Hotel 21, page 24
“Well, well, well, what have we here then?” His mouth broke into a grin although it was more of a sneer.
“I have to go to school,” I said, making to move past him.
“Not till you tell me your name,” he said.
“Noelle,” I mumbled.
“She never told me she had a sprog.”
I shrugged, not surprised and he stepped aside to let me pass.
“I’ll be seeing you then,” he said.
I bolted past him and out of the house and ran all the way to school, the smell of his aftershave stuck to the inside of my nose.
He was at the flat every night that week, always with a bottle of vodka in hand. Something my mother couldn’t say no to. She’d never had a boyfriend before, well not that I could remember. But I never heard him call her by her name, so I wondered if he even knew it. She started wearing more blush and washing her hair every day and dousing herself in perfume. But even that overpowering stink couldn’t cover the stench of Roy.
When he was in the house, I stayed in my room with the dresser wedged up against the door. After a couple of days, their drunken sessions turned into shouting matches. I was able to work out from the odd word that Roy had stolen money from my mother. She yelled at him to get out of her flat, but two minutes later her bedroom door slammed and the groaning and snorting started again. Luckily, that bit never lasted very long.
I started brushing my teeth in the kitchen since a new toothbrush had appeared in the bathroom alongside the sleek black bottle of aftershave.
One morning, as I was sneaking out early again to avoid having to see or talk to stinky Roy, I found him standing at the front door, blocking my exit. He only had pants on this time and was scratching his overhanging belly.
I stopped in my tracks, all my internal alarm bells going off at once. Whatever it was about my mother attacking me, I knew she wouldn’t kill me, not on purpose anyway. But Roy was an unknown entity.
“I need to get to school,” I said, trying to sound in control.
“Yeah, well, we all need things, Noelle, don’t we?” He started to walk toward me. I moved backward, away from him. My mind was racing, trying to figure out my options. If I was quick, could I get into my room and pull the dresser across? No, there was no time for that. And he was way bigger and stronger than me. He’d kick the door down in one go.
“Where are you going, eh?” he said following me as I backed into my bedroom.
I eyed the window. It seemed to be my only option. It was three stories high but I could still jump. So what if I died? Whatever Roy had in mind for me, I’d rather be lying in a pool of my own blood.
“Get the fuck away from her,” came my mother’s sharp voice. Roy slowly turned his head and I peered over his shoulder to see my mother, dressed in her shiny red dressing gown, looming in the doorway, broom in one hand, phone in the other.
“Oh, yeah, what you going to do?” Roy said, his voice, low, threatening. He moved toward her, his shoulders pulled forward, flexing his muscles. I looked around for some kind of weapon as well. But there was nothing in my bare room, not even a lamp. I quickly took one of my shoes off and held that.
“I’ll beat you to a pulp if I have to, you dirty perv,” my mother said. “And I’ve called the police. They should be here any minute.”
Roy turned his beady eyes back on me, now holding my flimsy school shoe like a baseball bat. He was assessing the situation. Could he fight us both off? Had my mother really called the police? He squared up to my mother, looking down on her, but she showed no fear. She puffed her chest out and stared right back at him.
“Get out and don’t ever come back. If I even see you around this estate again, you’ll be leaving in a body bag.” I was impressed with her gangster talk.
“You’re a couple of ugly tarts anyway,” he spat and sloped off to get dressed. My mother stayed by my door, not moving, not taking her eyes off Roy for a second until he left, slamming the front door behind him, making the whole flat shudder.
My mother dropped the broom and put both hands against the wall to steady herself. I could see her legs trembling. I wanted to help, but experience had taught me never to approach her.
“Sorry,” I said, not because I was sorry but because I felt it was the right thing to say at that moment. And she was bound to blame me.
A silence fell between us. I caught a glimpse of myself in my bedroom window still holding my shoe in the air. I put it down on the floor and slipped it back on.
“Did he hurt you?” she asked, not looking up.
“No,” I said. “Did you really call the police?”
“Of course I bloody didn’t,” she said. “Now get to school, if you know what’s good for you.”
