By the Time You Read This

by Lola Jaye

  Carla was a star, helping me clean and decorate the shop, while Mom backed out at the last minute because of the Bingo Caller being unable to look after Abbi.

  Regardless of some minor setbacks, K Pics was supposed to be opening in three weeks. Admittedly, it was touch and go considering the amount of talking (instead of painting) Carla and I got through. Particularly when we got onto the subject of her big brother.

  “Who would have thought Slut of the Year Corey would have settled down!”

  I stopped painting.

  “A different girl every week, that one. Don’t you remember when we were at school?” She thought for a moment. “Oh, sorry…” She looked guilty.

  “Forget about it. I have,” I said quietly.

  “Really? Or are you just saying that?”

  “A mind-reader now, are we?” I snapped.

  “I just want you to be happy too, like me and Markus…That’s all.”

  Carla droned on about how incredible it was to be in love as I drifted off, uninterested in her wistful tales.

  What was love anyway? I asked myself.

  Miscellaneous: Love

  Love can be anything.

  There’s probably a whole load of theories on being in love. A chemical reaction, a state of mind, blah, blah, blah. And there is a definite sense of division among the egg heads on this thing called love.

  I’d say it’s relative to who’s actually feeling it. When you’re still a kid, getting your hair pulled by some other kid could be a way of him letting you know he fancies you. A few years later, you might find yourself dreaming about some spotty boy with massive feet who sits behind you in Science. Your mind’s racing, your palms are getting all clammy. That’s what we call lust, my darling. Just early lust. Love—real love—comes with so much more, Lowey, and must not be confused with lust.

  So what is love?

  Love is…loving someone even when they look like they’ve been dragged through a muddy hedge sideways and then doused in manure for good measure.

  That’s a good place to start.

  But loving someone can be…one minute this unexplainable connection as you both sit in silence watching the TV, knowing you’d never want to be apart from that person; the next day trying to decide the quickest, cleanest way to finish them off. A bit of a contradiction, but it’s usually the good stuff, like the tummy flips, the longing and constant reel of thoughts about that special someone that are great. Thankfully, these don’t last, as something a lot more important slips into place. Just trust me when I tell you this: when you feel it, you’ll know. Just like I knew with your mother, you’ll just know. You may find this aged eighteen or eighty-five. I was lucky to find it the day I met your mom.

  And then again with you.

  With stars on, Dad

  By midnight we’d finished all the painting and clearing up, and despite her protests Carla stayed behind to help with the finishing touches—strategically placing huge plants to cover the odd fracture in the wall and arguing over where to place the tripod.

  “Why didn’t you ask Biyi to help? I thought you were at least friends now?”

  Miscellaneous: Male friends 2

  Can men and women be just good friends?

  Yes.

  But make no mistake, he’s dreaming about and living for the day you’ll be desperate enough to, well, you know…

  Again, look up the section on hormones and teabags—that never really goes away. So even if you’ve been friends for a long time (he’s seen you with snot dripping from your nose, or covered in sick after a particularly bad case of food poisoning) he still wouldn’t be knocking over chairs trying to get away if you asked him to take your friendship beyond the boundaries, if only for one night.

  Okay, maybe I’m being a bit unfair. Mature men and women CAN be friends. But only if the friendship has never, and I mean NEVER, been contaminated with that old thing called…lust. A kiss…the other stuff…even unclean thoughts. Because then a line has been crossed and it’s hard to get back to that wholesome platonic friendship level you had before.

  Hadn’t Corey proved this theory?

  I held up images of Abbi and Carla to the wall.

  “I’m bored of talking about men!” I said, deciding the one of Abbi on her bike would be the centerpiece of the shop. The kid was just too cute. “Carla, what picture do you think should go here when the wall’s dry? You in the red dress or the blue?” I knew her vanity would win, and predictably all thoughts of Biyi disappeared as she concentrated meticulously on selecting her “sexiest” photograph.

  I called a cab for us both as Carla was on her phone to Markus.

  “Sorry, Markus, we got a bit carried away here, but Lois has just called a cab and I’m on my way.”

  Carla’s smile crumpled and she turned away from me. Her voice was low, but in the still of an empty shop after midnight I could hear the conversation clearly.

  “I’m sorry, Markus. She needed my help. You know I’m never usually out this late…no…I…Sorry.”

  I pretended to busy myself, but my ears remained transfixed.

  “Yes, bu—No, I am not talking back, Markus. I will be home very soon—yes, I…Markus? Markus? Are you there?”

  She closed the phone and turned to me. “He’s a bit peeved with me.”

  My friend, the ballsy chick who took no crap from anyone at school, suddenly looked lost, if not a little frightened.

  “Carla, are you okay?”

  “He’s so angry with me, Lois…” She sat on a stool still wrapped in plastic, head bowed.

  “Is…is he going to have a go at you when you get in?”

  “A bit. He just loves me so much. Doesn’t like being away from me.”

  “He’s a control freak, Carla!”

  The cab beeped its horn outside.

  “Don’t start all that again. I’ve gotta go. Now,” she said with sudden urgency.

