Honeybee, page 20
She seems to be getting some kind of kick out of this.
‘I’m not afraid, Flo. I just, there’s no fucking door, we could fall off any minute. You know I get weird when other people are driving. This is a lot.’
‘You’re right, I’m sorry,’ Flo says.
I sit back in the seat. The bus stops all the time, it’s like we’ve barely travelled any distance at all. Flo tells me the journey will take fucking FORTY MINUTES. No wonder. The sound of the traffic is so loud. Constant beeps and screeches and a million other noises that merge into one deafening angry growl. Thousands and thousands of people crossing roads, jumping on and off buses. Shouting, barging past each other, sitting so close but not making any eye contact. No one smiles, everyone is looking down. I always thought I’d be a city girl, I’ve been so excited about getting here. But now I’m here I don’t like how small I feel, how insignificant. Already I’m missing the chirpy disposition of small-town people.
Flo doesn’t seem bothered by all this. I could never have imagined her being confident enough to cope with this level of aggression, but here we are on a London bus. Me feeling like I’m about to get trampled to death and her casually reading a newspaper she found on the seat. How can she touch that? God knows whose hands have been on it before. It’s all just so dirty.
‘I thought maybe we could go for dinner tonight, a pub by the flat?’ she says.
‘Do they sell crisps?’ I ask, sarcastically.
‘Look, I know you’re worried about money, but tonight is on me. I’ve been earning longer than you and have some saved up. Just don’t worry, OK? You’re right, what you said at the airport, we have to enjoy ourselves.’
How can I not worry? London isn’t anything like I expected it to be. Where are all the stylish posh people skipping around all jolly with bunches of flowers and tote bags? It’s not like that. Everyone looks so sad, like they’re forced to be here. And the clothes so far are shit. I want to go home.
‘Where is this?’ I ask Flo, looking out of the window.
‘The Essex Road.’
There is an old lady dragging a shopping trolley along, and two young guys in hoodies walking dangerously close to her. Are they going to mug her?
‘Where is the flat?’ I ask, hoping she says, ‘a long way away from here.’ I don’t like it here at all.
‘Dalston, it’s not far. Just around the next corner,’ Flo tells me, and I hope that whatever is around that corner doesn’t reek of poverty and crime like this road does. Did I just think that? That was so snobby. Maybe I am a snob. I’ve only ever lived in Guernsey and Marbella, that’s not normal. Is the Essex Road normal? Is that why no one else wants to call the police every time they look out the window?
‘OK, this is us,’ says Flo, after another long ten minutes on this stinky bus. She jumps up, but I stay sitting down until it has stopped completely. ‘It’s about a five-minute walk, then we’re there, OK?
‘That caff is amazing,’ she continues as we pull our cases along, pointing at a shitty-looking builders’ café with horrible bright lights and a menu written with a black marker in the window. ‘They do the best fry-ups, you’ll love it.’
Will I? I think. Will I LOVE it? It looks crap. But sure, the smell of bacon wafting out of it isn’t terrible. As we walk along the pavement, Flo points out a bus stop over there, a library over there, the back entrance to the supermarket, the pub where we’re going to tonight. But I can’t focus on what she’s saying; it’s already an information overload and my brain feels like it might explode.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Flo, and I realise I have stopped and am staring all around. ‘Renée, what’s the matter?’
I shuffle up to her. ‘Nothing just, everyone is … different.’
‘Oh. You’ll get used to that. I felt the same when I got here. I quickly realised we have lived very sheltered white, middle-class lives and that multiculturalism is a big part of London life.’
She’s so worldly. I feel like I just crawled out of a cave.
‘It’s not the world we were brought up in. But you get used to it. In fact, it’s kinda great. I’ll take you to Whitechapel, that’s a more Islamic community, amazing kebabs. It feels good to be among other people, like we’re actually part of the real world and not in some weird, island bubble. I love it. OK, we’re here.’ We stop at a large, terraced house. It’s pretty and calmer on this street. It’s still not like the movie Notting Hill, but it’s better than the Essex Road.
