At least until my mother returned.
‘It wasn’t great timing, and there was bad luck, I’ll give you that.’ I winced, struggling to look with both eyes open, the lure of my bed almost unbearable. I peered towards my room with a hopeful look. I could make it back, if I just played it smart. ‘But wasn’t Desiree enchanting, and funny? Didn’t Charlotte’s performance have jaws dropping? What about Jacques? Didn’t the food excite you? Wasn’t the atmosphere energetic and fun?’
Isn’t there one good thing you can say to your daughter about her business?
I waited, watching her mull it over. My mother never lied. That was her whole thing. She was doing me a favour by telling me the truth. ‘Accepting average is for people less than you, Annabelle. I won’t let you stoop to that level.’
Her lips twitched and I knew she’d made her choice.
‘That MC hit two flat notes in the opening number, Jacques wobbled, Charlotte has the beginnings of cellulite, which was very obvious in that sparkly get-up, and the chicken was dry.’
It was like she was ticking them off on her fingers, and when she nodded at the end of her list, there was a sense of finality, along with a small smile. She had done her job, she had told me the truth. I should be grateful.
‘You are a piece of work, honestly.’ I stood up and took my cup of coffee with me.
‘I’m trying to stop you from wasting your life, from failing miserably and making an embarrassment of yourself! Why can’t you see that?’ Mum had this brilliant tone she saved for times like this, all pained and frustrated, like she couldn’t believe how unreasonable I was being.
‘Wasting my life? I have been a success for all these years, and all it took was one visit from Mummy Dearest to feel like I’ve been a fucking failure all along!’ I screeched. ‘I put my life’s blood into that place, and it was a home when I didn’t have one. Those people in there, they’re family. Real family, the ones who still give a shit about you even when you stop acting like their puppets in some great unfulfilled prophecy.’
‘What on earth does that mean?’ She started to follow me, but I stood in the doorway to my room.
‘When was the last time you danced, mother? The last time you put yourself out there to be picked apart and judged for doing the thing you love, rather than just tearing down every person a little braver than you who does their best?’
She looked at me, truly stunned.
‘Yeah, didn’t think so,’ I said, and slammed the door in her face, taking the time to lock it.
* * *
I thought she would hole up in there all day, waiting for me to come out. Stupidly, I had trapped myself, and eventually would need to escape for water, or to use the facilities. It was so much an echo of my teenage years that I felt dizzy. We’d fight, I’d storm off, I’d have to escape my room for food or to go to school, and she’d start it up again. My mother had never once apologized or tried to make amends. She wore you down until you said sorry just for some peace.
Except this was my home, and that meant I was in control. In theory, at least. I tried to go back to sleep, but I was too wired, worried about the club, worried about Taya, replaying every argument I’d had with my mother over the years. There were more than enough to keep my mind occupied for a few hours. Eventually, I fell into a fitful sleep, but kept waking every time I saw Taya fall to the ground in her blue slip, the silks sliding behind her. I woke up hearing that sickening crunch.
It was, at least, a more reasonable time. I pulled on my running gear and trainers, slicking my hair back and putting my headphones in before leaving the room. Even if she had tried to speak to me, I wouldn’t have been able to hear her. Thankfully, as I grabbed my keys from the side and made my escape, the flat was empty.
Still, I had some unspent rage, and dodging tourists whilst jogging seemed like a good way to burn it up. Or transfer it onto other Londoners who would have to dodge me. Either way, I won.
My feet pounded heavily as I wove in and out, a determined look on my face. My running T-shirt was bright pink and said ‘Can’t stop, won’t stop’. I think it was a Secret Santa gift, but it was pretty much my life motto. I spent so much time spinning plates, it was impossible to stop even if I wanted to. I ran near to the club, but didn’t turn down the street, and further along I noticed the building site. Some new fancy hotel or members’ club, no doubt. Could that be where Euan was, right now?
