Massive

by Julia Bell

  ‘So that’s what you look like then, Maria. I’ve been wondering. Hiya, kiddo,’ she says, winking at me.

  ‘Come on, we’re going,’ Mum says, not turning to look.

  ‘You can’t avoid me for ever,’ Lisa says. ‘We’re living in the same city now. In fact,’ she says, ‘believe it or not, we’re standing in the same house.’

  ‘Not in front of the child,’ Mum says. She’s trembling.

  ‘I’m not a child,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t be difficult, Carmen.’ Mum shoots me an evil look.

  ‘Come on, Maria, can’t we kiss and make up?’

  Lisa folds her arms across her chest. Mum’s eyes are scary, wild.

  ‘The wind will change and your face will get stuck like that, Maria.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you if you’re only going to be insulting.’

  Lisa bites her lip. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I grew up,’ Mum says, viciously. ‘I got real.’

  ‘At least come to my party.’ She gives us both invitations, posh cream card with glitter around the edge. ‘I’m opening the new salon. Billy’s coming, Annmarie. All the old crowd.’

  I take one, but Mum knocks her hand away and tugs me towards the front door. As I pass Nana she presses the cakes into my hand. ‘Take them with you, for later, love,’ she whispers.

  ‘Temper, temper,’ Lisa calls after us, all sarky. The air crackles.

  ‘Girls,’ Nana says. ‘Please, there’s no need.’

  ‘Oh shut up, shut up, you stupid, stupid woman. What do you know about anything?’ Mum snarls. ‘Come on, Carmen.’ She pulls me out of the house, hurting my wrist.

  When we get to the car she grabs the bag.

  ‘Give,’ she says, ‘Give.’

  She slides into the driver’s seat, throwing the cakes into her handbag. Checking her face in the rear-view mirror, she wipes a smudge of lipstick from her top lip. ‘Honestly, that woman.’

  ‘Mum?’ I ask as she pulls out into the road. ‘Why do you hate Lisa?’

  ‘Not while I’m driving, sweetheart.’

  ‘But Mum, she’s nice.’

  ‘Wolf in sheep’s clothing, Carmen. Wouldn’t want to hang out with her bunch of druggies and losers. Trouble with all that lot is that they didn’t know when to call it a day and grow up.’

  She brakes suddenly to avoid a car that she’s just cut up at the roundabout. I fall forward, the seat belt narrowly saving me from the dashboard. Mum’s bags fall off the back seat, things clattering on the floor around my feet.

  ‘Wanker!’ she shouts, making a V sign at the back of the car.

  Other drivers are beeping their horns. Mum growls and wrenches the gears. ‘Oh piss off,’ she mutters under her breath. She puts her foot violently on the accelerator, jerking the car forwards again. A lipstick rolls under my shoe.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says, as she finally gets the car into gear, ‘we won’t be here much longer. In a couple of years I’ll get my promotion. Next stop London. That’s where all the real people are.’

  22

  Our house is in a new estate in California. Mum thinks this is the best joke ever. ‘Just wait till I tell your nan.’

  The houses are red, bricks the colour of stewed tea. The white shiny plastic window frames are criss-crossed with fake leading to make them look old-fashioned. The door closes behind us with a suck of air, as if we’re being shut inside a Tupperware tub.

  The woman showing us round has thick, meaty calves. Walking up the stairs behind her Mum points to them and hisses, ‘Look at that – ham on the bone.’

  ‘And here is the front bedroom.’ She shows us into the room. It’s square and poky with tiny windows that look out over the liquorice curve of the tarmac and the rubble that will become the rest of the estate.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Mum says. ‘Just what we were looking for.’

  We’ll be moving in next month. Just in time for Christmas.

  I’m making a scrapbook. Cutting out pictures from Mum’s magazines. In it I am writing everything I know about being beautiful so that I won’t forget what I have to do.

  I have two lists: IN and OUT.

  On the OUT list it says:

  Split ends.

  Dirty fingernails.

  Yellow teeth.

  Bad breath.

  Spots.

  Dry skin.

  Bad posture.

  Hairy legs.

  Hairy face.

  Hairy armpits.

  Fat.

  On the IN list it says:

  Shiny hair.

  Polished nails.

  White teeth.

