Crappily Ever After (9 page)

‘Lucy, let me show you something.’ Elaine swivels the screen round for me to look at, and types in ‘Daily Positions in Edinburgh’. Like she says, only three come up.

‘There are five live-in posts, but you don’t want that.’ She then types in ‘Daily Jobs in London’. Immediately the screen fills up. They appear to be endless! The computer informs us it’s on page one of forty-seven.

‘Woah! Back up a bit. How much is a “daily” on in London?’

She highlights one. It’s double my current weekly wage.

‘That’s after tax and National Insurance,’ explains Elaine. ‘The parents are responsible for your contributions.’

I exhale with a whistle. It’s very tempting.

‘Look, Lucy, London’s great fun. You’re young, single, you should at least try it. Maybe even just go for a few interviews. Get a feel for the place. I can speak to the parents, they’re clamouring for qualified girls down there. If I set you up for three or four interviews, tell them they have to share your fare, I bet they’d do it. It’s a drop in the ocean to the likes of them. We are talking serious money here. You’re losing nothing but a little of your time.’

I sigh: ‘I guess so. OK – I’ll go for the interviews at least. Only if they pay my fare, though.’

I arrive at King’s Cross for my three lined up interviews. My backpack and I follow the swarms to the underground sign. I’m jostled to and fro all the way to the turnstiles, swearing under my breath at all these people in an apparent hurry to go places. I walk up to the barrier and look blankly at the closed gate. What am I supposed to do here?

‘Ticket!’ barks a fat, sweaty suit from behind me.

‘Excuse me?’ I reply.

‘You need to put your ticket in here,’ he says slowly and patronisingly, aggressively jabbing a finger at the slot.

‘I don’t have a ticket,’ I say.

‘She doesn’t even have a ticket!’ he bellows.

Several people laugh. It seems the ‘no talk’ rule on the tube that I’ve heard about doesn’t apply when there’s a dippy tourist in their midst.

Blushing, I make my way back to the machines I saw on the way down. Perhaps I can get a ticket there?

I stand in the queue, only to be shouted at for holding it up as I try to figure out what I need. A kindly, but slightly whiffy man pulls me to one side.

‘You’re new.’ He states the obvious.

‘Yes, I need to get to Islington,’ I say, gratefully.

‘For a small fee, I will be your personal guide,’ he says, holding out a filthy hand for me to shake. I know – I shouldn’t. But I’m not about to head down any dark alleyways or accept a drink from him. Plenty of people around, I figure.

He fleeces me for £2 to take me outside the station and informs me I can take the bus from opposite McDonald’s. I thank him, despite knowing full well that I have been ripped off, and take in a panoramic view.

Two McDonalds.

You know those people who wander around London aimlessly, swearing and muttering to themselves? People give them a wide berth. They are not mad; they are
lost!
I’m doing the very same thing that they do at that moment. I spend fifteen minutes at the wrong stop beside McDonald’s Number One. I spend twenty minutes at the correct McDonald’s – let’s call it Number Two – just for the hell of it. Finally, I meet a sweet, old lady.

‘Where are you going, dear?’ she asks.

I inform her I have no more money and she looks offended.

I do, however, want to kiss her when she sees me safely off at my stop. It turns out she lives nearby and gives me clear and concise directions on how to get to my Bed and Breakfast.

A passing ‘businessman-in-a-hurry’ hits my backpack and sends me into a tailspin.

‘Watch it, asshole!’ shouts the old lady.

I think I’ve just made my first friend in London.       

I fall asleep on the stained top sheet (it looks suspiciously blood-like) in the B&B for two hours after my arrival. I wake at 9pm to the honking of horns and a hell of a racket outside. Food, that’s what I need. I head outside and look along the street. Lots of lights on in the shops – a good sign. I walk up past the Angel tube and onto Upper Street, taking in the new sights and sounds. Kebab shops, hotdog stands and many drunken people swigging from cans, some asking me to spare some change. A large rat scurries by me from some bins. My squeal startles a homeless man in a doorway.

‘Shurrup, stupid cow,’ he slurs at me. ‘I have a seven o’clock meeting.’ He chortles at his own joke before the laugh turns into an emphysema fit.  

As I wait in a takeaway on the main street through Islington, trying to decide what to have to eat, I hear a voice addressing me from behind. I turn to see a friendly-looking Australian girl smiling at me.

‘Why are you off home so early?’ she asks.

‘Oh, I’m new in town. Just here for interviews. I don’t know a single soul in London.’

‘Well, you do now,’ she says triumphantly. ‘Let’s go grab a beer.’ She pulls me outside despite my protests of interviews tomorrow. I give in and follow her across the road. It turns out Emily’s friends have been stuck on the tube for over an hour. She has been waiting in ‘Walkie’ for them and was told by some ‘random’ that the Northern Line was down due to a ‘jumper’. Once she has explained that this is a member of the public who has perhaps committed suicide, or possibly been pushed, I am shocked beyond belief.

‘Doesn’t that bother you?’ I ask.

‘Shit, yeah! Was late into work twice last week ‘cause of them.’

We have a great night in Walkie. Emily’s friends turn up after two hours, seemingly none the worse off for having trawled through blood and guts on a track. I’ll probably never get used to living in London, I decide. Oblivious to the fact that only six months later I too will be moaning about the inconvenience of ‘jumpers’ (do it off peak if you must at all!). I also go on to complain about ‘tourists’ who take longer than thirty seconds at the ticket machine.

