17 May 2012
6. Holly
I’m not sure I’ve ever been this high up in London, I wasn’t planning on staying here last night, but by the time Carlo and I had had our drinks there wasn’t much hope of getting the bus home and I couldn’t let him pay for a taxi. He put me in one of the two spare rooms which both looked like they had come straight from a catalogue shoot for a luxury home store. I felt slightly guilty for creasing the sheets, but I was so tired I fell asleep in less than five minutes. About twenty minutes ago Carlo knocked on the door and quietly slinked into the room with a tray of scrambled eggs on toast with a glass of freshly pressed orange juice, fantastic service in this place so I couldn’t complain. I was a little bit peeved though, when he informed me that Felix was on his way over so it might be best if I made a move to avoid any confrontation, although he had a fair point, I can’t lose my job, not now. So after I ate breakfast I made a quick dash for the bathroom where I sorted my face and hair out so that I looked more human and less like a girl who didn’t make it home last night. Before leaving I went to the kitchen to give Carlo a quick kiss on the cheek, thanked him for everything and made my way to the door. Now I’m standing waiting for the lift to come up from the fourth floor whilst thinking how long is an acceptable time after which to send him a message, I think I’ll have to wait until tonight, or maybe even tomorrow night would be better.
Outside it’s one of those nice winter days in London, where the mornings are beautiful and clear and the air is so crisp you can feel your lungs inflate and deflate with every chilled breath. Thankfully I’m not supposed to be at work until tonight which means I have all day to myself, it also means that I can get changed so that Caleb doesn’t notice I didn’t go home last night. I begin to make my way to the station so that I can catch a bus home, I decide to take the back alleys in order to cut through to the street so that Felix doesn’t drive past and recognise me. I’m still not sure that he would but I’d still like to save Carlo the bother. As I walk down the maze of alleys which give East London its labyrinthine feel, I see other small bars opening their doors to the public, normal bars, normal clientele and normal managers, but not my bar. I wonder how the opening staff found it this morning, I wonder what time Felix and his guests left, it certainly looked like they were planning on staying a while and from what Caleb told me they were just getting started.
Walking past the front of RBS bank the little pillar outside tells me that its twelve degrees and ten to ten in the morning, the street is already thickly painted with a long streak of black taxis making their way slowly through the city. Given last night’s tips I could afford to jump in one to get home quickly but there’s no rush, coming home is a lot like being the opening staff at work, I never really know what’s going to be there waiting. Broken plates, glasses or bottles, overflowing ashtrays, booming television sets, the sink full of plates and dishes and invariably a comatose parent in the tracksuits she lives in, dark blonde hair tied up in her usual ponytail and eyeliner smeared on thick so as to mask her crow’s feet.
Instead of getting a cab back I decide to make the most of the sunshine, even though it’s cold, and walk to Moorgate so that I can get a tube all the way back. Going down Bishopsgate is like a slalom between the suits who are all rushing around the place, you’d think that it was still rush hour and not ten in the morning. It seems that almost everyone in this part of London smokes, I’m not sure why but walking along this busy road I feel like I’m walking in a toxic cloud and it’s making me nauseous so I decide to cross the road to the side of the station where it’s quieter as most of the buildings are hotels as opposed to offices. After declining to buy the latest homeless publication from one of the local alcoholics I eventually reach London Wall where the pedestrian traffic is thinner and I can breathe again, from here it’s a five minute walk to Moorgate station and then just a quick train ride back home.
In my bag I hear the quiet musical bleeping of my phone going off, it’s probably Caleb sending his first message of the day to let me know how much cleaning up he has to do at work. I open up the message as I near the station, it’s from Carlo though, not Caleb and it reads, “Hey darling, had a really nice time with you last night, sorry I had to throw you out this morning but it’s business and you know what Felix is like, I’ll be free later if you fancy doing something. X” How sweet, but also how unexpected, I’m glad he’s broken the silence first so that I don’t have to. I decide not to do him the grace of replying right away so I type out my response and make sure I’m underground before I send it so that he won’t receive it until I get home.
