Martinis and Memories

by A. L. Michael

  ‘One suggestion?’ he said.

  ‘Ugh, fine. One.’

  ‘Do what Jacques says – give them a deal. Make an excuse if you have to. A celebration, an anniversary, a special theme. But give them a reason to come. Times are hard. Sell the fantasy to those who can’t afford it – they’re the ones who want it most.’

  I hesitated, thinking about it logically. It was exactly what he’d said before – my pride or my club. No matter what, I always chose the club.

  Chapter Three

  It was like she knew we’d been talking about her. She’d always had that sixth sense; she was painfully attuned to me. If I had a stomach ache, she could tell from the way I held myself. She used to ask me to deal with it better, because it was making her stomach hurt.

  ‘Darling, something’s wrong.’ My mother always spoke with authority. Even the sound of her voice down the telephone made my spine straighten, as if she was suddenly going to tap my tailbone with a baton. All those years of dance class. She had been… unyielding.

  ‘What? Nothing’s wrong. You called me!’ I injected a breezy laughter into my voice, but it was wearying. I balanced the phone in the crook of my neck, holding it up with my shoulder as I poured the coffee into the cafetière. It was nine a.m. and I was already exhausted.

  ‘Don’t deflect, I can tell when things aren’t right with you. I went to bed last night feeling happy as a lamb, and—’

  ‘Clam,’ I cut in. ‘It’s clam.’

  ‘It’s rude to interrupt, didn’t I teach you anything?’ My mother’s flowery voice went rigid again. ‘Anyway I woke up at about three a.m. with this tightness in my chest, this anxiety, and I knew, I just knew, this is Annabelle, something’s terribly wrong.’

  ‘So you went back to sleep and called me six hours later?’ I snorted. ‘Nice, Mum, what if I was dead in a ditch somewhere?’

  ‘Then I suppose I’d be the last to know, wouldn’t I?’

  I filled the cafetière with hot water, flexing up onto my tiptoes. I carried on talking before she could get obsessive about what was wrong. She was a stubborn little terrier of a woman.

  ‘Mum, how are things with you – how’s that guy you’re dating? Frank?’

  ‘Paul,’ she sighed. ‘A terrible bore, darling, really. Plus, he didn’t like “foreign food”.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘He ate things with chips, and not much else. Steak, battered fish, burgers. We went to a French restaurant and he made us stop off at a McDonald’s on the way home. Not really my style, darling,’ she sighed wistfully. ‘But goodness he was lovely looking. Such a rugged, masculine sort—’

  ‘Mother, we’ve talked about over-sharing,’ I warned her, but I made sure she could hear the laughter in my voice.

  It was actually nice, for about five minutes, chatting with her. Hearing about her day, her life. Five-minute chats, ten at most, and I felt like I had what other people had. It was after that everything started to get messy.

  ‘What about you, met anyone at work? There must be loads of men at that office?’

  And the ten-minute marker had come early.

  ‘Mum, I’m not—’

  ‘You’re not getting any younger. I mean, I had you when I was twenty-eight, you’re thirty-five!’

  ‘Thirty-two, thank you!’ I bristled. ‘And if I had a child you’d only complain that you looked too young to be a grandma and that children were filthy, squirmy little things who were a lot like vermin, but with less intelligence.’

  ‘Why on earth would I say that?’

  ‘Because you said that to our neighbour when she told us she was on maternity leave.’

  ‘Oh.’ She paused, and I could sense her casting about for some justification. ‘Well, I’m sure her child would be a sticky little beast. But yours, sweetheart, you would have a glorious baby. A little girl with your luscious hair, and as long as we kept her off the junk food and in the gym as soon as possible—’

  I snorted. ‘Then you could get her in a tutu and ballet shoes, restoring your legacy? Jesus, Mum, three generations have to suffer for this bullshit? Really? I’m not having children, and if I did, I wouldn’t let you train them.’

  My mother sniffled briefly then, realizing it wouldn’t get her anywhere, let her sharp, clear voice return.

