ON THE BUS TO work on Friday, I felt strangely calm. I hadn’t drunk vodka after the chat with Mummy, but only because I didn’t have any, and I didn’t want to go out alone in the dark to buy some. Always alone, always dark. So, instead, I had made a cup of tea and read my book, distracted occasionally by my flashing green fingernails as I turned the pages. I’d had enough of tropical fruit for the time being, and needed something more conducive to matters of the heart. Sense and Sensibility. It’s another one of my favourites: top five, certainly. I love the story of Elinor and Marianne, how it unfolds so carefully. It all ends happily, which is highly unrealistic, but, I must admit, narratively satisfying, and I understand why Ms Austen adhered to the convention. Interestingly, despite my wide-ranging literary tastes, I haven’t come across many heroines called Eleanor, in any of the variant spellings. Perhaps that’s why the name was chosen for me.
After a few, familiar chapters, I went to bed and did not sleep at all. A night without repose, however, seemed to have no ill effects, surprisingly, and I felt bright and alert as the bus made its way through the morning traffic. Perhaps I was one of those people, like the late Baroness Thatcher, who simply did not require sleep? I picked up a copy of the free newspaper that is always discarded on bus seats, and began to flick through it. An orange woman I’d never heard of had got married for the eighth time. A captive panda had apparently ‘reabsorbed’ its own foetus, thereby ending its pregnancy – I looked out of the window for a moment as I tried and failed to understand the reproductive system of the panda – and, on page ten, evidence had been uncovered of the systematic and widespread abuse of underage boys and girls in a series of care homes. The news stories were reported in that order.
I shook my head, and was about to discard the newspaper when a small advertisement caught my eye. The Cuttings, it said, with a logo of a bullet train hurtling along a track. I noticed it because the answer to
twelve across in yesterday’s crossword had been Shinkansen. Such small coincidences can pepper a life with interest. I looked at the content, which appeared to be an announcement of forthcoming events at said venue. Sandwiched between two artistes I’d never heard of was a listing for Friday. Tonight.
There was the name of a band – obviously, I’d never heard of them – and there, in smaller font, was the musician! I dropped the paper, picked it up again. No one had noticed. I ripped out the advert, folded it carefully and placed it in the inside pocket of my shopper. This was it, the opportunity I’d been waiting for. Written in the stars, delivered to me by Fate. This bus, this morning … and tonight.
I looked up the venue when I got to the office. It seemed that he would be playing at 8 p.m. I needed to shop for a party – and now a gig – outfit after work, which did not leave much time. Judging by the website, The Cuttings seemed to be the sort of place where one would feel most comfortable when fashionably attired. How, then, would I manage to be there for eight, dressed and ready? Ready to meet him? Was it too soon? Should I wait until another time, prepare properly? I’d read somewhere that one only gets a single chance to make a first impression – I’d dismissed the trite phrase at the time, but perhaps there was some truth in it. If the musician and I were going to be a couple, our first encounter needed to be a memorable one.
I nodded to myself, having made up my mind. I’d go to the shops straight after work, buy a new outfit, and wear it to the concert. Oh, Eleanor, it couldn’t be that easy, could it? I knew from experience that life was never this straightforward, so I tried to anticipate any potential problems and how best I might address them. What would I do with the clothes I was currently wearing? The answer came to me easily: my shopper was big enough to hold them. What about dinner? I am not a woman who functions well on an empty stomach, and it would be embarrassing to faint at his feet for any reason other than an excess of emotion. Well, couldn’t I purchase some food from a café after work, and still manage to arrive at The Cuttings for 7.45 p.m.? Yes, I could. That would allow me plenty of time to select a seat near the front for the best possible view. My view of him, and his view of me, of course. All of the problems solved.
I couldn’t resist a quick look online to see if he was as excited as I was about tonight. Ah, thank you, Twitter:
@johnnieLrocks
Soundcheck: done. Haircut: done. Get your fat backsides down to the Cuttings tonight, mofos.
#nextbigthing #handsomebastard
A man of few words. I had to google ‘mofo’ and must confess to being slightly alarmed by the result. Still, what did I know of the wild ways of rock stars? They used an unfamiliar argot that he’d teach me in due course, no doubt. Could the lessons start tonight? It was hard to believe that, in a matter of a few hours, I’d be in his presence. Ah, the thrill of anticipation!
