My hackles rise. I don’t mind an anonymous phone call. But one that takes the piss?
‘Speaking?’
‘Oh hi hon, it’s Aba? From L’Agence?’
Oh. Well, that figures. Annoying is as annoying does.
‘Aba, I can’t speak at the moment.’
‘Awww, have I caught you at a bad time, hon?’
‘Well, yes, or else I’d be able to speak to you.’
For some reason, I already can’t bear this woman I’ve not even met.
‘OK, OK . . . look, Nat, I’ll call you tomorrow? When’s a good time? Or tonight! What you doing tonight?’
Nat? Get lost!
‘Call me tomorrow. Morning. Any time.’
‘Ah, cool babe.’
As I hear her draw breath to say something else, I kill the call. Filling my daughter’s head with nonsense.
‘Come on, Owen, let’s go.’
It takes a good twenty minutes to leave. Everyone wants to paw us to tell us how brave we are and what a super neighbourhood it is and how handsome Owen is and what a shame it is, and next time he must bring his partner and I must bring Cally and we must get together for Christmas drinks. Tamsin manages to just say, ‘Oh God, I’m leaking,’ and I see she has lactated through her blouse, but Owen is dragging me out and Lucy and Dylan are making tracks as well and . . .
All I can think of is that suitcase. It is there. It is there in Manchester, full of his stuff. I can feel it in my waters and even if it is just T-shirts and undies and flip-flops I don’t care. It’s another bit of him that I’ve not seen for five years and so it’ll be like a bit of him’s come back to me. It will smell of him and . . .
Lucy and I hug in the cul-de-sac and she tells me how much she loves my new house. Owen and Dylan do a bit of back-slapping, but if I’m not very much mistaken there seems to be an atmosphere between them. As Lucy and Dylan drive off I ask,
‘Is everything OK between you two?’
Owen looks to me quickly. ‘Me and Matt?’
‘No. You and Dylan. You seemed a bit off with him. He didn’t say anything homophobic, did he?’
Owen shakes his head. But he seems distracted.
‘Is everything OK with you and Matt?’ I worry.
‘Course. Come on, Mum. Let’s get this over and done with.’
He says he’ll drive. I look to my house. No sign of Cally yet. Is it bad that I feel relieved? I’ll worry about her later.
But I can’t stop worrying as we drive into Manchester. She’s sixteen and, despite what she thinks, is not that mature for her age. Truth be told, it’s a welcome relief to be worrying about something other than this blessed ticket. But then all roads lead, not just to Manchester, but to Danny. He’d know what to do about Cally. And if he didn’t, he’d at least offer words of reassurance, or tell me to cut her some slack. She’s just so angry all the time. I expected it when she was thirteen, fourteen; I know a few teachers – ex-Milk regulars – who say that Year 9 students are the worst to teach, because they’re all uniformly vile. But that’s lingered on for another two years. She’s doing her GSCEs in the summer, she needs to buckle down. I can’t put it off any more. I am going to have to speak to her.
I call her. She picks up instantly and launches into, ‘Mum, I’ve got a crashing hangover, so make it quick. I can barely speak and Finty’s mum’s making nachos.’
‘I was just wondering when you were coming home.’
‘Finty’s dad’s gonna drive me home this evening. GOD.’
‘All right, darling, I was just a bit worried.’
‘Aren’t you going to even congratulate me on my AMAZING news?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Has Aba phoned? She said she’d phone. Has she? She’s AMAZING.’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘Oh my God, really?! What did she say?’
‘I was busy. I said I’d speak to her tomorrow.’
‘You were what? Busy? BUT YOU DON’T EVEN WORK.’
‘Cally, I’ll speak to you later.’
‘You hate me.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You think I’m ugly.’
‘Cally, I’m not joining in. I’m your mother, not some stuck-up toff in your playground.’
As I hang up I hear her shouting, ‘FINTY GUESS WHAT SHE CALLED YOU.’
Scholarship or no scholarship, we should never have sent her to private school.
And then I think: L’Agence? Who calls a bloody model agency L’Agence?
