Picking up the phone, I made an appointment to look around the London Songwriting School, and then I called Kyle and left a message asking if he knew anyone who could lend me a guitar for a while. I was going to need to buy one, if I did carry on with this. In fact, I was going to need to get some work to fund all of this. But job and course combined would hopefully keep me out of mischief.
Inspired, I sat in front of my laptop, clicked on Spotify and played the Florence and the Machine song ‘What the Water Gave Me’. I loved Florence Welch – her eccentricity and whole aesthetic, her complex multi-layered sound. This song, I knew, was named after the Symbolism-rich Frida Kahlo painting but was actually about Virginia Woolf’s suicide. It was Gothic at heart and yet dancey. I stood up, started to wig out, letting myself go to the crash of cymbals, the fine interplay of the guitar and the harp, to Florence’s ecstatic lyrics. If I could create something like this, I thought, I might be happy.
The phone rang and I leapt towards it, thinking it was Kyle.
‘Hi!’ I shouted into the receiver. ‘I’ll just turn the music down.’
I closed my laptop and grabbed the phone again. ‘Sorry about that,’ I said.
‘No problem,’ came a voice I didn’t recognise, a female voice.
‘Rachel?’ I said. I didn’t know anyone else who might call me here.
‘Forgotten me already?’ continued the voice, all honeyed on the surface but with something darker, I felt, beneath it. I frowned.
‘Tatiana,’ went the voice. ‘From last night?’
‘Oh hi,’ I said, wondering if my voice came across to her as guarded as it did to my own ears. What the fuck do you want? is what really wanted to come out of my mouth.
‘Hi,’ she said, and this time there really was something quite sinister to her tone, which appeared to be mocking mine. ‘Listen, I was serious about helping you out while you’re here. Want to meet up for lunch? A friend’s just cancelled on me, so I’m at a loose end. It’s on me, of course.’
‘Thanks, but I should have explained that I’m not really planning to do any dancing while I’m here,’ I said. ‘I’m … I’m having a break.’
‘Oh? Then why not come out anyway, be one of the ladies who lunch?’
‘I’m afraid I’m a bit busy today. I’m actually … well, I’m researching a course I may apply for, and also I need to get a job to pay for it.’
‘What kind of a job? Maybe I can help. I’m very well connected.’
‘I haven’t really thought about it. I guess just waitressing, or maybe I’ll find something in a vintage clothes shop.’
Tatiana tsked. ‘Slave labour,’ she said. ‘You’ll get a pittance. I’m sure you can do better than that.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘my best friend is Lulu Hammonds – her name may be familiar to you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, her husband was a very well-known actor. Died twenty years ago.’
‘Right.’
‘Well, Lulu now owns a vintage boutique in Holland Park. It’s not so far from where you live, but it’s ultra upmarket – we’re talking antiques, really, rather than the kind of vintage you’ll find in Camden and god knows where else. I know she was looking for someone only last week, to take over for a few months while she goes on a buying spree in the States. And I know she’ll pay you much more than the kind of places you were thinking of. Her shop has real cachet – all the celebs go there, the hip ones. Kate and Sadie and even Stella sometimes. But it’s bohemian too –I can just see you there.’
I had to admit, it sounded a lot more tempting than the local Starbucks. Of course, I knew I could easily find a dancing job in one of the Soho clubs, and earn a very good wage once tips were factored in. But that was all part of the life I was trying to leave behind, if only temporarily. I enjoyed performing in many respects, but there were equally aspects that I wasn’t so happy about. This was my chance to find out what I wanted.
‘OK,’ I said, trying not to sound reluctant. I was interested in the job, but I wasn’t so thrilled that it would mean meeting up with Tatiana. I was uncomfortable with the thought of what I’d done with her boyfriend at Kyle’s the night before, of course, but I was also mistrustful of Tatiana herself. There was something calculating about her – more than a suggestion of ulterior motives to her apparent kindness.
‘Great,’ she said faux brightly. ‘What we could do is meet for lunch in Holland Park, and then drop by the boutique and see if Lulu is free for a chat? Or I might actually give her a call now, to check she hasn’t already got anyone and to let her know we’ll be calling in.’
‘Sounds good to me. Just let me know where and when.’
‘Well, how about Julie’s, at 1 p.m?’
‘Fine, I’ll see you there,’ I said, opening my laptop to find out the street name.
‘See you there,’ came Tatiana’s voice, and again it struck me that the honey of her tone masked something infinitely less sweet.
I was just about to put the phone down when she spoke again. ‘Oh Rochelle,’ she said, as if it were an afterthought. ‘Do make sure to dress up in your finest, won’t you?’
‘Sure,’ I said, but as I replaced the receiver I was already grimacing, wondering if I was doing the right thing.
***
I walked down to Holland Park, through the hipster throng of Notting Hill Gate itself. I was still getting my bearings, and in such fine weather, it was pleasant to take my time, to breathe in the spring air and ogle the buildings, which got increasingly impressive the further I descended the hill towards Holland Park. On either side of me rose white-fronted mansions bedecked by wrought-iron latticework, and fronted by immaculate gardens. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much they may cost, or who might earn the kind of money to buy and then maintain them.
I came to the street I needed, took a right off the main drag. Julie’s appeared on my left and I approached the front door a little self-consciously. I had dressed up, but not because Tatiana had virtually ordered me to. The truth was, I loved it, and I knew also that I would feel crappy if this shop she talked about was brimming with gorgeous antique clothing and accessories. There’s nothing worse than shopping somewhere lovely and then catching sight of yourself in a mirror and realising you’re looking daggy.
I’ve never been a jeans and a sweater type of person. From the earliest age I would sneak upstairs to raid my glamorous maternal grandmother’s wardrobe, to slip on her oversize shoes encrusted with diamanté, to swathe myself in her real-fur stoles. Then I’d sit down in front of her three-mirrored dressing table and dab at my face with her powder-puff before coating my mouth with a slick layer of her lipstick. This was the ’70s, and the colour I remember applying most often was a vibrant orange. I never did my eyes, but I’d dab at her little pots of navy and silver shadows with my fingers and rub them over the backs of my hands to test out the effects.
That carried on, but while I still love dressing up, I’m not swimming in money, and I party too hard, and sometimes I realise the effect I achieve is more Courtney Love on a bad day than offbeat starlet. Today, however, I was Courtney in Versace: a bit ruffled, but sexily so. I’d teased out my ringlets a bit, and my nude-beige dress, knee-length and covered with appliqué white, pink and scarlet flowers, was actually quite downplayed. My lipstick and eye make-up were correspondingly muted.
As I walked in, Tatiana gestured from a table. I had to admit it, she looked good, her platinum-blonde hair offset against an expensive white trouser suit. Silver bangles