by Ruby Soames
‘You know before we had telephones, a postal service and fax machines we used pigeons? Do you know that battles were won, families kept in touch, information was spread because pigeons can use magnetic fields that we can’t even begin to understand?’
‘They taste good too. I said “Get in girls”,’ he banged the van.
‘And pigeon parents mate for life. And they would never leave their babies unattended. Someone shot a pellet at this bird, mister.’ Josie held up the plastic bullet she’d found lodged in the bird’s wing. ‘If it hadn’t been for these girls, it could have died.’
‘Thanks for the lesson, very instructional,’ said Marek.
‘Look!’ said Kamilla as the pigeon flew up into the air.
‘Here girls,’ said Josie handing us her card, ‘call me if you ever hear of an animal being abused, neglected or hurt.’ Josie shook our hands. She didn’t look at Kamilla’s dad, just got in her Fiat Panda and drove away.
We had sat on Kamilla’s bed after her mum had disinfected our hands and made us have baths. We both felt thoroughly self-satisfied after saving that bird’s life and meeting Josie.
‘I don’t want to be friends with Aisha anymore. Will you be my best friend?’
‘Sure.’ I’d never even had a friend before, let alone a ‘best’ one, I was elated and terrified at the same time.
Having a friend meant that we went to school together every day and spent our free time wandering around London, looking for animals to rescue and report to Josie. We still do that today even though Josie has since moved to South Wales. After our GCSEs, Kamilla joined her dad in renovating homes. She now has her own property development company and employs a large team, but most of the work she does herself. She’s reputed to be one of the best painters and decorators in London as well as a very shrewd businesswoman.
7
‘You’ve read what they said about Joseph?’
‘No, what did they say about Joseph, today?’ asked Kamilla. ‘He’s gay? He’s an alien? He’s –’
‘He’s getting married.’
‘That’s a new one.’
‘It’s the last one.’
‘Oh Sarah,’ she sighed, sweeping her long black hair up, curling it around a stubby HB pencil and sealing it in a chignon. She turned to the group of guys working with her and said, ‘I’m taking ten – just outside.’ She drew out a rolled-up cigarette from behind her ear. Zorro, her dog, who had once belonged to a crack dealer who’d beaten it half to death, scampered behind us.
We stood on the street where I shivered despite the T-shirt weather.
She lit up, blew out some smoke and said, ‘A few days ago he wanted to marry you. You really believe he’s shagging around?’
Two guys in a red sports car drove by and whistled at us.
‘I packed in my job.’
‘Don’t tell me – they offered you a partnership?’ she joked. I looked back at her emerald eyes set in that delicate face speckled with paint. ‘Are you serious?’ She could tell I was in trouble. ‘You are serious. Oh girl! What have you done?’
Blank stare from me.
‘Can you take it back?’
‘I don’t want to. It’s like I’ve been working undercover all these years and the gaps in my story are getting bigger, less plausible, the narrative’s not holding and they’re starting to find the real me out – you know?’
‘No,’ she answered looking at the tip of her cigarette, ‘I’ve no fucking idea what you’re on about.’
‘I don’t believe Joseph – and even if it’s not true about Sylvia – is it me he wants? Is it me? A partner at Forester Levine’s? Me?’
Zorro sniffed the pavement.
Kamilla rolled her eyes, ‘You’ve worked so hard all these years and now it’s coming up good for you – nothing freakish about that – it isn’t some witness-protection programme, it’s commitment and luck and you made it happen. Like Joseph made it happen. He loves you, he needs you. Thing is, you can’t accept the good things in your life – you’ve never given yourself the chance to think about what you want.’
I tried to think above the sound of traffic. ‘I’ve gone wrong somewhere … haven’t I?’
‘Honey, this started before you – you gotta go back to the beginning, to the origins. You’ve got to find your dad, find out what really happened – face it – you became a lawyer because of him and now … is it what you want? And then with Joe, you don’t know what marriage is, or family. Sarah, I get that, but you –’
‘You don’t “get” anything about me. Even you – just like everyone else – taking Joseph’s side – he bought Sylvia an engagement ring! They adopted an elephant together! They’re house hunting! He’s been such a bastard! Angus Forrester’s a bastard! You’re all –’
‘To be technical about it sweetheart – you’re the bastard.’
