Chapter 6
‘How did you get on?’ Yang asked Stacey a couple of days later as she stomped towards him at the bottom of the High Street. She was wearing a thin coat and looked absolutely freezing. He longed to offer her his scarf or gloves but he didn’t think she would appreciate the gesture. ‘Was the park looking like a magical Christmas wonderland?’ He gave her a grin, hoping she would grin back. But she didn’t, she just grimaced.
‘About as magical as anywhere that harbours the homeless in the depth of winter and is the drug-dealing centre of the borough,’ replied Stacey, digging her cold hands deep in her pockets.
‘Did you take some pictures?’ asked Yang.
‘Of the drug dealers?’
‘No. Of the tree and the decorations and the Christmas signage?’
She shrugged. ‘A few,’ she said. ‘Looks pretty sad, though. Especially in broad daylight. And I was a bit worried that the drug dealers might think I was the cops. So I was trying to be discreet.’
‘I’m sorry. I should have done the park,’ said Yang. ‘I didn’t mean to put you in danger.’
‘Oh, I can take care of myself, Yang. Don’t you worry. Those drug dealers mess with me, they’ll regret it. I don’t need you to look after me.’
Yang nodded. He’d said the wrong thing again. Whenever he tried to be kind to Stacey, she took it the wrong way. Like he was implying that she was a weak and pathetic woman. Which was the very last thing he thought. Why could he never get his sentences right when he was around her?
He looked at the notes on his phone. ‘So you have pictures of the avenue lighting and the tree in the park?’ he confirmed.
‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘For what good it will do anything.’
Yang knew doing this Christmas audit with Stacey was going to be difficult. Stacey was really good at her job but she didn’t see the point in doing anything that might be a total waste of time. She valued her time way too much. Whereas Yang couldn’t bear not to do anything properly. Even when he knew it might be a waste of time. He often wondered if he was mildly OCD in that respect, but he tried very hard to keep that under wraps, especially in front of Stacey.
‘Right, shall we walk up each side of the High Street and take pictures of the decorations from both aspects?’
‘If we must,’ she said.
‘Do you want to do the left-hand side and I’ll do the right?’ he suggested.
‘Fine,’ she sighed.
He crossed the road and walked up the street, taking pictures of the lampposts with huge lit-up snowflakes on them interspersed with Christmas baubles. Christmas baubles? Now, there’s a thing, he thought as he wandered along. Who on earth came up with the idea of baubles on a tree? What was that all about? Whilst he was pondering the mystery of baubles he walked past the open door of a bar, music blasting out, even though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. He glanced across the street. Stacey was well ahead of him, occasionally raising her phone to snap pictures. He poked his head through the doorway of the pub. It was virtually empty, just a few punters perched on stools at the bar, but he could see a small stage at the back, set up with a mike. He should contact this place, he thought. He could do with some more gigs. Even if they would only give him the opening slot so he could play his Britpop covers on his acoustic guitar to next to no one. He didn’t care. He loved it. When he played his guitar, something happened. He no longer cared for the opinion of anyone else, he just got lost in the music. He became the person he’d like to be in the rest of his life. Confident, relaxed, happy. No longer anxious and a bit miserable. He also liked to slip in his own tracks here or there. He liked to hear them in a large room, even if it was empty. Somehow, when he heard his own compositions in a venue, it was like hearing them for the first time. It gave him ideas, things to tweak, words to change. He could feel his imaginary audience and he took their feedback, helping him to make his songs better and better. In fact, his best song to date was one called ‘Imaginary Girlfriend’. He sang it at every gig he did and imagined his imaginary girlfriend sitting at the back, giving him a secret smile. Perhaps if he got a gig here he could invite the team. Invite Stacey. Then she could see him at his best instead of the pathetic idiot he seemed to present to her most days.
He took a picture of the outside of the pub, which was called the Hope and Flowers, vowing to give them a call, and strode quickly up the street, realising Stacey might be waiting for him by the Christmas tree in the square.
