by Joan Ellis
‘Really? We get something for doing nothing? Can’t be right,’ I reply feeling guilty about the idea of lounging around in the cinema all afternoon.
I’m programmed to work, not play. Going to the Odeon during the day would feel like bunking off school and I never dared do that either. Never bright enough to be able afford to miss lessons, I gleaned every ounce of knowledge, holding it in my head until I could regurgitate it on my exam paper. When the test was over, other kids handed in two sheets, three at the most. I always wrote six and somewhere in the overwhelming number of words was a text-book answer. All the examiner had to do was find it. Clearly they enjoyed the challenge as I managed to get nine ‘O’ levels, my passport out of poverty. Back then I naively believed, qualifications were a one-way ticket to success. But, if I’m not careful, I could find myself back in the gutter faster than I can say ‘Sign on’.
I see Tom whizz past the top of the aisle. I run to catch him up as he takes the corner into the household aisle.
‘Madness,’ he says indicating the baffling selection of cleaning fluids and aerosols. ‘My old flat-mate used his flannel to clean the bath and wash- up. Never did him any harm.’
I can practically smell that cloth and throw a pack of disposable sponges into the trolley.
‘Why work with people you hate?’ he asks loading up with lager, taking full advantage of the special offers on six packs.
He selects a bottle of whiskey and wedges it safely alongside the opened packet of kitchen roll in the trolley.
‘There’s no work around. I did look for other jobs. I’m not going back there out of choice.’
Tom aims for the shortest check-out queue.
‘Screw the bastards for every penny then,’ he says unwrapping a piece of gum and concealing the wrapper in his palm.
I look at him, disapprovingly and glance around hoping the store detective hasn’t followed us. A woman reading her way through every glossy magazine has the nerve to eye him disapprovingly.
‘Don’t forget to pay for that, Tom,’ I tell him loud enough for her to hear. We inch forward in the queue.
‘My work’s picking up,’ says Tom. ‘People can still afford a cheap night out. Listening to some live music with a drink lets them forget their troubles for a few hours. The pubs and clubs are packed with punters. This recession is great for me.’
He reaches into his back pocket and brings out a roll of notes.
‘Half,’ I tell him. ‘You can pay half.’
My independence is important to me. I have worked for everything I’ve got. I place each item on the conveyor belt. I didn’t know they made so many types of crisps or beer.
‘Everyone’s waiting, love’ he says reaching across me and dumping armfuls of shopping on the conveyor belt. ‘Listen, ‘Time Out’ is doing a piece on me next week. I’ve got a big gig coming up. I just need a manager and a record deal. I’ll give Shaking Stevens something to shake about.’
‘Excuse me, can you get that chocolate for me. The one with the nuts?’ asks a short, elderly woman standing behind Tom, her plump hand outstretched in anticipation.
‘There you go, darling,’ he says handing her the bar. ‘Anything else I can do for you?’
She looks him up and down approvingly, her rheumy eyes twinkling with mischief.
‘Plenty if I was ten years younger,’ she says.
Tom laps up the attention even if it is from an octogenarian.
‘Is he yours?’ she asks me.
Can one person own another? I don’t think so. Tom is his own man. Nonetheless, I’m proud to be seen with him. She stiffens and lifts the tip of her walking stick to point at him, accusingly.
‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ she remarks with a dismissive sniff. I have no idea what she means. Before I can ask her, she looks away.
To my horror, our bill comes to the same amount as I usually spend on a Christmas shop. They say two can live as cheaply as one. Clearly, ‘they’ have never met Tom. I open my cheque-book. Since I met Tom, it’s rarely closed. Tom pays half the bill and I pay the rest. My bank balance is shedding pounds even if I’m not.
‘I’ll have my own TV show in six months, you watch,’ he says as he helps me pack the bags. ‘Now we’re together I can start paying half of all the bills.’
I drop the box of eggs and look down at the bright yellow yolks intermingled with the clear albumen and shards of shell. I like him. He makes me laugh. He makes me happy. He makes love like a god. But making like we’re a couple? It’s too soon to be a twosome.
And paying half of all the bills? Surely he can’t mean my mortgage? Because I don’t care how exciting he is, I would rather be on my own than give someone I hardly know a stake in my flat. My place is my place – no landlord threatening me with eviction like poor mum has to put up with. No second-hand, chipped crockery in the cupboards – just beautiful china from Liberty’s bought in the sale just after I joined CBA. My home is my security. I can’t put that at risk for anyone, no matter how blue their eyes.
The cashier glares disapprovingly at me before enjoying her fifteen seconds of fame on the tannoy.
‘Spillage at check-out number nine, please. Spillage at check-out number nine. That’s check-out nine, spillage.’
She leans forward, brandishing her ‘Till Closed’ sign at the elderly lady behind me.
‘But, I need to pay now. I’m going to miss my bus,’ the elderly woman protests, pointing at the contents of her basket.
‘I’m closed. Sorry, madam.’
The cashier doesn’t look sorry. She looks delighted. Tom darts forward.
