“Really?”
“Yes, really. Our lives pretty much revolved around Marylebone Road, Portland Place, Wigmore Street. We were never allowed to pass Gloucester on our own, Luce and me,” she says smiling.
“You girls are from the West End?” Lucia mentioned that before.
“Yes we are, Manchester boy! We are West End girls; Marylebone to be exact. What part of ‘we’re British’ haven’t you got yet? Axelle and I both went to Marylebone All-Girls School and Lucia would have too if we didn’t move to France after Papa’s death. But we did all go to the RAM to study music on the weekends,” she says and gets in her car.
“And you don’t drive in London, you British bird,” I laughs.
“Are you mad? Have you noticed my alcohol consumption? I’m not driving from Hampstead Village to London until I have my wedding ring on my finger,” she laughs. I close the door for her. “I barely do in Toronto anyway,” she adds.
“You have a nice wedding, Noor,” I tell her through the window. I really wish her the best on her special day.
Her face finally relaxes. “Thank you, Just Marcus. You look very good by the way,” she says. She plays with Lucia’s charm bracelet. “You might not be as dense as I thought after all,” she adds before her car drives away.
Lucia is in London and is going to eat the same lunch as I did in the next thirty minutes. I walk to the closest tube station, Regent Park. Not once in Toronto did I use their transportation system but here I only take my car out when forced to. I switch line at Baker Street Station for mine, Jubilee, and exit at St John’s Wood Station, just a few minutes away from Hampstead. All this time I have been just a few minutes away from her.
The first time I saw Mary O’Connell, John and I were scouting for talent. We were twenty and we thought we knew it all. Johnny needed a lead for his musical, our first and only collaboration. It was called “The Secret Life of Anna Cordilinni”, the story of a murder – with singing and dancing! What the bloody hell were we thinking? We thought we were the RAM and we could do whatever we wanted. Mary was the fifth singer we saw that day. John was dating his then-first-choice, Ally; she could dance and according to John, she could shag but she couldn’t sing.
A nineteen year old Mary arrived with her own music sheet; her long hair was then jade black and wavy and with her pale skin, all I could see were her blue eyes. And that darn sexy, red lipstick; she looked like a sexy vampire with her velvet corset. It gave her the smallest waist I had ever seen and enhanced her small breasts. Our mouths went dry.
“And what’s your name, love?” John asked.
“Mary O’Connell,” she told us with her strong Irish accent.
“Bloody hell! Sinead O’Connor’s back,” Ally whined.
“If she can sing like her, she’s in,” I said. Even if she couldn’t, I then thought.
Ally was getting jealous. “Why not indeed; we do need somebody to suck out all the lines,” she mocked cynically.
“I’m auditioning for Anna Cordilinni’s part,” Mary said, not at all affected or threatened by Ally. That was Mary O’Connell; she was afraid of nothing and no one.
“That’s my fucking part, cunt!” Ally shrieked.
“And I’ll be singing ‘Nothing Compares To You’,” she gloated with a bright smile. She gave her music sheets. “All Irish cunts must stick together,” she smirked back.
“Brilliant!” I said. And she was. Ally was replaced and downgraded to back-up dancer.
Her corset and black hair phase ended about a year later. She also ditched her native Irish accent for a sophisticated Londoner one, with very short, light-brown hair, and started to call herself Mary Gillis. That was about the time we started dating. John, Matt and I were in love with our sexy Irish lass mate. But somehow I made the cut; Johnny and Matt were too self-involved, just like her. But I didn’t care. Mary’s personality was what I loved the most about her; her talent was a close second. She was my muse; all my songs were about her, about us. By the time I was twenty-two, I thought I had found the love of my life who was now a natural redhead with a bob haircut chasing most of my childhood friends away. At least she tried, but The Terrors from Manchester were really hard to shake off. I proposed in Paris later that year, after our second album went triple platinum. She was a blonde again and had legally changed her name to Gillis.
How much has she changed really? Apart from her accent, hair style and name, Mary has always been looking after one person – herself. A couple of days before I left for Toronto, we met at a movie premiere. She and Eric were having problems…again; something about him cheating on her…again. But he was so good for her image.