I glared at her as she glared back at me.
‘So why don’t you go out there and get your dad to put his name on your birth certificate – that’s who you’re really angry at.’ Kamilla dropped her half-smoked cigarette to the ground, crushed it with her Doc Martin boot and raised an eyebrow at me. ‘So deal with it.’ She stomped back into the house.
At that moment, I hated her more than I had at five years old.
My phone rang. I drew it out faster than a cowboy at a shoot-out but my ‘hello’ took some time when it wasn’t the voice I was hoping for.
‘Hi, it’s Jodie Preston – bad news I’m afraid.’
I held the phone from my ear and wondered what could, at this point, be considered “bad news”.
‘My mum’s had a stroke – she’s in the IC ward.’
I didn’t recognise the voice or the name. ‘You’ve got the wrong number,’ I snapped.
‘Wait – I didn’t say. My mum’s Dot – Dot Preston – she looks after dogs – your dog – Elvis – you need to come pick up Elvis before six tonight cause I’ve got a darts tournament in Tottenham.’
‘Dot! I’m so sorry – yes, I’ll be –’
‘There are quite a few other dogs here too, ones that she walks – I don’t know who they all belong to. Two small ones, a Pekinese wearing a nappy and a Dalmatian who dribbles, he’s on a lot of tranquillisers but I think they’re starting to wear off cause he’s getting a bit … lively. Look, if you know the other owners or have their numbers? Mum might be in hospital for a while.’
It wasn’t even teatime and I’d lost my boyfriend, my home, my job, my best friend and my dog walker. And if that wasn’t depressing enough, I was heading back to my old bedroom on Tennyson Estate.
Mothers
1
That was three months ago. Now winter has moved in and opted for a rough-shod, shaken-up, Quaker look. I keep thinking that one morning I’ll wake up – but I don’t. I get out of bed and follow Elvis wherever he takes me. This time it’s outside the park’s public toilets to smell Cha-Cha. She’s a long-haired Pekinese with a black mask face. I don’t know what she did in a previous incarnation but it must have been exceptional for she lives a very splendid life gazing from velvet cushions in her Holland Park home; she sleeps in a miniature brass bed next to her matching bedside table. She’s way out of Elvis’ league. I’ve read that males are hardwired to overestimate their attractiveness to women but still, it pains me to watch him circling her while she looks out for a prospective mate with better fitness indicators.
Cha-Cha’s owner skittles out of the men’s toilet, adjusting his belt. ‘Good morning! You’re out early!’ Simon waves his hands in the air as if they’re solar pads. His blonde highlights glow against the brick wall behind him. ‘Can you believe it? Middle of January – and some sun!’
Then he stops, shakes his head, I know he’s going to say something. Simon’s been aware that something’s seriously wrong with me. I’ve not washed my hair for so long it’s moved into a self-cleaning phase, working along the lines of drinking yourself sober. I’m wearing the old coat that used to line the dogs�
� basket in the back of my van, and I see him looking at my bleeding fingers. My cuticles are peeling away from the flesh. There are slivers of nail around the edges which catch onto everything like fish hooks. This is what is causing Simon distress. I can say that because I know how much he spends on manicures. Hands matter to Simon. He even greases his left thumb with Vaseline so the dog’s lead doesn’t chaff it.
Graciously, humbly and very cautiously, he overcomes his repulsion and picks up my gnawed sleeves. ‘I saw Joseph on the Portobello Road on … let’s see … Tuesday and,’ he breathes in before bursting out, ‘he told me all about it.’
A sword of icy air cuts into the back of my throat. I feel like some unwitting guest of a talk show waiting behind the split screen while the audience hears all about me.
‘You poor love! Oh why can’t loving someone be enough? It should be, but we’ve just got these messed up psychologies. Haven’t we? Hum?’
‘Guess so.’
