Chapter 32
32
We meet at Piccadilly Circus Tube station’s ticket office and have one of those awkward embraces where neither of you is sure whether to kiss. Then we stroll past shops and bars and discuss what a beautiful June evening it is. I brought my denim jacket but have it stuffed into my rucksack next to a bottle of vodka. I can’t remember the last time I went to a house party. It was probably at university when I’d been the only one not consuming mugfuls of randomly concocted punch, and checking my watch to gauge when it was acceptable to go home. Unlike at school before that, it hadn’t mattered so much that I didn’t fit in. Some university friends even expressed envy that I never missed a 9a.m. lecture. Their acceptance of my differences helped me embrace them.
As for this party, I wasn’t sure whether to bring drink. Bella said of course I must. She also said clear spirits were the healthiest and made me take back the bottle of red wine. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Casey. He was carrying a four pack of beer. He wore a fashionably distressed suede jacket and a tentative smile.
‘You okay?’ he asks eventually as we swerve out of the way of a boy on a skateboard.
‘Great, thanks. Yourself?’
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d come. Not after Wednesday night.’
We stop at a pedestrian crossing. I look up at the knotted brow and the eyes that are lacking their usual humour. My actions with Casey aren’t conscious now. They just happen. Regardless of whether he might have let Beatrix into his flat to share that bottle of wine, to sign a contract, I reach up and hold his collar. I pull him towards me. My lips press against his.
I look back at the crossing and can still see an illuminated red man. Bella says it’s best to lie to Casey about why I left the other night, but I think he’d understand the truth. She says I need to focus on him being my conduit to success and paying back Lenny and Beatrix for making a fool out of me. But I can’t help the real feelings that feed my imagination with things I never even considered doing with Lenny. And a real passion for Alien Hearts has taken root. I want to see it taken up by a publisher who cares about every written syllable, every millimetre of the cover, every second of thought that goes into the marketing and pricing strategy.
As if they have a mind of their own, my fingers find his and our nearest hands entwine as the red man turns green. Words don’t seem mandatory, despite us both belonging to an industry where sentences are king.
‘I’ve not been here for a long time,’ I say eventually and gaze into a posh French restaurant.
‘Melvin – that’s whose party we’re going to – lost his dad to cancer last year. He was left the flat. It’s in a tower block but it looks a lot grander than you’d expect. Many of the residents bought their flats from the local authority in the eighties, Melvin’s dad included.’ He smiles. ‘Bob was a great guy. I knew him well. It was like he automatically self-edited. He never spoke a superfluous word. But when he spoke, it was mostly about how the heart has been torn out of Soho.’
I study the chain stores and trendy coffee shops. ‘I vaguely remember a trip to Liberty’s with Mum – and Carnaby Street. It’s certainly less seedy than in the old days. That’s got to be a good thing, right?’
‘Sure, the night life needed regulating, but Bob believed passionately that developers tore out the history instead of simply layering on a new facade. I mean, that’s what you find in the best haunts – layers of past life put down and preserved like fossilised sediment. The rejuvenation of this area has literally ripped everything out. The sex shops and strip clubs have gone, and quite rightly in most cases, but that’s affected the whole vibrant, bohemian vibe and the late-night jazz club scene as well. Bob always said Soho was never perfect. It certainly had its flaws. But that’s what makes character, not being like everything else – and now that uniqueness has gone.’
As we turn down a side street, a well of unease slops over its sides in my chest. My transformation, the changes I’ve put in place… Instead of adding a new layer of experience, have I simply ripped out what was there and tried to start over again? Does that mean I’ve lost my character and everything that shaped me to that point?
I don’t know.
I try to block out questions like that.
But when I look in the mirror, I worry.
I worry that the woman staring back isn’t me. She’s a stranger and I can’t find an instruction manual. I mentioned my concerns to Bella once.
‘You’re a better fit now. That’s all that counts,’ she’d said in a scornful voice.
Now and then Bella loses patience with me; says I need to forget the old Violet and that when I don’t, I’m being ungrateful towards her after all the work she’s put into my transformation.
What if Bella decides I’m wasting her time?
I rely on her. She’s become my best friend, my cheerleader, my confidante.
We arrive at the tower block and I gaze up at the red brick work and glossy black balcony rails. Melvin’s flat is on the third floor. It’s not big but this lends the minimalist walls a cosy vibe. I hand over the vodka. He kisses me on the cheek. Everyone’s pleased to see Casey and on the back of that pleased to see me. I’m passed a bowl of crisps and take a small handful. A few won’t hurt. They are all I’ve eaten since lunch.
A curvy woman sucks in her dimpled cheeks. ‘Aren’t you lucky, being able to eat what you want?’
Don’t say that.
Don’t ever think that.