“My fucking prime! I’m only twenty-seven and I have the body of the sixteen year old!” she cried that night. She was drunk, her makeup was getting ruined and there were photographers everywhere, so I sneaked her out and took her back to my home. “Why can’t they just love me the way you do,” she said as I was installing her in one of the guestrooms.
“What way is that?” I asked her.
“I’m your muse, Silly,” she mumbled and clumsily grabbed me. “Stay with me tonight,” she whispered. But I declined. I didn’t want it to happen that way, not between us. Also, it was the first time I’d seen her broken up about anyone. She had never shed a single tear for me. At that moment I couldn’t get away from her and from London any faster.
The next day I found an empty guestroom; my muse didn’t even leave me a note. She was back with her precious Eric in their precious Spanish villa within a week and until she showed up at my doorstep earlier this week, I have been avoiding all her calls. I’m avoiding another right now. The new and changed Mary can wait; Patrick and I are packing for Manchester. Can’t wait.
“Are you sure we have to drive all the way there?” I ask Patrick. We promised Mum that we would come and visit together.
“And how are we supposed to get there otherwise, Marcus?” he asks me while we’re watching the telly.
“The train should be fine. I just don’t want to drive back on my own,” I tell him.
“But I drove here! I need my bloody car in Manchester!” he protests.
“Okay, so you drive and I’ll take the train back then,” I say.
“Coward!” he laughs and hands me another beer.
“I’m the coward? I’m not the one hiding in London from my own parents and family,” I tell him. I take the beer. “You need to tell them. They think their grandchildren are coming back soon.”
“And I will, alright.”
“Right. Like Mr Favorite would ever sabotage his chance to be the perfect son,” I tease and hit him gently on the arm.
“Not that hard to be with a bloody bastard like you as a brother,” he jokes back.
“Your wife is a fucking idiot,” I answer back.
“I drink to that,” he says. He brings his bottle close you mine. “At least she’s not a world class bitch like your Mary,” he says, toasting me.
“Ouch, mate!” I answer then the doorbell rings and I get up to open it. Who could it be on a Sunday night? “Aunt Sue?” I say to the older woman standing on my porch.
“Hi, love,” she says as I let her in.
“Auntie Sue!” Patrick greets as he’s walking towards us.
“By God, Pat, you’re more dashing every time I see you,” she says. She hugs him and looks at me. “Marcus, you’re catching up nicely,” she teases and gives me a kiss. She sits on the sofa. “Your mother said I would find you both here.”
“Is everything alright? Are you leaving uncle Don?” I ask.
“Are you joking? Best shag of my life. I’ll kill him before one of us walks out,” she says.
“Right,” Pat and I both say. Sue Miller’s humor is as dirty as her older sister but Mum at least starts after a couple drinks. Right now we wish we could be so lucky.
“Your cousin is scheduled for delivery next Wednesday,” she says.
“Alice? Number six, right?” Pat asks.
&n
bsp; She lights up a ciggy. “I know; she’s still chasing her baby girl and she married a Catholic,” she tells us. She takes one of the beers on the table. “Anyway, this time it is a girl so I’m flying to Rome tomorrow morning.”
“Sally and I stopped after three. No boys for us,” Patrick tells us.
“That didn’t mean you had to stop shagging honey. The woman obviously needs to eat some meat. Get on with it, love!” she loves teasing him about Sally. We all do. Their eyes lock for a small staring contest. They both have the same light-brown eye color. Pat looks away hysterically laughing. “I was supposed to attend this wedding next week but I’ll be in Rome with the breeders.”
“Aunt Sue!” I say. I can feel a knock in my stomach.
She gives Patrick the invitation. “I already emailed the wedding planner. It’s in Hampstead, not far from here at all,” she explains.
Patrick and I look at each other.
“What about Uncle Don?” I ask.
“It’s a Miller’s function not a Stonenberg, and he’s coming with me. That would teach me for marrying a Jew. Oy!” she laughs. She takes another sip. “We already bought the gift; I’ve got it in the car. We can’t miss the wedding. I have known this family for more than sixty years. We went to Marylebone together. You have to represent the Miller.”
