by Kitty Wilson
‘It’s okay, I know I’ve worked hard but you know that’s the perk of not having a life.’ I look down at my feet and then it dawns on me that with Rory’s past that was not a tactful thing to say. Shit. Surely, he knows I didn’t mean it literally. That I was covering up my embarrassment at the fulsome praise. I’d best just shut up. I scratch at something on the corner of my shoe, pretend I don’t already know it’s a scuff mark.
‘I couldn’t agree more, Luisa, and it seemed to me that it deserved a wider audience,’ Rory says.
Luisa’s nodding now with fervour. I’m trying to keep my eyes open. When I was a child, if something was uncomfortable I’d close my eyes, block the world out until it was gone. But adult me knows that it’s neither Rory nor Luisa’s intention to make me feel uncomfortable. It isn’t their fault that this is so cringe for me. I just hate being the centre of attention, I’m uncomfortable with it and quite frankly it has never turned out well for me. Belle, what do you think you’re doing? Tut, it’s always you, isn’t it? You can be relied on to let everyone down… Why are you always so difficult? Why can’t you just fit in? I turn the voices off and focus on what is going on around me, tune into Rory’s voice instead of those of my family.
‘So I had a think and I don’t want to be the twat that turns up with loads of suggestions of what are the best next steps to take, mansplain stuff to you, so if you think I’m doing that, stop me and I’ll cease immediately and vacate the premises.’ I look up at him through my eyelashes and see that he too feels a bit uncomfortable. I force a smile to my lips, one that I hope says I know your intent is good, don’t fret, please continue, rather than channelling Joaquin Phoenix’s Joker on an off day.
‘We get that, come on.’ Luisa is on the edge of the sofa now.
‘I listened to what you said about how you wanted to get this to everyone, but especially to young people, and I knew I could help, I just wasn’t sure how initially. I had a couple of ideas and have spent today chasing them. So I won’t mind if you say no…’ He looks at me intently and I know I have to raise my eyes to meet his. He needs the reassurance.
‘Sweet Jesus, will you come on!’ Luisa interjects.
‘So, based on what you said about an app being the first step, I figured a good way forward was to look into actually getting your work made as a free app.’
‘Yeah, that would be amazing. But I don’t know how to and I simply can’t afford to get someone who does. I tried already.’
‘Right. I estimate it’s going to take a budget of twenty to thirty K to send it out to a developer, you need someone to design the UX, make it user-friendly, and someone else to do the heavy lifting, the coding, make sure there’s a CMS in there, all that sort of thing, get it to the marketplace.’
‘I don’t understand half of that.’
‘UX is user experience, and CMS is Content Management System, so they can make changes once it’s set up, keep it updated, flexible, right?’ Luisa interjects, less excited now, her serious business face on.
‘How on earth do you know that?’ I exclaim.
‘I may make cupcakes but I also keep up to date with business and tech.’
‘Right.’ He nods at Luisa and then turns back to me. ‘And then you’re going to need a further budget of at least twenty K for a marketing campaign once it’s up and running on the app store. I know that sounds like a lot, but for what you need, it’s fair. You need someone hot on SEO.’
‘Search Engine Optimisation,’ Luisa offers.
‘Oh stop it now, show off,’ I say but the inside of me is dying. I’ve been waiting for years to finish this and get it to the next steps but this is insane. All that work and it’s going to shrivel on the vine. Rory presumably knows what he is talking about, Luisa hasn’t flinched at these numbers, but this is beyond any funding I can hope to secure from the Arts Council or from going around schools. I try not to let my face reflect the fact that my hopes are now dead inside, dust.
‘Right, and then a social media marketer to implement it in a micro-targeted ad campaign, not just to attract the keen English students and teachers, but deliberately targeting kids that are not on academic or study aid sites. It takes a fair chunk of money.’
‘Yep.’ By this point I know the despondency is on my face.
‘And of course, a salary for you. That’s something you would have to think about. You can’t implement the next stage, going into schools, meeting head teachers and so on if you’re working a forty-hour week in something completely unrelated to pay the bills.’
