Geli Voyante's Hot or Not (36 page)

‘Shall we do this?’ He grins, and grabs hold of my hand. ‘Shall we go and have an adventure? Just say fuck it, fuck everyone’s reaction, and go and have a holiday of happiness?’

I think about this
. I think about what Mum would say to me, what Glinda and Claire would say, and I know they’d tell me to stop letting my head over-rule my heart. They’d tell me to stop trying to rationalise everything, to stop trying to classify everything as right or wrong. There is no right or wrong, I’m finding out, there just
is
.

I want to say yes to Calvin because this feels so right; if it feels so right, then it must
be
right. If this makes us happy, then we
should
be happy.

‘Let
’s do this,’ I say.

Calvin
’s excited whoop says it all, and I know we’ve made the right decision, that there’s no point fighting this when we don’t have to. He leans in and slowly, tenderly, kisses me.
Hot
. I clutch at him, drawing him in closer, and I know in my heart that this is it, that this is the real deal.

Maybe turning twenty-five next week and entering the unknown when I get back to London won
’t be so bad after all, not with the delectable Calvin Murphy-Lee by my side.  

‘They sold it for three
million, I heard.’

The woman is incredulous. ‘But they only paid £100k for it.’

‘Everything he does turns to gold. Come on, why else would Sarah have married him? Don’t you remember when–’

I don’t hear the rest. They’ve passed by me and I hurriedly search the train platform for the next conversation to use as a distraction. Instead of hearing about doom and gloom – what I’m really after – it’s another sickening snippet.

‘Oh yes, she’s the youngest partner there.’

‘It was expected. Didn’t she get a double first from Cambridge?’

‘Only one in her college who did,’ is the smug reply I hear as I board the train. I have no doubt as I sit down that Mrs Double First probably also found the time to play the French horn in the orchestra, debate beautifully, appear on
University Challenge
and cox the winning team in the Boat Race.
All in one morning.

It gets worse. Escaping into the empty train carriage doesn’t mean I’m now free of the suited successes because I can still
see them. Those people on the platform, the ones tapping away on their BlackBerrys, they are the people who can laugh carefree and happy with colleagues, or legitimately be absorbed in the
FT,
because
that’s what they do
. For them, success is as natural as breathing. Those people separated from me through the glass are the sort of people who make loved ones proud; they are the people who achieve, each and every day, who always accomplish, and are never found lacking. Bet they’ve never been caught lacking a ticket either...

On behalf of today’s crew, we wish you a pleasant and tranquil onward journey. Thank you for choosing Goligh
ty Trains.

A pleasant and tranquil onward journey? That would be nice. I might look like one of those successes on the shrinking platform as the train slowly pulls me away from Waterloo, from all that is important to me, but I’m not.

There was no double first for me; there is no chance I’ll become a partner in a hot-shot firm. Today’s “success” will be surviving this train journey without getting arrested or receiving a hefty fine I can’t possibly pay for not having a ticket; yet four years ago I thought I would be like the suits the train has just whizzed past at Clapham Junction.

Needless to say, it hasn’t quite worked out that way and maybe I had my glory days when I was eight, beating my best friend Obélix – a nickname, don’t worry – at disco, winning when life was simple. He’d wear his horrid purple shell-suit and “borrow” his dad’s
Boombox, I’d put on my favourite ensemble of the week, and we’d dance happily for hours trying to emulate his hero, Michael Jackson.

In fact, Obélix wanted to
be
Michael Jackson, just as I wanted to be Coco Chanel. We never twigged they were people. We thought to be a “Michael Jackson” or a “Coco Chanel” was a job. I certainly know now that I’m no Coco – my life hasn’t become the Technicolor extravaganza promised in movies, let alone Coco’s palette of monochrome – but I bet whatever Obélix is doing he isn’t failing.

‘Tea or coffee?’ A voice interrupts my thoughts. I have been miles away, staring aimlessly out of the window as we leave London, past demons stirring inside me.