If you knew how tough my regime was, you wouldn’t be envious .
Don’t get me wrong, I am truly grateful to Bella. I’ve gained endless knowledge about nutrition, cardio exercise, skin care and applying make-up, but over the last few months, I’ve also become aware of one thing: effortless glamour doesn’t exist. Being the best you is bloody hard. It upsets friends. It comes at a price you’re not aware of until it’s too late.
It’s also addictive.
Sometimes it feels as if the road to perfection will never end. It’ll just go on and on, with an unlimited number of new destinations and challenging maps of how to reach them.
Casey comes back with two vodkas. He introduces me properly to Melvin, who’s a graffiti artist and wants to make it as big as Banksy. Inheriting this flat means he can get by as a barista in his spare time. I ask to see the albums of his work. He hesitates and doesn’t want to bore me but I insist. Casey’s face softens. Apparently I’ve made Melvin’s night. He knows the crowd and half of his friends are too busy upselling their own artistic careers, while the others don’t consider graffiti a true art form.
The room becomes increasingly hot as more bodies arrive after last orders. The lights are dimmed. People dance. The laughter and chat get louder, fuelled by the alcohol and the white powder I see traces of in the bathroom.
We find a spot on a sofa. Casey holds my hands. ‘Wednesday, I was worried I’d scared you off, Vi.’
‘No. I… it’s just… I haven’t had that many boyfriends and?—’
Casey’s laughter reminds me of Alice and her friends at primary school. He wipes his eyes. ‘Very funny. Come on, what’s the real reason? I can take it.’
I stare at the floor.
He lifts my chin. ‘Shit. You were serious?’
I force a laugh. ‘I’m just messing with you. Come on, idiot – less chat, I want to dance.’
I pull him up and lead us to the middle of the lounge where it will be far too noisy to talk. Casey tries nevertheless. I shrug off his droned-out words. Maybe white lies are better than the truth.
Bodies move in unison as Michael Jackson sings about sunshine and moonlight. Every time she hears his song ‘Thriller’, Mum always laughs at how Uncle Kevin used to pull zombie moves to it, looking more like a chicken bobbing its head while walking. A woman with glossy black hair and eyebrows to match shimmies up to Casey and rubs herself up and down in the air in between them. My mouth feels parched. I need a drink. Casey’s face blurs. I mumble something about going outside just before everything turns foggy and black.
When I wake, I’m stretched out on the floor. The music has stopped and the lights are on. I’m lying on my side.
‘What happened?’ I croak.
‘You fainted.’ Casey brushes my straightened blonde hair out of my face. ‘How do you feel?’
Slowly I push myself up. The woman with black hair passes me a glass of water.
‘Do you feel dizzy?’ she asks.
I shake my head.
‘Suze is a nurse,’ says Casey, his fingers threaded through mine.
‘Drink as much as possible,’ she says. ‘It’s hot in here and the alcohol will have dehydrated you. Have you eaten much today?’
‘Not really. Busy day at work.’
‘Should I take her to hospital for a check over?’ ask Casey.
‘No. No, honestly. No fuss. I’m feeling fine.’
Suze nudges me to take another glassful of water. ‘You should be okay but get yourself down to Accident and Emergency if you get a headache or feel sick, or if you get any pains or feel dizzy. You probably just need to sleep it off, rehydrate and have something decent to eat.’
Casey helps me to my feet. People shoot me sympathetic smiles. Melvin comes over.
‘How are you, Vi?’ His words slur slightly. The room is full of smoke and I gag.
‘We’re leaving. Cheers, Melvin. See you soon, mate.’ Casey slips an arm around my shoulders.
‘No, honestly – you stay here. I’ll get a taxi home,’ I say.
‘It’s three in the morning already. I’m ready to leave and you aren’t going anywhere on your own. In fact, come back to mine, Vi. Let me look after you. And my breakfasts are legendary. We’re talking pancakes with cherries and Greek yogurt with?—?’
Too tired to argue, I nod. We don’t speak in the taxi. I sit next to Casey, my head against his shoulder, my eyes closed. I don’t object when he helps me off with my jeans and settles me under the duvet in his double bed. He turns the lights off and sits in a nearby chair. He yawns.
I hold out one hand. ‘Don’t be silly, Casey. Sleep in here with me.’
‘It’s okay. I’m fine here.’
Tears prick my eyes. Am I really that much of a freak? A sob escapes my lips. I try to disguise it as a cough but within seconds Casey is crouched on the floor, by my side.
‘Vi?’
I pull him nearer. Our mouths meet. He’s incredibly gentle. I unbutton his shirt.
‘Vi? Are you sure?’
Perhaps it’s my collapse. Perhaps it’s being here in the dead of night. Or maybe it’s the alcohol, but this time I don’t think about my own body. All I can think about is his.