by Mary Carter
“Franco!” She threw open her arms. He raised his beautifully stenciled eyebrow and came in for the hug. He patted her back. She could feel the tips of his fake fingernails and was dying to ask him to scratch her back.
“Somebody is coming out of her shell,” Franco said, extricating himself from the hug. Georgie stood next to him, grinning. Ava reached out to touch his lime green bow tie.
“I love that you wear these,” she said.
“Thank you,” Georgie said.
“I mean, they’re ridiculous, you know? And you just don’t care. That’s so cool.”
“Okay, luv,” Franco said. “Stop while you’re ahead.” Ava just noticed Franco was no longer a blonde. He had a long black wig to his ass, massive eyelashes, and he was wearing sequins.
“Cher!” she cried out.
“Black Cher,” Franco said. “You know she always wanted to go black.”
“Sonny,” she said pointing at Georgie. “With a bow tie.”
“I like her better sober,” Georgie said.
“Ironic, because she likes you better when she’s blotto.” He turned to Ava and smiled. “Showtime,” he said.
“I took drugs,” Ava whispered. “I never take drugs. Except as prescribed by my doctor.”
“What did you take, luv?” Franco and Georgie stared at her in stereo concern.
“A,” Ava said.
“A?” Franco and Georgie said at the same time.
“Old Macdonald had a farm,” Ava said. “E!”
“Ah,” they said. Franco put his hand on her shoulder. “Luv, you just enjoy yourself. I get the feeling it doesn’t happen very often.”
“It doesn’t,” Ava said. “London is magical.”
“Uh-huh,” Franco said. “Come on, now.” Franco looped his arm through hers and hauled her through the crowd. Ava barely had time to panic. The colored dots were back. And this time, she liked them. Yes, it was hard to see, and it was hard to walk because they made her dizzy, but they were so pretty. Ava reached up and tried to grab a colored dot. They were slippery little things, and she ended up just grasping air. Ava stumbled. Franco stopped abruptly and she ran into him.
“I’ll wait here,” she said. “I can’t see.”
“You can’t see?”
“I can’t see a thing but colored dots. But this time, they’re so pretty.”
“Oh, luv,” Franco said. He picked her up, threw her over his shoulder like the clichéd sack of potatoes. The next thing she knew, Franco was depositing her onstage. The lights went black, the crowd hushed, and then a spotlight illuminated the threesome. Disco lights began to pulse.
“Gentlemen, and boys, and sailors!” Franco yelled. Ava wasn’t looking, but she highly doubted there were any sailors in the crowd. “I’m Cher, this is my Sonny, and this cute breeder is the late, great Beverly Wilder’s niece.”
A few whistles and whoops erupted from the crowd. Ava’s eyes were on the crowd. Sweaty, tightly packed people with flying boas and leather pants in so many different colors. They were shirtless and sweaty. Loud. Exuberant. Happy. “Whoooo!” Ava screamed. “Whooooo!”
They screamed back. Should she jump out on them now? Would they catch her?
The music started. Franco opened with “It’s in His Kiss.” Georgie sang the “shoop, shoop” part. Ava tried to do the “shoop, shoop” part, too, but the music was too loud. Nobody could hear her. But she didn’t care. She danced. She danced with her arms up, and her body moving without a single thought to all the other people in the room. She imagined her view from her window. She wasn’t just dancing in a club; she was dancing in front of the city of London. Whoo-hoooooooooooooo!
She imagined kissing Jasper here onstage in front of the world. The audience grew in volume along with the music. They were loving it. Ava was too. She closed her eyes and moved to the music. She was dancing. She was dancing. She hadn’t danced since—
“This one goes out to Ava’s aunt Beverly. Our dear friend. It was her favorite song,” Franco said.
“Tall and tan and lean and lovely,” Georgie sang as Franco strutted the stage. “The girl from Ipanema goes walking.”
Ava could feel the room spinning; she could see her father; she could see their shag carpet. Sunlight streaming into his Scotch. They were dancing to the door. Who cared what the neighbors thought? They were on the porch. The smell of roses mingled with that of marinara sauce. The spaghetti with the stretchy white cheese. One two, one two, one two, down the steps. No. She slapped her hands over her ears. No. She fell to her knees. No, no, no, no, no.