Now he’s squeezing my raw hand. ‘And you just can’t go anywhere without seeing his face on the TV or in the papers. Oh, those soulful eyes. Poor you! I saw a picture of them both skiing in Val d’Isere, made me sick! It was the first Heat magazine I didn’t buy. Out of respect. It must be very hard.’
‘No, no,’ I look at Elvis because I can’t lie and look someone in the eye at the same time. ‘It was a mutual decision.’
A man strides fast after his Great Dane and gives me a wave.
‘Alright Zeus?’ I call to the dog.
‘Do you know, I can feel your heart aching from here,’ sighs Simon.
Cha-Cha dodges Elvis’ relentless adoration. She can probably smell from his anal glands that his mum’s a loser without having to read what Joseph’s fans said about me in their chat rooms.
‘Thing is,’ Simon says, ‘it’s the dogs that suffer most.’
We both look down at Elvis, the most recent addition to single-parent quadrupeds.
Simon lowers his sunglasses over his nose. ‘Here’s what we’ll do: Donny’s model agency brings out a monthly catalogue of all the boys on their books, just look through it and any man you like the look of, we’ll invite for dim-sum, hum?’ He tugs Cha-Cha away from an empty crisp packet. ‘But you’ll have to do something about your hair darling.’
I thank him, trying to rally a hearty tone.
‘You’ll be ‘round usual time Tuesday then, for the little princess?’ He looks at me uncertainly.
‘Simon, I’m fine. Honestly. Joseph and I … we just needed a little breathing time. He’s got so much on – with the BAFTA, promoting the film and all. And I need a little … air, too, you know.’
‘We all need air … but what you really need, pumpkin, is a holiday. A few weeks away to get your life into perspective – get away from all this stuff about Joseph West and … and her.’
‘Yeah, a holiday.’
2
The grass is green, the sky is blue, squirrels scurry, birds whistle from trees, peacocks pose. It’s all very clear. I want to be with Joseph. He wants to be with Sylvia Amery. That’s all there is to it: my life has never been so simple, so impossible.
This time last year I wouldn’t have been sitting in a park on my own, I’d have been putting deals together at work, getting the flat ready for the brief moments when Joseph returned, exhausted and elated, from filming. I’d meet him at the airport and we’d stay in at the weekends, making cups of tea, watching videos, ringing for take-outs or searching for quiet restaurants where we’d hold hands over the table.
I have heard from Joseph since last summer. On New Year’s Eve he called to wish me a Happy New Year. Tash, my flat mate, was in Courchevel and I was on my own with three dogs whose owners were also away. I’d sat in bed watching the clock, waiting until it had gone ten so it didn’t feel too pathetically early to turn out my light. After I nodded off, my phone rang from a blocked number. But it was Joseph’s voice.
‘Happy New Year!’ he slurred as a crowd burst into applause and bells chimed in the background.
‘Happy New Year.’ I sat up in bed ready to retrieve him. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in … erm … New York? I think. I just want to say … what? Wait!’ I could hear loud music and girls laughing. ‘Just want to say … Happy … I hope you’re happy … I’m not.’ There was a lot of interference and then he said, ‘What happened Sarah? What happened?’ And the phone cut off.
I sat in bed, holding the phone. Joseph was on another continent, drunk and sad.
I tried old numbers I had for him, but his habitual, frequent phone-number-changes to deter stalkers and press, ensured that my efforts were useless. What happened?
Breaking up is hard to do, but it’s also very expensive. The flat that Joseph and I shared went under offer almost immediately and is due to complete, although, since I lost my phone and Tash doesn’t pass on messages, I haven’t kept up with the sale – a part of me doesn’t want to know. The loss feels too final, too heavy. In any case, after paying off the mortgage and Joe’s share, what I’ll be left with will just cover loans and expenses. My remittance from Levinson Forrester ran out on at the end of December so since the beginning of this year, I’ve tried to spend only what I earn on walking dogs. And it’s a booming business: my diary is full of appointments to collect and babysit animals in west London. I charge a bit extra for grooming and a flat rate for a day’s training. I’m good at it. I’m enjoying it as much as I could enjoy anything at the moment. I’ve also managed to liaise with a few voluntary organisations who are looking for families to take on animals who’ve been abused or neglected. It was exactly what Kamilla and I had wanted to do, set up a rescue centre for animals, but we’re still not talking.