I walked past her into the hallway, picked up my bag, and legged it out of the flat. I sprinted all the way to school, every now and then glancing over my shoulder to make sure Roy wasn’t following me.
I convinced myself that my mother had saved me that day, that it had been a selfless act; her maternal instincts had risen from the depths of her darkness and exploded into the world to protect me like an angel in a Tesco uniform. There was hope that she did love me. That she wasn’t a complete monster.
For the next two days she was quiet and not drinking, which was all very unusual. I knew instinctively that the word Roy should never be mentioned in our flat again on pain of death and figured the whole incident must have been a shock to her too.
It didn’t take long for her to return to her normal evil self. Three days to be precise. Sadly, the stench of Roy took a bit longer to go.
I flush the toilet in room 709 and rush to leave, my sleeve still over my nose and mouth. I pull the door shut behind me and drop my arm, breathing in the light fresh scent of the hotel corridor.
I roll my trolley to the next bedroom, as Rose exits a room farther up and pushes her trolley in my direction.
“The state of that room,” she says, nodding behind her to room 712. “Chewing gum on the carpet.” I pull a sympathetic face. “Phil says you probably won’t make it later.”
“Yeah, I’m exhausted, you know, after yesterday.”
“I don’t blame you,” she says. “Anyway, you won’t be missing much. It’s only me and the girls and my sister. And Mali’s birthday cake, which will have a bigger personality than all of us put together.” I’m surprised to hear this. I’d assumed it was a party with lots of people and they wouldn’t notice if I was there or not.
“We’ll save you some cake,” she says and carries on pushing her trolley to room 714. I carry on rolling my trolley too and stop outside room 707. I glance back at Rose, now buzzing around her trolley, collecting her cleaning sprays. Could I delay catching the train to Scotland by one more day? Maybe going to Rose’s sister’s birthday is a way to say goodbye to everyone, even though they have no idea I’m leaving.
Beyond Rose, way up the corridor, I spot Gaby. She slides a biscuit from her apron, takes a nibble and slips it back. We all have our secrets, I suppose.
Chapter 29
The wind and rain stick to my face as I put my head down and scurry up the wide, busy road in the dark. I glance at my phone to check Google Maps as I follow the blue line leading the way to Rose’s house, backpack over my shoulder. The address is 9 Wiltshire Gardens, Churchfield Estate. I wonder if it’s a council estate like the one I grew up in.
The headlights from passing cars illuminate the puddles up ahead on the path, which I step around as best I can. My coat is pulled up over my head to protect my hair, which I washed and tried to make silky with a serum I bought from Boots. It didn’t work. It just made my hair look slightly greasy. Still, I don’t want to turn up looking like a drowned rat, although rat seems like the perfect way to describe myself since I’m sneaking off on the first train tomorrow.
A guilty knot forms in my stomach about not telling the girls. They trust me. But that’s not my fault. You shouldn’t trust people, not really, so it’s their problem.
Google Maps says I’m two minutes away as I jump over another puddle. I’m wearing my new jeans, which don’t seem as tight now as they were when I tried them on in the shop, and my off-the- shoulder top with the hole under the arm. I’m not trying to entice Phil anymore, so the pressure’s off to look attractive and appealing, not that I ever did or ever could.
On my way home from work, I popped into Asda to get a birthday card and a present for Monica. My tolerance for supermarkets seems to have improved since my mother died. I settled on a bottle of sparkling wine that looked classy-ish and a box of Milk Tray chocolates. When I left hotel 9, the cleaners gave me a box of Milk Tray as a leaving present. I don’t eat chocolate, but I was happy to receive it. It suddenly strikes me that I have no idea how old Monica is.
Google says to turn left. I stop and peer out from under my dripping coat. Grass verges rise on either side of the road and a big sign says CHURCHFIELD ESTATE. PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY.
