By the Time You Read This (20 page)
Read By the Time You Read This Online
Authors: Lola Jaye
“They were just postcards, Corey. You’re not supposed to reply to postcards…” I began to feel uncomfortable at the stupidity of my words.
“Carla tells me you’re thinking of starting a business?”
I waited for the criticisms. “Yep.”
“I think it’s great. It couldn’t have been easy for you, going back to college.”
“It was awful at first. But I think I’m going to be okay now.”
“Of course you will. Lo Bag’s a fighter. I have no doubt you’ll get there.”
At that moment I wanted to thank him for believing in me, for saying things I daren’t think myself lately.
“Corey!” someone shrieked from a distance. “Corey!” came the yell again, this time closer. He stood up and the next scene I witnessed disturbed me a little bit. Well, a lot actually.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Corey baby! Missed you!” said the Blonde Bombshell Mark Two, dressed in the season’s gypsy skirt complete with tassels and beads at the hem. A demented hippy. She grabbed him and smacked her lips onto his, Corey’s eyes locking with mine for a brief moment as he came up for air.
“I was talking to one of my oldest friends; you remember Lois from next door, right?”
“From the wedding? With the beautiful little sister? Yes, of course. How are you, Lois?”
“I’m good.”
“Come back to the house with us and you and Corey can catch up properly!”
Mercifully, the bus arrived. “Sorry, I have to be going!” I said, waving a weak goodbye. The bus pulled away with me on it and I turned for one last look at Corey’s beautiful face, before he disappeared with his bride-to-be.
I
sat back from the laptop and couldn’t help but admire my work. Abbi. Beautiful smile, full of youth and innocence, sitting on her bike with the yellow tassels, owning the picture. And for the first time in ages, I realized I too had something to smile about. Being creative, taking snaps, and adjusting them to perfection on the computer—that’s what made me happy! Witnessing the change in one image, whether it be a slightly smaller tummy (Carla’s mom) or bigger boobs (Carla), I just couldn’t remember ever feeling this useful or creative in the world of IT. Corey had been right, perhaps I was better suited to creativity.
Biyi popped round that evening, overly impressed with Abbi’s photos. It was nice explaining how the process of saturation worked on the yellow tassels, allowing them to stand out. I even showed him before and after shots, feeling a mounting pleasure when he congratulated me on a job well done. And, slowly, my confidence grew and I felt sure enough to show him other shots I’d accumulated on my hard drive. Like one of a homeless man sitting on a bench down at the rec. A woman holding a pug dog to her face as he licked the tip of her nose (while I found this act quite gross, the love she carried for that pet oozed from her eyes, screaming out of the shot like a mask of blinding sunshine).
“These are fantastic. I can’t believe you’ve been hiding them!”
“I didn’t think they were
that
great. Plus, I didn’t want to get sued or accused of being a Peeping Tom!”
“They’re great. You’re great.”
I was aware of the way Biyi was looking at me. I’d seen the look before—in Greg, Oliver, Ray—but I wasn’t about to internalize any of it.
M
y agency called with definite work for the next three months. Further proof that things were indeed looking up. Working the occasional nine-to-five would leave weekends and evenings free to pursue my photography while providing a much-needed income.
I paused at the doorway to the solicitor’s, patting down my striped jacket, noticing a slight crease in my matching trousers. Looking meticulous for work had always been a minimum standard for me—whether I was project-managing a team of seven or temping in a solicitor’s for a quarter of the pay, I still had pride. So, even though it wasn’t the job of the century, it was still a job, and I felt very strongly about making the right impression.
“I’m here to see a lady named Marjorie,” I said to a woman in her early fifties.
“Oh, that’s me! And you would be Lois Bates, from the agency?”
I smiled warmly. “Yes.”
We headed toward what would be my office for the next three months or so, passing a large space with the look and feel of an old black and white Fifties movie. We seemed to be walking for ages until we reached a tiny room. I removed my blazer.
“Oh, you do look rather grand. Wait here,” she said.
She returned, clutching a gray carrier bag. “Silly, silly girl.”
“Who is?” I asked defensively.
“The girl at the agency. I told her to tell you not to dress so…expensively.”
“This old thing?” I looked at Marjorie’s smartly dressed appearance and wondered what she meant.
“Not to worry. Our last girl—so silly—left without taking her things. About your size. Oh, and if you could wear a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt tomorrow, that would be much advised. You can get dressed in the toilet. Be back in, say…five minutes? Or ten? I know how you young girls like to take your time.”
