‘In summary then,’ I said, ‘you’re revealing that Aunt Olive was a slapper.’
‘Jason, that’s not nice to say about your only aunt.’ She paused, ‘Okay it is true, but at least stop that dirty snigger and pass me your bowl, if you’ve finished?
‘Anyway, she was very pretty and actually she had many boyfriends – at least these were the ones who rang the next day. They took her out on extravagant dates but these relationships had a shelf-life of around three months. It was the same pattern over and over again: in the first month she was their princess, a woman whose beauty and grace they were entranced with and she was treated to expensive restaurants and showered with gifts. In the second month, their relationship slipped into a standard dating scenario where they chatted about life over dates of dinner or walks, it was this month she was happiest and most hopeful but unfortunately, by the third month, the calls diminished, the dates dried up to meetings in his local pub and then he would just disappear from sight. There wasn’t the courtesy of a call or even a note to tell her she’d been dumped. As there were no official partings I’d often tease her that technically she’s still dating some of these obnoxious men.
‘Sadly, and I mean sadly in the deepest sense this word can convey in any sentence it has ever been used, sadly, she eventually met Mark.
‘Marksman as we referred to him. He oozed every loathsome characteristic I’d ever come across in these clubs, though I confess, at first, he was charming and extremely handsome.
‘He disliked me and he disliked Colin, so of course your sister and I slowly drifted apart from one another. I shouldn’t have allowed it but I was living my life and I was happy. I didn’t want my sister to upset me the way she did, so I went my way and she went hers.’
Mum sighed and quickly shuffled out of her trance to start loading the dishwasher before making the coffee.
CHAPTER SIX
Olive
About thirty years ago
Janet visited whenever it was convenient for her to escape the tedium of studying but I always felt she was eager to leave as soon as she arrived. She would sit on our sofa and say very little other than a series of huffs and ahs. When I would challenge her as to what she meant by her splutters she would reply with; ‘Nothing, it’s fine. Just hurry up and get ready,’ or ‘I have a babysitter waiting at home for £3/an hour don’t you know?’
The flat I was living in was a typical girls’ flat with magazines everywhere and clothes strewn about the hallway waiting their turn to be washed and so, admittedly, it was not ideal for visiting guests. But it was in the centre of London and perfect for living a young life of work, coffee shops then clubbing.
Janet used to moan incessantly about how overwhelmed she was with training, working and keeping a household going for a young boy who was now smashing his trains and cars into freshly ironed washing or climbing trees and then not being able to get down. I sympathised, especially at her having to get up at 7am on a Sunday just because her son had not yet learnt about lie-ins.
By now you were about four years old and when you came to see me, or me to you, I couldn’t resist grabbing as many as possible of the consuming hugs you gave. I knew your mother had little money so I always bought coffee and only occasionally would I allow Janet to buy drinks at a club she had joined us to. I didn’t mind, as at the time I was earning more than Janet.
Carolanne had got a job at Liberty of London thanks to her father who had connections with recruitment. It was not long before Carolanne had found me a job there, after I was dismissed from Boots for being late twice. I wangled my way into Liberty’s as they needed Christmas staff, in particular someone to wrap the baubles in the Christmas department. I admit I had greater aspirations back then and I dreamed of becoming a CEO of a company, but desperation for money dampens any ambition to the ‘whatever is available’ dream.
I worked hard that season and I was the only one kept on after the Christmas period out of twenty temporary staff. I remember that boost from my manager, Clive. So, my ambition was renewed and I quietly dreamt of becoming the first chairwoman of Liberty of London.
Tatiana pointed out that I was now ‘…a permanent shop assistant and one of hundreds in a store of many stores in this city. So, if you aspire to be a great business woman, then answering inane questions from ignorant tourists is not going to get you to any boardroom.’
Her evidence was based around the fact Carolanne had not had a pay rise in the time she had been there and I had merely been shuffled from the Christmas department to the Rugs and Carpets department, whereas, she had already received a three per cent increase and a promotion and she had been with her brother’s accountancy firm for only six months.
On reflection I didn’t care too much. I was finally being paid a reasonable wage and I loved working in a vibrant iconic British store. My working week was based around a shift pattern. I opted for later shifts as I liked to sleep away my mornings, but this meant I often worked late; stock keeping and basic administrative work after the shop had closed.
There was a buzz about Liberty’s. I remember the first day I returned to this store after Christmas. I entered at the staff entrance at the back where I checked in with Cara, a middle-aged lady who had been with the company from the age of sixteen and had worked her way downwards to the reception desk (which suited her as she did not like people and so didn’t want to have to deal with foreigners, especially those who didn’t speak English). She had yellow hair which clashed with her grey roots which clashed with her green splodge of eye shadow smudged over her eyelids, which also clashed with the faded lilac walls of the stockroom. She was famous throughout the store for her moaning but I recall her with fondness as she was the gate to Liberty of London.