Flo opens the front door, we go inside and I immediately feel the relief of the journey being over. We go up one flight of stairs, and she opens the door to the flat. It’s cute, with wooden floors and mismatched furniture. There is a lovely big wooden dining table and fun pictures on the walls. I can see a kitchen through a sweet arch-shaped doorway. It’s warm, and homely, and I collapse onto the sofa feeling like I just climbed an eight-thousand-foot mountain to get here. Flo’s nervousness seems to return almost immediately. Like the hectic London hustle distracted her from it, but now, in the silence of this living room, she is face-to-face with herself once again.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask her.
‘I just need a minute.’ She leaves the room, disappears up a corridor and shuts a door behind her. Pleased to have a moment alone, I sink into the sofa and relax.
Flo
I left in such a hurry that morning. Katrina and I had a big fight the night before. She said she was sick of my behaviour. I had no idea what she was talking about, she just went on and on about how impossible I was being. I ignored her and went to sleep. I slept through my alarm then packed whatever I could squeeze into my case and bolted for the airport. I left a note saying I’d come back to get the rest after the funeral, but I obviously never did. Now she’s found a new housemate and needs it all out. She didn’t even want to be here when I came back. Living with friends can go so horribly wrong, I still get scared for me and Renée.
I walk around the room, taking in the memories. Katrina was right, there is a smell. I find a very hard pair of pyjama bottoms stuffed under my bed. They have dried to a crisp and smell awful. I put them into a plastic bag and open the window. I light a joss stick and strike a few matches, which helps.
Katrina was my friend at university and things were always OK there. It was when we moved to London that her issues with me started. She said I turned into a different person when I drank and that she didn’t want to be around me when that happened. It left me with a horrible feeling of shame that I couldn’t shake. She said I did awful things but never told me what they were. I wondered if that was because I didn’t really do anything that bad and she’d just changed her mind about living with me because she wanted the flat to herself. The problem was that I felt happier when I drank. It made me feel like I fitted in, it still does. Why could she drink and get hammered and do crazy things, but I couldn’t?
My room looks sad. I pull a large suitcase out from under the bed and start to fill it with clothes. I have a vase that mum got me for Christmas once, and a few pictures that I’d hung on my walls. There’s some bedding that I keep out for me and Renée to use, we’ll have to do head-to-toe. There is a cushion that I like and some make-up and a small mirror. Before I know it, I’ve packed it all and it all fits neatly into one suitcase. Coming back for this seems ridiculous. It also strikes me how simple I am. I don’t have ‘stuff’. Renée and I have only lived in our flat for a month or so and her room is already bursting with things. I don’t know where she gets it all, but she’s always coming home with bits and bobs. ‘Stuff to make a house a home,’ she says, like she just knows how to create a homely space. Picture frames, trinkets, things she found in charity shops or that Aunty Jo gave her. She gathers and gathers, adding to the stuff that makes her who she is. I don’t have stuff. I am basic. Simple. I always liked that. But now, seeing my life packed neatly into a suitcase, I feel fucking boring.
I head back downstairs. I feel a scratching in my belly. In the kitchen there’s plenty of alcohol, as usual. Giant bottles of vodka that Katrina and I split the cost of when we first moved in. We thought it was fun to have the cupboards bursting with booze. It made us feel grown-up. Although the fun of it wore off quickly and she got annoyed with me any time I drank anything. I hold up a bottle of vodka that’s half full. There’s a black line drawn on it. Katrina did it with a Sharpie one morning, saying the rest was hers and she’d know if I drank any. I bring it to my lips, but something stops me. A voice from somewhere deep inside tells me I don’t need the extra booze today. That I can handle this weekend, and I can handle the things that cause the rat to scratch and my lip to sweat. I put the vodka down, and head to the living room.
‘Right then,’ I say to an exhausted-looking Renée. ‘Let’s hit the town.’
I’m not sure how we get from the local pub to central London, but suddenly I’m ordering ‘two for a tenner’ bottles of white wine and a portion of chips at the All Bar One in Leicester Square. This kind of drinking is different to the kind when I drink alone. This is fun. This is allowed.
