I Am Ella, Buy Me

by Joan Ellis

  ‘Surely you can get back?’ I ask.

  ‘It’ll be so late, love. Easier for me to stay down there.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ I say trying to conceal my disappointment. ‘I’ll probably catch up with Adam. There’s a restaurant we both fancy trying in Covent Garden.’

  ‘Adam?’ he asks. ‘What are you meeting him for?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him in a while. I can pick his brains about how to handle things when I go back to work. I’m not very good at office politics.’

  He sits up, looking purposeful.

  ‘Well, I’m sure I can sort something, either get a lift back or catch the night bus. And, I can grab a kebab on the way.’

  I hug him; overjoyed he’ll be home. But a kebab? How drunk is he going to be?

  ‘Sorry about the trip, love, you haven’t booked anything, have you?’

  ‘No, but I have planned every last detail,’ I think.

  ‘We’ll go another time,’ he says sensing my disappointment. ‘Leave it to me. I’ve got a mate who’s a travel agent. He’ll look after us.’

  With Tom in my life, it’s access all areas. I can go anywhere I want with Tom. From the Big Apple to Orange County, I’ve just hit the jackpot on the world’s biggest fruit machine.

  ‘Drink?’ I ask him.

  ‘Lager, thanks.’

  I can hardly tell him I meant tea, he’ll think I’m boring.

  ‘Coming right up,’ I say sounding all-American.

  I need to get out more and stop watching so much television.

  Opening the fridge door, my hand knocks against the pack of processed ham. It falls out and hits the floor, splattering watery fluid over my feet. Not only do they look like pig’s trotters, now they smell like them too. I curse silently and vow to buy dry-cure next time.

  The shelves are stacked with booze. When Tom stocked up at the supermarket, I had no idea it was just his weekend’s supply.

  I hand him a can and settle myself on the sofa, entwining myself around him like a cat. He’s watching a cop drama, yet another American import. Give me a black and white movie any day. He has certainly got the hang of the video-recorder with programmes banked up until the Millennium.

  ‘Comfy?’ he yawns, leaning back and putting his arms around me, making me feel loved and wanted. ‘ Great sofa.’

  So it should be, Chesterfields don’t come cheap. This one, upholstered in dove grey velvet, was prohibitively expensive but didn’t cost me a penny. It was made especially for a commercial I worked on for central heating. When filming was over, Peter arranged to have it delivered to my new flat. At the time, I thought he was being kind but now I know him better I reckon he wanted to help me christen it.

  The first people to grace the settee were the jobbing actors I had cast as the two plumbers in the commercial. They have since gone on to greater things. I like to think the skills they acquired on a thirty second TV ad proved invaluable when filming their Hollywood blockbuster.

  ‘Can you say, ‘Stay warmer for less’ with a little more feeling?’ I asked Plumber No 1.

  ‘Yes, but what’s my motivation?’ he replied.

  Not many film stars can claim they can sing a jingle with their hand up a balanced flue.

  Now Tom lights up another cigarette. Thank goodness the upholstery is fire-retardant.

  ‘Fancy a coffee?’ I ask.

  He nods. I am mentally preparing the freshly ground coffee beans I bought this morning. Knowing my salary will soon start hitting my bank account again, I couldn’t resist treats from the aromatic grocery store on Muswell Hill including a box of the finest French sugar cubes (the only brand Peter will touch, so they must be good) and a pint of organic milk which cost twice as much as a carton from the supermarket. I also bought a special mug for Tom with a smiley face on the front.

  On my way home, my eye was drawn to the jeweller’s window. Next to the heart-shaped, red velvet pads displaying gold wedding bands was a selection of second-hand rings. Amongst the garnets and opals was a silver ring set with the letter ‘T’. It had to be Tom’s even though I had no idea if it would fit or not. I bought it on impulse. It seemed the perfect way to say ‘thanks’. Thanks for making me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry. Thanks for not being like my Dad, Peter, or Alan. Thanks for being you, Tom.

  But I’ve only known him five minutes. What appeared to be the ideal present in the shop now smacks of desperation. The small, square box presses against my leg in my pocket. It probably won’t even be the right size. I study his fingers then go into the kitchen. Taking a packet of chipolatas out of the fridge, I slip the ring on one. The perfect fit. I take it off and quickly rinse it under the tap before drying it on a tea towel and putting it back in its box.

  I make a cafetière of Blue Mountain and a mug of herbal tea and look in the tin for some biscuits. I always have chocolate ones, on the off chance someone who is not de-toxing nips round for a cuppa. But I don’t know anyone in advertising, apart from Adam and me, who isn’t following some wheat-free, caffeine-free, carb-free, joy-free diet. I arrange everything on a tray, carry it in and set it down beside the sofa, before pushing down the plunger on the cafetière.

  ‘Love! Get out the way,’ Tom tuts. ‘Oh, I’ve missed the ending now.’

  ‘Just rewind it.’

  He grabs the remote control and stabs randomly at the buttons, frantically rewinding, pausing and forwarding the tape.

