by Mary Carter
“Loo, loo, loo, loo,” Ava hooted.
“Out the doors, to the left, across the restaurant, down the stairs, around the supply room, down the little hall, and to the right,” a man wielding a large butcher knife said.
Ava opened her mouth to scream and instead squeaked like a little mouse. Too far, too far, too bloody far. “Bollocks,” she said. A short boy elbow deep in dirty dishes stopped what he was doing and approached.
“I show you?” he said.
“Loo.” Ava nodded. “Loo, loo.”
He started ahead of her when Ava grabbed his soapy hand. He looked startled for one moment, and then met her eyes, gave her a nod, and led her out of the kitchen. Ava shut her eyes as much as she could as the boy led her past the mess on the floor. The surly waiter was hunched over it, staring, as if he could make the mess clean itself up if he glared hard enough. They passed the men’s restroom on the main floor and Ava cursed under her breath. By the time they got to the stairs on the other side of the room, Ava knew she was seconds from passing out. “Wait.” She grabbed the rail and stood at the top of the stairs. “Got it. Thank you.”
“Do you need to go to hospital?” the boy said.
“No, thank you,” Ava said. Possibly. Probably.
“It’s down the stairs, then follow the hall as it curves around to the other side. You should run into the loo.” She nodded, and he bolted.
Ava sank to the step. She was going to claw her eyes out if she had to wear this turtleneck for much longer. Diana was bat-shit crazy to wear these things. Ava began to slide down the steps on her bottom. At least if she fell, she probably wouldn’t hurt herself.
The cement floor and cellar walls were painted red. Seriously. Why couldn’t the men’s room be down here? Wankers. She should have asked the dishwasher to bring her a pint. Or would that have been weird? She began to walk the hall. “Tall and tan and young and lovely.” She hugged the wall. Tears came to her eyes. She’d avoided that song whenever she could. There was no one down here. Thank God. She grabbed the turtleneck and pulled it over her head. It stuck. Ava left it there but kept inching forward. “Short, and pale, and frightened, and lonely, the girl from America goes walking, and when she walks she panics, and says, ‘Looooooooooo.’”
Her voice was muffled by the turtleneck. She struggled but managed to pull it off the rest of the way. Her hair levitated like a science experiment. Static. She continued to sing and then twirled the turtleneck above her head like a lasso. She took the turn and came face-to-face with a long line of women trailing out from the door marked: Ladies. A mass of denim, colorful pumps, and hair, blocking mecca. They turned, some together, some wondering what the others were looking at, and, just a hair slower, stared. Ava could only imagine what she looked like. Bra exposed, crazy eyes, science-experiment hair, twirling a turtleneck, and singing, “Loooooo.” That’s right. She’s here. The Septic has arrived.
CHAPTER 22
Ava sat in the stall, on the floor. The lid to the commode was closed, and the turtleneck rested on top as a pillow. Ava had wiped down the floor first with soap and paper towels, once all the wenches had left. She waited them out. Thank God she didn’t have a weapon or she would have brandished it. Not a single one asked her if she was all right even though she had been sitting on the floor in the hallway. At least she was here now. There were two stalls; she’d taken over one, so the rest of London was just going to have to share the other. She didn’t have a plan from here. There were no more options. This was it, her final resting place. She’d spend the rest of her life hugging a commode in the cellar of an English pub. She probably wasn’t the first. Women filtered in and out, and some noticed her, and knocked on the stall door. “Are you all right in there? Too many pints?” She’s blotto? At this time of the day? Was she sacked? Jilted? Snorting coke? Did she have any to share?
Approximately thirty minutes into her stay, a male voice boomed through the space. “Sorry, sorry, coming in, ladies, all right? All right, then, all decent, all right? I’m coming in.” She heard footsteps; then large brown shoes appeared underneath the stall door. He knocked. “Are you all right in there, luv? Should we call an ambulance?”
“I’m fine,” Ava said. “Thank you.”