‘Right.’ I nod. He can stop now.
‘So we’re looking at a start-up budget of seventy-five K and then ongoing running costs.’
‘When you put it in black and white like that…’
‘Right, it makes it more achievable, we know what we’re aiming for.’
Seriously?
‘Yes, that isn’t what I was going to say. But thank you, you’ve obviously put a lot of time into this.’ I rise to my feet, desperate to change the subject. ‘I’m getting another drink, who’s up for one?’
‘Sit the fuck back down, woman. He hasn’t finished yet.’
‘Yeah, but I think it’s clear I am. Can we not hack the corpse when it’s already rotting?’
‘Oh my God, sit down now.’ Luisa grabs my sleeve from where she is sitting on the sofa and yanks me down again.
‘I’d listen to your friend,’ Rory advised, his green eyes twinkling.
‘I listened to her in college and all it got me was a raving weed habit and an STI.’
‘You forget I knew you in college.’ Rory grins. ‘And that was not down to Luisa.’
‘She was a nightmare!’ Luisa smirks. ‘When I made her godmother, I did it because she has the best heart, although the worst habits, of anyone I know. Belle is true and good.’ I shoot her a look that says she can stop now. She ignores me. ‘Heart, character, you can’t change that but habits you can work on, so as she held Marsha when she had just been born and was shooting out crazy love-me-look-after-me pheromones, I told her if she was to have a place in my child’s life she needed to be someone I could trust my child with without worrying about the next unsuitable boyfriend coming through the door, or the baggie left on the kitchen table.’ Luisa switches her gaze from Rory to me and we exchange a look of love that only a decade plus of friendship can create.
‘Yes, and I haven’t had sex since.’ I grin and flourish my hands very much like my dad does.
‘You’re so naughty. You know that’s not true.’
‘Practically true. But I knocked the smoking on the head, mostly, but never, never if Marsha is around or if I’m going to see her imminently. And I’ve completely sorted out the only dating losers thing by just not dating. In fact, right now, I’m off all sex for the foreseeable. All my love is for Lu and Marsha.’
‘Good to know but I think you might love this too. I’ll cut to the point. I have a client, well, friend, primarily, who is very keen on investing philanthropically into literacy projects. They want to target primary schools, address inequalities there, and this may shock you but 75K is a drop in the ocean to them and they didn’t even blink when I ran the figures past them. They want to meet you, talk about how you deliver it in schools as well as develop the app. See if you could filter it down to primary schools when they’re studying the Tudors and try and engage them with Shakespeare then. Get them learning early that old texts aren’t anything to be scared of. Teach them about rhythm, cadence, rhyme in language. If you can do that he’ll support you with the secondary schools and colleges too. And as luck would have it, he’s in Bristol until tomorrow evening, and suggested a face-to-face tomorrow, what do you think?’
Think? I can’t think.
Rory reaches across, places his hand on mine and very quietly whispers ‘Hey, all things are ready if our minds be so.’
I don’t dare look at Luisa.
No legacy is so rich as honesty
* * *
December Sixth.
Belle.
‘Yaaaayyyyyyy!’ I open an eye as Marsha’s shriek pierces the air. I’m sleeping top-to-toe in her bed, a tradition that started when she was two with her first ever Sinterklaas night and one that I assume will end in a few years. Surely she won’t want me sleeping in the same bed as her once she’s in secondary school? I’m going to make the most of the joy now. But also, it is 5 a.m.
‘Look at this, Belle!’ she says, waving a huge bar of Milka around so excitedly it whacks me on the head.
Ow.
‘That’s huge, Marshy-moo!’
‘I know. Huge-est ever. It didn’t even fit in the shoe, it’s like, one, two, three, four, six shoes long. It’s going to last for ever.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Mmmmm … here, shhhh.’ She breaks me off a chunk and puts her finger to her lip. Almost five years old and already skilled at getting me to collude so I can’t rat on her. I know Luisa will make her make the chocolate last until Christmas Day itself, so I don’t blame her for eating as much as she can before her mum wakes up.
