Goldilocks
First chapters
(Needs a good edit)
Chapter one
“I know exactly where to go, how to get there and what to do. All I need is a chance. Give me a chance. Let me go.”
Marc shook his head again: “There are no more chances. There is nowhere to go, nothing to do. This, my dear, is it.”
This, of course, was part of the process. There would be obstructions on the path I had chosen and despite Marc’s overwhelming presence in my life, this one would be easy to dodge. This was his chance to prove me wrong, maybe if he let me go willingly, I wouldn’t have to go after all. But no.
I nodded.
“You’d better get used to it,” he said.
I nodded again and sighed compliantly.
Marc smiled: “You’ll see Goldi. It’s the best way. We’ll talk later. We can change things – make it easier.”
Marc was already dialling a number. He put the phone to his ear as he moved towards the door.
“On my way.” He laughed into the phone and waved at me with his spare arm. “Later,” he whispered.
I smiled at him and turned back to my screen. Tears welled. This was it. Time to go.
Marc was gone from my life, forever.
I spent a few minutes looking at the remnants of the stuff in my drawers. I checked my e-mail for the last time. I checked my new bank account on line – there was enough. I updated with a short post: “Gone away!” That would feed into my Facebook page within minutes. I cleared my browsing history, deleted the relevant tabs from the important spreadsheet and re-saved it before trashing it. It was done.
I went to my bedroom to put on my going-away clothes. This was me at the moment of departure. My feet were snug in a pair of brown faux-suede slip-on shoes from the vegetarian shoe shop, quite new. I’d ordered them in a different universe – a different version of me unpacked the box like a child opening a birthday present. That was three months earlier. I’d never worn them. Marc had taken one look at them and sneered.
“Ha!” He’d said. “They’re a bit dykey, aren’t they?” I shivered, remembering the long weeks since. I was glad I’d kept the shoes – they used to be my favourite kind, warm, comfortable, hard-wearing and nondescript.
I was wearing clean socks and underwear after the bath and shower I’d had earlier, freshly washed denim jeans, a black fair-trade, organic, cotton T shirt and the debit card for my new bank account in the name of Tina Jones. The extra seven hundred pounds in cash made a comforting impression through the pocket of the jeans.
I had considered taking my mobile phone, I’d get a new sim card of course, or my laptop – but no – a fresh start. I needed to be as clean as possible for this journey. All I would carry with me would be my potential. If it all screwed up there would be no one else, nothing else, to blame.
Me. Just me.
Just one more thing to do – sort the studio flat out.
The room was clean and empty of my possessions. All traces of Tina were gone too. I’d put her on the bus to London early that morning. When she got there, she would make her way to the flat in Paddington. The debit card to the other account would be waiting for her. She was happy – finally, a chance for her to start again. She had already stopped drinking and with good references cooked up by me, three months rent paid and five thousand pounds in the bank she’d be all right. So easy really, just a few grand and a bit of thought and voilà – a life is restarted.
The other Tina Jones – me, pushed the keys through the landlord’s letterbox with a note and two hundred quid: Thanks for everything, take this as my notice and a month’s rent. Tina Jones.
I walked across the road and on to the eastbound platform of Llanelli railway station. The train pulled up and I climbed aboard.
Less than two hours later and I was sitting on the bed in a small room in a small hotel on Cathedral Road in Cardiff. There wasn’t even a TV.
This was it. Just me. The beginning.
###
I’d kept five thousand for myself, Marc wouldn’t even notice, I’d filched the money away for over a year. I started filching a few weeks after what I came to know as the incident day – the day my perspective on the universe changed dramatically and irrevocably. Before Incident Day I had been, and this is not immodest, an attractive fit woman in my early thirties – a kind and thoughtful person too. I was no pushover but did like the attention I received, and that not just from men. Everyone liked me. When Marc came along I was at the peak of my womanly powers. Beautiful, confident, successful, independent – and caring. During the first year of our relationship I carried on sailing like that but gradually his presence grew and mine diminished.
I reckoned I had enough cash to keep me going in a decent way for two or three months – four or five if I was careful. I could take my time settling in and finding my way around, get a job of some sort – part time, cash in hand, would be best. I thought maybe I could make a few new friends, although that thought scared me so I reduced it to just getting to know a few people on a nodding basis; perhaps the inevitable interactions with the local shopkeepers and baristas would be friendship enough for me. The last thing I wanted was a proper relationship, even a proper friend; no obligations accepted or offered- that was my new motto.
