Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
DICK AND BALLS
Neve
“Jesus Christ Bella! I don’t want to end up back in hospital!” I screech nervously as she swerves in and out of London traffic like she is in a Fast and Furious movie.
“Move out the fucking way!” she yells, beeping the horn.
“Fucking hell Bella, it’s a zebra crossing and she has a walking frame!” I yell.
“Well, she shouldn’t be out and about on a busy high street, I mean an ambulance would just run right over her,” she argues.
I look at her and shake my head. “And you work in a nursing home as a carer.”
She shrugs and smiles, zooming around the old lady on the crossing. “I’m good at my job, the oldies love me.” She pauses. “For god’s sake Grandma, drive – the light is green!” she shouts, honking her horn.
“Yeah, bet they just adore you,” I mutter sarcastically.
Eventually we make it back safely, the same can’t be said for the poor bloke on his bike.
He just came flying off! I did beg her to stop but she said he was fine and was being an over dramatic pansy.
I did see him jump to his feet and shout a few choice words and gestures towards the car, so at least I know he is alive.
“Now how in the hell are we going to get you up to our third floor flat?” Bella states with her hand on her hips, looking up at the three flights of stairs ahead of us.
“I’m just going to have to hop on my good leg and you’re going to have to be a good friend and support me, do you think you can do that?” I ask.
“Hey, you know I am the best fucking friend there is. Don’t ever doubt that, now give me your arm and let’s hop our arses up these stairs,” she says, taking my arm in hers.
It takes us at least fifteen minutes to make it to the top of the stairs, to our flat. Bella unlocks the door and we both fall on to the couch out of breath. “That was insane, I need a stairlift or something,” I complain.
“Oh, sure, why not? Let’s have a stairlift fitted just for the six weeks you have to wear that thing, instead of getting fitter in making it up the stairs.” She wheezes, rolling to the floor.
“Yeah, because I’m the only one that’s unfit.” I laugh.
“Hey, I can walk up those stairs fabulously, what I can’t do is hop up them while helping my now one-legged friend!” she snaps back.
“I am not one-legged, I am injured,” I defend.
“You know what I mean. Anyway, have you thought about what you’re going to do for money because, I love you and all, but I can’t afford this flat on my own,” she admits.
I know she’s right; we live in London where prices are high.
I refuse to go back home to my parents. There has to be some way I can get by.
Even if it means selling my car, I will find a way.
“Well, worst case, I suppose you could hit the streets. You know be like all pretty woman and shit,” Bella suggests.
“Yeah, because I’m sure Richard Gere often drives through Hounslow picking up hookers,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Well, it was a suggestion.” She shrugs before picking up a marker and starts writing on my cast.
“What are you writing?” I ask.
“I have drawn an artistic picture of a very large dick and balls, because, well why the fuck not and then signed Banksy under it.” She laughs.
I shake my head and laugh. “Somehow, I don’t think people will believe that Banksy himself graffitied my plaster cast, especially with a dick and balls.”
“Well, no one knows who he is, how would they know? He could have done it after a few drinks.” She shrugs, genuinely believing her own statement.
Bella gets up and moves to the kitchen, making us both a cup of tea.
I decide to take the plunge and call my parents, it is better to get this conversation over with now.
Bella looks over and I show her the caller ID and before I put the phone to my ear, she symbolises a cross over her chest and places her hands together in prayer for me in sympathy.
“Hello?” my mum answers, even though she can see that it was me calling.
“Hi Mum, it’s me,” I greet.
“Well, hello me.” She laughs at her own joke; the very same joke she says every time I call.
“Um, Mum. I’ve had an accident,” I say wincing, waiting for what’s coming next.
“What? Derrick! Our daughter’s had an accident!” she calls out loudly. “No, I don’t know what’s happened. I’m on the phone to her now!”
“Mum,” I call.
“Well, if you just shut your trap for a moment, I could find out what has happened and if our only daughter is okay,” she continues. “Oh shush, I’m trying to talk to our daughter.”
