Читать книгу Echoes - Laura Dockrill - Страница 8

Isabella Mozzarella Jezebella Bumpington-Brown was the youngest of seven sisters. Like Little Women they lived, except…err…they weren’t actually poor (in fact they were pretty rich), and except they weren’t properly artistic really (they weren’t fussed about nice old juicy books and dressing-up trunks and baking). They liked getting pedicures and sitting in Caffè Nero and scraping their way onto the London Fashion Week guest list and were really good at wearing expensive pash-minas, flipping their long blonde hair over from one side to the next and saying, ‘Wix’ (which I think means ‘wicked’).

Now, where you are about to be craned into the story something really HILARIOUS has just happened, although we aren’t really supposed to laugh, because it’s not funny. Well, it is, but it’s bad karma to giggle at other people’s misfortune. But when it’s a Bumpington-Brown, it’s easy to get caught up in the moment.

In two hours and three minutes’ time the Bumpington-Brown girls are supposed to be flying to St Lucia to visit their parents, who now live there. Except FUCKERADA! Isabella Mozzarella Jezebella has lost her passport.

‘I think you are an absolute selfish cow. You have cocked this up too many times in the past and you’re doing it again,’ Tillytubs grunted, her piggy nose quivering in frustration.

‘Mum is going to freak,’ Jemima snarled under her breath.

‘You are un-fucking-believable, Isabella,’ BeeBee shook her head in disgust, catting her eyes into dark little slits.

‘I can’t help but think you did this on purpose to spite me for snogging Damien. Look, he came on to me okay, it’s not my fault I’m prettier,’ Taramasalata sighed, folding her St Tropez arms into a bony square.

‘Well, if you’re not coming, let me get my hairdryer out of your bag.’ Frillyskirtbean began digging around into Isabella’s hand luggage.

‘Can I please have your Ray Bans if you’re not coming? Ooh and your sun oil? Ooh and your Ruby and Millie lip gloss? Ooh and your iPod?’ Haggis joined in on the squabble, texting at the same time.

So off they went, all six of them, UGG boots, Paul’s Boutique jackets and acrylic nails. Like a grouching, fake-tanned parade of pretty ducklings, they swanned off to check in. Isabella, stripped of her goods, went to find a quiet, un-embarrassing, un-cringifying space to call Add Lee.

‘WTF?!’ she texted her BFF. ‘This is a long trek all day to the airport to get shunned. Random. L’

To which her BFF replied, ‘WTF?! Bumped, you must be pissed. Ah well. Nero?’

And something happened to Isabella then, when she saw that dreaded word, ‘Nero’. There is something drastically disappointing about packing to go and enjoy two weeks in the Caribbean sunshine, to being deserted by your siblings, and then have to spend the afternoon bitching into a supermarket box of sushi and an espresso. So, as out of character as it was (so out of character it hurt), she replied, ‘Oh, random, they are letting me fly after all. Wix! See you in two weeks ;).’

To which BFF replied, ‘Lucky bitch. Have fun. xoxo’

The Add Lee driver texted to confirm his arrival. The car door shut.

‘Wandsworth Common, please.’

Isabella emptied her suitcase, re-packed it for Cornwall. The Bumpington-Browns had a cottage; she would go there, in hiding, for the fortnight.

After a tormenting train ride with normal, poor people, Isabella slogged her suitcase up that torturous hill in her Primarni ballet pumps (a richy always likes to get these simple footwear on the cheap–shoes were disposable, basically like foot-shaped teabags), pashmina and all. She eventually reached the cottage.

Then, scrambling through her Burberry handbag, she fingered through old fag boxes, tampons, hairgrips and Nero loyalty cards for her set of keys. ‘You are joking,’ she grumbled, after not feeling her keys where she had thought they’d be. She bit her lip and got down to her knees. It was dark and beginning to rain, the wind blew her hair about. She turned her handbag upside down. The wind targeted its contents, attacking the loose receipts and scrappy papers. No keys. ‘No fucking way.’

She looked around the doorstep for a key: under the doormat, behind the plant pot, in the letterbox. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She couldn’t go back. How humiliating. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She kicked the wall. FUCK. Ouch, fuck, bollocks.

