Honest (18 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Seven

Mid-October I
was moved into my own flat, because Julie decided that I had progressed well
enough to move out on my own and continue therapy from there. Before leaving,
Julie spent time with me explaining bills, shopping budgets, and how to manage
my own money. Seeing as I had some considerable wealth in the bank, though I
was still unemployable, she wanted to see that I spent my money wisely.

‘I don’t even
know what to do with it,’ I said, sitting on my single bed in the empty room on
Camberwell road. Julie was sorting me out with a double duvet and pillow cases,
plus some basic kitchen equipment, and was arranging it all into boxes.

‘Well, it
might be a good idea to save it for your future. You could use it for a deposit
on a house for when you get married, or you could buy yourself a car once
you’ve learned to drive.’

Grown-up
things; things most girls do after university, when they’ve landed their first
job and gained a steady boyfriend, maybe a fiancé.
Cosmo
girls. None of
those options stirred anything within me, because it was the unattainable. That
was somebody else’s life she was describing.

‘I don’t think
so,’ I said, staring out the window at the bland garden with its sulking plants
in terracotta pots. There was a white sky and a slight breeze, enough to tease
the limbs of the washing line side to side, its metal stem creaking in the mud.

‘Why not?’ she
asked, sitting down beside me. ‘They might not be things you’re thinking about
now; you’re only young. But they will be one day. Believe me, there’ll be a
time when you need a lump of cash, especially if you want to have kids.’

‘No, no. I’m
never having children. I’d rather die.’

She gave me a
soft smile. ‘Give yourself time. Anyway, it’s a lot of money you’ve made, and
if you ask me, you deserve it. For the first time in your life you’re your own
woman, aren’t you, eh?’

I tucked my
lank, thin hair behind my ears. Yes, I thought, I am my own woman. But she had
never grown to exist as her own entity; only as the parasite upon others.

Now she was
skin, bone, and little else. She didn’t even have the luxury of being a ghost.
I said none of this to her, of course; some thoughts were still my own, even if
they were all I had in the world. Instead I let her pat my hand, and smile her
fond smile, while I repeated my name in my head before I faded before her eyes:
Ellen Woodley, Ellen Woodley, Ellen Woodley.

The first
night alone was the worst.

I had a
spacious bedroom —no bay window, no view of the harbour— and a ceiling fan to
stare up at. My guitar was a solitary as a statue in the corner of the room,
but my book of songs, well thumbed and dog-eared, rested on the pillow beside
me. I closed my eyes and thought of Peter, not as he had been to me this past
year, or even for the last three years, but golden, fresh and living as he once
was.

With all of my
heart, I willed him to come back to me. I clenched my fists and awaited the
cold shudder I’d craved since he’d last visited me, all that time ago.

Hours passed
and it never came. Only the regretful pulsing in my loin remained, while I
dreamed of our first and last embrace on the best and worst night of my entire
life, blissful in that bedroom.

I turned over
and stuffed my face in the pillow. I screamed until my throat pained and my
lungs gave out. I felt so old now; aged and frail. It seemed so long ago.

The next
morning, I took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and walked the streets for hours,
popping into various shops, looking at DVDs, and CDs, and people-watching. I
needed to do something to keep myself sane.

 I passed the
cafés with girls outside in green scarves, smoking roll-ups like they do in
Paris. It was a grey, damp day like every day in Britain; Sunday weather. My
jeans were wet to the knee, and as the wind bit through my clothes it ached,
swelling up, making me limp.

When it got
dark I stopped at a Starbucks, something I’d never actually done alone before.
It was all steamy-windowed, like a brothel just for girls in green scarves. I
gazed at the menu, breathing in the rich coffee smells.

I could afford
the whole menu fifty times over. No, hundreds of times, and then some. I could
buy anything I wanted. I settled for three cold, creamy frappuccinos, because I
couldn’t choose which one was best.

I drank one
after the other, sucking the straw until my teeth and tongue were numbed, and
the shakes were reduced to lumps of ice rattling around inside the plastic. I
left and walked the streets some more, letting the crowds take me, storming
between them like a mini hurricane.

