But while I still have some superhuman effort left, I text Emmeline. Even though it’s before seven on a Sunday morning, which violates just about every unspoken rule of our friendship.
Sorry for being a bitch. Hope U got home alrite. I hate when we argue. Met Mark & totally dumped his arse. Still in town but heading back to Crouchy for big clean-up. Call u l8r. Sunny xxxxxxxxxxxxx
As soon as I tuck my phone away, it immediately starts to ring.
There’s an unknown but kind of familiar number flashing up on the screen and after everything that’s happened tonight, I’m wary of unknown numbers. I still answer it, though.
I mean, it’s a ringing phone. I can’t not.
‘Hello?’
‘Sunny? Mon dieu! C’est la catastrophe! ’
It can only be Jean-Luc unleashing a flood of French in my ear. He sounds anguished and tired and at the very, very edge of the last of his nerves.
‘What’s wrong? In English! Try to tell me in English.’
‘I got the wrong bus. I fell asleep. I ended up in a dreadful place called Surbiton. Then I got on another bus. Et maintenant, I’m on another. C’est un cauchemar! ’
I don’t know what a cauchemar is but what a nightmare. ‘Where are you now?’
He gives a little hiccup, like maybe he’s biting back a sob. ‘I don’t know.’
Think, Sunny, think. Make your sludge-like brain work. ‘Isn’t there an electronic board on the bus that tells you what the next stop is?’
‘Hmmm, I have a look.’
How could Jean-Luc miss it? It should be there right in front of him.
‘Are you wearing sunglasses?’
‘I have to, Sunny. The light is too bright. My eyes …’ he tails off weakly.
I hear a disembodied voice in the background. ‘The next stop will be Waterloo station.’
‘GET OFF THE BUS! GET OFF AT THE NEXT STOP!’
‘Don’t shout, I beg of you.’
‘Get off the bus at Waterloo Station. I’m just round the corner. I’m sitting outside the Royal Festival Hall.’
‘Quoi? Qu’est-ce que tu dis? My battery’s going …’
‘Get off the bus, Jean-Luc. Follow the signs to the Royal Festival Hall. The South Bank. I’ll be waiting for you.’
The call cuts out. Static. Then silence.
It’s impossible to know how much Jean-Luc heard or how much he understood when he’d forgotten most of his English.
I think about going to look for him but there are a multitude of bus stops around Waterloo and I’d be bound to go to the wrong one. Or Jean-Luc might be on the upper level of the Royal Festival Hall while I’m on the ground level. He could be heading in entirely the wrong direction towards Westminster. Or …
The best thing is to just stay put, but it feels a lot like doing nothing while a distressed Frenchman wanders around SE1 getting more and more disorientated.
I try to call Jean-Luc just in case there’s like a quarter of a percent of his battery left but I get a message that says his phone is out of service.
Then I look up bus stops around Waterloo station to see where a bus coming from Surbiton might stop at – I’m kind of impressed that I can think so clearly, though it takes me three tries to spell Surbiton.
By now ten minutes have passed and there’s no sign of Jean-Luc as I sit on my bench and look left, look right, look behind me.
I stand up. There’s still no tufty-haired boy in a tight suit on any of my immediate horizons. I begin to take one uncertain step after another until I’m standing at the top of the steps that lead to the pedestrianised street along the side of the RFH. It’s thronged with restaurants, coffee shops, sushi bars – none of them open, so it’s not as if Jean-Luc has gone into one of them to ask them to make an espresso in the largest cup they have.
My shoulders sink. My legs aren’t doing a very good job of holding me up either. I think about sitting on the steps. Then I think about going back to the bench. Then I think about whether I might ever be able to go home again and then I see a tiny figure coming towards me.
It’s like a matchstick man from a Lowry painting come to life. Apart from the hair and the sunglasses and that he’s holding a broom. A grey broom with blue bristles.
On wobbly legs I stumble down the steps and he’s picking up speed too and so we’re actually running towards each other like we really are in that cheesy rom-com.
‘Sunny!’
‘Jean-Luc!’
We’re in each other’s arms and I don’t think anyone’s ever held me so tightly. The broom is digging in between my shoulder blades and I don’t even care.
