‘Hollandaise is a sauce,’ I said, pretending I’d misread her fury for confusion.
‘Yes, I know.’ She was sounding crotchety now. Another stewardess passed, and heard her tone of voice.
‘Kathleen, could I have a word, please?’ this older woman said. I saw Kathleen push her tongue against the underneath of her bottom lip.
‘Yes, Candice,’ she said, and then followed her colleague, who looked like her superior, behind a curtain and out of view.
It was time for our second drink. This time I asked for champagne.
His name was Leon McKenzie. Which made me laugh. He wondered why, so I explained that my surname had been McKenzie too, till I’d changed it. And of course he wanted to know why I’d changed my name.
And I told him.
I kind of told him everything.
I told him how I’d changed my name by deed poll as I’d wanted to make a break from my past. How I felt that that way, I wouldn’t be bringing shame on my family. Or, if I was honest, be linked to them.
I told him about my son. I didn’t go into any detail about his conception; I was still too ashamed. And I told him about the glamour modelling. And the singing. And Mr Love. And Black Orchid. I even told him how I’d met Kathleen the night before and she hadn’t remembered. I told him about Adam, and all the dreams I’d had as a kid. And how although I was earning more money than I’d ever dreamed of, my life felt hollow. For the first time in a long time I was honest with someone and it felt incredible, literally as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I just felt safe with him. There was no need to pretend. I told him it all, one seemingly unending monologue. And when I eventually did finish – by which time a few more people had joined us at the bar, though none of them were particularly listening in, mouth and martini deep in their own conversations – Leon took my hand. He took my hand and he said softly, ‘I’m honoured you’ve told me.’
Just then the curtain behind us swished, and Kathleen was upon us with a lightly steaming plate of asparagus.
‘For the lovebirds,’ she said with a wink. I couldn’t tell whether her tone was loaded or encouraging.
Four champagnes in, and the plane started to shudder.
Kathleen was back again then – any excuse to butt in.
‘OK, guys, we’re running into some turbulence now, so if I could ask you all to return to your seats?’
Slowly everyone got up.
‘Just got to go to the loo,’ I whispered to Leon, and he nodded. Though as I turned to nip to the loo, I didn’t see him turn the other way to return to his seat.
I went into the cubicle. This being first class, it was replete with posh products and a fresh rose in a vase that was attached to the wall. I didn’t take long to wee, but by the time I’d finished and was washing my hands, there was a light flashing above the sink saying RETURN TO YOUR SEAT. I unlocked the door and the plane juddered. The door swung open and Leon fell into the cubicle, pushing me back against the sink. I let out a shriek and then, before I knew what was happening, his tongue was in my mouth. And mine in his, and then I was aware of him kicking the door shut behind him. We were locked in. Me, Leon, and so much turbulence it felt like we were standing up on a roller coaster. His hands were all over me, and mine him, but we also couldn’t stop laughing, as it was near-impossible to stand properly without falling.
But almost as soon as he’d fallen into the cubicle and on top of me, there was an urgent banging on the door.
‘Back to your seats, please! I know what you’re up to! Out of there at once!’
Giggling like schoolkids we jaggedly fumbled at the door. Then we realized that whoever was out there was opening it from the outside.
The door opened, crushing into us. Outside I could see Kathleen’s supervisor, and another woman with a camera. She quickly took our photograph, then returned to her seat.
‘Who the fuck was that?’
‘Seats! Now!’ the supervisor was shouting.
As we juddered towards our seats I caught a glimpse of Kathleen, with a smirk on her face, peering out from behind a curtain at the other side of the bar.
Once the turbulence subsided, Leon called Kathleen to his seat.
‘I want to know who the woman was who took our picture.’
‘I didn’t see anyone take your picture, sir, sorry.’
‘When we were in the toilet.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We were in the toilet together.’
‘That’s not really allowed, sir.’
‘I know. But we were. And someone took our picture, then ran back into Business. Can you find out who she was, please?’