  ‘Where is it?’ he shouts furiously as he continues to whizz the film indiscriminatingly, backwards and forwards.

  ‘Here’s your coffee,’ I say anxious to appease him, stirring in milk and three sugar cubes, just the way he likes it.

  I proudly hand him his drink in the new mug. He takes a couple of slurps, his eyes never leaving the screen.

  ‘What the hell?’ he declares thrusting the drink back at me in disgust. Coffee washes over the side of the mug and spills on the sofa.

  ‘It’s fresh coffee.’

  ‘I’ll stick to instant. I don’t want that muck,’ he tells me wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  He can make his own coffee next time.

  ‘Like your new mug?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s just a cup,’ he says dismissively, dropping his fag end into the coffee.

  I go to get a cloth to clean up the spill before it stains the sofa but he pulls me down next to him.

  ‘Relax! Sit down,’ he tells me. ‘Sorry I shouted. Am I forgiven?’ He smiles. His eyes mesmerise me. I nod.

  ‘Can I come to the club and watch you perform?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure,’ he laughs. ‘I’ll put your name on the door. Just tell them you’re with me. Tell them you’re with Tom Tyler.’

  I snuggle up to him.

  ‘I’m starving. How about some pasta?’ he asks. I thought I was supposed to be relaxing?

  ‘I’ll do it in a minute. Let’s see what happens next,’ I tell him fixing my eyes on the screen.

  I sip my camomile tea. I’ve left the bag in too long and it tastes like grass clippings. It doesn’t smell too good either. Then I realise it’s not my drink but Tom’s feet which are resting on my lap, wrapped in the folds of my long silk blouse. I shift slowly along the sofa and as do I can feel the ring box in my pocket digging painfully into my thigh.

  Chapter sixteen

  Make comparisons

  Brighton may not be Paris but it dances to its own tune. I like that. Besides it’s not where you go, it’s who you go with. And I’m going with Tom. I can’t wait. It’s only a day trip but I know it’s going to be wonderful. Tom has a knack for transforming the mundane into the magical.

  The ring I bought him is hidden inside my bag, zipped safely into the side pocket next to a packet of tissues. I have a headache and felt too lousy last night to go to Tom’s gig but dosed up on aspirin, I am determined not to let it spoil our day. Unfortunately, the early morning start doesn’t agree with Tom. I have no idea what time he got back; I was asleep when he got in. We had to be up an
d out by eight to catch the train so this must feel like the middle of the night to him. He puffs furiously on his fourth cigarette of the day, coughing dramatically between drags.

  ‘Fancy a coffee, love?’ he asks as we approach the ticket office at Victoria station.

  I nod and join the queue. When I eventually reach the front, the man ahead of me is giving a detailed run-down of his health problems to the clerk who is looking sicker by the minute.

  ‘Doctor said he’s never seen one like it. It’s huge and glows bright red. Wanna see?’

  I look at my watch and sigh audibly. He runs out of ailments and moves reluctantly away from the window. I buy two, day-returns and feel excited just holding the tickets in my hand. Tom arrives back looking much brighter after his shot of caffeine.

  ‘Sorry about Paris, love, but I must do the work when it comes up. You never know who might be at the gigs.’

  ‘Well, you do. You told me there were four in the audience last night – two men and a young couple who mistook the club for the back row of the stalls.’

  ‘Ah but those bookings are getting less and less,’ he smiles. ‘I’m going for the bigger venues now. Tom Tyler’s going to be a star.’

  For a moment I wonder who he means. It’s strange to hear him refer to himself in the third person.

  The train is waiting on the platform. We get in the first carriage.

  ‘Got a fag, mate?’ Tom asks a young bloke sitting by the window.

  I know he’s got an unopened packet in his pocket. I bought it for him on our way here.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks me.

  ‘Nothing, Just this headache,’ I tell him touching my forehead.

  There is a great camaraderie amongst smokers and the man immediately gives him a cigarette and even lights it for him.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ says Tom as he inhales like his life depends on it. ‘Ella, what’s wrong?’

  I don’t want to embarrass him by mentioning the cigarettes so I say the first thing I think of.

  ‘I’m not looking forward to seeing Peter again.’

  It’s been weeks since I’ve had to think about that man. Now, when I close my eyes, I can’t even picture him.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. He won’t last long. He’s screwed up too many times. They know you can do his job. That’s why they’ve got you back,’ Tom replies.

  His confidence in me, gives me such a boost but he’s a musician and not up on the malevolent machinations of Adland.

  ‘Peter is too well-in for that. The clients love him. If he goes, they go and the board know it. The guy’s got a job for life.’

  ‘Tell them you can do his job for half his salary.’

  ‘But I can’t. I used to think this job was just all about being a good copywriter but it’s all about being good with the clients. Not my strong point, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. Promise,’ he assures me.

  I hug him. He starts to drum his fingers on his knees and tap his feet to a tune only he can hear. He starts humming.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘Just a song I’m working on,’ he smiles before stubbing out his cigarette.

  ‘Sing it to me.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s not finished yet,’ he tells me absent-mindedly.