Taking a steadying breath, I turn to the voice and force an apologetic smile that I’m certain will betray me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I try to say calmly, certain my voice will betray me, ‘but I don’t have any change.’

Let her think I’m the sort of woman who never carries anything smaller than a fifty pound
note
or my Platinum Amex card... please let her think that.

‘It’s complimentary in First Class.’ She smiles at me nicely, her kind green eyes crinkling with the gesture.

I’m afraid I must be staring at her with disbelief on my face, so much so that she worriedly smoothes her hand over her uniform, then touches her swept-back greying hair to reassure herself. I, on the other hand, am panicking. Of course it’s free in First Class. She must
know
I’m a charlatan. I feel my mouth go even drier because I’m going to be ejected from the train at the next stop and then I’m well and truly buggered. 

‘Coffee?’ she chirps conversationally. Is she trying to catch me out?

I nod, preparing myself for the probing questions that will expose me as a fare dodger and make today just that little bit worse.

‘It’s just–’ Here it comes. ‘You seem a little dazed. Judging by your tan, it’s jet-lag. Am I right?’

Sympathy
. I sigh audibly with relief, hoping she will decode it as the weariness of a First Class paying traveller. ‘Yes,’ I say thankfully. ‘I would usually crash after a flight back from
Australia
, but I need to rush home to my parents...’

‘Oh no.’ She gapes at me. ‘Nothing
too
serious, I hope?’ I grimace at this, which she interprets in her own way. ‘You poor thing.’

I smile tightly in response, but part of me hopes she will tell her colleagues to leave the weary-looking tanned lady alone, the
grieving
woman. It will help make this ticket evasion easier if they do; my nerves are already shot to pieces...

As the nice trolley lady walks down the rattling train after pouring my coffee with sympathy I do not deserve, I take a grateful sip. Following a week of denial trying to cling to my London life, I painfully realised I only have
one
place to go – back to my childhood home. This is non-negotiable – unless I get kicked off the train – and I’m not heading there because of a parental heart attack, although they may feel severe discomfort when I land on their doorstep. I’m heading home for good. Because I have messed up. Spectacularly. 

It’s going to be a stark contrast to the life I’ve left behind now I can no longer afford the luxury of choice. Ha! I can’t afford
anything
. I will have to learn to make do – a task that may prove to be as arduous as a drinker going cold turkey.

As I sip my lukewarm train coffee – it’s no La Esmeralda blend – and admit my stupidity caused this, I experience a fierce determination to overcome this. I don’t want to be this girl, the one Piers called a spoilt, superficial monster. Not that I can afford to be her anyway, but that’s not the point.

I wasn’t always spoilt and superficial though. A fuzzy image of a girl travelling economy on budget airlines swirls in my mind but I quickly dismiss it since it doesn’t correlate with the woman I have become. Without one, there would never have been the other. Funny that.

I’ve lost my confidence, I’ve lost everything, but confidence is the key to success. Right now I
have
to channel that, regain some confidence, because a man is looming over me.

‘Miss?’ he says.

I glance up in surprise, like I’ve only just seen the ticket inspector. In reality, I have beadily watched his approach from the opposite direction to the nice trolley lady. There’s no chance he knows my parental lie so only I have the power to convince him.

It’s show time.

‘Have you got your ticket, please?’

I wonder if it’s Ian Jones from the tannoy announcements, Ian Jones who informed me I would need a ticket before I boarded this train or face the wrath of Golighty Trains and quite possibly the British Transport Police, too.

Despite my coffee acceptance, I do not possess
a ticket and I’m already close to buckling under the pressure and admitting to this as he’s wearing an authoritative-looking peaked navy-blue hat with a shiny emblem. Hats plus my in-bound childhood equals a figure I must not trifle with. But, I’m no longer a child. Grown-up time.

‘Yes,’ I scathingly reply.

It is important I act haughty and peeved like he has disturbed me from very important thoughts. These could be thoughts dreaming up a new million pound merger that will regenerate a local community
and
keep the shareholders happy.
Significant
thoughts. Haughty and peeved people get away with lots, you see. Successful people, the people who sit in First Class, act like this all the time. He should be harassing fare-dodging youngsters, too caught up with their BBMing to bother buying a ticket.

