‘What?’
Bella sighed. ‘I BEGGED him, Holly! In the STREET. I clung to him. With my ACTUAL arms. There I was, grasping his legs like a slobbering bloodhound.’ Her eyes clouded over at the memory. ‘I’m just always going to have this godforsaken image of me ON ALL FOURS. I can never go back there! The whole of Covent Garden is now a walk of pain to me!’ she sobbed ‘But then, soon it was clear he’d already started floating away from me, like a helium balloon drifting upwards and I was this devastated child grasping at the string. Yeah, I’ve lost him all right.’
‘God, that’s so sad,’ Holly said, pouring her another glass of wine. ‘But I don’t understand, where did this all come from? Did he give a reason?’
‘He said, “I think I need to be by myself at the moment. My course is just getting so demanding that I don’t think I can manage both my career and you,”’ she said, as though the words were still rotating round her brain on a loop. ‘Then he started banging on about “needing his focus” and how he “has to put his passion first” – and I was like, but I thought I was your passion and he said that yes I am but he loves me too much to be fully committed to his “ART”??’
‘What a cock.’
‘I know. Like my own course isn’t demanding?!’ she cried, then burst into tears some more. Holly folded her up in her arms and stroked her hair as she sobbed.
‘Arsehole,’ Bella sobbed.
‘Yes,’ Holly agreed. ‘Although, maybe this is just something he needs to do? Something he needs to get out of his system? Chances are, he’ll want you back, as soon as he realises he can’t function without you, and you’re his muse after all.’
‘That’s what I keep hoping. It’s like that saying, “if you love something, set it free”,’ Bella said, as a tear slid down her face and splashed into her wine. She picked up the glass and downed it regardless.
‘“And if it comes back, it’s yours forever!”’ Holly finished.
‘Although helium balloons don’t come back, do they?’ Bella said, her shoulders slumping.
Holly thought for a minute, then shook her head. She topped up Bella’s drink. ‘So, if it’s not too soon to say this, I’d like to impose a rule?’
‘A rule? Really? OK, hit me with it.’
Holly grinned. ‘No more self-involved actors for Bella! Seriously, your last three boyfriends have been thesps, and they have all caused you untold pain. I think you need to find someone a little more reliable, with a sturdy job.’
‘That’s a good rule. From now on, I’m going to activate my actor-radar, so I can always see them coming!’
‘Wait. You mean your RADAr…?’ Holly said, pronouncing it Raardar, and Bella snorted.
‘Yes! My RADAr!!!!’
After giggling raucously for a good minute, Holly took a tissue and began to mop up Bella’s face, feeling a bit like a grandma with a slobbery handkerchief.
Bella craned her neck to the mirror on the wall. ‘Oh god, look at the state of me! Ugh. Never mind the mascara streaks, why am I still getting so many bloody spots? I am twenty-seven. Give me wrinkles, not pimples, surely!?’
‘You’re gorgeous, don’t be silly,’ Holly said.
‘I’m serious though. I mean, look at this one, it’s like one of those conjoined twins. There’s another one brewing right next to it! Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this Vegan Pledge – maybe it’s a sign I’m suffering with malnutrition…’
‘But you’ve only been doing it for five days? Your skin is fine,’ Holly said, hoping she sounded convincing.
‘I think I’ll start painting eyeliner on top of them. I had a friend who did that once, to make them look like beauty spots.’
‘That’s always an option,’ Holly offered.
‘What am I saying? I’m never going out again anyway… it’s fine!’ Bella said, remembering her life was over, her eyes welling up.
‘Shall we watch the rest?’ Holly said.
They turned their attention back to the TV screen, where Samantha was frozen, in the middle of complaining about a chemical peel that had gone awry.
‘All right then. I do love this episode. There is still SO much wisdom in this show!’
‘I’ll just grab us another blanket. It’s feckin’ freezing in here.’
Holly pressed play on the DVD.
But now Bella was curled up in a ball on the sofa, fast asleep. She’d obviously worn herself out from crying, like children did when they were overtired. Holly grabbed a pint glass, filled it with tap water and put it beside Bella on the floor. She draped the extra blanket over her, planted a kiss on her cheek, and left her to sleep. Then she headed to her own room and drifted into a perfect, snore-free sleep filled with surreal dreams about an imaginary celestial lost-property bureau.