She was. And she was tapping her foot.
‘Thirteen pictures of unlit snowflakes,’ she said. ‘Is that enough?’
‘Great,’ he said, tapping notes into his phone. ‘And what are we thinking in terms of impact?’ he said, looking up. ‘Are they achieving what they could be?’
Stacey looked around. ‘Depends on what you want them to be achieving,’ she said. ‘If you think these sub-par Christmas trinkets are attracting more people to the depressing line of charity shops, betting offices and fast-food joints then I’m not sure you’re right in the head. All the extra illumination is doing is lighting up the litter and graffiti better, if you ask me. But you know, who am I to say?’
‘OK,’ nodded Yang, looking around. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we try just asking a member of the public what they think?’
He turned to a man who was driving by on his mobility scooter.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘I am from the council—’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ said Stacey, putting her hand on his arm.
Yang pressed on. ‘Do you mind telling me what you think of the Christmas decorations this year?’
The man stopped. ‘The council, you say?’ he said. ‘No, I don’t mind telling you. What you doing wasting our money on this pathetic shit? No point, mate. No point at all. And cycle lanes. What are you bothering with them for when I can’t use my mobility scooter in them? And the public toilets on Dig Street have been closed for over a year. A year – and you twats are bothering with this pathetic excuse for a Christmas tree. And council tax, bleeding council tax. You put it up every bleeding year and what the hell are you doing with it? It’s not going on Christmas decorations, is it? Lining your bloody pockets, no doubt. Going in expenses for the good-for-nothing MPs we vote in. I want to know where my extra council tax is going, young man, before you even dare ask me about Christmas decorations.’
Yang looked at Stacey. Stacey had her arms folded and was grinning. She clearly knew better than to tell a member of the public that she worked for the council.
‘I’m sorry to hear that you aren’t happy with how the council is appropriating its funds. However, all these questions you really should take up with your MP,’ he said to the man.
‘My MP! And what good would that do? You can never get hold of them anyway. Useless good-for-nothings.’
‘Well, they should all be doing a local surgery every week. You can talk to them there.’
‘Me go to them? Why should I? They should come to me. Ask me what needs doing. They’re only too eager to come knocking on my door, aren’t they, when they want my vote, but the minute I want something. Oh, no, they’re nowhere to be seen.’
Yang took a step back. Stacey was openly laughing at him now.
‘So can I take it that you are not a supporter of spending money on Christmas decorations?’ asked Yang.
The man looked at him. ‘Oh, fuck off,’ he said, and sped off on his scooter.
‘Never, ever say you work for the council when you are out and about in the borough,’ said Stacey. ‘You should know that by now.’
Yang shrugged. ‘I thought it would be good to see how people reacted to being asked. We should be asking the public, but maybe we need to think about how we do that.’
‘Starting with not announcing to the world that you represent the council.’
Yang nodded. He looked at Stacey. He’d had an idea earlier and he wondered if actually now would be the right time to air it.
‘So we’ve covered our borough, don’t you think? Shall we head off and see how the other half lives north of the river and see some of their decorations?’
Stacey sighed. ‘If we must. Where should we go?’
‘We could go to the other end of the spectrum and catch a bus to Oxford Street and Regent Street. See their displays.’
‘I suppose. I bet the last time I went into the centre of London to see the lights I was a kid.’
‘How come?’
‘What’s the point? I can’t afford Regent Street prices.’
‘But the lights are free. Have you never brought Grace?’
‘I do not need Grace within a square mile of Hamleys. It could ruin both our Christmases.’
They hopped on a bus, changed at Lambeth and caught the number 159, saying nothing as it wound its way to Westminster Bridge. The bells of Big Ben rang out loud and proud as the bus whizzed over the bridge and past the enormous Christmas tree standing erect and sparkling with lights outside the Houses of Parliament. It was at least three double-decker buses high, and possibly a double-decker bus wide. Compared to the sad little affair standing in the square at Bermondsey, this was big and bold and, quite frankly, magical. Stacey wondered who had paid for that particular tree. Was it the taxpayers? Was it a gift? Who knew? The key question, she guessed, was: was it worth it?