Dance with me!.
What will the neighbors think?
Dance with me!
What did you do, Ava? WHAT DID YOU DO?
Ava was aware that she was rocking, and crying, and talking. She couldn’t stop. She was outside her body watching. She didn’t know if anyone else could see or hear her. They didn’t exist. She wasn’t human anymore. She wasn’t part of this planet. Why hadn’t the Mother Ship called her home already? Hadn’t she suffered enough? Someone touched her, tried to pull her up. She jerked away. She had to find an exit. She stumbled offstage. The colored dots competed with the strobe lights for attention. So this was where she died. In a gay club in London. Not bad, actually. Much better than she ever expected. She was in a back hallway. It led to a unisex bathroom. There was a line. Trapped. She needed to find a hiding spot and call Jasper. He was her safe person. And she wasn’t safe. But she still didn’t know his number. And she didn’t have a mobile. Stupid, Ava. Stupid, stupid, Ava. It doesn’t matter how many drinks, how many drugs, how many friends, or how many songs. You can’t do it. You’ll never be able to do it. You’re handicapped. A loser. You deserve to lose the flat; you deserve to lose Jasper. What did you do, Ava? What did you do?
At the end of the hall was a door. She threw it open and stepped into a dingy stairwell. It smelled like stale beer and rain. The heavy door slammed behind her. She tried to open it again. Locked. She was alone in the stairwell. At the bottom of about ten steps was another door. It probably led out into an alley. She collapsed onto the top step.
Tall and tan and young and lovely . . .
The song wouldn’t go away. She couldn’t get it out of her head. She couldn’t just sit and let it invade her. Ava walked down to the second door. To her surprise it opened with a squeak and soon she was indeed standing in a back alley. She wouldn’t have to take the Jack the Ripper tour after all. She could just live it. Facing things by force. This is it, Ava thought. I’m going to walk. I’m going to walk around outside. He’s with me. My father is on one side. Aunt Beverly is on the other. I didn’t do anything. I was a child. My tiny hands couldn’t have saved him, couldn’t have pumped on his heart hard enough even if I had taken CPR. Ava imagined him standing directly in front of her. He seemed so real. He had tears in his eyes.
Please, Ava, he said. You’re my world.
Dad.
Live, Ava. Dance. Love. Please, Ava. Please.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
You can. It was Aunt Beverly. Ava turned to Aunt Beverly. She wasn’t old; she was young and beautiful, just like in her pictures. It’s your flat now. It’s yours. Don’t waste it. Live. Live for us. We’re right here. We’ll always be right here.
Ava walked faster. There were still colored dots, but she could see between them, enough to keep walking. It’s my world now; it’s mine.
Ava had no idea how long she walked. She just knew that there was a moment when she felt compelled to stop and look up. And when she did, she saw Cupid. She was standing at a huge intersection with an open, circular space that housed a fountain. Piccadilly Circus. She stopped to take it all in. Her breath caught. She was actually standing in a place she had read about so many times. She was actually standing in one of London’s busiest squares. “I’ve run away with the circus.” She looked up at the statue of Eros atop the fountain. Cupid. She adored his wings, his spears. Aunt Bev and her father had brought her here. To
Cupid. “I love you too,” she said.
So many lights. They were beautiful. The world was like an orchestra. It made music. The cars, the people, the lights. There was a rhythm to it, a pulse she could feel through her skin. She just stopped and stared. She tilted her head back. Even the tears dripping down her cheeks felt so good. She waited for the crippling fear. She waited for her heartbeat to speed up. Was this the E? Would she always have to take it to feel okay outside? She couldn’t trade in agoraphobia for a drug addiction.
It’s a slippery slope.
Just walk, just walk. She never knew there were so many smells. Cigarette smoke, and rain, and French fries. She was suddenly starving. She still had money.
She could walk in a restaurant and eat. They wouldn’t know it wasn’t normal. They would seat her at a table and give her a menu. She could order French fries. Chips, they called them here. Or one could get them with curry, or gravy, or mayonnaise. She could order five plates of French fries and sure, they might look at her funny, but she wouldn’t care. She’d offer them one. They wouldn’t take it of course, because that wasn’t polite or even sanitary to eat a stranger’s chips, but she could do it.
