by Amy Mason
For a second or two she contemplated burning the book, or throwing it into the sea. But even those were the actions of a stupid fourteen year old. And she was very nearly bloody thirty. She wanted Elliot. If he’d come they could get drunk, have sex, and take those pills he’d got in Tijuana. And being around him, well, it gave her something to think about that wasn’t her stupid self. But contacting him was always hard, and ever since the Christmas party (which she tried not to think about) even his gallery put the phone down whenever she called. She closed her eyes as hard as she could – an old trick from when she was bored in Mass – until she saw colours and shapes and felt dizzy.
“Please, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Allah, the Universe, let him come to see me,” she said out loud, realising to her horror that they were almost the exact words of the stupid teenage girl from her stupid, secret book.
Ida was in the bath when she heard Alice and Tom come back. She’d been in there for hours, spaced out on some double-strength codeine she’d found under her mother’s bed. Every half an hour or so she’d top up the bath – the water was still tepid as it had always been when she was younger and her knees and ears were chilly, but the codeine took the edge off and she was enjoying listening to the radio and singing along in her loud, flat voice. The bathtub still felt the same and the cracked surface scratched her skin. She remembered the feeling from being a child, sharing with Alice, or, later, escaping from her ma. Maybe she should write about it, the scratchy, dirty bath. A poem. She could write one, if she wanted to.
Ida came to, shivering in the freezing bath. Her limbs were stiff and she slowly stood up, stepped out of the bath and wrapped herself in someone else’s damp towel. She was about to leave the room when she heard, faintly from downstairs, the sporadic, electric crackle of a police radio. She put her ear to the door. There was an engine running outside the front of the house.
“I have no idea who he is or why he’s here,” said Alice. “But I wish he’d fuck right off.”
She took a deep breath and tried to walk as tall as possible as she began down the stairs. Her vague plan was to behave as if she wasn’t only wearing a towel and as though Alice was ridiculous, hysterical and borderline insane.
Her sister was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, hugging herself, while Tom sat next to her, rubbing her bare foot. The front door was open and just inside the hallway stood a policeman – spotty, greasy haired and very young, grasping his radio like a comfort blanket.
“Where is he?” asked Ida.
“Who?” asked Alice, turning round. She looked tired and pissed off.
Ida looked at the policeman. “I’m sorry you’ve been bothered. If my sister had got me out of the bath this whole thing would have been cleared up. You have a man here? Is he outside?”
“We tried, you just grunted for fuck’s sake! And he wouldn’t say who he was. Well, he couldn’t say who he was.” She let out a short, annoyed laugh and Ida nudged her, hard in the side with her foot as she walked past. Alice let out an angry yelp.
“There is a gentleman in the front garden, yes,” said the policeman.
Ida stood facing him and tucked the towel securely around her chest.
“Right and you left him there? Lovely.”
“There is another officer outside with him, we’re expecting an ambulance. He’s been abusive to these people –”
She walked out into the front garden, sighed and bit her bottom lip. It was evening now, and cold, but she refused to shiver, despite her wet hair and bare feet. Below her, on the garden path, lay the bony, pale figure of her stupid, lovely boyfriend, staring up at the sky, a bottle of red wine still clutched in his right hand.
“For God’s sake,” she said, forcing a smile as she jogged down the steps, shouting back up at the house. “You fucking people. Is it so strange I might have been expecting someone? I do have friends. And you both go and call the bloody police.”
“Sweet pea,” Elliot shouted up at her, showing off. “They’re trying to arrest me or some shit. Look, there’s our star.” With his empty hand he pointed at the North Star, their star – the commonest star of all. Ida laughed, leant down towards him and kissed his clammy forehead.
“Oh you stupid wanker – let’s get you up, are you going to help me, or what?” she said to the policeman.
They took an arm each and, with the effort, Ida’s right breast popped out of her towel. Opposite a man who had been pretending to wash his car shook his head with disgust.
“What the fuck are you looking at you old perv?” she shouted over the road, and Elliot kissed her on the nose.
“Wind your neck in, Irons,” said Elliot, leaning on Ida as she turned him towards the house.
“Should we wait for the ambulance, miss? I would advise we wait for the ambulance,” said the policeman to their backs.
Tom jogged down the stairs. “Let me help you, you can’t do this alone. I’m sorry, we didn’t know who he was and Alice insisted we call the police. I feel like a right twat now.”
“I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot,” said Elliot.
“That’s okay, it’s fine. But you have to leave the wine out here I’m afraid. There’s no booze allowed in the house.”
“Apart from when Princess Di over there says it’s okay,” said Ida and Tom raised his eyebrows in what looked like it might be agreement.
Alice was still standing by the front door, her arms crossed, like a tiny bouncer.
“He’s not coming in. No way. He can sleep in the garden.”
“Alice,” said Tom, managing to sound both placatory and exasperated.
“Firstly it’s not your fucking house, secondly he’s my boyfriend and it’s my birthday tomorrow – yes, you forgot that, didn’t you? – and thirdly, fuck off,” said Ida.
