I Am Ella, Buy Me

by Joan Ellis

  ‘Don’t leave me! What if I have an accident and have to go to hospital looking like this?’

  ‘The only accident you’re likely to have is to chip your nail varnish. Now, sit still and don’t panic, I’ll be back soon.’

  Ten minutes later, I return with the finishing touch.

  ‘Get that thing away from me,’ he protests.

  ‘Hold still,’ I tell him securing the bingo man’s hair piece to Wally’s shiny head with a blob of chewing gum. ‘There, you look gorgeous, Wal. Or should I say Jill?’

  He struggles into my blouse and skirt and I look away as he wriggles into a pair of my tights. I love Wally but there are limits. I give him my sling- backs. Luckily, he has small feet so my shoes just about fit him.

  ‘Practice walking in them, Wally.’

  He sets off across the room, his legs bowed. I laugh so much my stomach aches and I end up putting Wally’s shirt on inside out. His trousers are a surprisingly snug fit. He helps me into the jacket before slicking back my hair with a dab of his Brylcreem. I put on the black leather lace-ups and Wally spits on his hanky before giving the toes a quick rub.

  ‘There you go,’ he says stepping back to admire his handy-work. ‘But we ain’t got time to write nothing now.’

  ‘We’ll improvise.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Make it up. Just go along with everything I say,’ I tell him quickly.

  ‘Talk about living dangerously.’

  When we arrive everyone has made an effort. Jill is on stage to introduce Darren and his room-mate who are both wearing swimming trunks. Unable to contain herself at the sight of not one but two six-packs, the receptionist wolf-whistles and throws her knickers at the boys. Just as Darren is about to reciprocate, Jill runs back up to lead the audience in premature applause. Then she announces Josh, type-cast as a public school boy and his side-kick who plays a Cockney. They attempt to have a conversation but struggle to understand one another. It’s surprisingly funny and it’s good to see Josh can laugh at himself. Especially, as the rest of us have been doing it for years. Peter produces such a turkey we can smell it from the back row. We all make clucking noises and he struts to the front of the stage.

  ‘You lot are either too ignorant or too drunk to notice but we are performing. I don’t expect you to understand the creative process - especially those of you in the creative department - just shut-up and let us get on with it!’

  The booing and jeering erupts to such a level, the double act retreats double-quick. Meanwhile, I am still trying to come up with an outline for our sketch. No worries, I’ll think of something during the next act.

  ‘I’d like to introduce, Wally and Ella. Up you come, guys,’ says Jill handling the microphone like a pro.

  My blood chills. Wally takes my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. I can hear people laughing before we even start. That’s a good sign. Wally is miming washing a pair of my pants – clean ones thank goodness. It’s an in-joke; we all know Jill launders her smalls in the office. I can just make her out in the front row, hiding her head in her hands. Wally is sitting facing the audience his legs, deliberately akimbo. People cheer. Jill is watching through her fingers, giggling. Then he pretends to apply lipstick, exaggerating every movement and I stomp about looking priggish and angry, which seems to nail Peter for the audience. Wally plants a kiss on my cheek before leading me off the stage by my tie. The front row stands up, clapping and whistling. The rest of the crowd follow suit and get to their feet. It takes forever to get back to our seats - the men want to shake Wally’s hand and the girls want to cuddle him.

  ‘Well done! You were brilliant,’ I tell him.

  ‘Thanks, young ‘un but Pete’s not too chuffed.’ I turn to see him glaring at us.

  ‘Alright Pete?’ says Wally waving at him.

  ‘Can I have my pants back, Wal?’ I whisper.

  ‘Oh yes, wouldn’t do for the wife to find those,’ he says handing them to me.

  I stuff them in my pocket and we settle down to watch the end of the show.

  Wally is the toast of our last supper. Bottles of champagne, a goodwill gesture from Jill’s mother, are set out on the tables and we quickly empty them. Everyone is anxious to party, our final fling on the dance floor before the bus comes to pick us up. We finish the meal as Jill announces the awards. For once, no-one really cares. Tonight, we don’t need accolades to make us happy. Only Peter looks lost without the trappings he has come to rely on in Adland. No Porsche, no hand-tailored suit and no fawning entourage. Most people are genuinely pleased when Wally and I are awarded ‘Best Double Act’.

  Tomorrow, I’ll be back at my desk working hard at being a housewife. Or an astronaut. Or whatever else the industry demands me to be. Tonight, I am Ella and it feels good. I grab Wally’s hand and we swirl and twirl as we perform our version of the jive.

  ‘Thank you, young ‘un. I’m…all…out…of…puff,’ Wally says trying to get his breath. ‘I’m going to have to love you and leave you; just gotta do me packing. See you back at the chalet.’

  As the DJ announces the last dance, unlikely couples take to the floor and snog to the music. Josh is dancing with a girl from media. She is so tall, her chest is in line with his head. He’s happy. A couple waltz past. It’s Mr Media and Mr Planning. I catch a look between them, just a flicker of something. They made a great team on the treasure hunt. I hope they found what they were looking for.

