London Calling
Authors: Clare Lydon
LONDON CALLING
By Clare Lydon
London Calling
by Clare Lydon
Published by Custard Books
Kobo Edition
First Edition March 2014
Copyright 2014 Clare Lydon
Cover Design: Kevin Pruitt
All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. All characters & happenings in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons (living or dead), locales or events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are many people who’ve helped me along the way with this book, so here’s where you get a nod of gratitude. Thanks to my first readers: Jamie Cootes, Sheryl Scott, Rachel Batchelor, Shelley Morris, Holly McRae, Annella Linton, Valentina Zanca & Emma Young.
Thanks to the support and feedback of fellow authors Angela Peach, Cindy Rizzo and Kiki Archer. Three cheers also for my fantastic cover designer Kevin Pruitt; and another three for Gill Mullins, who saved the day with her final proof & polish.
And of course, thanks to Yvonne for putting up with me on a daily basis and reading the manuscript a gazillion times (approx) without moaning too much.
For Yvonne, caffeine & sugar.
I love you all.
SEPTEMBER 2009 – SYDNEY
CHAPTER ONE
The sun’s rays were sliding down the roof of the train like molten lava as it rattled into view. Tonight the city was scorched, melting. I stood on the platform and watched, rolling my neck back in a semi-circular motion, feeling my tired bones click and the stress of the day seep out of my body. That the sun was still out was good news as it meant I had time to get home, change and make it to the pub for a drink before the last shards of daylight pierced the horizon and evening draped itself across the city.
Enjoying a cold beer on a warm evening was still one of life’s pleasures that filled me with fizzy, carbonated joy, and I’d been looking forward to it all day in between trying to sell advertising space to small businesses. This afternoon had been particularly trying after my colleague Dan had microwaved last night’s leftovers for lunch, leaving the office smelling of warm fish.
During my quest to flog said space I’d consumed three chocolate TimTams and three cups of strong coffee, none of which were doing my system any favours on the kick-start front. Mind you, the term kick-start seemed to me more suited to motorcycle competitions or the side of cereal boxes, not actually involved in your life. It’s when you tried to shoehorn such phrases into your day that the problems and retributions began. I needed a new job, that much I knew. Along with some willpower to stop eating chocolate biscuits.
The train lurched forward as its weary metallic hulk shuddered to a stop but I was standing in exactly the right spot for the doors as this was a journey I did regularly. 37 steps up, across a smouldering asphalt bridge, down the opposite 37 steps to platform 2 and walk to the third bench. The doors hissed ‘hello’ and I got on, selecting the nearest seat from four available and feeling the nylon sizzle under my thighs as I sat down.
Today was Karen’s 30th birthday and we’d arranged to meet with friends at our favourite pub in Newtown before heading out for Thai food and dancing. Karen loved to dance and was thrilled at the recent proliferation of dance shows on TV – if there was one on, it was difficult to get Karen out the door.
She was coming to the pub straight from work and I’d told her I was too, but I’d left early so that I could get home, change and pick up her present. She wasn’t expecting it and I couldn’t wait to see her face. I’d searched everywhere for the perfect gift and believed I’d found it: some vintage earrings and a necklace I knew she’d love. Karen had style and these would adorn her beautiful features perfectly.
I looked at my watch – we’d arranged to meet at the pub at 5.30pm so there should be plenty of time. As the train pulled out I concentrated on not biting my fingernails as it was a habit Karen hated. Instead, I pressed both palms flat against my thighs and watched the hot Sydney afternoon slide by.
Three stops later and I was off the train, springing down the platform, my grey shoulder bag banging against my hip as I went. Even though I hated commuter mornings I was enthralled by the evenings, when everyone was far more relaxed and ready to kick back. I was much better at kicking back than kick-starting.
I called in at the shop to get a carton of milk, waving at Ken who was having a fag outside the bottle shop across the street. I let the milk hang off my left little finger as I fished in my jeans pocket for the flat keys and flashed the key fob over the access point: the door clicked obligingly open.
My flat (or apartment, as the Aussies would say) was in a building that housed 20 others, built in the ’80s and starting to show signs of wear and tear. Today though, the lift glided swiftly up to the second floor, spitting me out onto the stained beige carpet in seconds. From there it was a short six steps to my thick white front door.
The lounge light was on as I made my way down the magnolia hallway – I must have missed it this morning. I told myself off and went through to the kitchen, making a mental note to wipe down the doorframe, which looked smudged.
Something wasn’t quite right though, I could hear noises. My doctor flatmate Paula was working today so she shouldn’t be here. I turned my head, feeling my heartbeat quicken and goosebumps break out along my arms as I headed back out into the hallway and towards the bedrooms. The noises got louder as I advanced and my stomach lurched – but they seemed to be coming from Paula’s room, so maybe she changed her shifts. I stood outside her door and knocked lightly.
“Paula?”
The noises continued. There was a slap. It sounded nasty. Or perhaps she was having sex? But Paula didn’t have a girlfriend and she wasn’t the type of girl to bring someone home in the middle of the day. I took a deep breath, my forehead creased with concern and pushed open the door.
