Glitter Gets Everywhere

by Yvette Clark

  “I have great news,” he says.

  I’ll be the judge of that.

  “A wonderful opportunity has come up for us to spend a few months living in New York City! Can you believe it?”

  No, actually, I cannot believe it. I stand gawping at Dad until Imogen’s squeal of excitement breaks the stunned silence.

  “Are you serious?” she asks him, hopping up and down excitedly. What with Dad’s rocking and her hopping, they look like they’re warming up for a race.

  “One hundred percent serious. My company needs someone to run a project in the New York office, and I’m the lucky one. We’re the lucky ones!”

  “This is so awesome. I can’t wait to tell Lily,” Imogen says. “Bright lights, big city, and the shopping!”

  I have a thousand things running through my head, and none of them includes a wardrobe upgrade, which is obviously at the top of Imogen’s list.

  “What about school? What about Gran? We can’t leave her. Who will look after Cleo? What about Jess? I won’t have any friends. I don’t know anyone there. I don’t want to go. I’m not going.” As I speak, I can feel my face getting redder, and my voice starting to wobble. The all-too-familiar spring of tears prickles behind my eyes, but these aren’t sad tears; these are angry tears. How could Dad seriously consider taking me away from everything I have left in the world? I turn and run up the stairs, slamming the door to my bedroom so hard that half a dozen books fall off the shelf.

  Dad follows me and tries to explain that it’s only for a few months, that he’s already talked to Mrs. Brooks, and Imogen and I will go back to Haverstock Girls’ School in January, that Gran is happy for us and thinks the change will do us a world of good and that she will look after Cleo, and that Jess and everyone else will still be here when we get back. After forty-five minutes of being patient, he loses his temper when I tell him for the forty-sixth time that I will not be going to New York.

  “Kitty, you are coming. End of discussion,” he says and shuts the door. He doesn’t slam it, but I can tell that he wanted to.

  The following day Lily comes over, and I eavesdrop as Imogen tells her all about Josh’s reaction to her leaving London.

  “He wasn’t exactly crying when I told him about New York, but I could tell he wanted to because his eyes looked all shiny,” she says, sniffing.

  “Oh my God, that’s so romantic,” says Lily.

  I’m not sure how or why that would be considered romantic. It sounds pretty pathetic to me. What’s Josh got to cry about? He’s not the one having to uproot his whole life and move to New York. Apparently, my sister and Floppy Hair Boy are going to make things work in what Imogen irritatingly describes as a “transatlantic relationship.”

  “I mean, it’s going to be hard, but we’re both really committed to making a long-distance relationship work,” Imogen says.

  I roll my eyes and decide to call Kate. At least she’ll be on my side.

  “Kitty, your mum would be thrilled for you!” she practically screams down the phone. “Laura and I went on holiday to New York together years ago. She loved it so much I thought I was never going to persuade her to come home. I’ve got some photos in the attic at Honeystone House. I’ll have to dig them out for you. Are you excited?”

  Nope.

  I call Jess, whose reaction is almost as annoying as Kate’s, but in a very different way.

  “How can your dad do this to me? You’re my best friend! You should come and live with me. Mum and Dad won’t mind, and you can help me look after the fox family. I can’t believe you’re leaving me on my own.”

  “This isn’t about you, Jess! You’re not the one who has to move to another country where you don’t know anyone. I’ll have to go to a new school. Probably one with boys.”

  “With boys? Really?”

  Jessica sounds wistful at the idea of going to a school with boys. She is quite keen on having a boyfriend and says the only boys she knows are her little brother’s friends, who are all eight years old. She quickly gets back to the matter in hand.

  “Well, who am I supposed to sit next to at school if you live in America? I don’t like anyone else in our class. I’m starting an online petition, or a GoFundMe page, or both. I was going to do one to raise money for a fox sanctuary, but I’ll do one to keep you in London.”

  “What would we use the money for?”

  “I don’t know. A lawyer or something? This is a clear violation of your human rights, Kitty. You can emancipate yourself.”

  “I don’t want to emancipate myself. I just don’t want to move to New York. It’s not fair.”

