Knowing You

by Samantha Tonge

  So when six o’clock arrives, I head into the ladies’ room to brush my hair. Perhaps I should make more effort, I think, as my colleagues change into high shoes and swap jumpers for blouses. Lipstick is applied. Squirts of perfume hijack the stale air. But I have no time anyway, having agreed to meet Gary outside the building at six fifteen. The party starts at seven thirty, but he needs to arrive early to sign books. I go to the lift and within minutes am downstairs in reception. I pass through the revolving door and stand outside for a few moments, blowing on my hands to keep warm.

  I could have waited inside, but I need to quell my irrational fear that Gary will change his mind at the last minute and go for a few pints at the Red Lion next door. The sunny spring day is disappearing. Commuters rush by, swerving around Gabby, the homeless woman who sits leaning up against our building. She mouths hello at me. Most lunchtimes I stop for a quick chat and give her a sandwich bag. Lenny said she’s probably one of those professional beggars and thought me naïve to make a spare packed lunch for her each day.

  I look up and down the street. I don’t want Lenny to come. Yet I do. Perhaps he’s missed me. Maybe I won’t feel anything and can let go of what he did. Will we talk to each other? How do I greet him?

  It’s a rickety bridge I need to cross, which makes me think of the ones on the jungle reality show Lenny liked to watch. If I reach the other side, the confidence boost I’ll enjoy will make it worthwhile.

  ‘Violet?’

  I look up. Gary smiles nervously. We shake hands.

  ‘You look great,’ I say, making an effort to observe his outfit. I’m not that interested in clothes, but Gary needs a shot of self-esteem.

  How similar our situations are this evening. I bared my soul to Lenny. Gary has bared his soul to readers. It’s left us both vulnerable to rejection.

  ‘You don’t think the tie is too much?’ He loosens his collar.

  ‘Definitely not. You should see the fashion show being put together in the women’s toilets.’

  We head up to the first floor and into the conference room. Interns buzz around, tying balloons. A pop-up bar has been set up at the back. Caterers hurry to and fro, laying out glasses to fill and stacking small plates and napkins. I lead Gary over to a table where earlier I set up a pile of his books.

  Gary sits down and runs a hand over his receding hairline.

  ‘Glass of champagne?’ I say.

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know. Perhaps I should keep a clear head.’

  I sit down next to him. ‘Try not to worry. I know this is your first event, but you’ll be absolutely fine.’

  I chat while he scribbles, but Gary is very quiet. I know him well enough to realise that means he’s nervous.

  I head over to Irfan. ‘Our author could do with some moral support,’ I say.

  Irfan fills a glass with champagne for Gary and then carries that, and his own orange juice, over to the table. I help with the last minute decorations and dim the lights just as the first guests arrive. I chat with some bloggers whilst I sip my coke. I mustn’t forget to give them goody bags when they leave. Their support for books is unpaid, and I tell my authors never to forget that. Music plays in the background and I gaze out of the windows at illuminated buildings, tired of trying to pretend to myself that I’m not looking out for Lenny. I’m glad to escape the gloss of the party. My job gives me a sense of belonging that only falters at such glittering get-togethers.

  ‘Do you think he’s jumped?’ says a familiar voice in my ear.

  I turn around. Irfan pulls a face. ‘Gary’s disappeared. People are waiting to talk to him – especially some of the youngsters.’

  ‘Toilets?’

  ‘Irfan’s looked there,’ says Farah, with a sparkle on her face that complements the book’s fizzy drink theme. She’s like a teenager at her first disco every time she attends one of these events. Gold tassel earrings shake as she speaks and she’s wearing a blue embroidered silk top with sequins around the neck.

  A blogger collars me for an early copy of a picture book she’s eager to see and it’s the perfect excuse for me to leave and look for Gary. I head up to my office. A light is on in the side room. I head over and open the door. Gary and I stare at each other. We’ve held many a meeting in there while discussing changes to his manuscript. I go in and sit down opposite him.

  ‘Lovely. Peace and quiet,’ I say.

