“Come on, Jude. This is your chance to get away. And you’re blowing it.”
“’Kay . . . shit.” I slip off the bar stool and lurch into Stella.
She grabs my arm. “Out. Now.”
I drag my bag off the bar, knocking a glass to the floor. It shatters on the stripped wood and spatters my shoes as I am marched to the door, James Blunt singing,
You’re beautiful . . .
I laugh at the irony. And stumble out into the sobering sun.
“Are you sure this is right?” I ask, panic marking my voice.
We have been walking for twenty minutes, Stella in charge of the
A–Z.
The shops have given way to stucco terraces, with window boxes half camouflaging security bars and Porsches parked outside. I am sweating into the dress. Dark patches ring my underarms. Vodka on my breath. I’m a mess.
“’Course it bloody is,” she snaps. “Don’t you trust me?” Stella throws the
A–Z
at me and it falls to the ground. I stoop to pick it up, but she keeps walking, knowing I will run to catch her. I do. And link my arm into hers. But she shrugs me off.
“Just wait, Stella. Please stop.” I am trying to walk and read the map at the same time.
“Christ, Jude.” Stella is angry. With me. With us. I don’t know.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Please. I just lost it. I’m scared.”
She stops, rolls her eyes. “Here . . .” She holds out her hand for the map. I pass it to her.
“Gloucester Road. See?” She points to a yellow line. One in thousands that mean nothing to me. Bear no resemblance to the street I am standing in. “That’s where we are. The Lab is here.” She points to a thinner white line, just a few millimeters away. She was right all along. She doesn’t need to say it. Just links my arm in hers and pulls me forward. “And don’t beg. Ever. It’s demeaning.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“And stop saying sorry.”
“Sorry.”
The
A–Z
hits me in the chest and I laugh. Because I know we’re OK. Me and her. And I thank God, or whoever, that she is there. Because with her I stand a chance. With her I can do anything. Be anybody. Be somebody.
“ TOTO, I’VE a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Stella is right. This is as far from backyard, small town, redneck as it gets. The Lab. The lobby is like a scene from
Fame.
Rows of black-and-white head shots of people I recognize from TV. Catlike girls in leg warmers holding packets of cigarettes, leaning against the walls or stretching on the floor. First or second years. They all know one another, looking up when Stella and I crash through the door. Deciding who I am. What I am. I know what they’re thinking. Not even trailer-trash cool. I’m Anne of Green Gables. Wholesome. Country. I look down at my red shoes. I’m Dorothy.
“It’s like we’ve died and gone to hell. Or Abercrombie and Fitch.” Stella is shaking her head.
I poke her in the ribs.
“What? They’re a bunch of plastics. You’re way better than any of them.”
“Yeah, right.”
“God, Jude. Now is not the time to go all wallflower on me.”
But I feel weird. Maybe it’s just the king-size Snickers and two packets of crisps Stella forced me to eat on the way. I need to pee as well. Three vodka and Cokes and two bottles of Evian are demanding to be let out.
Stella glances at me. “Has to be said, you do look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.” She smiles.
“I need the loo.”
“In a minute. Come on.”
She marches me to the front desk. Stella does the talking.
“Hi. Jude Polmear. Two o’clock.”
The receptionist is all tight bun, tight mouth, and Joan Crawford makeup. A fading fifty-year-old. She’s thinking the same as the others as she types my name into the computer. No chance. I am one of thirty for three places. I want to go home. I tug at Stella’s arm but she pushes me away.
Joan Crawford speaks. “Down the corridor. Wait on the chairs on the left. You’ll be called.”
“Toilets?” I ask.
She points down the same corridor.
“Thanks
“’Kay . . . shit.” I slip off the bar stool and lurch into Stella.
She grabs my arm. “Out. Now.”
I drag my bag off the bar, knocking a glass to the floor. It shatters on the stripped wood and spatters my shoes as I am marched to the door, James Blunt singing,
You’re beautiful . . .
I laugh at the irony. And stumble out into the sobering sun.
“Are you sure this is right?” I ask, panic marking my voice.
We have been walking for twenty minutes, Stella in charge of the
A–Z.
The shops have given way to stucco terraces, with window boxes half camouflaging security bars and Porsches parked outside. I am sweating into the dress. Dark patches ring my underarms. Vodka on my breath. I’m a mess.
“’Course it bloody is,” she snaps. “Don’t you trust me?” Stella throws the
A–Z
at me and it falls to the ground. I stoop to pick it up, but she keeps walking, knowing I will run to catch her. I do. And link my arm into hers. But she shrugs me off.
“Just wait, Stella. Please stop.” I am trying to walk and read the map at the same time.
“Christ, Jude.” Stella is angry. With me. With us. I don’t know.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Please. I just lost it. I’m scared.”
She stops, rolls her eyes. “Here . . .” She holds out her hand for the map. I pass it to her.
“Gloucester Road. See?” She points to a yellow line. One in thousands that mean nothing to me. Bear no resemblance to the street I am standing in. “That’s where we are. The Lab is here.” She points to a thinner white line, just a few millimeters away. She was right all along. She doesn’t need to say it. Just links my arm in hers and pulls me forward. “And don’t beg. Ever. It’s demeaning.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“And stop saying sorry.”
“Sorry.”
The
A–Z
hits me in the chest and I laugh. Because I know we’re OK. Me and her. And I thank God, or whoever, that she is there. Because with her I stand a chance. With her I can do anything. Be anybody. Be somebody.
“ TOTO, I’VE a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Stella is right. This is as far from backyard, small town, redneck as it gets. The Lab. The lobby is like a scene from
Fame.
Rows of black-and-white head shots of people I recognize from TV. Catlike girls in leg warmers holding packets of cigarettes, leaning against the walls or stretching on the floor. First or second years. They all know one another, looking up when Stella and I crash through the door. Deciding who I am. What I am. I know what they’re thinking. Not even trailer-trash cool. I’m Anne of Green Gables. Wholesome. Country. I look down at my red shoes. I’m Dorothy.
“It’s like we’ve died and gone to hell. Or Abercrombie and Fitch.” Stella is shaking her head.
I poke her in the ribs.
“What? They’re a bunch of plastics. You’re way better than any of them.”
“Yeah, right.”
“God, Jude. Now is not the time to go all wallflower on me.”
But I feel weird. Maybe it’s just the king-size Snickers and two packets of crisps Stella forced me to eat on the way. I need to pee as well. Three vodka and Cokes and two bottles of Evian are demanding to be let out.
Stella glances at me. “Has to be said, you do look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.” She smiles.
“I need the loo.”
“In a minute. Come on.”
She marches me to the front desk. Stella does the talking.
“Hi. Jude Polmear. Two o’clock.”
The receptionist is all tight bun, tight mouth, and Joan Crawford makeup. A fading fifty-year-old. She’s thinking the same as the others as she types my name into the computer. No chance. I am one of thirty for three places. I want to go home. I tug at Stella’s arm but she pushes me away.
Joan Crawford speaks. “Down the corridor. Wait on the chairs on the left. You’ll be called.”
“Toilets?” I ask.
She points down the same corridor.
“Thanks
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