I put my hands in my pockets and walked slowly up Cathedral Road, admiring the large terraced houses, some of which were curtained like family homes. I wondered if there was ever a time when there were enough affluent families in Cardiff to occupy them all. I ambled past the row of shops and admired the park across the road – it looked green and peaceful, just the place for a pensive stroll, and I was sure I’d be needing quite a few of those.
I turned and walked back past the shops, lingering at the newsagent’s window. There was a card announcing a lovely double bedroom in a quiet shared house in Kings Road, solid wooden floors and wood-burning stove. I hadn’t expected to even start looking, let alone find somewhere; perhaps it was the delicate slant of the handwriting or the smiley face drawn in the top left corner, but I started getting excited about the prospect of living in a house like that, and it was only £295 a month, all in. It even had free broadband – not that I had any intention of using that for a while.
The street was fairly busy with a variegated flush of people. I felt invisible – that was good. It was getting on for two o’clock and I was getting hungry. I decided to put the favourable thoughts about the room on hold and get myself something to eat. As it turned out, all I bought was a packet of plain crisps and a copy of the Echo from the newsagent’s, maybe the newspaper would give me some insight into the place I had decided to make my home patch, and maybe there would be a decent do-able crossword in it and now, with Marc gone, I might even be able to finish it myself.
A large black four wheel drive with tinted windows pulled up near me as I passed the launderette. A rear door opened and a young teenage boy came out as if he had been pushed, all arms and legs flailing. The door was pulled closed sharply from inside and the vehicle drifted off towards the main road. The boy was agitated and looked around nervously as if trying to get his bearings. I pretended to look at the notices in the post office window as I crunched into the last of the crisps. I went to the bin next to the phone box to get rid of the empty packet. All this time, the boy had not moved from his spot on the pavement and was still twisting and turning his head around, taking in his surroundings.
He looked out of place, there on that sunny September afternoon. The café bars overflowing with neat thirty-somethings and their tousled-haired offspring. He was dirty for one thing and his clothes had obviously seen better days.
I was staring I know, and I should have expected it, but I had a shock when he fixed his gaze on me and moved towards me.
“Missus.” He said, and even though his scruffy appearance and his shifty demeanour scared me, I felt as if I owed him something, even if it was just a kind word.
I smiled.
“You look like a nice lady,” he said.
I smiled again, and nodded.
“Will you help me?” It was only then that he became still, eyes wide, imploring, sadness turning his mouth down.
“Well, if I can.” I dropped the smile and waited with a serious, attentive face, steeling myself to say no. This wasn’t part of the plan at all.
He paused. I could see his eyes scanning my face, looking for some sign.
He shook his head. “Never mind.”
He turned and trotted away.
Where was he going? Did I feel relief? Regret? I needed a moment to think.
“Wait,” I shouted after him. He ignored me and disappeared around the corner. My instinct was to follow him, find out what his problems were, help him, feel good about myself for doing the right thing. But no, I was there for a reason, a place big enough to move around in anonymously. It was better not to get involved.
I made a half-hearted attempt to follow the boy, but to be honest, I walked so slowly that I was overtaken by a feisty old woman on a walking frame. I found myself outside the newsagent’s again and looked again at the cards in the window and re-read the notices. The shared house didn’t look so good any more, more people – more problems. There was another notice, a small card, the handwriting almost illegible, it was erratic, capital letters appearing halfway through words and minor misspellings, stuff like that. The gist of it was that there was a large studio flat on the first floor of a ‘lovly’ house in Plasturton Avenue. No deposit and no contract, just a month up front, a month at a time. It looked dodgy but the no questions asked nature of it appealed to me.
I didn’t know where Plasturton Avenue was but it sounded nice and it was probably close to where I was. At £375 a month, plus, I guessed, all bills, it was a lot, but, if I took it a month at a time it would be worth the risk.
The guy in the newsagent’s was happy to give me directions to Plasturton Avenue, in fact he was a bit too keen. I’d better learn the art of detached social interaction pretty quick or I’d be sucked into god knows what complexities of relationships.
The guy wrote the address on the back of a lottery slip and even offered to walk me round there. Of course I refused, I was in no rush anyway.
I bought a small bunch of bananas from the greengrocer’s and went back to the hotel. The owner of the hotel was sitting under the stairs at an old wooden desk, he looked up as I passed.