  ‘Not much of a party girl?’

  ‘No. I’m more of a hot chocolate on the sofa, book in my hand, cat on my lap kind of person.’ He smiles. Good. ‘I often bypass these events, but seeing as it’s you…’

  ‘Thanks, Violet. I appreciate that.’

  ‘I also accept that it’s part of my job.’

  ‘Now I feel like a school kid who’s in trouble and has been sent to the headmistress.’

  ‘Not at all. I didn’t mean it like that. Quite the opposite, in fact. Your main job is the writing – albeit alongside a bit of promotion. But book launches, well, some authors don’t have them at all – and the effect they have on sales is negligible. It’s just that we want you to enjoy tonight. You deserve it, Gary, and I’ve already spoken to two enthusiastic young readers who are really keen to meet you.’

  He stares at his drink. ‘But what if they find out I’m a fraud?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘People aren’t interested in what I’ve got to say, Violet. I’m not well-read. You know what I do for a living. I’m not a proper author. I just liked my kids’ books and wanted to write one.’

  ‘And it’s one of the best Young Adult books I’ve ever read.’

  ‘You really mean that, don’t you? I can tell that you’re not the sort of person to bullshit.’

  ‘Take a few deep breaths and just be yourself. No one can beat you at that. It’s going to go great. A night to remember. I promise. You wouldn’t be a real writer if you weren’t wracked with self-doubt.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Even our biggest authors get the collywobbles every time a new book goes out for review. And trust me. I’ve never known a writer not to feel on top of the world after doing a reading. Come on. I believe the champagne is top notch.’

  He gives a tentative smile. We head downstairs. I take him back into the conference room and guide him towards the youngsters who wanted to chat. Fifteen minutes later, I see a group of them hanging on his every word. Gary has undone his top button. I give him the thumbs up.

  My evening’s been worthwhile just to see him lap up the attention and relax. I’m tempted to leave early, but stay in case Gary has another wobble. I am just about to check on the goody bags when I feel a tap on my shoulder and smile. The last time I saw Irfan he’d gone into telling jokes mode. Parties always do that to him.

  He taps again and I turn around.

  2001

  The teacher, Mrs Warham, puts her arm around my shoulder and guides me inside. She’s got short grey hair and lines. She must be at least a hundred years old. My stomach untwists a little as I take in the friendly room. The walls are covered with colourful paintings and letters. On the left, in the corner, is a carpeted area with cushions. As the rest of the class file in, they sit down there. Mrs Warham calls over a girl with pigtails that are straighter and shinier than mine.

  ‘Alice, this is Violet. She’s joining our class. Could you keep her company today? Her coat peg is already named.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Warham.’ Alice smiles and holds out her hand. I take it and she grips hard, pulling me to the back of the classroom opposite the toilets. She points to an empty peg.

  ‘That word begins with V. Does it say your name?’

  I nod.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It’s a flower. And a colour. Purple.’

  ‘Like your glasses.’ She giggles. ‘Take off your coat and then we have to sit in a circle on the carpet whilst Mrs Warham takes the register. I’m the first to be read out,’ she says proudly, ‘because my second name starts with an A too.�
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  ‘My second name also starts with a V.’

  ‘You’ll be read out last, then,’ she says in superior tones.

  Quickly I take off my coat and hang it up with my bag. Alice takes my hand again and drags me over to the navy blue carpet. We sit down. Everyone stares at me and heat floods into my face. A boy with jam around his mouth sticks out his tongue. Alice looks at two friends and the three of them grin. Alice seems to find a lot of things about me funny. Like my odd socks. The way I blush. And the pencil case she saw sticking out of the top of my bag. It’s in the shape of an elephant. Alice whispers something to her friends about that but I don’t hear and they all laugh. At break, she and her friends giggle in front of the boys. At lunch they do handstands on the field to show them their knickers. They shoot me pitying looks when I say I don’t understand why anyone would want to do that. It’s the longest sentence I’ve said all day.

  ‘You don’t speak much,’ says Alice, after the end-of-school bell goes and we collect our coats.

