by J. Levy
‘Maybe he’ll send flowers too,’ suggested Jezzy, reaching for the other half of her doughnut.
‘I don’t know, don’t you think they would have already been delivered, maybe he couldn’t do it with the time difference?’ ‘Stop making excuses for him! I didn’t get any either,’ grumbled Jezzy, ‘and at least you got balloons!’
‘We could send them to each other, everybody does that these days, I heard it on LBC,’ offered Jezzy helpfully.
‘Steve Allen?’
‘Who else?’
‘Steve is so perfect, he’s the kind of guy you could really talk to isn’t he? I love listening to him before I get up and sometimes I podcast him and listen to him at the school gates. Anything to detract from the crummy mummies!’ Frankie began to slightly crease up.
‘Steve doesn’t take calls though does he, he’s the kind of bloke you can text a lot though.’
‘Yeah, let’s do it then, we should!’
‘Amazing really, not getting flowers on Valentine’s Day, it’s all so very anti-orgasmic,’ sighed Frankie.
‘Anti-climatic?’
‘Maybe,’ Jezzy started on the brown doughnut, then remembering she didn’t like it, put it down.
‘At least balloons don’t die quite so easily I suppose. I don’t expect exciting things anymore, if you don’t expect and don’t get, you won’t be disappointed. But I do love roses.’
‘And other negative clichés.’ Jezzy poured the tea, milky for her and strong for Frankie. Strong stewed workmens tea. Bitter and brown. ‘This tea’s too brown for V. Day. Gosh, V. Day, sounds like V.D!’
‘Which ones do you want then?’ asked Frankie.
‘Are we talking the most preferable of STD’s?’
‘No, flowers.’
‘Oh, we can go to the stall outside and pick them,’ Jezzy was faintly excited, ‘Sweet Peas maybe, if they’re in season.’
‘Does this mean we will be each other’s Valentiny?’ asked Frankie.
‘Great friends,’ shrugged Jezzy. ‘Always.’
‘Then I think I would like something fragrant, something that smells of friendship.
‘Yes!’ You would think, from her reaction, that Jezzy had just discovered a cure for Male-Pattern-Boredom. ‘Come on then, I have to get back to the surgery.’
‘And I have to get to school.’
‘Shall we take these with us or let them loose?’
‘Let’s release them.’
Jezzy jabbed the split point of Frankie’s straw at the balloons. One, two, pop, pop.
*
Devon
Through the window pressed up against clouds of grey, Devon gazed, glassy eyed, until she glimpsed Windsor Castle, studded into the green of Berkshire, moving further to the east, until her plane came to land at Heathrow. Everything was cloudy.
Dull. Nothing had changed then. Except her.
Devon trailed through the vast carpeted corridors to passport control, wondering if she should use her British or US passport? She decided it would be lot simpler to use her British one. No questions. No searching. Nothing. Just a bland entrance into what she thought of as a bland country. She summoned a Sky Cap towards baggage claim 5, where thankfully and quite astonishingly, her bags were already there. He heaved them onto the trolley and they headed for the green channel. Feeling the chill on the other side, she and her Sky Cap made their way to the taxi stand. As she approached the line of humming, familiar black cabs she could finally smell England. Her nose, despite being made in LA, twitched disdainfully and she climbed into the back seat, letting the cabbie and the Cap pile her bags inside. Bags never seemed to fit into the back flap of taxis and she had no idea why they were still pretty much the same design as when she left, all those years ago.
‘Where to love?’ chirped the typical taxi driver.
Did they really always think they were in a movie? Didn’t they realize that sometimes their ‘chirpy’ behaviour made people want to vomit?
‘The Berkeley.’
‘Gotcha love, been anywhere nice?’
Devon pressed the heater button, allowing the noise to drown out the cabbie and his scratching, irritating curiosity.
She looked out of the window and ignored him. They drove past familiar sights. The houses were old and unkempt. The sky still looked so tired. Why was that? Was it really so very difficult having to hang over London? In Los Angeles, despite the smog, even the sky looked healthy. Here in England it looked as though it could do with a break. Jet-lag began to seep into her eyes and she closed them, just for a moment.