“Warm for September.”
I stopped and looked at him.
“Yes,” I said.
“Can get cold though, especially at night. You need to be kitted out, ready for anything.”
“Yes, I know.” I said.
“Are you from West Wales? Your accent. I’ve got a cousin, in Carmarthen. What part are you from?”
“Sorry,” I said, “I need the toilet.”
“Oh, OK.” He said.
I ran upstairs and into the toilet on the landing. I was surprised to find myself shaking and hyperventilating. This was no good. Why couldn’t people mind their own business? I started thinking about Marc and about all the reasons I’d left him, especially the big reason – my big secret, and I didn’t want to think about that.
I shook myself out of it. No. No baggage. A fresh start – just me. I would have to move quicker than I thought.
Chapter 2
I sat in my room for half an hour and ate a banana. It wasn’t too late to go back. It wasn’t even three o’clock and Marc wouldn’t be home until after six. I could just reverse my journey and be back at home in Llanelli before that. I could update my blog with some smiley faces and say that I’d been sleeping all day with a cold and had merely ‘gone away’ to dreamland. But no, Marc would already have read my Facebook page and would be pent up with questions and I knew he couldn’t be fobbed off with a lame dreamland story. No – it was done. That part of the plan had been executed.
So, what then? I had no luggage, no clothes except what I was wearing. I emptied my pockets on to the bed: my bank card, a recent electricity bill from the room in Llanelli, four hundred and eighty something pounds in cash, a bunch of bananas and the lottery slip with the address of the flat in Plasturton Avenue. I couldn’t stay in the hotel, not with the nosy, slightly scary, owner lurking about. What was on that bed was all I had, so I had to go with it.
Ten minutes later, after leaving the bananas and two twenty pound notes on the bed and sneaking out of the hotel while the owner was away from his desk, I was standing outside the house in Plasturton Avenue hoping that someone was in after knocking the door hard for a few minutes. At last the door opened and a small old man who looked like a worker bee stood before me.
He looked up at me.
“Sorry,” I said, “it’s about the flat, I saw it in the newsagent’s window.”
“Hold on.” He buzzed. He slammed the door in my face.
I held on and looked up and down the street – it was quiet and wide and full of mature trees. The door opened and the old man came out with a bunch of keys.
“Round the side.” He commanded, pushing past me.
I followed him down the path and onto the pavement. He led me around the side of the house where there was a high wrought-iron gate embedded in the wall. Beyond the gate, I could see a flight of steep metal stairs.
I followed him through the gate, up the stairs and into the flat. The kitchen was on the right behind a glass windowed partition. There were saucepans stacked neatly in a rack and an up to date calendar featuring wild birds on the wall. It had a fridge, a cooker and a good sized sink. Two spoons and two mugs set upside down rested on the draining board. It was clean and smelled fresh.
The old man led me past a small dining area with a white plastic covered table into a very large living room, sparsely but nicely furnished. He moved across to the wall, pulled down a double bed, turned, and looked at me.
“Is someone still living her?” I asked.
He shook his head. “It’s three-seven-five a month, cash up front, available now.”
I liked the place, there was a large bay window at the front that overlooked the avenue; there was plenty of light from that and the other windows along the side wall.
“What about bills?” I asked.
He shrugged: “It’s up to you.”
“Um, I was hoping for somewhere all in.”
He shook his head again.
I decided I really wanted the flat but wasn’t ready to start collecting bills under my own, assumed, name.
“Shame,” I said, “I like the place.”
He looked me up and down. “I suppose you could pay extra. How much were you thinking?”
“I don’t know – a hundred a month?”
He laughed: “The council tax is more than that.”
“One-fifty then?”
“There’s not much meat on you, you’ll probably need a lot of heating in the winter – I’ll want more than that, and then there’s the admin side of it all.”
“OK,” I said, “two hundred.”
He thought for a moment, moving his head around like a nodding dog, doing calculations. “OK, cash up front.”
“I can give you the rent now,” I said, “and the rest later or tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is best,” he said, “I don’t like to be distracted too much – I’m very busy.”
I counted out the £375 and gave it to him. He detached some keys from his key ring and handed them to me.
“That’s the gate. And those two are for the front door.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Just keep it clean, that’s all I ask. And keep it quiet too. You know where I am.”