“Mum, will you just listen to me for a minute.” I sigh, rubbing my forehead feeling a headache coming on.
“I am listening dear, now tell me what has happened,” she demands.
“I had a fall at work and I’ve broken my ankle, I have to be in a plaster cast for six weeks minimum,” I state waiting for the reaction I know is coming.
“Well, what did we tell you? Working in that greasy spoon can come to no good. I hope that he has good insurance because you could get a nice tidy amount of money from that. Now I will make up the spare room ready for you. Oh, and do you know we’ve had this nice man move in just across from us; he has a good job, works at the bank. And...”
“Mum, I’m not coming home and I’m not interested in the new neighbour,” I point out.
“Well, why not? I mean how are you going to get up and down those stairs each day, and how are you going to survive on no money?” she asks.
“I will manage, I can still perform on the weekends so that’s a little bit of extra money and to tide me over I can sell my car.” I wince, waiting for the high pitched squeal I know is coming.
“Sell your car?! But your uncle Simon got you that car. It’s been in the family a long time, it’s practically an antique! I mean Neve, that is very disrespectful.”
“Mum, Uncle Simon had the car for 12 years before he bought himself a new BMW, he was going to sell it for scrap. The car is a rust bucket and is not a classic car that is of any value,” I remind her.
“Well even if you sell the car you won’t get more than few hundred, and it’s not like you’re going to make any money with your singing.” She smirks and there it is, the dig. The jab that always comes when I mention my singing.
“I make enough Mum.” I sigh.
“Yeah, I’m sure you do. Hold on, your father wants to talk to you.”
I flop down on my back, laying on the sofa. “Hey Dad,” I say with fake enthusiasm.
“What have I said about making sure you have savings for situations like these?” he states straight away.
“To always save a percentage of my wages to put aside for a rainy day,” I mutter.
“Right. So you should be good,” he states proudly like he’s just sorted the world’s problems.
“Dad, my savings is only enough to last me maybe two weeks,” I state.
“Well, why haven’t you been putting your money away? I taught you better than that,” he snaps.
“I have Dad but last month the car needed new brake pads, so I had to pay for that. I don’t know what you think ten percent of my wages actually are but it’s really not that much,” I add.
“Well, maybe if you stopped living with your head in the clouds and got a proper job, rather than singing in dive bars and hanging onto a dream that is never going to happen. You had your chance at making it and it didn’t happen.
It’s about time you grew up and moved on with your life,” he states coldly.
“Yes Dad I know, we’ve had this conversation before remember and it didn’t end well. Can we agree to disagree?” I ask, covering my face with a pillow.
“Fine, I’m just saying young lady, at some point you’re going to have to pull your head out of the sand and face reality,” he finishes before handing the phone back to Mum. There was no are you okay, do you need anything. Just the cold hard facts from Dad.
“I will send you some money,” Mum whispers down the phone. No matter what my mum may think of my decisions and she disagree with them a lot, the Mum card takes over. Whether that is to help me or so she doesn’t have to tell her friends down the country club what a failure her daughter is who knows.
“Mum, I don’t want your money,” I state.
“Done,” she says ignoring me. “Now maybe use this time you have off to look at your life, get some perspective. Maybe look at the job section, or I can speak to Shirley. Her daughter owns her own business. I’m sure she would hire you in a heartbeat!” Mum exclaims.
“Mum, I’ve got to go. Someone’s at the door,” I lie.
“Okay, speak soon!” she sings before disconnecting.
“Here,” Bella says. I remove the pillow and see her holding a large glass of wine.
“I thought you were making a cup of tea?” I ask.
“I was. Then I heard your conversation with your parents and figured you’d need this instead.” She winks.
“Have I told you you’re the best roommate ever?” I smile and take the wine.
“You don’t need to. Seeing your little face light up over that glass of wine is enough for me,” she yells over her shoulder, walking back into the kitchen.
27 years of age and still dread speaking to my parents, thank God for wine.