And that’s when I came across Karen, kneeling over my supremely naked flatmate Paula, her hand raised to slap Paula’s still-red butt cheek. In Paula’s bed, not mine. On Karen’s 30th birthday. My girlfriend, not Paula’s.
Karen’s face was flushed pink, her shoulder-length blonde hair tussled – I knew that look, I’d seen it many times. Like this morning for instance, when I’d given her what I thought was her only birthday sex. Clearly I was wrong.
My brain tilted in my head as the full impact of this scene sunk in. This was not what I’d expected when I left work today. I wondered if I could get a refund on the earrings and necklace.
JANUARY 2010 – LONDON
CHAPTER TWO
There had been no ice on the plane, which had seriously disrupted my plan of getting coolly plastered by the time we flew over Uluru. Since living in Australia I’d become allergic to warm alcohol, something I suspected was going to prove problematic back in the UK. Add to that the trolley-dolly attending me had croissant-like hands that flaked his skin over me with every move and it hadn’t been a first-class flight – but you get what you pay for.
I sighed at the harsh implications of my monetary status and cast my mind into the future, seeing myself turning left at the plane door, receiving an ice-cold glass of champagne, a false smile, shiny cutlery, a plumped-up pillow. A girl could dream.
When we landed, Heathrow was as I remembered it: angular and cold. Plus, it smelt like a flat I’d once rented in Crouch End – part musty cupboards, part beige. Beige has a smell, believe me.
Even though I didn’t step outside to get from the plane to the terminal, I could feel the winter air as soon as we landed. This was another aspect of my homeland I was going to have to get used to – the weather. Sydney had ruined me. I tugged my lightweight blue jacket closer around me but knew in my heart it was useless.
My right leg was still tingling with pins and needles from where it had been hastily wedged under the seat in front during the flight. I stamped it on the floor with a touch too much vigour and a woman behind me started like she thought I might produce a gun and put bullets through the rest of my fellow passengers. Plane travel made people jumpy. In addition, my short brown hair was stuck to my head, flattened by gravity and a sheen of other passengers’ bodily fluids that hung wordlessly in the cloying cabin air.
One thing that had happened in my absence was that Heathrow loos had got better, with working locks, an abundance of paper and no handle to flush. Now when you were done, you simply waved your hand in front of a black dot on the wall. I hung my bag on the off-white plastic hook, checked its back pocket to ensure my wallet and passport hadn’t made a break for it and sat down, sighing with tiredness.
Now I was back, the UK didn’t seem quite as thrilling as it had back in Sydney. Now, suddenly the Australian city seemed like the exotic destination and London a place of defeat, where my family were, where I had no money, job or home.
I had a quiet word with myself as I washed my hands with pink liquid soap and squinted in the mirror, scanning my grey eyes for signs that landing back in the UK was a positive move. They were giving nothing away.
Once I’d passed the dead-eyed customs staff, I pushed my trolley through duty-free, out of the sliding doors and into the waiting throng beyond the long metal railings. As I was swept along I saw my parents standing near the end of the crowd in matching jumpers they’d bought from Debenhams – I remembered the phone call telling me this news. The jumpers were green and beige with jarring angular patterns that gave you a headache if you stared at them too long but were, according to my mother, super-warm and washed up a treat.
“Jess!” mum yelped, seemingly more excited with every step I took towards her. Despite my reservations, I felt a huge surge of warmth flood through me. It was the feeling of knowing that whatever else, I’d be safe here.
My mum swallowed me up in a flurry of excitable hugging and as I kissed her cheek I smelt her familiar floral perfume. At 5ft 3 she was a couple of inches shorter than me but we shared the same colouring and she’d passed on her blotchy skin tones to me too, something I never failed to thank her for. What’s more, at 58 she was wearing well, her brown hair coloured with red to hide her grey, her smile untattered by age.
My dad gave me a more manly hug, squeezing me just a little too tightly so that I staggered slightly when he released me from his grip. Dad still had his slight paunch but also, amazingly for a man nearing 60, a full head of hair, with grey fighting his natural dark colourings for omnipotence. I surmised the grey was winning.
“How was your flight?” he asked, reaching past me to grab the handle of my trolley. We were on the move, my mum linking her arm through mine and grinning at me manically.
“It was fine, my legs are just about recovering.”
“Well, you look great,” mum said, somewhat surprisingly. “I mean, your hair would look better if you let it grow but I’ve been telling you that for the past ten years…”
“Shirley…” dad said.
“I’m just saying. Anyway, she knows we’re thrilled to have her back. You know Maureen’s son went to Australia for a year and never came back.”
“He died?” I said.
“No silly! He met a girl and got married. Now she has a grandchild that she never sees, tragic. But she’s on Facebook all the time and showed me pictures. She’s going to teach me. You’re on Facebook aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“We can be friends!”
“Can’t wait,” I lied. There was about as much chance of mum mastering Facebook as me turning straight.
“Oh, and I’ve got something else to tell you. Remember Phil?”