She pushed my hair out of my face. “Right then,” she said, looking me over, too close. “D’you know, that won’t even be a problem. Bobbi’s got some marvelous concealers that can match any skin tone. I can’t get rid of it, but I can certainly minimize it.”
I wondered if she always talked about herself in the third person.
“Are you talking about my face?” I said.
“No, silly, your scar. Your face is lovely. You’ve got very clear skin, you know. Now, just watch this.” She had a tool belt around her waist in the manner of a joiner or plumber, and her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she worked.
“We’ve only got ten minutes till the store closes,” she said, “so I’ll focus on camouflage and eyes. D’you like a smoky eye?”
“I don’t like anything to do with smoking,” I said, and, bizarrely, she laughed again. Strange woman.
“You’ll see . . .” she said, pushing my head back, asking me to look up, look down, turn to the side . . . there was so much touching, with so many different implements, and she was so close that I could smell her minty gum, not quite masking the coffee she’d drunk earlier. A bell rang, and she swore. The intercom announced that the store was now closed.
“Time’s up, I’m afraid,” she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She passed me a hand mirror. I didn’t really recognize myself. The scar was barely noticeable, and my eyes were heavily rimmed and ringed with charcoal, reminding me of a program I’d watched recently about lemurs. My lips were painted the color of Earl Haig poppies.
“Well,” she said, “what do you think?”
“I look like a small Madagascan primate, or perhaps a North American raccoon,” I said. “It’s charming!”
She laughed so much she had to cross her legs, and she shooed me down from the chair and toward the door.
“I’m supposed to try and sell you the products and brushes,” she said. “If you want any, come back tomorrow and ask for Irene!”
I nodded, waved good-bye. Whoever Irene was, there was literally more chance of me purchasing weapons-grade plutonium from her.
14
The musician must have been experiencing a maelstrom of emotions at this moment. A shy, modest, self-effacing man, a man who is forced to perform because of his talent, to share it with the world, not because he wants to, but because he simply has to. He sings in the way that a bird sings; his music is a sweet, natural thing that comes like rain, like sunlight, something that, perfectly, just is. I thought about this as I ate my impromptu dinner. I was in a fast-food restaurant for the first time in my adult life, an enormous and garish place just around the corner from the music venue. It was mystifyingly, inexplicably busy. I wondered why humans would willingly queue at a counter to request processed food, then carry it to a table which was not even set, and then eat it from the paper? Afterward, despite having paid for it, the customers themselves are responsible for clearing away the detritus. Very strange.
After some contemplation, I had opted for a square of indeterminate white fish, which was coated in bread crumbs and deep fried and then inserted between an overly sweet bread bun, accompanied, bizarrely, by a processed cheese slice, a limp lettuce leaf and some salty, tangy white slime which bordered on obscenity. Despite Mummy’s best efforts, I am no epicure; however, surely it is a culinary truth universally acknowledged that fish and cheese do not go together? Someone really ought to tell Mr. McDonald. There was nothing to tempt me from the choice of desserts, so I opted instead for a coffee, which was bitter and lukewarm. Naturally, I had been about to pour it all over myself but, just in time, had read the warning printed on the paper cup, alerting me to the fact that hot liquids can cause injury. A lucky escape, Eleanor! I said to myself, laughing quietly. I began to suspect that Mr. McDonald was a very foolish man indeed, although, judging from the undiminished queue, a wealthy one.
I checked my watch, then picked up my shopper and put on my jerkin. I left the remains of my dinner where it was—what, after all, is the point of eating out if you have to clear up yourself? You might as well have stayed at home.
It was time.
The flaw in my plan, the hamartia, was this: there were no tickets available. The man at the box office actually laughed at me.
“It’s been sold out for a couple of days now, love,” he said. I explained, patiently and slowly, that I only wanted to watch the first half, the opening act, and suggested that they’d surely be able to admit one additional person, but it was impossible, apparently—fire regulations. For the second time in days, I felt tears come. The man laughed again.
