Welcome To Wherever You Are (11 page)

‘Come here!’

Denise tutted and reluctantly made her way towards her daughter’s excited voice. ‘What are you doing in here? Kevin’s going to—’

‘Read this!’

Denise removed her glasses from her tracksuit pocket and squinted at the computer screen.

‘I’m going to meet Zak!’ squealed Ruth, ‘I’m going to meet him!’

Her mother removed her glasses, raised her eyebrows and let out a long breath.

‘I guess you didn’t have to send a photo to win,’ she mumbled rhetorically, and left her daughter to celebrate alone.

TODAY

‘I’m so jealous,’ admitted Nicole. ‘You’re so lucky!’

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Ruth. ‘I’m going to take my scrapbooks to show him what a big fan I am.’

‘Maybe that’s not the best idea,’ said Nicole hesitantly. ‘You don’t want him to think you’re a stalker.’

‘Oh, right,’ replied Ruth, who hadn’t considered that. ‘How about this then?’

She went back into the suitcase and pulled out a half-complete jumper she’d been knitting, which hung by the needles. ‘It’s not finished yet, but see? It’s Zak’s face.’

Nicole was unsure of how to react to the crude effigy – Zak’s eyes faced in opposite directions and he had a mouth like Batman’s nemesis, The Joker. But she didn’t want to hurt Ruth’s feelings.

‘I’m sure he’ll love it,’ assured Nicole, and a huge grin spread across Ruth’s face.

DAY THREE

Tommy examined the brown crusts framing two slices of white bread, and used his knife to chip away circles of blue mouldy spores.

He reached for a variety pack of store-brand cornflakes, pulled open the plastic packing and poured them between the slices to make a sandwich. It tasted just as he guessed it might, like two things that can sit together comfortably on the same table but shouldn’t be combined into one dish. And one cooked meal a night courtesy of the hostel didn’t give him enough fuel to keep going throughout the day. He wondered how supermodels managed it.

‘Living the high life eh, Tommy-boy?’ began Peyk as he wandered in with Savannah, and slouched across the table. His arm still tingled from his electric shock.

‘The homeless eat better than I do,’ Tommy replied, taking another mouthful of his arid snack. ‘I’m broke. I need a job as my work here only covers my bed and board and I’m going to be on my way home soon.’

‘I can give you some cash if you need it, sweetie?’ offered Savannah.

‘Thanks, Sav, but I need some regular work.’

‘I know someone who might be able to help you,’ added Peyk.

Tommy eyed him up suspiciously. ‘This isn’t going to be something dodgy that’ll land me in jail, is it?’

‘Trust your Uncle Peyk, Tommy-boy, this job has your name written all over it,’ he replied, failing to hide his smirk.

As a rule, Ruth and mirrors were not a compatible match.

It wasn’t that she’d deceived herself into believing she was Miranda Kerr and was disillusioned by the reality of her appearance; it was more the empty feeling that grew when she saw the same thing as everyone else.

But that night was an exception.

Instead of throwing on a pair of joggers and a baggy T-shirt like she did most days, Ruth spent the morning rigorously working on her outfit, shaving her legs, straightening her hair, and even slapping on make-up for the first time that year. She was so delighted with the results that she didn’t register the sniggers greeting her when she entered the hostel lounge to find Nicole.

Eric was the first to notice her, his eyes working their way up from toes that reminded him of cocktail sausages stuffed into too-small high-heel shoes, her red tights, orange pinafore dress, green shawl and a plastic lily tucked behind her hair.

‘What the actual fuck?’ he mouthed at Nicole, who was equally as surprised, but pinched his forearm before he vocalised his thoughts.

‘Wow, Ruth, look at you!’ began Nicole supportively, and glared around the room to stop the handful of other hostellers from laughing.

‘It’s a designer dress,’ Ruth smiled.

‘By who, Picasso?’ asked Eric.

‘No, Topshop,’ replied Ruth.