Ava took a left, humming to herself all the while. She reached the corner. Too fast. Such a long street, so many cars, so much noise and light. People everywhere, scurrying like cockroaches. Ava ran. She ran until her lungs were bursting and her feet burning. She ran until she saw an English pub on the corner. It had a large crest, and welcoming sign. She pushed open the doors and before anyone could protest she sat at a large booth by the window. The waitress tossed a menu on her table with barely a glance. Just like she belonged!
She ordered curried chips and a pint of ale. When they arrived, she just stared at them. She wanted to cry. She called the waitress over and asked her to take her photo. She did. With her mobile. Ava didn’t have a mobile for her to send it to. Did it count? If somebody took a picture of you with his or her mobile, but there was no second mobile to send it to, did it count? Had they ever figured out the tree falling in the forest conundrum? God, this tabletop felt so good. Nice, thick wood. Oh, she was out. In London. On a Friday night. And she even got a seat. If Diana could see her now. If her mother could see her now. If Jasper. The entire pub smelled like curry and beer and Ava loved it. She loved it.
She wouldn’t tell Jasper she was out. Not until she could repeat it without alcohol and drugs. She’d been foolish to take the E. Especially mixing it with alcohol. Now that was a real danger and she hadn’t thought twice about it. How ironic. Danger was natural. Perceptions were the danger. From now on, Ava would pay attention to true danger, and to hell with the rest.
She took a bite of the curried chips. They were delicious. A little plate of friends. She took a sip of the ale. Smooth, and cold. She didn’t need it on top of everything, but she’d just had to taste it. She pushed it away. She called the waitress over, left a generous amount of money on the tabletop. “Can you call me a taxi?” she said.
“You can just stand outside and flag one down,” the waitress said.
“I can’t,” Ava said. “You’re going to have to help.” She’d had enough for one night. And she’d had enough for one life. From now on, people were going to have to help whether they liked it or not.
CHAPTER 31
Ava gripped a thick black marker and carefully crossed each item off the list, savoring the moment.
Three things. Three things off the list. Monumental. She also had a mobile now, a gift from Jasper when he replaced his own. He’d programmed his phone number on speed dial. Ava felt like a real Londoner now with a mobile and a phone number and everything. She stared at the remaining items on the list and felt a shudder run through her. She didn’t want to do any of them. Why wasn’t the Tate Modern on the list? Or the Globe Theatre? As an actress and cultured woman, Beverly should have composed a better list. Ava didn’t want to go to the Tower of London. Now that she tasted the outside, she wanted culture, and music, and flowers. She wanted life and the affirmation of life, and she wanted hope. On YouTube Ava listened to street musicians who were playing along the Thames. Lively, upbeat tunes. They didn’t just sit on a bench; they played music on it. They owned that bench. One guy set up a beach chair near the water and sang his heart out in his yellow swimming shorts. He wasn’t even very good. But he was thoroughly enjoying himself and anyone whose office was a speaker, a microphone, and a reclining beach chair probably had a pretty good life. The freedom to be who you were. London offered that. Ava wondered what it would take to get musicians to come and play on her street, just underneath her window. She could tell them about her social experiment. I can’t leave the flat, so just wondering if you will stand underneath my window and serenade me?
From her windows, Ava watched as passersby helped a man on crutches. She watched an elderly lady pulling an oxygen tank behind her, saw how the crowd parted and offered her comforting glances. It wasn’t fair, having an invisible disability. Maybe Ava could get her hands on crutches or an oxygen tank. Or she could procure a blind man’s cane, or dog, for the afternoon. She wasn’t at all trying to be disrespectful of anyone else’s disability, but she was tired of having to prove hers. As long as she looked okay to others, then her challenges were her own bloody problem. That was what was wrong with the world today; no matter how much one shared the message, books were still judged by their covers. No, Ava didn’t want to go to the Tower of London, or ride the stupid Underground, or the London Eye.