Waking at dawn to the sound of the reversing vehicle, she picked up the notepad on her bedside table. In her muddied state of consciousness she wrote down ‘The Helium Depot’. She had no idea why, but she rather liked the sound of it as she rolled over and went back to sleep.
3. Holloway
A week later, Lawrence stood at Holly’s door, an olive green beanie grappling with his unruly curls. Holly leaned forward to kiss him on the lips.
He broke off halfway. ‘Look, I bought Georgia!’ he said as he unhooked himself from the enormous, unwieldy guitar case that was strapped to his back.
‘Who?’ Holly asked, looking around her.
‘My new acoustic! Isn’t she the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen?’
Holly nodded as Lawrence clambered through the door, bashing Georgia on the already scratched walls of the entrance hall.
‘What’s not to love?’ Holly said as they headed into her bedroom and he started bashing out a tune.
In truth, Lawrence plus guitar equalled total subservience on Holly’s part. She could be furious with him about something, and all he’d have to do was strum three notes, and the drawbridge to her lady-garden would drop there and then. Right now, he was playing ‘You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away’ – but singing the chorus over and over because it was the only bit he knew all the chords to.
Lawrence perched on the edge of the bed, his muscular frame stooped over his guitar, his brown curls falling into his eyes like a slightly crustier Jim Morrison. He was playing a new chord sequence now, which Holly couldn’t place in his usual repertoire. After a few more beats she recognised it as ‘My Boy Lollipop’. Only, when he sang the chorus he changed the lyric to ‘Hollypop, Hollypop’ for attempted comedic gain.
‘Oh, that’s cute, Lawry! Although, am I a boy?’
Lawrence grinned. ‘Yes. For the purposes of this song you are. Anyway, it’s not quite ready yet.’
‘It’s lovely. Thanks, baby.’
She sat on the bed and watched him slowly pick out the chords. Lawrence had never got round to learning how to read music. But what he lacked in patience he made up for with a most amazing ear. He could usually pick out most requests just by listening for the notes that sounded right. As a result, having Lawrence and a guitar around was sometimes like having a slightly hyperactive human jukebox at your disposal.
‘Play it again, Lawry,’ she said, brushing some sleep out of his eye.
‘No. I’m bored of that one now,’ he said, pulling her towards him for a kiss.
‘Hey,’ Holly said, breaking away after a minute, ‘do you remember the other day, when I got a bit fixated on the woman’s voice on the Tube?’
Lawrence squinted, trying to recall a memory lost in a distant fog.
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about it some more, about whether it could make an interesting story – all about the comfort people might take in the voices of their loved ones after they’ve gone? I wondered if there are any real-life TFL widows out there that we could make a documentary out of?’
‘Bit morbid, but there could be something in it.’
‘That’s what I thought, but Jez blew it out. But then I got to wondering; could it be the kernel for a short film inste
ad? A heart-wrenching little film, about someone’s journey through grief, guided by voices…’ she looked at him, her eyes dancing with possibility, ‘but you know more about shorts than me.’
Lawrence had been tinkering with a chord sequence all this time. He stopped for a moment and looked into her eyes. ‘It’s definitely interesting, Fol. I mean, I like the irony that to most passengers the voices are just these robotic murmurs; a necessary and repetitive part of getting from A to B. Yet, to a few people they are these ghost-like traces of someone they used to know. Someone they used to share their world with.’
Holly’s eyes widened. ‘Exactly! I just have this feeling it could be really poignant. What do you think about us developing this into a film together? It’d be lovely to spend our time doing something creative, as opposed to box-set bingeing.’
‘But we love box-set bingeing!’
‘We could actually make it though – you direct, I’ll edit! It would be great for both our reels! Put it into festivals. Stop our careers from flatlining?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Lawry while picking out the opening bars to ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand’.
‘You’re better at writing than me though,’ she said, taking one of his curls and twirling it around her finger. ‘Will you help me script it sometime?’ But her voice was drowned out by a strange robotic tone coming from the bed, which sounded not unlike ‘Live’.