‘You look beautiful,’ continued Nicole.

‘She looks like a traffic light,’ whispered Eric, so Nicole pinched him harder.

She stood up to give Ruth a hug. ‘Go and have a fantastic time and tell me all about it when you get back.’

Ruth smiled and swung an unsuitably large handbag over her shoulder, clipping Tommy’s face as he entered the lounge.

‘You’re free, Willy!’ waved Eric behind Ruth’s back.

‘Where’s she heading?’ asked Tommy, cringing.

‘For disappointment,’ replied Eric, and moved his arm to avoid Nicole’s next pinch.

*

It took forty-five minutes for Ruth to traipse from Venice Beach to the Viceroy Hotel in Santa Monica.

At 1.30 p.m. the sun was at its harshest and she struggled with the rising heat as she walked along the boardwalk in heels that were twice as hard work as her sneakers. Occasionally, she’d stop and rub her ankles where the skin began to chafe.

Ruth took a paper tissue from her handbag and mopped her wet brow, but as she put it back, one of the false fingernails she’d attached with Pritt Stick caught the clasp and fell somewhere in the sand. She hoped Zak wouldn’t notice.

With her destination in sight, Ruth made her way up a slope towards Ocean Avenue and spotted the hotel. Once inside, the air conditioning was like manna from heaven. Muffled music came from behind the closed doors of the Cameo bar as a pianist played classical songs she didn’t recognise. She turned her head to search for a restaurant called Cast, and smiled as she caught a glimpse of herself in one of the many framed mirrors behind the lobby’s marble reception desk. She removed an email printout from her handbag and reread it.

Sender:
[email protected]

Dear Ruth,

Just to confirm, Zak Stanley will meet you for lunch at 2 p.m. at Cast in the Viceroy Hotel, Santa Monica. A table has been booked in your name and Zak will be there to welcome you. He requests no photographs be taken during your meal. Zak looks forward to meeting you.

Yours,

Paul Mollegh, manager.

Ruth clutched the email to her chest and beamed, unaware the sweat her dress had absorbed the paper’s ink and left a light stain. She steeled herself, took deep, nervous breaths and strode towards the dining room’s entrance.

The
maître d’
, accustomed to receiving guests of a certain calibre at Santa Monica’s most prestigious of eateries, consulted a list of bookings and was surprised to find Ruth’s name.

‘You’re the first of your party to arrive, Madam,’ he began in a hybrid French/American accent.

‘Oh, okay,’ Ruth replied, checking her watch and realising she was a quarter of an hour early. ‘I’m having lunch with Zak Stanley.’ Her eyes lit up as she showed him the email.

‘How lovely for you,’ he replied, wondering if the movie star he’d seated two nights earlier was now involved in charity work.

Once he’d led her to a private dining booth overlooking the ocean, Ruth sat at her table, and when she thought nobody was looking, took an embossed napkin and mopped her armpits. Meanwhile, silent, derisive chuckles came from the waiters, tipped off by the
maître d’
, rubbernecking from the kitchen’s porthole window.

A hundred times Ruth had attempted to rehearse what she’d say when Zak arrived, but right then, right there, her mind was a blank. She wanted to tell him she’d seen every one of the ten films he’d made since his transition from teen actor to Hollywood star. She wanted to explain how she’d used his picture from
About the Two of Us
as her phone screensaver before she dropped it in the toilet. She wanted him to know that she loved him for who he was and not because of his fame or his money. And how, if given a chance, she wanted them to be friends. In reality, she wanted far more than that, but that would happen in due time, she told herself.

Ruth practiced her smile over and over again, readjusted her top, ordered a Diet Coke, and waited.

‘Hotdog and a lemonade, just one dollar,’ began Tommy, talking through a white plastic megaphone.

Self-consciously he stood on an upturned plastic box by the boardwalk as passing tourists stared at him and the mobile food trailer behind him. Inside, José, the heavily tattooed and recently paroled chef, yawned and watched a film he’d downloaded on his mobile phone.