She looked through the window and could just make out the living room, the remote control, the mirror, the candlesticks, the dining room table, the alarm beeper signalling every fifteen seconds. FUCK. The rain began to pellet down in heavy, thick strokes; it was difficult to breathe, difficult to keep her eyes open, impossible to get out her mobile phone.

Then she remembered Barnaby at number sixty-seven. Excellent. At least he might be able to give her some tea, then she could order a taxi, or he might even have a spare key to the cottage. Right. On she went, her suitcase crackling behind her, sloshing in the gutter where the rain had almost begun to rise.

Doof, doof, she fisted the door of number sixty-seven, her mitten punching the door in heavy clods. Silence. FUCK. She tutted. ‘What a shitty day.’ Again: DOOF, DOOF. Nothing. She checked her mobile phone. Could ring Mum, break into the cottage, ask her for the code. But she was in a bad mood, she wasn’t supposed to be here in Cornwall, she’d worry, tell the police, get that smelly woman from the teashop to chaperone her home to London. Noway. DOOF DOOF. Still nothing. Great. She would find a hotel. It was getting late. Then, all of a sudden a light came on, it was like a flicker at the end of a dark tunnel, warm, glowing and phew. The door latch clicked open and released. It was a guy, a handsome one too, about the same age as her.

‘Hello?’ he asked.

‘Hi. I was, erm, looking for Barnaby.’

‘Oh yeah, right. Barns ain’t ’ere.’

‘Oh.’ Isabella smiled politely, fake, ridged and difficult. ‘I thought he…sorry, okay. Thanks.’

‘That’s a big suitcase you’ve got; you come far?’ he asked, opening the door further. A sticky, sweet smell swam out of the door; the scruffy hallway was on display, a guitar, shoes, and a surfboard. Weed. Druggies. Just what she needed.

‘Yes, London, but, it erm…’

‘Yeah, we just rent the place off Barns, he lives a few miles away now, got into that property development and we work for ’im. S’all right. Do you want to come in for a cuppa?’

‘No, I…’ she started to protest and then a gush of relief blew out of her like a normal breath after a coughing fit. She was tired and could not refuse some warmth. Besides, her hair now sat in dreaded clumps like dripping icicles, her mascara was bleeding down her face, rainwater-sodden, her tiny shoes, water everywhere, overflowing out of the backs of her heels. It was impossible to argue.

‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

Inside the house were three other boys. Two were playing a game that Isabella just could not grasp the name of–it was pronounced in a heavy Cornish groan, ‘Cul-a-Jooty.’

The boy who’d answered the door left Isabella in the living room saying, ‘This is J and this is Paulie, Boys, this is…’

‘Isabella,’ she answered sheepishly.

‘Isabella. That over there is Bill, his real name’s Ollie but he can’t olly, can’t skate for shit, but he can bill-up…get it? As in, rolling up, s’ank like that.’

Bill was tugging at a bong that gargled in his hands, his head covered in a spread of gingery dreadlocks, his jeans scruffy with band names scribbled over them in heavy black marker, a hoodie with Dr Dre on it. ‘’S’up.’ He acknowledged Isabella and sat up straighter, offering her the bong.

‘No, thanks.’ She waved her hand and sat down, awkward, not wanting the material on her clothing to settle on the surface. The room was not how she remembered it when it was Barnaby’s living room. It was now a dark, dingy pit, the only light being the blue hypnotic flash of the Cul-a-Jooty which entailed lots of shooting. Stacks of cassettes, CDs, vinyl and video games were piled from floor to ceiling. On the walls, over the once flowered wallpaper were scraggy sun-stained posters of Carmen Elektra, Eminem, Snoop Dogg. On the shelves where Barnaby’s football trophies used to sit were funny ornaments and figurines, a mini Batman and Robin and a Rubik’s Cube. It was like a big kid’s room. The main noise, apart from the occasional burp or grizzle was from the stereo in the corner.

‘Do you like RATM?’ the door opener who had now revealed himself as Stoo asked, as he passed her a cup of tea.

