Eleven Lines to Somewhere

by Alyson Rudd

  Ryan had made his way to the church sharing a taxi with a couple who were so clearly off to a wedding that Ryan could not resist asking them if they were attending the same one. Sylvie had greeted him looking, he thought, like a 1950s film star and she had whispered, with clarity, in his ear.

  ‘No one here knows about the Tube and, by the way, I am flat broke so if you’d rather pretend to be my friend and not my boyfriend, I’ll understand.’

  She could not give him the chance to reply. Her mother, ignoring Ryan, grabbed her daughter’s hand and pulled her back into the church. Now he was sat, waiting for the speeches, and wondering how he was supposed to pull Sylvie out from the Underground and back to work if not even the family of the dead girl would help him.

  He knew he ought to be grateful that Sylvie’s mother displayed a marked lack of curiosity as to the nature of his relationship with her daughter; if there had been nudges and winks that it would be his and Sylvie’s turn next to face a congregation while making vows he would have been embarrassed. Instead he was indignant on Sylvie’s behalf that she was treated like a secretary her father had borrowed from his office for the day to ensure the tanned and sporty Franklyn’s big day went off without a hitch.

  He hardly spoke to her as she was constantly being quizzed about all matter of detail that sounded inconsequential to Ryan but of intense importance to the bride and her new mother-in-law. The pre- and post-wedding-breakfast mingling was less awkward for him than it might have been, thanks to the couple who had shared his ride, although the more champagne the woman, Anna, drank, the more overtly she flirted with him. By the time the band started up she was whispering in Ryan’s ear.

  ‘Danny’s chin, it’s weak, had you noticed that? He tries to hide it with that bloody goatee thing. Your chin is so perfect.’

  Danny stoically and smilingly rolled his eyes like a man in love. Like a man who might even have put up with Anna sticking her tongue down Ryan’s throat. Ryan wondered what their morning after would be like. Would Anna apologize or despise her lover all the more for not becoming angry, for not punching Ryan to the floor to show that a man with a weak chin can be just as manly as the next? Ryan wondered if Sylvie would ever behave this way and whether, if she were to be a flirty, nasty drunk, he would decide to accept it as meekly as Danny.

  As Franklyn and Brooke danced another slow dance with steps that were suspiciously rehearsed, Ryan felt he was being watched. He scanned the ballroom and saw Ellen sat at the furthest table raising her glass in his direction. She raised it slowly, sardonically, as if to convey: Really, Ryan? Are you having fun? Really?

  His heart stopped beating and the band stopped playing, leaving a dull buzzing in his ears, but he did not look away. They gazed across at each other, unblinking, until his view was blocked by two colliding waiters and, in the seconds it took for them to uncoil, Ellen was gone and in her place was yet another sun-kissed Floridian who looked remarkably similar to Brooke, her white teeth gleaming at every possible opportunity.

  Ryan knew she was not really there, the girl in a cable-knit sweater amid all the strappy and strapless dresses and perfect smiles, but still, he also knew that he had not summoned Ellen into his imagination. That was entirely her doing.

  Chapter 20

  Jonny, feeling close to suffocated by paperwork, grumpy because he had not been able to go for a run for five days, annoyed by the amount of sick leave two of his staff had taken in the past month, was told there was a young woman to see him. He hauled himself from his desk and grimaced at how stodgy he felt. How lardy.

  ‘I’d like to meet the lady, the one who my sister gave Nisha to. I’d like her to meet Nisha. I heard what you told my mother. It’s not fair. None of what happened’s fair but maybe I can help or sommat.’

  Jonny asked Riya how old she was, knowing she would be under eighteen and that he would be unable to help her intervene.

  ‘My sister was still sixteen when she got pregnant and dumped,’ Riya said, ‘and it killed her. How can me being seventeen worry you? Don’t be stupid.’

  Jonny did not quite snap. He was a stickler for rules and regulations but this young woman’s indignant intelligence and her desire to be helpful where her family had been insular moved him in a way he was rarely moved or allowed himself to be moved.