I squint up the road and see small, stumpy buildings scattered around, no more than three or four stories high. A gang of kids whizz by on bikes, powering through a huge puddle, spraying the water up in the air, soaking my jeans. I continue to follow the directions on my phone, winding through the blocks of flats. Some of the flats on the ground floor have their own front door. There are no outdoor concrete staircases, just smart-looking keypads to enter each building.
I take a right turn and find myself in a green square flanked by buildings on each side. Even in the gloomy torrential rain, the grass looks well cared for with a small flower bed in the center. A sign is stuck to a brick wall: WILTSHIRE GARDENS.
Google tells me I have arrived. I move along to the end of the block to number 9, which is a ground-floor flat. The front window blind is pulled down but a warm glow creeps out from around the edges. There’s a window box with perky-looking flowers in it. I catch a glimpse of a silver chain attached to the box, which is in turn attached to the window guard. The woman who lived in the building block across from us in West House was always chasing kids with a wooden spoon as they sprinted off with her latest flower box. They didn’t take it because they wanted it or because it might be worth something. They took it because they could. The chain makes perfect sense. Tie down your valuables.
I press the doorbell. It makes a short, sharp buzz sound, like it’s giving out an electric shock. I step back as the door flies open and Rose, a pink feather boa wrapped around her neck and a bright pink feather in her hair, holds her arms out in delight.
“You came after all.”
“I didn’t want to miss it,” I say, wondering now if I should have made more of an effort to dress up. She waves me into the narrow hallway and shuts the door. The flat is warm and there’s a thick smell of slightly burned cheese. Light music tinkles from beyond the glass door at the end of the hall. Rose hopes I didn’t walk here, and I assure her that I got the bus. She takes my coat and hangs it on a hook on the wall alongside other wet coats. I recognize Phil’s and Gaby’s coats. I quickly unzip my backpack and take out the wine and chocolates and the card with Monica written on the front of the envelope. I give it to Rose.
“This is for Monica,” I say, a bit awkward. Rose is taken aback for a moment then hugs me.
“Thank you,” she says.
She leads me to the glass door at the end of the hallway and into the kitchen-cum-dining room, which is an L-shape with double doors that lead outside. The windows are wet on the inside from condensation and the bright light overhead makes me squint for a moment. The music is louder now and the heat more intense but after getting drenched on the way over, I’m looking forward to drying out. Sparkly balloons hang from the light fitting over the kitchen table and a HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner is taped to the wall.
“Hey, Noelle,” says Mali, grinning at me from the kitchen table. She too has a feather in her hair. Phil comes up to me and passes me a red drink in a plastic cup.
“You made it. Get this down you.”
I take the cup from Phil. She’s wearing an oversized shirt over leggings. One side of her shirt has slipped down her arm to reveal the thin strap of her bra where she has pinned a feather. She always likes to be different and I love that about her. I quickly turn my attention to Gaby, reluctant to get sucked down the Phil rabbit hole again.
Gaby also has a feather in her hair and hairpins in her mouth. She is standing behind a woman seated at the kitchen table, and is brushing the woman’s long brown hair. This must be Monica. She resembles Rose, with the same thick hair and slightly heavy features. She is clearly younger, although she seems frail, with pale cheeks shining through her foundation. She smiles at me, crinkling her eyes at the corners. It’s a genuine smile. I smile back. Gaby twists sections of Monica’s hair and pins it up. Gaby mumbles hello to me, trying not to drop the hairpins stuck between her lips.
“Drink your punch,” says Mali. “Monica made it. It’s delicious.” I take a sip. It’s sweet and fizzy.
“Lovely,” I say. Mali is busy painting Monica’s fingernails bright pink. “You must be Monica,” I say, surprised at my own confidence. “I’m Noelle. Happy birthday.”
“Oh, Rose has told me all about you. I’m sorry about your mum,” she says in a raspy voice.
“Thanks,” I say.
Rose joins us, an oven glove on one hand. Rose shows Monica the wine and chocolates and explains it’s from me. Monica thanks me and invites me to sit beside her. Rose gives my shoulders a squeeze and goes back to the kitchen.
