by Lindsey Kelk
On my way into the bedroom, I caught a glimpse of something small, black and shattered resting on the floor by the door. My phone. It had not fared well from being lobbed against the wall in a fit of temper. Even though the screen was still working, it was completely destroyed, the background picture of me and Amy sliced into a thousand tiny pieces. I just couldn’t have nice things, even when they were given to me by a neo-Nazi mugger. He’d think twice before giving me another phone if this was the way it was going to end up. I looked over at my laptop, still plugged in but fast asleep, just like I should be. Masochist that I was, I paused on my way to the shower to swipe my finger across the trackpad and bring the screen back to life. There were the photos, large as life and twice as shitty. They hadn’t magically got any better while I’d been otherwise indisposed. And there I’d been, hoping the Photoshop elves might have come and magically replaced them with, well, I didn’t know. Anything good would have done. Camel in a top hat. Dogs playing poker. Even the wolphin. Anything would have been better.
The shower was, as ever, hot and steamy when I stripped off all my clothes and carefully unplaited my hair. I hated washing it at the best of times, but when it was full of sand, like today, it was an actual nightmare. I would rather have taken photos of Evil Ana for another day than prop myself up against that shower wall and tease out every tangle with half a bottle of conditioner. Being a woman was so hard. Well, being a woman or Brian May. The bruises I’d acquired on Tuesday had left little dark blue dots on my arms and shoulders and were only just starting to fade away to a yellowish blur. It was all very Fifty Shades of Grey.
‘Which he has totally read,’ I announced to the shower-head. ‘Wanker.’
It took far too long, but eventually I was clean and dry, my hair was as fresh as a daisy and I was wearing clean underwear.
‘And all before the sun came up,’ I announced to my bed before falling face down onto it. ‘Well done, Tess.’
Even though I thought a lie-in was thoroughly well deserved, the universe did not agree. It felt as though my head had only just hit he pillow when my shattered iPhone started shrilly demanding attention from the other room. So not only had I broken the screen, I’d also destroyed the silence function. Brilliant.
‘Vanessa fucking Kittler, why haven’t you answered my fucking email?’
Oh, how charming. It was Agent Veronica.
‘Morning, Veronica,’ I replied as bravely as I could. ‘Because it’s about seven in the morning and I haven’t seen it yet?’
‘Don’t be fucking smart with me,’ Veronica carried on yelling. She did not care for Vanessa’s sleep patterns. ‘What’s going on? Why haven’t I seen any fucking photos? Send them to me right the fuck now.’
‘They’re not quite ready to go out.’ I was not kidding. ‘I’m just doing some edits with the art director, and then I’ll get them over to you in an hour.’
‘You better not have cocked this up, Kittler,’ she warned, her voice oddly cheerful given the fact that she was putting the fear of God in me. ‘Because if you have, I will personally come around to your fucking flat and string you up by your tits. Got it?’
‘I have got it,’ I confirmed, crossing one arm over my chest. ‘Talk to you soon.’
Veronica hung up before I could, leaving me in my underwear, sitting on the edge of the settee, staring at a big black screen on a silver laptop.
‘Right then,’ I said to no one.
Five minutes earlier, I would have happily slept through a hurricane, but now, with a very real threat of physical violence levelled against me and my boobs, I felt strangely wired. Like, five cups of coffee and a Mars bar wired. Gathering my thoughts and, more importantly, a banana, I slipped on my sunglasses and went outside. The ocean was calming. Maybe I could find a little spot where I could sit down and meditate. And by meditate, I meant freak out quietly.
It was still early, but the sun was already heating up, warming my skin through my hastily pulled on T-shirt and stroking the back of my neck. I pulled my hair over one shoulder and twisted it into something like a ponytail, while I wandered and collected my thoughts. Playing with the ends, I noticed the sun had brought out some pretty blonde strands that I’d never seen before, and even though my hair had suffered the sun and sea, altogether it just looked healthier, shinier. Flying out to a tropical island probably wasn’t a cost-effective way of getting nice highlights, though. I hoped there was a more affordable middle ground for a failed photographer and unemployed ad gal back in London. Maybe they still made Sun-In.