“You’re sitting on the floor, “ the manager said.
“I’m aware.”
“That’s not all right then, is it?”
“That’s relative.”
“Are you snookered?”
“If that means drunk, then, no. I wish.” This was so embarrassing, this was the worst day of her life. Maybe crawling under desks at the police station and discovering Cliff was married in front of the entire precinct was a tad bit worse. But strangely, she cared more about what they thought of her here. London felt like home.
“Right, then. Who can I call, luv?”
“Ghostbusters.” She couldn’t resist.
“I’m calling an ambulance.” He moved to the door.
“Wait.” He came to a halt. “I’m having a panic attack. I just need to sit here for a bit. If I can borrow your mobile I can try to find Jasper’s number. He works at a law firm in Canary Wharf. Or Queenie. He’s a drag queen somewhere in the West End; I don’t know how many clubs there are—”
“Queenie? From down the street? Used to come in with Beverly?”
“Yes, yes. Oh thank God. Yes.” This was probably his local. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“That bitchy queen hasn’t shown his face in here since his bar tab shot up to over a thousand pounds.”
“Oh.” Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “I’ll pay his bar tab if you call him to come pick me up.” With what? The rest of her credit card wouldn’t cover it all. But it would have to do for a start. Otherwise he was going to have to take a sweaty turtleneck as payment.
“You’ll pay his full tab?”
“Nearly half. Or Bob’s my uncle.”
“Who?”
Apparently she hadn’t used it correctly. “As soon as I get back to my flat and get my credit card, I’ll call you with the number.”
“Right.”
“Otherwise, leave me here all day, or call an ambulance. I give up.”
“Why were you having a panic attack?”
“Because I was outside.” Screw them. Let them figure it out for themselves. Ava was sick of having to be the ambassador of agoraphobia.
“You were having a panic attack because you were outside?”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t like to be outside?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh.” Bugger off. “Why not?”
“I’m agoraphobic. It’s a severe phobia. It’s not in my head; I’m not a nutter. When I’m outside my body reacts as if I were in severe danger. I go into fight-or-flight mode. I panic. Okay? Either I pass out or I find cover. Today, I found cover. I’m sorry to say that it’s at your establishment. I’m an arsehole, all right? I’ll never be a lion enjoying a frosty mug of ale.”
“Darling, this is a British pub. All of our patrons are total arseholes.”
Ava laughed. “Thank you. Thank you for being kind.”
“How do you know Queenie?”
“He’s my flatmate.”
“The one he inherited?” Oh, great. How many people had Queenie told?
“Yep.”
“Can you believe that? Guy inherits a flat in the West End, worth a load of money, and he still comes in here saying he doesn’t have the cash yet. Whining about the money he’s spending per month on the flat.”
Oh. Queenie was the one paying all the fees, whatever they were. Ava didn’t know it was that hard on him. Then again, the flat was going to be his, so she was not going to feel sorry for him.
“I’ll pay nearly half his tab, I swear,” Ava said. “I’ll call my credit card in as soon as I get home.”
“I’ll see if I have a number for him. I know a few of the clubs where he works; I’ll put in some calls.”
“Thank you.�
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“Would you like some water?”
“No,” Ava said. “But I’d really love a pint.”
She was halfway through her pint of Boddingtons when the door opened and she smelled lilac perfume. Thick heels clacked toward her.
“Ava?”
She was so happy to hear his voice. “Queenie.”
The other stall door opened. He sat on the toilet. His heels were black and at least three inches. He was wearing red fishnet stockings. She was dying to see the rest of his outfit. “Sorry to bother you during work,” she said.
“It sucked, as you Americans would say. My Downtown Diva act was incorrigible. I was booed offstage. Booed. For the first time in my life.”
“That’s awful. I’m sorry.”
“Jasper is the one who should be sorry.”
“What? Why?”