The bus turned right up Whitehall and past Downing Street, the most famous residential street in the country perhaps, and home to the prime minister. She glanced up the famous street and saw the Christmas tree at the top. A fine elegant tree bedecked with multicoloured lights. She wondered what the current prime minister thought of spending money on Christmas celebrations. She wondered if he thought it was worth it.
And then up to Trafalgar Square. Stacey couldn’t remember the last time she had seen the centre of London in all its Christmas glory. An enormous tree stood in the very centre with what must have been thousands of white lights twinkling all over it. It was truly spectacular as hundreds of people swelled around it, the National Gallery providing an imposing and fitting backdrop. She watched mesmerised as a young couple wrapped their arms around each other and took selfies under the tree. They looked so happy. Wow – to be that blown away by a Christmas tree and the person you were with. Day-trippers groaned under the weight of bags, as they slid into pubs to have welcome drinks before getting their trains home. Workers were meeting and kissing before heading off to the joys of Leicester Square, to the cinema or to find food. Tourists were laughing, giggling, smiling, heading towards the Theatre District or perhaps Covent Garden to see some free street entertainment.
Stacey gazed out of the window. Oh, how she wished she was going to meet someone, gather with friends, socialise. She couldn’t remember the last time she had done that. Everyone looked as if they were enjoying themselves in the warm glow of the festive period. She hadn’t felt the warm glow of anything for a very long time.
‘Are you hungry?’ asked Yang as they approached Piccadilly Circus.
‘Always,’ said Stacey.
‘Right, come on, let’s get off.’ Yang leaped up and pressed the bell to indicate to the bus driver to stop at the next stop.
‘What are you doing?’ Stacey hissed. ‘I can’t afford to eat around here unless it’s a slice of pizza that’s been in a window for a week.’
‘Don’t fret. I know just the place for excellent free food. Follow me,’ Yang grinned as he stepped off the bus and dived into the throng.
They pushed their way through Leicester Square. A huge crowd had gathered around a bunch of young male acrobats, exciting the onlookers in to a frenzy. Yang and Stacey had to squeeze their way past, shouting, ‘Excuse me!’ and ‘Thank you!’
They passed the incredibly long line outside the Lego store. Excitable children were jumping up and down to keep warm, whilst equally excitable dads gazed eagerly through the window at the marvels inside, no doubt wondering whether they could ask Santa for some Lego this year. Grace loved Lego. Particularly the Harry Potter stuff. Stacey had been keeping an eye on eBay to see if anyone wanted to sell a second-hand set in the lead-up to Christmas.
Suddenly Yang turned right into a quieter road and Stacey spied the cheerful lanterns at the top of the street. She realised they were heading to Chinatown. They turned another corner and there they were. In another magical place. Not Christmas themed this time, but overhead the rows and rows of bright red and gold Chinese lanterns lit up the faces of the people milling underneath, peering at menus, trying to decide which one of the copious number of eateries they were going to pick.
It was clear, however, that Yang knew exactly where he was going. He pushed forward through the crowd before heading to the left side of the street. He paused and looked behind him to make sure that Stacey was still there, then opened the door to The Happy House.
The warmth hit them and Stacey’s glasses immediately steamed up. As she took them off to demist them with a corner of her jumper she was engulfed in the arms of a woman around half her height.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ the woman cried. ‘Welcome so much.’
Stacey tried to put her glasses back on to see this explosion of energy, but the woman wasn’t having any of it.
‘Please sit, sit here. Best seat in the house. Sit here now.’
Stacey found herself sitting in the window opposite Yang, who was taking his coat off as if this was all quite normal. She felt as if she’d been kidnapped by the world’s nicest kidnappers. She looked up at her captor. She was small, under five foot, but round, curvy, with an abundance of jet-black curly hair and eyes that lasered into Stacey. She felt as if she were being pinned to the seat by them.
