Martinis and Memories

by A. L. Michael

  ‘You’ve got something to tell me,’ she said, her eyes flitting back to the windowsill. ‘A secret?’

  I cleared my throat, standing before her like a performer. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You’re pregnant?’ she asked hopefully, her eyebrows raised with the possibility.

  ‘No. Do I look big?’ I looked down at myself. My usual, buxom, nicely rounded self.

  ‘No more than usual.’ She shrugged. Damn. Set myself up for that one.

  ‘My job…’ I searched for the words. ‘I don’t work in an office.’

  ‘Right…’

  ‘I own a club,’ I said, shrugging.

  Her eyes narrowed in confusion, and she tilted her head. ‘You own a club.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Those eyebrows shot up. ‘Like a dirty nightclub with drunk young people rubbing up against each other? Where all that binge drinking the newspapers talk about happens?’

  Her eyes widened in horror, but I knew it was an act. A little more drama than necessary, just to liven it up.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about binge drinking, I know you’re partial to a G and T or four,’ I bit back. ‘And you were a fan of a discotheque back in the day. Didn’t you say everyone who saw you disco dance wanted to take you home?’

  ‘How vulgar, I would never have said that.’ She paused, fluffing her hair with her fingertips. ‘But if I had said that, it would have been true. I was a queen of the dance floor, unsurprisingly. But that was then.’

  I had a feeling I would have to get used to this headache hovering around my temples.

  ‘Besides, it’s not a club like that. It’s a burlesque club.’

  ‘Strippers!’ she screeched, then caught herself. Not very Audrey at all. She rearranged her features into a prim look of shock. I wasn’t buying it.

  ‘And this is why I told you I worked in an office.’

  In another version of the universe, my mother would ask me how I managed to own my own club in London by thirty-two. She would hug me and tell me how proud she was, how I’d achieved something so few other people had, and how I must have worked very hard.

  But that wasn’t our world, and it never had been. I curled up in the high-backed armchair across the room, waiting for her to say something. It was always the way. You had to let her process things. She so rarely listened to other people that information seemed to take a little longer to get through. And of course, it had to get past the foot traffic of gossip, jealousy and purely ridiculous emotional responses.

  ‘Well, you always wanted what I had, didn’t you darling?’ she mused, her fingertips touching her chin in a well-practised gesture. As much as she wanted to be Audrey, she was always Blanche from Streetcar. Always acting. ‘I had my own business and was successful, and you saw me doing that and wanted to copy me. Which is flattering, of course, but this club, I can’t imagine it’s a particularly classy affair?’

  What a great choice of words when she lost the dance studio after sleeping with one of the fathers. That little balloon of hope deflated.

  ‘It is, actually. Burlesque is a celebration of the feminine, it’s about body, and love and power. It saved me, when I moved here, and now the club has become a London institution.’

  I jutted out my chin, but I knew before I’d even finished that I’d walked right into it.

  ‘Then why are you struggling with money?’

  I stood up and walked out. ‘More tea? I need another coffee.’

  She didn’t get up but called out after me, ‘Two coffees is too much, that much caffeine isn’t good for you. Have herbal tea.’

  ‘I don’t want a fucking herbal tea,’ I growled under my breath as I poured myself another cup, just for something to do. All these years, and I still hadn’t figured out how to deal with her. Which was why staying away had been easier.

  ‘Darling, look, if you’re failing that’s okay, it’s natural.’ Her voice was soothing and calm. She looked at me with this strange smile that was half positivity, half smug.

  ‘It’s natural for me to fail, is that what you’re saying?’

  She sighed, eyes to the ceiling, asking for strength. Frozen in that tableau, I realized how many times we’d stood like this, each across a room, me spitting like a hurt cat and her angelically asking for help with her difficult daughter.

  ‘Darling, it’s London, it’s big and expensive, and you’ve done very well, but why not start over with something new?’ That almost sounded like something that wasn’t a dig. I moved a little further into the room, clutching my coffee cup too tightly.