‘What the bejeezus?’ Lawrence said. But then it happened again. ‘Where is that robot voice coming from, and why is it telling us to live? Is it a new Existentialist phone line?’
‘It’s my new upgrade,’ Holly said, retrieving her phone from the top of her bed. ‘It’s the world’s most complicated mobile. It insists on telling me who’s calling, in a Stephen-Hawking-on-weed voice.’
‘Why don’t you read the manual?’ Lawrence said, infuriatingly.
‘Oh, you ARE my father!’
Everyone in the world – except from Lawrence and her father – knew that life was too short for reading the manual.
‘Live,’ bleated Stephen Hawking.
‘Can you make it stop?’
‘Oh, hang on!’ Holly said once she’d found her phone, ‘He’s saying Liv! As in, Olivia! She tapped the answer button. Hey Liv, how you doing?’
‘Bored,’ came Olivia’s voice. ‘Can we go to the pub?’
‘Well, it would be good to walk Bella again. She’s been surgically attached to the sofa for two days and is starting to grow mould. I’ll go and prod her.’
Holly hung up the phone and turned to face Lawrence, who was picking out another new song on Georgia.
‘Lawry… Do you mind if we go and meet her?’
He looked up. ‘Actually, I’m really close to mastering a new song. I might stay here and finish it if that’s OK?’
‘OK. And maybe when I’m back we can have a go at writing the script. I’ve even thought of a name for it! Mind the Gap. What do you think?! It works on two levels…’
Lawrence looked up from his guitar and into her eyes. ‘Yeah, I get it! But if I’m honest, Folly, I’m not totally convinced it’s film fodder. It seems a tiny bit far-fetched to me.’
Holly’s heart sank a little. ‘The name, or the idea?’
‘That’s a point though, it’s that short film festival in Paris in March. We best get tickets soon. Remember, you said you’d come?’
‘I did?’ she said, wishing he could stay on topic for more than five seconds, just once.
‘Yes! It’s the European Independent Film Festival? It’s like, the undisputed Mecca of Indie Films? I have to go and do the whole networking thing, but it’d be so much more fun if you came with me.’
‘Are we not doing Cuba this year? Surely we should be saving all our pennies for that?’
‘Yeah, we definitely will. We can totally do both.’
‘With what, exactly? When did you start sweating tenners?’
‘I’ll sort it out, I promise… chill, Winston! How about, I start having a look at flights and stuff, while you’re in the pub?’
‘OK. Deal. Thanks.’
In the lounge, Bella was now mummified in duvets. There were flecks of crisps in her hair, and her laptop lay ajar on her knees. Her face was dotted with white blobs of toothpaste in a bid to dry out her spots – a technique she’d long referred to as the ‘poor woman’s facemask’. As she stared, transfixed at the laptop screen, the pantone of her cheeks began to change from peach to pillar box red.
‘What. A. Cock,’ Bella shouted at the screen.
‘What’s happened?’
Bella turned to face Holly. ‘Here I am, screaming my guts out, mourning the death of my relationship, not knowing if I’ll live to see another day, and Sam Cocknamara is joining groups like “Bring Back Superted!”’ Bella lifted up her laptop as if to throw it across the room, then seemed to change her mind and rested it back on her knees. ‘Oh and get this – Sam’s status update, 48 hours after breaking up with his girlfriend of just over two years…’
Holly walked towards the iconic pale blue and white webpage. ‘Sam Macnamara…’ she read aloud, ‘“can’t decide which is better – crunchy peanut butter or smooth?” Mmmm. That is a bit of a kick in the teeth.’
‘Especially when, as any douche knows, it’s crunchy,’ Bella said, scowling.
‘Although maybe it’s some really clever metaphor, for life?’
‘Nice try. But no, I don’t think he’s that clever. The last time I tried to discuss metaphor with Sam he thought I was talking about bull-fighting. He really is that thick.’
Holly shook her head, her eyes landing on the empty vodka bottle and half-eaten bag of jelly babies at Bella’s feet. ‘Right well, I’m not sure you’ll be up to it, or that you need to add to the alcohol that’s already colonising your veins, but some of us are going to the pub. I’d like to recommend you take this opportunity to try and do outdoors – take a short intermission from moping?’