Alice scowled but stood to the side as Ida and Tom dragged Elliot up the path while he apologised and thanked them and offered them his wine.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Alice whispered loudly to Tom, and Ida smiled as they stepped inside.
Chapter fourteen
~ 1995 ~
Ida sipped her wine and looked around. The room was immaculate, vast, and filled with skinny blonde women, standing about or perching on chairs while they talked to balding men. In the middle of the room was a glass coffee table, where – perfectly centred – lay a copy of Captain Correlli’s Mandolin, like some sacred object. Ida laughed under her breath.
Claire was a corporate lawyer and distant family friend and Ida had only come for the free booze. She lit a fag.
“I’m so sorry, but could you do that on the balcony,” Claire said. Ida didn’t put it out and didn’t reply but smiled and walked out of the room and along the corridor. The balcony was through Claire’s bedroom and as Ida entered she noticed a man was already standing out there, hunched over the railings. He was wearing a tight, grey suit and silver shoes, his short light brown hair slicked to the side and he turned as he heard her. He was terribly thin.
“Nice look,” she said as she stepped through the double doors.
“Do you think I’m pretentious?” he asked. “See I wasn’t sure.”
Ida laughed but was surprised by his grumpiness. She wasn’t used to being called up on what she said.
“Well, yeah,” she said. “Of course.”
“And you’re not pretentious. I see. Well, nice look,” he said, wafting his hand towards her. She felt annoyed.
“They’re from a charity shop,” she said. She was wearing her red boots and a stained tea dress. They were both from Oxfam but she kind of knew what he meant.
He took another look at her. “Jesus, I thought grunge was dead.”
“Fuck off,” she said, half appalled, half delighted.
“My suit cost me £20 from Camden Lock,” he said. “If it’s about money then those tarts in there are the most pretentio
us of the lot.” He smiled and leant back to get a better look at her as he sucked hard on his roll-up. His movements were jerky and he was wiry and small – inches shorter than her. His voice was cockney, but knowing Claire’s friends, Ida wasn’t fooled. She was certain he was a public school boy who was putting on an act.
Ida didn’t reply and sucked on her own fag as he began to roll another. The view across Primrose Hill was amazing, the sky, lit by a million bulbs below, an eerie electric blue. She tried to think of something to say.
Claire came out of the French doors with a plate of asparagus and parma ham. “I didn’t want you two to miss out,” she said.
The man took a piece of ham and ate it in one go, staring at sky as he did.
“Have you been introduced?” asked Claire with a hint of panic in her voice. Ida knew what was coming next. Claire had an irritating habit of introducing people with interesting facts – she liked showing off her collection of friends.
“Elliot, this is Ida – THE Ida Irons – inspiration for her mother’s play, and the film,” she said. Then, looking concerned, “You do know it?”
“I wasn’t exactly –” Ida started to protest. The play had been written before she was born, how the fuck could she have inspired it?
Claire was oblivious. “And Ida, this is Elliot Hill, he’s an artist, he’s exhibited in loads of fancy galleries and his father is this massive art collector, isn’t he Elliot?” Claire said, turning to go back inside.
“Massive,” Elliot mouthed, indicating someone fat with his arms.
“Claire, I think you’ve got it wrong about Ida,” he said, and Claire turned back towards him. “The play was written before she was born. She wasn’t its inspiration.”
“No need for introductions,” Claire said happily and went inside.
“You’re right,” Ida said and shook the hand he’d stuck out towards her. “How the fuck do you know that?”
“I’m a fan,” he said. “So, what’s it like having a murderer’s name?”
They drunk almost all the wine and, as it had started to rain, smoked in Claire’s pristine bathroom, giggling as the blondes coughed politely outside, shouting, “in a minute,” and roaring with laughter when someone politely said, “sorry but I’m pretty desperate for a wee.” By eleven Claire took Elliot to one side and spoke to him. Ida was busy with the stereo, sorting through the CDs and shrieking about how awful they were. “Wet Wet Wet. Fucking hell.”
By eleven thirty they were outside.
“You’ll get her home safely, won’t you?” Claire asked from behind the front door, flicking her eyes back and forth between Elliot and Ida, who was busy throwing gravel at passing cars.
“I don’t think she needs my help,” he said.
As Ida sat in the cab she realised she was horrifically drunk but had moments of lucidity as they talked about the shapes of the buildings outside, about the light and the posters and the people. For a few seconds she would remember that this was a man she barely knew, write him off as unsuitable, before being drawn into a conversation about a crane or a bag lady’s coat and forgetting herself all over again. She lost track of where they were and he laughed as she tried to place herself and got it wrong. They weren’t in Camden, or Islington, or the West End either apparently.
The cab fare was sixteen pounds. Ida had three in her purse.
“I’m not doing this to show off,” he said. “You owe me, you spoilt cow, come on.” He clicked his fingers and put his arm out for her to take as they walked past empty factories and shops. It was an old theatre or something they were going to and everyone in the queue was dressed up, the girls in sixties dresses with bouffant hair, the men in suits and ties, women holding handbags on their heads as they smoked in the rain. As they walked, people said Elliot’s name, a bit like he was famous.