  Fresh breath.

  Clear skin.

  Good posture.

  Shaved legs and armpits.

  Thin.

  Thin is in, I write. IN.

  The telly’s on but she’s not watching it. She’s twitching, fiddling with her hair, her leg moving like it’s on a spring.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I never know if I’m doing the right thing.’

  She looks at me. Waiting for me to speak.

  ‘Don’t you think I did the right thing? I mean, for my career? I couldn’t have stayed with Bri– your father. I couldn’t. I know it was an upheaval, but it’s been worth it.’ She pauses. ‘Hasn’t it?’

  I stare at her. I am going to be thinner and more beautiful than her. I’m going to really, really piss her off. I bite my lip and shrug.

  ‘Well, say something. Why don’t you ever bloody say anything?’

  I pretend to watch TV. It’s a holiday show. The presenter is walking along a tropical beach. Her legs are the colour of smooth peanut butter.

  ‘You know, with the kind of life I’ve had, I didn’t really have any choice. Having you when I did. Most women these days don’t have kids until they’re my age. I gave up a lot for you.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Big deal,’ I say.

  ‘What did you say?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Don’t you get ungrateful on me.’ Her voice is wobbling. Go on, cry, I think. Then I’ll win. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday and I’m so hungry I could faint. ‘You don’t know what it’s like for me. Responsibility.’ She spits. ‘Looking after yourself. How would you cope if I left you to fend for yourself? Hmmm? Where would you be without me?’

  She’s standing over me, blocking out the telly. Her cheeks are like razor blades. Her head looks too big for her body.

  ‘I’m going out. If that’s OK with you, Miss Mardypants.’

  I’m getting more and more light-headed. I can see spots in front of my eyes, pinpricks of light that only get brighter if I close my eyes. I drink a glass of water but it makes me bloated and leaves a metallic taste in my mouth.

  There’s no food in. We haven’t been to the supermarket for weeks. I open the fridge. It’s a little Electrolux with a tiny icebox, and it smells funny when I open it. There’s some bottles of water and an apple but no milk. I pick out the apple and polish it against my trousers, but when I bite into it, it’s sour and has a weird fuzzy texture. It makes me retch. I throw it in the bin, and instead of hitting the bottom with a thud it makes a squelchy noise as it lands.

  I put my hand in gingerly in case I touch something slimy. My fingers grasp like one of those grabbing hands at the fair. I can feel the waxy surface of the apple and the wet raw bit where I’ve taken a bite. Then the bag. It’s been there since the day before yesterday. They’ll be edible.

  I sit on the kitchen floor and carefully rip the bag open. The icing has congealed a little in the middle, I can see where it’s dried out in crusty lumps, but I don’t care. I eat both pieces of cake in three huge mouthfuls.

  Ten minutes later, when I’ve drunk another glass of water and squeezed a spot in the mirror, I throw it up again.

  By midnight she still hasn’t come back. I chew gum, which makes me burp but gets rid of the taste in my mouth. I touch the scar on my hand; it’s healed up but there’s still a faint purpl
e line where the point of the compass dragged across my skin. I run my thumbnail down it, pressing hard to make the line come back raised and livid. My nail makes crescent indents. One even draws a little blood.

  23

  Nail designs decorate the border of the card.

  You are cordially invited to the grand opening of

  Lisa’s Nail File

  Professional American Nail Design, Manicures,

  Extensions & Treatments.

  RSVP

  I run my fingers over the glittery edges. I’ll have to RSVP, go and find her, tell her that I’d love to come.

  I look up where to go in Mum’s A-Z. It’s on the other side of the city, miles away in Handsworth. I rip the pages out and slip them inside my biology book.

  It’s much further than it looked on the map. It’s misty, but not raining. I pull the hood of my jacket over my head and push my hands down in my pockets so the hood stretches. I weave along the pavement, pulling faces, like I’m a Ghostface Killer from Scream.

  Lisa’s shop is on an alley just off the Soho Road. It’s not open but I can see her inside, up a ladder, painting. She’s wearing baggy jeans and scruffy shoes and she’s got her hair tied back in a blue-check headscarf. I can hear her singing along to the radio even out in the street.