‘Yang?’ she asked, willing him to perform at least some kind of perfunctory introduction.
‘What?’ he replied.
‘Erm, maybe an introduction?’
‘Well, this is a Chinese restaurant,’ he said.
‘Of course, but …’ She tipped her head towards the woman still piercing her with her gaze.
‘Oh, yeah. Mum, Stacey. Stacey, Mum,’ said Yang.
‘Oh,’ said Stacey. ‘Wow. I had no idea. Erm. Hello.’
Yang’s mum leaned forward to kiss her on both cheeks.
‘I am so happy to see you,’ she said.
‘Mum, Stacey is just a colleague from work, OK? Nothing special.’
‘Thanks,’ said Stacey.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean …’ jumped in Yang, looking horrified.
‘Well, she looks special to me,’ grinned Yang’s mum. ‘Very special indeed.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Yang, looking uncomfortable suddenly. ‘Maybe this was a bad idea. Really, really bad idea. What was I thinking? Erm, Stacey, look, I’m sorry for anything inappropriate my mother says to you. She says stuff that’s embarrassing. Like way worse than me. Erm, and she will say stuff that is embarrassing because she thinks I should be living in the suburbs with two kids by now and so she gets overexcited if she even sees me within two feet of a woman. She’ll think you’re my girlfriend and for the next year will not stop asking about you. I’m so sorry to put you in this situation. I mean, as if you and me would ever …’
‘Oh, no, Mrs Chen,’ said Stacey, slowly and clearly, ‘I’m not interested in your son romantically AT ALL. Believe me.’ She turned back to Yang. ‘Will that help?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, that’s very clear,’ he replied quietly.
‘I’ll bring food,’ said Mrs Chen, still grinning. ‘No need to decide, no need to pay, no need for anything. I will bring you the best in the house.’
‘No, honestly. Really, you shouldn’t. I mean just a stir-fry would be great really, but please let me pay.’
‘No,’ Mrs Chen said firmly, putting her hand on Stacey’s shoulder. ‘You just sit here with my son. I will bring you everything you need.’
Stacey realised she really had been kidnapped, in this tiny little Chinese restaurant on the edge of Soho.
By the end of the meal Stacey couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt quite so content. She’d been fed dish after dish of the most wonderful food. It just kept coming and she just kept eating. She couldn’t help herself. It had been so long since someone else had cooked for her, so long since she’d sat in a restaurant and enjoyed the delights of food just arriving at the table. She’d forgotten the magic of that.
And then Yang’s mum had sat and grilled her, but in a nice way. On a low heat until she felt all warm and fuzzy rather than burnt and crisp. She asked her question after question about her life, as if she was interested, as if Stacey was important. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to her like that. She’d soon spilled the beans on her life with her daughter and how challenging that was alongside work, and how her family were no help whatsoever. She could have sworn Mrs Chen had tears in her eyes when Stacey said her mother only really spoke to her on her birthday and at Christmas, and then it was to ask her for money, because she thought she was loaded because she had a good job with the council.
‘But you are still their daughter,’ stated Mrs Chen, putting her hand over Stacey’s. ‘You need looking after, too.’
‘I am,’ said Stacey, now fighting back her own tears as she saw the look of concern in Yang’s mother’s eyes. Her own mother had never looked at her like that. Not even when she told her she was pregnant and didn’t know what to do. She’d told her she was an idiot and should get herself down the abortion clinic.
Yang had long since disappeared and Mrs Chen had taken his seat. She had no idea why he had brought her here. She presumed it was because he was hungry and wanted to blag a free meal off his parents. What a lucky man Yang truly was. He wandered through life without really trying, had no responsibilities to speak of and a mother who was there to look after him at the drop of a hat. He truly led a charmed life.
Stacey didn’t want to leave. She sat and drank coffee as a raft of waiters served hungry customers steaming plates of food. By now, Mrs Chen was buzzing around, ordering waiters this way and that, making sure they were on top of their game, service-wise. Yang eventually appeared from what Stacey assumed was the kitchen and went over to speak to his mum, who glanced at Stacey and then hurried back into the kitchen herself.