I had a missive for him in my shopper which I hadn’t sent yet. Another sign that fate was smiling on me today. Earlier in the week, I’d copied out a verse for him, one I’d always loved, using a Bic biro. What a cost-effective miracle of engineering this instrument is! I’d selected the card with care: it was blank, and the front displayed an etching of a most endearing hare – long ears, powerful legs, and a surprisingly assertive face. It was gazing upwards at the moon and stars, its expression impossible to fathom.
Greetings cards are preposterously expensive, given that they are fabricated from a small piece of printed cardboard. You get an envelope with it, I suppose, but still. You would have to work for almost half an hour in a minimum-wage occupation in order to earn enough to purchase a nice greetings card and a second-class stamp. This was a revelation; I’d never actually sent a card to anyone before. Now that I would be seeing him tonight, however, I had no need to attach a postage stamp. I could present my humble gift in person.
Emily Dickinson’s beautiful poem is called Wild Nights – Wild Nights!, and combines two elements of which I am inordinately fond: punctuation, and the theme of finding, at long last, a soul mate.
I read the poem over again, licked the glue of the envelope with care – it was deliciously bitter – and then wrote his name on the front in my best handwriting. I hesitated as I put it back in my shopper. Was tonight really the best night for poetry? My reluctance was strange; the card was bought and paid for, after all. I wondered, however, whether I might be better off waiting to see what happened at the gig before taking things to an epistolary level. There was no need to be reckless.
Five o’clock took for ever to arrive. I travelled on the underground into town for speed, and went into the closest department store to the station, the same one where I’d purchased my laptop. It was 5.20 p.m., and the store would close in less than an hour. Womenswear was on the first floor (when did Ladieswear become Womenswear, I wondered) and I took the escalator, being unable to find the stairs. The shop floor was vast, and I decided to request assistance. The first woman I saw was matronly, and did not seem well placed to dispense fashion advice. The second was in her late teens or early twenties, and therefore too callow to advise me. The third, in the manner of Goldilocks, was just right – around my age, well-groomed, sensible-looking. I approached with caution.
‘Excuse me, I wonder if I could possibly ask for your assistance?’ I said.
She stopped folding sweaters and turned to me, smiling insincerely. ‘I’m attending a concert at a fashionable venue, and I wondered if you
might assist me with the selection of an appropriate ensemble?’ Her smile broadened and looked more genuine.
‘Well, we do offer a personal shopper service,’ she said. ‘I could make you an appointment, if you like?’
‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘it’s for this evening. I really do need something right now, I’m afraid.’ She looked me up and down.
‘Where is it that you’re going?’
‘The Cuttings,’ I said proudly. She stuck out her bottom lip, nodded once, slowly.
‘What are you, a twelve?’ I nodded, impressed that she had been able to size me up so accurately by sight alone. She checked her watch.
‘Follow me,’ she said. It seemed that there were a variety of stores within the store, and she took me to the least prepossessing outlet. ‘OK, off the top of my head,’ she said, ‘these …’ a pair of ridiculously slender black denim trousers ‘… with this …’ a black top, similar to a T-shirt but in faux silk, with a keyhole of fabric missing from the back.
‘Really?’ I said. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of a nice dress, or a skirt and blouse.’ She looked me up and down again.
‘Trust me,’ she said.
The changing room was small and smelled of unwashed feet and air freshener. The jeans looked too small but, miraculously, they stretched around me and I was able to fasten them. The top was loose, with a high
neck. I felt appropriately covered up, if nothing else, although I couldn’t see the cut-out section at the back. I looked exactly like everyone else. I supposed that was the point. I kept the outfit on, pulled off the tags and placed them on the floor, then folded up my work clothes and put them into my shopper. I picked up the tags for the woman to process on her cash register.
She was hovering outside when I emerged. ‘What do you think?’ she said. ‘Looks good, doesn’t it?’
‘I’ll take them,’ I said, handing her the bar codes.
I had forgotten about the security devices clipped onto the clothes, however, and we had quite a struggle to remove them. I had to come behind the desk, in the end, and kneel backwards beside her so she could detach them using the magnetic machine fixed to the counter. We ended up laughing about it, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed in a shop before. After I’d paid, trying not to think about how much money I’d spent, she came out from behind the desk again.
‘D’you mind if I say something? It’s just … shoes.’
