London Belongs to Us

by Sarra Manning

  ‘It wasn’t sneaky, I gave you fair warning.’

  I could let go of Jean-Luc’s hand, I don’t want to give him the wrong idea, but there’s every chance that he might bolt instead of walking to the W3 bus stop. There’s also a much greater chance that without Jean-Luc holding onto me and hoisting me onto the bus when it arrives, I may just collapse in a heap.

  ‘Where are you taking me, Sunny?’ Jean-Luc asks as we sit on the seats reserved for the elderly or people with children, neither of whom take buses this early on a Sunday morning.

  ‘My favourite place in London.’ I think about it. ‘Actually, my favourite place in the world. And if you still hate London after I’ve shared it with you, well, then you’re a lost cause.’

  It doesn’t take long to get there. We pass through Crouch End and I think I’ve probably gone quite mad because the bus stops at the top of my road and it would be so easy to get up, get out, stagger the last few steps, open the front door, then collapse face-down in the hall, not even bothering to make it the few centimetres to our door so Max from upstairs will have to step over me when he takes Keith, his Staffie, out for a walk.

  But I don’t move. I just stare down at Jean-Luc’s fingers tangled in mine. Then his fingers twitch, like an electric current passing between us, and when I glance across at him, he’s staring down at our hands too.

  It’s far, far, far too soon to be holding hands with a boy. I started off holding hands with Mark, before we’d even kissed, and look how that turned out.

  I snatch my hand out of Jean-Luc’s grasp, but it’s more of a clammy fumble. He scratches his head, mutters something in French and I gaze out of the window and practise taking deep, even breaths until we take a sharp left and the bus starts climbing up the hill.

  ‘Next stop,’ I squeak and press the bell.

  We get off at the stop right in front of the palace and dart across the road.

  ‘What is the place?’ Jean-Luc asks. He glances back at the magnificent palace, the sun glinting off the glass domes of its roof. ‘It looks like a cathedral.’

  ‘It’s Alexandra Palace. Ally Pally. But it’s not a palace. They put on gigs and exhibitions and stuff. They have a huge antiques market there a few times a year and, oh, all sorts of things, but forget about the palace.’

  ‘C’est difficile. It’s so big.’

  Another time, if there’s another time, I’ll take Jean-Luc up the steps so we can walk alongside the palace, into the covered walkways that I’ve ducked into to shelter from the rain. I’ll show him the plaque to the German civilians that died here in an internment camp during the First World War. The BBC office that leads up to the TV transmitter. We’ll walk past the ice rink and around the boating lake, maybe feed the ducks. Watch the boys in the skate park. Have a go on the swings. But not today.

  Instead I guide him along the path that curves around and around. We smile and say hello to a woman walking a dog with a tennis ball wedged in its mouth, but she skirts around us with a wary look. By now, we must look like survivors from some kind of dystopian disaster.

  Then the path levels out and comes to a crossroads, but I keep walking, Jean-Luc still muttering at my side. We’re on a wider path now, flowerbeds and benches line one side, and on the other is the sloping green of the South Lawn.

  When we get to the middle bench with the angel that sits on the top of Ally Pally directly behind us, I sit and pull Jean-Luc down beside me. ‘Look at that,’ I say. ‘Look at that view and tell me that you still hate London.’

  On a clear, sunny day like today, you can see all of London sprawled out like a feast. Terry reckons you can even see the TV mast at Crystal Palace. God, it’s hard to think that only twelve hours ago, I was at Crystal Palace, a city apart from where I am now. There’d been a different view, another way of looking at the place that I’ve always called home.

  I can’t see the Crystal Palace TV mast. But I can see the tower of Canary Wharf, the tiny light on top of it flashing at second intervals. I can see the Gherkin, again. Far over to the right is the Post Office tower, Euston Tower, Centre Point and in the middle is the Olympic stadium, which had been lit up every night when the Olympics were on. And in between and dotted about are the church steeples and the high-rise flats, old buildings, new buildings. London. My London.

  ‘The view is incredible,’ Jean-Luc admits rather grudgingly. ‘But … it’s a view of a city I’m not … I don’t belong here. It doesn’t mean as much to me as it does to you. It’s your favourite place, oui?’