‘I really need to go,’ said Stacey. ‘After School Club finishes in half an hour.’
‘Right,’ said Yang, looking awkward.
‘I need to thank your mum, though. She’s been so kind to me.’
‘Well, she loves to talk,’ sighed Yang. ‘I’m sorry if she was too much.’
‘You have no idea how lucky you are to have her,’ said Stacey.
‘I guess, when she gets off my back. You know, she can be such a nag, seriously.’
‘Because she cares,’ said Stacey. ‘That’s why.’
‘Sure it is,’ agreed Yang, looking distracted.
‘Thank you, though,’ said Stacey. ‘For bringing me here. I mean I never go out for a meal, ever. And not without Grace. So this was amazing. Truly.’
Yang nodded. ‘Nothing really. Stacey, I … I … wanted to ask you … well, wanted to say, that you know if you ever really need a babysitter, I could do it. I mean I’m not some crazy child-obsessed weirdo or anything. Don’t worry about that. I mean … God, that came out wrong … I mean, I look after my nieces and nephews all the time so, like I say, if you’re stuck for a babysitter then let me know. That’s all. Just wanted to tell you that. Because I do get it, you know, that it’s hard being female. I mean, being a single parent.’
Stacey felt her mouth open. Had Yang actually just said that?
‘Would you really?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he nodded.
Stacey couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She looked at Yang. Could she ask him to babysit? He clearly came from a good family so she had no doubt he could take care of Grace OK. And she really was desperate to get out, and she knew exactly who she’d go out with, given half the chance.
‘Well, actually,’ she said, ‘this dad outside school keeps asking me out and I’d really like to, but I haven’t been able to say yes as I can never get a babysitter. Would you take care of Grace whilst I went on a date with him?’
She watched as Yang swallowed. ‘Yes, I can do that,’ he said in an unusually high-pitched voice.
‘Seriously?’
Yang nodded.
‘Can I text him now to see when he’s free?’ she asked.
‘OK,’ he replied, looking away.
Stacey got her phone out, her fingers almost stumbling over the keypad she was so excited. She looked up and grinned when she’d finished. ‘I’ll let you know when he replies,’ she said.
‘Cool,’ nodded Yang.
Stacey reached to put her coat on just as Mrs Chen came dashing out.
‘For your daughter,’ she said, pushing a paper bag into Stacey’s hands. ‘She might like them.’
Stacey looked down, unable to believe her eyes. Could this woman get any more lovely?
‘They are just fortune cookies,’ said Mrs Chen. ‘That’s all.’
This time Stacey really did have tears in her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had shown kindness to her tricky, slightly naughty, hyperactive daughter.
‘Thank you,’ she said, welling up.
‘You visit again?’ asked Mrs Chen.
Stacey nodded and embraced her.
‘I’ll get you to the bus stop,’ said Yang, guiding her out of the door.
They walked in silence along the crowded streets.
‘Well, here we are then,’ said Yang, eventually. ‘This is your bus stop.’
‘Thanks, Yang,’ Stacey said, giving him a warm smile. ‘Thanks for dinner and everything. It was really nice,’ she added awkwardly. She felt her phone ping in her pocket. She took it out. Her eyes lit up. ‘Brilliant,’ she said, looking up and grinning at Yang. ‘Will says he can do this Friday. Is that OK?’
Yang nodded silently.
‘You are the best,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually going on a date. Oh, Yang, thank you. This means the world.’ She stepped forward and hugged him. She couldn’t help herself. This had been such a good day when all she had expected was an afternoon walking the dreary streets of Bermondsey. She was actually going to go on a date for the first time in for ever. Maybe finally her life was going to take a turn for the better. She grinned at Yang and leaped onto the bus, giving him a cheery wave as she sat down.
He nodded back and walked away. Hands deep in his pockets. Head down.