‘What did she look like, sir?’
‘Well, she had a bloody camera in front of her face, how should I know?’
Suddenly the supervisor was upon them. ‘We don’t accept foul language to members of cabin crew, sir.’
‘He only said bloody. And he’s upset,’ I jumped in.
‘Candice, it’s fine. Like Jocelyn said. He’s upset. Someone took his picture. And I’m going to find out who it was.’
The supervisor rolled her eyes, and retreated. I could now see that Leon thought the sun shone out of Kathleen’s backside.
‘What colour hair did she have?’
‘Sort of . . . ash blonde.’
‘That’s very specific.’
‘He’s a hair and make-up agent,’ I butted in. Kathleen frowned.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Tell you what,’ Leon said. ‘You find the bird who was taking our picture. And then I’ll tell you.’
Kathleen nodded, and headed to Business.
Ten minutes later she came back, looking upset.
‘Couldn’t find anyone. And I’ve been asking around. You know, did anyone see someone with a camera out during the turbulence. Out of their seat. I really felt like Jessica Fletcher, actually.’
‘She usually solved the crime.’ Leon sounded hurt.
Kathleen gave us a patronizing smile. She put one hand out to the armrest for my chair, one onto his, and knelt in the aisle.
‘What say I get you a complimentary glass of champagne?’
‘We’re in First Class. Everything’s complimentary.’ Leon now sounded annoyed.
Kathleen shrugged. ‘I know, it’s just they tell us to say that.’ She made to head for the bar. But before she went, she leaned into me and giggled.
‘You never change, do you? What are you like?!’
And then she went to fetch us our drinks.
After the plane landed at Heathrow and they started letting passengers off, the supervisor came and asked myself and Leon to remain in our seats. I saw Kathleen hovering behind her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she stage-whispered.
And then we saw four policemen coming into the cabin. And I knew what was going to happen.
The headlines in the papers the next day said EX POP STAR IN MILE HIGH CLUB ROW. It claimed we’d been arrested for indecent behaviour, after being caught by ‘horrified passengers, having intercourse in the first-class cabin’.
Actually, we’d received a caution after sweet-talking the policeman back on terra firma.
I assumed I’d never see Leon again. He must have been so embarrassed. I could imagine the mick-taking he would be getting at work.
So I was very surprised when, that night, I got a text message from him. I wondered what the sound on the phone was at first – hardly anybody ever texted me. It usually meant they had a fine-fangled phone. I was impressed.
I have a rather roomy bathroom. And no bitch outside ready to knock. Fancy a rematch?
Turned out nice again.
It was the eve of the new millennium.
Would the Millennium Bug actually happen? Would planes fall out of the sky? Would every computer in the world crash? Was it the end of the universe as we knew it?
As I walked the Soho streets, the excitement was tangible. Most people seemed to be heading towards the river
to watch the fireworks later that night. I was sober as a QC, but everyone around me seemed to be bang on it, in the middle of the biggest hen or stag do EVER.
But I had reason to be sober. I wanted to savour every moment of tonight.
I would have thought the ‘toilet incident’ would spell misery and doom for me, despite it kick-starting my relationship with Himself. But bizarrely, it seemed to have been the making of me. Well, maybe not the making of me, but the making of my career. On the back of it I was offered a monthly column in BAPS magazine, the non-thinking man’s Loaded. Each month there’d be the latest soap star sticking her finger in her mouth, wearing little but a smile on the cover, and inside I would offer sex advice to whoever had written in. I got quite the name for myself, with my frank and bitchy advice. It took five minutes to write, and put me back in the public eye.
Two months into the job, I’d had a letter forwarded to me from the magazine. I got quite a bit of fan mail now so I opened it as I did the others, bored, slightly interested, but assuming it was going to be asking for a picture with my tits out, or demanding I do a topless shoot for the magazine. LET’S MAKE THIS HAPPEN!