‘Louder, I need you to be louder,’ barked Mr Fiaca in his strong Cypriot accent, waving his short stubby arms from the side of his circular frame.

‘Hotdog and a lemonade, just one dollar,’ Tommy repeated, more forcefully. Quietly he cursed Peyk for getting him a trial on a fast food stand, even though he was desperate for work.

‘No, no, no! Project your voice, and do the English accent more. We’re not selling fast food; we’re selling a lifestyle.’

‘You’re selling entrails in a bap,’ Tommy muttered to himself and wondered what his brothers would think if they saw how low he’d stooped to make a living.

‘Hotdog and a lemonade, just one dollar!’ yelled Tommy, creating loud, grating microphone feedback.

‘Yes!’ said Mr Fiaca triumphantly. ‘Your uniform is round the back.’

Tommy frowned. ‘Uniform?’

Any remaining shred of dignity Tommy had evaporated when, ten minutes later, he mounted his box, enclosed in a man-sized hotdog costume, complete with mustard coloured hat and bap-shaped booties.

‘Hotdog and a lemonade, just one dollar,’ he muttered, defeated so soon.

‘Louder!’ bellowed Mr Fiaca’s voice from behind the counter.

The only words Tommy heard from Matty and Declan as they passed him were ‘fecking’ and ‘eejit’ as they doubled up in laughter.

Ruth waited.

And waited.

And then waited some more.

When Zak was twenty minutes late, she blamed it on the heavy Friday lunchtime traffic as Santa Monica’s natives headed out of town for the weekend. When her watch read 2.45 p.m., she began nibbling at the skin around her thumbs and told herself Zak was probably struggling to find a parking space.

Even after an hour and half, Ruth was still convinced Zak wouldn’t let her down. But by 4.20 p.m., even the once-snooty waiters were beginning to gaze at her sympathetically, as she became the last remaining lunchtime customer in the restaurant.

‘May I get you anything else, Madam?’ the
maître d’
asked as Ruth stood up.

‘No, thank you,’ she replied, her voice wobbling, and she offered a less than convincing smile. She removed a $20 bill from her purse to pay for her drinks, but the
maître d’
shook his head and gave her her money back, holding her hand for a moment.

Ruth’s face began to crumple so she took a deep breath, straightened the hem of her pinafore, and dropped her head to hide the tears rolling down her face.

As night fell, the snoring emanating from the bunk above Tommy’s bed went on unabated for what felt like an eternity.

He had no problem falling asleep to the sound of his roommates chatting, opening and closing doors or using the bathroom. But constant repetition of the same sound, like a ticking alarm clock or a snorer, left him at the end of his tether.

He could have moved into a private room weeks earlier but he chose the company of strangers over complete silence because silent nights were no friend of Tommy’s. They gave him the time to think about his life, and more specifically, the past. And he’d had enough silence to last him a lifetime.

TWO YEARS EARLIER – NORTHAMPTON, ENGLAND

Tommy’s parents sat on opposite sides of the room – his mother in an armchair and his father at the dining room table. Neither of them spoke.

His father scoured the table covered in ‘deepest sympathy’ cards and vases of flowers. His mother had yet to remove her hat, her greying curls hanging loosely over her ears. She remained transfixed by two Union Jack flags neatly folded on the coffee table, removed earlier that afternoon by crematorium staff after the purple curtains swathed the matching coffins. Her husband hadn’t opened a button on his uniform.

Trays of sandwiches, clumps of torn tin foil and partially empty glasses were scattered across occasional tables, the carpet and fireplace. In the hallway, Tommy bade farewell to the wake’s last few guests and shut the front door behind them. He rubbed at his eyes, still sore after endless days of tears. He leaned on the wall and readjusted his crutches, took a deep breath, and hobbled slowly back into the lounge.