Wonder Women (18 page)

‘I know what you mean,' said Jo. ‘I feel about her the way I felt about you when we first met.'

Holly laughed. ‘You soppy thing.'

‘I'm not soppy. But sometimes you just have to go with your gut. When I met you, I knew you were the right person. And I was right. And I'm right about Mel too. We have our team.'

They planned a launch party for 5 November, which was a Saturday. Holly reasoned that they needed a few days to run the shop without pressure before they invited press and interested parties, and Jo agreed.

Jo had found the setting up of the shop endlessly challenging – exciting, but throwing up a series of obstacles and headaches for which it sometimes seemed she was ill-equipped. But when it came to PR and publicity for the launch, she was in her element. She called in every contact she had ever had who might be any use at all: she canvassed every local toddler group, posted on every online parenting forum, wooed mummy bloggers, set up Facebook and Twitter profiles, badgered the local press and invited everyone she had ever met within a twenty-mile radius who had a child or knew a child. She was confident that their opening event would be full to bursting and that there would be column inches about it.

The day the signwriter came, Lee came to the shop to supervise the typography. The chap they had hired was a hand-lettering expert, but Lee stood over him to scrutinise every swirl and swash. When he had finally finished, packed his tools into his van and driven away, shaking his head, Jo and Lee stood on the pavement outside the shop, their arms around each other, and stared. ‘Jungletown' was emblazoned in bright tiger stripes across the window, in a glorious frame of monkey faces and vibrant palm leaves. Inside, the fitting of the bottom half of the shop was complete. It was a dramatic jungle scene with animals prowling the walls. There were giant jigsaws of parrots and tigers and thick ropes covered in fabric to look like jungle vines. The floor, which was covered in brightly coloured soft wipe-clean tiles, was scattered with giant toy animals to climb on and ride. There were things to bash and spin, to throw and build, but crucially, it was all safe, all cleanable and all pretty much unbreakable. Above this bright and vivid scene were Holly's meandering rails and hooks. Holly herself was busy hanging out the first of the stock. She was scrutinising every piece to see that it had been properly pressed and hung on a hanger with the correct size clearly marked. It was still a few days before the doors were to open, but Holly's attention to detail meant she would need that time to complete the job. Mel stood behind the counter, which was painted to look like a rough-hewn ship. She was busy programming the till, which had been delivered that morning. For Jo, it was the strangest feeling: the image she had seen in her dream all those months ago had become a reality. It hadn't happened by magic or accident; it had taken immense hard
work and tenacity (and an eye-watering amount of debt), but it was real. Really, really real. She hugged Lee tightly.

‘Thank you, my love,' she said. ‘None of this would have happened without your support. I love you.' He smiled at her and hugged her back.

‘Nonsense. This is all you. The launch is only a week away, babe, and then the sky's the limit.'

It was dusk, and the traffic along Ballards Lane was crawling. Mel stood at the window of her dingy office on the seventh floor of Central House in Finchley and looked down at the cars inching along. Someone who had parked outside Tesco decided to pull out into the traffic and perform a three-point turn, thereby gridlocking the whole of the narrow high street. Even seven floors up, Mel could hear the hooting, and she could sense the swearing that would accompany it. It had turned chilly outside; she could see a woman hurrying along the pavement, hugging her coat around her and hunching down into her collar. The neon signs in the shops and takeaways were coming on, throwing bands of coloured light on to the people as they passed.

Mel was alone in the office. Her bosses, Mr Shapiro and Mr Seberini, had gone to a meeting with their lawyer. She had completed the Excel spreadsheet inventory they had asked for, collated all their messages and prepared the letters to be dropped into the post when she left. She had nothing to do but stay in the office until five thirty, in case the phone rang. It was the quietest, least challenging job
she had ever had and she was going slightly mad in the long hours alone in the silent office. Shapiro and Seberini wanted their office run in the old-fashioned way. With reluctance they had given Mel a computer, but if she ever asked for software updates or more memory, they were deeply suspicious. Neither of them used email or the Internet, and they would have been horrified at anything as newfangled and informal as Mel forwarding the office phone to her mobile and going home.

