NINE

1995

It’s beautiful,” Betty told her mother in a voice full of forced enthusiasm. “Really gorgeous. Lovely modern bathroom.”

Her mother sounded unconvinced. “I should hope so,” she said, “for that money. And what’s the security like.”

“The . . . ?”

“You know. Locks on the doors? That kind of thing?”

“It’s fine. Locks and chains and everything.” She had no idea if there were locks and chains and everything; she hadn’t really been paying any attention.

“And what are the neighbors like?”

Neighbors? “You don’t have neighbors in Soho, Mum.”

“The area, then. What’s it like? Is it safe?”

Betty thought of the group of leering long-haired men outside the pub opposite, who’d just shouted “Hello, blondie” as she left her flat, and the thumping bass of heavy metal emanating from its open door, and she smiled and said, “It feels safe, yes. Safe enough.”

Her mother emitted a long, meaningful sigh.

“Mum!” snapped Betty.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s just Soho. Of all the places. You could at least have eased yourself in with a few weeks at Grandma’s. Got a feel for the place.”

“I’ve just spent the past twelve years of my life living with an old woman. I love my grandma, but I do not want to live with her. Not even for a day.”

“Fair enough,” her mother said. “But I can’t help worrying.”

“Mum, I’m twenty-two years old! All my friends have been living away from home since they were teenagers!”

“Exactly!” said her mother. “Exactly. They’ve had time to find their feet. Student life is not the same as real life.”

“I actually think I’m safer here than at Arlette’s house. Out there, on that cliff, all alone. Anything could have happened. At least here I’m insulated.”

“Yes, but you’re also anonymous. Everyone knew you here. Everyone had an eye open for you. There’s no one there to keep an eye on you.”

“That’s not true, actually . . .” She paused to drop another twenty-pence piece into the coin slot. “That’s not true. I’ve already made friends with the man who runs the market stall outside my flat. He’ll keep an eye on me. And the girl from the agency, she knows I’m here. That’s two people, and I’ve only been here a couple of hours.”

“Hmm, well . . .” Her mother sounded tired. “Just be careful, that’s all. Just be careful. You’re my special girl. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you. I love you so much.”

“I know, I know.” Betty swallowed down her distaste for the words. She didn’t want to be loved by her mother, not right now. “Look, I’ve run out of coins. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, “or maybe the day after.”

“Tomorrow,” said her mother. “Call me tomorrow.”

“I’ll try,” she said. “Love to Jolyon. Love to everyone. Bye.” She hung up as the pips signaled the end of her money.

She exhaled and let herself lean heavily against the wall of the booth. The phone call had been an ordeal. She was not in the mood for having a mother. She wanted to spend a few days, maybe even longer, pretending she didn’t have one, pretending to be rootless and unconnected. She had just left an island, and now she wanted to be one.

She pushed her way out of the booth and put her hands into the pockets of the lightweight coat she’d packed in her rucksack in the early hours of that morning. She had ten pounds in her purse and was on a mission for basic provisions: milk, a microwave meal, some cereal, and some tea.

The world came towards her like a computer game as she attempted to stroll nonchalantly through the streets. She had not taken a map. A map would have marked her out as a day-tripper. She would learn the streets of Soho using her instincts and her internal compass. Yes, she would.

She pushed her chest out and put her hand in her handbag, feeling for the softness of her tobacco pouch, cursing internally when she realized she had left it in the flat. She needed a cigarette, she needed a prop, she was walking funny, she could feel it, too much to the left, her right foot dragging a bit. She cursed as she came off the edge of a curb, her ankle twisting awkwardly. She had to break her fall with a hand on the pavement, and she felt the skin come away from the heel of her hand as she did so. “Fuck,” she muttered under her breath. “Bollocks.” She pulled herself upright and rubbed away at the scuffed skin, not daring to look around to see who might have seen her inelegant tumble. She carried on her way, turning left, turning right, wishing for a cigarette, wishing for a friend, wishing for . . . a bowl of Chinese noodles in a tiny scruffy café with scuffed Formica tabletops and a dreamy-looking waiter standing with arms crossed, staring through the window into the middle distance.

She hurled herself through the door of the café. It was called, somewhat unimaginatively, Noodle Bar.

Here, she thought, I’ll start here.

• • •

The skies opened as she felt her way cautiously homeward an hour later, using her as-yet-untested internal compass. The rain fell as hard as knitting needles, bouncing off the pavement and all over her cherry-red shoes. She had no umbrella. She had not even packed an umbrella. She would have to buy an umbrella. She could not begin to imagine where in Soho she might be able to buy herself an umbrella. Arlette’s house had an elephant’s foot in the hallway, trimmed with brass and filled with umbrellas of various sizes. Betty had very much taken umbrellas for granted for the whole of her life until this exact moment.