“Don’t cry, love,” he said. “Honestly, they’re not even that good.” He leaned over confidentially. “I helped the singer bring his gear in from his car this afternoon. Bit of an arsehole, to be honest with you. You shouldn’t let a wee bit of success go to your head, that’s all I’m saying. Nice to be nice, eh?”
I nodded, wondering which singer he was talking about, and moved to the bar area to gather my thoughts. I wouldn’t gain entry without a ticket, that much was clear. And there were no tickets available. I ordered a Magners drink, remembering from last time that I’d be required to pour it myself. The barman was well over six feet tall and had created strange, enormous holes in his earlobes by inserting little black plastic circles in order to push back the skin. For some reason, I was reminded of my shower curtain.
This comforting thought of home gave me the courage to examine his tattoos, which snaked across his neck and down both arms. The colors were very beautiful, and the images were dense and complex. How marvelous to be able to read someone’s skin, to explore the story of his life across his chest, his arms, the softness at the back of his neck. The barman had roses and a treble clef, a cross, a woman’s face . . . so much detail, so little unadorned flesh. He saw me looking, smiled.
“Got any yourself?”
I shook my head, smiled back and hurried off to a table with my drink. His words resonated in my head. Why didn’t I have any tattoos? I had never given it a moment’s thought, and I’d never consciously decided either to have or not have one. The more I thought about it, the more I was drawn to the idea. Perhaps I could have one on my face, something complex and intricate which incorporated my scar, making it a feature? Or, better still, I could have one done somewhere secret. I liked that idea. The inside of my thigh, the back of my knee, the sole of my foot, perhaps.
I finished the Magners and the barman came over to remove my glass.
“Same again?” he asked.
“No thank you,” I said. “Can I ask you something?” I stopped picking off the remains of the nail polish. “Two things, actually. One: does it hurt, and two, how much does a tattoo cost?” He nodded, as if he’d been expecting my questions.
“Hurts like fuck, I’m not gonna lie,” he said. “In terms of cost, it depends on what you’re having done—there’s a big difference between Mum on your bicep and a massive tiger across your back, you know?”
I nodded; this made perfect sense.
“Lot of cowboys around, though,” he said, warming to his theme. “You want to go to Barry, in Thornton Street, if you’re getting one. Barry’s sound.”
“Thank you very much,” I said. I hadn’t expected this outcome from the evening, but then life has a way of surprising you sometimes.
Outside, I realized there was no point in waiting around. The musician would doubtless be going on to a glamorous after-party, somewhere that glittered and pulsed, to celebrate. As of tonight, I was only familiar with two venues, McDonald’s and the unpleasant bar I’d visited with Raymond, and it was hardly likely to be held in either of those.
Come on, Eleanor, I told myself. Tonight was simply not meant to be. The card would remain undelivered in my shopper for the time being. I assuaged my disappointment with the consoling thought that, when it did finally happen, the encounter would be
perfect, and not some short notice, ad hoc meeting in a music club. Also, I’d have broken in my new boots by then, and so would be able to walk normally. I was already tired of the glances my semi-hobbled gait had been attracting.
@johnnieLrocks
Wondering if my stuff is a wee bit too challenging for some people yeah? Dont go to gigs if you can’t handle new sounds. #misunderstood #truth
@johnnieLrocks
Happens to all the greats when they first start out, tho
#Dylan #Springsteen #amgigging
15
I took a taxi home in the end. It was only once I got indoors that I remembered I had no vodka. I simply went to bed. I awoke early the next day and decided to walk to the local shop to buy provisions, having disrupted my usual routine because of the failed attempt to meet the singer yesterday. I picked up some milk, a packet of bread rolls and a tin of spaghetti hoops. I had intended to buy Alphabetti Spaghetti, but, on impulse, chose hoops instead. It’s good to keep an open mind, although I’m well aware that hoops and letters all taste the same. I’m not stupid.
