Page 27
Ever since the global success of Richard Curtis’s Notting Hill, the spotlight of cool has shone a little less brightly on the streets of W11… pink stucco and scented candles, pashminas and Patty Shelabargers, the Cross and Kate Moss, have lost the style race to the mean streets of London EC1. The Hoxton girl has taken control of the Monopoly board of London fashion… think scuffed stilettos and ankle socks… think uncompromising wedged hair—think Tracie singing “The House That Jack Built” in ’83…
Think “What a pile of old bollocks,” thought Ana. And then she smiled as she mentally applied the same frothing-at-the-mouth-style commentary to her home county.
… the Barnstaple woman has taken control of the Monopoly board of North Devon fashion… think comfy shoes and support tights… think uncompromising shampoo and set… think Ethel off EastEnders doing karaoke at the Queen Vic in ’83…
She smiled to herself and put the magazine down on the grass. And then she felt her stomach clench with anxiety. She couldn’t put it off for another second. She had to phone her mother. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and punched in her mother’s phone number. “Please,” she whispered to herself, “don’t pick up, please, don’t pick up…”
“Mum,” she began, addressing the answering machine, breathing a sigh of relief, “it’s me. I’m sorry I didn’t phone yesterday, it’s just that I’ve been…”
“Anabella!”
Ana jumped as her mother’s harsh voice came booming out of the receiver.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?!”
“I…”
“You are the most useless, selfish girl I have ever known. I ask you to do one thing. One thing. And you make a mess of it. This really is quite unacceptable, Anabella, quite unacceptable. I’ve been worried sick. I want you home today, Anabella. Do you hear me?”
“I…”
“Not another word. Not one more word. There’s a train from Paddington in an hour and a half. I want you on it.”
“I…”
“Not one more word. You’re coming home.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“No! I am not coming home, Mum. I’m staying here. For a few days at least. I am not coming home. So you’re just going to have to look after yourself for a while. Do you understand?” A tiny, shell-shocked moment of silence indicated to Ana that her words had made an impression.
“What do you mean, you’re staying?”
“I mean, I’ve rented a room in a flat and I’m staying.”
“What flat?”
“Gill’s flat. She’s a friend of Lol’s. And Lol was Bee’s best friend.”
“And where is this flat?”
“It’s in Ladbroke Grove.”
“Never heard of it. What’s this Gill like?”
“She’s very nice. She’s Scottish. She’s an athlete.”
“Hmmmm—And this Lol?” She expelled the word like phlegm. “What about her?”
“Lol is… she’s”—Ana found herself smiling—“she’s amazing. She’s really funny and really beautiful and really confident and she can sing and…”
“Yes, yes, yes. I’m almost out of polenta, I’ve only a couple of brushes’ worth of toothpaste left, and if I don’t get some seed down by tomorrow we can wave goodbye to our lawn next year. And as if I didn’t have enough to worry about, I’m nearly out of toilet paper and couscous, too. I can last a few days, but after that, well… But I shouldn’t imagine that any of that is of even the slightest interest to you. What the hell are you doing down there anyway?”