Her internal compass took her to most of the streets of Soho over the course of the next hour. The rain obfuscated the world, turned it into one indistinguishable mass of tarmac, brick, and glass, and when she found herself standing opposite what she thought of as “her” phone booth, she almost laughed out loud with joyful relief. She’d made it. Against all the odds and without asking anyone for directions, she had found her way back.

The flat felt unexpectedly welcoming as she turned the key in the lock and let herself in.

Home, she thought, I’m home.

She ran herself a deep bath and lay in it for an hour, feeling the water warming her bones. The bathwater sent rippling shadows across the ceiling, and the steam ran down the windows in rivers, and there it was: peace, solitude, Betty Dean, having a bath in Soho, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

Afterwards she poured herself a glass of cider and took three roll-ups and a box of matches onto the fire escape that led off the landing outside her front door. By now the sky was inky dark, but the rain had stopped. The fire escape looked out over the scruffy backs of other buildings. Below she saw two restaurant workers sitting with their backs to the wall, smoking cigarettes and talking to each other in a language she could not name. She could hear the clank of pots and pans through another open window and smell curry spices toasting. The men below laughed out loud and then made their way back inside. There, in the diagonal corner, Betty noticed what looked like a proper house: clean brickwork, three stories, six windows, including one full-length window in the middle, which gave her a view of a funky chandelier and a piece of anarchic art. It warmed her, strangely, to think that among all these pubs and market stalls, restaurants and fabric shops, there lived a human being with nice taste in interiors.

That night Betty slept fitfully and uncomfortably. The street below was loud and unsleeping. When she woke the following morning, she felt haggard and ill. But as she pulled open the curtains, she smiled.

She had not, after all, come to Soho to sleep.

• • •

That morning she decided to find a library. There was no telephone directory in her flat, and she wanted to look up Clara Pickle. It was a slim chance, and she was sure that Arlette must have tried directory inquiries over the years, but it was worth a try. As she walked out onto the street, she saw the record seller putting out his pitch opposite her front door. He was wearing a hat today, a kind of fisherman’s affair, black felt with a small metal badge on the front. Two curls of hair flicked out from either side like dancers’ legs. The silly bits of hair softened his appearance, put Betty at ease. That and the fact that she suspected with her hair up, and without Arlette’s incongruous fur, he wouldn’t notice her anyway. So she picked up her pace, kept her eyes to the pavement, and marched determinedly onwards, although she had not a clue where she was supposed to be heading.

“Morning,” he said.

She stopped midstep. Then she turned. “Oh,” she said, “hello.”

“How are you settling in?”

Betty couldn’t speak, so taken aback was she by his friendly interaction. “Fine,” she said after a moment. “Just, er, popping out.”

He nodded and looked as though he was about to end the conversation, but then: “I know someone you could sell the fur to,” he said almost nervously, “if you’re interested?”

“Sell it?”

“Yeah. The fur coat. I assume you want to sell it. It being a bit of an obsolescence and all.”

“Oh,” Betty said. “Yes. I hadn’t really thought. But yes. Maybe I should.”

“It’s my sister. She runs a clothing agency. For TV and film and stuff. She’s always looking for furs. Hard to find these days, apparently.”

“Wow,” she said, “what a brilliant job to have.”

“Yeah, our dad’s an antiques dealer, our mum’s an auctioneer—old stuff kind of runs in our blood.” He smiled, and Betty noticed that when he smiled, crow’s-feet fanned out like peacocks’ tails, and the groove between his eyebrows completely disappeared. “Anyway,” he continued, his smile straightening out, the crow’s-feet regrouping, the groove resetting, “think about it. She’s only up the road. Let me know.”

“I will, thank you. Yes.” She turned away first, slightly flushed by the encounter. She was about to head on her way when it occurred to her that this man might be a good source of local knowledge. “I’m looking for a library,” she said. “Do you know if there’s one round here?”

He raised a curious eyebrow. “No idea,” he said. “Not much of a reader. Toff,” he called to the man at the next stall, “is there a library round here?”

“Yeah,” Toff said, “of course there is.” And he gave Betty directions.

The route to the library took Betty past the front of the house she’d seen from behind the night before, facing out onto Peter Street. She stopped and appraised it. Its windows were taped over with opaque film, and the front door was painted shocking pink, with the number 9 nailed to it. Betty extinguished a roll-up beneath the heel of her trainer and put her hands into her pockets. She studied the building, trying to gauge its significance. It meant something to her, in some odd way, either from her past—had she seen it when she was in Soho with her mother all those years ago?—or in her future. She was sure she’d seen that door before, seen that oversize 9, those obscured windows.

She shook her head slightly and carried on her way. In the library, she thumbed her way through twelve London telephone directories. In a small notepad she wrote down the numbers of seventeen people called C. Pickle. She didn’t even bother with the C. Joneses. Then she bought chocolate bars, tobacco, and chewing gum in three separate shops, paid for with notes, breaking them up for change.

When she got home, she came upon a man in a logoed polo shirt and a matching fleece, doing something to the telephone in the hallway.

“Oh,” she said, “hello.”