  ‘You’re a shrinking Violet,’ says her friend Georgie, and beams as if she’d just solved a maths problem. ‘That’s what my aunt calls her dog. His real name is Patch but he’s very shy and hides behind the sofa when I visit.’

  ‘Shrinking Violet, Shrinking Violet,’ call the others and clap their hands.

  Georgie looks at me guiltily. I bite the insides of my cheeks so that I don’t cry.

  That night I have a quick chat with Uncle Kevin on the phone. His voice sounds tired but he can’t wait to start his new job on Friday. He asks how school went. I say it was okay. I don’t mention the laughing or handstands. At least tomorrow I won’t have to stay by Alice’s side. And after-school club wasn’t awful. We did craft work and then I was allowed to read my book. I’m reading Charlotte’s Web because it was one of Uncle Kevin’s favourite books when he was a little boy. I still don’t like spiders but they don’t seem as scary as before.

  I don’t mention my new nickname to him or to Mum. Perhaps those girls will have forgotten about it by tomorrow.

  * * *

  Mondays never used to bother me. It was just another day of the week. But I think, from now on, they are going to make me feel sick. I squeeze Mum’s hand tighter as we hurry onto the playground. I couldn’t sleep last night. My first three days at Applegrove Primary have been horrid. Last Thursday and Friday, Alice just wouldn’t leave me alone.

  ‘Where’s your dad?’

  ‘Why is your skirt so long?’

  ‘Does your mum let you use her phone?’

  ‘Have you ever worn lipstick?’

  ‘Why do you like books so much?’

  The questions go on and on and Alice never waits for an answer because she thinks she knows it all. When she said that my mum and dad must be divorced, I couldn’t be bothered to say no.

  I don’t make a fuss, though, because Mum’s new job isn’t going well. I heard her tell a friend on the phone that her boss tells really bad jokes and wears too much aftershave. At least my teacher is nice. She smells of pretty flowers like the perfume Mum sometimes wears if we’re dressing up smart.

  So I chat about Alice with Tinker instead of Mum. He’s a great listener and says I should be cat-like, in other words dignified and silent. I decide to take his advice. After all, I learnt at my old school that the Egyptians thought cats were gods, so they must be very wise. I keep my head up and ignore Alice. Problem is, she can’t bear that and pretending she isn’t there just makes her shout “Shrinking Violet” louder. At the end of school last Friday, she even pinched my arm. I did my best not to show how much it hurt.

  ‘Goodbye, darling,’ says Mum and kisses my cheek. ‘Have a lovely day. Remember we’re talking to Uncle Kevin again tonight. He’s got an office party at lunch so we’ll chat to him after, at seven o’clock our time – it will be two o’clock there and the celebrations will have just finished.’

  The thought of that will get me through the day.

  ‘Who’s your Uncle Kevin?’ says Alice, on the way in. ‘Your mum’s boyfriend?’

  Alice has the strangest ideas. ‘No. Her brother. He’s in America.’

  ‘I’ve been to America,’ says Alice and she puffs out her chest as if she’s flown to the moon and back.

  She waits as if expecting me to ask lots of questions but I go straight in and hang my coat and bag on my peg. She sits down next to me on the carpet. I look at the date on the calendar up on the wall. Mrs Warham crosses off each day as it passes. It’s a long time until December when term ends.

  ‘Dad took me and my brother to Florida. I saw Mickey Mouse. It was amazing. And Cinderella. Beauty and the Beast too. I got all their autographs.’

  Georgie gives me a smile as if to say sorry for Alice. Georgie isn’t so bad. Or at least I didn’t think so, until she and Alice and their other friends cornered me on the field at lunchtime. All I wanted to do was to read. They thought I should do handstands with them instead. I said no so Georgie ran off with my book. I chased her and she threw it into a puddle. It was the last thing Uncle Kevin had given me, apart from the silver book necklace that I wasn’t allowed to wear to school. Other children from our class saw her do it but pretended they hadn’t. I didn’t cry. I just managed not to. I didn’t want them to see me do that.

