Chapter Sixteen
Does Australia have its own dark web?
After a rather dull hour with Peach Jumpsuit taking photographs of me from every possible angle – and asking me questions that I’m sure she came up with, as practically all of them ended with an ‘s’ – I have a couple of hours to kill, so decide to hit the shops so I can expand my ‘Core’ repertoire beyond Picnic.
On Regent Street, I head into Hollister, momentarily confused as to why they have a whole front section of facecloths before I realise these are in fact tops, similar to the ones I last saw on the Sugababes.
Handkerchief, bandeau, bustier… it’s a whole world of items I would previously have avoided like the plague, due to many things, but mainly bingo wings and the ‘do I wear a bra with that or not?’ question.
But the whole bra thing is no longer an issue.
I have actually, several times recently, Forgotten.
To. Put. One. On. I know, it’s a lot to take in.
But aside from my glorious jawline and line-free visage, my tits are really one of my favourite bits of the new me.
They’re like gorgeous bao buns, just sitting there, perky and firm and delicious.
Why didn’t I appreciate them when I was younger?
What an idiot I was to think they were too small.
They’re bloody perfect. Anyway, I grab a handful of tops (and I mean handful, there is very little fabric going on here) and a pair of ‘ultra-low rise’ jeans and head for the changing rooms.
I expected these to be the kind of chaotic communal affair I remember from Topshop in the Nineties but instead, there are rows of cubicles with lockable doors, seats, mirrors and even a range of lighting options.
Normally in this situation I would have held my own gaze in the mirror for fear of catching sight of the hideous bin bag of yoghurt that was my body.
Today though, I lose track of time admiring myself to the extent that someone knocks on the door and shouts, ‘You okay, sis?’
Sis? Is that the new ‘bro’? Or maybe it’s not, maybe it’s someone who is out shopping with their sibling, and has knocked on the wrong cubicle door.
This is a minefield. What do I say? Spluttering, I stop admiring my norks and pull on a lace-up-the-front white top, which to me looks faintly ‘Linda Lusardi’ but according to the saleswoman (I say woman, but she looked the same age as Hélo?se), is ‘Coquette Core’.
‘Just… vibing.’
What the hell? Why did I say that? I think I must have picked it up from one of the TikToks. What does it even mean?
There’s a pause. Then…
‘For real.’
And then footsteps walking away.
Triumphant, both with my effortless use of Gen Z language and how brilliant my tits are, I buy all the face cloths and the jeans and head to the tube, grinning like a loon.
Nandy’s terraced house always smells of warm washing on radiators and toasted cumin seeds, and is a jumbled mess of clutter belonging to Ash, her artist husband, and her two children, Rohan and Maya, who are grown up and have left home but come back frequently for Nandy’s cooking – which her father often travels over from Walthamstow for too.
I am slightly thrown that I’m going straight there, given the nature of the surprise I have for her, but Nandy’s shift at Metro was called off so she doesn’t want to come into town. ‘Just stay the night,’ she said. ‘I’ll make the Tangdi kebabs you like and we can get cosy and watch 30 Rock.’
It’s freezing and already nearly dark when I get off the tube at Leytonstone to walk the ten minutes to Nandy’s. I call her on the way. I’m praying that Ash won’t be there, or the kids, but don’t want to ask – don’t know how to ask – without it being awkward.
‘Can you come and meet me on Pretoria Road?’
‘Is your bag heavy, old lady?’
‘Kind of…’
‘Okay… fine. We can get a bottle of red from Yardarm.’
A few minutes later I can see Nandy walking towards me in a massive black puffa coat and red beanie hat with her dog Pakora, a Schnauzer, trotting along next to her on a lead.
She’s about to walk straight past me, but I grab her sleeve, making her jump out of her skin.
Nandy assumes the Ready Stance that she learnt at self-defence classes, arms up.
I resist the urge to burst out laughing.
‘Nandy – it’s me. It’s Erica!’
‘Erm – no, it’s not, but thanks!’ She keeps her arms up, turns and continues walking, but much more quickly.
‘Nandy, JEEZ… it’s me!’ I shout after her. She doesn’t look back.
I feel like someone in a sci-fi film that has to prove they haven’t been possessed by an alien, and frantically try to think of things that only she and I would know.