  Darren asks three girls in succession to dance. Each one turns him down.

  ‘Looks like it’s me and you,’ he says slipping an arm like an eel around my waist.

  It’s the first touch from a man since Tom.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I tell him, moving out of his reach. ‘It was bad enough being chained to you all day. Anyway, what made you change your mind and finish the race?

  ‘I thought you were a stuck-up cow but you’ve got guts. And you can’t half sprint!’’

  ‘Yeah, these thighs are good for something,’ I tell him. He’s not sure if I’m joking or not.

  ‘Promise you won’t be sick on me?’ I ask, stepping into his arms and reprising his line from that fateful night when he rescued me from Peter.

  He laughs.

  ‘Shame you grassed us up to Jill. We would’ve won that treasure hunt,’ he shouts over the music.

  ‘You cheated, Darren. Besides, it’s not about winning, it’s about taking part,’ I yell in his ear.

  ‘I’ll remind you of that next time we lose a pitch,’ he says good-naturedly, before adding, ‘Sorry for being a prat.’

  ‘You can’t help it, Darren,’ I tell him with a smirk.

  Ensuring I keep at least six inches between us, we dance together.

  He motions towards Chloe and David who are standing together but staring in opposite directions.

  ‘Where’s she been all weekend? The first I saw of her was this afternoon,’ he asks.

  ‘Dunno, haven’t seen much of Peter either.’

  We exchange a glance. The music fades and the crowd fades away. Darren offers to walk me back to the chalet and we set off across the grass. I am still wearing Wally’s shoes. They are beginning to rub.

  ‘I thought you were going to make your move on that girl at the disco,’ I say.

  ‘She’s out of my league.’

  He kicks a discarded can along the path and looks down at the ground.

  ‘Josh is obviously more her type. I’d just be her bit of rough.’

  ‘Don’t do yourself down, Darren. Our receptionist seemed pretty impressed with you earlier.’

  ‘I think she was taking the piss. Even if I get a girl, she ends up dumping me. Must be my winning personality.’

  ‘So, Peter and Chloe, do you think they ...?’

  ‘You know Peter. Remember that night I caught you and him?’

  I recall it only too well. Darren looks like he’s about to apologise again.

  ‘Forget it, Darren. I have. Fancy a paddle?’

  He
looks relieved and shakes his head but follows me over the sand to the water’s edge. I take off Wally’s shoes and give them to Darren to hold. Then I carefully roll up Wally’s trousers. The cold water numbs my feet. We stroll back up the beach, making up our own awards. Wally wins ‘Best Man in Tights’ and Peter sweeps the board as ‘Worst Actor’, ‘Worst Script-Writer’ and ‘Worst Director’. Darren offers to walk me back to my chalet but the weekend has been full-on and I need to be alone for a while. He hands me back Wally’s shoes and I slip my damp feet into them. It’s a beautiful warm evening and I enjoy wandering slowly back through the rows of chalets, reflecting on the day. Tom will be getting ready to go on stage now. He’s got an hour or so to kill. I wonder what he’s doing and who he’s doing it with. I remember Wally’s wise words and stop tormenting myself.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t, Ella!’

  Where did Peter come from? He’s drunk. I can smell the booze on him.

  ‘You’re looking horny!’ he tells me which is patently untrue given I’m wearing Wally’s clothes.

  I say nothing and go to dart past him. He puts out his arms.

  ‘I couldn’t take my eyes off you on that stage. And you’re supposed to be me, so bonking you would be like having sex with myself.’

  ‘Nothing new there then,’ I tell him sharply as I walk on.

  ‘Not so fast,’ he says, grabbing me roughly by the shoulder. ‘Time to fulfil the terms of Our Little Arrangement. You owe me.’

  He laughs in my face. I try to pull away but he tightens his grip and forces himself against me. I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out. My right leg shakes uncontrollably. I try to move my foot forward but it remains stuck, shuddering on the ground.

  ‘Come on. I pay well, remember.’

  He thrusts himself urgently against me, like a goat.

  ‘I’m not that sort of working girl,’ I tell him, my voice breaking.

  ‘But you pride yourself on being such a pro,’ he laughs, delighted with his double-entendre. ‘Come on, Ella. You know you want me.’

  He stumbles. I take the opportunity to pull away. As I run, I glance over my shoulder to check he’s not following me. My toe catches on a lose paving stone and I lurch forward. I put my hands out to save myself but crash to my knees, skimming the pavement with my palms. I get up quickly and half-run, half-limp back to the chalet. My hands sting and the flesh is studded with grit. I look down and notice a rip in Wally’s trousers. I burst into tears. These look like his best pair, bought with his hard-earned wages. Trust Peter to ruin them.

  I am so relieved to see No. 41. I must tell Wally what’s happened. He’ll know what to do. I go in. The smell of his soap fills the chalet. I knock on his bedroom door.

  ‘Wal? You there?’

  When he doesn’t reply I tentatively peer around the door. I can see him lying on top of the counterpane, dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers ready to leave. I don’t want to disturb him but I have to talk to him before we go.