  ‘You’re right, Peter is living off his past glories,’ I say trying to get his attention.

  ‘He’s a has-been. He’s jealous of you. You’re worth ten of him and he knows it. He feels threatened. Come on, don’t let that jerk ruin our day,’ he says as he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.

  I sink back into my seat. Thanks to Tom, I can turn off the screen inside my head, the one that shows The Peter Richards Show, day and night. I rest my head on Tom’s shoulder. I can’t sleep but he dozes off. He looks gorgeous, his dark features perfectly neat and symmetrical. The perfect face. I lean over and kiss him. But my prince doesn’t wake up. Perhaps, the fairy tale ending only works if he kisses me. Fat chance, I dribble on my pillow; I’m no sleeping beauty.

  When we arrive, we walk out of the station hand in hand. With the sun shining and Tom on my arm, Brighton looks bright and beautiful. I’m doing that thing again. Smiling from the inside out. I want to run down the hill towards the sea.

  ‘Ice-cream?’ I suggest excitedly.

  I love 99’s. Eating one now, I’m a kid again. Enjoying the soft swirls of vanilla, then biting off the end of the cone and sucking the last of the ice- cream through the end of the cornet. Far more delicious than a few prissy scoops served up in an expensive restaurant.

  ‘Fancy some proper breakfast?’ Tom asks with his mouth still full of chocolate flake.

  ‘Yeah. I know a little cafe, if I can find it,’ I tell him mentally calculating how many inches a full English will add to my tugboat thighs. Oh what the hell, we’re by the sea, they’ll fit in nicely.

  I remember overhearing Peter’s secretary talking about a tea-room just off the sea-front. She described it as having a bow-fronted window full of home-made cakes. Sure enough, we turn left off the main road to see a woman setting up tables on the pavement outside a cafe. Much to my joy, the window is a vision of culinary delights with billowing meringues and mounds of sugar-coated shortbread piled high on old-fashioned cake plates. But I’m looking for the date and walnut loaf Peter’s secretary raved about. She had even brought him in a slice; it looked gorgeous, dark and sticky and she gave it to him with his coffee. She had even held it for him as he bit into it greedily, mistaking its dark appearance for gingerbread. The nut proved a very expensive surprise and the ensuing dental work paid for his orthodontist’s holiday to California, the home of the walnut. What sweet irony.

  Now the delicious aroma of vanilla mingled with cinnamon hits me as I open the door. I wish Adam was here; he would love this. I wonder what he’s doing? Probably having breakfast with his girlfriend.

  ‘I thought we were going to a greasy spoon. I fancy a fry-up not a cake,’

  whines Tom.

  A hash brown or a chocolate brownie? No contest.

  ‘Look, Tom they do eggs with dry-cured Sussex bacon,’ I tell him pointing at the menu.

  ‘I don’t care where it comes from; it’s all pig,’ he says following me inside. After we’ve finished eating, he leans back in his seat, drumming his tea-

  spoon against the rim of the saucer and humming the same tune as he

  did on the train. He smiles at me. Those eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes.

  After we pay the bill, Tom grabs my hand and we head for the pier, where we play the slot machines, lose all our change before Tom wins it all back and doubles our money. He darts off and returns holding a pink cloud of candyfloss above his head. I jump up, accidently knocking the candyfloss out of his hand. We lean over the railings, watching as it sails towards the water.

  ‘No worries,’ says Tom replacing it with a shiny toffee apple from a nearby kiosk.

  He crunches into it, shattering shards of bright red caramel over my shoes. Matching each other bite for bite we are soon left clutching just the core on a stick. Tom drops it between the wooden slats into the sea below before propelling me towards the ghost train.

  We scramble into the first car. It lurches off and dives into the darkness. But it doesn’t live up to its promise. Peter’s concepts are more frightening than this. Next time I see him, I’ll grab him by the ghoulies and start as I mean to go on.

  Plastic skeletons jangle towards us, brushing their femurs against our faces. I jump when the siren sounds and Tom hugs me tightly as we hurtle back into the daylight. Laughing, we clamber out and race up the stairs to the top of the iconic red, white and blue helter-skelter, dragging squares of coconut matting behind us. Tom flies off first. I wait a few moments before following him down, feeling like I’m going to flip over the side, into the sea. But the date and walnut cake acts as ballast. Corkscrewing faster and faster, I see Tom sitting at the bottom and shout for him to move but he doesn’t hear. He’s too busy tryin
g to light a cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame of the match to prevent the wind from blowing it out. I bash into him, banging my mouth against his shoulder. When I bring my hand to my face, my fingertips are smeared with blood.

  ‘You took your time,’ he laughs going to give me a smoky kiss and then changing his mind when he sees the cut. ‘You okay?’

  Not wanting to make a fuss and spoil the day, I nod.

  ‘Come on then, I’m gasping for a pint. Race you to the nearest pub.’

  He heads off, colliding with a little boy and knocking his ice-lolly out of his hand.

  ‘Mind!’ Tom screams at the child whose face is crumbling as he is watches his lolly melt through the slats of the pier.