The man in Left Luggage leans on the counter looking completely bored as I relay the story of the missing ticket. He puts me in mind of Les Dawson doing Cissie and Ada, leaning on the fence to get the gossip, but completely forgetting to act. When I’ve done my little spiel, I offer him the ticket. He makes no attempt to take it, and just shakes his head.
‘I don’t know if you recognize my mum,’ says Owen. Les looks interested then. ‘But my dad, Danny Bioletti, went missing a few years ago . . .’
‘Five years ago,’ I add, like that explains everything.
‘. . . and we’ve only just found this, and don’t know if he collected it or not. Before he went missing.’
‘Oh, I remember you,’ he says, nonplussed, as if I’d been a contestant on a game show who embarrassed myself. I smile feebly and offer the ticket again. ‘But you see, the suitcase won’t be here.’
‘He collected it?’
‘If he did, it won’t be here.’
‘Yes, I appreciate that,’ I say, biting my tongue so I don’t add Because I’m not thick as pig shit.
‘But if he didn’t collect it, there’s a process.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
And then he goes on to explain. Uncollected luggage is sent to Head Office in Newport, and then a few weeks after that, if it’s still unclaimed and they can’t trace the owner, it’s sent to an auction house. It feels strange, thinking of people bidding for other people’s lost luggage. Who on earth would want to do that? It’s not exactly my idea of a great night out; or have I been missing a trick all these years? Oh the joy of bidding actual money to win someone else’s travel clothes and crusty undercrackers.
‘Well, can you at least tell us if the suitcase was picked up?’
Les looks like he’s considering it, then clicks his teeth – are they false? Do they make yellow false teeth? – and shakes his head.
‘Don’t keep the records here, see.’
He can see we’re deflated. Lucy was right. This has been a wasted journey.
‘You could email Newport.’
I’ve had enough. I snap. ‘Do you have an email address, please? I imagine you’re not expecting me to email a whole town?’
‘Or we could just get the police to do it,’ suggests Owen. Again, Les doesn’t look like he gives two hoots.
‘I’ll write it down for you.’
He disappears into the back office and I look to Owen and shake my head.
‘Police’ll find out for us,’ he says.
‘No, it’s a wild goose chase.’
‘We’ve had five years of wild goose chases. I think we can bear one more.’
Les returns with a piece of paper. Slowly he licks the nib of his biro and copies down an email address from his computer screen, then hands it over.
As it’s a Sunday, Owen has parked in a nearby street on a single yellow. He links me as we head back to the car, knowing I will be fed up. It’s pathetic, but it feels like a crushing blow. I suddenly feel a bit wobbly on the old pins, so tell him I want to sit down for a second. We sit on a slate-grey perforated-iron bench and watch the madness around us. People in a rush, people waiting for loved ones, people with too much luggage, the odd pigeon soaring by. People looking up to see information boards, people rowing, people hugging. All of human life is here, and they all have a purpose. They’re going somewhere, they’re arriving from elsewhere, they’re all doing something. And I’m doing nothing, suspended in time. It�
�s an all-too-familiar feeling.
Through the white noise that these normal people are making, a lone voice breaks.
‘Natalie?’
I turn to face the voice, but can’t see anyone I recognize.
‘Natalie? It IS you!’
And suddenly a man is in front of us. Very orange of skin, with wet gelled hair, wearing a uniform. He’s tall, but has the pot belly of someone of my age, even if the eyes are of someone younger. Work, perhaps?
‘Natalie, I’ve not seen you for ages!’
He’s wearing a name badge. I read it quickly, and then it all slips into place.
‘Daffyd!’ I shriek and jump to hug him. Wow. I’ve not seen this guy for . . . ten years? He hugs me, and we do a little ‘turning round in a circle’ dance.
Daffyd was a regular at Milk for a few years in the nineties. He used to stand on a podium all night doing robotic dancing. We used to call him the Robot. Clever, huh? God, I wouldn’t have recognized him if it wasn’t for that name badge. I introduce him to Owen, who shifts up the bench to let Daffyd sit between us. He holds my hand and says how sorry he is about Danny, and how he tried to get in touch but didn’t have a number for me, and the longer he left it . . . it’s a common story. I’ve heard it so many times before, but it doesn’t bother me. He asks what we’re doing here, and I tell him. I tell him in minute detail because it’s all I can think about at the moment. He looks flabbergasted, and then thrilled.