‘What? You’re refusing to serve an old lady? That’s your job. It says so on your badge, ‘I’m Sharon. How can I help?’ You can ‘help’ by doing what you’re paid to do.’
I half expect him to follow it up with the classic gangster line, ‘You heard the little lady, now do what she says and take the money, that way nobody gets hurt.’
But he just pulls a note off his wad and drops it by the cash register.
‘There you go, love,’ he tells the elderly woman. ‘I’ve paid for your shopping. You shoot off and catch your bus.’
‘Thanks, very much,’ she says, packing her bag with the sort of alacrity reserved for elite athletes. ‘Sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Tom, Tom Tyler. When I’m famous, you can tell everyone Tom Tyler picked up the tab.’
She tugged his sleeve and he bent down. After kissing his cheek, she hurried towards the exit.
‘Manager to check out nine, that’s the manager to check-out nine,’ the cashier. Fifteen minutes of fame? The woman is now a celebrity.
‘Come on, Tom. Let’s go or we’ll miss the film,’ I say taking him by the arm and steering him towards the door as I see the manager approaching.
‘You should treat your customers with more respect,’ Tom tells him.
‘You’re quick enough to take their money, aren’t you?’
Tom is shouting now. Everyone is looking. I hurriedly pick up our bags just as he kicks over the pile of hand baskets, they clatter across the floor preventing the manager from following us.
‘What a wanker,’ Tom shouts over his shoulder.
As we walk past the delicatessen, I can’t help wishing we’d gone there. Supermarkets are like motorways; they’re faster but bring out the worst in people.
‘What was all that about?’ I ask.
‘The guy needed telling. That poor old lady. Anyway, let’s forget it now. I’m not in the mood to see a film. Why don’t I buy you lunch instead?’ he suggests. ‘Florian’s do great Italian food. I’ve popped in there for a drink a couple of times before work.’
He kisses me gently and slowly.
I’ve lived in Crouch End for some time but I’ve never been in the wine bar. I’ve always wanted to try it but it’s easier to socialise in Soho after work.
When we arrive, the waiter greets him like an old friend.
‘Tom! Good to see you.’
‘Eh, Franco! Hello!’ exclaims Tom.
The only other person here is a grey-haired, olive-skinned man sitting alone in the window sipping a large glass of red wine. He looks like an older version of Franco. He must be his father. With some difficulty, he gets to his feet, pulls out a chair and motions us to join him. He speaks Italian to Tom who replies in English but with an Italian accent. They laugh and joke, appearing to understand each other perfectly.
‘This is Ella,’ says Tom pushing me forward and kicking the shopping bags underneath one of the other tables with his foot.
The old man looks confused.
‘Remember, I told you about her?’ says Tom smiling.
The man shrugs and turns to Franco who raises his eyebrows and laughs.
‘She is Tom’s girlfriend, Bella Ella, Papa,’ Franco says pointing at me and grinning.
‘Bella Ella?’ says the old man incredulously, looking me over.
He laughs. My butt seems to be the butt of the joke. Embarrassed, I look away. The old man nods and we all sit down. He talks mainly in Italian, peppering his sentences with the occasional Anglo-Saxon word we can all understand.
A young woman wearing a tight white blouse and black skirt, emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray of antipasto – Italian cheeses, bread and a bowl of green olives marinated in garlic and herbs. She sets down the plates of food before expertly uncorking a bottle of Rosé wine. She looks at her watch and nods at Franco who gets up, locks the door and turns the sign to ‘Closed’.
After a glass or two of wine, I relax into the afternoon and time passes in a delicious haze. So this is what people who don’t go to work do all day. I can see the appeal but all the same I can’t wait to get back to work. It’s my life, what I am trained to do. For all its flaws, it defines me.
Tom entertains the two men who are mesmerised by his easy charm. I love that about him, the way he makes people feel special and makes them laugh.
At five-thirty Franco clears the plates and tops up our glasses again before opening the door. Gradually the place fills up with the evening crowd, mainly local business owners, jostling for attention at the bar, waving their cash demandingly at the staff. I mistake one of them for an actor off the television, before remembering he works in the fishmongers and I last saw him gutting cod. The old man gets up, hugs Tom and blows me a kiss before disappearing into the kitchen as Franco takes an order.
Alone with Tom, I am content in the warm fug of alcohol and cigarette smoke, in no hurry to leave. We watch people. A couple sharing stolen moments, rub each other’s ankles under the table like a pair of lusty grasshoppers. Women stand in groups quaffing fizzy white wine and showing-off their designer hand-bags and heels. Others sit alone, nursing their drinks, talking to no-one. I am glad I am not one of them. I am glad I am with Tom, the most gorgeous man in the room. He makes up silly little songs about the other customers, mimicking their accents. I add in the
chorus lines and we spark off each other, enjoying the riff. He tops up our glasses and turns my face towards his, kissing me gently on the lips.
‘Happy?’ he asks but he doesn’t need me to tell him.