From Cara, I weaved down the hallway crammed with storage boxes filled with everything from foreign antiquities to cosmetics. I would then open a side door and emerge into the tranquil gentility of the store. Elegance and wealth wafted throughout the Elizabethan building. It was like a wise old English gentleman who sat in tweeds and surveyed his vast estate from within his English country manor; content that everything was in its place and everything was just so.
Each floor overlooked another and was dominated by an atrium which had a domed window at its summit, spilling light onto every floor. The department I worked in was on the third floor next to lamps and general objets d’art from around the world (mainly Marrakesh, or so it seemed to me), and it was also just before the Modernist Art department with paintings from around the world (but mainly America, or so it appeared to me).
The room I worked in was filled floor to ceiling with silk rugs, whose pile moisturised the hand that stroked them. I was trained to understand how each rug was made, which village they came from and, at times ,even whose hand had woven the rugs. My favourites originated from the hands of women in the Atlas Mountains, as their designs were a little more intricate and the colours more vibrant.
I enjoyed my job and I was proud to work there. I especially loved the people I worked with who were all passionate about the products they sold. My manager was a man called Clive, he was tall and slender. Together we would watch the customers come into our corner of the department store and try and guess where they were from and whether they would buy a rug that day. Work was not a chore but a place I was willing and happy to spend my time.
I used to watch customers and on most days I would become fixated on the one exceptional, wealthy woman who glided through the store. She was the woman who was exquisitely and expensively dressed with manicured hair and nails. Her makeup was delicately, yet effectively, applied to enhance her deep red lips or her deep rich eyes. Her age ranged from thirty to eighty but she never failed to entrance me or others in the store. It did not matter who these women were, there was always one a day. I yearned to be one of them, perusing the store wondering what to buy to fill my grand house whilst wearing stunning designer clothe
s.
After work I would meet with Carolanne and we would walk home together. It was our chance to talk alone, away from customers or managers and also away from Tatiana. I confess we gossiped relentlessly about her; for Carolanne, she gossiped to transfer her annoyances and general dislike of Tatiana. For me, I gossiped to try and understand her.
‘Does she ever smile?’ it would begin.
‘I think life just irritates her,’ we would continue.
‘And she has a bitchy comment about everyone she meets,’ I would say, ‘This morning, she even commented, “I know they have to find witnesses for the murder report on the news but do they really have to choose fat ones?” So ignorant!’
Despite my gossiping, I remained a convenient and subservient coat for Tatiana, to shield her from the cold social faux pas of going anywhere by herself. Those evenings were far easier when Carolanne didn’t have a date and she would join us. ‘I’m only coming to be with you Olive,’ she would mutter as we left the apartment.
We went to clubs across London. The one we went to the most at the beginning was called The Zoo. I’m not sure how, but we had managed to get on the VIP list. It meant we didn’t need to queue and freeze with everyone else as we didn’t want to bring a coat to save time queuing for the cloakroom or to save money to pay for the cloakroom. This was the only advantage as inside we still needed to scramble to get access to a booth.
My dear Jason, as an aside, I have observed whilst growing up that I am at a disadvantage due to my gender. From an early age I was taught by society that I am weaker than my male social colleagues and to aspire to be stronger means abandoning girlish traits and harnessing the power of boys. When I was small I attempted to ‘not’ throw like a girl or cry like a girl or giggle like a girl or fight like a girl. Instead, my natural physique and temperament should be quashed if I was to progress as a person and I should accept the phrase ‘like a girl’ as an insult and not a fact of my gender.
In my teenage years I had a brief respite from my social weakness as I was academically far brighter than my male classmates, but it was only a brief respite as I had to nurse my parents and thus abandon any chance of a university education to gain a certificate to declare that I was an intelligent woman and not ‘just a girl’.
In my twenties, I slipped into accepting I was ‘just a woman’; powerless, with little prospect of catching up with other women my age who rejected the word ‘just’ and sailed down their own stream of an educated woman. They commanded a city job and demanded respect from a male society. I perceived it was too late for me, so I resided in the muddy banks of society’s river and watched successful women sail by.
But, in nightclubs, such as The Zoo, I was more than ‘just a girl’. There I was a powerful woman. I had slobbering men clambering around me. I fed from their subservience and they fed from my compliments, which massaged their flailing egos. I grew in stature every time a man professed his deep admiration. I could feel their eyes following me as if they had leashes around their necks that I could pull towards me at my will. I did not pay for drinks in any club and eventually I learnt what type of man would eagerly buy bottles of expensive champagne to ensure we had a booth to sit down in.
I was sailing on the richest social river in these clubs and occasionally a city working woman would appear in my domain and then it was their turn to sit on the muddy bank and watch me sail by.
I confess I met many men, to the disgust of my sister. Janet would rarely join me out and when she did then she moaned how hot and bored she was or constantly asked how much longer was left of the night before she could catch the night bus home. It was a shame as, when she was with me, I never left her side and I always made sure she was as happy as my miserable sister could be in a London club. When we progressed to The China Club, Janet stopped coming out with us altogether.