But when I saw the name at the top of address, my heart sank to my boots.
It had happened.
Billy McKenzie
45B Josephine Avenue
SW2
Dear Jocelyn,
I’ve wanted to contact you for a long time now but didn’t know how to go about it.
Ah well. Now you’re giving your sex advice to strangers, I can find you.
His written English was impressive. Even if the content was predictably accusatory.
I’ve known for ages you are my mum. And yet you don’t want to know me. Why is that? I know Mum (your mum. I should call her Nan but that’s the name I was brought up knowing her by) wanted to cover it up. But I’m not daft and tongues wag and of course she told me the truth when I asked. Call her what you like, she didn’t lie in the end.
I don’t know what you went through when you had me. I’m sure it was pretty tough, and times were a bit different back then. But I would love to meet up with you and talk to you about it. If you’re game?
Game. I wasn’t just game. I’d been on the game. Oh shit.
I’ve always felt a bit lost. And would love to at least make sense of how I came to be in this world. Maybe that would help me.
Hope you can get back to me.
Your son
Billy
No kisses.
My God, he was living in Brixton. That was SW2. There was a phone number scribbled at the bottom of the page. I dialled it instantly.
Which is how I came to be making my way to a restaurant in Covent Garden to meet the son I’d not seen for ten years.
Why was he living in London at such a young age? Who was he living with? How would I feel seeing him? What would I say? What would he think of me?
What must he think of me?
His mother. The girl who gave him up, and what had she done with her life?
He didn’t know anything about Black Orchid; no-one but Leon did.
But what was the evidence for how I’d behaved since relinquishing him?
I’d done glamour modelling. I’d sung a shit song in the charts. I’d been caught having sex on a plane, and as a result I now gave relationship advice in a soft-porn magazine.
Well done, Jocelyn. You’ve really excelled yourself. You thought it didn’t matter what you did with your life. You thought you could hurt noone but yourself.
How wrong you were.
Kettner’s was a down-at-heel pizza restaurant in the heart of Soho. The fact that he’d asked to meet me there was at once intriguing and thrilling. The fact that a thirteen-year-old knew it existed and found it quite trendy was appealing, and made me stupidly proud as I wandered through the bustling streets to find it. And him. I’d been to the restaurant before. I knew where it was. And as I wound through the streets it was as if the sky was lit up by it, a Soho lighthouse, flashing away for everyone to see.
Come to me. Come to me.
This was the moment. This was the moment I’d been waiting for, for the past ten years. I was finally going to meet my son. But what did I feel more than anything as I walked to see him? What I had always felt. Shame.
It was a horrible feeling, and one I’d always tried to run from by pretending to myself that it hadn’t happened, that it hadn’t been my fault, that I’d been young, naive. But since the arrival of the letter, denial had been an awkward island to get to. The sea was choppy, and the boat was leaking. And my shame threatened to drown me.
I remembered so little about him now, so adept had I been at washing away the memories, the pain. But I remembered certain things. I remembered the pain of the fourteen-hour labour, the bloodied, shitty sheets on that cast-iron bed in Llandrindod Wells. Mother mopping my brow like she was a farmer and I was an insolent sow, so few niceties were needed. Nothing to see here, just a kid giving birth in a strange bed, not knowing if the rusting smell was from the bedstead or the blood between my legs. The primal screams, the tears, her reprimanding me for swearing. The disgusted tutting when I told her to fuck off. The kindly midwife telling her to leave the room, but she didn’t. The final push, and he was out. And I suddenly felt more empty than I’d ever felt before, or since. Holding him. Smelling him. He was a grey-purple colour. The unmistakable nose. He was my son, all right. And then Mother taking him, almost like a yank, ripping a turnip from the soil and wrapping him in white cotton. The blood from him seeped through, and then she finally deigned to leave the room. And after that, he was hers and not mine.
