The Sisterhood (31 page)

I smiled throughout my shopping, even when I was tired and anxious and so strung-out that I considered calling Matt and asking whether I could have some drugs after all. I chatted brittly to the hairdresser, telling her about my family in France and explaining that I hadn't seen them for months and so I wanted to look good for when I went back next weekend. I told her about my little brother and my big sister. I grinned without stopping. The woman nodded and said 'That's nice' a lot, and I was pleased.

I sat for ages with dye on my hair, flicking through magazines with trembling fingers. My nostrils filled up with the smell of bleach. I was pleased to stumble upon a page of dating tips. By the time my hair was finished, I knew that on a first date I ought to ask Matt about himself, and listen to his answers. I should not wear too much perfume, and I should not dress provocatively, or he would think I was tarty. I should meet him in a public place, look into his eyes, and laugh a lot.

I would do all of that, though I wasn't sure the bit about dressing in a tarty way could really apply to me, since I'd been stripping off for him every weekend for quite some time.

I walked back to Kentish Town, because I was too nervous to do anything else. I had, at the same time, no energy and far too much of it. As I crossed the Euston Road, however, my feet almost stopped. I stood still, in the middle of the dual carriageway. Cars thundered towards me.

'I can't go back yet,' I said to myself. A taxi sounded its horn, and suddenly I was alert. I ran to the pavement, aware that the driver was shouting at me. It was true. I was a stupid twat. But I really didn't want to go to the flat. I didn't want to be there when things started to happen.

I wondered what to do with myself. It was another hot, sunny day. They were saying it was a drought, and that water was going to be rationed soon. If it was this hot in London, I dreaded to think what it must be like at home.

I decided that I needed to see somebody. Apart from Liz, I really only knew two people in London: Matt and Sandrine. Sandrine had given me a scare a couple of nights ago by turning up to our meeting with Liz in tow, but I hid, and watched, and after a while Liz left. I wondered whether there was any chance Liz was with her now, worried about it, and decided to see Matt instead.

'You sad loser!' he yelled, with a laugh, as I walked in. I was hot and sticky, and felt slightly faint. 'What kind of a nutter comes to work when they've got the day off?'

I smiled and took a stool at the bar. 'The kind who wants to see her
boyfriend
.' I regretted it at once, and sure enough, Matt took a step back.

'Steady,' he said, widening his eyes at me. Then he laughed and patted my shoulder. I noticed he was still keeping me at arm's length.

'Can I have a glass of tap water?' I asked, looking as innocent as I could. Matt hated people asking for tap water. If somebody asked me for a glass of tap water, and Matt was within earshot, I had to smile and say, 'Water? Still or sparkling?' I could only give tap water if they specified it for a second time. Matt said that anyone that cheap and that brazen could have his fucking tap water, but they couldn't have his fucking ice.

He rolled his eyes. 'Get it yourself, you cheap tart.'

I went behind the counter and poured myself a pint glass of water. I added ice and lemon, for good measure. On impulse, I poured myself an enormous glass of cold Sauvignon, too.

The door opened, and two customers came in.

I recognised her at once. She was almost beautiful. Her hair was long and black and she was wearing a long tight skirt and a magenta T-shirt with 'You wish' written in diamanté across the breasts. I wished I was that confident.

I looked at the man next to her. He was shorter than she was, but he looked frightening. His neck was thick, his hair shaved to distract from the way that it was half gone, and he radiated aggression. I looked down as he looked at me.

'Do we order at the bar?' he asked, and to my surprise his voice was upper class to the point of parody.

'Yes,' I said, making myself smile again. It seemed I was working, and, indeed, I would happily relinquish my day off for a chance to observe Rosa at close quarters.

'Course we do,' she told him, and rolled her eyes. 'That's what you do at bars, isn't it?'

'I didn't know,' he complained. 'Just checking.'

'Just wanting to talk to a pretty barmaid, more like,' she said, and I watched them look at each other and laugh.

She looked at me, and smiled. I knew I wasn't imagining the suspicion in her eyes.

'I've seen you somewhere,' she said. 'Haven't I?'

I spoke quickly. 'In here, probably.'

'Certainly not. I haven't graced this establishment with my presence for a very long time.'