  As the cab pulled up to their apartment, I sensed her body stiffen. We said a hurried goodbye and she shot out. I asked the cabby to wait. The lounge light flicked on. Two shadows came together. Body language strained, at one point a little too aggressive from his point of view. I waited—more than ready to barge in if I had to.

  The two shadows embraced. I told the cabby to move on.

  On the day of the opening I was filled with shreds of anxiety. Would anyone actually like my pictures? Apart from the praise of a proud mom cooing over pictures of her little girl, a vain best friend, a seven-year-old and the man who’d been sleeping with me, I’d yet to show my work to anyone else. Having placed advertisements in the local press and shop windows, I hoped the promise of free wine would encourage customers through the doors.

  Within the first half-hour, though, only two people came in.

  “Wow, that’s lovely!” said a toothy woman who admitted she hadn’t seen any of the advertisements, merely dropping in out of curiosity.

  “Thank you,” I replied as her eyes roamed slowly around my new shop.

  “How much do you charge for a full session?”

  “Twenty pounds per shot,” I said. Although I’d already agreed a price in my head, after careful negotiations with my calculator, hearing it said out loud induced a little trepidation within me. A fear of rejection. A belief that the customer would soon realize what a fraud I was, before storming out to find a “real” photographer.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  She sat on one of the stools. “Do I bring my own make-up?”

  I turned to the side, Abbi’s adorable grin staring back at me.

  “Yes, if you could. Plus two changes of clothes and…”

  And as I continued, the lady with an abundance of teeth had no idea that she was my first paying customer. That any mistake made with her booking would be a learning curve. That I would work doubly hard to give her the very best service I could.

  Two days later, she returned for the shoot. The test shots were awful, as were the ten after that, but
slowly I began to develop my own rhythm. Learned her best angles and the right things to say to make her smile. And hours later we sat at the laptop picking the best shots. Far from being a fussy customer, she just had one stipulation: “Can you do something about my teeth?”

  By the end of my third day in business, I had five orders pending.

  Carla had an idea to put a small placard outside the indoor market, displaying my work, which seemed to entice passing trade, and within one week my orders doubled. My three star models (Abbi, Carla and the lady with the now airbrushed teeth) took pride of place in the studio. Abbi in a pink fluffy dress munching on an ice lolly, all doe-eyed and innocent, and the earlier shot of her riding the bike with the yellow tassels. On the far side, Carla looking rather sexual, mouth slightly open, her gorgeous face slightly shrouded by shadows. It was an absolutely stunning shot that hadn’t needed much of a touch up anyway. And then the toothy lady with her foot on a stool, smiling at the camera. I hadn’t felt this good, this alive and full of purpose in ages.

  I put together a makeshift website, displaying a show-reel of my photos, and even though I had yet to receive any inquiries via email, a presence in cyberspace somehow legitimized the business for me. Deep down I still couldn’t believe I HAD a business, let alone believe I was actually any good at photography. I’d never once questioned my ability in IT, but something as creative as this uncovered new sets of insecurities that had been lurking deep within. Yet despite all of this, I felt alive.

  My camera was now a part of me, and I was unable (or unwilling) to go anywhere without the black case and strap swinging from my shoulders. It wasn’t easy without a car, but it was manageable.

  I arrived at Carla’s mom’s feeling slightly nervous and uncertain if I’d bump into Corey. I was going to take some shots of Calvin with Carla’s mom to add to my portfolio of couple photographs. So while strangely excited about depicting the love and passion they still shared for one another despite their difference in age, I was relieved to know that Corey was out house-hunting in Greenwich with his bride-to-be.

  I took various shots of the happy couple in a variety of poses around the house. Still astounded as to how much Carla’s mom and Calvin were so obviously very much in love, when contrasted to the staleness of Mom and the Bingo Caller’s relationship next door.

  “You look great!” enthused Calvin as Carla’s mom reappeared in her fourth outfit of the day—a red off-the-shoulder dress so short I could probably wear it as a bikini top.

  “Thanks, babe!” she trilled, draping long, shapely legs around her husband and perhaps totally forgetting my existence as she proceeded to stick her tongue down his throat.

  I cleared my own throat loudly, before reluctantly shooting them in near pornographic poses, relieved to hear the front door open and the couple relax their positions somewhat.

  Corey, minus the Blonde Bombshell Mark Two, appeared.

  “Hi,” he said solemnly, eyes facing the laminated floor.

  My heart stopped.

  “What’s wrong, Corey?” asked Carla’s mom, pulling the hem of her dress downward.

  “Nothing, Mom,” he replied, throwing himself onto the armchair. Something was wrong and I suddenly felt like an intruder.

  “Let’s go and make something to drink, Lois!” said Calvin, ushering me out of the lounge and into the kitchen. It seemed clear that mother and son needed to be alone.

  “Do you think Corey’s okay?” I asked as Calvin fixed himself a straight rum on the rocks and mine with coke.

  “I suppose we’ll find out sooner or later. Probably that girlfriend of his.”

  “Oh?” I sipped at the drink, the sharpness of the rum gripping my taste buds.