A smartly dressed doorman opened the taxi door. The Berkeley stood before her in all its stony-beige splendour. A London matriarch, situated regally on the cusp of Knightsbridge and Belgravia. There was no better location in this city, thought Devon as she eased herself out of the taxi. Had she forgotten all of the other places? Those places of long, long ago. The ones her mind dare not remember?
After mere moments at the reception, Devon found herself in her room with its sumptuous décor and enormous fluffy pillows on a bed that looked beyond inviting. She tipped the bellman ten pounds and had already stripped naked by the time he had closed the door behind him.
Shame, she thought. He was rather nice. Tall and dark, with an Eastern European accent and he smelt clean too.
She stood beneath the shower and let the water wash away that strange, indeterminable, almost acrid ‘plane smell’. The one everyone smells of after any flight. Luggage seems to temporarily take on that smell too. It’s a smell like no other. Horrible. She was glad to be rid of it. Slathering the hotel body lotion on her soft, still damp skin, Devon threw on the puffy white robe, flossed and brushed her teeth, tied her hair in a knot on top of her head, moisturized her face and almost fell down onto the bed, literally sinking into its comfort with a sigh. There really was nothing like the luxury of a good hotel room when you were clean and hungry. Scanning the menu, she punched the room service button and ordered.
‘Double fried egg and chips, not runny, not hard. White toast. Tea. Extra hot water. Biscuits. Please. And hurry please, I’m starving.’ It was not exactly Berkeley Fare, but they were obliging nonetheless.
‘Yes maam, that should be with you in 20-25 minutes.’
Devon popped the remote control and set the channel to Sky News. It was the weather report. Apparently, England was chilly. No kidding? Maybe rain tomorrow. This country was so predictable. Then they showed a sky cam pic filled with clouds so that you could barely make out what was beneath.
‘Three degrees overnight in town, dropping to minus two in Greater London…….’ A pretty, meteorologist with dark shiny hair and high heels droned on and on.
Greater London. Her mind began to travel back in time. Dropping down into the underground, boarding a train, lingering in the carriage as it jolted through the city, the eastern outskirts of London, carrying her through stations on a red line, further and further, to Essex…
Knock, knock. Two loud raps at the door.
Food.
The waiter delivered and Devon devoured with gusto. She tore her toast into uneven rectangles, soldiers slightly askew and dunked them into the slightly mobile perfect yolks. She put salt on her chips and scoffed them down, chasing down mouthfuls with hot, burning slugs of tea with white sugar. She mopped up her plate with a waiting soldier, filled the teapot with hot water and dunked biscuits into the steaming dark brown drink. Bitter with sugar to sweeten.
Saited. Devon closed her eyes and escaped to dreamland.
She awoke three hours later with dried egg yolk across her bottom lip. Scraping it off with her teeth, she peeled herself off the bed, reached into her case and punched a text into her Blackberry, pulled out a silky black sheeth dress and a bright red wig styled into a chignon, held together with crystal-studded chopsticks. She climbed into the dress, piled up her hair, fastening it with pins, pulled on the wig and slipped out of the room.
3am. Soho. Windmill Street. In a dingy alley that
stank of piss and rotting food, Devon handed something over to a spindly tranvestite wearing a vibrant orange mini-skirt and a black velvet cape.
Within a short space of time, time seemingly devoid of minutes and seconds that stretched like a heat sodden fog, despite the chilled night air, in a room rented by the hour above a sex shop, a man was grunting like a pig. His face was puce, his eyes bulging and his fat nose was dripping with sweat. He was a pig.
‘Uuuugh, more, more,’ he grunted through yellow teeth. He shoved out his thick, coated tongue, reaching for her ear and jammed his tongue inside it like a thick, spongy arrow.
The room was dingy. Dank. Stale. Threadbare curtains hung limply across the window, but the red lights along the street glowed through. Impervious.
‘Uugh, let me shove it in, more, more…’
Devon flipped out from beneath him and before he knew what had happened had turned him face down and was astride him. She quickly pulled a chopstick from her updo and shoved it up his arse. He yelped, squealing like the stuck pig he was. She jammed it in further, as far as it would go. He was whimpering, pleading. Just how she liked it.
