In her head, Shelley lay on South Beach under the azure sky, the sun warming her from the outside in. The art deco buildings that were behind her housing the restaurants, bars, and nightclubs were where she’d eat, drink and dance later. At night, she’d sleep in her own private annexe and in the morning, her breakfast would be brought in by the staff. The next day she might spend around the house, read a book by the pool, and perhaps call in the beauty therapist for a massage and a facial. Resident Dicks All the Boxes had done a good job on her; she was sold.
Shelley looked out the window to the grey sky that coordinated with the grey settee on which she was sitting. “God, it’s bleak out there.” This is England, cold and bitter.
“There’s beauty in the bleakness, if you look, dear.” Rita sipped her tea. “Only a week or so and it’ll be summer.”
What did that mean? The summer in England was a con. This could be the driver she needed to kick her habit. Surely, her aunt could pop in on her mother an extra once or twice a week, her psoriasis could be miraculously cured before she left, and she could be in Miami for July.
“What’s wrong with you today? You’re not yourself.”
“Why do people say that? Who else am I gonna be?” Shelley snapped. “Oh Mum, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— I’m just a bit stressed.”
“That’s a nice necklace, dear. Is it new?”
“Yes, I got it yesterday. Did you know rubies aren’t as hard as diamonds?”
“More likely to break then. You better look after it. Don’t you ever think having all this money to spend is a waste if you’re going to burn out earning it?” Rita said. “I have to agree with Elsie. I think she’s right. They’re working you too hard. You need to tell that boss of yours you can’t do so much.”
“I have to work, and they’ve been very good to me.” Shelley thought of the long lunch breaks Foxtons allowed her so she could visit her mother, and the time off that they’d granted her whenever Rita was ill.
“But you’re burning out, dear. I’ve seen it happen to people.”
“No you haven’t. Who do you know who’s burnt out?”
“Not people I know, dear – on the TV. It was a documentary,” Rita said. “I don’t think you’re looking after yourself properly. You’re so pale, and skinny. You need to put some meat on your bones and get a decent night’s sleep.”
Although in a way she’d been scolded, Shelley was touched by her mother’s concern, until her guilt stole the comfort from those words and replaced it with remorse.
“You have to tell people how you feel or they won’t know how to help you.”
This from a woman who’s shut herself away from the world for the past seven years - Shelley looked quizzically at her mother.
“Communication, it’s essential for relationships to work. You need to let them know your limits.”
“What else have you been watching?” Self-righteous Silk, Shelley presumed.
“That’s not from the television. I’ve been writing things down to help me... I’ll show you.” Rita walked out the room then quickly returned with a mauve notepad in her hand. She took her seat next to Shelley on the sofa. She opened the notepad and read aloud her handwritten notes, or as she told Shelley, the pearls of wisdom that were apparently gifts from her new counsellor and the bereavement support group.
Although Shelley wanted her mother to make progress, her behaviour was disconcerting. Walking around in the flat was manic for Rita, let alone entering into talking therapy, which she had always been against. Within a week, suddenly, there she was reciting phrases that were contradictory to her actions of the past few years. Shelley worried exactly what Aunt Elsie had enrolled her in – some kind of brainwashing, possibly.
“When you’re at UCL, I want you to be at UCL, not worrying about me. I’ve enough regret to last a lifetime already. I don’t want any more.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You know I’ve never blamed you.”
Hiding her own regret, Shelley hugged her mother. Her mobile rang out from her handbag but she wasn’t ready to break away. The ringing persisted and after letting three calls go unanswered, Shelley reached for her phone. She was a second too late and the caller had hung up. As she looked at the list of missed calls and saw the phone number, she knew she had to leave her mother’s immediately.
***
As she raced back towards Hampstead on the A41, Shelley made the three calls from her mobile to put everything in place. The car screeched as she pulled a sharp right onto Willoughby Road. Her open handbag fell from the passenger seat, emptying its contents into the footwell.
She parked at an angle in a space too short for her long car. Leaning across, she picked up her purse, mirror, lipstick and the syringe that had fallen out. Without checking the car was locked, she sprinted to her flat.
From the bedroom, she grabbed her beige suitcase. She searched through her work paraphernalia for the specific accoutrements required for the job: blindfold, handcuffs, whips, GHB, Rohypnol. She bundled some casual clothes on top, then rummaged in the drawers of her dressing table. She found her curling tongs and packed those.
She took off her jeans and sweatshirt, exchanging them for a red silk blouse under a black skirt suit. Finished in the bedroom, she ran through to the kitchen and picked up the cardboard box of beers, wines and spirits. From the cupboard under the sink, she lifted the air freshener, clingfilm and parcel tape. Finally, she went back to the lounge to pack her gear and a needle.
With her case packed, she sat on the sofa. She couldn’t leave without topping up her opiate level. From her black patent handbag, she took out her heroin. There was no time to inject, so she sprinkled some on a piece of foil and quickly had a chase. To save the leftover heroin, she folded it inside the foil. Then she hid the foil between the pages of The Escaped Cock – the slim paperback that was ideal for carrying and concealing in her handbag.
The compulsion to check the windows, taps and oven was on her. She tried to resist the pull of the obsession, but an authoritarian voice from the board relentlessly commanded her not to leave without checking. She had no choice but to succumb.
She managed to keep to the minimum counts for all her subjects. She scooped up her fake-fur coat from the sofa and rushed to the front door. Having locked it behind her, she allowed herself to slow down again, this time for the four-sets-of-five that were essential in ensuring her flat was safe to be left. Succeeding in keeping her concentration, she completed the task in twenty counts.
When she got to the car, she threw the box of booze, her case and her coat in the boot. She sped off down the back streets. Her foot shook against the accelerator as she drove. She worried she might crash if she couldn’t control it. Hoping to calm her nerves, she lit a cigarette and broke the silence with Capital Radio.
As she approached the main road at Swiss Cottage, she hit traffic. Making use of the time, she pulled out her foil and tube. She bent over her lap for a quick blast. She hoped no one in the surrounding cars would notice. Although it was early evening, the sun had made a belated appearance and transformed the sky to a brighter shade of grey.
A horn sounded. On looking up, she realised the traffic was moving. When she put her foot to the pedal, she noticed the shaking had stopped. After a short stint on the main road, she returned to the back streets, heading straight over Edgware Road then onto Elgin Avenue.
While she’d regained her external composure, her insides heaved with nervous anticipation. Her stomach turned as if a hit on a crack pipe was imminent and she felt queasy; though amid that, she recognised a splash of excitement.
Preoccupied with scenarios of what might lie ahead, she missed the turning for Ladbroke Grove. By the time she realised her mistake, she’d nearly reached Kensal Green. She decided it wasn’t worth turning back and continued on Harrow Road, taking the scenic route down Scrubs Lane.
Falling back into a reverie, she smiled. She bit her bottom lip between her front teeth. If it was him, then this Saturday night would be like no other. A snigger escaped from her mouth, but there was no reason to laugh except in hysteria.