Patrick opens the invitation and reads it. His grin is spreading from ear to ear. “Give me the keys; I’ll go get the gift,” he says. You wanker! Just show me the invitation! But he leaves with it.
“So, who’s the lucky bride?” I ask but I already know the answer.
“Noor Mpobo-Riddell. Eleanor and Axel’s second daughter,” she announced with a big smile. Did Mum tell her anything? “They’re in show business too. So it should be a good networking opportunity for you,” she adds.
“Yes…networking,” Patrick repeats the gift in his arms. Oh, he is so enjoying this. He gives me the invitation.
“The Riddell-Mpobo-Burton Families invite you to Nooradine Suzanne Georgia Mpobo-Riddell and Andrew Sean Philip Burton’s celebration of love,” I read. Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger! How…? When…? What…?
“You better make me proud there,” Aunt Sue tells us.
“Of course,” we both reply. I look at Patrick with real disbelief. How…? When…? What…? How…?
Lucia – The Pre-Chorus… Again
It was always the same vivid dream; more like a vivid memory that didn’t want to leave me alone. I would be in bed wearing one of his favorite shirts and he would be trying to find my second navel. A silly game we would always play; anything to take his own shirt off of me. I don’t have a second navel but Marcus was no quitter! He would search for one on every single inch of my body with his hands and mouth; strangely, never his eyes. Cat Stevens’ song would always play in the background and Marcus would be the one doing the singing. It’s an unfair world: a world where I can’t even take a break from thinking about him in my sleep and have been waking up aroused every morning for the past five weeks. I sound like a fucking romance novel cliché!
And this morning is no different, if you don’t count the massive hangover I have. Alfie and I can’t even sit up. What the heck did we do last night at Noor’s bachelorette? I snuggle up against Alfie, the best 5-foot teddy bear a grown-up woman could ever own. I’ve missed the old bugger; Mother left him here before we left for France. He was a gift from Granddaddy, given to me shortly after the funeral and the only thing that made me fall asleep back then. Right now, in one of the guestrooms of the Hampstead Riddell estate, Alfie is the only thing keeping me from running to the bathroom and throwing up. Someone will soon notice that I’m not downstairs in the kitchen, the garden, the back pool, the front pool, the living rooms, the library, the music room, the dance studio… Who am I kidding? They’re not coming up for me and I’m running out of time.
“Sorry, Alfie. It’s all coming back up now!” I say before going to the bathroom. Oh my God! What did I drink? Well, no time to ponder about it because it looks like I’m going for seconds. And I was worried that I wouldn’t fit in my suit. If I keep on this rate, it will be needing alterations. I really hope that the third time is the charm because I’m pretty sure my stomach’s empty now.
“Good, you’re awake.” I hear Noor speaking on top of me. She places the detox shake next to me. “Am I too late?”
“Hold that thought,” I painfully slur. Fuck! I think I’m going at it for the fourth time. After I’m done I wash my face and brush my teeth. This time there is nothing left. “I’m going back to bed with Alfie,” I tell her and take the detox out of her hand.
“Okay, but we have an appointment at…” She stops when she sees my face. “I’ll check up on you later,” she says before leaving my room.
I turn off the lights; with the curtains closed it’s pretty dark and perfect around me. I’m snuggling Alfie again to get some rest. Damn… That vivid dream again!
I finally left Alfie and my childhood comfort to join the others downstairs. Nothing like our famous detox and a nice shower to feel somewhat normal again. Somewhat is the word for it. It’s almost 4.00 p.m. when I arrive in the kitchen. Lelly is feeding Mitch his afternoon snack and Annie is in the children’s living room watching a DVD with her little cousins. The ten bedrooms in the family home have been taken over by all the out-of-towners. Lelly and I have reluctantly lent our West End townhouse to the Burtons. I would have rather stayed in the home I grew up in but staying with my cousins in Hampstead hasn’t been bad at all. If we’re not counting this morning.
