by Adele Parks
I leave Bella sauntering towards Soho where, no doubt, she’ll spend a couple of hours gazing in shop windows at the retro film posters, cute stationery and large silver dildos. I tear off in the opposite direction and head for the tube. We were having such a great time being cruel to celebrities that I’d completely lost track of time. I now have only thirty-five minutes before I’m supposed to collect Eddie. I hate being late for pick-up. Besides the haughty looks that rain down on me from the kindie staff and the enormous fine (they charge an extra £7.50 for each unscheduled hour, or part hour) the biggest punishment is catching sight of Eddie’s face. There is a huge stigma attached to being the last child that is picked up. I know that the shame is only ever a delayed tube away.
I dash down the first escalator towards the depths of the Piccadilly line. Halfway down my sense of urgency is hijacked by Elvis. Not the real Elvis. I know he’s dead. But someone singing as though he were Elvis. ‘All Shook Up’ bounces up the escalator and I find that I am playfully tapping my toes and gently patting my fingers against my hip. If I’d been in the privacy of my own sitting room I would undoubtedly have been clicking my fingers and shaking my hips with real enthusiasm. Remarkable, when you consider that the sentiment could not be further from my reality. I am not in love and I can’t remember when last someone left me aquiver except with anger or disappointment. Yet, it’s impossible not to smile and sing along. It doesn’t surprise me that Elvis songs are still played at just about every wedding reception even thirty years after his death. Elvis was put on this earth to make it better for all of us. I’m not fanatical. I don’t own a pair of sparkly gold sunglasses, just the CD, Elvis’ 30 #1 Hits. Someone bought it for me for Christmas, a few years back, and I played it all Boxing Day, although I think that was the last time I played it.
The music stops abruptly. The busker is being moved on. Some are supported by London Underground; certain areas of some platforms have been declared official busking sites. I imagine you have to apply to perform there; clearly the Elvis guy hasn’t.
As I mount the second escalator I can see an official insisting that the busker pack up and move on. I notice that the guy has a guitar which surprises me. He really is good; I’d assumed he was singing along to a beatbox. It’s a shame he’s been made to move. He was only brightening commuters’ day.
I flash a sympathetic half-grin/half-shrug at him as I pass and comment, ‘Really cool, thanks,’ and flick a pound coin into his open guitar case. The official stares at me and mutters that busking is illegal. I flash him a look that tells him I don’t care.
The tube arrives within a remarkable three minutes and, more surprising still, there are empty seats. I fling myself into one and rummage in my bag for my novel. Someone sits next to me. This is not a good sign. Only nutters choose to huddle up when there’s plenty of space. I steadfastly refuse to look up.
‘Thanks for your support,’ says the nutter.
I take a sneaky glance around the carriage to see if he might be talking to anyone else. This frail hope disappears when I see that there isn’t anyone else at this end of the carriage. Bad news on two counts. First, the nutter must be addressing me and, second, there’s no one to help me if the situation turns nasty. I’m not a pessimist but if a complete stranger talks to you on the tube the chances are the situation is going to turn nasty. I didn’t always understand this urban law. When I arrived from Oz I would innocently insist on commenting ‘g’day’ to complete strangers. I noticed that they always changed seats or got off at the next stop. It didn’t take me long to realize that speaking to strangers on tubes wasn’t so much considered a break in etiquette, more like a certifiable act.
‘I feel I owe you a quid, though. You didn’t really get chance to listen. Hardly what you’d call value for money.’
I look up and recognize the guitar case before I recognize the busker, to whom I hadn’t given much more than a cursory grin.
‘That’s OK,’ I reply cautiously. I’m not prepared to be overly friendly. Just because he’s a busker doesn’t exempt him from being mad. In fact, I’d have thought that anyone who was trying to make a living off the charity and generosity of Londoners probably does have a screw loose.
The busker grins and holds out his hand, ‘Stevie Jones, pleased to meet you.’