At home I sulked if I had to walk more than five minutes to a Tube station, but here I found I could wander along for an age without getting bored or annoyed or shoved in the back of the ankles by a pushchair. By the time I thought to turn round and see how far I’d come, the cottages were so far behind me I could barely see them.
‘Probably best to get used to that,’ I reminded myself, turning towards the water and wading ankle-deep into the gentle waves. In forty-eight hours I’d be looking back at the job centre, neck-deep in trouble. Altogether less enticing. From out of nowhere, I felt a tear trickle down my left cheek. Followed by another. And then, not to be outdone, my right eye decided to join in, and before I knew what was happening, I was openly sobbing in the middle of the beach.
‘Stop it,’ I sniffed. ‘You’re not a cryer. You don’t cry.’
But as I had to keep reminding myself, it was a week of firsts. Getting on that plane had seemingly opened the floodgates to every emotion that I’d supressed for the past twenty years. I didn’t even know why I was crying. I was a very practical woman ? I didn’t weep in the sea wearing nothing but a T-shirt and my knickers. Bending over, I dipped my hands in the cool water and pressed them against my face. Ah, the simple pleasures of not wearing make-up.
‘Good morning, Vanessa.’
Ah, the simple pleasures of not wearing make-up and looking like shit when you bump into someone you aren’t expecting to see. Emerging from the trees, my spirit guide, Al, gave me a wave and a smile. At least I assumed he was smiling ? it was hard to tell behind his awesome, in every sense of the word, mega-beard.
‘Hello, Al.’ I waved back and turned away from the sea. I was going to miss it. I was going to miss everything. ‘How are you today?’
‘Oh, been better, been worse,’ he said, waving a hand in the air.
Today he was sporting a knackered old Rolling Stones T-shirt and some neon-yellow shorts. Very Shoreditch twat, I thought. If only he were a twenty-seven-year-old marketing exec instead of a seventy-year-old widower, he’d be so on trend.
‘Do you want to see something wonderful?’ He cocked his head to one side and nodded down the beach.
‘Yes,’ I nodded, wiping my face with the back of my hand and marching over to him with purpose. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then come with me.’ He held out his arm like a true gentleman and escorted me along the sand. I was going to miss Al. And bloody hell, here came the tears again. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘Yep,’ I replied curtly, biting the inside of my lip until my face stopped leaking. Vanessa wouldn’t have cried because an old man was nice to her. Vanessa would have been very busy trying to work out how to get into his will and then make him have a heart attack. I figured I’d settle for the middle ground of just being polite. ‘What are we looking at?’
‘Well, we can’t get too close, but over there ? look.’ Al let go of my arm and pointed towards a big grey rock in the middle of the beach.
‘Um, OK?’ I shielded my eyes with my hand and stared at the rock. ‘What am I looking for?’
‘You’re looking right at it,’ Al laughed. ‘You can’t see it?’
‘I can see a rock?’ I squinted and looked around the rock. And then the rock moved. And then I nearly shit myself.
‘It’s a giant sea turtle,’ Al explained. ‘They come out onto the beach for a bit of sun sometimes. We’re not actually meant to go within six feet of them ? they’re federa
lly protected ? but I don’t think there are any policemen around here, do you?’
‘Unless you’re a policeman.’ I followed him on tiptoes towards the turtle. ‘And this is a very elaborate sting operation?’
‘Ha, yes,’ he replied in a low voice. ‘I’m actually Magnum, PI.’
‘Magnum P what?’
‘The youth of today,’ he moaned. ‘Ask your mum.’
Mum. Another sneaky tear crept down my cheek.
‘Hello, turtle.’ I knelt down a couple of feet away from the great big greyish creature and held my breath. ‘How do I know if it’s a boy or a girl?’
‘The easiest way is to turn it over,’ he explained. ‘But I don’t fancy it much, do you?’
I looked at the giant, slightly slimy looking turtle and it looked right back.
‘No, you’re all right,’ I muttered.