‘I know about the time you crapped behind a tree?’ I shout after her. ‘You think I should masturbate more? I brought you that Diptyque candle you like but I think smells like old greenhouses? It’s me. IT’S ME.’
Nandy stops and turns around slowly. Pakora’s tiny tail is wagging as if he recognises me, which helps.
‘Erica?’ She walks towards me as if approaching a particularly frisky horse. ‘What the FUCK did you do to yourself? And why are you carrying a picnic basket?’
‘I know, I know. This is why I wanted you to come out and meet me. Is Ash in? The kids? Your dad?’
‘No. Thank fuck. This is enough for one person to take in, we don’t need to crowdfund it.’
There’s a moment when we just stare at each other. And then we hug – big, long and hard. If Nandy could hear me say that she’d made a joke out of it.
A little later, we’re on Nandy’s sofa, Pakora curled up between us, 30 Rock on the TV.
Nandy tops up my glass with red and looks at me. She’s smiling but there’s a weird edge to it that I’m not keen on.
‘You’re fucking mental. What were you thinking?’
‘It can’t be that much of a surprise – I’ve been trying to find something that would genuinely work for the last twenty years…
I mean, isn’t that what we’re all in this for?
To look younger? Isn’t that what we do?’ I can feel myself sounding defensive, so I lighten it up a bit.
‘I was also thinking it might make my vag work again, you know…’
‘Most people just get HRT, Erica.’
I laugh. She’s not laughing though.
‘But I mean, come on, look at my face.’ I poke my cheeks, lift my chin, stroke my neck, tilt my head from side to side, grab a tit in each hand through my gingham blouse just to show how high up they are. ‘You should see if you can get it too!’
‘No thanks.’
She gets up and walks over to the kitchen area of the open plan ground floor and fiddles about with the kebabs.
‘Don’t do that now, Nandy,’ I say, feeling the atmosphere in the room like a tight, pre-exam feeling in my chest. ‘Come and talk to me.’
She turns around, kebab in hand, which she waves as she speaks.
‘How can I talk to you when I don’t know what to say?
I don’t get it, Erica. You don’t even look like you.
You look like a complete stranger. Have you thought what your family are going to say?
Your weirdo brother is going to have a field day. ’
‘I know, I know… And we have my mum’s eightieth coming up too.’ I take a massive gulp of wine.
Nandy watches me and I can see she’s regretting being so harsh. She’s probably just miffed she wasn’t picked for it.
‘Look, Erica, I’m not having a go at you. This was your choice, and you’re an adult, so I guess you’ve given it a lot of thought. I’m just getting used to it, I suppose.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say. I wonder if she’s thinking about getting it too?
Although I’m not sure there will be other freebies on offer.
Perhaps Merlyn could get her a discount?
How brilliant would it be if we both looked younger – we could even go out on the town together (although I’m acutely aware nobody says that anymore).
I tell her about Gabe, but she still seems on edge. Maybe things between her and Ash have lost their spark… it’s been a while since she had that first rush of romantic feeling and me talking about it probably reminds her of that.
There’s a pause in the conversation, which isn’t like us.
I try another subject change. ‘Did you see that comment on Cassia’s “January Empties” reel? Someone asked her if she’s due for a chin wax.’
‘Oh well, it’s Friday tomorrow so no doubt she’ll be making a Mint Julep in the scullery… that’ll cheer her up,’ says Nandy, who seems almost back to her old self now, thank goodness.
I wake up in Maya’s bedroom and the first thing I see is Madonna staring down at me.
How funny that Maya has the Desperately Seeking Susan poster on her wall.
I was obsessed with that film – Madonna’s jacket, the lace gloves…
and the bit in the ‘Into the Groove’ video when she held her armpits over the hand drier.
I would spend hours with a painted-on beauty spot and one of Mother Pells’ old lacy bras tied round my head, pouting at myself in the bedroom mirror.
It seems like yesterday, but for Maya, it’s as long ago as Marilyn Monroe was to me at that age.
Getting old seems to have happened in a heartbeat, and I feel like I didn’t get a proper chance to enjoy being young. But I have another chance now.