Renée got a bolt of confidence after a few drinks and said she wanted to see the sights. We got off the bus at Tottenham Court Road and walked through Soho. Renée dragged me into a sex shop then ran out screaming when a gimp walked up to her with a whip and said it was only five quid to watch ‘The Show’. Even Renée and her filthy mind found that too much. We’ve laughed the whole way here. We needed this. I love being back in London, not feeling like the streets are loaded with my dark side. Sure, I have some London tales to tell, but I don’t feel like my past is out to get me here. I love how invisible I feel, how no one is looking at me, or worried about what I’m doing. It’s not that I want a big life here in the city, it’s more that I want my little one to go unnoticed. And of course, my mother isn’t here, which makes me want to sing and dance down every street like I’m in a West End show. I like London me. London Renée though, she’s not what I was expecting.
‘You could go out every night and never go to the same place twice,’ she says, looking out of the window. ‘I think it would feel stressful, no familiarity. Where do people go to relax?’
‘There are lovely parks, and you can walk for miles along the river. If you go out a bit there are more chilled places than Dalston, especially south of the river. You just have to be adventurous to find your places. It takes time.’
‘I can’t wait for tomorrow. “The London Office”. You’ll write it all down for me, won’t you? How to get there?’
‘Of course I will, stop worrying. Let’s finish up here and go back into Soho. The drinks are expensive but it’s more buzzy.’
Renée’s eyes are wide with wonder as we walk down Old Compton Street. It suits her, even if she doesn’t quite feel it yet. There is a crowd outside Bar Soho. It looks like a media event of some kind; there are paparazzi, and everyone is dressed really trendily. ‘Oh my God, look, a proper showbiz bash,’ she says, joining the line to get in. ‘This is what I’m talking about.’
‘Renée you can’t just go in, your name isn’t on the door.’
‘Oh Flo, shhh.’
Someone comes outside and the paparazzi cameras go bananas. ‘Who is it?’ I ask, I can’t see with all the flashing.
‘It’s the weather girl from The Big Breakfast. Wow, this is so cool.’
Suddenly we are at the front of the line. Names are being checked off a list, the woman with the clipboard turns her head for a split-second and Renée pulls me inside.
‘Renée, we can’t do this!’
‘Why not? Come on, look.’ She charges towards a man holding a tray of cocktails. She picks up two and gives me one. ‘This is it, Flo, this is the London life I’ve been dreaming of. Oh my God, look, there’s Felicity Mellors.’ She drags me over to where Felicity is standing. ‘Felicity, hi, I’m Renée Sargent.’ She says it so confidently that I’m impressed. Felicity is a columnist for the Observer magazine. Renée never seems to read it, but she’s said it’s ‘her dream job’ so many times.
‘Hello, sorry, have we met before?’ Felicity says, sipping her cocktail. She’s wearing a very cool black blouse with puffy sleeves and tight black leather trousers. She is stick thin and utterly beautiful. She’s so cool that it’s impossible not to feel like a giant blob of dorkishness in her company.
‘I just wanted to say I love your work, I read your column every week,’ Renée spouts. ‘I’m actually a writer too.’
‘Oh, thanks. I appreciate that.’ She turns back to who she was talking to, but Renée is not done.
‘I wondered if you had any advice on how to make it as a writer like you? It’s all I want to do, all I’ve ever wanted to do.’ Felicity takes a breath, as if this happens all the time.
‘That’s great, what have you written?’
‘Well, nothing yet. But I want to, I’ve always wanted to. I’m currently writing a slogan for cheese.’
‘Cheese? Listen, love, everyone wants to be a writer, but if you haven’t written anything you’re not a writer, you’re a wannabe writer, like everyone else. Writers write, it’s not rocket science. Got it?’ She turns aggressively now, back to her group, and makes them all laugh by saying, ‘Jeez, I need to get that on a T-shirt, the amount of times I’ve had to say it.’