  ‘Wally, are you awake?’ I whisper, gently touching his hand. It feels cold. Too cold.

  Chapter thirty-one

  Emotion can be more powerful than reason

  I arrive home to an empty house but the smell of stale tobacco still lingers. For a moment, I wish Tom was here. I just need to talk to someone about Wally.

  I slump to the floor, still wearing his suit. Jill gently tried to persuade me to change before we left but I refused, wrapping the jacket around me in a futile attempt to defy his death and keep him close. I stayed in the chalet with him, holding his hand, until the ambulance arrived. I hated that he died alone, without his beloved wife at his side. The poor woman must be inconsolable.

  ‘He wouldn’t have known anything about it,’ Jill reassured me as she gently took my arm and helped me onto the bus. ‘He didn’t stop smiling the whole weekend. He had a wonderful last dance, thanks to you.’

  Dear Wally was so much more than the night-watchman come caretaker, the go-to guy when something needed fixing. If you wanted a light-bulb changed or a fuse mended, Wally was your man. He would call you a cab after you’d worked all night and he would call you a fool for putting work above family and friends. He had it sussed, enjoying a simple care-free life with his wife. He worked to live, unlike me and the other success- obsessed drones in the agency.

  Now, I slowly replay the film, forever archived in my memory. There we are dancing like we just don’t care. There’s Wally eating his pie like it is fillet steak. Now he’s leaping up and shouting ‘House!’ And that’s us getting ready for the show. Even in drag Wally is more of a man than Peter will ever be. This afternoon he left the stage full of life. Whatever killed him was waiting in the wings, for his fifteen minutes of fame to end before bringing down the final curtain.

  Why did the man who showed me how to live have to die?

  I can feel something in the pocket and discover my knickers, the ones he ‘washed’ on stage. Now I am crying and laughing. Sunshine and showers, there will be a rainbow soon.

  I lean over and unzip my bag, emptying the dirty washing onto the floor. My tights and blouse, the ones Wally wore only this afternoon tumble out together. He must have packed them for me. I smile and untangle the clothes before hanging them carefully over the back of a chair.

  ‘Stick with me, young ‘un. We’ll have fun,’ he told me and he was right. Despite being old enough to be my Grand-dad, Wally showed me how to be young. He proved it doesn’t take a fat salary to be happy, just an old man in tights. I smile before bursting into tears again.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Tom asks.

  Startled, I jerk backwards knocking my head against the washing- machine. It’s only been a few days since he left but already he looks detached. I don’t recognise his clothes and he’s had a hair cut.

  ‘Tom, what are you doing here?’ I ask with a dry mouth.

  He lights up a cigarette and flicks the spent match into the sink.

  ‘I forgot something. Thought you were away and I could just nip in and get it.’

  I remind myself to get the locks changed.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ he asks without caring. ‘Still upset about me? You need to move on. I have.’

  Tom Tyler’s ego fills the room like methane.

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with you. I stopped loving you the night Cara showed up. I just didn’t realise it,’ I tell him.

  He snorted.

  ‘My friend died today. Wally died. Heart attack.’

  ‘Wally? Who’s Wally?’

  ‘The caretaker, I told you about him. He was a lovely man.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says as if it doesn’t matter, as if Wally doesn’t matter.

  ‘He was wonderful, my idea of a perfect dad or grand-dad and he …’

  ‘Whose clothes are you wearing?’ he cuts in, not listening.

  ‘Wally’s.’

  I start to cry again as the pain I feel about losing him erupts.

  ‘Calm down,’ he scoffs. ‘He was just the caretaker.’

  ‘He wasn’t ‘just’ anything. He was lovely.’

  ‘Whoa!’

  ‘Just go,’ I tell him. ‘Get out and give me back my keys.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ he says reaching into his pocket and throwing them on the table.

  As he walks away, his hand catches the edge of the chair, knocking it to the ground and kicking it across the floor. My clothes fly into the air, the sleeves of the blouse and the legs of the tights lashing out at him before falling impotently, to the floor. He grabs the shirt with both hands

  ‘No!’ I cry picturing Wally wearing it. ‘Don’t!’ He rips it in two.

  ‘There. We’re done,’ he declares as he walks towards the front door.

  ‘You bastard,’ I call after him.

  He lets out a long, throaty laugh.

  ‘You think everyone loves Tom Tyler? Well, I don’t,’ I scream.

  Slowly, he reverses back into the kitchen, ‘I’m having the best sex of my l
ife.’

  His words act like a dirty rag wiping away the last stubborn stain of what we shared. There’s nothing left. For a moment, it feels like he’s punched me in the stomach and I double-over, unable to speak. He has reduced our love-making to nothing more than a competitive sport. I think of us together and squirm. My dream, built on little more than a stranger’s handsome face, evaporates. I fell in love with a man full of hate. Just like Mum, I equated good looks with goodness. Now I understand what the old lady in the supermarket meant by, ‘Handsome is as handsome does.’ Just because he’s good-looking, doesn’t mean he’s good.