  She wasn’t wrong, I supposed. London was expensive and if I had built something once, I could do it again. It was the idea of failing, though. A dirty word. The reason I had spent all those years on my tiptoes, blood and broken bones, the reason I had thrown myself away on Euan for more years than I should have, the reason I’d looked past the people who had made me feel vulnerable. Failure sat in my chest, heavy like a brass pendulum, always waiting to pin me to the floor.

  ‘Why did you tell me you worked in an office, darling?’ Mum looked at me with a sort of exasperated softness, as if she was used to this. Perhaps she was. All those teenage years of lying about where I was going, who I was meeting. Anything I could hide from her, I did. When I told her the truth, it was to be obstinate, difficult – to stand my ground and make a mark. Yes, I was working in the chippy, because I wasn’t too good for that, I wasn’t a snob. Yes, I’d lost my virginity to Euan White, and I didn’t give a damn what she had to say. No, I didn’t intend to get pregnant. Yes, I was incredibly proud of myself.

  ‘I… I don’t know how to tell you things, Mum.’

  ‘And that’s my fault, is it?’ she snapped, and then paused, closing her eyes. She took a breath. ‘An office never really seemed like you, to be honest. I was worried you were wasting your life.’

  ‘And now?’ I pointed at the corsets hanging on the door, and watched her lip curl.

  ‘Well, maybe I should come to this club and see it in action, hmm? Let you impress me?’

  So fucking magnanimous.

  The idea of her standing there, judging me and everything I had worked so hard for made my skin crawl. Watching her eyes narrow in displeasure in the same way they had when my back hadn’t been straight enough, when my toes hadn’t pointed, when that scale hadn’t moved down to where she wanted it to be. I had spent years running away from that look; it had chased me every time I made a mistake. Every time I wasn’t good enough, every time I failed at an audition, or lost a job, or fell asleep alone on my sofa after drinking too much wine – there was my mother, with that curled lip and arched eyebrow.

  Oh, Annabelle, you’re never going to get it, are you?

  ‘Darling, do you know what it’s like to raise a person you don’t know? Someone who’s so good at hiding who they are that you realized you gave birth to a stranger?’ She blinked at me, and I wondered if she was trying to conjure tears. ‘It’s a terrifying feeling. Give me a chance to know you, Annabelle.’

  ‘Bel. For starters.’ I bit my lip. ‘Okay, come to the show tonight. Guest of honour VIP treatment. I’ll ask Sam to drop you by. I have to go in to set up.’ I started to walk out of the room.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘No, now I’m going to my gym class. There are spare keys on the side. I’ll be back in an hour.’

  ‘The gym! Excellent, good to see you’re not letting yourself slide.’ My mother relaxed into the sofa, slipping off her shoes and pulling her feet up under her. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll just relax.’

  The way she was looking around my living room, I had the feeling I was going to return to painted walls and fabric samples. It made me feel protective over my domain. I didn’t want to leave her there to snoop around my drawers and rearrange my books. She had done that enough times when I’d lived with her, repainting my room as a ‘surprise gift’, throwing away things I had loved, as if she was bestowing the gift of good taste instead of destroying the
tiny patch of space where I could be me. Me instead of her. Her carbon copy, her second chance. Named for her, made to dance… my mother had me copying videos of her dancing as a child from the time I could grasp a bar and stretch onto tiptoes. It was always meant to be me, her second chance, her perfect Audrey, given the opportunities she never had. And I threw it all away and ran as fast as I could.

  I picked up my gym bag and walked out onto the landing, closing the door behind me.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ I said, and Sam poked his head over, coffee in hand.

  ‘Hello again.’

  ‘You spying on me?’

  He appraised me knowingly. ‘I was sitting having a cup of coffee in my stairwell; I’m entitled.’