I stay in the park wishing I were a rodent who could dig my way back through time. But I’m not and I can’t. So I keep going for Elvis’ sake and because dog walking is my new job, and it makes me laugh to see my posse wag their tails and charge into my van in the mornings, licking each other and negotiating who sits on which patch of rug. Those animals need me. Whatever anyone says, it’s the most worthwhile job I could have, but I know I need to get away, have some time to think without a wet nose muzzling my palms.
The sun’s gone in and we’re back to a corrugated iron sky. Kamilla and I used to walk through this park almost every day while at school. My bags were heavy with work and dreams of going to university and becoming a lawyer, getting married and making a life that would be everything mine wasn’t – and I’d been so close to the finishing line.
Elvis, having taken Cha-Cha’s rejection on the chin, strains to sniff a Westie outside a glass gallery where a crowd is gathering. People wear hats and carnations. It looks like it might be a wedding, do people marry on a Sunday? I stay and watch. ‘Might as well rub icing sugar and marzipan into my wounds,’ I say to no one.
It’s too cold to stand still for long and too small a gathering not to feel intrusive, but I stay to avoid a sickly spaniel whose owner, Val, never fails to tell me the medical history of every dog she’s ever owned, imagining that because I work with animals I want to hear about her last pug’s eczema.
The nuptial is an impressive little show. There’s pink champagne in giant ice-buckets and dollops of Russian caviar on offer. But no one is eating the exquisite little food parcels on silver platters. There are no old people, no children and no teenagers. Whoever the couple are, they’ve clearly dispensed with any notions of family. Most of the women are dressed in dark colours, autumnal velvets, there are one or two veils and long gloves gripping cigarette holders. Some of the men grapple with torpedo-sized Cuban cigars. The atmosphere is strained, as if they are all under house arrest.
There’s one man in a morning coat with a large white carnation in his lapel that is beginning to droop down to his chest. That’s our man, the groom: the dazed, worried look, his thumb and forefinger spinning the gold band on his left hand.
He shows signs of someone who’s been indulged, he can’t close his ja
cket over his paunch and his collar seems to be digging into his second chin. Ribbons of grey hair stretch across the top of his baldness. He stands in one place, ill at ease. He seems to be waiting for people to approach him but appears surprised when they do. He’s definitely a professional man and this celebration looks a little like the closing of a frantic business merger. I make a silent bet to Elvis that this is not his first marriage.
Every few seconds, he checks his watch and looks at the door as though he’s responsible for detonating the building at a precise time.
It’s cold, and I’m about to move away from the window when a string quartet strikes up. There’s a commotion and all heads turn to the entrance doors.
Here comes the bride.
Or maybe it’s the groom’s daughter, but no, only a bride would wear that obscene mass of lace, fat pearls and gold brocade. The train takes up much of the floor and shambolic bustles shoot out from all directions. It could have been knocked up by a six-year-old let loose on some papiercrêpe and too many E-additives.
Someone heckles the bride, she answers by cupping her enormous immobile breasts. She twirls around to the bewildered crowd. There are mock gasps as she fights the billowing folds of her skirt with her long, white fingernails that look like overgrown teeth. Another call from the guests and she turns, lifts up the back of her skirt and bends over, showing a light blue thong and bare buttocks. A few people laugh but most don’t. But the show goes on – she swivels and lifts up the front of her dress, kicks her leg up in the air, high enough to level with her nose and shows more than just the tops of her suspenders. She lets out a high-pitched squeak and does it again.
The groom parts the crowds to join her as men thump his back and say things to make him blush, one can always rely on the English tradition of embarrassing the happy couple.
The bride could be thirty years his junior and certainly acting like a little filly around an old carthorse. She tosses her mass of black hair in the air like a flamenco dancer with castanets. She has so much hair it’s only later that I notice the dislodged tiara trailing behind her.