The man did not return her greeting, just looked up at her and then back to the wires trailing from the innards of the phone unit.

“Are you fixing it?” she asked.

“No,” he said dully, “I’m vandalizing it.”

She peered at him through squinted eyes, silently measuring his tone. “Ha ha,” she said, “but seriously? Are you?”

“Yes,” he said. “I am attempting to fix your telephone. In fact”—he plucked a red wire and then plucked a yellow wire and then leaned back and appraised the situation—“I’m pretty sure I have just fixed your telephone.” He pulled a mobile phone from his bag and pressed in a number. The phone in the hallway rang. He smiled. Then he pulled a twenty-pence piece from his pocket, punched a number into the pay phone, and the phone in his other hand rang.

“Sorted,” he said. “All yours.”

Betty stared at the phone in some surprise after the engineer had left. She had a phone. And seventeen phone calls to make. What a piece of luck.

• • •

Betty dialed all seventeen numbers for C. Pickle that morning. Of the thirteen people who answered, not one had heard of Clara. The other four numbers were either disconnected or had not replied. Betty had suspected as much. There was no way it could have been that easy. If it had been that easy, she mused, then Arlette would have tracked Clara Pickle down years ago. Betty appraised the five twenty-pence pieces left in her hand and called Bella.

“Guess who’s calling you, live, from her Soho penthouse?”

“What?”

“Berwick Street. Top floor. Just around the corner from the Raymond Revuebar.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes! I just moved in! Yesterday!”

“Wow! I don’t believe it. Finally!”

“I know, at the ripe old age of twenty-two.”

“So, how is it?”

“It’s . . . fine, it’s . . .” Betty was about to say “It’s amazing,” but as she started to form the words in her mouth she felt tears overwhelm her.

“Oh, Betty, sweetheart, are you OK?”

“Yes!” said Betty, trying to pull the tears back down inside. “Yes! I’m fine. It’s just all a bit, you know . . . Arlette dying, the funeral, coming here, everything’s changed so quickly after being the same for so long.”

“Oh, Bets, of course you’re feeling weird. Are you alone?”

“Yes, just little old me.”

“No flatmate?”

“No.” She sighed, “No. It’s a studio.”

“Wow,” said Bella, “that must be costing you a fortune.”

“Kind of,” said Betty. “I guess. Arlette left me a thousand pounds. This place is four hundred a month. I’ve paid for two months up front . . .”

“So you’ll have blown the lot on rent by the summer? And then what?”

“Oh God, I don’t know. I’m going to get a job. And . . .” She paused. She’d been about to say, If I can’t find the woman in Arlette’s will, I’ll be getting ten thousand pounds, so I don’t need to worry too much about money, but she kept the thought to herself. She would find the woman in the will. She was determined to. “I’ll get a job,” she said.

“No! Betty Dean, getting a job? No way!”

“Well, it’s about time.”

“Good grief, what sort of job?”

“No idea. Maybe an art gallery? A boutique? An auction house? Somewhere I can start at the bottom and work my way up.”

“Excellent,” Bella said. “Have you even got a CV?”

“Ha.” Betty laughed. “And what would it say if I did? ‘1990 to 1995: Squeezed in an unexceptional B. Tech diploma in general art and design around caring for crazed old lady. The End.’ ” She sighed again. “I don’t think I’m really a CV type of a person. I think people will just have to take me as they find me.”

“Hmm.”

Betty groaned. She hated it when people said “hmm.” “Hmm, what?”

“Nothing. Just, you’re in London now. As amazing as you are, I’m not sure just being you is going to be enough to get you the job of your dreams.”

“Urgh, God.” Betty groaned. “You sound just like my mother.”

“I am just like your mother. That’s why you love me so much. And she’s right.” Bella paused. “Well, maybe we’re both wrong and you’re right. Either way, I agree with her. It wouldn’t hurt to put something in writing. Talk yourself up a bit. Maybe you could say you were, God, I don’t know, Arlette’s personal assistant?”

Betty laughed. “Not too far from the truth, I suppose.”

“Exactly!”

“I know what you’re saying. I think I’ll try it my way first.” Betty smiled.

“Yes,” said Bella, “of course you will. You always, always do.” They fell quiet. “So,” said Bella. “When are you coming to visit?”

“Was just about to ask you the same thing. Have you got any holiday coming up?”

“Not until next month. Why don’t you come down here?”

Betty pondered the suggestion. She envisioned Bella’s bleak lodgings in a tumbledown cottage in a remote village just outside the zoo. She thought of cold fingers wrapped around chipped mugs of tea and condensation-covered windows looking out over tangled gardens and cool, flagstoned kitchens and early-morning birdsong. She shuddered. She’d only just arrived in the kingdom of sirens and neon and filth and chaos and double yellow lines as far as the eye could see. She could not yet countenance the prospect of a return to the countryside, even if it was to see her oldest, most-loved friend.

“Yes,” she said, “maybe.”