“Good afternoon, Miss Lucia. Would you like some tea? It would help your stomach to settle,” Magda says. She has been our family governess nearly forty years; wherever Granddaddy goes she follows. Some used to say that she was his mistress and then his consolation after Grandma passed away twenty-five years ago. She’s sixty-five years old but doesn’t look a day over fifty. Her Spanish and Tunisian origins give her a nice light-brown skin and dark-green eyes.
“Hi, Magda. Tea? Really?” I ask her.
“Trust me; with a shot of brandy and some of those delicious shortbreads you made yesterday,” she tells me.
“Now we’re talking. Can I get a ciggie as well?” I ask and avoid Lelly’s look as I sit next to her. Fucking London! It gets me every time! I’ve been here for ten days and I’m pretty sure I’m on my second pack.
“Can I get both too please, Magda?” Axelle asks. She cleans up Mitch’s face and giving him a kiss. I give him a big kiss as well before his nanny takes him away. “What? I had a rough night too,” she tells me once we’re alone.
The kitchen table can accommodate up to eight people. When we were younger we were always having our snacks here with all our cousins. Back then it had a more rustic look but with the recent renovation, it now has marble on the floor, two kitchen islands, twelve electric plates, twelve gas ones but the piece de resistance are the ovens; all three of them are energy saving and the fastest cooking ovens I’ve ever used. You could easily cook for about two hundreds guests here. This Saturday will test this theory.
We both take our tea and cookies and head to the veranda outside.
“So how was your day?” I ask her.
She takes a puff. “Let me see; Paul flew back to Toronto for an emergency, Noor is having a fit again over the menu with the hired sous-chefs. Oh, and I’m bloody smoking again!” She says, taking another puff. “Fantastic really. Right on schedule I say!”
“I know.” I finish my cigarette.
“Fucking London!” we both say before laughing.
“But really; what the hell did we do last night?” I ask her.
“Did you black out, love?” she asks me then hits me on the head.
“Hey! I thought we were done with that.” I complaints. I have established a Marcus gag order. No Marcus talks around me ever. When not respected, you get hit on the head.
“There you are!” Juliet says, appearing next to me. She hits me on the head too. A Riddell girl through
and through, light-brown hair and big, grey eyes.
“Please tell me what I did last night?” I ask them both. I’m starting to feel sick again and I’m getting weird flashbacks. All I can remember is that we decided to do something totally low-key to avoid getting arrested or too sick just before the wedding. We transformed one of the entertainment rooms into our own private casino with one black jack table, a poker one and a craps one, all with croupiers and dealers. We had a full bar with bartenders, cocktail waitresses and were even able to order food until midnight. I remember a lot of cigar smoking in the “gentlemen’s club” section of our casino and a lot of brandy and scotch drinking. I don’t remember how I got back to my room and I woke up in my underwear… Strip poker?
“Did I leave my clothes downstairs?” I ask them.
“No, you carried them back.” Juliet smiles and takes a sip of her own detox shake. I remember that she was the first one puking last night. Out of the fourteen of us, she was the first one to pass out! “Yes, I checked out early,” she tells me guessing my thoughts. “At least I looked pretty doing it,” she adds.
We were all wearing black cocktail dresses our cousin, Hélène Mpobo, had designed for the evening. She provided twelve dresses for the bridal party, including herself, and two extra ones for Axelle and me. Those dresses were very pretty and I kept twirling around and showed mine off last night. Oh lord! I remember what I kept saying
“He told me that I was so beautiful with my cute feet, my shapely legs. Those are damn good legs! My flat stomach,” a very drunken me told my cousins.
“Sweetie, those types of blokes are pieces of rubbish!” Carolyn Riddell told me.
She was even drunker than I was. Crazy Aussie Riddell, like Juliet! Where is she today anyway?
“No...” I told her. Why hadn’t anyone shut me up yet? “Marcus is different. He’s just lost that’s all. He thinks I’m incredible,” I told her. I think I was crying a little too. Oh…kill me now! Kill me now!
This Could Have Been Our Song!: A coulda woulda shoulda ballad Page 17