‘Thank God, I found you!’ Jean-Luc exclaims fervently. ‘I’ve had such torment that you might be raped and murdered and la belle Hélène, elle vatomber folle de douleur! ’
‘I’m so sorry I let you storm off like that. I shouldn’t have done that. I know that I’ve been so annoying tonight but generally I’m not like that. And you’ve got my broom! I didn’t even know I’d lost it.’
‘You shoved it into my hands outside The Ritz,’ Jean-Luc informs me and we’re still clutching each other and in the same split second we both realise that we’re locked together like I’m welcoming Jean-Luc back from the war.
Our arms drop and we both take a step back but then Jean-Luc smiles at me; a crooked, tired smile and it doesn’t feel awkward any more. He looks rough. Crumpled and weary, his face sallow, and when my face was buried against his neck, he’d smelled slightly sour and musty.
‘Shall we go home?’ I ask.
Jean-Luc nods. ‘God, yes!’
‘Where do you live anyway?’
‘Highgate.’ He looks around helplessly as if he expects some kind of instant transportation device to suddenly materialise. ‘How do I get to Highgate?’
‘It’s easy. Northern line all the way, if it’s working today.’ Highgate is kind of near Crouch End. I just have to walk down Shepherd’s Hill all the way to the bottom, along Park Road and then cut through behind the Broadway. It’s a twenty-minute walk. The thought of it makes me want to cry. But I abandoned Jean-Luc in his hour of need and the least I can do is see him to his front door, especially as he seems to have lost most of his mental faculties. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Waterloo is nearer but I’m all turned around and we start walking in the other direction. We stagger up the steps to Hungerford Bridge so we can cross the river to Embankment station.
On the other side of the walkway are the train tracks. Jean-Luc says something to me just as a train thunders past.
‘What’s that?’
‘I said that Highgate is not home,’ Jean-Luc informs me mournfully.
‘It isn’t? But you said …’
‘Paris is home.’ He hunches his shoulders. ‘I thought for one moment at Waterloo that I go to St Pancras and catch the Eurostar and go home, but pfftttt! It’s not the answer.’
‘If it’s not the answer then what’s the question?’
‘I wasn’t happy in Paris. My stepfather. Ce n’est pas un homme gentil. You have stepfather, non?’
‘Yeah, Terry, but I don’t think of him as a stepfather. And I already have a dad. He’s just, y’know, Terry.’ It’s hard to put into words what Terry is to me. He’s been with my mum, with me, since I was four. A big, jolly, sideburned constant in my life.
‘But do you like him?’ Jean-Luc persists.
‘I love him.’ Oh God, now I’m getting all teary thinking about Terry, though if I don’t get home soon to clear away all evidence of my crimes, Terry isn’t going to be quite so jolly. Not when he sees what I’ve done to his beloved shed. ‘I love my dad too, but he’s not around so much. And even when he is, he’s kind of still not there. So, do you see your real dad much?’
‘No. He lives in Perpignan now.’ I don’t know where that is but I’m guessing it’s not near Paris. Or Highgate, for that matter.
‘OK, you weren’t happy in Paris but you’re happy in London, right?’ It�
��s very hard to get a read on Jean-Luc now he’s wearing his shades again. Also, I’m stupid from lack of sleep, because he’s shaking his head. Which makes no sense, because how could anyone be unhappy in …
‘London! Pah! I hate London!’
I stop and grab hold of Jean-Luc’s arm to stop him too. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’ I gasp. ‘Take it back!’
‘C’est rien! Don’t take it personally,’ he says like it’s no big deal, then he tries to shake free of my grip.
I hold on tighter. ‘How can you hate that?’ I say and I gesture with the hand that hasn’t got his sleeve in a vice-like grip.
We’re standing in the centre of the bridge. The sky has never looked bluer. The Thames has also never looked bluer, which is saying something, because usually it looks the colour of dirty dishwater. There are more boats bobbing along now and in the distance is Waterloo Bridge with red buses and black taxis barrelling along it. St Paul’s is to our left, majestic and unchanged for hundreds of years, and beyond that the glass towers of the City of London.