The owner was a charming Bangladeshi man with an interesting birthmark. After all these years, we were of course on cordial terms, which was pleasant. I placed the goods on the counter and scanned the shelves behind him while he rang up the items on the till. He smiled and announced the total.
“Thank you,” I said, and pointed to the shelves behind him. “May I also please have two of the liter bottles of Glen’s vodka?”
His eyebrows shot to the top of his head momentarily, and then his face became impassive.
“I’m afraid I can’t sell alcohol to you, Miss Oliphant,” he said, looking not a little embarrassed. I smiled.
“Mr. Dewan, I’m both extremely flattered and somewhat concerned as to the state of your eyesight,” I said. “I have, in fact, only just entered my thirty-first year.” I felt a little bubble of pleasure shimmer inside me. Bobbi Brown had said that I had nice skin (the live sections, at any rate), and now Mr. Dewan had mistaken me for a teenager!
“It’s ten past nine in the morning,” he said, quite curtly—a small queue had built up behind me.
“I’m well aware of the time,” I said. “Might I be so bold as to suggest that what your customers choose to have for breakfast is none of your concern?”
He spoke so quietly that I had to lean in to hear him.
“It’s illegal to sell alcohol before 10 a.m., Miss Oliphant. I could lose my license.”
“Really?” I said, fascinated. “I had absolutely no idea! I’m afraid my knowledge of licensing law is patchy at best.” He stared at me.
“That’ll be 5.49 pounds,” he repeated, took my ten-pound note, and rendered my change, all the while keeping his eyes firmly on his shoes. I sensed a change in our hitherto cordial relationship but was at a loss to understand why. He didn’t even say good-bye.
Annoyingly, it meant that I would have to go out again later to get my vodka. Why couldn’t you just purchase it in the same way that you bought, say, milk—to wit, at any shop at any time that it was open? Ridiculous. I suppose it’s to ensure that alcoholics are protected from themselves for at least a few hours each day; although, rationally, that makes no sense. If I were chemically and psychologically addicted to alcohol, I’d ensure I had a ready supply to hand at all times, buying in bulk and stockpiling. It was an illogical law; really, what was the difference between buying vodka at ten past nine in the morning and at ten past ten?
Vodka is, for me, merely a household necessity, like a loaf of bread or a packet of tea. The very best thing about it is that it helps me to sleep. Sometimes, when night comes, I lie there in the darkness and I can’t prevent myself remembering: fear, and pressure, but mostly fear. On nights like those, Mummy’s voice hisses inside my head, and another voice, a smaller, timid one, nestles in close to my ear, so close that I can feel her hot, panicky breath moving across the tiny hairs that transmit the sound, so close she barely needs to whisper. That small voice; it breaks apart, pleading: Eleanor, please help me, Eleanor . . . over and over and over again. On those nights I need the vodka, or else I’d break apart too.
I decided to carry on walking toward the big supermarket, which was around twenty minutes away. It would be a more efficient use of my time, allowing me to purchase everything at once, rather than going home and having to go out again. My shopper was feeling rather heavy, and so I put it down and unfolded the collapsible frame that was stored in one of the inside compartments. I built it up, fitted the bag, et voilà! A shopper on wheels. It made a rather inharmonious trundling sound, but this was more than compensated for by the efficacy with which it transported heavier items.
The supermarket in question carried a wide range of quality goods—not just food and drink, but toasters, sweaters, Frisbees and novels. It wasn’t a Tesco Metro, it was a Tesco Extra. It was, in short, one of my favorite places in the world.
16
Tesco! Bright lights, clear labeling, 3 FOR 2 and BOGOF and ANY 3 FOR £5. I took a trolley, because I enjoy pushing them. I stuck my shopper in the child’s seat, and it was quite tricky to peer round it, but that only made the exercise more fun. I didn’t go straight to the vodka; instead, I perused each aisle in turn, starting upstairs in the electrical goods section and then, downstairs, taking my time over tampons and tomato feed and Ainsley Harriot’s Spice Sensation couscous.