I kept my smile at full beam. 'Well, welcome back, madam.'

'Cheers, my dear,' she said, and sat down. All of the other customers were outside, frying themselves in the afternoon sun. Only this woman — Rosa — and her friend were sheltering. I listened to their exchange.

'Well?' he asked.

'White wine,' she said firmly. 'I'd prefer champagne, but I'm trying to wean myself off the habit. It's too decadent when there are people starving in the world.'

'Champagne it is,' he told her. 'The children of Africa won't begrudge it, just this once.' He walked towards me. 'Do you do it by the glass, or are you going to do me for a bottle?' He caught my eye and smiled, eyebrows raised.

I was trying to work out whether I could turn this situation to my advantage. 'By the glass for the cheap stuff,' I said, 'and, er, by the bottle for the good stuff.'

The man sighed theatrically. 'All right. Would you bring us a bottle, please, my love?'

'Sure,' I said. I pushed a list towards him and, yet again, forced a bright smile. 'Which one?'

He scanned it. 'Jesus. Erm, we'll have the Moët, I guess. Which should be pronounced with the final "t" as Claude Moët, while French by birth, bore a Dutch surname.'

I nodded and wondered whether he would be cross if I rolled my eyes.

'Whereas his son-in-law, Pierre-Gabriel Chandon de Briailles, was French through and through,' I told him instead.

He stepped back. 'A well-informed blonde!' he cried. 'How did you do that?'

'Oh, my father's obsessed. He's a wine-maker and he'd love to make champagne. But he lives in the wrong region. Would you like two glasses with your Moët?'

He leaned in. 'To tell you the truth, love, I'd prefer a pint, but under the circumstances I think I'd better join the lovely lady.'

'Sit down and I'll bring it over.'

I took out the glasses, assembled a bottle and an ice bucket, and took a chilled bottle of Moët from the back of the fridge. I tried not to take my eyes off Rosa. I wondered whether she was a friend of Liz's or, perhaps, a friend of Steve's. Perhaps she was a former in-law.

It was clear that Rosa and this man didn't know each other. He was desperate to impress, and she was more nervous than she was letting on, her hand trembling slightly, her posture exaggeratedly relaxed. She crossed her legs, hanging a sandal from her big toe. When I got closer, I discovered that she was wearing a strong perfume.

I steeled myself to open the champagne. I hated that even more than I hated adding up people's drinks orders in my head when the bar was busy and everyone was waiting for me. I knew I was supposed to twist the bottle, not the cork, but I had yet to perform the manoeuvre successfully, and after my previous performance, I dreaded what might be going to happen. I tried to look confident as I placed the cloth over the cork, gripped it tightly, and clasped the bottle under my arm while I twisted it with my left hand.

The cork came out without a sound, and champagne emerged. I grabbed a glass from the table and managed to catch most of it. A good dribble, however, went on the floor.

'Well,
that
was blonde,' said the man. 'Are you charging me for that bit?'

I was relieved to have messed it up so little. 'No,' I told him happily. 'I'll deduct it from your bill.'

'Helen!' called Matt from the bar. I couldn't look up, as I was still trying to pour it without it bubbling all over the table.

'Yes?' I asked. I quickly put my finger into the bubbles to pop a few, hoping no one would notice.

'You know the rule. Discounts come from your wages.'

'Well, since I haven't got any wages as this is my day off, I think we can call it quits.'

Despite my best efforts, Rosa's glass frothed over, and I wiped champagne from the table with my cloth, apologising again.

I rushed in and out, waiting on outdoor tables because I had to. Every time I came in, I watched Rosa and her friend closely. I watched them finishing the bottle. I watched as Rosa stood up and muttered something about the little ladies' room. She wandered over, smiling, and grabbed me as I walked past with a tray of pints. All of them spilt a little, but I thought I would get away with it.

'I know how I know you,' she said, twiddling her hair. 'You were hiding behind a car. You walked into me and asked about Lizzy.'

I was suddenly scared. I did not like being found out.

'Mmm, maybe,' I said, vaguely.

'Don't "maybe" me,' she said sharply. 'You know I'm right. Do you know Liz?'