She'd taken the job because it was so local, and because the hours were regular – nine to five thirty, Monday to Friday, and never any overtime or variation. She did it for Serena, so they could spend weekends and evenings together, so she could be available to chat and to help with homework. But she might as well not have bothered. As often as not, when Mel got home from work, Serena would be in her bedroom with the door closed. Mel would knock and say hello, and receive a monosyllabic grunt in return. She would make dinner and call Serena, who would sometimes just yell ‘I'm not hungry', or might deign to emerge long enough to look at the food, wrinkle up her nose and proclaim some part of it ‘disgusting', and then take her plate into her room and shut the door again. If Mel insisted, Serena would roll her eyes and sit at the table. Mel had no idea how they had got to this point. It had happened so gradually, so insidiously, and now they were in a terrible place, and she had no idea how to reverse it.

She had never been married to Serena's dad, Bruce. They'd had a relatively casual relationship, and when she fell pregnant, he'd been open about the fact that he wasn't particularly
interested in being a father. For Mel, an abortion was not an option, so she decided to make a go of it alone, and Bruce agreed. He was a musician and spent a lot of time touring working men's clubs up north. He dropped in whenever he was in town, bringing Serena obscure band T-shirts and handfuls of crumpled cash. He had faithfully paid a small amount of money into Mel's account every month, and she counted herself lucky to have an uncomplicated and amicable relationship with him.

So for pretty much all Serena's life, it had just been the two of them. They'd been close, maybe too close, sharing private jokes from whenever Serena was old enough to understand them, and reading books together. First Mel read to Serena; then once she could read, Serena would read to her mum every evening. Serena showed an interest in music when she was just four or five, and Mel had sunk all her savings into buying her a piano, and then had scrimped and saved for lessons. She'd made sure Serena practised every day, and she was there at every exam grading and concert Serena played in.

They liked hanging out together, and Serena's junior-school friends all loved coming back to their flat after school for tea and DVDs or games. It was the perfect mother–daughter relationship, or so Mel thought.

On the night before Serena's thirteenth birthday, they had gone for pizza and to see a film. It was a Friday night, so when they got home, they sat up till midnight with cups of hot chocolate. Serena giggled and talked excitedly and non-stop about the film they'd seen, the party she was having the next day and what she had been doing at school.
At five to twelve, Mel said jokingly, ‘You're going to be a teenager now. I suppose this is our last conversation. After midnight you'll have to start hating me and all I stand for.'

‘Oh, Mum!' groaned Serena dramatically. ‘You don't understand me! I have to go now. I have to paint the walls in my room black and listen to some metal music.'

‘Really? I can lend you some … early Metallica, maybe? Or Slayer? What about Megadeth?'

‘Mum … !' Serena giggled. ‘It's not cool for mums to like kids' music. You know that. Sooo not cool.'

‘It's not kids' music, it's ours. We're just letting you borrow it. And anyway, now you're going to be a teenager, you'll need the music. I'm going to lock you in your room until you're at least thirty-five to keep the boys away.'

‘Thirty-five?'

‘You're right – that's a bit young. I meant forty-five.'

‘I'll grow my hair long and dangle it out of the window for a prince to climb up. It won't take long … we live on the ground floor.' Serena laughed.

‘Seriously, though …' Mel began, ‘just because you're older and you'll have a bit more freedom …'

‘The world is a dangerous place, don't trust anyone, stranger danger, don't trust anyone, yadda-yadda-yadda. You've been drumming it into me since I was a baby, Mum. I know.'

‘I know you know,' said Mel. ‘Now get into the kitchen and see if there are any marshmallows left. I need a sugar rush to get me to midnight.'

It was, Mel reflected, the last evening they had together. It had seemed to start as a joke, as if Serena was pretending
to be a teenager. Mel was into music and had a broad and eclectic collection, ranging from classical to electronica, from the eighties to contemporary stuff, and Serena had dipped in and out of bits of it throughout her life. She'd been able to play Simon and Garfunkel's ‘Bridge over Troubled Water' and the opening riff to Guns N' Roses' ‘Patience' on the piano by the time she was seven. All of a sudden she started listening to different music, music she had heard kids talking about at school – dubstep, grime and house. When Mel tried to show an interest, Serena got angry and took the music into her room to listen to. Mel thought it was quite sweet, this assertion of musical independence.