Nandy’s working in town so once we’re up and showered, we get the Central line in together at rush hour, standing squashed against each other in the packed carriage, holding the handrails above us. Nandy looks at me and shakes her head every couple of minutes.
‘Are you writing an article about it?’ she asks as the train sways from side to side and the ‘ugly air’ (Hélo?se’s description) blows through from the next carriage.
‘No… they’re doing it. It’s like a sponsored article, an advertorial thing.’
‘Okay… so you won’t even get paid?’
The train lurches. ‘Yeah, I will. I’m doing some social media for them.’
Nandy pulls a face. ‘’Cos we all know how much you love social media…’
I don’t reply, but wonder if she said that because she only has about 500 followers and just shares pictures of her patio planters. Sometimes I feel like Nandy should move with the times a bit. She doesn’t even seem to like shifts on the features desks, so I don’t know why she does them.
When the train gets to Oxford Circus, Nandy gets off, hugging me as much as she can in the crowd. ‘Don’t go changing,’ she says. She has a weird watery-eyed look.
‘Too late,’ I call after her.
And she’s gone, just a red beanie hat bobbing up and down along the platform, getting smaller and smaller until she’s out of view.
Fifteen minutes later, I change at Notting Hill Gate.
This stop always reminds me of when I used to go to the carnival with Kofi.
I’ve been thinking about him a lot recently, it must be because I look like I did when we were together.
I wish I could focus on the good bits, but memories of that terrible night keep flooding back instead.
Me crying… the police… Kofi, unable to look at me…
I shake it all away. I don’t want to spoil things.
This is meant to be a positive time. A new start.
Soon I’m at Paddington station on a bench, dipping bits of croissant into my flat white while I wait for the Swindon train.
I check my emails on my phone. There’s one from Merlyn, arranging the cover shoot for Luscious next week.
I’m just about to watch Cassia’s nauseating ‘thank you’ reel for reaching 150K followers, when my phone rings.
It’s Simon. He sounds both surprised I answered and infuriated, possibly because I haven’t replied to his email – or indeed been in touch at all since Christmas.
He also appears to be stressed and somewhere outdoors, and there are strange noises in the background, like birds or one of those percussion instruments that are never seen in orchestras, only at nursery schools.
‘Erica?’
‘Hello, Simon.’
‘Surprised you’re actually answering your phone.’
‘Surprised you’re actually calling.’
‘Well, I said I needed to speak to you.’
The strange noise gets louder and I can hear Alannah shouting, ‘Simon, close it now, CLOSE IT!’
‘Sorry, have you called me at a bad time, Simon?’
‘It’s fine. It’s the quokkas.’
‘The what?’
‘Quokkas. They’re antipodean marsupials that eat waste vegetation. We’re becoming completely self-sufficient, Erica.’
He says it like he’s announcing a breakthrough in the fight against cancer. I put my phone on loudspeaker so I can quickly google ‘quokka’.
‘It says quokkas are endangered, Simon – are you meant to keep them?’
‘Well, no, not really. Well, not currently. Alannah got them on the Australian dark web.’
‘Does Australia have its own dark web? Is that where you got your urine separator?’ There are more shrill noises and some garbled shouting, so Simon doesn’t hear me.
‘They’re the world’s happiest animals, Erica!’
‘Doesn’t sound like it.’
The squeaking reaches a crescendo. I hold the phone away from my ear. ‘Why are you calling me, Simon?’
‘Oh yes, yes… So, I need to speak to you about Mum.’
I roll my eyes and am thankful my voice is still the same, even if the rest of me isn’t. This doesn’t feel like the phone call to make any announcements.
‘Didn’t we have this conversation at Christmas?’
‘Well, I tried to, Erica, because I’m worried about her. She’s struggling with the stairs. She twisted her ankle the other day coming down. I think we need to think about a plan for her quite soon.’
‘Simon… she’s nearly eighty. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. And I don’t think she wants to move or anything.’
‘Are you suddenly an expert in geriatrics, Erica? Have you moved on from being an expert in…’
More squeaking, then a bang.
‘In what, Simon?’
‘In lipstick. Or rouge or something… Hold on. Shit! Right, I have to go…’
He hangs up, leaving me shaking my head feeling annoyed that I didn’t have a chance to take the piss out of him for using the word ‘rouge’.