I decide it would be rude not to shake his hand at exactly the same time that I decide Stevie Jones has the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. His eyes aren’t bad either. The smile breaks across his face creating a similar sensation to that of cracking an egg in a frying pan. I love that moment. The moment when the frail shell snaps under the pressure of my fingers and the egg metamorphoses into something that promises imminent yumminess. It’s a moment of change, expectancy and release. Stevie Jones’s smile is the same.
‘Laura Ingalls,’ I reply. Fireworks explode in my knickers. Wey-hey, sexual attraction. Undeniable. I am completely shocked by this. I am, after all, wearing prosaic grey/white cotton numbers that were not designed to entertain flutters of any description. More, I’d forgotten that my body was capable of entertaining flutters. I have come to think of it as a vessel for food and something for Eddie to cling to and climb on. How odd.
‘Laura Ingalls? You’re kidding,’ he laughs.
‘No, I’m not. My parents hadn’t seen or heard of Little House on the Prairie when they named me. More’s the pity,’ I mumble.
Can people see sexual attraction? Does this man know I’m imagining him naked? I hope not.
‘I bet you hated it when the programme was a hit,’ says Stevie.
‘I did,’ I agree.
Most people assume that Little House on the Prairie must have been my favourite programme as I shared my name with the precocious tomboy who was the lead character. It takes unusual insight to guess that I wouldn’t have appreciated sharing my name with a freckly, goofy kid who had a penchant for big bonnets and bloomers.
‘Still, it could have been worse. You could have been called Mary.’
Stevie and I shudder as we consider the full horror. Mary was the prettier character in the show but she was mawkish and irritating too.
‘Back then I hankered after a zappier name. Zara, Zandar or Zuleika were my favourites.’
‘Did this discontent with your identity last long?’
Stevie is smiling his fried-egg smile and the fear that he is a fruitcake recedes at about the same rate as realization dawns that he’s flirting with me.
‘Throughout the seventies and a large proportion of the eighties until I started to accept that being called Zara, Zandar or Zuleika wouldn’t guarantee that I was more popular or the captain of the netball team.’
He laughs. ‘I think Laura is a really pretty name.’
All at once I love my name.
‘Top Cat was my favourite cartoon as a kid.’ The nonsequential comment makes perfect sense to me.
‘I loved Wacky Races,’ I enthuse.
And so we start to chatter about stuff, rather than things. And we just keep on chattering until the train flies through Barons Court. ‘I get off at the next stop,’ I tell him.
What am I saying? Kiss me: this is our brief encounter. Get a grip. His eyes are a bright, clean green that reminds me of jelly: sparkly and rich. I realize I’m describing him as though his face is a plate of food at teatime but it has been a while since I’ve looked at men with any real interest. By contrast, food is an enduring passion.
‘Mine too,’ says Stevie.
‘I change on to the Hammersmith and City line. I live near Ladbroke Road,’ I blather, giving away more than is wise or cool.
‘I’m going to Richmond. I have a sort of job interview.’
‘Really?’
‘The possibility of a regular gig. That’s what I do. I’m an Elvis impersonator, or at least it’s my night job.’
‘Really?’ I smile hoping to show my approval and interest, although I seem incapable of articulating it.
All too soon the tube pulls up in Hammersmith. We b
oth alight and for a moment we hesitate. Clearly, we both want to say something, anything, but nothing groundbreaking comes to mind.
‘Well, good luck with the interview – er, the gig thing,’ I say.
‘Thanks, see you around,’ offers Stevie.
We both know we won’t see each other again. Not if he disappears into the throng getting the District line and I merge with the masses passing through the turnstiles for the Hammersmith and City line. I shouldn’t care. But I do.
‘Bye then,’ I mumble.
Then he kisses me. Stevie Jones leans towards me and after an intimacy of approximately fifteen and a half minutes, he kisses me. Very gently on the cheek, a fraction away from my lips.
A number of possible responses spring to mind. I could slap his face – unlikely as I’m not a star in a black and white, pre-Second World War movie. I could grab his scruffy, scrummy body and pull it close to mine and snog his face off. Also unlikely. Although I have now had chance to notice that he is scruffy and scrummy (longish hair, over six foot, broad shoulders, lean – almost lanky – with neat bum). But it isn’t a long enough acquaintance for me to be that forward.