It would be so easy to run that way, peer through the fencing, look for the man in the yellow jacket and hard hat, always the one making everybody laugh. He would turn to me and smile, those eyes knowing, and I’d run to him, jump into his arms as I had as a teenager.
I kept running. I stayed away from the building site and kept to the edges, following backstreets that ran alongside the bustling streets like veins, hidden routes that only a few of us knew. I cut back in amongst the fray at Leicester Square, and upped my pace to get past confused tourists and adamant ticket sellers. The pounding in my chest had started, and I followed round from Trafalgar Square, down to the widening streets and eventually, finally… the river. My little slice of perfection, a view of the River Thames in the sunshine. The music that throbbed in my ears was upbeat but nondescript, and as I reached the barrier, I stopped, clinging to it and breathing deeply.
Euan was not a lifeline. He’d only ever been good as a reflection. I looked back on that marriage as a sham, a joke two twenty-somethings had played on themselves, pretending to be adults, pretending that a couple of rings would make them real… the root of it was always there, love. But no matter what they tell you, love, in my experience, has never really been enough.
The river caught the sun, beaming it back like a dazzling smile. Boats chugged along, with tourists staring wide-eyed, some waving as they passed. It was almost impossible to remember what London was like before, in the greys of winter, the drizzle and cold. When summer was just beginning, the tail end of spring where colour was everywhere, and Londoners sat with their upturned faces, basking in that moment’s glow; there was nothing else like it.
I didn’t want to go home, a first for me. I felt a deep bitterness for my mother, for turning my sanctuary into a place I wanted to avoid. There wasn’t enough emotional space for two people, all that baggage and breathing and bitterness. But it was home.
I took a deep breath and pushed off from the side, running further and further down the river until my lungs burned and screamed for air. It was on the run back, where I pushed myself to move faster, to bounce in between people, dodge and weave. It was only then that the endorphins kicked in and I felt myself smile.
Everything is going to be okay.
The sun was smiling in my city, I had my business, I had my independence, I could run and dance and move. There was enough black coffee and cold champagne and music every day forever and ever. Amen.
My mother still wasn’t in when I got home, and it felt like perfection. I took the world’s longest shower, singing at the top of my lungs. A positive attitude could change anything. I could control my destiny with glitter and gritted teeth. If anything was true, that was it.
I spent my afternoon lounging around in my silk pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt, my hair pinned carefully so that it would fall in luscious waves that evening. I checked my phone and Taya sent me bored selfies, but she was laughing in them, so that had to be a good sign. I felt like she was trying to stop me from feeling bad, and that was so sweet it hurt. I’d been right, what I’d told my mother – the club was family. We would survive.
It was a delicious treat to laze around reading trashy magazines and drinking coffee, daydreaming. It was something I rarely did, switching off, but I tried to give myself half an hour a day. With my mother in town, I upped the dose of self care. Doctor’s orders – lazing around, eating delicious things, reading garbage. No thinking, no worrying, no proving yourself in stupid ways. You’ve been there before. That way lies madness.
I was older and wiser. I could deal with anything.<
br />
There was a sharp tap on the door, and my head jerked up. She hadn’t taken her keys? She was back already, from whatever shopping spree she’d been on, back to destroy my calm and take over my space?
My stomach dropped in disappointment, but I slouched over to the door and pulled it open.
It wasn’t my mother. It wasn’t, strangely, though I don’t know why I’d even considered it, Euan. Thankfully he didn’t know where I lived, and I wanted to keep it that way.
It was Jacques, leaning against the doorway with a bottle of gin and a face like thunder.
‘Oh fuck,’ I said, letting him barge past me to find two glasses.
‘Oh fuck is right,’ he said, sighing as he slammed the bottle on the kitchen counter. ‘Ice?’
I tilted my head to the fridge-freezer. He knew where everything was.
The last time Jacques had been here it was because we were having licensing issues and might have to close for the night. The time before that was when a con artist slipped in the bathroom and tried to sue us. The time before that, at least, was just guy trouble.