  ‘Absolute favourite place,’ I say, but it’s not really that much to do with the view, even though every time I see it, it makes me feel proud. Makes me feel like I do belong.

  Jean-Luc has told me why he hates London and now I tell him why I love London. Not even London. I narrow it down to this park, this path, this bench.

  I tell him about the fireworks display and how Terry makes us get here hours early so we can camp out in our favourite spot just where we’re sitting now, so that when we look back at Ally Pally we can see the angel and the stained-glass rose window, which is bigger and grander than anything you’d find in a real palace. Afterwards we walk home to Crouch End and everyone comes back to ours for hot sausage rolls and mulled wine.

  I tell him about borrowing Keith, Max from upstairs’s Staffie, so he can career down the slope in front of us to chase the crows. Then he stands under whichever tree they’re sitting in and barks at them, like that’s going to persuade a crow with a deathwish to swoop down to see if Keith can catch him.

  I learned to ride a bike without stabilisers along this path, my dad and Terry keeping hold of the back of my saddle while Mum filmed us and I screamed, ‘Don’t let go! Don’t let go!’ When they did let go, I immediately crashed to the ground. Then I show Jean-Luc the scar under my chin from where I hit the tarmac.

  I tell him about antiques fairs with my mum, the tattoo show with Emmeline, hanging out with Alex and Martha as we watch Archie fall off his skateboard again and again, getting up early on Saturday mornings to watch Dan doing the Park Run, so many picnics, so many games of football – but I always end up here on this bench. It’s the perfect place to sit with the people I love in the city that I love. This place I’ll always call home.

  Jean-Luc listens to all of this and then he sighs. ‘Maybe I don’t like London because I just don’t belong here.’

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ I tell him kindly and I really hope once I’ve slept that I don’t lose this Sunny who’s stopped being afraid of everything and everyone and especially what everyone may or may not think about her. ‘Stop being so hard on yourself and stop being so hard on London. We had a great time tonight, didn’t we?’

  ‘Well, I will always have fond memories of being chased by a gang of young hooligans after we stole their bicycles,’ Jean-Luc says in a flat voice, but then the corners of his mouth lift up. ‘That was exhilarating.’

  ‘We met so many good people – Shirelle and the others in the chicken shop, and I got a free ride on a rickshaw …’

  ‘… and nearly died in the process,’ Jean-Luc reminds me. ‘Though it was good to see Audrey make the mockery of Vic.’

  ‘She totally mocked him. And we hung out with Duckie and I danced the Charleston in a convenience store. Even Jeane wasn’t so bad. And apart from the Mark stuff, it’s been the best night of my life. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the Mark stuff, I wouldn’t have had adventures and I wouldn’t have met Vic … or you.’

  ‘But we were at the picnic. Sooner or later, we’d have said hello,’ Jean-Luc says, but I shake my head.

  ‘I wouldn’t have said hello to you,’ I admit and he’s back to looking wounded and sulky again. ‘You looked far too cool and scary for me to say hello to. You know, with the hair and the shades and the FuckYeah!TheGodards Tumblr.’

  ‘I hate that Tumblr. And it sounds as if you’re describing the girl at the picnic with the hair and the shades. The one who looked far too cool to bother with th
e likes of me.’

  ‘But I was crying! I’d had the romantic disappointment,’ I point out and I’m blushing slightly because I couldn’t believe that anyone, let alone Jean-Luc, could have seen me at the picnic, all sweaty and rumpled and with my stupid shorts riding up, and thought that I looked cool.

  And then Jean-Luc takes my hand but he doesn’t just hold it, he lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles.

  ‘I know it’s too soon, after the romantic disappointment, but something did happen tonight. For a while, when I was fearing for my life and trying to find a lavatory in the middle of Piccadilly, I forget that I’m miserable.’

  It is too soon. Not just because I don’t want to be one of those girls who can’t function in society unless she has a boyfriend. I also don’t want a boy coming between me and the new me that I’ve decided I’m going to be. Not even Jean-Luc. Though that didn’t mean … ‘We should hang out to start with,’ I say before I can lose my nerve. ‘Be friends.’