I nodded. 'I'm her flatmate.'

Rosa looked confused. 'Then why the fuck were you spying—'

I spoke over her. 'She took a lodger in to pay the bills,' I told her. And it's me.'

'Has she said anything about me?'

I decided to try bluffing, to see what happened. 'Yes.' I looked into Rosa's eyes. I looked all over her face, and realised what it was that was odd about her. 'Yes, she's told me quite a bit about you, as it happens.'

Rosa took a deep breath and raised herself to her full height. She was exactly the same height as me. I was surprised she wasn't taller.

'In that case,' she said, 'please ask her to get in touch. We have certain matters to discuss. As you are no doubt aware. Here is my card.' She almost put it on the tray, then pulled it back and stuffed it into my pocket, instead. 'That tray is a disgrace,' she said. 'Matt ought to fire you.'

I wanted to say something back but I didn't know what. Rosa strode off to the loos. I poured myself another glass of wine.

'Do you know that Rosa woman?' I asked Matt when he came back in.

He chuckled. 'Sure I do. She used to come in here, back when she was a bloke.'

I was excited. 'Really? She really used to be a man? I wasn't sure if I was imagining it.'

'Nope. Ross, she was back then. That was a while ago. Then for a long time she'd come in women's clothes and demand to be called Rosa, even though she was clearly shaving and padding out her bra. I think she's gone the whole hog now.'

'Does she know Liz?'

He nodded. 'They were both in here on their own, a while back. Before you showed up, for sure. Liz had just been dumped. The whole Steve business went off — Christ, that was a weird one. I think Rosa was suffering some preop nerves, or something. They got chatting and ended up drunk as skunks. I practically had to pour them out on to the pavement at closing time.'

'They're friends? Was that the first time they met?'

'I think so. Never seen them together since. But Liz did come in after that, asking for Rosa, and Rosa's barely been in from that day to this. I'm not sure I've seen her at all, actually.'

I was trying to work it out. After some hard pondering, I had to admit that I had no idea what was going on, or whether there was anything I could do about it.

1973

Going back on the bus was a different matter altogether. As Mary watched the countries passing by in the other direction, she found it hard to breathe. Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and Turkey went by far faster than she would have liked. Suddenly, they were in Europe again. The roads were different. The loos flushed. And still they headed west.

She sat by the window and cried, silently. Her chest felt as if it had been crushed by a heavy weight. All the life force had gone out of her. Everything felt wrong. She was only going home to get a job for a while, probably in London. As soon as she had some cash, she would be back. This time, she thought she would hitch. She would go straight back to Goa, and she would take it from there.

The decision to return to Europe had happened suddenly. One minute, she had been living in a hut on Arambol beach with a man called Singaporean Clive, who made her laugh. Then, her money ran out. She had no cash at all, and neither did Clive, and anyway, he was getting bored. When he saw that she'd run out of money, he buggered off. She ate nothing for a couple of days. She asked around, desperate for a way to earn a few rupees. A hippy with a beard pointed her towards a man in Anjuna market. This man told her to take a package into Pakistan and deliver it to a man at a hotel in Lahore. He gave her two hundred dollars.

She did it. She walked across the border, and looked the border guard in the face, and she held her nerve. It was the bravest, most stupid thing she had ever done: only as she stood in front of him did she realise that she could be executed for this. She knew she could never do anything like it again, and so she found out about the bus, and she was going home.

They stopped overnight somewhere in northern France. Most people slept on the bus, because everyone was out of cash. In the morning, Mary stepped out under a slaty European sky, and started to do her stretches.

She looked around. France wasn't much, but it was better than England.

'I'm getting off,' she told the driver. 'That OK?'

'Got any francs?' he asked.

She shook her head and pulled her backpack off the bus. The driver handed her a ten-franc note.

'Consider it a refund for the ferry crossing,' he said. 'Good luck.'

She stood on the pavement, and waved the bus away. Then she looked around. An old woman was walking by, looking rather nervous at the sight of her. Mary supposed she did look unusual, now she was back here. Her hair was as long as it would get, and it straggled down her back. She was dressed in a kaftan, and although she was wearing shoes, they were stringy sandals from India. All her goods were in a canvas backpack.