  ‘How embarrassing,’ she mouths through the glass, taking off her yellow Marigolds before she unlocks the door to let me in. ‘You caught me doing a Doris Day impression.’

  The shop is bigger than the market stall, two floors joined by a narrow spiral staircase at the back. She’s painting the walls lilac with silver on the staircase. She’s got streaks of paint on her face.

  ‘What you doing down my way?’ she says, smiling. ‘The party’s not until next week.’ She points to her paintbrush. ‘I suppose I could do your nails for you if you like. Might be a bit messy though. You going to give me a hand?’

  She shows me around. Up the spiral staircase is a little room with a kitchenette and an armchair by the window.

  ‘I can come up here and get away from the world,’ she says. ‘It’s probably a fire hazard, but I don’t care.’

  She gives me a brush and tells me to take my coat off in case I get paint on it. She looks at my school uniform. ‘I never learned anything at school,’ she says, giving me a baggy black sweater. ‘Put this on over. I don’t want to get you into trouble.’

  It’s warm in the shop, the radio blasting pop music. Lisa chatters on about how she’s going to branch out into piercing ‘only ears mind’ and mehndi now that she’s got more space. She shows me her henna kits. ‘Just like Madonna.’

  There are boxes everywhere. Nail polish in shoes boxes, all marked by their colour. Six boxes marked RED. Five marked PINK. Four marked PURPLE. And an assortment of GREENS, SILVERS, GOLDS and BLUES. They are all different makes and shades. Hard Candy, Maybelline, Max Factor, Chanel, Ruby & Millie, Urban Decay. Some only have a few dregs left in the bottom. ‘Never throw anything away,’ she says, seeing me holding one bottle up to the light to see what shade of lime green is inside. ‘You never know when you’ll need it for a colour mix.’

  The colours have amazing names. Crushed Peach, Moonlight Shimmer, Baby Pink, Cream Soda Sparkle, Frosted Wine, Cherry Bomb – like sweets but better.

  There’s suitcases of accessories. Nail rings, jewels, ribbons, silks, gold leaf, transfers, stencils, and a whole box full of acetone tips. In one box are hundreds of tiny gold dangles, moons, stars, palm trees, beetles, seahorses. All no bigger than a fingertip.

  ‘How was half-term?’ she asks eventually.

  I carefully put the lid back on a box of sequins. ‘He cancelled,’ I say.

  ‘Your nana told me. Oh, sweetheart.’

  I can feel tears but I, swallow them. ‘I’m all right,’ I say. Then it all comes out, how I want to leave Birmingham, how Mum’s being a cow.

  ‘She climbs down the ladder. ‘Your mum— Oh dear, Carmen. I’m so sorry.’

  She’s brought an old sofa from home for the back of the shop. We perch on the dust covers, steaming mugs of tea in our hands. She tells me that a long time ago, when Billy had a band and the Power House was still open, she and Mum used to go everywhere together. ‘She was a star, your mum. We were like twins. I knew what she was thinking before she even said it.’ She bites her lip. ‘I’m just telling you this so you know that she hasn’t always been so . . . so highly strung. It was her diets that did it you know, they turned her, made her paranoid. Ever since we were teenagers she’s been funny about her weight, but after she had you she went a bit . . . well, she went on a crash diet. Worse than before. She wasn’t eating anything. And she started saying all sorts about me that weren’t true.’ A fat tear escapes and rolls down her cheek. ‘I still love her, you know. If only she’d talk to me.’

  I start to cry too before I can stop myself. ‘Hey hey,’ she says, taking my cup of tea and putting it on the floor. ‘Come here. There’s no point in us both getting upset, is there?’

  Caught up in her strong arms I can smell paint and perfume and fags. I sob until I think I might throw up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, eventually, realizing that I’ve made a big snotty mess down the front of her dungarees.

  ‘Don’t be sorry. Here.’ She gives me a bit of kitchen roll. ‘Shall we stop for lunch? I bet you’re really hungry after all that work. You’re skinny as a whippet.’

  Panic comes like a punch, radiating out from my chest.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ I don’t want to eat. Eating just makes everything worse.

  ‘I’m going to have some. Painting always make me hungry.’

  She brings back bags of food from the curry house round the corner. ‘Look,’ she says, taking the lids off the foil tubs. ‘I got naan bread and chickpeas and paneer and bhajis and some chocolate barfi for afters.’