  ‘I shouldn’t do this, but I can see you are trying to do the right thing. I have an email address for who I think is the woman’s partner. You can contact him and then go from there. Is that OK?’

  Riya smiled. It was a sad, graceful smile with a faint hint of cheekiness and Jonny winced as he thought of her sister being smashed apart by a train at the same age. Jaya had probably silently suffered post-natal depression, he thought, and had had her heart broken by a bloke who did not know or care that he had a daughter.

  ‘Do you have access to a phone, a laptop?’ he asked her, not knowing what he would suggest if she did not, but she smiled cheekily again.

  ‘The advantage of havin’ a sister who kills herself is that I get an iPhone,’ she said, her voice both sneering and tremulous. ‘And the chance to take A levels. And no hints of an arranged marriage either. We’ve gone modern.’

  The weekends were wonderful. Ryan and Sylvie were carefree and spontaneous and he knew people looked at them, possibly enviously, and saw a perfect couple, tactile and in love, and he wanted to think of it as love but he was not sure if it could be, with Ellen’s whispers in the air.

  ‘This is crazy,’ he said. ‘You are, well, you are funny and clever and gorgeous but—’

  She placed her finger on his lips.

  ‘I am none of those things. I am the “but”. And I have an annoying “but” to tell you. I think I’m going to have to give up my flat and move in with my parents. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it. I did try at Franklyn’s wedding. I’m not broke like some people say it when they have overspent on a holiday and need to go easy for a month. I have, literally, run out of money. I’m a mess. I’m sorry. I know you’ve tried, you’ve been patient with me, but it’s hopeless. I’m what they call a hopeless case.’

  They were walking along the South Bank in the sparkling Thames sunshine, past a merry-go-round, towards the Millennium Bridge. He stopped and stood in front of her.

  ‘Move in with me,’ he said. ‘Move in with me and get a weekend job or something in the evenings, just till we sort you out.’

  She turned pale.

  ‘I wasn’t hinting for that,’ she hissed gently. ‘If we ever live together I want it to be for something more meaningful than my shitty finances.’

  He thought she might cry but instead she became dry-eyed and thin-lipped. He tried not to smile. She looked like a six-year-old about to have a tantrum.

  ‘OK, I get it,’ he said. ‘This isn’t the most romantic moment we’ve had. But think about it. I know what’s going on. Your parents don’t know. Who is best placed to help? Me. Who really wants to help? Me. Who would be on cloud nine if you moved in to Cotton Lane? Me.’

  A week later she had moved in. Trish gave her back her deposit in full and waived the rent for the remainder of the month on the proviso that Sylvie still popped round. Had Sylvie admitted to Trish the parlous state of her finances, the older woman might easily have offered to take much less rent, so eagerly did she wait for the sound of Sylvie’s key in their shared front door. Ryan had been wrong. Trish was not in love with Sylvie and nor did she think of her as a surrogate daughter. The appeal of Sylvie for Trish was that such a delightfully delicate creature could walk into her living room without a trace of disgust or disapproval. Sylvie would smile and laugh and look her in the eye as an equal. There was no pity, she never looked at the photographs and then back at Trish with a slight shake of the head. Trish could never see behind Sylvie’s eyes the question: Oh, Trish, what have you done to yourself?

  Sylvie had never told her to pull herself together and, when they were together, Trish was transported back to the days when she used to sit in the foyer
of the building that housed the radio stations and would chat to presenters, producers, the sales teams, the chirpy, hopeful assistants, the deliverymen who needed a signature and who would frown if they were not also given a smile. She even knew several by name and one or two would linger, chat about the weather, the traffic or even politics. Trish, though, believed herself destined for bigger fish and sure enough landed a presenter. She often wondered what her life would be like now had she gone on a date with Mike. He had worn leather trousers sometimes and had a nice smile – and now Sylvie’s smile was leaving and she dreaded the interviews for her successor. Unless by some miracle Mike turned up looking for a home, but even if he did, he would not recognize her and she would not dare tell him she had once been sufficiently attractive to be the public face of a prestigious media outlet. That night, at around 2 a.m., she decided to watch, again, Misery, and she fell asleep dreaming of poor Mike, tied to what had been Sylvie’s bed, her prisoner until he stopped squirming at her mottled nose.

