London from My Windows (30 page)

CHAPTER 31

Ava gripped a thick black marker and carefully crossed each item off the list, savoring the moment.

Three things. Three things off the list. Monumental.
She also had a mobile now, a gift from Jasper when he replaced his own. He'd programmed his phone number on speed dial. Ava felt like a real Londoner now with a mobile and a phone number and everything. She stared at the remaining items on the list and felt a shudder run through her. She didn't want to do any of them. Why wasn't the Tate Modern on the list? Or the Globe Theatre? As an actress and cultured woman, Beverly should have composed a better list. Ava didn't want to go to the Tower of London. Now that she tasted the outside, she wanted culture, and music, and flowers. She wanted life and the affirmation of life, and she wanted hope. On YouTube Ava listened to street musicians who were playing along the Thames. Lively, upbeat tunes. They didn't just sit on a bench; they played music on it. They owned that bench. One guy set up a beach chair near the water and sang his heart out in his yellow swimming shorts. He wasn't even very good. But he was thoroughly enjoying himself and anyone whose office was a speaker, a microphone, and a reclining beach chair probably had a pretty good life. The freedom to be who you were. London offered that. Ava wondered what it would take to get musicians to come and play on her street, just underneath her window. She could tell them about her social experiment.
I can't leave the flat, so just wondering if you will stand underneath my window and serenade me?

From her windows, Ava watched as passersby helped a man on crutches. She watched an elderly lady pulling an oxygen tank behind her, saw how the crowd parted and offered her comforting glances. It wasn't fair, having an invisible disability. Maybe Ava could get her hands on crutches or an oxygen tank. Or she could procure a blind man's cane, or dog, for the afternoon. She wasn't at all trying to be disrespectful of anyone else's disability, but she was tired of having to prove hers. As long as she looked okay to others, then her challenges were her own bloody problem. That was what was wrong with the world today; no matter how much one shared the message, books were still judged by their covers. No, Ava didn't want to go to the Tower of London, or ride the stupid Underground, or the London Eye.

Why wasn't Borough Market on the list? That would be quite challenging for an agoraphobic, a literal outdoor marketplace. But at least Ava could buy herself a trinket if she survived it. Hell, if Beverly wanted Ava to be more like her, why not make Ava go skydiving too? Become the next Prime Minister of England? Seduce Prince Harry?
Oh, how small you were thinking, Aunt Bev
.

Ava needed to follow up her accomplishment with another one. She had to tackle something else on the list. Without taking Ecstasy. She could simply call a car service and have them drive her around, but that wasn't the experience Ava wanted. A change had taken place. There was now a small part of her who liked the fear. Now that she'd proven it wasn't going to kill her (as long as she got on the ground before she could faint), she realized the fear itself was a little bit like a drug. A jolt of adrenaline. In high enough volume, the fear could make her feel no pain. Was Jasper right? Would Queenie let her have the flat even if she didn't complete the list? It would help if she would get his lucky charm back.

She'd decided she would ask Deven about it first, but there'd been no sign of him. No smoking, no sweeping, no one going in or out. Ava was dying to know what was going on. Maybe Vic had dumped him and he was heartbroken. Maybe he had taken to staying inside. Would Ava like that? To have a friend who was also an agoraphobic? They'd never be able to get together.

Jasper had tried to call her, and left a sweet message alluding to their night together, but Ava hadn't called him back. She knew she'd end up spilling the beans about her night out—heck, she'd be surprised if Franco and Georgie hadn't already beat her to it, but just in case, she wanted to keep it a surprise. She wanted to do this for Jasper. She wanted to change. She wanted to prove she was the kind of woman who could have a good life. But first and foremost, she had to prove it to herself. Ava went to Aunt Beverly's wall of theater photos and studied them for inspiration. A thick binder was lying on the floor next to the sofa, by the far end of the wall. Ava picked it up. Bits of fabric and color swatches were sticking out of it. A note was on top.

 

QUEENIE,
THIRTY DAYS UNTIL THE SEPTIC IS GONE
AND THE FLAT IS YOURS!

CAN'T WAIT TO HELP YOU REDECORATE!

LOVE, HILLARY

 

Redocorate. That rat!
Queenie was going to redecorate the flat. The red swatch. That's what that was. The reason he acted so secretive about it. Hillary was never going to let her uncle give up the flat. Especially if it meant Ava would be gone. She was the bigger enemy. Ava had to show her she wasn't going to win. Actors always looked at a script and asked, “What's my motivation?” Ava stared at the note from Hillary, and she had it. She had her motivation to get out of the flat. She had already been an immovable object; now she needed to become an unstoppable force.

 

Hillary stared at the twenty-five schoolchildren in front of her, lined up and glaring at her like a miniature firing squad. Eight years of age, all girls, expecting her to wow them with how and why she became a barrister when all they really wanted to be was Kate Middleton or Lady Gaga. How was Hillary to know whom little girls looked up to these days? Why had she agreed to do this? They were crowded into her meeting room, and smearing her conference table with saliva, gum, and heaven knows what else. She was supposed to talk for twenty minutes, but it was five minutes in and they were already getting fidgety. Since when did schools start bringing children to respectable workplaces? These little heathens didn't look as if they were open to learning anything. Time to wrap it up.

“Are there any questions?” she said. The teacher, who had been immersed in her mobile, looked up, startled. She glanced at her watch.
Yes, pay attention, you little wench. You're the one who wanted to become a schoolteacher, not me
. Hillary maintained a neutral expression.

“Do you meet a lot of bad men?” one girl piped up.