  “I really shouldn’t say this but they’ve been arguing a lot lately, you know…”

  I didn’t know. Carla hadn’t mentioned it. Not that I’d asked.

  Calvin took a large slurp of his drink and flinched a little. “It’s not until you live with someone that you know what they are really like. That’s why I’m so lucky with my wife. We’re just meant to be together. You know what I mean?”

  I didn’t, but I nodded regardless.

  “You should have brought your record round to play.”

  “With Stars On’?”

  “Yeah, that corny one. I’d like to hear it again”

  I playfully pinched him on the arm. “It’s not corny! Besides, carrying my camera equipment AND an old vinyl record on the bus? Too much.

  “Why don’t we download it!”

  “Can you believe, I just never got round to doing that?”

  “You’ve had a lot on your mind. No problem, we can do it right now. Might take a bit of time to find it on the Net and downloading it will take at least half an hour,” he said.

  “You mean you haven’t got broadband?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sorry, I forgot to mention that this creative photographer thing is merely a disguise, there’s always going to be a nerd fighting to get out!”

  Half an hour later, Calvin had located Dad’s song and sent the MP3 file to my email box ready to download. A bloodshot-eyed Corey and his mom soon appeared.

  “Can we finish this another time?” asked Carla’s mom.

  “Sure,” I replied as Calvin handed his stepson a straight rum. Corey finally acknowledged my existence with a nod just as I was leaving.

  “Good to see you, Lo Bag.”

  “You too,” I said.

  He followed me to the door and I faced him.

  “What?” he asked in an ironic tone. I wanted to hold him, smooth over whatever was making him so sad.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  A pained expression followed and for a second there I thought he would fall into my arms, rest his head and just be.

  Instead, with his hand on the doorknob, he said, “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

  Carla never really did fill me in on what had happened, only that Corey and the Blonde Bombshell Mark Two parted soon after the very day I’d seen him, with Corey immediately taking a flight out to Barcelona, to his dad. Something that I totally understood he had to do. I ran a finger over The Manual, hoping to feel my own dad’s presence, but after reading a few past entries, I realized something: The Manual was almost coming to an end. Bookmarking where I had now reached meant the amount of pages on the right were so much less than those on the left-hand side. I gave out a sigh. No one, Corey included, would ever truly understand what The Manual meant to me—especially when all he had to do was take a two-hour plane trip to see his dad. I’d never see mine again.

  I invested in a colorful portable MP3 player and the first song I loaded onto it was Dad’s song. So now it was as if I could hear his voice as I traveled on the bus into work or during the less busy moments in the shop. And that was nice.

  I was soon able to break even with the bills and pay myself a tiny wage that would keep me in hot food. It was tough, but I found myself smiling more and more with each new day.

  The cloud had lifted.

  Thanks, Dad.

  do something silly

  Kevin Trivia: I slept through half of ET—but don’t tell your mom!

  Miscellaneous: Advice—some rules

  You’ll get to an age where you probably think you’ve seen a lot, done a lot, heard a lot. So it’s easy to want to pass these experiences onto others, especially those you care so deeply about (just look at me!).

  But try not to impart words of wisdom that border “advice” territory—not unless someone literally begs you (while dangling dangerously on the edge of Big Ben’s long hand).

  Yes, I’m contradicting myself, considering this manual is all about me advising you on every facet of your life without actually being asked, but…erm…oh, b****r it, I’m a dying man, give me a break.

  My best friend and I sat opposite one another, tucking into a selection of oriental starters at our favorite Chinese restaurant, just off Deptford High Street.

 
“It’s like I’ve just told you the worst news in the world, and not that I’m marrying Markus, the man I love. Sorry for thinking you’d be happy for me,” she said, crunching into a mini pancake roll.

  “I want to be…but it’s him. He isn’t good enough for you,” I said fervently.

  “And that’s your expert advice?”

  “It’s not advice as such…just my opinion…”

  “Just what have you got against him?”

  “You have to ask? I don’t like the way he treats you, for a start.”

  “He doesn’t hit me!” she said a bit too quickly.

  My tummy muscles tensed as I watched her shift bits of pancake roll around her plate.

  “I know you don’t agree with marriage and that but don’t try to ram it down my throat…”

  “You know that isn’t it.”

  “Then what is it then?”

  “I have just told you.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “His jealousy…the way he talks down to you, Carla. I’ve seen it and he doesn’t care who he does it in front of.” Against the paper tablecloth, our fingers met, her engagement ring tinkling against the artificial lighting.

  “Please, just think about it before you tie yourself down to this man.”

  She drew her hand away and we ate in silence as I thought about just how much none of this made any sense. I’d dumped boyfriends nowhere near as bad as Markus. And yet Carla was willing to forgo any feeling of self-worth to settle for a moron who lacked basic respect.

  I was confused.

  Saturday was the busiest day at the shop, which meant I was unfortunately only able to spend an hour at Abbi’s birthday party.

  “I don’t know why you can’t stay longer. Abbi loves seeing you!” complained Mom, transporting a fresh tray of jellies onto the kitchen table. Funny, the Bingo Caller—her own father—had hardly made an appearance and I was tempted to point this out.