Authors: Lana Citron
By rights, I should be an international lawyer, earning a fortune, married with two kids, a nanny and a 4 x 4. I should be living on the pig’s back, given my education, upbringing, and the
opportunities open to me.
Something went hideously wrong along the way.
Maybe I didn’t suffer enough?
Jeez, but how I wish I was working class or at the very least belonged to an ethnic minority. I have zero credibility, no excuses, and blame my parents for making life too comfortable. Where was
the struggle? The long haul out of the gutter? I mean no wonder as a kid I used to dream of being an orphan, like the girl in
Thursday’s Child
.
OK, so I could get nit-picky and blame my vast array of neuroses on my parents’ separation, but in truth, it’s probably a reaction to having been raised in a pretty relaxed and
nurturing ‘right-on’ environment; excepting for the fact that I wasn’t ever allowed a Sindy doll or anything girly, was dressed in dungarees, ordered to climb trees and hence have
a fear of heights. To be fair, my parents made loads of mistakes but on the whole have been very supportive: they helped me with my homework, urged me to go on to university, to travel, to take
drugs and sleep around.
My sole attempt at rebellion was to become all religious in my early teens. I experienced a brief Audrey Hepburn nun stage, and had a crush on the male lead in
Jesus Christ Superstar
.
It lasted three months, coinciding with the arrival of Ollie, the new boy in class, who made me melt, blush and burst into hysteric peals of nervous laughter all at the same time.
He also never gave me a second glance, and went for the biggest breasts in the class, belonging to a girl who used to charge boys fifty pence for a peek at her nunny during break times. I bumped
into Ollie years later, on Oxford Street, wedged between sandwich boards, handing out leaflets. I scoffed at his lowly predicament and also ’cause he’d gone to seed and lost all his
hair. Knowing my luck he’d probably be my first real café customer.
‘Mum-meeeeee, Mum-meeeee.’
Max’s screeches had become almost sing-song. And I wondered how long could I feasibly ignore him before one of us snapped.
Minutes? Seconds?
But hark, what’s this?
The far corner fell silent.
Yes, respect to the man in the ice-cream van.
He must have caved in, taken pity on my poor deprived child.
As I brushed the sand off my clothes I could see Max licking a cone, sitting on one end of the small seesaw.
I went to join him.
‘Nice one, Maxy.’
‘Where were you?’
‘In the sandpit. Can I have a kiss?’
‘No way. Get off.’
He’s already sussed my fake-kiss manoeuvre where I swoop down in the pretence of love and go for a lick.
On the way back to the apartment my father’s voice resonated in my head as I prepared myself for one of his lectures.
At key moments throughout my early life, I would stand in his study and he’d say, ‘Issy, what are you going to do with your life?’
And I’d answer, ‘Well . . . I’d really like to travel.’ Meaning, ‘Can I have some money?’
Or, ‘Actually, I was thinking about . . .’ Meaning, ‘Can I have some money?’
Or, ‘There’s this amazing course, I just have to do it . . .’ Meaning, ‘Can I have some money?’
My father would contemplate my request, and wide-eyed I’d promise him I would finish the course this time, or take the job, or get my act together. He’d pontificate about how spoilt
I was. I’d then exploit his sense of guilt for leaving us and ruining our lives. Next he’d throw his eyes to the heavens, I’d recant, say I was joking, give him a winning smile,
and finally he’d write me a cheque.
There then occurred a change. A time when I did finish my degree, did get a job or a series of jobs and was getting my act together. Next up the Max arrived . . . and I have to say, becoming a
parent has forced me to reevaluate my relationship with my parents. The role of a grandparent can be a vital and wonderful thing and not just from the babysitting aspect. I begged my parents to
consider moving over to London. They both refused me.
‘It sickens me. It truly sickens me. To think after all that money spent on education, all those course taken, then this should happen. A waitress! A goddamn
waitress!’
In a rage, I continued on defiantly.
‘Can you imagine how I feel? It pains me. No, really. I know you expect more from me and I expect more from myself, but it’s hard with Max being so young and –’
My father laid down his
Financial Times
, peered over his reading spectacles and regarded me with an air of bemusement.
‘Issy, what are you talking about?’
