I Am Ella, Buy Me

by Joan Ellis

  He holds me in his arms in one of his big, reassuring hugs and lets out one of his infectious laughs.

  ‘Do you remember that time in Brighton when the candyfloss blew off the pier? Your face!’

  If he wasn’t here, I would miss the sound of that laugh.

  ‘I love you being here too,’ I tell him.

  ‘Then let me help. The last thing we want is for this flat to be repossessed,’ he says, smiling.

  Repossessed. The word hits me like a bullet to the brain.

  ‘Don’t say that. I’m working. It’s not going to happen. I won’t let it,’ I tell him defensively.

  ‘Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to worry you. Anyway, why should you fund my lager habit?’ he laughs.

  ‘With me here, life will be so much easier for you. Maybe you can even think about saving up for a deposit for a flat for your Mum and help her escape the landlord’s clutches. Wouldn’t that be something?’

  Mum and landlord. The double whammy. How could he know the effect those two words would have on me? My veins flood with adrenalin and my heart pumps faster.

  ‘Mum’s fine. She’s happy.’

  ‘That lot at CBA screwed you once; they’ll do it again,’ he replies lighting up a cigarette and accidentally blowing smoke into my face. I cough. He walks away. I can’t help wishing this was more romantic and based on more than just money.

  ‘Tom. It’s early days. Perhaps we just stay as we are. Why risk spoiling everything?

  ‘Are you saying you don’t love me?’

  ‘No, of course not, I’m saying I do love you. Very much which is why I don’t think we should rush into living together.’

  ‘Let me know when you think the time is right, Ella’ he says bitterly.

  ‘Oh Tom, I didn’t mean...’

  He takes a final drag on his cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray. I look into his eyes, hoping to see some warmth.

  ‘Forget it, Ella. I only wanted to help,’ he says coldly.

  ‘And you do. You make me laugh, you make me happy,’ I tell him running over to him and holding him. It’s like trying to hug a fridge.

  ‘Yeah and you make me happy too,’ he says looking more miserable than I’ve ever seen him.

  Chapter twenty-one

  Have the Big Idea

  I hate being late for anything. Let alone Tom’s big night. With his picture and a great review in this week’s ‘Time Out’, he should attract quite a crowd. A group of girls push past me. I follow them into the pub. One night a week, the back room turns into a smoke-filled sweatbox, one of the hottest music venues in town attracting some of the most talented new musicians around. I edge into the packed club and hand the girl on the door the few quid entrance fee. In return, she rubber-stamps the back of my hand. I can hear Tom singing his latest number, ‘Don’t tell me you love me and expect a reply. Don’t tell me you love me and expect me to lie.’

  I remember him telling me it took him minutes to write. The lyrics came to him when he was having his lunch. Very rock and bread roll.

  He looks gorgeous on stage, in a white shirt and blue jeans. He has a great voice, a talent that makes him all the more attractive. Judging by the smiles on some of the women’s faces in the audience, I’m not the only one who fancies him. Even a couple of the men look enamoured. I weave through the crowd, bouncing off beer bellies and trying not to knock into drinks and the red hot tips of cigarettes. The smoky air stings my eyes and someone jabs their elbow in my face. I spot a space at the side of the room and edge into it. Immediately a tall girl with spiky blonde hair positions herself in front of me, blocking my view so even when I stand on tip-toe, I can’t see Tom.

  ‘Thanks very much. I’ve been Tom Tyler and you’ve been great. Goodnight.’

  Whistles and applause fill the room. Slowly, he makes his way towards the back of the room and he is now close enough for me to see the sweat glistening on his forehead. He lifts his arm and wipes his face with his shirt-sleeve. I reach out for him but the crowd surges forward, closing the gap between us. Everyone seems to want to shake his hand and pat him on the back like they think his talent might rub off on them. I want to rush forward and hug him but I force myself to hang back; this is his time. Someone steps on my toe. I look up to see the blonde. She may be model-thin but she’s no light-weight. No shrinking violet either. She manoeuvres herself into pole position, thrusting her double DD chest into Tom’s doubly delighted face.

  ‘I love your act and I love you,’ she gushes, taking hold of his shirt collar and gently pulling him towards her. She kisses him on the cheek with lips as bulbous as her breasts. Big, wide and sticky with red lip-gloss, her mouth is like a couple of spare ribs coated in bar-b-q sauce.

  ‘Can I have your autograph?’ she simpers, in an accent that’s pure Hollywood via Harlow.

  She hands him a pen. She’s organised, I’ll give her that.

  ‘No problem, blondie. Where shall I sign?’ His eyes follow hers.

  ‘Take your pick,’ she tells him, helpfully holding open the top of her shirt.

  I want to slap her or at least button up her blouse. But I want to see what Tom does next.

  ‘Eeny, meany, miney, mo,’ he says, unaware I am watching as his index finger moves from left to right like a metronome.