Then one day they were rushing to leave for school. Mel grabbed her keys and yelled for Serena, who came out of her room, head bowed, and rushed for the door. As Mel came up behind her to go out, she caught a glimpse of Serena's profile, half hidden by her hair. ‘What's on your face?' she asked.

‘Nothing.'

‘Nothing?'

‘Nothing. Can we go? I'm going to be late.' Serena turned her face away towards the door and reached for the doorknob.

‘If it's nothing, let me see your face,' said Mel, teasing. She expected Serena to laugh and turn to her, but Serena raised an elbow to ward her off and went to open the door. Mel was shocked. ‘Rena!' she said sharply. ‘Look at me!' She'd never been a yelling mother, and she hadn't had cause to shout at Serena for years, so it surprised her as much as it did Serena, who dropped her guard for a second and looked
up. She was wearing a full face of make-up: a lot of badly applied foundation that was far too dark for her, heavy black eyeliner and mascara and an awful frosted-pink lipstick. Mel couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing. She caught herself immediately, and tried to look stern and say something that sounded reasonable, but the damage was already done. Serena turned away from her and slammed into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

Mel knew better than to pound on the bathroom door, or stand outside nagging about how they were going to be late. She waited quietly until Serena emerged, her face washed and her eyes a little red. They left the flat together, and as they walked along the road, she said quietly, ‘I'm sorry I laughed. I was surprised, that's all.'

Serena didn't say anything. It was unlike her: she usually entered into any debate energetically. Mel didn't quite know what to do with her silence. She tried again. ‘I appreciate that you want to wear make-up, but it's not ideal to wear it to school. And it's probably also best to buy stuff that's good quality and suits your colouring. Did you borrow that stuff from a friend?'

Serena still didn't say anything, but when Mel turned to look at her, she nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘I'm happy to take you shopping at the weekend,' Mel said. ‘I can't afford to buy you loads, but we can get a few bits. Good-quality stuff. Okay?'

Again, there was a tiny nod.

‘But you can't wear it to school, okay? In the evenings or at weekends is fine.'

No nod this time, just a tiny clench of the jaw. Mel knew
it well. It meant Serena didn't agree, but wasn't going to have the argument now. Well, one thing at a time. The morning had been quite traumatic enough. But she couldn't resist saying one more thing.

‘Serena, when girls your age wear make-up, it makes you look older. It makes you look … well, it makes it hard for people to know how old you really are, and they might … get the wrong idea. Just … be careful, okay?'

This time, Serena actually snorted derisively. Well, let her snort. On balance, Mel thought, she'd handled it rather well.

Except she hadn't. Serena refused to go make-up shopping with her. She wanted to go with her friends. And despite Mel's ban, she wore make-up to school every day, at first applying it subtly, then less so. Mel tried joking, nagging and eventually yelling, but Serena persisted, and in the end Mel gave up. It didn't seem a big enough issue to allow it to cause a permanent rift between them. Then Serena started wanting to buy her own clothes, and to go shopping without Mel. She wanted to go to Camden alone with friends, and Mel said no to that, but finally relented when Serena begged and said they would be going with a friend's older sister who was eighteen. Mel met the sister, who seemed sensible enough, handed over twenty quid and sat at home chewing her nails until Serena came back. She'd bought a black lacy skirt, very early Madonna, that looked like something Mel would have worn to a party in the eighties. Gradually Serena built up a wardrobe of stuff that she thought was quirky and interesting and Mel could see looked just like the clothes all the other girls in her circle wore. She begged to have her ears pierced, which Mel
allowed and paid for, but then sneaked off with friends and had another two holes done at the top of her ears. Another screaming match ensued, there was more door slamming and the open channel of communication they had always seemed to have narrowed a little more.