She reached the funeral parlour on the corner with the growl of the Westway at her back. The houses were yellow and blue and some of their lintels were crumbling. The traffic lined up in queues, and she heard the low moan of brakes. But really, she added, we’re nearly in the suburbs. She stared intently at the rooms she passed, seeing an African woman with her hair scraped into a bun, spreading out sheets on a bed, and a Middle Eastern man tying back the curtains of a bedsit – she could see the bed behind him and beyond that the shabby frame of an ancient cooker. He caught her staring and she looked away.
Everything was named for outmoded pastoralism – Oxford Gardens, St Michael’s Gardens, Ladbroke Grove. There was a sign pointing left, saying EQUAL PEOPLE. So that’s where they live, she thought, moving past. The houses on this road were Victorian, with pillars and grand windows. They were haughty in the cold sunlight. There was a mural on the side of one row, an image of stairs ascending to a celestial place. Even here they were bugging her with thoughts of eternity. Meanwhile she nodded at the blue plaque which said ‘Phiz lived here’, nailed to a house with yellowing curtains, a neon light by the door. Now she could see the Trellick Tower with washing on the balconies like semaphore flags. A pair of men who were covered in paint and a kid with a hood slung over his eyes. There was a blue sign saying offices to let, and a man saying ‘Fuck shit’ to the open air, and the number 52 was shuddering past. Beyond the prophet on the corner was the roundabout where everything looked ruined, patched in pinks and blues. There was the cheap call centre, the takeaway with its plastic pictures of faded food in the windows, a set of banished office blocks, and on a low wall running up to the red steel bridge she saw TEMP again, and a billboard saying HERE COME THE TEARS. Her mouth filled with fumes; the air was thick with the smell of petrol. Rosa always turned the corner wheezing, vowing to get out of the city. Her street had a few Victorian houses, stranded amid rubble and nothing, as if the row had been bombed and never rebuilt. On the other side of the street was a high-rise block. There was a hoarding further away, decorated with leftover scraps of former posters. One day they had pasted a sign up saying ARMAGEDDON. It was a huge hint from God. The back windows of Jess’s flat had a view of the receding parallels of train tracks, coated with moss, and a red steel bridge. To the west was a gas tower like an abandoned shrine and a burial mound of rubble.
Her mouth was dry and she could smell her own breath. Somehow the door came closer and closer until she could see the peeling paint and the small bare garden and then she dropped her keys. She scrabbled in the earth thinking it is today and I am the mother god. When the door opened she felt faint for a moment and stumbled in the hall. At the door to the flat she paused and wondered if she heard a movement within. That made her heart thump madly in her breast. She had avoided Jess for days, but it was never certain when she would be at home. She was holding the handle, but she couldn’t twist it. Then she heard a noise and the door swung open.
*
When she regained her focus, she saw Jess had a steely gaze and a resolute air. She was by the table, a Marlboro Light in one hand. Jess was dressed in pristine cream, she had a first-rate brain, and she commanded a decent salary that she had used to buy a flat in no-man’s-land. Jess was a guardian, tending her own personal shrine to normality. She was standing straight-backed, making herself as tall as she could. She stood with her cigarette in one hand, the other hand in her pocket, eyeing Rosa calmly. Then she tossed back her glossy hair; Jess was defined completely by her brown mane. Rosa had never seen her naked face; it was always half-concealed by hair. Jess lined herself up with the window, and cast a reluctant glance towards her. By God, you are a redoubtable foe, and I concede before the contest, thought Rosa. She had nothing in her armoury at all, nothing to say, and no way to defend herself. Besides, her head hurt. She knocked something off the table, a bottle of something, and it rolled away, under the sofa. Something to sort out later.
‘Rosa, now we’ve coincided, let’s go and have brunch,’ said Jess in a flinty tone. ‘I’ve been working from home this morning. Now I have to go into work. Let’s grab a bite to eat while I’m on my way. We need to talk about a couple of things. Have you got time now?’
That was clearly ironic, and Rosa rose with a sense of foreboding, staggering under it, or under the weight of something else she couldn’t identify. ‘Of course. Just have to wash my face,’ she said, her throat tight. Jess nodded, as if she understood Rosa’s reluctance, commended it as a fair assessment of the situation. ‘I have to drop off some dry cleaning. I’ll meet you at Café 204 in twenty minutes,’ she said tersely, and stalked out of the door.
In the bathroom Rosa put her head under the tap and washed her face. She rubbed the condensation from the mirror and looked at herself – mostly unchanged – wry smile, deliberately cultivated at fourteen, thin face, pale cheeks, dark eyes, nothing unattractive about her, older of course, but her family aged well, their cheekbones grew more chiselled and their jaws kept their lines, and their fat turned to scrag. Recently she had noticed deep lines across her brow, a sceptical puckering of the skin. A vein had burst on her cheek, but there was nothing else that singled her out. She looked well enough. Slightly anaemic, but she had always looked bloodless. The bags under her eyes were swarter by the day, but that was to be expected. Anyway, swart was just her colour. ‘Amor fati,’ she said to the mirror, the steamed up smear in front of her. ‘There’s no happy ending anyway.’ Through the narrow window of the bathroom she saw the feathery texture of the sky. Later the sun might shine on the city, brightening the grey fronts of the Georgian houses and the dusty terraces. There would be a smell of the approach of winter and dried out petrol and she would walk in Kensington Gardens and watch sunlight skimming on the surface of the water and people playing football in the grass. If she went to the interview and did well, she thought, then she would take a book to a quiet corner of the park and read for a while.