‘What’s the smile for?’ I ask.
He taps himself, indicating his uniform.
‘When you work on the trains, baby, you can find out anything.’
‘What? You’ll be able to see if he picked the case up?’
‘Sure thang.’
Usually I loathe people who say ‘thang’. But today I adore it. I hug Daffyd again.
It is a sign. I knew it was a sign!
Cally
We’re on a train and on the opposite side of the aisle to us this really old woman is writing something in a notepad. She writes REALLY slowly. And stops between each word as if she’s thinking about which word to write next.
God, that takes me back.
When we realized Dad was missing all those years ago, I used to leave a note for him on the stairs every time I left the house. Every day, for all those years. It said:
Hey Dad
Welcome home! So glad you’ve come back. Don’t rush off again! Call me on my mobile NOW. I can’t wait to see you. And no you’re not in trouble LOL.
Your loving daughter
Cally xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
And then my mobile number.
This was just in case Dad meandered back in one crazy day and couldn’t remember who we were and stuff. Like, if he’d had a bang to the head or been abducted by aliens and interfered with and couldn’t remember our names and that. Or if he’d just run away, missed us, had a change of heart and come back, but was scared we might kick off. I just wanted him to know it was all going to be OK.
But of course he never read any of the notes.
And now we’ve moved, it seems pointless. Unless he’s going to knock on every door in the whole of the North West. And how likely is THAT?
I look at Mum. She never left any notes. I am just about to slag her off in my head but then I REMEMBER WHAT SHE HAS DONE FOR ME TODAY AND WHY WE ARE ON THIS BLINKING BLOODING TRAIN N SHIZ.
I don’t actually believe this but Mum – God bless her and all who sail in her – has let me have a day off school. A WHOLE DAY to come to London to have a meeting with Aba at L’Agence. Since Sunday night she’s been all distracted and weird and checking her phone and teary and like she’s not really taking stuff in, but I don’t care coz when Aba phoned she was practically like ‘Yeah yeah whatever, I’ll bring her in on Wednesday.’ Like she just wanted to get her off the phone.
Usually I’d be like MUM! YOU CANNOT BE SO RUDE AND STUFF ON THE PHONE YOU BIG FAT NORK.
But coz of the impilicationes of what she’d actually said, I let it go.
I like saying impilicationes instead of implications. It’s like an imp got into the word and is really messing with its head.
Oh God. I can’t believe how excited I am.
L’Agence. I think it’s such a cooool name. I keep saying it on the train all the way down. Sometimes I say it in a French accent, staring out of the window. Sometimes I go a bit Italian or Scottish. I’m not really that good with accents so the Frenchy version sounds the best. I can see it’s getting on Mum’s tits and seeing as how she has totally surprised me by being amazing about this London trip I eventually shut the fuck up rather than risk her exploding and insisting we, like, pull the emergency brake cord and jump off and walk back up North, thus totally swerving L’Agence.
I really want to tweet: ON MY WAY TO TOP MODEL AGENCY IN LONDON FOR TEST SHOTS. OMG. #fashion
But Mum has made me promise not to say anything on social media coz she’s totally like lying to the school and saying I had 24-hour flu or something. And just this once I thinks she’s probably right, coz she says if the school find out they could like fine her or send her to prison which is TOTALLY OUT OF ORD – I mean when you get the chance to go and do test shots at a top London model agency and stuff you DO NOT TURN IT DOWN. Coz if you DARED TO TURN IT DOWN you would be a complete and utter BRAIN DEAD LOONEY CHOON and stuff.
I really wish I could tweet something because I have been perfecting the way models tweet. I looked a few up and . . . now I’m not saying they’re all brain dead, but some of them, rather than describing their day like this . . .
Oh hello. Today I am catwalk modelling for Givenchy.