I peered into the bag and pulled out a pair of jogging pants and a T-shirt with a huge hole in the front, remaining silent as I stepped into another person’s clothes, hoping they’d at least worn underwear at the time.
Some minutes later, I stood in a windowless room surrounded by piles of old, decaying boxes dripping with the dust and secrets of yesteryear. Apparently my job today and for the next twelve weeks would be to sift old client files and file them in alphabetical order. And there were thousands.
I wanted to cry, but knew I’d never quit anything in my life. Hadn’t Dad said something about working hard, and doing the best you could? I wasn’t about to let my dad or myself down again.
So I got to work.
After the first week I bought an old transistor radio into the boxroom, before realizing it couldn’t work because I was so far below ground. The silence and loneliness was
stifling and I quickly ran out of ingenious ways to stem the total boredom of my day. I was reduced to singing and talking to myself, thinking of Biyi in various sexual positions and imagining the time when my life would be good again.
Sometimes, Lowey, things have to get really bad before they can get better.
Accept that some days you’ll be the puppy…other days, the lamppost.
Every evening, I’d arrive home exhausted. Even more so than when I used to work twelve-hour days. At first Biyi waiting for me on my doorstep with a thoughtful gift of scented bubble bath or a favorite chocolate bar was a welcome joy. Or when he insisted on making me dinner with unlimited foot massages for dessert. However, when he asked the impossible—“Why don’t you let me have a key?”—I felt that old feeling of fear make its appearance.
“To my apartment?” I swallowed hard.
“Why not? We’ve been going out for ages. I could have things ready for you when you get home—even help out with the bills…”
“Er…No, I don’t think so, Biyi,” I replied softly.
“No? Just like that? No discussion, nothing?” he said, obviously irritated.
“Yes. I’m sorry…really, I am…”
“Aren’t you even going to think about it?”
“There’s nothing really to think about.”
“I just don’t get you, Lois Bates.”
“That makes two of us,” I whispered, turning my head away solemnly.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said, when what I really wanted to do was explain. Explain why I wasn’t ready—would never be ready—to fully give myself to him. It just didn’t feel right. It had never really felt right…with anyone.
“All I ever want is the best for you. I’m not here to make things hard for you, Lois.” And at times, I had seen that. Appreciated it, even. I just couldn’t allow myself to believe in any of it.
“I don’t want to talk about this any more,” I said.
“I think we should talk about this. About us,” he said, reaching for my hand.
“No, I can’t, Biyi…Please…let me—I mean
it
—go…”
He tried to change my mind with soft words and promises, but I was fixed on my own reality and, finally, he respected my wishes—but only after a stream of sad words and tears that coated his lovely girly eyelashes like a slippery silk coat.
I just had to let him go.
T
emping work began to dry up with some agencies not even bothering with a courtesy call. Even the words of
The Manual
again failed to make much of an impact on my general sense of unwell-being.
And things got worse.
Following yet another pointless interview, I began the short walk from the bus stop as rain pelted onto me. Having forgotten my umbrella, a pair of suede boots that had cost a fortune a year and a half ago gratefully soaked up excess water. Outside my apartment, I rummaged around my oversized bag for my keys as the downpour increased with new vigor and my hair stuck to my face. Inside, I felt
something was amiss and my instincts led me into the lounge where chaos was everywhere. Water, seeping from the bathroom and into the corridor had swept through to the living room.
A flood.
My heart traded places with my stomach. I began to perspire, my mind was blank, my body catatonic until a thought hit me.
The Manual.
I raced to the bedroom, tearing at my clothes in the wardrobe—jeans, belts, blouses, all bought at the height of mini-wealth and now discarded onto the floor like garbage, because the only thing of any real value to me was
The Manual.
And when I located it, still in its usual place—the top section of the wardrobe—I held it close, eyes squeezed shut, releasing a heavy sigh.
It was safe.
My dad was safe.
I
stayed at Mom’s while the apartment got sorted.
“There are clean towels in the basket…well, you know where everything is,” said Mom as Abbi looked on with intense curiosity. I unpacked my hastily put-together suitcase. Getting rid of the water, cleaning up the house, negotiating with insurance companies and plumbers had all taken its toll, but Mom looked more worn out than I did. I’d never seen her this way before, having always taken pride in looking “well turned out,” as she liked to put it—if only to put Carla’s mom’s nose out of joint. Now, her hair was in need of a brush, her clothes crying out for an iron. The Bingo Caller had said a muffled hello earlier then disappeared off to bed at the rather early time of seven thirty.