Now she turned off the taps. The pipes made a low groan. She took a towel from the rack and smelt it. She used it sparingly on her skin. Because Jess had already gone out, she drew the curtains and dressed quickly in the living room, looking round at the familiar objects, silhouettes in the half-light. In the corner she saw the diodes of a stereo, glinting like rubies. She could see Jess’s coat hanging on the half-open door like a timid man too nervous to approach. Then, prepared to beg, she walked out onto the street.
She caught up with Jess at a café on Portobello Road, a place where they sold designer clothes and food at the same time. The waiters passed their time sniffing down the menus, styling themselves on Satan and his minions. In the designer kitchens of Beelzebub they were dishing up much-adorned plates. Everyone in there was well clad, loaded with the latest styles. Even the brunch was as elegant as anything. Rosa didn’t care about the contrasts. It was only when she had eaten half her salmon and eggs that she understood she was there to receive advice. Jess was a small, precise person, who always thought before she spoke. She had been generous for months. Now Rosa’s whole Weltanschauung, to give it a name it hardly merited, was wearing thin. They ate toast and failed to talk seriously until a second round of coffees came. Then Jess – who was a kindly person and really quite hated to kick people in the teeth – said, ‘Rosa, I brought you here to suggest that you take a break. Why not go away for a while? A change of scene. How about it?’ She was twirling a napkin round her neat little fingers.
‘No need,’ said Rosa, her mouth full of toast.
‘Now, Rosa,’ said Jess. ‘I mean it. Have a holiday. Take a break. Go on, go and see Will and Judy. You said they invited you the other week. Go for some brisk walks, get some country air. I’ll lend you some money, if you need it’ – and Rosa said, ‘No thanks’ – and Jess made a pishing noise as if to say that they would argue about this later. ‘So why not go off for a while and then we’ll see if you don’t come back full of gusto. Give them a call later.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Rosa. ‘Quite enough gus
to. Thanks for the suggestion.’
‘Why not consider it at least. It’s easy to get trapped in a way of thinking about things. You’d find it’d give you some distance. Look, I’ll square it.’
Rosa was about to say no thanks, but then she realised she wasn’t sure if Jess meant her holiday or her brunch. The holiday she could turn down with dignity, but she was hoping Jess might expense brunch. Playing for time, she said, ‘Jess, you’ve been really saintly. As soon as I regain my poise’ – at this Jess kept a straight face and said nothing – ‘I will definitely take your advice. But for the moment, I don’t want to leave the city when everything is so indeterminate. I have to get a job. I can’t just borrow money from you.’
Jess greased her lips with spittle. She said, ‘As long as you know the offer stands. The other thing is, well, I think it might be time for you to move on.’
‘Move on from what?’ said Rosa, with a heightened sense of foreboding. There was a pregnant pause while Jess seized her coffee and drank it down. When she had finished she said, quite calmly, ‘From my flat.’
‘You want me to move out?’
‘In short, yes.’
That was a blow, though far from surprising. Really, Rosa agreed. She was an imposition. However penitent she was, she was still there in Jess’s flat all day, scattering books and scraps of paper across her stripped pine floorboards, violating the sanctity of the bathroom, leaving stains on the coffee cups. She was intrusive and the offer had originally only been for a few weeks. Besides, Jess and Neil were settling down. They wanted to start a family, Jess was explaining. ‘At thirty-four,’ she said, ‘we think it’s high time. We just want a bit more space. You know, so we can sort things out and really get on to the next stage.’
The logic was irrefutable. The next stage was beckoning and who was Rosa to stand in the way? Jess was eager for her next part, ready and willing to play it. The argument was done and dusted by the time Jess had unfurled a few reasonable sentences. It was a pedestrian moment but it left Rosa with the awkward question of where she would go. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I understand.’ She squinted at the table. ‘I can go as soon as you want.’
‘No no, just as soon as you can,’ said Jess, suggesting that it would be physically impossible for Rosa to go as soon as she wanted. ‘I don’t want to sling you out completely. Let’s just work towards you going as soon as possible. Think about it today and tell me how soon you think that will be, and then I’ll make plans around that.’
