touch her!” I protested. Markus merely ignored me as Carla slowly opened her eyes, at first unable to make out the emerging scene.

  “Markus?” she asked mid-yawn.

  “I’ve been up all night waiting for you! Why didn’t you come home?”

  Carla rubbed her eyes, the remnants of mascara smeared across her cheek. “I told you I was staying at Lois’s.”

  “No, you didn’t! You said you were coming home!”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Are you calling me a liar, Carla?”

  “No…I…” she backtracked.

  “No. Now get your things and come home NOW!” He grabbed her arm, still displaying the green ticket stamp from the night before.

  “Ow, you’re hurting me!” she protested.

  Watching him hurl her out of my bed—T-shirt tucked into her thong and still within the realms of sleep, made me very, very angry.

  “Oh that is it! Get the heck out of my house!” I screamed.

  “Lois, don’t…” said Carla, who once again transformed into a wimp right before my very eyes. As if she was another person in front of Markus.

  And I didn’t like it. Didn’t like what he was doing to her.

  He shoved her arm away as she scrambled for clothes. “Listen to her, Lois. Don’t get involved in things that don’t concern you.”

  “This does concern me! I don’t like the way you treat her and I’m not going to let you do it in my house!” I screamed.

  “Not a problem, we’re going home now. Come on!” he roared, grabbing her by the arm again. Just then, I saw a red flash and then it happened.

  Miscellaneous: How to make a man temporarily helpless? Aim for the balls

  This can work both ways.

  I will not tell you about the
first way, because you are my daughter. But I’m sure, as you get older, your friends will be able to erm…confirm the following gossip: that grabbing a bloke’s balls in any situation will always render him temporarily helpless…Enough said there. Thank you.

  The other way, I’ll explain.

  If you ever (and I pray you never do) find yourself in a dangerous situation with a guy, just aim for the balls. The pain is unimaginable, will bring actual tears to his eyes, and whatever he was trying to do before (and in my case, just kick a soccer toward goal) will now seem a distant and painful memory. Nutshell (yes, I know), just aim and strike. But only in extreme circumstances, and not if the boy next door nicks your Milky Bar.

  Thankfully, Carla forgave me for kicking Markus in the nuts, and in a beautiful twist told him their relationship was over. I wasn’t sure she meant it until two days later when she appeared on my doorstep complete with suitcase and a dominatrix teddy bear tucked under her arm.

  With Carla settled in her old room, I kissed The Manual, convinced that if my dad was looking down at me, he’d be smiling, make no mistake.

  By the middle of 2007, Carla had moved back in with her mom, Calvin and now Corey. And at last able to trust my new part-time assistant to run the studio on her own, I knocked on Carla’s door after a visit with Mom and Abbi.

  “Can Carla come out to play?” I asked in a fake child’s voice.

  “Oh, F off!” replied Carla sweetly. I followed her into the lounge to find Calvin and Corey fiddling with the CD player.

  “What are you two up to?” I said as Corey winked in my direction. Of course I ignored that.

  “Trying to fix the portable MP3 onto the CD player speakers,” replied Calvin.

  “I’ll have a try,” I offered as Carla’s mom appeared.

  “Lois, how’s your mom?”

  “She’s fine, why?”

  “Nothing. You staying for dinner?”

  “Go on, Lo Bag,” said Corey. Thankfully, he was looking a lot happier than when we’d last spoken at the bus stop.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “Chicken and fries. Here, they got you fixing stuff?” said Carla’s mom.