  The night before Sylvie moved in to Cotton Lane, Ryan paced the living room in front of an amused Paul.

  ‘What if she’s still wandering around the bloody Underground when she’s forty? This could be a nightmare.’

  ‘You’ll sort it together, mate, I’m sure of it.’

  Paul was, in any case, relieved. He had started to look for his own flat. It was time he bought somewhere, took root, accepted he liked London and London liked him. He had been invited to a screen test for a programme provisionally called The Human Code. He had gained the impression there was only one person being auditioned. Without him there would be no Human Code. The word ‘vehicle’ had been mentioned so often he pictured himself in a van with a megaphone roaming Britain educating anyone within earshot about their DNA and asking for any twins in the neighbourhood to come forward, that triplets would be given free cupcakes and matching T-shirts.

  ‘Also, Paul, mate, she doesn’t know that you know. Do you think I should tell her you do know?’

  Paul remembered the not-quite-spirals Sylvie had made on his Tube map that glowed in the Spanish sun.

  ‘Yeah. Because she’ll be able to tell eventually. Tell her we are inseparable best buddies and I even know you’ve got one of your old teddy bears in your cupboard.’

  ‘At least he’s not on my bed.’

  ‘You are a cruel bastard, Ryan.’

  Ryan was not much cheered.

  ‘Hey, mate, you got the girl. Remember that.’

  Trish drove Sylvie and her belongings over to Ealing, gave her a long maternal hug, her jumper stinking of cigarettes, and drove away again. Ryan did not have space in his heart to sneer at Trish; he was far too relieved that she had delivered Sylvie in one piece, so convinced was he that the landlady would have gulped down half a bottle of wine before getting behind the wheel.

  Sylvie waved her off then turned to Ryan as if she had noticed he had smelled the air in front of Trish’s face for signs of alcohol.

  ‘She drinks too much. She smokes too much. Did you notice the puffiness to her face? It has steadily expanded since I first met her. Sometimes she spends the night on her sofa because she has reached a sort of stupor. All because of a man. I’d rather do what I do than replace it with drink. And underneath all of it there is a tender, bright but damaged woman who cannot move on.’

  Ryan said nothing. It was one more reason to be disturbed by Trish. This woman had provided Sylvie with an unpalatable alternative. Of course riding the Underground was preferable to an ever-blossoming nose and cheeks blotched with purple veins but that was not real life. No one was ever supposed to choose between being Trish and being Sylvie. They were supposed to choose not to be Trish and not to be Sylvie and he did not much like the idea that a Sylvie without her trains would be a lush with nearly red lank hair and a pink-tipped chin.

  Sylvie unpacked self-consciously and Ryan noted how it was as if she had arrived at a convalescent home rather than her boyfriend’s house. She was fragile but self-contained. It was probably at the heart of why he could not break the spell. She was resolute. She was tough. She was just obstinate about the wrong things.

  He was in the middle of explaining the quirks of the hot-water system when Chic’s ‘Le Freak’ boomed through the wall. They both laughed. Ryan had forgotten it was the evening of Theo’s party and it was now clear it would be more pleasant to be part of it than suffer the muffled and annoying version through the bricks.

  There were about thirty people at the gathering including the Mizwas from Number 6, who were stood stony-faced in the corner but were in fact delighted to have been invited. Theo and Jenny made a fuss of Sylvie, and Jenny kept touching her hair and scrunching it up in her hands. Theo had not quite retired but had reinvented himself and bought a musty vinyl record store he planned to reinvigorate. By the end of the evening it had been decided that Sylvie would help out in the store on Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings. Quietly, Ryan had told Theo she would need payment and Theo had said of course, she would be an asset, although he had no idea why she would be all that useful bar the fact she was rather pretty.

  Theo gave it some thought, though, and was pleased he had engineered a way that Sylvie would be an asset. On her first day he stood in front of her and wiggled comically.

  ‘Smoke and mirrors,’ he said and gave her a sheet of paper with a list of music genres.