‘Tell me,’ I said, leaning on the edge of the kitchen, nerves thwacking against my stomach lining like coins on a taut drumskin.
He shook his head. ‘Drink first, before you kill me.’
‘Oh, it’s your fault? Good, at least whatever’s happened isn’t down to me,’ I sighed, then downed the glass of chilled gin he put in front of me. I didn’t even wince. He’d brought the good stuff. Double damn. That’s got to be bad.
‘Are we opening tonight?’ I asked, and Jacques winced, creasing that perfect forehead, pouring another shot and pushing it towards me. I downed it, looking at him expectantly.
‘We can. There is nothing stopping us…’ He started.
‘Okay, that’s good.’
Jacques held up a hand. ‘Except that all of our bookings phoned up and cancelled on us.’
I blinked. ‘We had fifteen cancellations?’
He held up a hand. ‘Fourteen cancellations and one rearranged for next week.’
‘Are we going to be here next week? What happened?’
Dread started at my fingertips and crept up to my throat. Jacques lowered his head, unsure of how to say the words.
‘The reviewer.’
I closed my eyes, and I heard the swish of the liquid as Jacques poured another healthy glug. I grasped the glass so hard I thought it would smash.
‘I’m sorry, Bel. Honestly, I thought I was helping. I didn’t think…’
‘Taya’s fall?’ I kept my eyes closed, gripping the edge of the kitchen work surface.
‘Not just that…’ Jacques sounded pained, and when I looked at him, the way his brow furrowed, the guilt and anger in his eyes, I knew he saw the club as much his as it was mine. It was home to both of us. Jacques had joined the year after we started, and had immediately improved everything just by being there. That was how he was.
I plonked myself on the sofa and got out my phone, full glass in my other hand. I had to see what he’d said. What could possibly have been so bad that we had fourteen cancellations?
When the page loaded, I had to blink. My hands started to shake as I scrolled through the vitriol.
The fall of Mistress La Morte (dancer and aerialist Taya Olombi) whilst shocking, was light relief to the previous boredom of a stale show that evidently hasn’t adapted or grown in years. The Martini Club used to be a heavyweight in burlesque clubs years ago, but as it struggles to keep hold of its prime location, it’s clear it has very little to offer. From the threadbare seating and tired bar, the uninventive menu to the performances, there is no risk or innovation to be found here. The highly priced three-course meal offers a small mushroom toast starter, dry chicken and bland Tiramisu. There were no exciting flavours, the staff didn’t think to match wine or offer extras, and it was clear that the majority of servers were just chosen for their airhead bimbo look, in the hope that a tightly fitting corset might entice visitors to spend their hard-earned cash.
The owner, Arabella Hailstone, confirmed this tactless approach. Dressed more like a cheap sexualized attempt at Morticia Adams than a club owner, she fawned, flirted and did everything short of offering herself up on a dining plate to encourage guests to spend more on their overpriced cocktails. Most, I am sure, did so just to make the meals and performances palatable.
Burlesque clubs have long been said to be a dying breed, and it’s clear the Martini Club knows it’s on the long slow trudge to the gallows. Its desperately cheery discount vouchers and extended happy hour are the final limps of a club that knows when it’s beat. Let’s just hope that the next club to take over the location has a better sense of style! I have a feeling we won’t be waiting long.
‘I’m going to be sick,’ I said, clutching at my chest, trying to swallow down the shame and panic. We were screwed. Things were bad before, but now we’d been decimated. Publicly shamed for our failings. The idea twisted up my insides and I clenched my eyes shut, focusing on breathing.
Nope. Not working.
I ran to the bathroom, the retching starting as I reached the door, throwing myself onto my knees. There was nothing to come up, just the hacking and spluttering of a silly woman who didn’t know what to do.
I felt Jacques walk in behind me, saw the shadow across the floor. He said nothing, just handed me a glass of water. He waited for me to drink, sitting back on the floor.
I will not cry, I will not cry.