  ‘Well, seeing as you won’t give me grandchildren to dote over, I wondered if you could send me some more money this month? Alison and Genevieve are going to the theatre, and I’d love to join them.’

  ‘You haven’t got enough left to go to the theatre? In Eastbourne?’ I tried to smooth out my frown lines, pressing my fingertips against them and feeling the ridges. Thirty-two. I felt fifty-two. My mother had that effect.

  ‘Well, no, darling… it’s more of an operatic thing.’

  ‘Like… an opera?’ I supplied, sensing where this was going. ‘And where is this opera trip?’

  ‘Well, Verona, of course. You expect me to be uncultured and watch it in a cinema with a bucket of popcorn, I suppose? We’re going to the home of opera.’

  I screwed up my eyes, ‘Mother, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you say opera was the lowest form of artistry, reserved for fat women who couldn’t expand any further so they had to stretch their vocal cords? And wasn’t Italy depraved, with predatory men waiting to whistle at you?’ I was starting to enjoy myself. ‘And for that matter, didn’t you just say that Genevieve was a terrible bore, and you didn’t even think she was really French?’

  ‘Gosh, I don’t know, darling, did I?’ My mother yawned and I couldn’t help myself; I rolled my eyes like a child, then sipped at my coffee, letting it soothe me. ‘I’m not allowed to change my mind, is that it? I can’t give people a chance?’

  ‘You tell me,’ I muttered under my breath. ‘Look, Mum, we need to talk about the money.’

  That shut her up. She didn’t say a word and I could feel her vibrating with urgency as I paused.

  ‘Thing is, Mum, I’ve been happy to give you all I have, but… well, I think you need to curb your spending a bit.’

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ Her voice was flat and I prepared myself. ‘I gave up my life to have you, and care for you. I invested myself in you, and what do you do? Run off with that boy from the estate! Shaming me in my local community! So why shouldn’t you help your poor mother? That’s what children are supposed to do, help their parents.’

  I was tempted to put the phone down on the table and concentrate on my coffee until she was finished. It was unclear how long she’d go on for.

  The first time I rang after running off with Euan, I thought she’d be so relieved to hear from me. I only called because I didn’t want her to think I’d been abducted, or was lying dead somewhere. She yelled for a full twenty minutes, ranting and raving, and thankfully I ran out of twenty pence pieces for the phone box.

  Once she started on about the injustices the world had dealt her, there was no stopping her.

  ‘So what’s happened, you’ve lost your big, fancy job?’

  ‘No…’ I struggled to find a way through the lies. ‘Some investments I made a while back, well, they’re not doing very well, and I was advised to cut down on my expenditure.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you should move out of London, darling, I’ve heard the prices are ridiculous.’

  God, some days I wished I still smoked.

  ‘Mother, my rent is half what I pay for yours. My monthly spend is a quarter of what I give to you. I have nowhere else to cut. If I did, I’d do it rather than have this awkward conversation about money.’ Sometimes, the only way to speak to her was as a disapproving parent, sharp and despairing.

  She could react either way – apologetic and full of promises she wouldn’t keep, or, more likely, sharp-tongued outrage that would leave me reeling, and somehow, inexplicably, feeling guilty.

  This time, she surprised me.

  ‘All right, darling, I do believe that. I can probably do better.’ She paused. ‘Oh,
could you remind me of your address, I got some rather interesting-looking post delivered for you – I’ll forward it on.’

  ‘Oh, um, anything that looks particularly worrying?’

  ‘No, no… I wouldn’t worry, darling. I’ve got a pen ready, I’ll get it posted out today.’

  I gave her my address in a sort of stupor, wondering why the argument about money had stopped. Perhaps she understood, in some small way. I was her only child; she had never married, she had no one to depend on. Perhaps she felt the burden of that. Grandma Maggie had lived with us when I was a child, after all. She knew what it meant to resent your mother for your responsibilities.

  ‘All right, I’ll get that sent over to you first thing. We’ll… we’ll chat about the other stuff, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ I blinked. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Well, have a good day, darling.’