  When I get home, I use my towel to dry my book. The pages smell funny and some stick together.

  I sit by the phone and at seven o’clock exactly it rings. Mum puts the phone between us and we both listen. I ask what the party was like and his words go all bubbly as if they are orange squash that has been turned into orangeade. He talks about the colourful table glitter and cocktails. Apparently waiters walked around carrying trays of miniature food like burgers, hot dogs and salmon and cream cheese bagels. I don’t know what bagels are, but Uncle Kevin had three of them.

  He says the company has just signed a big customer and that the party for this was also a good way for him to get to know everyone. He works on the hundredth floor. We used to live on the eighth floor of our tower block and could see across the whole city. Perhaps from his office Uncle Kevin can see England. Mum and I tease him when he talks about a woman called Cindy who showed him how to work the coffee machine. I say she makes his voice sound gooey. He tells us about a team-building trip they are all going on next weekend. There’s a pizza school in New York and they will spend the day spinning dough and choosing their own toppings before eating them.

  Uncle Kevin hasn’t got long but quickly asks about us. I go quiet whilst Mum talks about her new boss and all his rules. She calls him a rude name. That doesn’t happen often. The doorbell goes and Mum hands me the phone before leaving the room.

  ‘And how are things going with my best niece?’

  ‘I’m your only niece,’ I say and manage a smile at our usual joke. I wish he was close enough to hug. ‘Things are okay.’

  ‘Is your teacher nice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the other children?’

  I don’t say a word.

  ‘Violet? It’s me. Come on. No secrets, right?’

  I nod even though he can’t see.

  ‘Have you finished Charlotte’s Web yet?’

  ‘No. I’ve got to wait for it to dry.’

  ‘What happened?’

  I still keep quiet but Uncle Kevin always could read silence.

  ‘Give it time, Violet. It’s not been long,’ he says, softly. ‘You’ll make friends. Remember the books you haven’t liked to start with – but eventually they’ve become favourites?’

  I think for a moment. ‘Yes. Like Where the Wild Things Are. I was too scared to look at the pictures to start with.’

  ‘And friends often appear from the most unexpected places. Perhaps you’ll get close to someone in after school club who isn’t in your class. Or someone in your street. Remember, my best friend in England is one of my neighbours, not a colleague.’

  Uncle Kevin and his friend got to know each other when a water pipe bu
rst.

  Mum comes back to the phone and we say goodbye. Uncle Kevin tells me he loves me. I say it back. He always makes me feel better. He’s right. Alice may not think I’m on the same level as her and her friends but it doesn’t matter. I might find the best friend ever away from Applegrove Primary.

  Chapter 6

  Lenny. And Beatrix. Tight silver and blue dress. Bright pink lipstick. Beatrix Bingham reminds me of one of my favourite childhood books, The Rainbow Fish. I never wear anything tight. Comfort has always been my top priority. In the past, without wanting to emulate, I’ve marvelled at women like her, willing to put in such effort – although her glamour looks effortless.

  ‘Violet. Congratulations on a wonderful launch,’ says Beatrix in a well-managed tone. ‘I’ve heard great things about the book. In fact I really must congratulate the author.’ She sashays off.

  ‘Hi Violet,’ says Lenny. ‘How are things?’

  I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Great party. Sounds like one hell of a story.’

  Finally I find my voice. ‘Gary’s a very talented author.’

  ‘How’s Flossie? Liking the quiet no doubt. Not the liveliest of cats, is she?’

  I go to leave. Lenny takes my arm.

  ‘Look… have you found a new flatmate yet?’ He takes a large mouthful of champagne. ‘I came across a junior editor yesterday who’s looking for new digs. If you like—’

  ‘No thanks,’ I say abruptly. I study the face that used to be able to liquefy my insides. The gut-wrenching ache I’ve suffered this last month rips through my body, accompanied by a home-movie of all our best moments playing in my head. Like the day we moved in together when Lenny took my hands and spun me around and around and said he never thought he’d get out of his bedsit. Like walks in the park talking about work and the amazing careers we were going to have.