That was pretty brutal, and Rosa thought about launching a protest. Jess, if I may beg you?! I understand, you have been generous, toweringly generous, far more than you needed to be. In honesty, we were never close friends, you and I. Cordial with each other, part of a bonded group, but there was no particular tie between us. Which makes your patience still more commendable. But perhaps you are being hasty? After all, I’ve been here only two months and in that time I have made good progress. I have read some of Euripides, a bit of Seneca, a few poems by Catullus, a little (though tentatively and in some confusion) of Plotinus, and, in my leisure hours, some Wordsworth, a lot of Blake, a number of sonnets by Donne. I have really cracked on with ancient philosophy. While doing this, I have managed nonetheless to pay rent every month. I understand, you gave me a good rate on the room, minimal compared to the market rate, I can hardly complain. Nonetheless, Sharkbreath will tell you, that money was sucked out of my account each month. Eventually it was sucked from my debt. I have not been tidy, I know, but I have never been late with a payment! And she thought of the hours she had spent pacing the streets, or sitting in cinemas and bars, trying to avoid going back to Jess’s flat, giving her evenings on her own and evenings with Neil and disappearing when Jess had guests over – as if she was merely a sponging interloper, the recipient of charity. Still it was hard to construct a case. There was no way she could justify herself. Instead she said ‘Of course’ in a weak voice. ‘Thanks so much for letting me stay for so long. I know it hasn’t been ideal for you.’ She sipped her coffee and thought, Now what will you do? There was a pause, while Rosa considered the question and Jess looked eagerly for the waiter.
‘I still think you should just get away,’ said Jess. ‘I’m really happy to lend you the money. Let me know. And if I can help you in any other way.’
‘Oh no, that’s fine. You’ve really helped already,’ said Rosa. ‘It’s not your fault at all. I’m sorry if I’ve been inconsiderate.’
Jess shook her head, impatiently.
‘In truth, Jess,’ said Rosa, ‘these months have been a trifle hard.’ A trifle trying, she thought, these last few months. ‘I feel – well, frankly, I feel as if I am presiding over a small tranche of chaos, my own, but completely beyond my control. It’s a sort of self-consciousness I feel. I’m watching the descent. Like a novice skier, I am flying down the slope, without a sense of direction.’ Jess looked unimpressed. The wind is whipping at my ears. Someone! Slow me down! The wind is really chasing me along. I can see a few faces, a few spectators, but they can’t stop me. It’s a following wind, following me along, gusting me into what can only be a crevasse. A great gaping chasm. I don’t want to plunge in, I want to turn the skis around, or at least fall to the side into an accommodating snowdrift, but the snow is too pacey and slithery and I’m gathering speed, hurtling faster and faster and now I can see the blackness opening up before me, do you understand? I should be screaming at these people standing around on the slopes. I should be screaming HELP ME! SAVE ME! But I’m worried they might have other things to do, better things to do, so I’m skiing along, smiling at them, trying to look like I know what I’m doing. It’s trenchant, the darkness. Black and compelling. Here we are, faster and faster and here’s the hole! Here’s the damn dark hole! Ahead! Ahead!
Jess asked for the bill. When it came she said, ‘I’ll get it’, and slapped her credit card on the table. Rosa let her pay.
*
Later she and Jess went their separate ways: Jess to the tube with a spring of plain relief in her step and Rosa back to the flat, her own personal sword of Damocles dangling above. At the flat, she checked the post and wrote a few petitions, attempts to placate the fates. She wrote a letter to the Flower Shop, applying for a job tying bows round bouquets. Dear Sir or Madam, I would be delighted to be considered for this position. As a child, I was quite good at playing the piano and the violin. I have always enjoyed using my fingers. Really, though my training was in journalism I have long felt that flowers were my true metier. She could imagine herself there, tying up a bouquet, one hand to her temple, the other struggling with a piece of ribbon. ‘Fancy a batch of lilies, sir, quite your nicest funeral flower?’ ‘There’s Rosemary, that’s for remembrance. And there are pansies, that’s for thoughts. There’s rue for you. There’s a daisy. Thanks so much. Come again soon. For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.’ She wrote,
Dear Mr Pennington, Thanks for your time the other day. Just to emphasise, I really am very interested in the culture of Ancient Egypt. I know we didn’t get on so well, but I’m never at my best under pressure. And you were a funny old man, not my kind of person at all. But Ancient Egypt – it’s been a fascination of mine ever since I saw the sarcophagi at the British Museum as a child. We went on a school trip, all the way from Bristol. We were eleven or twelve. The tube train stopped in a tunnel and we all screamed. Then we saw the gold cases with their inscriptions – I remember wondering if there were still bodies inside.
She had wandered around with her mouth open. She had often imagined going to Egypt, sitting at the edge of the pyramids watching the sun set across the sands, with the age-blasted head of the Sphinx above her. I would be so honoured to help you with such a fascinating project. Yours ever, Rosa Lane.
Dear Mr Sharkbreath, Thank you for your letter dated whenever of whenever threatening to send bailiffs round to my address if I don’t pay the interest on the loan you gave me in August. You are of course welcome to drop round, but Jess might be angry. Je
ss owns the flat I live in, and all the furniture. I am afraid that in recent months I have given most of my things away, or sold them. There are a few things I could offer you: one smart suit in cream (more like oyster, really), a pair of jeans and a jumper, two shirts, my small collection of undergarments, four pairs of socks, a very warm grey coat, and a couple of second-hand books. If you feel any of this would help then do come and get it. Yours ever, Rosa Lane.
Dear Viracocha, Buddha, Osiris, Isis, Zeus, Allah, Jehovah, Shiva, Humbaba, Yabalon and the rest,
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