London is wearing its Sunday best. It’s postcard perfect. The fairest of all fair cities. ‘God, you must have rocks in your head, if you can’t see how beautiful London is,’ I say to Jean-Luc and I let go of him and I start walking.
I’m not angry. Not really. More disappointed. I like Jean-Luc. Compared to some boys I know, he is solid. A prince among men. Tufty head-and-shoulders above the lot of them. He’d also taken unwilling custody of my broom and kept it safe even while he was completely lost.
And after everything we’d been through tonight, I couldn’t imagine that we were just going to say goodbye on his doorstep and never see each other again.
We are more than that. Better than that. Not friends in the way I’m friends with Martha or Archie or Alex. And not best friends because no one could ever take the place of Emmeline. Jean-Luc and I are a different shape to friendship and I haven’t figured out what that shape might be but that doesn’t mean he can diss London, my London, and think that I’ll be cool with it.
‘You’re mad,’ he says when he catches up with me because I’m speedwalking by now. ‘Don’t be mad at me.’
‘You can’t say that you hate London. London’s great.’
‘Whatever.’ He tugs at my hoodie. ‘Did you join the army since I last saw you?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘I have to change the subject. I have no money left on my Oyster card. Alors! I have no money left at all. Can you lend me some?’
We’re at Embankment station now. I still have the twenty-pound note that Vic lent me and I put a tenner each on our Oyster cards. We’re just about to go through the barriers and Jean-Luc is still trying to convince me that London sucks because ‘it’s so dirty. People spit in the street like savages …’ when Emmeline rings.
‘Shall we not do a whole big speech because it’s really bloody early on a Sunday morning but just agree that we both acted like dicks and we’re both sorry and we’re still BFF, right?’ she says before I can even say hello.
‘That’s absolutely fine with me. I’m sorry if my text woke you up.’
‘I had to get up for a wee anyway,’ Emmeline sniffs. ‘Are you back home yet?’
‘I wish! I’m at Embankment.’
Even though I’m on the phone, Jean-Luc has really warmed to his theme and is now going on about how ‘confusing London is. All those different zones. I don’t understand the zones. Or the tube map. The Circle line – it’s not even a circle.’
He’s starting to do my head in.
‘But you’re heading home now right, ’cause I was going to come over and help you clean up on account of the fact that we’re best friends and I love you so much I’m prepared to get by on about three hours sleep,’ Emmeline says. ‘What time do you think you’ll be home?’
‘Mais oui, Sunny, you like London because you live here, but why do they call it a Circle line? Pourquoi? C’est ridicule! ’
If Jean-Luc and I were going to be something that was a different shape to being friends then we were going to have to get a few things straight.
‘Actually, change of plan,’ I tell Emmeline. ‘I’m not going straight home. I have to make a detour.’
‘But Sunny, have you even had any sleep?’
‘Not a bean. I actually feel like I might puke but I’m taking Jean-Luc to my favourite place in all the world because he’s being an absolute pain in the arse and it’s the only way to shut him up.’
Jean-Luc lifts up his shades so he can give me shade. ‘Moi? ’
‘Oui. Vous.’
‘Non, tu.’ He looks even more hurt now. ‘We’re friends. Friends say tu not vous.’
‘Jesus! Get a room, why don’t you,’ says Emmeline. ‘What’s going on with you and him? What went down with Mark? And, hey, Sun, when we left your house yesterday evening it looked like someone had dropped a dirty bomb on it. I really think you should go straight home. Like, now, so there’s an outside chance you can make things right before your mum …’
When I think of collecting up all those encrusted plates and, ugh, varnishing the shed, I can’t face going home ever again. ‘I can’t even be bothered,’ I tell Emmeline wearily. ‘It’s a tip. I’ll never get it straight in time, even if I went home now. Mum and Terry will just have to do their worst. Ground me or something.’
‘But you might not be able to go to Notting Hill Carnival tomorrow. We always go to the Carnival on Bank Holiday Monday.’
‘Maybe they’ll give me a stay of execution until after tomorrow,’ I say, but I’m not counting on it. ‘Look, I’ll call you later. Let you know what the grounding situation is and describe the look on Mark’s face when I told him to check his privilege.’