I hadn’t cried in front of anyone for years. There had been moments, but tears were like sneezes – if you concentrated really hard, you could keep them in, and then the urge was gone.
‘I’m so, so sorry, Bel. I thought… I thought it would help. I’ve destroyed everything.’ His voice was thick with regret, and he sounded on the edge of tears too, so I didn’t look up.
I knew Jacques was looking for me to get up and dust myself off, take a hearty swig of gin and head down to the club, head held high, opening that night even if no one turned up, and telling that critic to go screw himself.
I wanted to be that person, I really did. The Arabella I had so carefully crafted, she would put on an extra layer of lipstick and march down the street in her strappiest stilettos, daring anyone to fuck with her dream.
But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t take any more.
I sat on the bathroom floor and shook, staring at the corner of an off-white tile whilst the words ‘it’s over’ spun round and round in my head.
‘What do we do about tonight?’ I asked, hating myself for not taking charge.
Jacques jumped into action. ‘I have it sorted. We close for tonight. I told the staff after what happened with Taya, you felt they deserved the time off to relax. I told them to go enjoy themselves.’
He paused, gritting his teeth and waiting for my response.
‘If we close tonight, they win. We confirm what the review says.’
He shook his head. ‘If we’re open tonight, and no one comes in, it’s worse. It’ll be worse for morale, and it’ll look bad to any walk-ins.’
‘But…’ I knew he was right, but it was my pride that was prodding at me. Some man says my club isn’t good enough, so I close it down? Like the Martini Club had to hang its head in shame, and slither off into the shadows? The whole point of the club was that it stood there, come what may, her shoulders thrown back, not giving a crap what anyone thought of her.
‘I just hate the idea of people walking past and seeing the closed sign and smirking to themselves,’ I said quietly. ‘It feels like giving in, it feels like defeat.’
Jacques held out a hand to help me up, and even though I didn’t really want to, I moved, following him through to the living room. I sat down, and he stood before me, as if he was making a presentation.
‘You ever watch boxing, Bel? Any sport at all?’
I shook my head, wondering what the hell he was on about.
‘Jacques, if you’re going to tell me I need to put a boxing ring
in my bar and charge for matches, I’ll scream.’
He snorted. ‘No. Look, you get punched, and you get back up, right? That’s what you’ve always done. Tenacious little dog that you are.’
I raised an eyebrow at the comparison, but said nothing.
‘But, darling, look. At some point, you have to tap out so you can recover. Get your strength back to get back in the ring.’
I didn’t reply and Jacques pushed his hair back, before kneeling down in front of me, and taking my hand. I wondered how many nights at the club he’d done this to a woman in the crowd, made her heart flutter as he kissed her hand and looked up at her like she was the answer to his problems. But I just saw my friend. An actual friend, even if he barely knew anything about who I really was.
‘There is no weakness in regrouping, taking a step back and getting your energy up so you can attack again. You’ve been doing this alone for a long time, lovely. Let us help. We’re here, we’re ready to help.’ Jacques looked so sincere, so hopeful as he stroked my hand with his thumb that I couldn’t help but laugh.
‘Hey! What’s with the snorting?’
‘I’m sorry, darling, but look at you, all earnest and supportive. Your support is more calling me a tenacious bitch and turning up with gin, not this hand holding and meaningful gazing stuff!’ I grasped his hand before he could take it back. ‘But I am so grateful, and I agree. Even if I’m going to have nightmares about that sign on the front of the door, it’s best to close for the night.’
I felt a little giddy at the idea – it was something out of my control now. I could fight, but either way I was screwed. So, why not do nothing? Regroup, relax, build up my strength. I imagined myself as a phoenix, now withered and ageing, with little thin grey feathers, shivering in the cold, suddenly reborn as this gorgeous, vibrant bird with golden flames for plumage.
‘Don’t worry about the sign.’ Jacques grinned, standing up and rocking on his heels. ‘I’ve put that we’re closed for a private function. Saves face, makes us look busy. No damage.’
Martinis and Memories Page 8