“No,” Hillary said. The girl looked disappointed. “I meet a lot of people in bad situations. And I help them.” The teacher smiled. The kids did not.

“What kind of bad situations?” the little girl insisted.

Shite.
She wasn't going to get into that, was she? Surely they didn't want to hear about civil lawsuits, and insider trading, and corporate espionage. “Someone has to make sure the companies follow the law,” she said. “And if someone is accused of breaking the law at his or her place of work, someone has to defend them.” Several kids yawned. “I meet a lot of important people. Judges, barristers, police officers. And the money isn't bad either.” Hillary laughed, and winked at them. They just stared back.

“Have you ever met the Queen?”

“No.”

“What about Princess Kate?”

“The Duchess of Cambridge?” Hopefully chins tilted up, waiting for her answer. “No.”

“Prince Harry?”

“No. And before you ask, I've never met Lady Gaga either.”

“Who?” echoed around the room.

“Never mind.”

“Well, who you have you met?” asked one cheeky little girl.

“I work hard for the people. The everyday British citizen. I make a difference in people's lives—” The door burst open. Hillary expected to see another child, or teacher. Instead, there stood Ava Wilder. Good Christ, she was actually out of the flat. And she looked unhinged. Her eyes were wild, her hair hadn't been combed, and she was visibly sweating. In her right hand she appeared to be clutching a rubbish bag, and some kind of binder in the other. She glared at Hillary and marched toward her as if she was completely oblivious to the room of eight-year-old girls.

“You're wrong about me,” Ava said. She raised the binder. “You can take this back, because this Septic ain't going nowhere.”

The children looked on, mesmerized. “What's a Septic?” a little girl asked. Ava turned and seemed to notice them for the first time.

“What's in the bag?” another one asked.

“She wears it over her head,” Hillary said.

The girls giggled. Now that was a nice sound. “Why do you wear it over your head?” the same girl asked.

Hillary glanced at Ava. She was about three shades of red in the face, and little dots of sweat peppered her cheeks. Her hair looked a lot better than Georgie promised her it would.
Cheeky bugger.
She'd see how he liked it when she revoked their cushy gig at the club.

The teacher stood. “Off we go. We don't want to be late for Buckingham Palace, now do we?”

Ava straightened up. “You're going to Buckingham Palace?” she asked. The girls nodded their reply, their eyes glued to Ava. Ava stood for a moment as if lost, and then curtsied. The children laughed. Ava laughed, and then did it again. Several of the girls curtsied back.

“Are you one of the bad guys?” the girl who spoke up earlier asked.

“Me?” Ava said. “No. Why?” Ava stepped forward and lowered her voice. “What have you heard?”

“We heard you wear a rubbish bag over your head,” the little girl answered.

“Rubbish head,” another girl added.

“Where I come from,” Ava said, “that's ‘garbage head.' ”

“Garbage head,” they repeated. They all laughed.

“Ladies, your manners,” the teacher said. “I'm sure she doesn't wear a rubbish bag over her head.”

“Sometimes I do,” Ava said. The class laughed again.

“Why?” several called out.

“Because I have a condition. A disability. Do you know what a disability is?”

“A disability?” Hillary said. She was calling herself disabled? She was a freak, that's what she was.

“Disabled people are in wheelchairs,” a girl said.

“And they get to park in the front of the lots,” another said. “But they don't get a ticket like my mummy does.”

Ava laughed. “There are many kinds of disabilities, ladies,” she said. “Some you can see, and some are invisible.”

“Like a superhero?”

“Exactly,” Ava said. “Like a superhero without any powers.”

“Come on now,” Hillary said. “Enough nonsense.”

“Are you saying people with disabilities shouldn't be treated with respect?” Ava asked.

Everyone was looking at Hillary.
How could this be happening?
“You are not disabled,” Hillary said.

“I have a biological and mental condition which severely inhibits my everyday functioning,” Ava said. “What would you call it?”

It's all in your head. You just want the attention!
“You seem to have mastered it, if you're standing here now,” Hillary said.

“You have no clue what it took for me to get here today. It's not wrong to be unaware of someone's disability, unless and until you are educated. If you remain ignorant and dismissive after that, Ms. Swanson, then you are a bigot.”

“What's your disability?” a girl asked.

“I have agoraphobia,” Ava said. “It means that I can't just walk outside and enjoy it like you can. My body reacts as if the outside is dangerous. I'm terrified. Have you ever been terrified of anything?” The girls started calling out their fears. Snakes, spankings, tests, ghosts, grasshoppers, and at least one girl pointed to her teacher. “Most fears are pretty mild. You're afraid if you come into contact with that thing, but you can still lead a pretty normal life. But my body reacts to my fear immediately and so when I go outside my heart beats really fast, I get hot, and I can't see because little colored dots appear in front of my eyes.”

“Off you go, then, ladies,” Hillary said. “Don't want to keep Buckingham Palace waiting, now do you?”

The teacher nodded, and against their protests she started rounding the children up and herding them to the door. “Wait,” Ava called. “How many of you know CPR?”

“Ava?” Hillary said. She stepped up and pinched the back of Ava's arm. Hard. Ava jerked away and scanned the room. None of them had their hands up.

“I think we've had enough for today,” Hillary said.

“CPR is a lifesaving skill,” Ava said.

“I know it.” One little girl shot up. She grabbed the girl next to her and yanked her up. “Do this,” the little girl said. She wrapped her hands around her own neck to demonstrate the universal sign for choking. The little girl next to her followed suit. The first girl grabbed her around the waist from behind and squeezed. “Spit it out!” she screamed. “Spit it out!”