And the longer I spent in her company, their company, the more unhappy I became and the more I hated that bitch for what she had done. And the hatred festered in me till it threatened to consume me, to poison me, which is why I had to get out, run away, run anywhere where I didn’t have to look at my son and look at my mother and look at them together, pretending everything was all right. It was far from all right.
And now, tonight was hopefully going to make it all all right. Wasn’t it? God, I hoped so, with every fibre of my being.
Leon had originally wanted to come with me.
Leon. My saviour. My guiding light. Just as I had once run from Billy, so when I met Leon, I had run straight to him. He was home.
As soon as we’d got together I had kissed Black Orchid goodbye. I now made my living as Jocelyn Jones, agony aunt and columnist. Of course, the dosh was nowhere near as good as escort work, but it was enough. And anyway, my boyfriend was loaded.
I know – what a shame I was to the female race. But then, this was nothing new to me. And of course, feminists ahoy, swings and roundabouts, I might have been reliant on a man but at least I wasn’t selling my body to strangers. Or anyone. Any more.
When I told Leon I didn’t want him to come with me, he was all for hanging around outside the restaurant to check I was OK after our meet. But I knew I had to do this on my own tonight.
‘What am I meant to do? It’s the fucking millennium. Why did he want to meet tonight of all nights? He’s like you. A drama queen.’
I had no idea what he meant. Drama queen? Moi?
‘He’s thirteen, Leon.’
‘My argument still stands.’
‘What are you going to do?’ I’d asked.
He’d seemed really put out that I’d not wanted to spend the new millennium eve with him. But, clearly, when my long-lost son said jump . . . I said, how high?
We’d only spoken briefly on the phone. Billy wanted to ‘keep it all for the meet’.
He’d sounded softly spoken. He’d sounded well spoken. Little trace of any Liverpool accent and, call me a snob, I was proud. He sounded kind, and caring. And so mature. Thirteen, and he’d booked the table at the restaurant himself!
‘What are you doing in London?’ I’d asked.
‘I’ve lived here for most of this year,’ he said. And the more he spoke, the more I detected a sof
t London accent.
‘With who?’
‘Aunty Gina.’
I felt crushed. I didn’t even know who Gina was.
I would ask. I would ask tonight, as part of my ‘million questions for your son the first time you meet him as an adolescent’.
What would he look like now? The last I’d seen him was the night I’d left Liverpool to head to London that one final time. I’d packed a bag. Everyone else was in bed. I’d peered into the box room where he lay in his cot. I’d leaned over him. Kissed my hand, placed it gently on his forehead. Then quietly crept out of the room.
As I arrived at the restaurant, I started to panic. This was like going on the worst date in the world. The one you’d looked forward to for forever, but then the moment it was upon you, the stage fright arrived and you really couldn’t face it at all. The thing you’d most wanted in the whole wide world suddenly became the thing you most feared.
I stood outside the doorway, and then found myself stepping back.
I now found I couldn’t go through with it.
OK. I would walk around the block.
I quickened my pace, and hot-footed it as fast as I could away from the restaurant. Relief flooded me, and I realized I’d become a lot more anxious than I’d admitted to myself. But I also found that the further I moved away from the main door, the more fretful I became. I didn’t want to go in, but I didn’t not want to go in more. I stopped. I turned round. I went in.
As I stepped into the warmth I saw my mother, back in Alderson Road, standing in front of the electric fire.
‘You are having this baby, Jocelyn, whether you like it or not. Abortion is murder, and I will not sanction it. You will have the baby and I will say he is mine.’
‘You can’t take my baby from me! You dried-up old prune!’
And then she’d hit me.
Back in the room, Jocelyn, back in the room. This is a restaurant. You’re not back in Liverpool now.
In my head, it’d be like something in a movie. A speakeasy. I’d make my way through the cool sounds of jazz. People would part and then I’d see him in a corner, sat nonchalantly nursing a Coke, staring into the middle distance. I’d cough, he’d look over . . . it would be like I’d never been away, never left his side.
The History of Us Page 22