‘Excuse me?’ Isabella asked.

‘Rage Against The Machine?’

‘I err…’

‘Hungry?’ She was but she lied and instead suffered, watching him plough his way through eight mattresses of buttery toast, the smell mortifyingly tempting. He then sank his hot tea in one courageous gulp. ‘So, like, what, like, happened?’

An hour later, the shooting noises mixed in with the whiny scruff of rappers began splitting holes in Isabella’s head like a woodpecker. She was getting really tired. How the fuck did she end up here? In this dump? With these chavs. Ugh.

‘Can I?’ She held her forefingers out like a small set of scissors to encourage Paulie to pass her a joint. She smoked weed the same way you’d imagine a nun would.

‘Insane,’ she boasted, trying to fit in.

The floor beneath her was covered in porn magazines, dirty plates with sealed splodges of dried-up ketchup and corners of toast.

‘So like, do you wanna sleep over and that?’ Stoo asked.

‘Sorry…shit,’ she said. Where had the day gone? She was licked. She did not expect to be sleeping the night with tramps in Cornwall, stoned and helpless.

‘I guess so. That okay?’ Isabella shrugged. She knew it would be, like it made a difference, there could have been people sleeping, fucking, lawnmowering in the kitchen sink and nobody would have batted an eye.

‘So, like, whass your mum and dad do?’ Paulie asked. Paulie was a John Travolta lookalike. Well, John Travolta aged…say nineteen. He could have done that as a profession.

‘My mum works for a charity and my dad is a…I don’t actually know what he does.’

‘Sceen.’ He accepted that.

‘What about yours?’ she asked, trying to be curious, but she didn’t care, she was just being polite.

‘My dad’s a librarian and my mum is a slag,’ he said, simultaneously shooting a sea of enemies.

‘Oh,’ Isabella smirked.

‘So, you’re rich then?’ J asked from across the room.

‘Why do you say that?’ Isabella asked.

‘Well, look at you, your phone, your bag, your stuff, your way.’

‘No. Most of this stuff was gifts, actually.’

‘From who? Fucking P Diddy?’

‘Mummy and Daddy.’ And she realized, as soon as the three killer words flooded out of her spic, span little mouth, that she sounded like a complete tit. And the response was not a let-down.

Like a pack of hyenas, the boys began cracking up, frolicking. They loved it: their own personal pocket-sized posh bird as their new gadget that they could prod and push and make do funny stuff.

‘Low it, boys, come on, shut up,’ Stoo tamed. ‘Pass over that joint, bruv.’ He sucked in, his eyes drawing in, wincing. He huffed out in misty clouds. He was hot. He just was. His floppy hair, his long smooth arms and chunky wrists and those clean fingernails. He scooped his wrist round, a beaded charm bracelet shifted down his arm, and offered Isabella a toke.

‘Do you have a cleaner?’ J asked, unable to give up the game.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have a big house?’ J asked.

‘It depends what you mean by big.’

‘How many bedrooms you got?’

‘Nine.’

‘Nine?!’

The ruckus kicked off again and the questions kept coming on, strong.

‘BOYS!’ Stoo wafted his arm and got up, stretched and walked out the room. ‘I’ve got the munchies.’ He gargled as his voice trickled away into speckles of dust in the misty, intoxicated air. Isabella saved by Stoo yet again. But where was he going? Why was he leaving her now? At this desperate point of humiliation…this was just the rough side to getting everything you want, normal people–poor people–wanted explanations, as though telling them how and why you were wealthy would infect them with it too.

‘Okay, one more…What’s your full name? Bet it’s like double-barrelled and shit.’

She should have lied, she could have said anything, she could have said half of the fucking thing and it would have lessened the load.

‘Isabella…’ she began

J paused the game.

‘Mozzarella, Jezebella…’

Bill put down his bong in disbelief.

‘Do you know what a jezebel is?’ Paulie giggled.

‘Bumpington-Brown,’ she rushed out in one breath, embarrassed.

The laughter reached an abnormal peak, but to her surprise the boys thought she was taking the piss.