Amongst the
crowds I felt a little buzz inside me; I could be anyone, and no one, whowever
I pleased. I was Carrie from
Sex and the City
, I thought: I was Esther
from
The Bell Jar
. I was Ellen Woodley. I had articles in all the
magazines. I was nobody. I was a shadow. I wasn’t even there.

The buzz
faded. In my core remained a hollow where the wind howled right through me.

I stopped at a
kiosk and looked at the magazine covers for my face, the way they did in the
films. There were a few thumbnails of other girls, telling their stories about
how their fathers had abused them, and how they were too scared to move on, and
couldn’t ever have normal sex. My face wasn’t on them. There was nothing more
to say about me.

As I turned to
walk away, a sight in the window of a shop made me stop and gasp.

Peter
,
I nearly uttered. In the window was a poster of Jimi Hendrix, and surrounding
it were guitars and WHA pedals and all kinds of musical gear hung up on a big
rack. The shop was called
Zeppelin
. It began to rain, so I went inside
and hovered in the doorway. It wasn’t just a music shop — it had everything. It
was a musician’s dream store. 

The floor was
laminated and the place was well lit, with the store stretching back further
than I could see. All around me, with elegant price tags, were sleek red chairs
and black stools and prints of every rock musician in the world. There were
chic lamps and brightly coloured racks for even more instruments; tambourines
and mandolins and even a giant, metal triangle that glinted in the light. There
were glass cases of nick-nacks: guitar picks and gloves and rows of junk
jewellery.

All along the
back wall were hundreds and hundreds of electric guitars, all bright and
glistening like candy gobstoppers.

There were
even record players that converted to MP3, and rows upon rows of second-hand
records and old CDs on sale. At the back was a sound-proof box for trying out
the instruments, with a long black leather settee.

The store
attendant, a youngish guy with a long fringe and holes in his lobes, meandered
the various odds and ends on sale, giving me a slight nod.

I fingered the
rows of records with their torn sleeves, breathing in the odours of damp
cardboard. They sold music books, too; new ones, second hand ones, all kinds.
The sight of it all in one place was all too much, like I’d entered Aladdin’s
cave.

Suddenly, I
felt like crying, and crying hard. I placed both hands down atop the records,
closed my eyes, bowed my head and sucked in a long, deep breath. I knew whose
place this was. For a few moments I just wanted to escape there, to a world
where Peter didn’t die and all our hopes came true. I cleared my mind and let
my thoughts drift away.

Peter and I
have escaped to London. We’re living with four others, all artists and
filmmakers and dancers in a warehouse flat, top floor. He was busking in
Piccadilly Circus when he was approached by a head-hunter and offered a record
deal with an insane monetary advance.

We’re
kissing in the rain and walking down the street, getting soaking wet; we can’t
wait to tell everyone back home that Peter is going to be the next Jimi
Hendrix.

‘Wait,
wait, stop,’ says Peter, pulling me back by the hand. His hair is tamed by the
damp; wet curls get in his eyes.

‘What is
it?’ I say, fizzing inside. We’re on our way to a trendy bar to celebrate, just
him and me, and I can’t wait. He’s promised me a designer wardrobe with the
first instalment of his advance, and he’s going to buy himself a pair of Ray
Bans. No, five pairs, all different colours.

‘Look at
this,’ he says, pointing to a shop called Zeppelin. Inside is a whole range of
sleek furniture, hundreds of shiny new guitars, and in the window is a giant
poster of Jimi Hendrix. ‘We need to go to this shop, Ellen. This is our shop.
Just look at it!’

‘But we
don’t have any room,’ I say. ‘Our room’s too tiny.’

Peter
laughs. ‘I’ve already put down a deposit on our penthouse apartment. I was
going to surprise you.’

‘Oh Peter!’
I squeal, and he picks me up and spins me in his arms, and we run inside like
the kids from Willy Wonker’s Chocolate Factory. He summons the shop keeper and
buys everything; six new guitars, chairs, stools, tables, racks for all his new
instruments, a swanky studio system to record all his own music.