The kiss had been soft and kind. Interested and promising. I am not used to being touched with such tenderness. It was a good kiss.
So good, in fact, that the only response that seems appropriate is for me to run. As fast as I can. Up the stairs and out of his life, not leaving behind so much as a glass slipper.
7. All Shook Up
Friday 14th May 2004
Bella
I have made a special effort for the house to look lovely. Since Philip is paying such an enormous mortgage the least I can do is fill it with friends and buy a few fresh cut flowers now and again.
When we got married I moved out of the trendy Clerkenwell space and Phil sold his flat in Putney. I would happily have moved in there with him but Philip wanted to start afresh. We bought a five-bedroom house in Wimbledon, Philip said it was the perfect home to fill with bonny lasses and strapping lads. Who am I to object? It’s not as though I have to keep it tidy. Gana, our Thai housekeeper, does that.
Despite Philip’s plans for us to build a home together, he decorated the place on his own. It wasn’t supposed to be like that but whenever I brought something home he would shake his head and say that it was lovely but not right for a Victorian family home. I sometimes disagreed but not enough to make an issue of it – and he might have had a point when it came to the glitter ball and the jelly bean loo seat. We both got what we wanted; me, a ready-made, middle-class identity, him, the knowledge that he’d tried to do the right thing.
Philip surrounded us with antique bureaus, shelves, chests, chairs and tables that needed to be protected with mats or glass. It was the tiny things that told me that I’d grown up. We kept spare loo rolls in the bathroom cupboard and light bulbs in a box in the garage. I had Christmas decorations in the loft. We have a Poggenpohl kitchen that’s packed with gadgets – only a few of which have been taken out of their boxes.
This spring, we made the most of any mild weather and in the evenings Philip and I often sat in the garden to enjoy a drink. We watched as the trees slowly came back to life and as the tiny buds opened out into fleshy leaves. I’m planning on spending most of my summer in the garden. It is so peaceful.
The five bedrooms are going to be put to use tonight. I have made sure that Laura and Amelie’s rooms are aired. I’ve left Vogue and Now in Laura’s room and Tatler and a holiday brochure in Amelie’s. The boys will share a room tonight, which they’ll enjoy, and Freya will get to sleep in a double bed on her own. Also a treat. Although I’m not in a hurry to be called mummy just yet, I adore being the fairy godmother. Whenever Freya, Davey or Eddie visit I make sure that I provide them with all the treats I can. I go to Blockbuster, hire a couple of kids’ movies, buy massive bags of Butterkist and lots of chocolate. I buy comics, glitter glue, micro cars and Coke. Anyone who says money can’t buy happiness is shopping in the wrong place.
Amelie arrives first. She brings with her an air of seriousness and purpose. She had this before Ben died but I notice it more now as it is no longer balanced with his irreverence and flippancy. Not that Amelie Gordon is dull. She is thoughtful and thought-provoking, she’s simply less silly than any of my other friends. She reads the quality papers. She took a masters degree in religion and philosophy so she knows something about Scientology (beyond the fact that Tom Cruise practises it). Not only has she actually read the Bible but she can talk intelligently about Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism, Shinto, Sikhism and Taoism. In short, she is the type of woman I’d like to be when I grow up; either like Amelie or a Charlie’s Angel.
The children stumble into the house carrying large amounts of luggage. They always bring their own Disney sleeping bags, several spare sets of clothes and a mountain of toys. Amelie is also oblivious to the idea of packing light. She’s arrived with the entire Estée Lauder skin care range, clean clothes for tomorrow (two outfits; one befitting a walk in the park, another an amble down King’s Road), nightwear, flowers (for me), several huge bars of chocolate (for everyone), books, articles cut out from magazines that she thinks are interesting and hopes I might too (Amelie assumes other people find thorny issues appealing and she has a higher opinion of my intellect than anyone I’ve ever met), and a bottle of Chablis (already chilled).
‘I’m thinking of buying some ceramic hair straighteners and thought you might have a set I could try,’ says Amelie, in a timely reminder that she enjoys frivolity too. I confirm that I have the latest type and that they work miracles.