  ‘You are, but you have a perfectly lovely flat up there and your knees cramp up sitting on those steps.’

  He held up a hand. ‘Okay, okay, I was listening out for yelling. Slamming doors, anything else that might mean a big old American landlord needs to stick his oversized nose somewhere. But it seems you’ve got it covered. How long’s she staying?’

  ‘I have no fucking idea. I need to go dance it out or I’ll explode.’

  He nodded gravely. ‘Smart move.’

  ‘Do me a favour? She wants to come and see the club, could you drop her by this evening? Just walk her over?’

  Sam raised an eyebrow at me, whiskery and unimpressed. ‘And does your mother often look at menfolk like they won’t make it out alive?’

  I laughed. ‘No, but they don’t make it out all the same. You’re strong, though, I believe in you.’

  Sam paused, as if he wasn’t sure which words to choose. ‘Sweetheart, you’re not trying… this isn’t some sort of set up, is it? Because I am quite happy the way I am.’

  I pressed my lips together and tried not to laugh again. ‘Sam, I love you. You are one of my dearest friends. I would not do that to you. I just need to make sure she doesn’t come over early and cause problems.’

  He saluted lazily. ‘Okay, you can count on me, poppet. I’ll bring her over. Can’t be held responsible for what happens when she’s there.’

  For the hundredth time this month, I thanked my lucky stars for Sam, who was sometimes the only person who made me feel sane.

  I jogged down the stairs, weaving in between the Sunday morning tourists and workers, the people enjoying the sunshine, looking in shop windows and restaurants. Every step I took away from my mother, I felt a little better, a little more clear-headed. I tapped into the building on the corner, running up the stairs before walking straight into the studio. I spared a smile for the other women in the corner, almost always the same ones on Sundays. I sat down on the floor to swap my shoes, stretching out my legs and leaning into it, feeling the tension start to melt away. The other women were always perfect and spritely, long-limbed and perfect-bunned, just like when I used to go to ballet class as a kid. There were the cygnets, and then there was me, the chicken. Now, it was almost the opposite. The perfectly coiffed ladies would smile and say hello to me, but they never attempted to talk, and neither did I. I wasn’t the green juices and bran muffins after class type, and they knew that. It was easier to come in three minutes before the class started and focus on stretching out.

  I was better than they were. I wasn’t good enough to be professional and I had hated dancing through my childhood, the way my mother forced me to practise for hours, took me to auditions. The bloody toes and constant aches as I tried to study on so few hours’ sleep. ‘You can do better, Bel, you know you can do better. You don’t want to embarrass me, do you?’ I had wanted to be better in school. My class tutor, Miss McKay, had gone head to head with Mum numerous times. I was exhausted, I was falling asleep, I was limping at school. How could I be expected to study and do well if I was dancing all the time? Did she know I was a smart girl? I could go to university if I applied myself.

  I loved Miss McKay. She was the only person I’d met who ever seemed to think I could do anything. Mum thought I could dance, but never as well as her.

  Everyone else I met seemed to think I’d just grow up and take over running the dance studio, or I’d be working at the chippy forever. Having one person, one young, hopeful teacher tell me I was smart enough to do something other than live my small life in Eastbourne, that was enough to plant a seed of doubt. I could do something else, but it would have to be carefully planned. I would never be able to live the life I wanted around Mum. She would never quit, not unless I was so badly injured I couldn’t dance any more, and I couldn’t quite bear to do that. I got close, some nights, when I was so exhausted, when she was shouting at me about not getting picked at audition, when she made me stand on the scales every morning and sighed, before handing me an apple. I was a constant disappointment.

  The weird thing was, after all that, after all those horrible memories and the stress and the way she made me hate my body… I still loved to dance. I loved to go up on my tiptoes and feel the tension in my legs. I loved to stretch and move and sway, and know that I could do what others couldn’t, that my body was a powerhouse. When I’d moved to the city, when I’d first considered leaving Euan, I found burlesque, and that was something else altogether. It was an act, a performance in confidence and sensuality. Ballet was about strength, beauty, control. They were two halves of me.

