‘On a serious note, you know I don’t mind. Plus, most people have parents who are willing to help out in a pinch. You don’t. How much do you need?’ My ears prick up. It had never occurred to me growing up that people born to families like Belle’s had to worry about money. But then I suppose after today’s display I shouldn’t be surprised; they seem to begrudge her breathing, there was no way they’d shower her with money. They probably wallpaper Rose’s house with fifties.
‘Um … I owe Chardonnay £250.’ It is a huge amount when you don’t have it – I remember those days – but to Nick Wilde it would be the equivalent of pennies. I need to leave. This is so wrong. I head down the corridor and pause in my tracks again.
‘You know what women are like.’ Cyndi’s voice mimics her husbands from earlier. ‘You are such a piece of shit.’ Her voice is raised, angry, I see her lash at him, her fist landing on his chest, the other following. He brushes them off and as she raises them again he grabs both wrists.
I step forward.
He drops them again and I pause. Neither have spotted me yet.
‘Let’s not forget you are not without blame,’ he spits. He turns on his heel and walks back to the kitchen as if such an outburst is everyday.
Cyndi bends over and breathes deep. After her bravura performance at lunch, it feels cruel revealing myself, a further stripping of her dignity. But it’s hard not to race over, comfort her, offer to get her out of this house. I take a step forward but as I do so she stands up tall, shakes herself out, fluffs her hair over her shoulder and heads back into the kitchen. I slide back along the narrow corridor, photos in frames of a happy-looking family on the walls. Nick and Cyndi besotted with each other, Rose being whirled above Nick’s head. I search the photos and it strikes me that Belle is always on the periphery or in the background untended, her smile forced.
I tiptoe back to hide in the loo, give everyone five minutes’ grace before I go in to say my goodbyes. Walking down the corridor again, I mark my way with a cough just in time to hear Luisa say, ‘There, it’s done. But it comes with conditions.’ My good intentions pause; I really want to hear the conditions.
‘Anything. I’m a whizz with nipple tassels, you know.’
‘Oh, trust me, I remember. But this is not about your twirltastic nipple skills. I want you to stop messing about. I’ve given you enough money for next month’s rent as well—’
‘Wait. That’s too much, I’ll get another job. I promise. I’ll keep trying for any seasonal work that’s left going.’ She lets out a hollow laugh. ‘I will get you this money back, I swear I will.’
‘Listen! I have had enough of seeing you live hand-to-mouth and work crazy hours to pay your rent and keep your head above water in these minimum-wage jobs.’
‘That’s how most people live. Those jobs, they give me time to work on my—’
‘Shut up, for Christ’s sake. Will you listen? I’d like you to work for me for the next month. I mean it. Remi and I are doing all right at the moment. We’ve just had a huge contract come in from a major supermarket so this is fine. Spend the next month looking at how to monetise your Shakespeare site. That is now your full-time job…’ Luisa carries on speaking but I have stopped listening. My ears had pinged up at the mention of a website. I’d forgotten that. Belle was obsessed by Shakespeare. Obsessed.
I remember a time, years ago, when we had sat up until four in the morning in Belle’s student kitchen drinking and talking about how I was wrong to find Hamlet dull and something about folios and quartos that I don’t quite remember. Is she still doing that? This makes me happy, I don’t know why but it does. I tune back in to Luisa. ‘You have created an amazing thing there, something that is going to help so many people. Get it out to the world, find a way to make money from your unique skill.’
An idea begins to blossom in my mind. If she has a literacy project that needs proper investment, that may solve a problem I’ve been trying to untangle all week.
There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face
December Fourth.
Belle.
‘Hey, how you doing?’
‘Just heading out now.’ Chardonnay is in her uniform, her hand resting on the extended handle of her overnight case. ‘Thanks for sending that money through. I appreciate it.’
‘Not a problem,’ I say breezily. I sent the money across yesterday straight after my chat with Luisa and a weight had been lifted. ‘I’m sorry it took so long and you had to ask.’
‘We’re all good, see you in a few days.’ And that’s it, she whizzes out the front door. This isn’t a flat where we curl up together on the sofa, binging Netflix, eating ice-cream and examining each other’s manicures. We have minimum human interaction and the quiet it affords me is exactly what I want.
I pitched up here after yet another desperate quest on spareroom.com and fell in love. I love the area, love the thought of living above the mini-mart and hearing all the chatter from the street below, and I love that most of the time I have it to myself.
I like my own company – there is less pressure, I don’t have to worry so much about being a disappointment, that I’m constantly failing to meet people’s expectations. Luisa has a lot to say on this subject and I’m aware I’m feeling extra insecure today because I’ve recently spent time with my family. I am resigned that things there will never change and know I am not the only person with a tricky parental relationship, but in the couple of days after the prolonged contact of a visit, I feel the anger well up in me. It really stings, the injustice of it. The fact that I have never known what I have done wrong, other than being born a little different, that I don’t understand their codes, their behaviours, no matter how much I tried as a child before the fury and rebellion took over in adolescence.
December is always tough, with Mum’s birthday and Christmas in the one month, but I am prepared this year. I will wrap a cloak of reinforced steel around me. I am an adult, I am not going to let my insecurities drive me, I’m just not. My parents have made me feel like shit most of my life but I can take ownership of it, I can stop allowing it to upset me. I need to stop dwelling and avoid getting sucked into a spiral of self-pity and injustice. Starting right now.
Pepped up, I fill a hot water bottle and pop on some lentils – it’s a good job I like them, they need to be my primary diet for the next … um … for ever. I curl up on the sofa and grab a blanket before I lift the lid of my laptop. The temperature has dropped overnight and it really feels like December today. December without enough money in my account to whack the heating up.
The tap tap tap against the window is fast, heavy, relentless, reminding me of how cold job-hunting had been earlier. I had been buttoned up, my breath snuffling into a scarf as I wandered from pub to pub seeing if they had any spare seasonal work, the rain battering the outside of me until my very bones were ice-snap cold.
I had marched around all of Easton, most of Eastville and Greenbank too. There isn’t much work being advertised, not even seasonal. But as ever with this community I found things that couldn’t help but make me smile.