  It comes to rest on her left breast.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  ‘They don’t have names,’ she giggles making her breasts bounce.

  ‘I meant your name. But, I like that, it’s funny,’ he looks at her approvingly and laughs.

  No, it’s not. Not remotely amusing. I am about to tell her to leave him alone. But when I open my mouth nothing comes out. It feels like I’ve been punched in the windpipe.

  ‘I’m Cara. C-a-r-a. Call me,’ she says, sliding her business card into his pocket.

  ‘Whoa! I’m trying to keep a steady hand here,’ he laughs leaning forward.

  ‘To Cara with love Tom x. There you go.’

  ‘Yes, and there you go,’ I think pushing through the crowd until I am beside her.

  I thrust out my chest, like two drawing pins in a notice-board.

  ‘Thanks Tom. I’m never going to wash Eeny and Meany again. Call me, yeah?’ she says ignoring me.

  I am now close enough to him to smell the drink on his breath. His eyes are like saucers and his pupils dilated.

  ‘Ella! I didn’t know you were here.’ Obviously.

  ‘Tom, why ...’ I begin but he cuts in.

  ‘Did you see me? They love me. They all love Tom Tyler.’

  ‘I noticed,’ I remark sourly.

  ‘They like the love songs,’ he says reliving the applause and the adulation.

  ‘Really?’ I ask, my ego getting the better of me and hoping I’m the inspiration. ‘Written any new ones about me?’

  He nods.

  ‘Which ones?’

  He turns away to chat to another fan, one of the girls I saw outside. She paws him, hanging on his every word. Her two friends run over and together they swamp him underneath copious amounts of bare flesh. One kisses him. The others follow suit as they laugh and egg each other on. My heart plummets from the place it soared to only seconds ago. I feel humiliated.

  ‘Don’t let them do that,’ I tell him.

  ‘Calm down, love. It’s my job. It’s not about you. Not everything is about you,’

  That stings.

  ‘Let’s go, Tom – we can talk about this at home. I’ve got an early start and...’ I say to the back of his head as he turns to smile at a bloke who hands him a pint.

  ‘You go. I’m staying,’ he tells me raising the glass to his lips.

  ‘Drink that and let’s go,’ I tell him firmly.

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

  His tone is aggressive but he’s still smiling for the fans.

  ‘But we need to talk, Tom. Who was that girl?’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘The one with the boobs. The one who put her ca
rd in your pocket.’

  He shrugs his shoulders and scans the room, looking for someone to rescue him.

  ‘Her name’s Cara,’ I tell him. ‘I heard her tell you.’

  ‘Tom Tyler has got lots of fans.’

  He may be talking about himself in the third person but he’s putting himself first. He waves his left hand dismissively at me.

  ‘Where’s your ring, Tom? You’re not wearing your ring.’

  ‘Oh that,’ he says airily. ‘It’s best the girls think Tom Tyler is single.’

  ‘But you’re not a pop star. You can’t...’

  ‘I can do what I like. Just go home and have a cup of tea with one of your fancy chocolate biscuits.’

  Why is he talking to me like this? I’m Tom Tyler’s biggest fan.

  ‘Don’t be like this, Tom.’

  ‘Just go!’ he hisses at me, still smiling at the girls.

  I stumble out of the door. I want to be sick. My insides bunch together making me feel light-headed. A gang of women push me out of their way, dressed in skimpy tops and short skirts.

  ‘Oh, look Tom Tyler’s on tonight. Did you see his picture in ‘Time Out’? I wouldn’t kick him out of bed,’ says one spotting his publicity shot outside the pub.

  ‘Let’s go in and find him, perhaps he needs someone to hold his microphone,’ leers another.

  ‘Fight you for it,’ say the other two birds of prey as they all link arms and go into the club.

  He’s not theirs to lust after. Their Tom Tyler is not my Tom Tyler. I breathe in and wait for the night air to anaesthetise me. Far from numbing the pain, it freezes it into a ball that sits like a toxic toad in my guts.

  Suddenly, I see a movement in a nearby doorway. I step forward.

  ‘You’re Cara, aren’t you?’ I ask her in a voice I hardly recognise.

  She seems shorter, less striking. Even her chest seems smaller.

  ‘Get away!’ she cries, her voice now more East End than West Coast. I don’t know what possesses me but I yank open her shirt.

  ‘Ah yes, here we go, ‘To Cara with love Tom x’. Tom is my boyfriend, not yours.’

  She wraps her jacket around her chest. Shame she couldn’t have been this modest earlier on.

  ‘Your boyfriend? He’s a performer. He’s public property,’ she snarls.

  ‘Leave Tom alone. He’ll have forgotten you already. Trust me, he won’t even remember your name.’

  ‘Cara!’ shouts Tom his voice filling the door-way. ‘Cara, you okay?’

  To my horror a small group of loved-up fans gathers behind him. Cara obliges them with an Oscar-winning encore. She is every inch the drama queen.