Bella shook her head. The prospect of having to act happy again so soon did not appeal. After crying for so long, she felt snug as a bug nestling at sorrow’s bosom. ‘No, no. Not out there, not yet.’
Holly walked over to the window and peered through the gap in the dark blue blinds. There was still some daylight left; the sun wasn’t quite setting. She grabbed the string and pulled.
‘Hey!!! What are you doing?’ screamed Bella, clamping her hands over her eyes.
‘You have a date in the bathroom. There’s someone in there I’d like you to meet. He’s called Mr Shower Head. Now. Come on!’
Reluctantly, Bella relented. But instead of hoisting herself up on the sofa in order to stand up, she went for the roll and land technique. Still swaddled in blankets, she slowly rolled onto the floor in the manner of a depressed pancake. Then Holly began to peel off the blankets, Bella whimpering as the cold air hit her pyjamas. She stood up, shook her hair free of some of the crisp crumbs, then hobbled towards the door in the pink duvet slippers.
‘YAY. Well done you. Listen, you get in the shower, I’ll make you a cup of sugary tea and put it in your room for afters, OK?’
‘Thanks,’ mumbled Bella, stepping out into the hallway and walking like something from Dawn of the Dead. Holly went to put the kettle on. Moments later, there was an almighty shriek, followed by what sounded like a herd of elephants jumping on top of each other.
Holly ran to the landing. She looked down to see Bella in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.
‘FUUUuuuuuuCK! I’ve broken my arse!’
Holly ran down the stairs. ‘I did try and warn you! No walking in the slippers! They are strictly for loafing!’
‘I forgot I had them on!’
‘Sorry!’ Holly said, folding Bella into her arms.
‘Hey, at least I can’t get any lower now, can I?’ Bella said, shrieking with laughter, tears streaming down her face.
Forty minutes and thirty millilitres of soothing Aloe Vera gel later, they set off. After wandering dow
n the long and winding Tufnell Park Road, Bella and Holly arrived at Holloway Road. Aesthetically, the contrast never failed to bring a shock to Holly’s system. The way the charming Victorian conversions morphed into grey concrete 1960s blocks and stalls flogging mobile phones. Slowly they strolled down the rows of off-licenses and discount clothing shops, with dated shopfronts.
Just as they turned right onto the road, Holly felt the wind tugging at her hair, forcing her to wrap her charcoal-grey duffel coat tighter around her. Holloway Road appeared to have its own microclimate – it was always cold and windy, no matter what the weather was doing anywhere else. As if on cue, it then began to rain. Holly pulled her coat above her head to protect her curls from going fuzzy.
‘Ah, home sweet booze,’ Bella said, as they walked through the doors to the Big Blue and she leaped towards a cluster of free sofas, draping her long red coat over the biggest armchair.
‘I’ll have a Vodka and Red Bull if you’re going up to the bar,’ Bella said, slumping into a chair and resuming the affectation of a broken-hearted creature.
‘Of course. Although, I can’t believe you still drink that university shite. You’ll be after a Snakebite and black soon!’ Holly said, looking at the door and seeing Olivia walk in.
‘Hi, Liv,’ Holly said, moving in for a hug.
‘Oh my days, Holly, what’s happening to your eye? It keeps jittering! Are you developing a nervous tic?’
‘Oh, my eyelid? It’s been doing that for days now. I didn’t realise anyone else could see it twitching. Do I look like a circus freak?’
‘No more than usual,’ Bella said.
‘That’s stress, that is,’ Olivia said, ‘when your eyelid gets a trapped nerve. It’s stress, or lack of sleep.’
‘Oh well, I’m sure it will go away. What’s everyone drinking? I’m getting this round.’
‘Hendricks and slim-line, please,’ Olivia said. ‘Remind me again why you guys drink here?’ she added as she sat down on the only non-saggy bit of sofa, surveying the scattering of Arsenal-shirted, skin-headed punters. As her eyes took in the peeling upholstery and the lighting that hid a multitude of nicotine stains on the walls, her expression read, ‘Take me back to West Didsbury!’
Break-Up Club Page 5