  ‘You… you too, Mum.’

  She hesitated. ‘And don’t worry about the money, everything will be absolutely fine.’

  She hung up the phone and I had to sit down to steady myself. My mother was comforting. She had been calm, and helpful and understanding.

  Something terrible was going to happen. This was clearly the end of days.

  I stretched out my arms and took my coffee to the little window in my living room that overlooked the street. London was waking up, and I loved it. Saturday morning was business owners and eager tourists, people drinking in the sights and sounds. The smells of the night before were washed away, and the memories of drunken lads singing stupid limericks were left in the darkness.

  Saturday mornings in London were for markets and bottomless brunches, listening to that busker with the beautiful voice who always set up on the corner at around eleven a.m. and made my day sound full of possibility. I usually stopped in at the back office earlier in the day, checked everything was set for the performances that night, that the kitchen staff were happy with the set-up, and then I’d sit in the office with my head in my hands until it was time to walk out with my head held high.

  But not that Saturday. Beyond my mother’s bizarre personality transplant, it was time for important changes. I sat down and typed it out carefully:

  For one night only, the Martini Club will be offering half-price bookings on any dinner and show ticket. Three courses, one of our excellent cocktails and some of the finest entertainment in London… for only £25. Limited discounted tickets available. When they’re gone, they’re gone. Don’t stop sparkling, kiddies.

  * * *

  Jacques stared at me like I’d lost my mind. His jaw physically dropped, and I resisted rolling my eyes. Charlotte looked between the two of us like she feared a fight might break out. She was practising her set, something sweet and summery, all 1950s cherries and picnic baskets. She would pop a bottle of champagne at the end. I made a note to buy something cheap from a bargain bin at the local off licence. Needs must.

  ‘What, darling, something to say?’ I blinked at Jacques, daring him.

  ‘I just…’ His voice was scratchy as he rubbed the subtle stubble on his chin. ‘… just thought you weren’t a fan.’

  ‘Well, the season’s changing, summer’s on its way. Time for a change. Let’s offer people the opportunity to see the magic, let them know what it’s all about. Turn on the razzle dazzle, that’s what you said, wasn’t it?’

  Jacques nodded.

  ‘Well then, good.’ I turned away. ‘And I’ll be needing a new cocktail. Something…’

  Something that doesn’t cost much to make but sells at a good profit.

  Jacques looked at me knowingly. ‘Something worth its weight in gold?’

  ‘But preferably not made of gold, or involving gold in any way.’

  ‘Gotcha.’ He nodded, returning to the bar.

  ‘Oh, and darling?’ I paused. ‘Make sure to shave before the guests arrive this evening. Let’s not let standards slip, just because people pay less, right?’

  His lip twitched and he nodded.

  Partly, I just did it to piss him off. He knew it too. Jacques looked as hot with a five o’clock shadow as he did clean shaven, and I’d never said a word before. But we had a history – he had been there since the beginning of the club, solving problems like a guardian angel, without ever requiring a thank you. Well, actually he often demanded appreciation, with a lot of snark and attitude, but that was the act. We both quite liked to play the bitch, but I was the boss, so I got to win.

  I loved that man, and I was surprised he’d stayed at the club as long as he had. I paid him well, and he got to remain the main male act whenever he wanted, and if the chance to join Broadway ever came up, I always let him go without even a question. But I thought by now he would have gone searching for better things.

  And still, he was the employee who was probably one of my best friends, and I couldn’t tell him how much trouble we were in.

  It was busier that night, and my heart fluttered a little as I watched them, sitting at the bar, giggling over cocktails, clutching their vouchers or showing them on their phones. The women made eyes at Jacques, nudging each other when he came near. Both men and women looked at the stage during the show in something that wasn’t mere lust, it was a desire to be. I could hear them saying to themselves, I wish I looked that beautiful, I wish I was that confident, I wish I sparkled like that.

  I knew exactly what they were thinking, because it was exactly the same thing I’d thought when I saw my first show. And I walked into my first class thinking it would be easy. I had a background in dance, I was flexible, I had that performance thing. I could play to an audience easier than I could speak to a partner.