I have three interviews the next day and I’m offered two of the positions. It seems Elaine was right; they are desperate for qualified nannies, with Scottish nannies being particularly desired for some bizarre reason. The latest trend in London, Elaine explained when I called her. It’ll be Spanish ones next year, or Australians. Cash in while you can. The two families end up in a bidding war and I end up managing to up my wage by £40 a week. I take the lowest maintenance job. The four-year-old boy with, in nanny terms at least, short hours. It is also on the same celebratory night out with Emily and friends that I meet James.      

I start my new job and have moved in with Emily, Amy and Jill in a shared house. Emily works in marketing. She and Jill, who is also from Adelaide, have been living in London for three years after leaving Australia on an extended working visa. These two are in constant competition with each other over, amongst other things, who weighs less, who can pull the most men and who has the most expensive wardrobe, Both girls, much to the annoyance of Amy and I, have year-round tans thanks to a sunshine-filled upbringing and long, lean bodies thanks to years of outdoor sports. Jill has long honey blond hair. She is definitely the prettiest of us all and never fails to pull, though I would never say this to Emily. Em hates her mid-length dark curls. They have a tendency to grow out the way, rather than down. Looks-wise, she is stunning, but isn’t a patch on Jill. Both Amy and I are blonde too, but unfortunately look a bit on the plump side compared to Jill and Em. I mean, we both fit comfortably in a size twelve (I’ve crept back up) and are far from being fat. But being fairly short and standing next to two stunning size tens at nearly six foot tall each, who wouldn’t feel like a podgy little frump? Jill’s downfall, in Emily’s opinion, is her job. As a waitress, she is on half Em’s salary and therefore Em wins in the wardrobe department. Their constant bickering drives Amy and me to distraction. It can be entertaining at times, but mostly it’s irritating.            

Amy, like me, is a nanny. Which probably explains why we’re slightly heavier than the other two. In the homes where we work there are too many tempting kid’s treats and lovely food. I spend most of my mornings in Starbucks with her and Phoebe, her two-year-old charge, who is generally purple-faced with temper. We then head along to our respective nurseries for Amy to pick up Harold and me to pick up Jake. The family I work for are great. They appreciate that I do have a life and therefore don’t want to babysit at weekends. Occasionally we all go out for dinner and I know that, compared to a lot of nannies, I am very lucky.

 Anyway, James. He is a Londoner, shows me all the sights I should see – and quite a few I

probably shouldn’t. I am, after all, a good Scots girl who has had a relatively sheltered life. He is fun, sociable, just your average Joe really.

Or so I thought…                  

All was great for the first month. James, my friends and I all hung out every week at Walkie or we went for dinner or had movie nights in. James spends a few nights a week at mine and I spend a few at his. One night a week I go out on my own with the girls; Usually a Friday or Saturday.

One Friday night out after work, Emily, Amy, Jill and I are in our local. We are mid-conversation, listening to Amy tell us about Phoebe’s latest tantrum, when she pauses and stares at the window.

‘What is it?’ Emily asks. We all follow Amy’s gaze, then look towards her blankly.

‘I thought I just saw James looking in,’ says Amy.

 ‘Can’t be,’ I shake my head, ‘he’s off to Brighton with the boys tonight.’

 ‘Oh, OK,’ shrugs Amy, looking slightly confused. ‘Lucy, I’m not sure about him,’ she whispers. ‘I caught him one day reading some of your mail from off the dining room table. He said you had asked him to bring up the letter from the bank. Did you?’

‘Not that I recall’ I reply. ‘I’m sure I did though, if he was rummaging.’ Amy purses her lips in silent disapproval. I know she can’t stand him. James thinks she fancies him. Typical man. You ignore them, so you must fancy them; if you rebuff their advances, you must be a lesbian. I have heard every one of their pathetic little excuses to justify the fact that, actually, they’re just not your type. Amy brightens up a bit and informs us that she hasn’t given us the latest low-down on her now married ex-boyfriend from years ago. He tracked her down a few weeks ago and has been harassing her by email ever since. It started out friendly enough, joking about how she dumped him three months into their relationship as the spark just wasn’t there. He asked how she was, told her all about his life and then suggested they meet up for a drink one evening in the week. Amy replied that that would be great – she’d love to meet his wife. Not what he was meaning, it appeared. Of course, Amy knew this. She’s not stupid. He became more and more insistent, pestering her almost daily until, eventually, she emailed him to say: ‘Look, I didn’t fancy you when you were seventeen and loosely resembled Brad Pitt. I most definitely don’t fancy you now your pushing forty, fat, bald and with a wife and four kids. Now
piss off!’

Our laughter attracts a few stares from other tables. This is just so not an Amy thing to do. I am seriously impressed.

‘What did he say?’ Jill shakes her head in disbelief.

‘Nothing, he pissed off like I told him to,’ smiles Amy, enjoying a rare moment of being the centre of attention.

The evening continues raucously. We chat to a group of lads from Ireland on a stag night and share their tray of shots. After an hour Emily disappears with the best man, Matt, smirking at us over her shoulder. Jill fumes silently at being outdone so early on in the evening. We carry on until the early hours. The groom, Tony, informs me that, before proposing he had visited a fortune-teller; he had been constantly teased by his friends that his marriage to the ‘psycho bitch from hell’ – that was the name given to his fiancée by all the boys – was doomed. Apparently, they’d divorce in seven years and two kids later, but Tony was willing to take the gamble as it was, ‘a load of old shite anyway.’ The fortune-teller had told Matt that the name Emily was significant in his future. We all troop out to the kebab shop across the road. Amy stops and sways slightly.

‘Luce, are you
sure
James is away?’

‘Yes, Amy,’ I say, pulling her along, ‘He’d have said if it was cancelled. Now come on, it’s just tequila-induced hallucinations.’

We leave the kebab shop with our steaming packages and say goodnight and good luck to the boys.