Renée steps back, humiliated and embarrassed. As she should be, that was brutal. The cheese bit was particularly terrible.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask her, knowing it’s now my job to boost her back up. ‘What does she know, anyway? You’re the most talented writer I know.’
‘Let’s get out of here, Flo. This isn’t my crowd. I need to be on top form tomorrow. I bet she couldn’t come up with a slogan for cheese if I smacked her over the head with a slice of Edam.’
It’s not the time to remind Renée that it’s been over a week and she still hasn’t thought of a slogan for cheese, though I’m sure the energy of ‘The London Office’ will squeeze it out of her. We finish our cocktails and head for the door. The photographers outside ready themselves, but relax when they realise we’re no one special.
‘Renée Sargent!’ she shouts at them all, making me want to run for cover. ‘Remember that name!’ They raise their cameras again, looking at her intensely, but no, they got nothing. It’s not even worth the snap, just in case.
18
Renée
I have an hour to pull myself together. I can’t believe this. I had planned to wake up at 6 a.m., have a shower, get ready and walk to the office, feeling bright. But I’ve hardly slept, I have a hangover and I feel like shit. I was supposed to sleep in Flo’s bed but she got all weird about it so I ended up on the couch.
I blow-dry my hair with a hairbrush so it looks neat and smooth. I put loads of eyeliner on and make my cheeks nice and peachy with a blusher I got free with Cosmo. I wear extra deodorant and some of Katrina’s perfume that I found in the bathroom. I’m wearing my frog shirt and the green trousers, which I’m getting bored of, but it’s still the best outfit I have. I did consider one of the ball gowns, but wondered if it was overkill for day one. Next payday, I’m getting some new clothes. I’m realising more and more how much I want to express myself through what I wear.
Ben texted last night to say he can’t wait to see me. I’ve never looked forward to anything more in my life. It’s been hard not to mention him, but it’s just not worth it with Flo. She thinks I plan to end things, which I don’t. But if she wants to think that for now, fine, whatever keeps the peace. I’ve promised her I will come home tonight so she knows there will be no London rendezvous at least. God, I’d love a London rendezvous with Ben.
‘Bye Flo!’ I shout as I hurry out of the door. ‘I’ll see you tonight for dinner!’ As I hurry towards the bus stop, I see the number 38 pulling up. I pick up my pace. It stops but I get another bolt of fear. Pure determination to see Ben launches me from the pavement to the shuddering bus floor. I grab onto a pole as it sets off. ‘I did it!’ I say to the conductor. ‘I did it all by myself!’ I get off at Holborn after spending the entire journey asking, ‘Is this Holborn?’ every time the bus stopped. If I do nothing else today, I will have accomplished that journey.
On the streets people are rushing in all directions, and nearly everyone is holding a coffee. Do people not have time to sit down and drink coffee in London? We don’t do that in Guernsey, we go for coffee and sit in cafés. I’m terrified of someone banging into me and spilling the hot contents of their paper cup all over me. Soon afterwards, thank God, I find myself on Russell Street looking at a green door with a little plaque that reads: MAGIC MARKETING. I press a buzzer and the door snaps open.
‘Hi, I’m Renée,’ I say to a very fashionable receptionist who I immediately feel in competition with. ‘From the Guernsey office.’
‘Oh, hi, yes, Ben said you were coming. Weird.’
‘Weird?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, weird. You’re just the temp receptionist, right? And he’s asked you to come for a creative meeting. Weird.’
‘Well, I’m not just the receptionist, actually. I’m working on some copy for the cheese campaign. That’s why I am here, to work on the copy.’
She silently mimics what I say and picks up her phone.
‘Ben, I have Rrrrrrenéeee for you.’
‘Why did you say my name like that?’
‘Why did you say my name like that?’
What the fuck?
‘Renée, you made it,’ Ben says, coming into reception. ‘Come this way, I’ll show you your desk for the day.’ I follow him, looking back at the receptionist who is staring at me and snarling. An actual snarl, like a dog.
‘What’s her problem?’ I ask Ben, quietly.