‘I’ve got Percy Pigs, and these…’ She holds up gel pens. ‘This…’ A Beatrix Potter colouring book – the girl is obsessed, and who in their right mind does not love Mrs Tiggy-Winkle? ‘And look! A skipping rope…’ I duck. ‘And a huge bag of reindeer poo!’ The chocolate raisins are a fairly large bag. We cuddle under the covers and both take a page of Tiggy-Winkle colouring, munching chocolate while we can.
I’m getting ready to go home when I get a text from Rory with an address and a time slot. It would seem this meeting is going ahead. It will be quick, he’s a busy man, I am told, but not so busy he’s prepared to give away 75K without a brief face-to-face. He can fit me in after church.
The address is in St Pauls, barely a fifteen-minute walk away from mine, through the underpass and then a couple of roads down. In fact, I think it’s not far from an underground club I used to go to when I was younger, big steel metal door, sliding hatch, password, that sort of thing. Proper sketchy. The sort of place I don’t think I could find sober and in daylight. And definitely not now I’m in my thirties.
‘Don’t fret,’ Rory had said last night, ‘the two of you have a lot in common. I’ve known him since primary school. He’ll take one look at you and decide in an instant whether his investment is safe or whether you’re a shyster. He always does business this way. I think you’re going to like him.’
‘I don’t need to like him.’ I had said at the time. ‘I just need him to like me.’ But inside I’m terrified. Should I prepare a pitch? I had asked, aware that twelve hours was not a long time to get ready. No need, I had been reassured, bring you as you are and answer any questions he has honestly and that will be enough.
Great, I’m going to meet some kind of psychic business savant, and bar being me, there is little else I can do to win him over. No pressure!
Before I allow my mind to go down into a poor self-esteem whirl I decide to reframe the way I’m thinking. Stop concentrating on my flaws and how this man will react to me. If he hates me I’m no worse off than I was twenty-four hours ago.
I also need to find a way to thank Rory for this. He had said last night it was his job but to me it’s so much more than that. What can I do for Rory? He’s financially secure, has no worries that I know of in his life and is only here for a short amount of time. I’m not sure why he has come back. I should ask him but I wonder if it has anything to do with Jessica. She died in December. I know this because it was the day before Marsha wailed her way onto this planet, red-faced and determined.
He had admitted to hating December whereas for me it is the most magical month. It is also the toughest. It’s tough because I am required to see my parents twice, but other than that the sparkle, the magic, the thinking of gifts for those I love, the joy in Marsha’s face, peaking not just once at Christmas but again on New Year’s Day when she celebrates her birthday, all of that is joyous. The excitement in the air, the jollity everywhere you go, the anticipation. Maybe I can pass some of that magic on to him.
That is what I will do. I will teach him to love Christmas. I’m not going to be able to wipe away his pain, suddenly cleanse December of the tragedy he has experienced, but whilst he’s here I can be his friend and show him the magic of winter. I can be his very own Christmas elf.
It’s noon and I am standing on the doorstep of a fairly average-looking terraced house in St Pauls. Not some schmancy-pants hotel or Clifton address. There’s music blaring out from a house down the street and despite wearing the smartest outfit I can, borrowed from Luisa with the intention of reassuring Mystery Man his money is safe with me, my feet are itching to dance.
I love this area of Bristol, I’m a die-hard attendee of Carnival when it’s on in summer and have actually clambered over Luisa once to get my hands on a cold Red Stripe and a bowl of goat curry. She hadn’t minded. The houses here are all jammed together and as well as the music, I can hear people as they walk down the street, a stream of chatter bringing life to the place. All senses are awakened here.
Still, my love for the city doesn’t stop me being nervous right now, in this moment. My hopes of getting my Shakespeare project out are pretty all-consuming and I’ve gone from zero to two hundred in less than a day. My dreams of wandering around schools sharing my bardolatry with keen minds have been over-inflating all the way here and I’ve worked out a pitch as I’ve walked. Shakespeare me is not going to let an opportunity like this slip through my fingers through lack of preparation. If it all goes wrong I need to know I’ve given it my best shot.