She leaned in very close, so he could feel her breath in his hairy ear.
‘Never stick your tongue in a lady’s ear,’ she whispered so quietly that she could barely be heard. ‘We hate it. It feels disgusting. Your breath is disgusting. Your saliva is disgusting. Your snorting is disgusting.’ With every other word she twisted the chopstick inside him until he began to go limp, contorted with the pain of twisted pleasure.
She yanked out the stick in a flash, brown and putrid, using it to spear a disheartened prawn that was hanging over the edge of a square plastic carton on the bedside table. He gaped at her, eyes wide, fearful, confused. Then she shoved the chopstick in his mouth.
Cramming the cash into her purse and sweeping away to the door she turned back and with a razor-like gleam in her eyes snarled, ‘Eat shit.’
*
Back at the Berkeley. Devon laid down on the ceramic floor of the bath, lifted her legs to the ceiling and let the hot water wash away the night. She didn’t know how long she was there, upside down with her legs wide open, it just had to be long enough to flush away the stench. Her face remained still, stoic, as tears mingled with water. Salt with soap. Sweetened tears. She rubbed furiously between her legs with the little bar of hotel soap, rubbing and rubbing, digging her fingers into it until it became a squidgy mass.
Her mind was a maze. Entangled and entwined. Intertwined. Mangled. Unravelling a little more each day. She couldn’t go on like this anymore, trying to avenge her past by demoralizing disgusting men. She knew she was reaching the end and that freedom was, at last, within her grasp.
She pulled herself out of the tub, wrapping two huge bath towels around her tired body and shattered mind, dragging them across the floor as she dragged her body to the bed. She climbed under the duvet, wrapping herself further into her feathery cocoon and escaped. To sleep. To a place where she would be safe. For a while at least. From herself.
In her dreams she was a child again. Running across a field brimming with buttercups and daisies, the grass kissed by the spring. There was laughter. Sunshine and fine, blue birds in the sky. A football on the glossy grass. Glorious trees to climb. Sandwiches made with pappy white bread, tangy salt and vinegar crisps, crispy sausage rolls and sweet Jammie Dodgers, all tucked away in a red gingham-lined, wicker hamper. There was Mother. And Dad. And little brother Joe. Little sister Patsy with her favourite doll that she had named Diana Dors, because of her white blonde, luxurious hair. Devon loved that doll of Patsy’s. It was the best toy in the house. In the world. Better than anything else. Mother spread a blue and yellow checked blanket on the grass and they all sat down to feast upon their picnic. Bees buzzed around them and they laughed and squealed as they swatted them away. The sandwiches were delicious. Mother always made tasty sandwiches with thin ham and buttery lettuce and real thick yellow butter. A perfect day. Then, suddenly, an awareness of discomfort, of prickles on the neck. The day had a dent in it. A wedge. A feeling had finally erupted that meant things would never be the same again.
*
Jezzy
‘I can’t stay long, I have to be back in LA by Wednesday.’ Adrian possessively wrapped his long arm around Jezzy’s neck as they strolled along Upper Street in Islington on Sunday morning. The sun had been fighting hard all morning and had finally broken through the clouds. Momentarily. Rain was forecast for the afternoon. As uncertain as the weather, Jezzy didn’t know how she felt. She was so confused and desperately needed a coffee, something to give her mind a little lift. Miraculously a bakery appeared. Euphorium bakery, one of a handful in the area. There was a queue of people outside which meant that it must be good.
‘Shall we go here?’ she suggested, stopping abruptly behind a man with a pram.
‘Sure,’ smiled Adrian slowly.
A woman in front of the man with a pram started speaking to him, making idle, queuing conversation.
‘Could you hold my place for a mo? Must cadge that table,’ she asked him, thrusting her neck towards the vacant table against the wall. He nodded, attempting a half smile. His baby was so new and he was showing the effects. The woman flung her bags on both chairs, marking her territory and stood back in the queue.