‘Aunty Bella, will you pierce my ears?’ asks Freya who has watched Grease about fifty times and definitely sees herself as Olivia Newton-John.
‘No,’ her mother and I chorus.
The doorbell rings.
‘The oven should be hot now, will you stick the pizzas in?’ I ask Amelie. The kids are already searching through the DVDs and arguing over whether they should watch Shrek or Honey. Amelie wanders through to the kitchen and I answer the door to Laura and Eddie.
They arrive with similar noise and commotion. Eddie is just in time to cast a deciding vote in favour of Shrek. Freya looks crushed but is somewhat comforted when I say there is time for both films. Amelie and Laura stare at me as though I’m insane as they see the chances of getting their offspring in bed before 10 p.m. recede. I shrug off their concerns as I know after they’ve had a couple of glasses of wine, they’ll be less tyrannical.
It’s about fifteen minutes before the children are safely ensconced upstairs in front of the TV. The pizza is almost ready and the wine is already affecting our brain cells. We lounge around the kitchen, propping up the breakfast bar. Whenever I’m with Amelie my first instinct is to ask her how she is.
‘How are things Amelie?’ I cock my head to one side – I read in a magazine that this stance encourages confidences.
‘Oh, you know,’ Amelie holds up the box of chocolates I’ve bought – Swiss – they cost a packet but are worth it. ‘Should we open these before the pizza? Can we risk it? Sweet before savoury?’
‘My mum’s not here,’ laughs Laura, ‘no one is going to tell us off.’
Amelie opens the chocolates and pops one in her mouth, I wait for her to answer my question. She doesn’t. Instead she turns to Laura and says, ‘You look lovely.’
I haven’t had a chance to do more than glance at Laura, since she arrived – I’ve been focusing on the children and Amelie – but Amelie’s right: Laura does look great. Really great, not just the-new-T-shirt-demands-attention great. She’s smiley and relaxed. She’s taken the time to wash and scrunch-dry her hair, allowing her curls to celebrate their bounce. She’s wearing another new top, a pink, floral-print one, it’s cool, not mumsy. And besides these outward changes, I can see that something has shifted on the inside too. She is gleaming.
‘I’ve met someone.’
‘You have?’ Amelie and I sound delighted and incredulous
at once.
‘Where?’ I ask. ‘At nursery? Do I know him?’
Laura grins mischievously. She’s enjoying the attention. ‘I met him after I left you on Monday.’
‘You met him on Monday and you’ve taken until now, Friday, to tell me about him?’ I’m mildly offended. Considering Laura sometimes rings me to talk about a new brand of washing powder, I can’t understand why she’d hold back something of this magnitude.
‘I wanted to see your face and… well, nothing is concrete.’
‘Tell us everything,’ says Amelie, hopping on to a bar stool and patting the one beside her.
‘Well, at first, and I can hardly believe this now, I didn’t notice how cute he is. I just heard him busking—’
‘He’s a busker,’ I say with indecorous astonishment.
‘Yeah. So?’ demands Laura tetchily, suggesting that she already knows what point I’m going to make. From the look on her face she is warning me not to pour cold water. ‘He was being moved on by an underground official.’
‘Not even an authorized busker?’ Did I say that? I hadn’t meant to.
‘Actually, that’s not his real job. He’s an Elvis impersonator, a tribute act,’ declares Laura – as though he is more important than the chancellor of the exchequer.
I feel sick. Is there anything worse? I want to tell her that tribute guys are never more than that. I object to the whole premise: if you have to be an entertainer, why be an imitator? Why not be yourself? I can see her now in the audience of working men’s clubs, surrounded by wasters and alcoholics, sipping Blue Nun as her man squeezes himself into his sparkly suit – changing room nothing more than a curtain pulled around a makeshift stage. I contain my criticism as a discontented mumble.
‘Well, that should impress the bank manager.’ Laura glares at me. ‘Sorry, no more interruptions. Go on.’
‘And then I got on the train and the next thing I knew he was sat in my carriage and we got chatting. He’s got the most beautiful smile.’
‘What did you chat about?’