“That heathen lost my lucky charm. With the most important audition of my life coming up. I stalled them once believing a miracle was going to happen. But I can’t stall them again and I’m ruined. I’m completely ruined. I wish I was dead.” He gasped, then began to sob.
Oh, God. Ava knocked her head on the lid of the commode several times. “Don’t cry. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it. I swear to you.” Oh, God. She broke him. She broke a British drag queen. Did Vic have it? She had to get it back.
Queenie sniffed loudly, then blew his nose. “Enough about my disaster of a life. How can I get you home, luv? I can’t carry you in these heels.”
“Could you bring my Xanax, a shirt, and a blindfold from my top dresser drawer?”
“Sound like my Friday nights,” Queenie said. Ava laughed. He was being so kind. She didn’t deserve it. Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t want to cry in front of Queenie, but there was no stopping it now.
“Shhh,” he said. “It’s all right, luv. You did it.” A hand snuck under the stall. She took it. His felt as clammy as hers. What a pair.
“Did what?”
“Why, you went to an English pub. One item off the list, now, isn’t it?”
Ava was so stunned she stopped crying. “Does it count?”
“I’m told you have a pint of beer,” Queenie said.
“Boddingtons. It’s good.”
“It certainly counts. In fact, ending up locked in the loo is going above and beyond. Now you’re just showing off.”
“Not exactly what Beverly had in mind,” Ava said. “She would be so disappointed in me.”
“Now you listen to me, Ava Wilder. Beverly would be over the moon that you’re here. Over the moon. She loved Bertie more than anything in the world, and she loved you. It was her dying wish to bring you here, so I don’t ever want to hear you say something like that again.”
Ava came out of the stall. She went to the sink and splashed water on her face. She looked in the mirror. For a few seconds she didn’t even recognize herself. Who was she? She turned around and looked at the closed stall. Queenie’s feet were turned in. “I want to know her. I want to know everything about her and I know nothing.”
Queenie sighed. He crossed his legs. “I don’t know how to fill you in on seventy-four years of her life.”
“Just tell me something. Anything.”
Queenie planted both feet on the floor again. “She was smart. You wouldn’t know it unless you hung around her long after the curtain went down and the applause ended. Her public face was more flirty than intellectual. Oh, she craved the spotlight. But once home, out of her costume and makeup, she was usually curled up with a book. Mysteries, biographies, history. She liked facts, and sometimes flung them at you like weapons. Always on me to read more. But unlike her, I’m pretty shallow. What else? She spent a great deal of time thinking about Bertie, trying to rewrite the past. She spent a great deal of time trying to figure out how to connect with you. She liked crossword puzzles too. And she was damn good at them. She had a shopping addiction. Clothes, as you can see from her closet. Hardly wore anything more than once. She liked a good party. Any kind of celebration, really. Any occasion where she could dress up, pop open the champagne, and pretend to be someone else for a while.”
“Someone else?”
“I don’t think Beverly ever quite felt comfortable in her own skin.”
“But she was an actress. So confident.”
“Onstage, yes. Offstage? Well. She was rarely offstage. It can be lonely, always wearing a mask.”
“But she didn’t wear it around you?”
“Oh, she did. Most of the time. Once in a while, she’d relax.”
“I’m glad you were her friend.”
“Don’t you worry about that. Beverly always had an entourage. Although I don’t think she had a single female friend. Beverly was more comfortable around men. I don’t know if it was out of jealousy, or the fact that she could be crude, like a man, but again, also wanted that spotlight. She drank as much whiskey as she did tea, and when she was younger she slept with a lot of men but only fell in love with a few.”
“Why didn’t she ever marry? Have kids?”
“Oh, she would tell you it was because she never found the one.”
“And what would you tell me?”
“Beverly hated the very idea of commitment. It was stifling to her. She loved the theater. She loved romance. She loved a good party. Real life was always a glaring disappointment. So she fell in love with unattainable men. Married, the bad boys, the ones who rejected her. Oh, I could write a book on Beverly. She was complicated. But when it came to those she loved— like Bertie, like you—that was very, very simple. You say you don’t know her, but I see so much of her in you. She’s there, luv. Inside you. She’s there.”