For roughly three months, when I was seven, I told everyone who would listen that I was going to be a mermaid when I grew up. We were two months into my obsession when my mother began restricting my viewing of The Little Mermaid to twice a day, and I was banned from wearing my sleeping bag-slash-mermaid tail to the dinner table after only a week. My sea shell bra, painstakingly crafted from two tubs of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, mysteriously vanished while I was in bed one night, and all requests for a crab for Christmas fell on deaf ears. But I still knew all the words to ‘Part of Your World’ and I still loved sea creatures. Or the cute ones, at least; you could keep your sharks. I was very, very excited about meeting a turtle. He or she seemed less excited about meeting me.
‘So, Miss Vanessa,’ Al said quietly after five minutes of patiently watching me stare at a turtle while it stared right back at me. ‘What were those tears for back there?’
‘I feel like it can see into my soul,’ I whispered, reaching one finger out to touch the turtle’s shell. Ew. Slimy.
‘It can’t,’ he replied bluntly. Way to sugarcoat, Al. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Not really,’ I shrugged, eyes still trailing up and down the turtle’s beautifully patterned shell. I wanted to touch a flipper but I didn’t dare. ‘It’ll be fine, though.’
‘What if it isn’t?’ Al asked. ‘Sometimes it isn’t. Did the photo shoot not go well?’
‘The photos are shit … sorry, they’re rubbish,’ I blushed as I checked my language, but Al just smiled and waved for me to carry on. ‘My friend says the interview he did is terrible and he’s really freaking out about it because it’ll be so bad for his career, and then there’s all the stuff I have to deal with when I get home and I just don’t really know where to start.’
The turtle lifted its head very slightly and gave me a sympathetic wink. That or it was trying to tell me I was rambling.
‘And what’s happening with the chap?’ he asked. ‘The one who’s so wrong for you?’
‘Yeah, that’s sort of a mess too.’ My ponytail sprang out of its coil and scattered curls all around my face. I pushed them out of the way and sighed. ‘He’s the one doing the interview.’
Al and the turtle shared a concerned, furrowed brow.
‘So I’ve messed up the pictures, messed up with Charlie, messed up with Nick, Paige is going to be furious, Amy isn’t talking to me, my mum isn’t talking to me, I won’t have a job when I get back, and that’s without even getting into the flatmate shenanigans.’ I took a deep breath in and tried to let it out evenly without tears creeping into my voice, but I heard it thicken and break. ‘I don’t know what I thought was going to happen if I came here, but I didn’t think it would make things worse.’
I coughed, rubbed my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt and looked away at the sea. I didn’t want Turtle to see me like this.
‘I don’t really know who any of those people are, but maybe things aren’t as bad as you think,’ Al said in his most conciliatory tone of voice. ‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’
‘Anything is possible.’ I never wanted to leave this beach. ‘But the only people who are still talking to me won’t be for long. One thinks she’s in love with the man I’ve been seeing, and said man thinks I’m someone I’m not. It’s a very long story.’
‘Most people think we’re someone we’re not,’ Al reasoned. ‘How do you know he’s not right and you’re wrong? Maybe he knows you better than you know yourself.’
‘That is pretty deep,’ I said slowly. ‘Still, doesn’t help me have decent photos or get Nick a good interview.’
‘What was so awful about them?’ He pulled at a loose thread on his T-shirt and shook his head slightly. ‘And why was your friend’s interview so bad?’
‘The photos are just bad.’ I didn’t know if I had the energy to get into it again. ‘You know I said Bertie Bennett cancelled on us? Well, his son did the piece instead but he pulled these really awful clothes, and I haven’t read the interview, but Nick said he was just really awful and full of himself, and he was really struggling to make it sound like he wasn’t, well, a massive twat.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Al rubbed a hand over his face and all the way down his beard. ‘Sounds about right.’
‘Yeah. He’s a bit of a knob. Nice, but sort of a knob. I just wish his dad hadn’t cancelled. Or at least hadn’t said he’d do it and then changed his mind when we got here. Nick is really, really upset. I wish I could fix it.’