  And it meant absolutely nothing, because I thought I was worthless. Undulating on a stage, letting your body ripple and move, expand and contract, it’s not just about the show. It’s a position of vulnerability, inverted. You’re half naked on a stage, and yet you’re the one with the power.

  Charlotte curved herself around the huge Martini glass on the stage, and I thought of the raven queen of burlesque. We needed some sort of miracle, and on these days, I prayed to Dita.

  My mother, when I was a child, would make me watch Audrey Hepburn movies to try and make me speak correctly. Later, she forked out for elocution lessons, and I just remembered to pretend I was rolling a marble around my mouth when I spoke to my mother. Audrey was queen, for Mum. The ladylike style, the glamour, the softness around the eyes. Mum loved to swan about as if she was pure lightness, full of good thoughts for everyone. She wanted to be Audrey.

  Me, I liked my heroines with a little more grit. I liked watching Gone with the Wind with Grandma Maggie. Now that Scarlett, there was a heroine I could get behind. She was shallow and strong, and ruthless. She used people to get what she wanted, and to save her family. Men bought her things without thinking, because they wanted to please her, and no matter how tough it got, she survived.

  Mum hated watching that movie. She thought it was a lesson in selfishness. For me, it was a lesson in determination. When Scarlett declared she’d never go hungry again, and Grandma Maggie drooled, mouth open and asleep in her chair, I was secretly declaring that I’d get out. I’d go somewhere nobody knew me and I’d start again. I’d be a better me.

  And it had worked.

  Until my company started to fall apart and it was clear that I had absolutely nothing else in my life apart from that.

  I was a businesswoman.

  My life was made of almosts. Jacques was my almost friend. Sam was my almost dad. The club was almost my life, apart from that small chunk that made me wonder if the staunch independence I was so proud of might actually be… loneliness?

  The shame of loneliness. Unbearable.

  I held my head high, standing from the back of the room as people stood up at their tables to cheer Taya, her legs fully in the splits as she grinned brightly out into the crowd, triumphant.

  I had made this place. I had made it a home for all the beautiful freaks and dreamers who made up my t
roupe. And I wouldn’t let them down.

  I created the ‘return for 10% off’ vouchers and printed off a few for the servers to give to their tables. I dispensed extra drinks, talked customers into bottles of wine or cocktails. I brought them French truffles and listened to them talk in drunken wonder about my people. I made them feel special, like they were part of this world.

  I could do this, I could.

  And of course, halfway through the night, he arrived. Stood at the bar wearing the same shirt he’d had on yesterday, and a smart jacket even though it must have been too hot. I knew that trick well enough. He’d stained it, or it was creased, and he was keeping it on to look neat enough to match the surroundings. I’d taught him that, when we first moved to London. Look the way people expect you to look. He hadn’t grasped it then.

  Euan’s eyes scanned the bar for me, and I enjoyed the moment of illicit viewing – I could look at him properly without him trying to charm me. Euan could be dangerous. He was everything I’d left behind in Eastbourne – my name, my history, my mother. He knew everything about who I was then, and nothing about who I’d become. He could blow my cover. And yet, it was almost nice to see him. A moment of nostalgia for poor old Annabelle Stone, the girl who was searching for something bigger.

  Something about him had grown up – the way he stood, or the smile he offered. He’d always been a charmer, but it was a youthful charm. He’d make a bet with you, or jolly you into having another drink. He was a master of distraction, because distractions were more fun than talking about real things.

  He still had the prettiest eyes. It was important not to look directly at them, or he’d do something stupid, like steal your wallet, or convince you to marry him.

  I steadied myself. It was absolutely not okay for Euan to be here.

  I stepped out of the shadows as the crowd erupted into applause, and walked over to the bar.

  ‘Twice in two days, darling? Never were great at hard to get.’ I sat down on the bar stool, and Jacques tilted his head towards me. I shook my head in return; I needed to stop drinking at work. At least until there was something to celebrate.