I finished unpacking in my old room, now a spare, and gave out an exaggerated yawn. “Thanks, Mom.”
“What for?”
“For letting me stay.”
She placed untidy strands of hair behind her ear. “You don’t need to thank me, Lois. You’re my daughter.”
“Are you okay…? I mean, you look tired, Mom.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and seemed to have aged ten years. “Just a bit of sleeplessness. Nothing to worry about.”
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Don’t fuss, Lois. It will pass.”
Abbi joined Mom on the bed, complete with a distorted drawing of a puffin bird that she felt needed our full attention, and I decided to lay off Mom. But I was worried.
I
needed to assess how much the flood would cost me if the insurance didn’t pay up. A few items had been damaged—luxuries I’d surrounded myself with over the years, like my DVD recorder. I remember being filled with elitist joy upon realizing I was probably one of the first people in the country to own one—its $500 price tag a mere glitch in my ocean of high earnings. The Bang & Olufsen wall stereo system had survived, though, but this hardly mattered, since I hadn’t used it in weeks.
“Why are you sad?” asked Abbi.
“I’m okay,” I shrugged, bending down to retrieve my toiletry bag, suddenly eager to be alone.
“Was it because of all the water?” pressed Abbi. I wanted her out of my room. I wanted to be alone, to fully grasp what had happened, what had been happening ever since I’d been made redundant. Being kicked in the ass by
everyone and everything. I was so fed up. I was so tired. I was so sick.
“Abbi! Bed!” called Mom from the corridor.
Abbi obeyed. I opened
The Manual,
hoping it would make me feel better.
It didn’t.
Kevin Trivia:
After peeling off some of the colors, I finally managed to master the Rubik’s Cube one fine Sunday afternoon as my daughter snoozed on my lap.
C
onsidering the kicking I’d had lately, I was actually surprised when the insurance check arrived, pushing away the last of the murky clouds that had been hanging over me. Life back at Mom’s had started off fine. Taking Abbi to school, her little friends staring up at me with wonderful childhood fascination as none of them had ever seen “Abbi’s big sister” before. Unlike my own time at school, Abbi was popular among both sexes and this didn’t surprise me in the least, what with her vivacious charm and a face that grew more beautiful each day. After the school run I’d sit in an overpriced coffee shop with my iced
chocolate froth, trying to formulate some type of plan, armed with a notebook, camera, my laptop and
The Manual,
sometimes all four.
Miscellaneous: Mistakes
Yes, you’ll make a few. You’re human, imperfect and basically set up to make mistakes from the moment of birth.
I’ve definitely made a few. I suppose my biggest mistake involved my sisters Philomena and Ina. They had a big row once—I won’t go into the details because this manual is for and remains about YOU—but I took sides and I shouldn’t have. However, that falling out has had consequences for our relationships today. But I have learned from that mistake. And I really hope that Ina comes round. Especially now.
Anyway.
Guaranteed, you’ll probably make a few mistakes in your life too. Hey, what did you expect me to say? The trick is to learn from these mistakes, grow from them. If you don’t, then it’s all been a balls-up for absolutely no reason.
The night before the check arrived, I walked in to find Mom and the Bingo Caller with Abbi nestled between them, dozing in front of the television. I stood and watched for the longest time as something unfamiliar, unexplainable, grabbed me from within. A sort of loneliness. A sadness that stayed with me as I headed back to the bedroom feeling like an intruder.
Thankfully, the check arrived in the morning and by the start of
EastEnders
I was back at my apartment, albeit in the middle of a building site.
I chose to spend the first day of my twenty-seventh year on this earth hidden under the duvet, hoping that everyone might have forgotten. But as I padded into the corridor I noticed a stack of envelopes underneath the letterbox. A soppy card from Biyi, an x-rated one from Carla and a cutesy contribution from Mom, Abbi and the Bingo Caller. I had to admit, a little part of me was glad they’d all remembered.
You’re twenty-eight! Hurrah!
My little girl is growing up.
I know something will have changed for you by now. Perhaps you feel more at ease with yourself? I’m asking this because post twenty-five is when I really came into my own as a man. Something inside changes—and yes, I suppose I can only talk from my own experiences (plus I’m aware that men take a tiny bit longer to grow up than women, so forgive me if none of this applies to you and you are a fully fledged, fully rounded adult and have felt your age from day one!)