  ‘But Vic says there’s this thing. The – what does he call it? The friend zone. Is not a good place to be. He says that once you’re in the friend zone with a girl you can never climb out of it.’ He rests his head on my shoulder. I think it’s less about trying to be romantic and more about him being so tired that everything, from toes to fingers to hair, hurts if, like me, he’s feeling like death warmed up. ‘Are you friend-zoning me?’

  This not-losing-my-nerve thing is really hard. ‘No. Because we can be friends who hold hands. Like, we’ll be friends on a promise. And anyway, I really don’t think you should be taking relationship advice from someone who sleeps in a single bed with race cars on his duvet cover.’

  Jean-Luc shifts position so he can grin at me and I stop talking in favour of leaning heavily against him. He’s far too bony and he really doesn’t smell that great any more but I may never move again. Stay here on this bench for ever and ever …

  ‘I told you she’d be here! Hey, Sunny! Whatever you do, don’t go to sleep. Don’t shut your eyes!’ It’s Emmeline bellowing from what sounds like a long, long way away. Am I dreaming?

  I manage to raise my head and it is Emmeline running down the steps behind us at the head of a motley collection of people clutching bin bags and buckets and huge Styrofoam cups of coffee, two of which are handed to me and Jean-Luc by Charlie, who says, ‘Christ, you both look awful. Get this down you.’

  I take a grateful gulp. It’s just how I like it: three shots of coffee, a lot of milk, no foam. ‘What are you guys doing here?’

  With Emmeline and Charlie are Archie, Alex, George of all people, and Martha, who sits down next to me and grabs my hand. ‘How are you doing, Sunny? Are you OK, hun? You don’t have to put a brave face on it. I bet you’re feeling terrible because of the whole Mark situation. Never mind. I made you bacon sarnies.’

  I’m not feeling terrible. Well, I am because of the no-sleep thing, but not terrible because of Mark, and anyway, the sight and the nose-twitching smell of bacon shoved between pieces of brown toast and slathered in ketchup really perks me up. ‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine,’ I say. ‘Thanks for breakfast.’

  I hand one of the sandwiches to Jean-Luc, who eyes it suspiciously, then decides that even though it’s not a flaky croissant or a croque monsieur or scrambled eggs with smoked salmon or whatever it is that French people eat for breakfast, it will do and he takes a large, enthusiastic bite. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbles around it. ‘Thank you so much.’

  George plonks himself down on the ground in front of our bench. ‘Did you know that you’ve gone viral, Sunny? You’re even on the Reddit home page. There’s a three-minute clip of you doing some kind of weird Ginger Rogers shit. Did you take a bunch of drugs tonight?’

  Emmeline winks at me as she sits down beside Jean-Luc. ‘Hello again,’ she says to him. ‘You’re the nice one, aren’t you?’

  ‘Jean-Luc, though Vic isn’t so bad when … he … er …’ He tips his head back. ‘Je suis trop fatigué pour parler Anglais.’

  I introduce Jean-Luc to everyone. Then try again. ‘It’s great to see you all, like, especially with coffee and bacon sandwiches, but what are you doing here? It’s eight o’clock on a Sunday morning!’

  ‘Em said you were going to be grounded until you were thirty if you hadn’t managed to clear up the flat before Helen and Terry got back,’ Archie says. He frowns like he’s not entirely down with the whole getting up at such an ungodly hour on a Sunday. ‘Apparently I’m responsible for quite a lot of the mess, even though I bought you a new broom!’

  ‘Dude! You and Mark set fire to her shed,’ Alex reminds Archie. ‘And Sunny’s spent all night clearing up Mark’s mess. Least we could do, right?’ She ruins it all by making a circle with her thumb and forefinger and poking the index finger of her other hand through it. ‘You didn’t, though, did you, tonight? You didn’t do it with Mark?’

  They all look at me, apart from Emmeline who knows that I remain unsullied by Mark’s penis, and Jean-Luc who knew that I’d been in no mood to give it up to a boy who’d done me industrial amounts of wrong. I still flush though. Still roll my eyes. Still let my mouth hang open in disbelief that Alex would even ask me that and in front of the assembled company.

  ‘Oh my God, no! A thousand times, no.’