  “Then what are you going to do about it?” she asks.

  “I’m going to make a list of all the reasons this is a terrible idea and present it to Dad.”

  Dad always says I react to things without thinking them through, so this time I’ll make a well-reasoned and calm presentation of the indisputable fact that this is the worst idea he has ever had. Ever.

  I spend the next few days producing a set of slides to ensure the whole thing looks professional. My arguments are wide-ranging and well researched, and when Jess and I review the presentation, we’re both confident that it makes a compelling case. The best slide is the one where I list some of the most unpleasant things about life in New York City.

  There are rats so big that they can pull slices of pizza up subway stairs. See image below.

  I read an interview with a woman who saw a man poo on the subway. Fortunately, there is no image for this.

  They have hurricanes, deadly floods, fatal heat waves, snowstorms, and even earthquakes in New York. Scientists predict a magnitude five earthquake is imminent, which would generate more than thirty million tons of rubble! You do not want to be in the subway when that happens, even if nobody is going to the loo. I include a picture of the devastating effects of an earthquake. Admittedly this photo was taken in Japan, but I think it makes the point nicely.

  A pigeon once got into a subway car and went crazy. See link to video. Dad is super scared of pigeons, or flying rats, as he calls them, and once had a panic attack in Trafalgar Square when one landed on his head. Dominic was with us and laughed so much he said he peed his pants. Dad is going to freak out.

  There are twice as many murders in New York City per annum than in London. It is hard to imagine a parent who would move their family there out of choice.

  Although this statistic speaks for itself, I feel the need to add the second sentence.

  “Wow!” says Jess. “Well done, Kitty. The presentation is absolutely amazing and terrifying. Your dad will flip out. He hates pigeons, doesn’t he?”

  That weekend I call an emergency family meeting with just one agenda item: “New York, New York: No Way, No How.” When I open Dad’s laptop, which I’ve borrowed for the occasion, Imogen rolls her eyes, but Dad smiles encouragingly. His smile fades and his face pales when he sees the video of the pigeon flapping wildly around the subway car, so I play it three times. I do find it troubling that this is the thing that seems to concern him the most. Imogen, unmoved by Pizza Rat or the impending earthquake, pushes her chair back and waves her hand dismissively, as if my presentation and I are annoying insects.

  “Thank you for the presentation, Kitty,” Dad says when some of the color has returned to his cheeks. “I appreciate you taking the time to share your thoughts, but this isn’t going to change my mind. We will be moving to New York at the end of August.”

  “Yes!” says Imogen, giving me a triumphant look.

  “We don’t even have a place to live,” I say, desperate to find a reason to stop or at least delay the move.

  “Yes, we do,” Dad says, grinning. “I’ve found us a fantastic apartment. Pass the laptop. I can show you some photos. It’s on the twenty-fourth floor, and it’s got the most amazing view.”

  “Does the building have a doorman?” Imogen asks.

  A doorman? Clearly, the poor girl has her priorities all wrong. Didn’t she pay at
tention to the presentation? Magnitude five earthquake plus twenty-fourth-floor apartment equals certain death. For a so-called straight-A student, she can be a bit slow at times.

  “There’s an entire team of doormen,” Dad says. “Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I can imagine it now, Imogen.” Dad does a bad imitation of an American accent. “Good morning, Miss Wentworth, have a nice day.”

  “Everyone knows Americans are fake friendly. English people might be grumpy, but they do care, deep down,” I say. I can feel my face getting hot and angry tears rushing to my eyes. “So that’s it then? We’re going?”

  “Why do you have to be so miserable about everything, Kitty?” Imogen says, slapping her palm on the table. “This is the first good thing that’s happened to us in ages, and just because you don’t like the idea of moving, you have to ruin it for everyone else.”

  “Imo, don’t be angry with Kitty. It is a big move, and I understand that she’s nervous. It will be a huge change for all of us, but I really think it will be a good thing for our family, Kitty. Your mum loved it there.” He looks around the kitchen sadly. “We need a change of scenery. We need to have something to look forward to. I need that, and I think when you get over your nerves, you’ll see that I’m right.”