He can see me smiling from the inside out. I am so happy it feels like a new emotion. A shiny pair of shoes straight out of the box. A rainbow on a rainy day. A size ten dress that fits. The elation I feel when I do a good piece of work doesn’t come close.
He kisses me again, softly and slowly. I look at him. He is smiling his beautiful smile. He is handsome. He has the sort of face girls pin on their bedroom walls and pine for. But the best thing about him is he is with me. Well, I never. Don’t miss this one up, Ella, I tell myself.
We chink glasses. Is this my third or fourth? Who cares?
‘Come on, let me take the pressure off you. You could even leave CBA and take time to find a job you really like,’ he says drawing his fingers across the line on my forehead.
‘No, thanks, I’m fine,’ I murmur, sipping my wine.
‘Please, I want to help,’ he says his hand on mine.
I can’t just hand over my life to him. It’s too soon. Too fast.
‘More wine?’ he asks.
I nod and he orders another bottle.
‘Good girl,’ he says as I drain my glass. ‘Work to live.’
I like the sound of that. I have been letting things get to me, downing a painkiller with virtually every cup of coffee. I would love to find another job somewhere I am appreciated and not have to put up with Peter making me feel like I don’t measure up. I’ve had enough of that. I wasn’t the daughter my father wanted, falling short on some hidden graph of life. Why else would he have behaved the way he did? Why else would he have told his solicitor he didn’t want to see me? I don’t know the answer, but I do I know Tom likes me. Tom Tyler could be the answer to my prayers, a rock God who, judging by the frequency he tops up my glass, turns water into wine.
Chapter fifteen
Invent a place or a character
On Tom’s advice, I negotiated a four thousand pound pay rise with Josh. I have a few more days to enjoy before I go back to work. This is precious time with Tom and I am determined to make the most of every second. I may not be ready to share the bills but I’d love to go halves on a chateaubriand in Paris.
A weekend there would be wonderful. The last time I went was with my friend, Vera. Far more worldly-wise than me, she organised the whole thing, including our itinerary – a heart-stopping trip up the Eiffel Tower, huge cups of cafe au lait at Les Deux Maggots on St Germaine and the most unforgettable dessert at Le Bistro du la Garde. A bowl of chocolate mousse so huge, it was supposed to be passed from table to table with diners helping themselves to a small spoonful each. The chef calculated the amount to last all lunch-time but obviously hadn’t bargained on the appetites of two greedy girls. Confronted by a pond of melted chocolate, we were insatiable. Not for us this genteel, pass-the-parcel style of eating. Like starving alley cats, we guarded the mousse, taking it in turns to scoop and eat, careful to ensure not even the most zealous waiter could prise our prize away.
Only being able to afford the cheapest hotel on the outskirts did not dampen our ardour for the city of love even if we were sharing our shabby room with a bidet.
On our final evening, Vera sweet-talked one of the waiters (an achievement in itself given she didn’t speak a word of French) to bring us breakfast in bed the following morning. At eight o’clock, the young man dutifully delivered a French stick, some apricot jam and a pot of coffee. In bed together, the sheet pulled up modestly around our shoulders, we kidded ourselves we looked fabulous. Our two shiny faces framed by hair like dead rhododendrons, caused the waiter to back out of the room with the words, ‘When yu ‘ave fineshed, pleeze to leave yu trayer outsider yu door.’
His command of English was far superior to our grasp of French but that didn’t stop us pretending we didn’t understand a word and insisting he repeat himself over and over for our amusement. Fortunately, we were blessed with the one Parisian who shared our childish sense of humour and before long we were all laughing and reciting the now well-worn phrase in increasingly bad French accents. Even the waiter was hamming it up until he remembered his position, regained his composure and left, leaving us in hysterics. I just made it over to the bidet in time. Not one to let anything spoil her appetite, Vera made short work of her Continental breakfast. And mine.
This time, Tom and I will do it in style, an art deco hotel in the artists’ quarter, maroon glacés eaten in pavement cafés and perhaps a picnic on the banks of the Seine with Camembert and white-flesh peaches, the sort with a lemony-pink bloom and a delicate perfume.
‘Fancy going away next weekend, Tom?’ I suggest excitedly.
‘Sorry, love, no can do - got a big gig on Saturday night in Streatham.’ From the Seine to south London in a sentence. Reluctantly, I pack up my
dreams and wave good-bye to romantic strolls along the boulevards. The Degas ballerinas will have to wait. Like
me, they’re not going anywhere. I look over at the gold-framed print mum bought me for my tenth birthday, depicting exquisite young dancers dressed in white tutus and satin pointe shoes tied with pink ribbons, performing their exercises at the barre. Like many little girls, I wanted to be the next Margot Fonteyn as I pounded around the living room in a white nylon petticoat, performing appalling arabesques every time I opened the door. ‘Showing off’ mum called it.
‘I’m headlining so I’ll be closing the show. I’ll just crash at a mates. Bound to be someone on the bill who lives nearby.’
If he stays in south London, there’s no way he’ll make it back up here on
Sunday and I won’t see him all weekend.