London is like a Russian doll of cultures made up of layer upon layer of different ethnicities, from East to West you find a little slice of every part of the world. That’s why Upper Street Islington, even though it’s maybe only three or four miles away from Liverpool Street, might as well be in a different city. Instead of hi-rise banks and offices there are little boutique shops which sell handmade baby clothes for sixty pounds a piece and instead of thousands of chain smoking executives there are young Mums in pairs carting around their toddlers.
Our flat is situated above a book shop at the point where Upper Street diverges and becomes two roads, with Islington Green Park in the middle. As we have the entire top floor of the building there is a veranda which overlooks it giving a great view of the people below. Obviously a place like this isn’t cheap, I have no idea what the rent on it would be, but I’m guessing sky high given the general cost of living here. My Mum however, had the good fortune of being the only surviving heir to my great uncle and aunt, one a judge and the other a surgeon, who passed away within two weeks of each other while I was still a toddler. Lucky for us because if it hadn’t been for them I’m almost certain I would have ended up either on the streets or in a foster home.
My Mum wasn’t always like this though, I used to think she was the best Mum in the world when I was little, but at that age it’s easier to miss the obvious signs that someone is going down the pan. My early nights would mask her late ones and for years I thought that a hangover was how everyone woke up in the morning. As I got older she got worse, trips to the park weren’t replaced they just disappeared and I began noticing the glass of wine which never strayed far from her hand. We’ve never discussed what it was which made her so bitter but I suspect it started right about when I started to speak, I must have reminded her of my dad, always too willing to voice my own opinion, I wasn’t just her little baby anymore. Since I turned seventeen we haven’t had a real conversation, just the odd exchange of pleasantries in the morning and sometimes screams, normally we just stay out of each other’s way which suits me fine.
I take the small alleyway between our building and the one opposite which leads to a heavy glass door which is the entrance to our humble lobby, the first two floors are designated offices, the third another residence and the penthouse apartment is home sweet home. I take the lift straight up and open the front door, I feel a rush of air pass by me as I do which means Mum has the large windows onto the veranda open. Inside I walk past her room on the left, the bed is half undone and there are clothes, empty packets of cigarettes as well as half used make up all over the place, thankfully she keeps most of her mess in there and not in the lounge area of the flat. I walk into the kitchen, it’s large and open plan with a curving black marble counter which would be great for entertaining, if she still had any friends to entertain. Sure enough the large sliding doors are open and outside I can see her sitting in a chair with her legs crossed leaning up onto the railing, a cigarette lit in her left hand perched above a little table with an ashtray and a mug on it. She will have heard me close the front door so I have to go and say hello, I drop my bag and jacket onto one of the sofas and walk outside. “Hi Mum,” I bend down and kiss her on the cheek, she smells like an odd mixture of stale smoke and expensive perfume. “Are you ok?”
She turns her head around to me, “Darling there’s another packet of cigarettes just inside on the counter, could you grab them for me please?” She stubs the one in her hand out in the ashtray as I walk over to get the new packet from which she instantly takes and lights a new one. “Aren’t those the same clothes you were wearing yesterday? Did you come home last night?” So nice of her to notice.
“Yeah I went out after work and missed the last bus back here so I stayed at a friend’s house”
“Oh really?” She rests the cigarette on the ashtray and picks up the coffee cup, “and what’s this friend’s name?”
“Kim, me and her went out for some drinks after work and ended up staying out later than I expected.”
“Funny, you didn’t inherit your talent at lying from your father, anyway I don’t mind you’re a big girl you do what you like.”
“I will don’t worry.”
She smiles at me which is rare and raises her cup to her lips, “So how is your father have you seen much of him lately? Let him know that his long lost daughter is right under his nose yet?” She picks her cigarette back up, “Does he even know your name yet?” She starts to laugh but ends up coughing a deep empty cough.
“He’s fine, and no he doesn’t know who I am. It’s not exactly the easiest thing to tell someone, I can’t just go up to him and say, ‘Oh hi,
Daddy's Gone 6.0 • Opuss № I