…
Thankfully the smell of damp had subsided soon after the workmen had left. And after paying for repairs and replacing items with much cheaper versions, I felt I was on my way up again. Biyi was thrilled when I called to thank him for the card, insisting he come over, which I agreed to. I told myself I needed him, allowed him to make love to me while I lay there trying not to connect my heart with the moment. Especially when he whispered my name and told me he loved me.
“Are you okay, Lois?” he asked as we nestled against one another.
“I think so.”
“Then I’m happy.”
I wanted to smile. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. “You do know…that this…this is a one-off…I don’t…”
He placed a finger onto my lips and nodded his head. “I know.”
…
Of course, I don’t want to put pressure on you. Perhaps things aren’t great. But however bad they seem, remember this,
—
where there is life there is hope.
You’re alive. Embrace this, Lowey, because you can do ANYTHING while there is breath in your body. If only I’d remembered that when I was alive.
I love you, with stars on. Dad
Dad’s words seemed to slowly pump the air back into my body. Breathing out slowly, I read the paragraph again. And again. And again. And again, until I’d learned it word for word. Until I’d allowed it to seep into the very depths of me.
I was alive.
People were dying every day.
But I was alive.
Alive.
…because you can do ANYTHING while there is breath in your body. If only I’d remembered that…
As my body refilled with air, specks of new hope followed. I stood up, experiencing a heady rush as I realized Dad was right. I was still healthy. I was alive.
There will be times when some a
******
or a situation gets one over on you, leads you to the brink. And there will be times when it seems like the world is just taking a P.I.S.S. I’m sorry to say, it’s highly unlikely you’ll pass through life without experiencing such stuff (remember the lamppost analogy?). So, all I’m going to use to wrap this bit up is a mega cliché that I’ve always liked; and that’s to see these various slaps in the face as a stage you will eventually get through, with hard graft, help, whatever. And I hope that when you do, you’ll be able to take stock of what’s happened, learn from it, and DON’T LET IT BEAT YOU.
It wouldn’t be easy, I knew that. But for the first time in months I could glimpse a view over that familiar horizon of doom.
T
he rent was well over the odds for Deptford and passing trade would be minimal, but two weeks after my birthday I placed a hefty deposit and two months’ advance rent on a small business unit. So what if it was the last of my insurance money and a cash advance from my credit card was the only way I could pay for the super-duper laptop and printer needed to complete this new project? I had to start believing in myself again, that I could make a go of this photography business. K Pics (K for Kevin, of course!) would be about “making over” the customer and producing shots that could pass for edgy, unique and current, unlike the corny pictures currently on display in some photographic shop windows.
Carla was a star, helping me clean and decorate the shop,
while Mom backed out at the last minute because of the Bingo Caller being unable to look after Abbi.
Regardless of some minor setbacks, K Pics was supposed to be opening in three weeks. Admittedly, it was touch and go considering the amount of talking (instead of painting) Carla and I got through. Particularly when we got onto the subject of her big brother.
“Who would have thought Slut of the Year Corey would have settled down!”
I stopped painting.
“A different girl every week, that one. Don’t you remember when we were at school?” She thought for a moment. “Oh, sorry…” She looked guilty.
“Forget about it. I have,” I said quietly.
“Really? Or are you just saying that?”
“A mind-reader now, are we?” I snapped.
“I just want you to be happy too, like me and Markus…That’s all.”
Carla droned on about how incredible it was to be in love as I drifted off, uninterested in her wistful tales.
What was love anyway? I asked myself.
Miscellaneous: Love
Love can be anything.
There’s probably a whole load of theories on being in love. A chemical reaction, a state of mind, blah, blah, blah. And there is a definite sense of division among the egg heads on this thing called love.
I’d say it’s relative to who’s actually feeling it. When you’re still a kid, getting your hair pulled by some other kid could be a way of him letting you know he fancies you. A few years later, you might find yourself dreaming
about some spotty boy with massive feet who sits behind you in Science. Your mind’s racing, your palms are getting all clammy. That’s what we call lust, my darling. Just early lust. Love—real love—comes with so much more, Lowey, and must not be confused with lust.
So what is love?
Love is…loving someone even when they look like they’ve been dragged through a muddy hedge sideways and then doused in manure for good measure.
That’s a good place to start.