  “I hate you!” I push my chair back, and the metal legs squeak painfully across the wooden floor. Dad winces, whether at the noise or at my words, I don’t know. I’ve never said that to Dad before. As I lie in bed that night unable to sleep, thoughts of unfamiliar streets, faces, and voices tumbling around my head, I try not to think about the look on Dad’s face.

  The following evening I log into Flying Solo. I haven’t been there for a while, but I notice the same old names. Sure enough, Dad has been very active over the past month. I go straight to his saved posts and read the most recent one.

  “Hi! I’m hoping there are a few New Yorkers out there who can give me some advice. I’m planning a move from London to NYC with my daughters, and am looking for recs for a family-friendly neighborhood with good schools. Any tips would be much appreciated. It’s exciting but all a bit overwhelming. TIA! WWLD.”

  There is a flurry of responses:

  “I’ve never been but lucky you!”

  “Hi WWLD! New Yorker here. Property prices in NYC are insane. Check out New Jersey.”

  “I’d love to live in London. We should do a house swap!”

  “Three words: Upper West Side. Good schools and close to the park.”

  “Good luck, WWLD! Keep us posted!”

  I decide to post a reply from my own account.

  “This sounds like a terrible idea. Are you seriously planning on taking your daughters away from everything they know? Everything that makes them feel safe? Wow, just wow! If you have to move to New York, perhaps your daughters could stay with a relative or friend? Sorry to say this but you sound selfish. Good luck, MMM.”

  When I check back later, my post has seventeen dislikes and only one like, which I gave to myself. I bet the people on Flying Solo wouldn’t want to be dragged to the other side of the world. Why does everything keep changing? Why can’t everything be like it was before? Why is nobody on my side?

  Chapter Eleven

  Dayroom Yellow

  I try to process the fact that in just a few weeks, I will no longer be living in London but in New York City. Sam and I have spent hours discussing the move, and at today’s appointment, it’s evident that I am all talked out. There are only so many times I can rant about pigeons, earthquakes, Imogen, and Dad.

  “Kitty, sometimes in order to move forward, we need to look back,” Sam says. He obviously feels that we’ve exhausted the New York topic of conversation. Maybe he’s just bored of me. I wouldn’t blame him. I’m boring myself. I often do lately.

  “So, today, I’d like us to talk about those last few weeks with your mum. Do you remember how you felt when she moved into the hospice?”

  The hospice is a place I have tried and failed miserably to erase from my memory. It’s just a few streets away from our house, and I’ve been walking the long way to my appointments with Sam to avoid it ever since Mum died. Apparently, it’s one of the best hospices in London. Perhaps the real estate agents of Belsize Park should include that in the selling points for local properties: “this delightful home is situated in a peaceful, leafy corner of North London, and conveniently located for the Tube station, the shops, and a lovely hospice, perfect for when your time comes.”

  The hospice is in a bright, modern building full of potted plants and with cheery paintings of vases of flowers hanging on the yellow walls. If they’d used Farrow & Ball paint to decorate, it would have been Dayroom Yellow, color 233, but I suspect they used a cheaper brand. It is a surprisingly cheerful and lively place, given it’s somewhere you go to die. There’s even a tiny hairdressing salon. Volunteers come in to paint patients’ nails, read, or just sit by the bed of people who don’t have any visitors. I always thought that was weird. Imagine waking up with a complete stranger sitting next to your bed, reading to you. What if you didn’t like the book they’d chosen?

  Mum had her own room, and there was a shared family room across the hallway with a small kitchen, a couple of sofas, a television, and, bizarrely, an electronic piano that I never heard anyone play. I always wondered about that piano and how and why it ended up there. Sam had visited Mum at the hospice, so he knows all about the yellow walls, the hairdressing salon, and the piano. What he wants me to talk about is what those last weeks of Mum’s life were like for me.

  I shiver at the memory of my first visit to the hospice. Mum looked so pale and thin and was trying hard not to cough. She invited me to climb up onto her bed while Gran fussed around her. Gran was always there, bustling around the room moving flowers, tissues, pillows, and books. The last few days, though, she suddenly became still and sat in the chair next to Mum’s bed staring at her, only moving to let another visitor take the seat before resuming her silent vigil.