There’s a
glass cabinet with vintage Ray Bans inside on little stands. He buys the lot,
his eyes glistening, gripping my hand so tight. He tries them all on, and he
looks like a movie star in every one of them. Then he buys more, rushing from
one end of the store to the other, oohing and aahing at all the posh gear.

It’s all so
much better than his little box room at home; it’s all so, so Peter. He pays
for everything by card, and organises the delivery like he’s been doing this
for years, like a real pro. I’m so excited I could burst. He’s doing it, really
doing it, and I’m right there with him.

‘Wait,’ he
says, giving me a sly wink. ‘I want to try out that Les Paul.’ It’s candy-red
like Peter’s bottom lip. We rush to the sound box and he plays every song he
knows, like a real pro, like Jimi, singing just for me, the tendon in his neck
standing out.

The shop
attendant stares enviously from the counter, then looks away, shamed. He could
never be like Peter.

Peter puts
down the guitar and takes me in his arms; his big, strong, 19-year-old’s arms.
He’s grown stubble on his cheek and chin. He’s taller, heavier — a man. He
kisses me, hard, the stubble prickling my skin. Then he fumbles around for the
buttons on my blouse, and pops them open one by one.

‘What are
you doing?’ I say, pulling away from him. ‘We can’t!’

‘Of course
we can,’ he says, smiling his big, glorious smile brighter than the lights in
the store. ‘I’m a fucking rock star!’ he screams, howls, almost, while I laugh
and laugh, and he pulls me on his lap and kisses me like a movie star, and—

‘Do you need
to sit down?’ A voice cut through the dream and in an instant it was gone.

I flinched,
startled by the voice of the shop attendant. I opened my eyes and saw all the
same stuff around me; the plush studio chairs, the long stools, the rows and
rows of candy-coloured guitars, the rock stars on the wall. He was missing.

Dread came
over me. I remembered that Peter was just a boy, a dead boy, and I was a
living-dead girl.

‘I’m okay,’ I
said, my voice hoarse. I had barely said a word to anybody all day, and the
sensation felt strange.

‘If you’re
feeling ill, I could get you some water.’ I looked at his hard blue eyes, his
folded arms. What he was really saying was
buy something or get out
.

‘No, really,’
I said, smiling, laughing it off. ‘It’s just my boyfriend would love all of
this stuff. He’s never seen this shop before.’

‘Really?’ said
the store attendant.

I nodded,
eager, a smile spreading on my face. ‘He’s a musician. He’s just been offered a
record deal.’

The attendant
cocked an eyebrow. He looked me up and down — just a flick of the eyelids, but
it was enough— and he almost smiled. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ I said,
nodding again, excitement returning to me now, my hair dripping water onto the
floor. It wasn’t cheap laminate. It was hard, waxed wood. This was a decent
shop, and I was the only customer.

‘What record
label, if you don’t mind me asking?’

I paused,
stuck for words. I couldn’t name any. ‘It’s one of the major ones,’ I said.
‘Sorry, my memory’s terrible. I’ve always had such an awful memory.’

His nostrils
flared. He unfolded his arms and placed a hand on his hip. ‘Well if you’re not
going to buy anything, we’re closing in half an hour.’ He went to move away,
but I stopped him. I tapped his shoulder, making him wince.

‘Actually, I
would like to buy something. Some things.’

He smiled then,
a true grin. Another dead boy’s image flashed up in my mind; David Pierce in my
hallway, his cruel eyes staring into mine. An oozing pool of plastic obscured
him, until the image in my mind was nothing but glistening black tar.

I shuddered,
and instead thought of all the money in my bank account. I smiled back. ‘Do you
arrange deliveries? I’m looking to buy a lot of things for our apartment. Oh,
and I’ll be needing that poster in the window, too.’

It was one in
the morning, and I was laying down on the purple shag pile rug I’d squeezed
onto the bedroom floor of my pokey flat, breathing in the shop-fresh smells.

This wasn’t a
penthouse, but it didn’t matter; I’d always imagined Peter and I living in some
squalid place before he got his big break; a place like this, above a shop down
a trash-ridden service road. I could afford better in time, but right now I was
enjoying the solitude; enjoying the dream of what could have been if Peter and
I had run away together.