But loving someone can be…one minute this unexplainable connection as you both sit in silence watching the TV, knowing you’d never want to be apart from that person; the next day trying to decide the quickest, cleanest way to finish them off. A bit of a contradiction, but it’s usually the good stuff, like the tummy flips, the longing and constant reel of thoughts about that special someone that are great. Thankfully, these don’t last, as something a lot more important slips into place. Just trust me when I tell you this: when you feel it, you’ll know. Just like I knew with your mother, you’ll just know. You may find this aged eighteen or eighty-five. I was lucky to find it the day I met your mom.
And then again with you.
With stars on, Dad
By midnight we’d finished all the painting and clearing up, and despite her protests Carla stayed behind to help with the finishing touches—strategically placing huge plants to cover the odd fracture in the wall and arguing over where to place the tripod.
“Why didn’t you ask Biyi to help? I thought you were at least friends now?”
Miscellaneous: Male friends 2
Can men and women be just good friends?
Yes.
But make no mistake, he’s dreaming about and living for the day you’ll be desperate enough to, well, you know…
Again, look up the section on hormones and teabags—that never really goes away. So even if you’ve been friends for a long time (he’s seen you with snot dripping from your nose, or covered in sick after a particularly bad case of food poisoning) he still wouldn’t be knocking over chairs trying to get away if you asked him to take your friendship beyond the boundaries, if only for one night.
Okay, maybe I’m being a bit unfair. Mature men and women CAN be friends. But only if the friendship has never, and I mean NEVER, been contaminated with that old thing called…lust. A kiss…the other stuff…even unclean thoughts. Because then a line has been crossed and it’s hard to get back to that wholesome platonic friendship level you had before.
Hadn’t Corey proved this theory?
I held up images of Abbi and Carla to the wall.
“I’m bored of talking about men!” I said, deciding the one of Abbi on her bike would be the centerpiece of the shop. The kid was just too cute. “Carla, what picture do you think should go here when the wall’s dry? You in the red dress or the blue?” I knew her vanity would win, and
predictably all thoughts of Biyi disappeared as she concentrated meticulously on selecting her “sexiest” photograph.
I called a cab for us both as Carla was on her phone to Markus.
“Sorry, Markus, we got a bit carried away here, but Lois has just called a cab and I’m on my way.”
Carla’s smile crumpled and she turned away from me. Her voice was low, but in the still of an empty shop after midnight I could hear the conversation clearly.
“I’m sorry, Markus. She needed my help. You know I’m never usually out this late…no…I…Sorry.”
I pretended to busy myself, but my ears remained transfixed.
“Yes, bu—No, I am not talking back, Markus. I will be home very soon—yes, I…Markus? Markus? Are you there?”
She closed the phone and turned to me. “He’s a bit peeved with me.”
My friend, the ballsy chick who took no crap from anyone at school, suddenly looked lost, if not a little frightened.
“Carla, are you okay?”
“He’s so angry with me, Lois…” She sat on a stool still wrapped in plastic, head bowed.
“Is…is he going to have a go at you when you get in?”
“A bit. He just loves me so much. Doesn’t like being away from me.”
“He’s a control freak, Carla!”
The cab beeped its horn outside.
“Don’t start all that again. I’ve gotta go. Now,” she said with sudden urgency.
As the cab pulled up to their apartment, I sensed her
body stiffen. We said a hurried goodbye and she shot out. I asked the cabby to wait. The lounge light flicked on. Two shadows came together. Body language strained, at one point a little too aggressive from his point of view. I waited—more than ready to barge in if I had to.
The two shadows embraced. I told the cabby to move on.
O
n the day of the opening I was filled with shreds of anxiety. Would anyone actually like my pictures? Apart from the praise of a proud mom cooing over pictures of her little girl, a vain best friend, a seven-year-old and the man who’d been sleeping with me, I’d yet to show my work to anyone else. Having placed advertisements in the local press and shop windows, I hoped the promise of free wine would encourage customers through the doors.
Within the first half-hour, though, only two people came in.
“Wow, that’s lovely!” said a toothy woman who admitted she hadn’t seen any of the advertisements, merely dropping in out of curiosity.
“Thank you,” I replied as her eyes roamed slowly around my new shop.
“How much do you charge for a full session?”
“Twenty pounds per shot,” I said. Although I’d already agreed a price in my head, after careful negotiations with my calculator, hearing it said out loud induced a little trepidation within me. A fear of rejection. A belief that the customer would soon realize what a fraud I was, before storming out to find a “real” photographer.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
She sat on one of the stools. “Do I bring my own make-up?”
I turned to the side, Abbi’s adorable grin staring back at me.
“Yes, if you could. Plus two changes of clothes and…”