Phil follows Rose to help with serving food, grabbing plates from a cupboard over the sink. I squeeze around the table to sit beside Monica and it’s only now I see that Monica is in a wheelchair. She is wearing a long flowery dress with a shawl over her shoulders and a soft blanket on her lap. She must be boiling, I think. She clocks the fleeting look of surprise on my face.
“I’ve had a lot of speeding tickets in this baby,” she says, winking at me and tapping the arm of her chair.
“Lucky you,” I say, warmly. “I don’t even know how to drive.” She laughs out loud, which makes her cough, which turns into a loud wheeze. Rose whips off her oven glove and goes to the corner of the room. She grabs a dark blue canvas bag and takes out a small oxygen tank with a breathing mask attached to it. Monica waves her hand in the air indicating she’s fine.
“Save it for when I’m really about to die,” she says with a grin, the wheezing abating. Everyone smiles. Rose kisses the top of her head and Monica clicks her fingers at Gaby and Mali again. “What kind of service is this, huh?” Gaby and Mali exhale, relieved, and get back to pampering Monica.
Monica beckons to me to come closer. I lean in.
“Rose fusses but there’s no need. I’m well able to take care of myself. Isn’t that right, Rose?” Monica winks at me. “I used to be in the army. Didn’t I used to be in the army, Rose?”
“Oh,” she did, says Rose. “The army of fetch me this and get me that.” Monica nods her head, laughing. I laugh too. There’s something about Monica that makes me want to style her hair and paint her nails too.
“Ta da,” says Gaby, holding a mirror up for Monica to see her hair, which is arranged in a twisted headpiece, like a princess. Monica says it’s wonderful and thanks Gaby. Gaby beams with delight, as Mali finishes Monica’s nails, blowing on them to make sure they’re dry. Monica admires her nails, both hands slightly shaky.
“All I need is a date now,” she says, grinning.
“Hey? You’ve got a date,” says Mali, indicating all of us. Monica takes Mali’s hand and squeezes it. She then turns to me, puts her hand on mine and taps it. Despite how warm the room is, her hand is cold and clammy.
“It was good of you to come today. It means you care about Rose.”
“Of course,” I say, a sudden tightness in my throat. And I do care about Rose. I care about all of them. And somehow they sneaked in under my radar and shoved themselves into my life like pushy, noisy uninvited houseguests. But now that they’re here, it’s hard to remember what life was like without them, not that it makes any difference to my plans.
I pat Monica’s hand back, like I appreciate her comments, which I do, but it doesn’t change anything. I can’t survive in this world without taking things and there’s no point in trying.
For a while, when I believed Phil was going to be my girlfriend and I was part of floor seven, part of the group, I thought I might be able to leave it behind me. But I’m not destined to live a normal life, the kind where you fit in or belong somewhere or to something or someone. The only place I ever truly belonged was in the flat with my mother in West House and that didn’t work out too well for me. My mission in life is to keep moving until the day I can’t anymore. When that day comes, I will hang up my apron and disappear for good.
Phil and Rose put two big pizzas on the table and a stack of plates. Rose tells us to help ourselves.
“Ooh, I had a huge lunch,” says Monica, a bit flustered. Rose puts a comforting hand on Monica’s shoulder.
“Just eat what you can.”
Monica rolls her eyes at me, doing her best to distract from the fact she probably doesn’t eat enough.
“See? Fussing,” she says to me.
I glance at Monica’s wrists, which are delicate and thin, the skin blotchy with a tinge of blue.
After pizza, I wander out onto the back patio to find Phil. It’s stopped raining now and everything smells like wet wood. There are no lights on the patio but the street lamp on the road behind the back fence throws an orange glow across the stone slabs and potted plants.
Phil, wrapped in a blanket, sits on a bench against a garden shed with her legs pulled up underneath her, finishing a bottle of beer. I sit beside her. She passes me the bottle and I take a swig and pass it back. I’m overwhelmed for a moment that this will be the last time I ever see her.
“What happened to Monica?” I ask.
“She was born like that. When Rose turned eighteen she adopted her. She was in some kind of home until then.”