The China Club was just off Soho and, in those days, it was where the most successful men were; they bought champagne the way most men bought beer. There was a slight downside, which was the escorts who were employed by the club to keep these men happy. They were not advertised and only men who openly displayed their wealth, were introduced to these women. Fortunately, Tatiana and Carolanne were able to block them, gaining these men’s interest before the escorts had a chance to sit down.
The other downside to The China Club was the amount of cocaine that was snorted. I knew it was used elsewhere but here it was inhaled as freely and openly as sipping on champagne or cocktails. I missed the discreet use of cocaine. Prior to The China Club, the people we met merely disappeared to the toilets and when they returned they were rubbing their noses as if they had a cold, they also emerged as people who now laughed inanely at the most trivial of events. I once abandoned a soap actor who thought the person behind me looked like Bruce Forsyth. He thought this comment to be both funny and insightful. Neither was true, particularly as the person was a woman in her twenties with a blonde bob; if he’d likened the twelve o’clock shadow on her upper lip to Bruce’s moustache then it may have triggered a smirk, but instead he repeated a cycle of poking her and saying, ‘Nice to see you, to see you nice! I said, eeeee nice to see you,’ followed by laughing in my face or on my lap as he’d lost his sense of balance and used me as a prop. After a while of soaking up the admiration from others that I was sitting with an almost famous person, I pulled away from him and allowed his face to bounce on the table. I then wandered off into the crowd again leaving him laughing at the mirrored table surface.
The advantage of meeting wealthy men was they were able to fill the gap in the evenings when I was not at a club. Tuesdays and Wednesdays were invariably date night, as after meeting someone on Thursday or Friday or Saturday in a club, Sunday was a rest day with negotiations of the forthcoming date occurring on the Monday. So that, come Tuesday and sometimes Wednesday, I was treated to elegant evenings across London. My favourite still remains Quaglino’s, just off St James Palace or the Wolsey, next to the Ritz. Unfortunately, most dates were disastrous; when I met them again at the restaurant they always seemed smaller and fatter than I remembered them in The China Club. In most cases, they were also older and duller than the dim lights of the club allowed me to see.
I was grateful for the night out at these places but over dinner I would look at my date wondering who they were. They babbled into their meal and spewed forth what I thought were inaccurate and ignorant theories on business and politics. I would smile and nod my head, but I wouldn’t challenge them even though I knew they were wrong in their opinion from all I had read of current affairs. It was always easier just to chat to myself; the restaurant is wonderful; it’s just a pity about the date.
Carolanne usually laughed as I escaped through our flat’s front door, exclaiming, ‘Another date where you need to call the fraud squad? My gorgeous Ol, has someone stolen your date from three days ago and replaced it with the creep standing outside?’
As he talked I would nod and at times exclaim, ‘Wow you’re amazing’; he didn’t catch my sarcasm but then I suppose he was talking to himself and he wasn’t thinking he’s full of crap, so why would he catch my hint that he was full of it?!’ I giggled over a glass of wine.
The evening would end with our dreams of meeting a man who was handsome, intelligent and kind. For Carolanne, the list also included funny and fun to be around but for me, my list ended with rich and very rich.
The conversation of meeting these golden men, crafted by angel hands and polished by cherub wings, renewed our hopes of finding them while we trawled through the men crafted with a meat cleaver and polished with a bloody rag. Eventually our angel would find us and hold our hands, leading us away from the cliff edge of society’s conceited and tempestuous offerings. If I stopped looking then I would fall off the edge and land at the bottom of ‘nowhere special and stuck where I land’. So, my week started again with waking on a Thursday, going to work and clubbing each evening until Sunday.
Your mother stopped coming out the moment she met your father, Colin. He was much slimmer when I first met him but other than his size very little has changed about him over the years. I liked him then and I like him now.
For three years I lived the same week over and over again interspersed with occasionally being taken somewhere new on my Tuesday nights. By the time you were seven or eight, I had been on countless dates with the same mould of man but at least I had been promoted to assistant buyer. I was extremely proud to be promoted; finally, I was recognised within the store and I received a small pay rise.
Shortly after I received my prize of a new name badge with my title on it, James walked back into my life by wandering past my department. Clive had left that morning on another trip, leaving me in charge. I had my head under the counter looking for the company contact book to call someone to answer a question for a customer about removing a blood spot on her rug, bought from us in the spring of the previous year.
When I popped my head over the top my eyes rested upon a man in a beige duffle coat, he was tall with unkempt curly hair. He was distinguishable from all the other customers as he was neither a wealthy shopper nor a tourist gazing at the wonders in the store. My heart fluttered as he sauntered past and I breathed in my call to him. Nothing came out and I watched him pass me and amble into the modern art section where he stopped to look at the paintings.
‘You need a professional cleaner to remove the stain otherwise it will be permanent,’ I hurriedly told the lady who had monopolised the last hour of my working day.
‘You say that dear, but as I said…’
‘Then try salt and elbow grease…’
I darted out of my department and stood in the entrance of the next section watching this lanky man peer into a painting of multi coloured dots. I stood behind him trying to catch an opportune moment to say hello, but James was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice my lightly flapping hands gesturing I was here.
The Society Game Page 8