Deep breath. I ring the doorbell.
Breath in, breath out.
A lithe young woman with the most beautiful face opens the door. She’s wearing some kind of gold mesh and has an afro that must be a good ten inches wide – that takes maintenance. She might have just walked straight off the cover of Vogue. She certainly looks like she belongs where 75K is pocket change. I’m intimidated and trying not to stare.
‘Hi, come on in. Belle for Jamal? He’s expecting you.’ Her voice is pure Bristolian and I could kiss her; the intimidation has waned.
She leads me through a hallway into a kitchen.
Sitting at the Formica-topped kitchen table is a woman, probably about my mum’s age, but where my mum exudes brittle sophistication twinned with cold desperation this woman is warm and dressed in her Sunday best. This kitchen feels like a hub of the home and there is a delicious smell pervading the house.
My gaze swings from my guide to a tall man stirring a pot. His shoulders are so broad that he looks as if he could be a warrior king. Even through his hoody I can see how beautifully built he is and I feel a pang of lust flood through me. Woah, that’s not appropriate right now.
‘Hello, hello, hello.’ The woman waves me in. ‘You are just in time for Jamal’s brown stew chicken. It is the best, I tell you, the best there has ever been.’
I smile.
‘Hello, that’s quite some recommendation.’
‘No word of a lie.’ Glamazon gestures for me to pull out a chair and sit at the table. This is not how I imagined my pitch meeting.
‘He won’t be a minute and he’ll make you a cup of tea as well.’ The elder of the two women says as if he isn’t in the room with us.
‘That would be lovely.’ I sit at the table and decide to go with the general vibe. The man at the stove stirs the pot one more time, turns the heat off and leans over and flicks on a kettle. I’m hypnotised. He turns to face me.
Fuck me.
No.
Jamal is actually Jamal! The UK’s brightest and best. The twenty-first century’s version of Da Vinci, Aristotle and Helen Keller rolled into one, a polymath to rival all others. He started out in the music business, making a name for himself on the hip-hop scene before he was even out of school. He then went on to release an album that had gone mainstream and hit all the number one spots on every streaming service whilst he was still sitti
ng his A-levels. He has since done some television, partnering up with Channel Four on a drama set here, in St Pauls, that then won a BAFTA – of course it did – and now he is releasing more music, running an ethical clothing company, campaigning against sweatshops and is rumoured to have something new he is about to announce. He’s thirty. A year younger than me, way more successful than anyone could hope to be and sexy as fuck. Sweet Jesus Christ he is sexy. And currently making me tea in a kitchen in St Pauls.
I’m going to kill Rory. How could he not have warned me?
‘Cup of tea on and you’re welcome to a bowl of chicken…’ He pauses as he turns and sees me. ‘F—’ He looks across at the older woman and makes a ‘sorry’ grimace. ‘I know you. Rory didn’t tell me it was you!’
I laugh. How surreal is this? Jamal knows me. I don’t think so. There is no way this is happening to me right now.
‘You know me? You must have me muddled with someone else. I didn’t realise I was coming to see you, Rory didn’t say.’ I stammer. So much for my professional I-know-all-about-Shakespeare-and-am-well-worth-your-investment speech. I’m fairly sure You know me wasn’t supposed to be my opening line. Neither is dribbling with open-mouthed awe. Yet I seem to be rocking it really well.
Jamal looks me up and down. Not in a sleazy sexual way, not at all, but in a way which makes me practically see the cogs in his brain whirring around at super speed, his eyes lit with an intelligence that is more than a little intimidating.
‘Yeah, he’s good like that. Loyal, tight-lipped, never talks much unless there’s something to be said. I like him. He is the most honourable man you are likely to meet. We’ve been friends for years. That’s why I took this meeting. But yeah, I know you…’
‘He’s always had a photographic memory, ever since he was a boy. He sees something, he remembers it. It was one of his superpowers when he was little. So where do you know this nice young lady from then, Jamal?’
