“That all sounds rather marvelous, darling. And you went to his house, did you? Tell me, what did you find there?”
I sniffed. “The thing is, Mummy . . . I didn’t actually . . . go inside.” This wasn’t going to be easy. She liked doing bad things, and I didn’t. It was as simple as that. I spoke quickly, hoping to head off the inevitable criticism. “I just wanted to have a quick look, make sure he lived somewhere app . . . appropriate,” I said, stumbling over the words in my haste to get them out.
She sighed. “And how are you supposed to know whether it’s nice if you didn’t go inside? You always were overcautious and lily-livered, darling,” she said, sounding bored.
I looked at my hands. The chipped green nails looked so garish in this light.
“What you have to do, Eleanor,” she said, “is grasp the nettle. Do you know what I mean by that?”
“I think so,” I whispered.
“I’m simply telling you that you mustn’t keep pussyfooting around, Eleanor.” She sighed. “Life is all about taking decisive action, darling. Whatever you want to do, do it—whatever you want to take, grab it. Whatever you want to bring to an end, END IT. And live with the consequences.”
She started to talk quietly, speaking so softly that I could hardly hear her. This, I knew from experience, did not bode well.
“This man . . .” she murmured. “This man sounds as if he has some potential, but, like most people, he’ll be weak. That means that you have to be strong, Eleanor. Strength conquers weakness—that’s a simple fact of life, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” I said sullenly, pulling a face. Childish, I know, but Mummy does tend to bring out the worst in me. The musician was very handsome and very talented. I knew, as soon as I set eyes on him, that we were destined to be together. Fate would see to that. I didn’t need to take any more . . . decisive action, apart from ensuring that our paths crossed again—once we met properly, the rest was, surely, already written in the stars. I suspected that Mummy wasn’t going to be pleased with this approach, but I was more than accustomed to that. I heard her breathe in, then out, and felt the soft menace through the ether.
“Don’t you go getting sidetracked, now, Eleanor—don’t go ignoring Mummy, will you? Oh, you think you’re so smart now, don’t you, with your job and your new friends. But you’re not smart, Eleanor. You’re someone who lets people down. Someone who can’t be trusted. Someone who failed. Oh yes, I know exactly what you are. And I know how you’ll end up. Listen, the past isn’t over. The past is a living thing. Those lovely scars of yours—they’re from the past, aren’t they? And yet they still live on your plain little face. Do they still hurt?”
I shook my head, but said nothing.
“Oh, they do—I know they do. Remember how you got them, Eleanor. Was it worth it? For her? Oh, there’s room on your other cheek for a bit more hurt, isn’t there? Turn the other cheek for Mummy, Eleanor, there’s a good girl.”
And then there was only silence.
13
On the bus to work on Friday, I felt strangely calm. I hadn’t drunk vodka after the chat with Mummy, but only because I didn’t have any, and I didn’t want to go out alone in the dark to buy some. Always alone, always dark. So, instead, I had made a cup of tea and read my book, distracted occasionally by my flashing green fingernails as I turned the pages. I’d had enough of tropical fruit for the time being, and needed something more conducive to matters of the heart. Sense and Sensibility. It’s another one of my favorites: top five, certainly. I love the story of Elinor and Marianne. It all ends happily, which is highly unrealistic, but, I must admit, narratively satisfying, and I understand why Ms. Austen adhered to the convention. Interestingly, despite my wide-ranging literary tastes, I haven’t come across many heroines called Eleanor, in any of the variant spellings. Perhaps that’s why the name was chosen for me.
After a few, familiar chapters, I went to bed and did not sleep at all. A night without repose, however, seemed to have no ill effects, surprisingly, and I felt bright and alert as the bus made its way through the morning traffic. Perhaps I was one of those people, like the late Baroness Thatcher, who simply did not require sleep? I picked up a copy of the free newspaper that is always discarded on bus seats, and began to flick through it. An orange woman I’d never heard of had got married for the eighth time. A captive panda had apparently “reabsorbed” its own fetus, thereby ending its pregnancy—I looked out of the window for a moment as I tried and failed to understand the reproductive system of the panda—and, on page ten, evidence had been uncovered of the systematic and widespread abuse of underage boys and girls in a series of care homes. The news stories were reported in that order.
I shook my head, and was about to discard the newspaper when a small advertisement caught my eye. The Cuttings, it said, with a logo of a bullet train hurtling along a track. I noticed it because the answer to twelve across in yesterday’s crossword had been Shinkansen. Such small coincidences can pepper a life with interest. I looked at the content, which appeared to be an announcement of forthcoming events at said venue. Sandwiched between two artistes I’d never heard of was a listing for Friday. Tonight.
There was the name of a band—obviously, I’d never heard of them—and there, in smaller font, was the musician! I dropped the paper, picked it up again. No one had noticed. I ripped out the advert, folded it carefully and placed it in the inside pocket of my shopper. This was it, the opportunity I’d been waiting for. Written in the stars, delivered to me by fate. This bus, this morning . . . and tonight.
I looked up the venue when I got to the office. It seemed that he would be playing at 8 p.m. I needed to shop for a party—and now a gig—outfit after work, which did not leave much time. Judging by the website, The Cuttings seemed to be the sort of place where one would feel most comfortable when fashionably attired. How, then, would I manage to be there for eight, dressed and ready? Ready to meet him? Was it too soon? Should I wait until another time, prepare properly? I’d read somewhere that one only gets a single chance to make a first impression—I’d dismissed the trite phrase at the time, but perhaps there was some truth in it. If the musician and I were going to be a couple, our first encounter needed to be a memorable one.
I nodded to myself, having made up my mind. I’d go to the shops straight after work, buy a new outfit and wear it to the concert. Oh, Eleanor, it couldn’t be that easy, could it? I knew from experience that life was never this straightforward, so I tried to anticipate any potential problems and how best I might address them. What would I do with the clothes I was currently wearing? The answer came to me easily: my shopper was big enough to hold them. What about dinner? I am not a woman who functions well on an empty stomach, and it would be embarrassing to faint at his feet for any reason other than an excess of emotion. Well, couldn’t I purchase some food from a café after work, and still manage to arrive at The Cuttings for 7:45 p.m.? Yes, I could. That would allow me plenty of time to select a seat near the front for the best possible view. My view of him, and his view of me, of course. All of the problems solved.
I couldn’t resist a quick look online to see if he was as excited as I was about tonight. Ah, thank you, Twitter:
@johnnieLrocks
Soundcheck: done. Haircut: done. Get your fat backsides down to Cuttings tonight, mofos.
#nextbigthing #handsomebastard