‘What a joker!’ Paulie smacked his leg. ‘She’s high!’ he warbled. ‘Blud, you are fucked!’

Isabella pouted, covered her lips in Vaseline, and then looked at her phone.

‘Right,’ Stoo poked his head round the doorframe. ‘To the boudoir!’ he instructed, looking rather proud with himself.

Thank fuck, thought Isabella. ‘Can I just use the loo?’

‘The loo is just here.’ Stoo was being a real gentleman, well as gentle as a boy in khaki shorts and a Run DMC t-shirt could be.

The toilet was worse than she had expected. The pink walls were grimy with, well, grime, and had transformed into a grey peachy colour. In the cocoon of stink, she locked the door. The toilet seat had fallen off the bowl and had a new home down by the side of the bowl with ‘R.I.P’ written on it in marker. The bowl was covered in a waxy seal of gunk and foul design and splodges of piss and dirt. The sink was a mess of soap and pubes coiled round the taps and limescale chasing the plug and climbing all over wherever it could. The floor was carpeted in cardboard toilet roll cores, the little whispers of tissue clinging onto the rolls for dear life so as to not touch the slippery floor themselves from fear of infection. The rug was booted into a cuddle underneath the sink, like a small soaking dog it lay decorated in muddy footprints. Isabella made her exit as quickly as she could.

Stoo was waiting outside the door for her. ‘Ready?’ He led her up the soiled carpeted staircase and put his hand on a door handle of a door decorated in South Park posters.

‘Now, princess, I know this is not what you are used to, but I hope it serves you well.’

He bent the handle down and pushed the door open to reveal mess, mess and more mess. There was so much stuff, so much stuff she could not even believe it. It was a like a bad nightmare or a severe example of somebody with a hoarding problem. There were stacks of boxes, of records and CDs, of videos and game consoles. It sat like Aladdin’s treasure, only not for Aladdin, for a seventeen-year-old boy. Skateboards, footballs, clothes and magazines, books, textbooks, bongos, bin bags, bongs, jigsaws, sleeping bags, tents, guitars, towels, clothes hangers, television wires, video players, deodorant cans, Homer Simpson figurines, a bird cage, shit and shit on top of more and more and more shit, like a dump, like a big fat dump belonging to a bag lady. And, on top of all that, right at the very, very top, was a skinny little mattress, a pillow and a sleeping bag. Oh, and a twisted, tangled nest of fairy lights that were wrapped around the mess pyramid like an attempt at a recyclable eco-friendly Christmas tree and extension lead, plugged into extension lead, plugged into extension lead, plugged into the wall.

‘Cool, ain’t it?’ he smirked.

‘Is it always like this in here?’ Isabella asked.

‘Nah, you divvy, I just made it. Well, not the mess, that’s always there, but look…’ He ran excitedly up the mountain of crap and hobbled up the mattress.

‘See?’ he yelped. ‘Come and try. Hope you ain’t afraid of heights!’

‘Erm, maybe I should just call a taxi. I think I might just stay in a hotel tonight…’

‘Look, princess, it’s half three in the morning, you’ve had a crazy day. Just sleep over, okay…?’ His eyes lit up, grinning. ‘Come on,’ he beckoned her.

Isabella tongued the roof of her mouth. Then she kicked off her pumps, put her phone in her back pocket and attempted to climb the mess mountain. Aerials, radios, an alarm clock, roller-blades, monopoly, biscuit tins.

Stoo pulled her up by her worthy little paws and there she was. Looking down, in Cornwall, with a stranger, in a room piled sky high with mess, on a mattress, on top of it. Ridiculous. Ridics.

‘I know it’s not St Lucia but it’s all right.’

Isabella laughed, and for a moment thought about maybe kissing Stoo. Just for jokes. Then she reminded herself of the fact that he was a pikey.

‘Okay, so see you…maybe not in the morning because I usually don’t wake up till one, but I guess I’ll see you when I see you.’

Then he hopped down, as though he did it all the time, waved and turned off the light, leaving Isabella alone under the fairy lights, practically kissing the ceiling. Oh my God! she thought. She was like Tinkerbell, and they were her lost boys. And that actually made everything seem quite magical.