‘I lost my job today, and then found another. I’m now a waitress.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘Well, it’s outrageous, that I should descend to this.’
‘Darling, it doesn’t matter. Max is your number-one priority.’
‘But you don’t understand . . . If only I’d suffered.’
‘I bumped into your upstairs neighbour today. He seems nice.’
‘Why did you make it so easy for me?’
‘Asked after you and Max.’
‘You’re not listening to me –’
‘Interesting young man.’
‘He has a girlfriend. OK! Look, all my life I just wanted to achieve something.’
‘You have. Max. He’s brilliant.’
‘Anyone can be a mother.’
‘Issy, stop beating yourself up. Who cares what you do?’
‘What?’
‘All I want is that you’re happy.’
‘Yeah, I suppose waitressing could be fun. I mean at the very least I’ll get to meet loads of caffeine addicts. And you get tips, though not a lot. Silvio is a bit of a wild card.
What’s this?’
‘Flowers. They were delivered about half an hour ago.’
A lavish bunch of flowers met my gaze, and when I say lavish this was not an understatement. My father had left them in the sink.
‘Couldn’t find any vases.’
Chief suspect was Stephan, and I ran to confirm my suspicions and examine further evidence of his lust. Aha, and there was a card peeking out.
‘GET WELL SOON.’
I ask you. So I opened the card only to be greeted with: ‘Best of luck in your new career. Trisha. Dizzy Issy, crazy babe, luv u lots, mis u alredy. Nads.’
She was currently going through a text-addiction phase.
‘Thanks for all your hard work, Issy. The Trap will sorely miss your warped sense of humour. Take care and see you soon. Charlie/Fiona. Lovely Issy, I do cheap rates for favoured
customers. Big kiss to Max. Maria. PS You have my number, use it.’
So that was it. It was over.
Finito, no going back.
‘Dad, I think I’ll go and get drunk, then curl up in a corner of self-pity and weep.’
‘OK, lovely. I’ll sit Maxy.’
Seeking solace from a bottle of red wine shared with Nadia, who answered my plea as a true friend should and hastened to my side at Steele’s. Soon enough I was infected
with good cheer, encouraged by Nadia’s optimistic outlook and general enthusiasm.
‘Nads, you’re the best friend I have.’
‘Best and only one, by the looks of things.’
‘Yeah.’ My sozzled brain reaching fermentation point. ‘So, superstar, wha’s goin on with the producer bloke, geezer?’
‘It’s over.’
The producer, so very keen on her musical talent, had turned out to be an arsehole supremo of the first order.
‘How could I have been so naive?’
‘You’re too trusting, you gotta understand. They are gonna get you.’
‘What?’
‘Human nature, it’s complex. What happened?’
Simon the schmoozer talked the talk and bigged her up. Oh but the promises he made, big deals in the offing, stardom awaiting, the glory to be had, but first. But first, let us retreat to my
studio, he slimed, that being his studio flat, and snort a little cocaine and swill a little bubbly.
‘What about the rest of the band?’ an innocent Nadia had enquired.
‘You’re too good for them. I see you more as a solo artist.’
‘You do?’
‘A diva. An oyster pearl just waiting to be opened.’
She wasn’t convinced but such was her desire to succeed.
And so Schmoozer lured her back to his pad and heaped compliments upon her. My, my, but such a talent. Here, have a CD or two or three.
‘There’s a track I’d really like you to listen to.’
Yawn, I’d been there, experienced saviours of the like, fallen prey to the manipulative male. How twenties, as in age.
‘Nads, Nads, I expected more from you, what with your streetwise sophistication.’
‘My what?’
So she’d ended up in his studio, freestyling over a track.
‘Nice, dig it, babe.’ And he transfixed by her youthful beauty. ‘Let’s have another drink?’
Intention being to ply her with booze, so she’d be all the more pliable, and loosen up those vocal cords.
‘He could have doped me. Put something in the drink.’
She was right. Actually she was lucky. You hear so much about about date rape these days. Who would notice a pill fizz in a glass of champagne?
He’d laid a hand upon her firm thigh and had then begun to stroke softly in a north-south direction.
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’
‘Come, come, Nadia. I’ve noted the way you’ve been looking at me.’