I try to forget that I used to enjoy dodging fares as a teen, and completely bypass that I’m actually as bad, if not worse, because I’m an adult who should know better. With my lax attitude to grown-up responsibilities, it’s unsurprising that I don’t.

But this man – this potential
Ian Jones
– doesn’t know this. For all he thinks, for all he
should
think, is that I am a respectable-looking woman in First Class with a ticket. That I am a respected member of the community. No,
pillar
of the community.

‘Can I see it then?’

He is interrupting my profound thoughts of teenagers who suffer on trains because of their age and the assumption that they might not have a ticket. Teenagers, ones wiser than me, could probably take these prejudiced adults to the European Union and win, which is more than I could do at their age, let alone now. Crikey, I’ve been so
limited
lately. It surprises me that one simple question has erupted a flurry of debate in my usually dormant mind about prejudices.

He treats me to what he must think is a winning smile and to some it would be. Under different circumstances I would have found this man attractive – he’s tall and tanned with a smattering of deep freckles across his cheeks, his light blue eyes are crinkled in the corners – but under these circumstances he is sorely mistaken. So much so, I feel like replying no and sticking my tongue out. As every mile passes and I inch closer, I am reverting back to a former self once lost to me.

With the man still looming though, I icily ask why he needs to see my ticket.

‘Well, ma’am,’ he says, politely clearing his throat with a little nervous cough and a pause which suggests I am beginning to rattle him – people are usually so compliant after all. ‘It’s–’

He pauses. I bet he’s recalling his
Employees’ Handbook.
The page which instructs him to deal with difficult passengers. I experience an illicit thrill from this. I can’t believe how placid I’ve been of late, how exciting it now feels to be
causing a scene
. This is turning into quite the dramatic week. But, considering my circumstances, I probably shouldn’t be revelling. It doesn’t require a criminal mastermind’s brain to realise I really shouldn’t be drawing attention to myself right now. 

‘It’s my job,’ he finally decides to tell me as my heart lurches in cold dread. ‘I have to check that all ticket holders are in their correct seats with the correct tickets.’

Definitely handbook regurgitation. He holds out his hand expectantly. I would find that rude but really it’s just deferential to my plan of ticket evasion. I know I’m on the home stretch though; I can do this.

‘Are you implying I’m in the wrong seat?’ I ask through gritted teeth, my voice rising and rattling off the train carriage – no easy feat given the pounding of the train against the tracks. ‘Do I look stupid? Do you think I am incapable of finding my
own
seat?’

He has the grace to look unsettled by my accusation. We both know this is not about me being in the right seat.

He takes a swift, sharp look at me and he’s clearly torn. He tries to be subtle as he scopes me out from top to toe, but he’s a man – subtle is not in his lexicon. Hopefully he clocks the expensive-looking, long blonde hair. Then again, men never notice hair, do they? Piers never did.

I catch his eyes flickering downwards. I believe he notices the toned, tanned body and the modern dress sense... OK, fairly toned. I have let myself go a little these past few weeks as eating well went out of the window in favour of copious amounts of
Milka Daim. See! I am beginning to deal with my failings.

He maybe clocks my classic beige
Burberry mac and the Louis Vuitton Boétie GM bag nestled beside my towering white and black Mary Janes. The heels are vampish, yet somehow refined, but also a similar style to the shoes that got me into this trouble in the first place – a fact I find very fitting and oddly comforting.

His eyes travel back up to my face and I hope he is doing what most people do – like the nice coffee lady did – I hope he is assuming. I hope he is adding up all the various bits and pieces that comprise me to calculate
my
answer.

Sometimes, such as if this works out, I like it when people calculate and... I’m in luck! I’ve passed my GCSE in deception! To say I am relieved is an understatement. The last thing I need is to be caught out and booted off the train because
I
just need to get home
. Not that it is my home. I’ve left my home – was kicked out of it in fact by the man who is supposed to love me. What I’m actually doing is fleeing to my former home, y’know
once upon a time
. In a strange way it feels like I am returning to the scene of a crime; I know I should feel like I’ve just left one.