During the night, as she slept, Stoo let himself into Isabella’s makeshift bedroom, tiptoeing, tight-lipped, and stole her coat. Aubin and Wills–nice. Downstairs he fumbled through the pockets, MAC receipt after Urban Outfitters receipt and then her bankcard. ‘Isabella M. J. Bumpington-Brown.’

‘Jesus,’ he nudged Bill. ‘She weren’t lying, look.’ He showed the card to his friends.

‘I’ve got this feeling,’ he laughed in triumph, ‘it’s her!’

Woken up by birdsong, Isabella stirred and stretched. What a sleep. My goodness, what a beautiful sleep. Her body felt electric, recharged, reset, alive, buzzing. She let herself slide halfway down the mountain, past a notice board, spray glue, an office chair, and to the window. She pulled back a crack of the scruffy curtain and saw the sweetest bird singing on the sill. She rubbed her eyes and climbed the rest of the way down.

‘Mockingbird,’ Stoo said as he opened the door, pleased to see Isabella still there.

Isabella slept at Barnaby’s house for the next thirteen nights. Separate from the world in their fantasy land of rubbish she became a Snow White (except without the cooking, although she did order them plenty of takeaways). She taught the boys about coffee and they got ‘buzzing’ off it. She made them watch The OC and Mamma Mia!. She cut open an avocado and fed Stoo the mushy pear innards. She made them taste real chocolate and taught them how to count to ten in French. And they took the piss out of her iPod playlist. Stoo taught Isabella how to eat chips, beans and gravy, the significance of hip-hop and Family Guy. On the fourteenth day she spent the entire afternoon under the Cornwall rays (well, a sun bed at the back of a local salon, to, you know, at least make it look as though she had been away. The deluded woman behind the counter rang the Sun, to inform them that Paris Hilton was in town).

Then she got her bag ready and prepared herself to say goodbye to Paulie, to J and to Bill but didn’t quite know how she’d manage to leave Stoo.

‘I guess I should go now,’ she said at the door. Her taxi beeped from the road outside.

‘Do you have to?’ Stoo asked, unable to look her in the eyes. It was strange seeing her with make-up on. She had been herself when she was with him. ‘Take this,’ he said and slid his beaded bracelet down his forearm, wrangling it at the wrist, he let it scrape his skin and handed it to her. And she kissed him.

And then the house turned into a magical palace, Isabella transformed into an elegant princess, Paulie, Bill and J became handsome princes, the taxi became a beautiful silver chariot and Stoo…

No, Stoo was just Stoo. Happy, gormless and cute, that wicked, charming look in his glittery eyes. The house was obviously still just Barnaby’s shitty house, the crap still lodged in the hallway. And of course Paulie, Bill and J were not princes, they were just stoned and ripping the piss out of each other. And the taxi…well…yes…it was still just a taxi with an angry, fat, red-faced man inside it, commenting on the youth of today. Snogging apparently costs time and a half.

You see, a kiss is just a kiss. They didn’t need the earth to gobble them up and shoot them to the stars, they didn’t need to pretend they were in a film; a handsome, tanned, blonde prince and an anorexic lead role with long, red, tumbling locks. They just needed a charming chav and a lonely toff.

The taxi was waved off. He beeped his horn in rage and sped away. Isabella allowed her prince to carry her suitcase back inside the house, Paulie, Bill and J staring, confused to see her back,

‘I have sisters, you know…’ Isabella giggled as she slid Stoo’s bracelet onto her bony wrist, tying it in a knot at the end.

Together they began to shift the mess mountain in the room. If she was going to sleep here more often she would need a space for her wardrobe, darling.

‘What’s this?’ Isabella said, plucking a tiny green bit of gunge off the floor.

‘Ugh, it looks like…I dunno…a squashed pea,’ Stoo said.

‘Yuck, how long’s that been there?’

‘I dunno. Throw it away.’

Isabella threw the matted flat pea into the open mouth of the bin bag, the mockingbird squawking outside, the fairy lights twinkling. This was the beginning of her fairy story. That was seriously, ever so, utterly, superbly…random.