  The room is full of a spicy smell that makes my mouth water. I bet it’s got loads of calories in it.

  ‘Go on, help yourself.’ She hands me a plate. ‘Think of all those calories you’ve used up getting here.’ She smiles, her mouth wrinkling at the edges. I can tell she’s older than Mum. ‘Go on, I won’t tell.’

  She says that she used to diet all the time like Mum, but she stopped. ‘It’s a vicious circle. Once you start it’s really hard to stop. Better to eat when you’re hungry. Don’t you think?’

  I take a small spoon of everything and tear off a piece of the bread. It’s delicious, all different flavours and textures. My belly grumbles loudly.

  ‘See?’ Lisa says, hearing it. ‘You were hungry after all.’

  ‘Why are you looking so pleased with yourself?’ Mum asks.

  I’ve come back to find she’s getting ready to go out again: ‘Just a little drink with the girls from work.’

  ‘I got an A for my homework,’ I lie.

  ‘Did you, darling?’

  On her way out she kisses me, leaving a greasy smear of lipstick on my forehead.

  Watching TV, I think about the food I ate with Lisa and feel bad for not throwing it up. I’ll probably put on pounds now. I scratch my arm with the ringpull from my Coke can, drawing lines on my skin, like a game of noughts and crosses. I push deeper, harder, until blood bubbles to the surface. I don’t feel a thing.

  When she comes back there’s someone with her. It’s not the same voice as before. Not so deep and gravelly. He makes more noise while he’s doing it. AhAhAh-ing as if he’s too tender to touch.

  He’s there in the morning. Sat in the lounge with a cup of tea.

  ‘Sweetheart, this is Bob.’

  Bob has sideburns and overgrown hair. He looks like the singer from Oasis.

  ‘Bob’s in a band, aren’t you, Bob?’

  He looks at me vacantly.

  ‘Oose this then?’

  ‘Carmen, my little girl.’

  ‘How old you say you was?’ he asks, looking at Mum. ‘Sh’aint no toddler, is she?’ Then looking at me. ‘No offence, darlin’, but your mother told us sh
e was twenty-five.’

  There’s a lot to do to get a shop ready for opening. Even a small one like Lisa’s.

  ‘It’s got to look nice. People come here to treat themselves. Tender loving customer care,’ Lisa says. ‘That’s what we’ve lost. I mean I’m not having a go at your mum but those chain shops don’t really give a shit. One size fits all, know what I mean?’

  The party’s tonight and Billy’s come round to help. He drops off a few chairs salvaged from the restaurant and puts racks all along one wall for Lisa to put her polish on.

  ‘Your mother coming to the party, then?’ Billy asks me.

  I look at Lisa, unsure what to say.

  ‘She’s got an invitation,’ Lisa says.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ Lisa says as she plugs in the till. ‘How we both ended up in retail in the end.’

  ‘Y’what?’ Billy asks.

  ‘Me and Maria. After all the fuss.’

  They make funny faces at each other. ‘The wind will change and you’ll get stuck like that,’ Billy says in a silly voice.

  Lisa sets up her table. A lamp, an airbrush, a pot of tiny paintbrushes, a hot lamp for quick drying, a basket of cotton wool. She puts all her lotions, creams, basecoats, strengtheners and removers in the drawers. She has a toolkit too, a tiny one with awls for piercing nails, clippers, scrapers, orangewood cuticle removers and a tiny nail file. ‘Never use a metal file,’ she says. ‘You only end up splitting the nail. Always use an emery board because you can get them with different grains. Feel that’ – she wipes one across the back of my hand, it scratches – ‘that one’s for filing nails down. ‘Whereas this one’ – this time it only tickles – ‘is for shaping them.’

  She puts up her pictures on the wall behind. One is of Annmarie and Patti dressed up for a party, their hair in spiralling coils, their faces painted silver.

  ‘That was in Berlin,’ she says, seeing me looking. ‘Annmarie used to live over there.’

  Above it she pins the picture of Debra. ‘That’s my girl,’ she says to herself, touching it lightly with the tips of her nails.

  ‘I found a picture of your mum,’ she says. ‘Look, wasn’t she gorgeous?’