  ‘Anyway, Sunny is too good for the likes of Mark,’ Jean-Luc says, then he turns to me. ‘We go now? I lose the feeling in my fingers.’ He waggles his fingers at me, though they seem in perfect working order, but I can’t say the same for my legs.

  ‘You can crash at mine, if you like? Kip on the sofa while we tidy up,’ I take another gulp of coffee, though it’s not really bucking me up. ‘I can’t believe you all turned up like this. Giving up a Sunday-morning lie-in is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’

  ‘And we’re going to clean for you too. So, let’s get a move on,’ Emmeline says and she stands up and gives me her hand and I try to take it but I just end up feebly flapping my arm.

  ‘In a minute, right?’

  George grins. ‘Did you stay up all night, Sun? Not even a little disco nap?’

  I nod.

  ‘She stayed up all night like a total boss,’ Emmeline says proudly. ‘Totally smashed not going to bed.’

  ‘Respect,’ George says, which is huge, because George doesn’t respect anyone, especially not me. ‘Though I still think you have the political conscience of a fruit-fly.’

  ‘Whatever, George. Get over it,’ I say and they all turn to look at me again. ‘What? What?’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like you, Sunny,’ Martha pats my arm. ‘It must be the exhaustion that’s making you so grouchy.’

  ‘Non, she’s not grouchy,’ Jean-Luc says. He’s so slumped now that he’s practically horizontal. ‘She’s formidable. Not to be trifled with.’

  They’re still all staring in disbelief because the Sunny they know is always trifled with.

  ‘Are you too formidable to get the bus home and start clearing up?’ Emmeline asks.

  The bus stop is just behind us. All I need to do is stagger up the steps and wait for a bus that will drop me mere moments away from home. I could be home in ten minutes.

  I get up. Except, I don’t. My legs are refusing to obey me. I try again. Maybe I need more coffee. ‘Can we just take a moment? My legs don’t seem to want to work.’

  ‘Five minutes, that’s all you’re getting,’ Emmeline says sternly. ‘We don’t want to get to yours at the same time as your mum gets back.’

  ‘Oh, but the view is pretty amazing,’ Charlie pipes up. ‘I’ve never seen it from the north, only the south. Look! There’s the Gherkin. What’s that big yellow block to the left?’

  ‘It’s only some flats,’ George says and then we’re all looking at our city and I sit between Jean-Luc who looks so cool but is so unhappy, and Emmeline who’s so tough but can’t tell a girl that she likes her.

  Everyone hides. Everyone puts on a front. Everyone has those moments when they’re lone
ly or scared or not the best versions of themselves.

  Then I think of all the other people who have sat on this spot over the years. Women in funny, old-fashioned dresses – crinolines and bustles and hobble skirts. Men in suits and trilby hats.

  All those people, all those glorious lives long gone. Only the view remains; the buildings might get bombed, condemned or demolished, but new buildings spring up in their place, each taller and more fantastic than the last. London is always changing but it will always be a place where you can have adventures, make new friends, change your story, change your life.

  Can one night change your life? I think it can. Or, at least, it can change the direction that your life was going in. I need time to figure that out. To get used to living my life like every day is Saturday night.

  But some things will always stay the same.

  London, I love you.

  Twelve hours

  Two Godards

  Two hundred and fifty seven text messages

  Twenty-three phone calls

  Four cups of coffee

  Three bottles of water

  Two bottles of lager

  One cup of 7UP larger than a person’s face

  One carton of juice

  Eight hot wings (extra-hot sauce)

  One bag of chips

  Two tartlets

  Three mini quiches

  One apple

  One bacon sarnie

  Two outfit changes

  One taxi, one rickshaw, one stolen bicycle, two overground trains, five tube journeys. Three nightbuses, one day bus. One knackered Oyster card.

  Four drag queens

  Eight Duckie songs

  One Charleston danced

  One heart broken. One heart mended.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Karolina Sutton, Becky Ritchie, Lucy Morris and all at Curtis Brown. Naomi Colthurst, Jenny Jacoby and the amazing team at Hot Key Books. I'd also like to thank Roni Weir and Natasha Farrant for invaluable editorial help.