‘Quite the dilemma.’
I made a squeaky groaning noise and wished Turtle would give me an answer.
‘There are fights you can win and fights you can’t.’ He clearly hadn’t quite given up. I wished he would. Only fifty percent of what he said actually made me feel better. ‘You can’t fix everything for everyone all of the time.’
‘I do realize that it has not worked out especially well for people in the past,’ I acknowledged.
‘Good,’ he carried on. ‘And your job isn’t who you are. I think I was right before ? you say this Nick chap thinks you’re someone you’re not, but honestly, do you actually know who you are?’
‘The Nick situation is a bit more literal than that,’ I replied, stroking Turtle as I spoke. ‘But no, really, I am my job. I always have been. Before that, I was the girl who did well in school, the girl who always stayed in to finish her homework. If I’m not my job, I’m not anything. I don’t know how to be anything else.’
‘I think that’s the bigger problem here,’ he said with a half-smile. ‘And I think it’s something I understand. So how about we do a deal?’
‘A deal?’ I eyed him suspiciously. What could Al possibly have that would help me?
‘I’ll help you resolve this photo nonsense, but you have to work on finding out who Vanessa is.’
‘Finding out who Vanessa is really is a very big part of the problem for everyone,’ I said, briefly wondering whether or not I could ride Turtle back into the ocean and live in his underwater kingdom if I wasn’t technically a mermaid. It worked in Splash.
‘Come on.’ Al wasn’t having any of it. ‘Let’s go and find your friends and sort this mess out.’
‘I think I want to stay here,’ I said, visions of being dragged into my sister’s room to apologize for eating her last Easter egg hovering before my eyes. ‘Thanks, though.’
‘You don’t think your friend will want to redo the interview?’ Al asked. ‘You don’t want another go at the photos?’
‘Well, yeah, but I ? what?’ I reached up and took the hand that Al held out to me and leapt up to my feet. Turtle opened his mouth to say something but just tutted and sighed before starting to shuffle back into the ocean. ‘How are we going to do that?’
‘I know you’re very busy with your own identity crisis,’ Al said, linking his arm through mine again and giving me a casual salute with the other hand, ‘but I’ve been having a little one of my own. I feel I should introduce myself properly. My name is Albert Bennett. Lovely to meet you.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Oh. Hello.’
It was safe to say that Nick was not
nearly as pleased to see me when I knocked on his door fifteen minutes later as he was when I’d passed through it fifteen hours earlier.
‘Hello,’ I replied, more than a little awkward. Al loitered a few feet away, carefully examining a knot in the wood of one of the chairs on the veranda and demonstrating very impressive not-listening skills. ‘I’ve got good news.’
‘Is that why you had to sneak off in the middle of the night?’ he asked, striding across the room and pulling a T-shirt over his bare torso. Which was a shame. ‘Clearly it wasn’t because you were self-conscious about your hair looking a mess.’
Ouch. He really was annoyed. I raised a sad hand halfway up to my sad hair before shaking my head and reminding myself why I was there. Not to bicker and argue but to make something right. For a change.
‘Clearly not,’ I agreed. I took a cautious step into his cottage and waited to see what he would do. Nothing. ‘I went for a walk.’
‘Well, that makes much more sense,’ he replied. ‘Totally understandable.’
‘Hang on a minute, you weren’t around when I woke up yesterday. I thought you didn’t do sleepovers?’ I planted my hands on my hips. I’d come to make things better, not get into a fight, but it didn’t look like he was going to give me any choice.
He opened the fridge door, pulled out a carton of orange juice and gulped it loudly for an uncomfortably long time. I noticed his juice had pulp; mine did not. Kekipi must be some sort of idiot savant when it came to juice preferences.
‘Nick, you can kick my arse in a bit, but right now I need you to get your bloody Dictaphone and your pen and your little pad and come outside. I’ve got someone who wants to talk to you.’
‘I don’t have a little pad,’ he snapped back. But journalistic curiosity was too much for him and he turned around slowly. ‘Who am I supposed to be talking to?’