. . . they just do a series of weird hashtags like this:
#modelling #cameras #make-up #catwalk #clothes #designer #Givenchy
Which actually I find totally annoying, but if that’s how I have to tweet from now on to make it in this business then so fucking be it and stuff.
I don’t know what a model agency is going to look like if I’m like TOTALLY honest but in my head I imagine a building like a castle, perched next to Buckingham Palace and stuff. I see the Queen leaning out of the window of her gaff, having a crafty fag and watching all the comings and goings from next door. And she’s like, ‘Oh my God, Prince Philip. I just totally saw Cara Delevingne coming out of that modelly place next door and stuff.’
‘Who, babe?’
‘You know. The Eyebrows and stuff?’
‘OMG she is well lush and stuff.’
And the Queen flicks her ash on a passing Pearly King before going back in to watch reruns of The Face.
The castley building has turrets and shit, and on each turret there’s like a massive flag, and on each flag there’s a picture of like Naomi Campbell, and Erin O’Connor. And then the other one from The Face with the weird Swedishy voice who, let’s be honest, no-one’s ever heard of. I’m just wondering whether, if they ever brought it back, I could be her replacement as a mentor on The Face, when it’s like Mum’s reading my mind.
‘Cally?’
‘Aha?’
‘You do know that modelling is full of rejection, don’t you?’
‘Aha?’
‘And that for every Kate Moss there’s a million girls who didn’t make it.’
God, she just wants to put me down all the time. My life SUCKS. It’s like having Rose West sitting opposite me picking at a Caffè Nero fruit salad. But then I remember how nice she has been thus far about letting me come down and do the test shots so I just nod like I’m really taking it in and look out of the window trying to look all winsome and like there’s a camera in my face and they’re like, ‘Come on, Cally. Give us thoughtfulness, sadness, think of all the dying babies in Africa and stuff.’
And I do the face and the photographer has to stop taking pictures because he can’t help but give me this amazing round of applause.
L’Agence is beyond amazing. It’s not castley-turrety at all, but this incredible out-of-the-way place in somewhere called Maryle
bone. The front of it’s all frosted glass and white wood and in tiny letters at the bottom of the glass, so faint you can barely see it and Mum has to put her special reading glasses on to double-check, it says in swirly writing:
L’Agence
I almost squeal.
When we’re waiting in reception I stare at the walls that are covered with row upon row of black-and-white cards with hundreds and hundreds of faces. I get really excited coz I think that one day soon I am going to be up there with them. Mum starts tapping her foot on the floor and checking her phone before moaning to the receptionist, ‘Is she going to be much longer?’
So I hiss, ‘MUM.’ We’ve already travelled like a zillion miles from Manchester. Ten more minutes never killed anyone. (Unless someone was coming at you with a knife/gun. Ten minutes probs would kill you then.)
‘Aba’s probably busy and stuff. GOD,’ I hiss. Then realize I’m like totally nervous so think if I can just go to the toilet and have a piddle and wash my face or something, I might feel better. So I asks the receptionist if I can go to the loo – Mum gives me this really sarky look coz I’m being UBER POLITE – and the receptionist points me down some stairs.
At the bottom of the iron staircase I am confronted with two stainless-steel doors with KHAZI etched into them. I can’t tell if they’re engaged or not so I turn the handle on the right-hand one and head in.
But it’s totally mortifying coz there’s this really old guy bending over the toilet sniffing.
I’m not sure why he’d be doing this at first.
And then it dawns on me.
OH MY GOD HE’S DOING A LINE OF COKE AND STUFF.
He’s got a rolled-up twenty in his hand and he takes a long hard snort. He turns and smiles at me, tapping his nose and doing little sniffs.
I think he is going to be embarrassed or shout at me or say WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN HERE YOU BUFFOON CHILD?
But instead he chuckles and says, ‘A toot a day keeps the doctor away.’ Then does a little giggle.
I giggle back, then hurry out and slam the door and rush into the next ‘khazi’ and do my business and think, Oh my god that bloke was about sixty or something. He must be a big cheese here as he’s certainly not a model.
The Secrets We Keep Page 5