“Do you owe them money or something?” Ida asked.
“I see you’re back from the dead,” he said.
It was hot and packed inside and a band was playing on the stage, all wearing suits and trainers, their hair hanging over their eyes. Then there was a DJ playing music Ida didn’t know – ‘northern soul’ Elliot said – and Ida danced and danced as he talked to his friends. She didn’t mind, she could see him watching her, occasionally catching her eye.
She was sweaty and out of breath by the time he led her through the crowd. A skinny red-haired girl was sitting on a stool next to the stage and she turned a key to let them through the door behind her.
“Hi Elliot, great night tonight,” she said, and smiled at Ida while looking her up and down.
The room through the door was long and dark with a skittle alley at the end. People were sitting on white leather sofas and purple beanbags.
“This is Ida,” he said to everyone as they passed. She was pretty sure she recognised some of them, maybe from the TV though she couldn’t be sure. There was a bar in the corner with no one serving and Elliot went behind and made them drinks. She sat on a high red stool and watched him.
“Rum and ginger ale, Ida Irons? With some angostura bitters. Now that’s a drink,” he said, leaning down to the fridge. “I suppose you think I’m a total dick,” he said, “showing off like a wanker. I’m sure you know loads of famous people. You’re not going to be impressed by some sixties club night in the East End,” he said.
She didn’t protest, but she was – very.
“I’d like to say I brought you back here because of the free booze, not because I was trying to get in your pants,” he said, stirring her drink with his finger and taking out his tobacco tin. “But the truth is –”
Ida cut him off. “Let’s go and play skittles,” she said, hopping off the bar stool.
He nodded, opening the till with a key and slipping a handful of notes into his pocket, holding his finger to his lips and winking.
Ida laughed.
Elliot was amazed to discover that Ida had never played skittles, or been bowling, in her life.
“What have you been doing with yourself?” he asked.
“Sitting in the pub,” she said. “I hate sport.”
“Skittles isn’t a sport, Ida,” Elliot said. “Skittles is for children and drunks. You should be good at it.”
Ida tried to hide her smile. She was delighted by his familiarity. She didn’t mind about the insult, she rarely minded insults, and coming from him it sounded like a compliment anyway.
Walking up to the line she chucked the ball at the pins as if she was throwing something on the ground in anger. Two fell.
“I have never seen anything like that in my life. You’re meant to do a run up,” Elliot said.
He set them back up and ran towards the line, ducking down and swinging his arm right back before bringing it forward and letting go. Nine fell.
Ida thought he looked like a twat.
She set them up again and walked forwards. Staring at the centre pin she tried to imagine that someone’s life depended on getting a strike. She tried to think of someone she cared about, to imagine their life hanging in the balance but she couldn’t think of anyone at all. Raising the ball to her chest, she threw it down the alley like a netball.
“Strike!” someone shouted from the sofas behind them.
Ida failed to hide the delight on her face as she turned towards him.
By three thirty she was tired. “Let’s go home,” she said. She had kind of meant to go to her home, and for him to go to his, but when he asked the taxi driver for an address she didn’t know, his address, she didn’t argue. Normally she hated people making decisions for her but tonight, for some reason, she was quite enjoying it.
They drove through streets she didn’t recognise, past shops selling watermelon, still open despite the time, past two girls pulling each other’s hair, past a dead dog and a mosque.
He told her about Hackney, about its geography and b
us routes and size. It was the next place to be, he was sure of it. A couple of years at most and the artists would be packing it out.
For once she did nothing but listen.
They fell in the front door and crashed through his house, tripping up the stairs and over rugs, shhssing each other and laughing. His room was on the top floor and apart from a double bed and an art deco wardrobe he had no furniture. On the walls were giant sheets of white paper, blu-tacked up, and covered in detailed sketches and lists, and in the far corner was a tower of books and CDs.
Ida threw herself straight onto the bed and with a crash realised that it had cracked, that her arse was now nearer the floor than her feet. She struggled to get up.
“Fucking hell, you big ball of chaos,” he said, walking over, kneeling next to her and lighting a candle. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
She looked at him the low light. He was so angular and perfect. He was beautiful.
“Elliot,” she whispered. “You’re not really a fan, are you?”
“Of course not. My ex was though,” he said, as he started kissing her legs.
“Should I be embarrassed about the bed?”
“Oh God no. Be proud. I’ll remember you, won’t I? And who needs beds anyway,” he said as he gripped her legs and pulled her, screaming, onto the floor.
Chapter fifteen
~ 1999 ~
They were so squished up on the low single chair bed that by the morning almost every part of their bodies was touching and Ida was, for the first time, pleased that her sister had stolen her room. She couldn’t remember them being this close and she felt grateful. Her eyes were still shut and she kissed the greasy back of Elliot’s dirty blonde hair, smelling fags, and the tube, and days old cheap shampoo. She laughed out loud to herself.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, still more asleep than awake.
“Oh God, everything. Alice is going to be so fucked off you’re here but she can’t say anything because it’s my birthday and –”