  ‘She attacked me, Tom,’ she says in her best American drawl, squeezing out a tear.

  Looking him in the eye, she lets her jacket fall open. Her bust is centre stage with Eeny and Meany appearing as a double bill.

  ‘Please, come home, Tom,’ I plead.

  ‘You go,’ he shouts.

  ‘Go on, then, go!’ I say to Cara as she stands her ground. Then I realise Tom was talking to me.

  ‘Sure you’re okay?’ he asks Cara as he puts his arm around her and guides her back inside.

  ‘Tom, please,’ I say unable to comprehend how the evening unravelled so disastrously.

  ‘Go! You’ve done enough.’ This is my fault?

  I wondered who had been the inspiration for the lyric, ‘Don’t tell me you love me’. Now I know.

  Chapter twenty-two

  Do your research

  ‘Who’s the girl?’ asks Adam his head swivelling to follow the plate of warm croissants being carried to another table by one of the waiters.

  ‘I don’t know her. But she wants to know Tom. He was like a different person. So nasty.’

  ‘Had he been drinking?’ asks Adam.

  ‘No more than usual. But he was very odd. I didn’t know him.’ Adam drums his fingers on the table and looks me in the eye.

  ‘Does he do drugs?’

  I am so shocked I don’t answer.

  ‘Sorry, I just thought if he was acting strangely, it might explain it.’ Then I remember Tom’s pupils, huge and dilated.

  ‘You don’t think he ...?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tom snaps. ‘Sorry, I haven’t got long. I’m in a new business meeting at nine. Who arranges a meeting that early? At least, we’ll have bacon sandwiches,’ he says eyeing up the chocolate éclair on my plate, having polished off his own in two mouthfuls.

  ‘Have it,’ I say, pushing the pastry towards him. Only Adam would have afternoon tea for breakfast.

  ‘Sorry you were saying, you got to the club and saw her with Tom?’

  ‘Yeah, she was so pushy but he didn’t seem to mind. Then again, he looked off his face.’

  ‘Very rock ‘n roll,’ he says dryly. ‘Anyway, I’m sure he didn’t mean anything. It just goes with the territory, I suppose. At least she didn’t throw her knickers at him.’

  ‘She probably wasn’t wearing any.’ Adam brightens at the thought.

  ‘That’s not the point, Adam,’ I tell him. ‘He treated me as if I meant nothing to him. He was only talking about moving in a couple of days ago.’

  ‘What? You’ve only known the guy five minutes,’ says Adam before shifting uncomfortably in his seat and changing the subject. ‘How’s the job going? Bet you love the power?’

  ‘You’re kidding. I’m going to do what you suggested and befriend the clients. But I worry about every decision I make. If I get it wrong, we could lose a client and then people lose their jobs. How do you do it?’

  ‘I’m lucky. I don’t make any big decisions; the Creative Director does all that,’ he smiles.

  He nods at the waitress who knows to bring him another cake, anything, as long as it’s chocolate.

  ‘We’ve lost High-Pro. The agency is on its knees and everyone’s worried about their jobs,’ I tell him watching the queue for take-away Italian coffee snake out of the door.

  ‘Agencies lose accounts all the time. And they win news ones. If you want to cheer the staff up, take them on a team-building event. I did it with my lot last year. It worked wonders.’

  ‘What? Like everyone building a raft out of raffia? What’s the point of that?’

  ‘You can do whatever you like so long as you work as a team. I can give you the number of the company that organised ours if you like.’

  ‘No thanks, we can’t afford it.’

  ‘I bet you can.’

  He looks at me intently as the waitress places a thick spiral of fresh cream chocolate roulade down on the table. He offers me a forkful but I can tell he wants it all to himself. Besides, I’ve no appetite after Tom’s performance. And I don’t mean his act. I shake my head obligingly and Adam tucks in.

  ‘That girl’s really got to you, hasn’t she? Don’t let her upset you,’ he says, wedging in more cake.

  ‘She’s got massive tits and legs up to her neck,’ I say feeling increasingly flat-chested and fat-thighed. ‘Bloody Cara.’

  Adam jabs the air with his fork.

  ‘Cara? Tall, skinny with sticky-up blonde hair?’

  He talks with his mouth full. If anyone other than Adam did that, I’d leave the table. I nod and lean forward, anxious to hear more. He catches the eye of a passing waiter and orders a glass of water.

  ‘Go on,’ I say impatiently.

  ‘Phoney American accent?’ he asks.

  ‘False, like her boobs,’ I reply.

  I listen carefully, wanting to know all about my nemesis.

  ‘If it’s the girl I’m thinking of, I worked with her last week on a jingle. She’s a session singer. Really fancies herself. She was all over anyone she thought could give her a leg up.’

  ‘Or a leg over. Sounds like it could be her but there are tons of leggy blondes in London,’ I say.

  I slump back in my seat, defeated.