She was fifty, a hippie spinster with three cats, and we’d met five years ago when she kicked her boyfriend slash squatter out and needed someone to cover the rent on her two-bedroom Camden flat. I’d just finished getting railed in the disabled toilets at the local pub when I overheard her telling a regular she’d need to find a tenant.
Two days later, I moved in, and my days of sofa surfing were officially over.
Unlike me, whose drug habit probably made late-2000s Lindsay Lohan look like Mother Teresa, Gloria didn’t touch booze or drugs. Her one vice was smoking a twenty-pack of Benson & Hedges a day. She told me that as long as I didn’tbring any drama to her doorstep and paid the rent on time, I could party as much as I liked.
Naturally, I took that as a personal challenge—at least until I went a step too far.
On my first evening of freedom back in London, Gloria proudly announced she’d cleaned the flat from top to bottom and tossed my “hidden” stash, which, as it turned out, wasn’t so hard to find. The rest of the night was spent doing face masks, mani-pedis, and binge-watchingGilmore Girlson Netflix. I begrudgingly enjoyed every second of it.
And so, we kept it up for the rest of the week, making it all the way to the end of season four before Gloria decided I needed to get a life—by which she meant one that didn’t involve illegal substances and a near one-way trip to A&E.
Other people might have found my flatmate’s behaviour overbearing, and if it had been anyone else, I probably would’ve pushed back like the stubborn twat I am. But for the past five years, Gloria had been more of a parent to me than my own donors ever were—making sure I ate, picking me up when I was too high to get home, holding my hair back when I was hungover. Her mother-hen ways were just another thing I was grateful for.
The first step was getting a job. Before the Willow, I worked at the local pub. The late hours were perfect for hangovers and a convenient way to score when my dealer popped in for a pint. I also picked up the occasional shift as a bingo caller, because the old ladies loved my natural talent for turning numbers into sexual innuendos.
Legs eleven. Spread ’em wide and think of England.
Two fat ladies, eighty-eight. Double the pleasure, double the fun.
I’ll admit I was fairly anxious about returning to work, but as it turns out, I had no reason to be. Gloria had told Gaz, the publandlord, that I was sacked and barred—as if she wasn’t just a customer—and if he had any problem with it, he could take it up with her. Of course, he didn’t, which left me free to figure out my next move.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t exactly high demand for an ex-ballet dancer who liked playing with makeup and was a recovering addict to boot. So finding work was tricky, at least until I got a call from Sasha.
We’d met back when I was at the Royal Ballet. She’d been part of the makeup crew for the company’s performances, and after I left, we stayed in touch. We’d meet up so she could help me sharpen my makeup skills, and after a while, I’d occasionally help her out on jobs. Together, we travelled around the UK doing makeup for stage shows, musicians, and even a stint for an up-and-coming designer at London Fashion Week.
But that all stopped about three years ago. Sasha got a gig touring with an American rock band in Europe, and she did such a good job that they invited her to join them in Asia. Her reputation in the industry spread quickly, and soon she was getting so many requests from celebrities and magazines in the US that she decided to move there permanently.
My half-assed attempt at a makeup career went up in flames after that, and I slipped back into what I did best. Partying. The only time I picked up my brushes was to beat my own face, the faces of my friends, and the occasional Soho drag queen who needed a last-minute rescue. Without Sasha around to nudge me, hype me up, or tell me when I’d turned someone into a badly blended Oompa Loompa, it all felt a bit pointless.
I’d only gotten to experience any of those gigs because of her name and her reputation, never because anyone was genuinely interested in the pink-haired shadow trailing behind her. So tosay I was surprised when she rang out of the blue with a job offer was putting it lightly.
“I’m pregnant, Iggs,” she’d said.
“You’re what?!” I’d squawked, almost choking on the strong tea Gloria had made for me.
“Yep. Wasn’t exactly planned, but as my mum says, the best things never are.” She sighed, and I could practically picture the wry amusement on her face. “I’ll let you know if I believe her after I’ve squeezed a pint-sized human out of my nether regions.”
“Uh, congratulations?” I wasn’t sure what else to say, and it must’ve shown in the way my voice pitched up like I was asking a question.
But when Sasha chuckled on the other end of the line, something in me eased. It felt like no time had passed since we’d last gossiped over a cheap bottle of wine, only now there was a baby involved, and I was stone cold sober.
“Good thing you don’t want kids,” she said, and I scoffed in mock offence.
“I’d be a wonderful mother, I’ll have you know.”
“You’d definitely make a good stage mum.”
“I...” I trailed off, not really knowing how to respond and definitely not wanting to poke at the mess of my childhood. I had an upcoming therapy appointment for that. So instead, I muttered, “Better than my own mum, at least.”
One of the best things about Sasha was that she didn’t pry. She knew enough about my family to understand they weren’t exactly the nurturing type. My parents were more of the “throw money at the problem and hope it goes away” variety, which was exactly how I’d ended up in the country’s most sought-after private rehab programme in the first place.
“Anyway, I actually had a reason for calling you,” Sasha chimed in, shifting the subject, much to my immediate relief.
“I thought you loved being regaled with my stories of mischief and chaos.”
“Normally, yes,” she said. “But I’m on a bit of a time crunch, and I wanted to talk to you about doing a job for me.”
I frowned and tightened my grip on the phone. “You’re coming back? Is it even safe to fly that far when you’re, you know, up the duff and everything?”