‘You didn’t?’ Emmeline gives a throaty plughole gurgle of a laugh. ‘I’m really liking this new, improved Sunny.’
‘Yeah! Me too. Laters, right?’
‘For sure.’
I finish the call. Jean-Luc looks at me expectantly. ‘We’re friends? Tu not vous, yes? And we go home now?’
‘Yes, yes and kind of.’
‘What do you mean “kind of”?’ He follows me through the ticket barrier. ‘We’re not going home?’
‘Yeah, we are but we have to make a detour first.’
We turn left, down the steps, down the escalator, more steps and onto the northbound Northern line platform. The Edgware train is coming first, but that doesn’t matter – we don’t need the High Barnet branch if we’re not going to Highgate.
‘I have to go home now.’ Jean-Luc is whining, maybe even whimpering. ‘Vic, he stays out all night but I never do. Ma tante Elise, she’ll be so worried about me.’
That gets my full attention. ‘You live with your aunt?’
‘Oui. Et mon oncle.’
‘Vic lives with his parents? Despite his whole ladykiller routine?’
The indicator board warns us sternly to STAND BACK, TRAIN APPROACHING, but I can already see the ghostly glow of the train lighting up the tunnel, then it’s hurtling towards us, the mice on the tracks scurrying for the safety of their little hidey holes.
Jean-Luc grins like he’s suddenly forgotten how tired he is. ‘Of course, Vic lives with his maman and his papa,’ he tells me as the doors open and we step into the carriage. ‘Why else would he have to sleep over with his young ladies?’
We sit down, empty seats on either side of us. ‘He can’t take them home? Aunt Elise wouldn’t approve?’
He doesn’t laugh so much as giggle and it makes me giggle too. ‘Aunt Elise, she’s very, er, liberal, but the young ladies might not approve of Vic’s single bed and the duvet cover with the racecars on it. Non?’
‘Très non! ’
He giggles again. ‘Please don’t try to speak French, Sunny. Haven’t we talked about this?’
We had, but while we were talking about Vic … ‘So, is Vic the reason you hate London? Like, I think he’s great but he really let me down earlie
r. He said that he had my back but then he went and hooked up with some random girl and deserted me. Does he do that to you? When he’s not taking the piss out of you or pretending to be you when he’s hooking up with random girls?’
Jean-Luc rocks back in his seat. ‘I love Vic. He’s my cousin. Mon frère, mon meilleur ami, mon camarade.’ He shakes his head. ‘Not Vic. It’s just … in London, it rains all the time.’
‘It’s hardly rained at all this summer. Try again,’ I tell him.
THE STATE OF ME
8.00 a.m.
ALEXANDRA PALACE, MUSWELL HILL
Known locally and fondly as Ally Pally, Alexandra Palace opened on 24th May 1873. Named after Princess Alexandra of Denmark, who’d just married Prince Edward, the Prince of Wales, it was designated as the People’s Palace.
Hurrah! Except, not hurrah but disaster! Sixteen days later, the Palace was destroyed in a fire. But the Victorians were not ones to mope. Oh no. They got straight on to rebuilding it and on 1st May 1875, Ally Pally reopened.
Its extensive grounds housed a Japanese village, a racecourse (there’s still a pub at the bottom of Muswell Hill called The Victoria Stakes) and a cricket pitch, boating lake and pitch-and-put golf course, which are still there to this day.
Ally Pally is most famous as the site of the world’s first television broadcast in 1936 by John Logie Baird. During the Second World War the TV transmitter was put to good use in jamming German bombers’ navigational systems.
In 1980, Ally Pally was again struck by fire and was closed while extensive repairs were carried out. It opened again in 1991 and long may it reign over North London.
Jean-Luc is so caught up in banging on about his non-love for London that when we get to Euston, it’s easy to take his hand and tug him out of his seat so we can change onto the Victoria line.
We’re still holding hands as we walk down the long tunnel at Finsbury Park and emerge, blinking into the sunshine.
‘You took us on the detour,’ Jean-Luc says accusingly, but he still doesn’t let go of my hand, even though it’s very sweaty, sticky hand-holding. ‘The other thing I detest about London: sneaky detours.’
London Belongs to Us Page 20