‘Thanks, you don’t know what day it is anyway, do you!’ she exclaimed rhetorically to the new father.
Again, he summoned up a hint of a smile and nodded agreeably, somewhere in a faraway place, his mind milky and soft.
The queue diminished in front of them and Jezzy and Adrian were in front of the counter which was crammed with sweet, intoxicating pastries. The smells wafted in from the back of the bakery. Jezzy chose a pain au chocolat and a latte.
‘Black Americano for me,’ said Adrian to the dark, pretty girl behind the counter. He gave a little smirk as he spoke to her and Jezzy wondered why. The girl behind the counter looked up at Adrian and smiled, looking a little withdrawn. She repeated the order with a heavy Mediterranean accent and she had a scratch on the top of her right hand. There was still a long queue out onto the street and the sun still fought to shine. Taking the only vacant table, the one in the middle of the room, Jezzy felt as though she had a deadline. She felt under pressure and didn’t know why.
Adrian took a sip of his coffee, licked his lips and gave a slight, almost imperceptible pout. ‘Jez, I’m leaving Tuesday.’
‘Yes, I know, you said you might.’ Jezzy took a sip of her latte. It was too hot and she burnt her tongue.
‘I want to come back soon,’ Adrian said softly. ‘Now that I’ve found you again I don’t want to lose you. I won’t lose you, I can’t.’ His face grew tight as he bit down on his jaw.
Jezzy smiled at him. She felt as though she loved him or at least as if she should love him, as though she hadn’t ever got over him completely from all those years ago. There was something about him that charmed her completely, as if he wove some kind of mystical spell over her. What was that? Was that infatuation, true love or something else? So why did she feel unsure? Something just didn’t feel right, she knew that much. But she already in her thirties, never been married and wanted kids, desperately wanted kids. Was it all being put in front of her, handed to her on a long lost silver platter? Just then Adrian cupped her face gently in his large hands. Her face fitted perfectly. He tilted her chin very slightly and looked into her eyes.
‘I love you Jez,’ he said very softly. ‘I never stopped loving you. I want to marry you and have children with you.’
She was lost in his deep brown eyes. All negative thoughts were instantly washed away.
All of them.
Gone.
Almost. Apart from one little piece of jetsam caught at the edges of her mind.
*
Manny and Meringue
Manny stood in his office beside the window, a couple of hundred feet above the ground. This is where he always stood to think. To contemplat
e. Only now, on this murky Sunday morning he had a flash of realization resulting in the knowledge that this position really did him no good at all. Despite himself, he missed Devon. She had been away for days and wasn’t due back for another week. He was so confused because his heart had seemed to open new chambers and one of the spaces could only be filled by Meringue and it really bothered him. Meringue! What a stupid name. He couldn’t call her that, not with a straight face and Mary seemed too archaic. But there was something about her that touched him. Something wanton and forlorn. She made him want to protect her. This was so new and unexpected that even she didn’t know. He was going to take her out on a real date. Not just stuck on her knees in his office. Somewhere real. He wanted to go to dinner and a movie like ordinary people did. He had felt out of control with Devon for so long and had taken advantage of Meringue’s feelings for him. She truly liked him, although he couldn’t understand why. Up until now, he’d only had a relationship with the top of her head. But that day, when she had looked up at him, warm tears in her incredible violet eyes, she had plucked at a string in his heart. He sat down heavily at his desk, letting out a long breath of suffocated air. Then there was the other problem, if you could call it a problem. He had met someone online, of all places! Months ago, when he was so frustrated with Devon and had yet to meet Meringue, he had joined a dating website. Even the sound of it made him flinch. He hadn’t bothered to contact anyone but the messages came flooding in. He deleted most of them but one in particular had caught his eye and he had begun a cyber-relationship, becoming slightly cast in the spell of an English girl. Thankfully she lived 6,000 miles away, but whereas he had once dismissed possibilities, due to being Geographically Undesirable, he now tended to carefully embrace them. At one point the wrong side of the 405 would have been GU. Only now the world was becoming smaller. He was caught in a triangle and didn’t know which girl would turn out to be his hypotenuse.