The words speared Ava. Was it true? Was Beverly a part of her? “I wish I could live my life all over again. I’d be different. I would. I’d have come to visit. Told her I loved her. I’d have been braver. I swear. I’d have been so much braver.”
Queenie sighed. “Oh, luv. We all have our ways. Beverly was afraid to fly, did you know that?”
“She jumped out of a plane.”
“That’s my Beverly. Death took the fear right out of her.”
So that was the trick. Ava would get over this right before she died. Typical. Ava went back into her stall and sat on the commode. She was suddenly so tired. “Is that why she didn’t want my dad to marry my mom?”
“Oh, I’m sure it was a huge part of it. She didn’t want your father to go to America in the first place. Oh, she threw such a fit, begging him not to go.”
“She flew there for the funeral.”
“She was just like you. She needed pills, and cold presses, and hot presses, and every other bloody thing just to get on the plane. Oh, she was terrified. Absolutely terrified. The trip to Bertie’s funeral was the last plane ride she ever took. That is, until she went skydiving.”
“Did my mother know Beverly was afraid to fly?”
“Well, Bertie certainly knew, so I would have to assume so.”
“She still thought Beverly hated her. She thought it was all her fault.”
“Beverly was the coolest person in the world if she liked you. She had such an orbit, and people loved being sucked into it. But I will admit she had a cold side to her too. She was so heartbroken about Bertie. Their parents died when they were young, so Bertie was really not just a brother; Beverly in some ways thought of herself as his mother. Either way, she couldn’t bear to see him go, and each year that passed without him visiting her made her more and more bitter. I don’t think your poor mother really ever stood a chance.”
“Did Beverly ever tell you any stories about her and my dad growing up?”
“Oh, she loved telling stories.”
“I can’t get enough. I want to hear more. I want to know all her stories.”
Queenie slapped his thighs. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s get you home, get you all set up on your stool, maybe a little espresso, or Scotch if you’re really good, and we can talk about Beverly until we can’t keep our eyes open
. Do we have a deal?”
“Deal.”
“Okay, luv. You wait here just a little longer. I’ll get your accessories and be right back.” He stood.
“Queenie?”
“Yes?”
It’s me. I lost your lucky charm. I’m the one. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, luv. It’s certainly not the first time I had to drag a gal out of the loo.”
A while later, Ava was back in her flat on her emerald stool, wrapped in one of Queenie’s dressing gowns and gazing out the windows, while Queenie ferried back and forth, handing her an espresso, then biscuits, and finally a Scotch as he settled in next to her.
“What’s with the refrigerator?” he said. “Are you having a party?”
A party? Oh, the food. She’d forgotten all about it. “Maybe,” she said, testing out the thought like a swimmer dipping a toe in the water.
Queenie’s spine straightened up. “Who told you? Jasper?” He sounded thrilled.
“Could be,” Ava said. What on earth was he talking about?
“Nobody this ancient needs to celebrate his birthday,” Queenie said.
Ah, his birthday. “I won’t force you if you don’t want—”
Queenie rose, put his hand on his heart. “But if you were to insist.”
“Which clearly I am,” Ava said deadpan.
“It’s a little early, but I see the logic. Weekend parties trump Monday parties, don’t they?”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Friday or Saturday? Wait. Surprise me.”
“Okay.”
“Friday. No. Saturday. Saturday definitely.”
“Of course.”
“And you know some of those queens can’t show up until late, late, late. Then again, if you happen to say something like this party is hush-hush, exclusive, then they’ll be calling their understudies faster than Prince Harry drops his pants.”
“That’s devastatingly clear.”
“Oooooh. A surprise party. I love it.” Queenie ran over to the minibar and held up his little address book. “I tend to just leave it lying here,” he said, tapping it. “Only contact those with a star next to their names.”