‘You what?’
The schmoozer for all his efforts was gobsmacked. Our Nadia landed him one in the mush. Did I forget to mention her kick-boxing passion? How remiss of me.
‘No one, but no one, takes the piss out of me,’ declared a drunken Nadia.
I wish I had her sense of bravery. I probably would have succumbed.
‘Jesus, I can’t believe you did that. What did he say?’
‘I didn’t hang around to find out.’
We neared the end of the bottle and ordered another. Yes, I was feeling a million times happier.
‘Nads, knowing your singing career has gone belly up has made me feel much better.’
‘Issy, you’re pathetic. But I know what you mean.’
We toasted our failures and future successes.
A week later Nads and I played the same scene, only this time at the Enterprise in Camden over whisky and Coke. She was doing her best to sort out my life.
‘Issy, something will happen, it always does. Trust me.’
Abracadabra and poof! Through the smoky haze I spotted Joe Jones, the comedian.
‘Oi!’
‘Hi.’
‘What you up to?’
‘In general, stagnating, specifically, getting pissed. How about you?’
‘Compering this night’s gig, actually.’
Joe promised to fix our maudlin grins so that they upward turned.
He proclaimed, ‘Ladies free before a certain bewitching hour.’
Up, up, we followed him up to a room above the bar. Found ourselves sitting in a makeshift auditorium. We counted six others, and took our seats.
‘Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, it is our pleasure to introduce to you . . . Fanny Lipz – she’ll crack you up.’
A ripple of applause ensued, then the spotlight turned on and a wee Scottish lassie bounded onstage, bellowing with much bravado.
‘Hi, I’m Fanny Lipz and I’ll crack you up.’
Sadly ’twas all hot air and Nadia slurred drunkenly, ‘Issy, you could do better than that.’
‘I could?’
‘Sure, you got more more laughs from your heckle.’
‘Open mike night, Thursdays,’ winked Joe Jones, in my direction.
I’m talking here about His Lordship, rather than my upstairs neighbour. The former amazes me and the latter has, over these past few weeks, become a morning regular at
the café, along with his acidic girlfriend.
So, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracle, my having repeatedly issued celestial missives, doesn’t the Almighty go and deliver.
Yep, under that grey cloud that was my life, there came a silver lining.
Morning shift in the café, Silvio in the kitchen, Max in nursery and my neighbour upstairs had just come for his usual strawberry smoothie followed by a latte.
‘Hey there, Scarface,’ I merrily chirruped, mindful of being extra nice to him because he gave good tips and also to annoy his girlfriend.
Never have I met such a whingey whiny cow. She complains constantly and is so obviously obsessed about her looks (which I’ll admit are good, notwithstanding the amount of dosh she splashes
on her face). However, my main gripe with her is her uncalled-for rudeness. She always addressed me in the most patronising of tones, looked straight through me, as if I was too lowly to register
on her status scale of humanity. Realised she was probably incredibly insecure, and viewed every other woman as a threat. So I obliged, switched to agitator mode and flirted with my neighbour.
Hence his nickname, though I have to suffer being called Nutter. All this flirting kind of embarrasses him though secretly I think he may even enjoy it.
Really don’t get what he sees in her, bar the superficial, that is.
But hey, that’s men for you.
So having prayed hard for some male interaction, the good Lord send that cheeky cherub my way. Bent forward, to clear my neighbour’s table, tush up and out, then all of a sudden thwang
went the bow, whirr went the arrow.
And I went, ‘Oww, that friggin’ well hurt. What the –’
See, I’d felt a pinching on my posterior. I spun around, ready to admonish the arsehole in none too polite terms.
‘In the name of God, what do you think you’re – Stephan?’
The very same, with a mischievous expression.
Stephan was back in the ’hood. Rascalian Stephan looking ever so hot, and bling-bling went my heart. ‘Hey ho, hey ho, it’s off to work I go.’
‘Any chance of getting a decent coffee round here?’
Oh the voice just so does it for me.
‘Maybe, though it pays to be sweet with the waitress.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re looking mighty fine.’ He grinned. ‘The eye thing cleared up real nice.’
‘Cheers, and what is it you’ll be wanting, cowboy?’