I gravitated toward the in-store bakery and stopped dead by the well-fired morning rolls, barely able to believe my eyes. The musician! How blessed I am to live in a compact city, where lives can intersect so readily. Ah, but who’s to say it was accidental, I thought. As previously noted, the machinations of fate are often beyond human ken, and perhaps greater forces were at work here, throwing us into one another’s path in the unlikeliest of circumstances. Buffeted by fate, I felt like a Thomas Hardy heroine this morning (although I silently and passionately entreated fate not to create any future encounters for us in the vicinity of exploding sheep).
Keeping my eyes on the musician, I ducked behind my protruding child-seated shopper in the trolley, then slowly rolled toward him. I stood as close as I dared. He looked tired and pale, but was still handsome, albeit in a rugged, very casually groomed way. He tossed a loaf of sliced white into his basket and glided off toward the meat counter. Once again, I found myself at a disadvantage. I was not physically ready to introduce myself, being somewhat less than soigné at this hour on a weekend, and not wearing my new clothes or boots. Nor had I prepared an opening conversational gambit. I did not even have the greeting card in my bag to pass to him. Lesson: I must be prepared at all times.
I decided it would be wise to stop following him, despite my overwhelming curiosity as to what he would purchase next, as I feared my meta-trolley might be somewhat conspicuous. Instead, I went straight to Wines and Spirits and bought three big bottles of premium-brand vodka. I had only intended to purchase two bottles of Glen’s, but the promotional offer on Smirnoff was remarkable. Oh, Mr. Tesco, I simply cannot resist your marvelous bargains.
As luck would have it, the musician was waiting at the checkouts when I arrived. There was one person behind him, so I took refuge in the same queue with this convenient buffer between us. What a well-chosen selection of shopping! Eggs, bacon, orange juice (“with bits”—bits of what? I wondered) and Nurofen tablets. I had to stop myself from leaning forward and explaining that he was wasting his money—this branded nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug was in fact simply ibuprofen 200 mg, the generic version of which was readily available for sale at perhaps one-quarter of the price. But that couldn’t be my opening. I’d need something more alluring, more memorable, for our first exchange.
He took out a beautifully battered leather wallet and paid with a credit card, although I noted that the total sum was less than eight pounds. I expect, rather like a member of the royal family, that he is simply too important to carry cash. Du
ring his exchange with the cashier—a middle-aged woman who, rather bizarrely, seemed completely oblivious to the manifest charms of the handsome man standing before her—I noticed another missed opportunity. This time, I couldn’t resist. I took out my brand-new phone, accessed my pristine Twitter account and waited till he had paid and had left the building. I typed quickly and pressed send.
@eloliph
A Tesco Club Card is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. You should DEFINITELY sign up for one. A Concerned Friend xx
@johnnieLrocks
Tesco: stop pushing Big Brother spy-slash-loyalty card on here. It like living in a police state, yo #hungover #leavemealone #fightthepower
17
Of course, I already knew that we lived not far from one another, but it had not occurred to me that our lives might intersect in any unplanned way. Sometimes this place feels more like a village than a city, really. So we shared a love of Tesco. Unsurprising. I wondered where else our existences overlapped. Perhaps we frequented the same post office, for example, or had our prescriptions dispensed by the same pharmacist? I reflected again on the importance of being ready, at any time, for an encounter, of looking my best and having something appropriate to say. I was going to need more than one outfit.
Sammy’s homecoming party tonight was at seven, and Raymond had offered to meet me beforehand near Laura’s house. At first, I thought that he was being surprisingly and uncharacteristically thoughtful, but then I realized that he simply didn’t want to arrive alone. Some people, weak people, fear solitude. What they fail to understand is that there’s something very liberating about it; once you realize that you don’t need anyone, you can take care of yourself. That’s the thing: it’s best just to take care of yourself. You can’t protect other people, however hard you try. You try, and you fail, and your world collapses around you, burns down to ashes.