  The teacher led us through some basic moves and I let everything melt away, feeling the tension in my neck release. Every thought about the club, my mother, Euan, money worries and that creeping, ever-present feeling that I was lonely and couldn’t work that away. It sat in my muscles and slipped from them as I stretched.

  An hour later, I pulled on my trainers, nodded at the other women and headed out, feeling lighter. I wouldn’t tell Mum, no matter what. If she knew I still danced, it would be a thing. I didn’t know if she’d explode with irritation, that I had run out on it all those years ago, but still danced, or if she would get maudlin and full of regret. My mother’s emotions were like the weather.

  When I got back to the flat, thankfully she was out. I saw the spare keys were gone, and her suitcase was open in the living room, clothes strewn everywhere, so she’d obviously taken my suggestion. Music played from Sam’s flat upstairs, and I got ready for work more quickly than usual.

  Normally, putting on my game face was an art, like preparing for war. I started as Annabelle Stone, nobody, and I left as Arabella Hailstone, owner of the Martini Club. The make-up was glitter and darkness, plumping my lips until they looked like dark sugar plums. My eyes were lined in liquid black, and some days, if I’d put a before and after next to each other, I was sure I was almost unrecognisable. With my war paint on, I became who I was meant to be.

  It’s not that unexpected to see a tall Valkyrie in a sparkling black corset and heels walking through Soho on a Sunday afternoon, but people still stare. They probably wonder if I’m someone famous, or if I’m a dominatrix, a local performer. The things I’ve seen in Greek Street over the years, I barely qualify as interesting. And yet I enjoy it, striding down the street, turning heads, as if it’s my own personal show. I play music on my walk into the office, something upbeat and powerful, so that I walk with a wiggle, keep my head held high. Every moment before entering the club is about becoming more myself, putting on the Wonder Woman outfit and making shit happen.

  * * *

  When I arrived at the club, it was empty, which was about right. The chefs had been in to do prep, and as I popped my head into the kitchen I noticed another postcard from Savvy on the wall. She usually sent different ones to different staff groups. The bar staff had their own ones, tacked up by the till. I was a bit jealous of Savvy’s travels. As Arabella, I had to seem worldly, experienced. I told stories of fancy holidays, skiing in Verbier, sunning myself in the South of France. I think I’d once told Savvy her cocktails made me think of drinking in the Caribbean with an artist named Angelo. The part about the artist was absolutely true, being drunk on cocktails and lust, but we’d spent the week at a B an
d B in Cornwall. Maybe it was time to tone down the lies.

  Savvy was seeing places, tasting everything, breaking down food recipes and cocktails and seeing how they worked. I knew I should have travelled more, should have been more places, but honestly, I couldn’t think of where I’d like to go. The world was too big. And I had a club to run, with some hardworking people depending on me.

  Ricardo may not have had Savvy’s strange ability to make food taste like memories, but he was an excellent chef – organized, efficient, a good leader. Even if he drove me crazy with his loud music and stubbornness. Taya with her silk dancing, so that she looked like a doll falling through the air, wrapped perfectly in ribbons, and Charlotte, with that pale porcelain skin and sweet face, managing to enthral the audience with just a wink and the jut of her hip. And my darling Jacques, who had been there through it all, whether he was contorting onstage and making the women fan themselves with their napkins, or pouring drinks and flirting outrageously. They were my team, my family. I had to keep their home running, no matter what it took.

  I changed a few of the orders, angry at myself as I settled for a cheaper champagne instead of the one we usually had. The Martini Club was meant to be authentic. The club was the real deal, and I didn’t like settling for less. But that was business.

  As staff started filtering in, they popped their heads into the office to say hello. The kitchen team offered lazy salutes as they arrived, as if I were some sort of lenient general.