More and more memories are emerging as my destination gets closer; worryingly they are distorting my thoughts and feelings. I do not like this side-effect – the past should be left in the past – I know it’s not going to be left there any longer.
Great
.

The ticket inspector takes one last glance at my profile, then smiles. Obviously the handbook doesn’t cover this type of incident and he’s had to rely on his instincts. Thank goodness they like me.

‘Not at all, ma’am. Enjoy your journey.’

With that he continues down the carriage to seek evidence that the train company has managed to fleece some idiots out of almost £150 to sit in this severely-lacking First Class compartment, and I allow myself a little smile tinged with relief that I have not been caught out. Not this time.

I’d like to think my outfit helped things, that my keen eye for a bargain and experimental ways made him believe me because I looked the part. I would feel smug but it only reminds me that there’ll be no more Michael Vinn shoes or Peter Pilotto dresses, that it will be Cheap Monday jeans and sale shopping at Topshop from now on with a rummage through the Kensington High Street Oxfam if any special occasions arise. Doubtful, there’s no one left to socialise with where I’m heading to and I’ll definitely be nowhere near Kensington.

When it comes to fashion, I know I am shrewd and willing to take a risk. It’s the only chance I did take, the only confidence I have, although Piers, my boyfriend… my
ex
-boyfriend, he had enough confidence for...

Stop this, Arielle. Stop this,
right now
. I know I’ve messed up with Piers, honestly I do, but I know that doesn’t apply to fashion. My life truly is over when I mess up the clothes I wear, even if these clothes aren’t entirely legit.

Take my
Burberry mac. Came from
eBay
. It cost its original owner close to a four-figure sum; it was mine for a bargainous £182.54. A quick trip to the dry cleaners and it looked pristine. I like to think it sits smugly amongst my full-price macs, probably because it’s like me – like how I feel around Piers’ friends – a cheap shop dummy surrounded by richer, more sophisticated models.
Painful
.

Moving on. That
Louis Vuitton
bag by my feet? I’ll admit something
really
naughty here: it’s a fake. Yes. A fake. Just like me. To the well-trained eye observing the entire package, they don’t question whether it’s genuine or not, despite it actually being an AA counterfeit from LA’s Santee Alley,
the
place to go for knock-off goods. Admittedly, I do have many genuine handbags but I get an illicit thrill from fooling people and it’s not just handbags I limit this to.

Those shoes next to my knock-off goods? Bought from one of those low-budget shoe shops, one not even classed as
high street
. No one I know would ever dream of setting foot in there, so they’ll view them as “rare” because they can’t spot them in Harvey Nics or on NET-A-PORTER.COM. Ironically this makes them so designer they must be
exclusively
so. Not bad for a cheap pair of shoes, huh, though I must confess they are pinching my feet ever so slightly. Nothing and I mean nothing, beats butter-soft Italian leather when it comes to foot comfort. 

Anyway, that brings me to my dress: I had no choice here. I borrowed it from my friend seeing as circumstances have made my fabulous wardrobe leave my possession. This is a
Chlo
é
shift dress that got a little too tight for Lydia in her post-Nigel binge. Her pain became my gain.

All in all, I have achieved an expensive look at a fraction of the associated price. People take one look at me and assume I must be worth it. They see the overall lie told on the outside because they don’t realise every item, like every person, has its own inner story. The only answer that springs to their narrow minds is that I am stacked. Conditioned. I am a designer babe and I am worth it.
Go Team L’Oréal!

In this instance, I am overjoyed. I have dodged a fare and a fine I cannot possibly pay, I accept the worth the ticket man accredited to me. A superficial judgement? Fine by me.  Unfortunately, I realise it was a clothing assumption of this nature that set me on this troubled path in the first place – the reason I met Piers, the reason I am now on this train going back
there
.