Why wasn’t Borough Market on the list? That would be quite challenging for an agoraphobic, a literal outdoor marketplace. But at least Ava could buy herself a trinket if she survived it. Hell, if Beverly wanted Ava to be more like her, why not make Ava go skydiving too? Become the next Prime Minister of England? Seduce Prince Harry? Oh, how small you were thinking, Aunt Bev.
Ava needed to follow up her accomplishment with another one. She had to tackle something else on the list. Without taking Ecstasy. She could simply call a car service and have them drive her around, but that wasn’t the experience Ava wanted. A change had taken place. There was now a small part of her who liked the fear. Now that she’d proven it wasn’t going to kill her (as long as she got on the ground before she could faint), she realized the fear itself was a little bit like a drug. A jolt of adrenaline. In high enough volume, the fear could make her feel no pain. Was Jasper right? Would Queenie let her have the flat even if she didn’t complete the list? It would help if she would get his lucky charm back.
She’d decided she would ask Deven about it first, but there’d been no sign of him. No smoking, no sweeping, no one going in or out. Ava was dying to know what was going on. Maybe Vic had dumped him and he was heartbroken. Maybe he had taken to staying inside. Would Ava like that? To have a friend who was also an agoraphobic? They’d never be able to get together.
Jasper had tried to call her, and left a sweet message alluding to their night together, but Ava hadn’t called him back. She knew she’d end up spilling the beans about her night out—heck, she’d be surprised if Franco and Georgie hadn’t already beat her to it, but just in case, she wanted to keep it a surprise. She wanted to do this for Jasper. She wanted to change. She wanted to prove she was the kind of woman who could have a good life. But first and foremost, she had to prove it to herself. Ava went to Aunt Beverly’s wall of theater photos and studied them for inspiration. A thick binder was lying on the floor next to the sofa, by the far end of the wall. Ava picked it up. Bits of fabric and color swatches were sticking out of it. A note was on top.
QUEENIE,
THIRTY DAYS UNTIL THE SEPTIC IS GONE
AND THE FLAT IS YOURS!
CAN’T WAIT TO HELP YOU REDECORATE!
LOVE, HILLARY
Redocorate. That rat! Queenie was going to redecorate the flat. The red swatch. That’s what that was. The reason he acted so secretive about it. Hillary was never going to let her uncle give up the flat. Especially if it meant Ava would be gone. She was the bi
gger enemy. Ava had to show her she wasn’t going to win. Actors always looked at a script and asked, “What’s my motivation?” Ava stared at the note from Hillary, and she had it. She had her motivation to get out of the flat. She had already been an immovable object; now she needed to become an unstoppable force.
Hillary stared at the twenty-five schoolchildren in front of her, lined up and glaring at her like a miniature firing squad. Eight years of age, all girls, expecting her to wow them with how and why she became a barrister when all they really wanted to be was Kate Middleton or Lady Gaga. How was Hillary to know whom little girls looked up to these days? Why had she agreed to do this? They were crowded into her meeting room, and smearing her conference table with saliva, gum, and heaven knows what else. She was supposed to talk for twenty minutes, but it was five minutes in and they were already getting fidgety. Since when did schools start bringing children to respectable workplaces? These little heathens didn’t look as if they were open to learning anything. Time to wrap it up.
“Are there any questions?” she said. The teacher, who had been immersed in her mobile, looked up, startled. She glanced at her watch. Yes, pay attention, you little wench. You’re the one who wanted to become a schoolteacher, not me. Hillary maintained a neutral expression.
“Do you meet a lot of bad men?” one girl piped up.
“No,” Hillary said. The girl looked disappointed. “I meet a lot of people in bad situations. And I help them.” The teacher smiled. The kids did not.
“What kind of bad situations?” the little girl insisted.
Shite. She wasn’t going to get into that, was she? Surely they didn’t want to hear about civil lawsuits, and insider trading, and corporate espionage. “Someone has to make sure the companies follow the law,” she said. “And if someone is accused of breaking the law at his or her place of work, someone has to defend them.” Several kids yawned. “I meet a lot of important people. Judges, barristers, police officers. And the money isn’t bad either.” Hillary laughed, and winked at them. They just stared back.