I looked down. I was wearing my work shoes, the flat black comfortable pair with the Velcro fastenings.
‘What’s your name?’ she said. I was bemused. Why was my name relevant to a footwear purchase? She was waiting, expecting an answer.
‘It’s Eleanor,’ I admitted with great reluctance, having considered giving a false name or nom de plume. I certainly wasn’t going to tell her my surname.
‘The thing is, Eleanor, you need an ankle boot with skinny jeans, really,’ she said, as seriously as though she were a hospital consultant giving medical advice. ‘D’you want to come over to Footwear and take a look?’ I hesitated. ‘I’m not on commission or anything,’ she said quietly, ‘I just … I just think it’ll really finish off the outfit if you’ve got the right shoes.’
‘Accessories maketh the woman, eh?’ I said. She didn’t smile.
She showed me boots that made me laugh out loud, so ridiculous were they in both heel height and narrowness of fit. Finally, we agreed on a pair that were sufficiently stylish but in which I could also walk without risk of spinal injury, thereby meeting both of our requirements. Sixty- five pounds! Good grief, I thought, as I handed over my card again. Some people have to live on that for a week.
I shoved my black shoes into my shopper. I saw her eyeing that too, then looking over at the handbag section. ‘Oh, I’m afraid not,’ I said, ‘I’ve exhausted my funds for the time being.’
‘Ah well,’ she said, ‘just stash it in the cloakroom and you’ll be fine.’ I had no idea what she meant, but time’s winged chariot was hurrying near.
‘Thank you very much indeed for your assistance, Claire,’ I said, leaning forward to read her name badge. ‘It’s been invaluable.’
‘You’re welcome, Eleanor,’ she said. ‘One last thing: the store closes in ten minutes, but if you’re quick, you can nip down and get a wee makeover before you head out – Beauty’s on the ground floor beside the exit. Go to Bobbi Brown, tell them Claire sent you.’
With that she was off, the till already spewing out its reckoning of the day’s takings, bolstered in part by my own not inconsiderable contribution.
I asked to speak to Bobbi, and the woman at the makeup counter giggled.
‘We’ve got a right one here,’ she said, to no one in particular.
There were so many mirrors, I wondered if that might encourage a person to talk to themselves.
‘Sit yourself up there, my love,’ she said, pointing to a ridiculously high stool. I managed to clamber aboard, but it was not a dignified procedure, and I was somewhat hindered by my new boots. I sat on my hands, to hide them – the red, broken skin seemed to burn under the harsh overhead lighting, which showed up every flaw, every damaged inch.
She pushed my hair out of my face. ‘Right then,’ she said, looking me over, too close. ‘D’you know, that won’t even be a problem. Bobbi’s got some marvellous concealers that can match any skin tone. I can’t get rid of it, but I can certainly minimize it.’
I wondered if she always talked about herself in the third person. ‘Are you talking about my face?’ I said.
‘No, silly, your scar. Your face is lovely. You’ve got very clear skin, you know. Now, just watch this.’ She had a tool belt around her waist in the manner of a joiner or plumber, and her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she worked.
‘We’ve only got ten minutes till the store closes,’ she said, ‘so I’ll focus on camouflage and eyes. D’you like a smoky eye?’
‘I don’t like anything to do with smoking,’ I said, and, bizarrely, she laughed again. Strange woman.
‘You’ll see …’ she said, pushing my head back, asking me to look up, look down, turn to the side … there was so much touching, with so many different implements, and she was so close that I could smell her minty gum, not quite masking the coffee she’d drunk earlier. A bell rang, and she swore. The loudspeaker announced that the store was now closed.
‘Time’s up, I’m afraid,’ she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She passed me a hand mirror. I didn’t really recognize myself. The scar was barely noticeable, and my eyes were heavily rimmed and ringed with charcoal, reminding me of a programme I’d watched recently about lemurs. My lips were painted the colour of Earl Haig poppies.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘what do you think?’
‘I look like a small Madagascan primate, or perhaps a North American raccoon,’ I said. ‘It’s charming!’
She laughed so much she had to cross her legs, and she shooed me down from the chair and towards the door.
‘I’m supposed to try and sell you the products and brushes,’ she said. ‘If you want any, come back tomorrow and ask for Irene!’
I nodded, waved goodbye. Whoever Irene was, there was literally more chance of me purchasing weapons-grade plutonium from her.