  ‘Choose one you know a little bit about already or could imagine being knowledgeable about. Go on. Maybe you’d like to be Vinyl Vibe’s film-score expert?’

  She scanned the list and frowned.

  ‘My skillset is organizing, Theo. Why don’t I organize promotional events, memorabilia, mugs and posters. And man the till of course. You’d get more out of me that way.’

  Theo clapped his hands.

  ‘Fantastic stuff,’ he said. ‘Fantastic.’

  Ryan sat in the pub with Paul and groaned.

  ‘I’ve created a monster,’ he said. ‘Sylvie is much, much happier with her Underground vigil now she has a weekend job. I’ve given her a routine, I’ve made her peculiarities acceptable. She is happier with trawling the Tube now than before I met her.’

  His phone vibrated and he read an email from someone called Riya.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘This might help.’

  ‘I’ve got some good news,’ he firmly told Sylvie later that day. ‘We’re going to meet the baby you saved and its auntie. It might bring you some closure. This is very good news. Excellent, in fact.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘you don’t have to give it the hard sell. I’d like to see the baby.’

  They met at a café in Ravenscourt Park. Nisha was in a pushchair but wriggling to get out.

  Sylvie had bought her a gift of a child’s tambourine and the toddler ran in circles bashing it against her shoulder and the top of her head. They all smiled.

  ‘You’re my hero,’ Riya said bluntly. ‘I think my sister was gonna jump with Nisha but saw that you were a good person, like an angel maybe, cos you look like an angel – do people tell you that? – and so she changed her mind.’

  Sylvie felt momentarily weak but also grateful.

  ‘I thought you might hate me for not saving your sister,’ she said.

  ‘Nah, that’s dumb, that is. She was ill, my sister. No one done nothing about it cos of the whole ghostin’ thing, and so she killed herself.’

  Ryan and Sylvie did not mean to, but they frowned, perplexed, not grasping the reason for Jaya’s desperation. Riya sighed. Her teachers had told her she would receive better grades if she spelled out the obvious.

  ‘I know you know,’ Miss Cox had said, ‘but the examiner doesn’t know you know anything.’

  ‘Our family,’ Riya said, ‘is a little weird.’ Here she smiled encouragingly, so Ryan and Sylvie nodded.

  ‘Jaya was quite clever, I think, but most important is she’s the firstborn and we’re all girls and Dad has taken money, a loan thing, from this cousin. That’s how he affords th
e house and a car, but Dad’s a hard worker and turns that car –’ Jaya paused for effect and then imitated her father’s voice – ‘into our minicab business, the Harlesden Hire Service.’

  The tambourine tinkled and Riya’s expression lost some of its mischievousness.

  ‘Anyway, you don’t need to know the detail and, man, is it boring or what, but our cousin has a son who’s supposed to marry Jaya. It’s part of the loan, see?’

  Ryan and Sylvie nodded some more.

  ‘But me and Jaya look at his photo and he’s a toad. No question. But Mum and Dad ask her all the same if she wants to marry him and I’m listening in and I’m so proud of her cos she tells them he’s a toad and anyway she already has a boyfriend.’

  Ryan remembered why he never watched EastEnders; Sylvie pictured Jaya being bold, Jaya being in love.

  ‘Mum tells her she’s too young to have a boyfriend and Jaya, she says –’ Riya snorted with laughter ‘– and Jaya says, “What? Too young for a boyfriend but old enough for a husband?” Priceless.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Sylvie said, ‘was she forced to marry the toad?’

  Riya looked at her somewhat patronizingly.

  ‘No,’ she said, curtly. ‘Dad had been saving up to repay the loan anyway.’

  ‘Ah,’ Ryan and Sylvie said in unison although they were still confused.

  ‘Exactly,’ Riya said. ‘End of, except my sister is pregnant and none of us met her boyfriend and Mum and Dad were a bit annoyed about the ghostin’.’

  ‘Ghosting?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘This guy, he says he loves her and he shags her and then he disappears, whoosh, gone, so we all pretend he never existed but, like, maybe, my sister missed him… but we never spoke about it.’