  “Does Gran sleep here?” I asked Dad once.

  “Sometimes. The nurses try to persuade her to go home to get a decent night’s sleep in her own bed, but she tells them she can’t sleep at her house, so they let her stay.”

  “Can I sleep here?” I didn’t think I wanted to but wanted to know what Dad would say.

  “No, love. Mum specifically asked me to make sure that we all sleep at home. She says it makes her happy to think of you, Imogen, and me tucked up in our beds.”

  “Kitty!” says Sam, bringing me back from the family room at the hospice to his office. Funny, I never noticed the similarities in the wall color.

  “Is this paint Dayroom Yellow?”

  “I have no idea. Let’s not discuss the decor. We were talking about the time at the hospice before Laura died.”

  Sam always says death, cancer, terminal, and other words that most people try to avoid using in front of me. He says it’s important to give things their proper names. I suppose not using scary words is as pointless as trying to avoid saying Voldemort’s name. It doesn’t protect you from anything.

  “If I tell you I don’t remember lots of things, you should believe me, because it’s true. Some things are so vivid, though, like the smell of the flowers in the room and how Mum looked smaller each visit, as if the bed around her was growing. I remember that we ran out of tissues a lot in the family room and that when I went to the nurses’ station to get more, they said what a good thing it was to let it all out. I remember walking into Mum’s room once and seeing her sitting up in bed with Dad holding her. I thought maybe she was feeling better since she hadn’t sat up in days, but she wasn’t. I remember when Dad told us that the doctors said she would probably soon be gone. I remember wondering every time I kissed her goodbye if it would be the last time. I remember the last time, even though I didn’t know it was the last time then, if you see what I mean.”

  “I do see, Kitty. You remember a lot and did really well talking about it,” Sam says. “How do
you feel?”

  “Awful.”

  “Therapy can be a bit like Snakes and Ladders.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It has its ups and downs. Ironically, what feels like a snake is often a ladder when processing grief. By the way—do you know that the game Snakes and Ladders is called Chutes and Ladders in the States? You need to know these things since you’ll be living there for a few months,” Sam says.

  “No, I didn’t, and I still don’t know what you’re talking about. How is grief like Snakes and Ladders, or ‘Chutes’ and Ladders?” I put the word chutes into air quotes and roll my eyes.

  “Well, sometimes the biggest fall equals the most progress. Do you know what I mean?”

  “No. Can I go now, please?”

  Sam smiles. “Of course. Your dad’s waiting outside. Well done, Kitty. You’re doing brilliantly. I’m proud of you, and I know that your mum would be too.”

  As Dad and I walk the familiar route home, I try to count how many appointments I’ve had with Sam in the four months since Mum died. Usually one a week, sometimes two, let’s say six times a month, so twenty-four appointments. I have no idea whether Sam told Dad he was planning on talking to me about Mum’s time at the hospice today or not. Is Sam even allowed to talk about what I say in my appointments? I have a hazy memory of him telling me in one of our first sessions that our conversations would be private unless my well-being were at stake. I never asked him what he meant by that. I trust Sam to do the right thing. I don’t want to keep secrets that could harm me.

  Usually, I ignore the turn to the right, the one that leads to the hospice. Ever since Mum died, I’ve held my breath while I crossed that road, studiously avoiding it, only breathing again when it was behind me. Today though, I take Dad’s hand and turn right. He looks down at me, but I don’t meet his gaze, instead staring straight ahead as the redbrick building appears in front of us. We stop wordlessly at the entrance to the driveway, which is flanked on either side by tall glossy green privet hedges. There are a few cars parked next to the building, but there isn’t a soul to be seen. I stare up at the window of the corner room on the third floor, which was Mum’s room. Dad follows my gaze and pulls me into him. He’s so much thinner than he was. I didn’t notice it until I saw some photos of him before Mum got ill. Mum was so tiny in those last few months that he seemed like a comforting giant next to her. In reality, he got smaller too. Perhaps he does need this move. Perhaps we all do. Perhaps it will be a relief not to expect to see Mum around every corner.