Seconds later I was alone in my new home. I bolted the door and flopped on the bed. The mattress was firm and as good as new, the ceilings were high and ornate and of course there was the light. It didn’t feel real, it was too easy. What the hell had just happened? Anyway, here I was – time to explore my burrow.
I felt as if I had taken over someone else’s life. There was nothing obviously personal but the place was kitted out with all the essentials of life in a small flat, except food and clothing. There was cutlery in the kitchen drawers and crockery in the cupboards, all clean and good quality – at least four place settings. The saucepans, a tin opener, kettle, toaster, microwave, bottle opener, sieve and a colander. Fresh pens and pencils rested neatly on a virgin notebook in another drawer and the built in wardrobes next to the bed had clean bedlinen, quilts, and fresh plump up pillows. A short flight of stairs led down to a more than adequate shower room. There was more, lots more, but nothing that could be identified with an individual.
I had about a hundred in cash left, perhaps there was a supermarket nearby, there was bound to be a takeaway or two, but I fancied knocking something up in my new kitchen.
It was all too much for a moment so I lay on the bed again and controlled my breathing to calm myself down. It worked – within minutes I was chuckling to myself as the weight of my past life left me in chunks like the thawing snow used to fall from the roof of the barn back on the farm. Those were innocent times, playing with Harri, he was a wonderful brother. I felt the sadness rising up again – but it was good – I hadn’t thought about Harri like that for a good ten years. I usually just pushed him out of my mind the moment he appeared. This was good because it meant I had made the right decision – I was starting to face my demons, alone, and it had to be alone.
Re-energised I went shopping. By half past five I was back in the flat with two carrier bags. One contained a comfortable hip length fake leather jacket, a pair of skinny black jeans, a bright blue cotton cardigan and a peaked hat in navy blue corduroy. That lot came from a couple of charity shops – less than £10 all in. The other bag was filled with foodstuffs. I’d also bought myself a small DAB radio from Cash Converters for twelve quid. I plugged the radio into a socket in the dining area and set it on the table. It was already tuned, I wondered whether the original owner was sitting in the same area as me, lamenting the loss of their radio. I bet they only got a fiver for it – I wondered what they did with the fiver. I tried Radio 4 at first but soon got fed up with the babble of a chaotic world so turned it to Radio 3 for some inoffensive background as I prepared my supper.
By eight o’clock I was bored so decided to go for a walk to the Chapter Arts Centre; it was about ten minutes away, I’d passed it on my way back from shopping earlier – it looked interesting from the outside. I hoped I could find my way there and not get lost in the terraced side streets. I did get lost so had to ask for directions from a guy in an off licence. He was very nice.
I walked into Chapter and straight to the bar. An Asian looking guy with short hair and dark eyes smiled as I approached.
“Um,” I said. I scanned the pumps on the bar and the selection of drinks behind him. When I went out with Marc I usually ordered a glass of red, or sometimes a gin and tonic but before Marc I used to drink pints of lager. I settled on a pint of some nice looking Italian lager.
“Good choice.” He said as he poured it. “Are you doing something here?”
“Doing something?”
“You know, putting on an exhibition or a show, you look like a dancer.”
I blushed. “No, nothing like that. I just moved in . . . ” I’d already said too much. “Um, how much is that?” I asked.
“OK,” he shrugged, “just asking.”
I sat down at a table near the entrance and sipped my lager, watching all the people coming and going. There was a strange mixture of people of all ages and apparently from all social classes, but everyone had an air of purpose about them, as if they knew where they were going and what they wanted to do. I liked the place.
I must have been sitting there for at least half an hour, unconsciously sipping my lager and people-watching when the guy who had served me at the bar appeared. He pointed at my empty glass.
“Is that dead and gone?”
I shook myself out of my meditative state.
“Um, I suppose so.”
“It’s OK,” he said, “it doesn’t matter, you don’t have t drink anything.
I smiled. He was nice, a manly yet gentle sensitive presence.
A woman suddenly filled the space between us, she had bright red hair and thick-framed spectacles, dressed in bright green and orange and dripping with costume jewellery. A pretty olive-skinned face lurked behind the flamboyance. She kissed the guy on the cheek.
“How is it going?” He asked, kissing her back.
“Fabulous,” she said, “except Marie hasn’t turned up, again. I think she’s got to go.”
“Shame,” he said, “never mind, it’s not a huge part, there’s plenty of time.”
The woman looked directly at me: “Who are you?”
I blushed: “Um . . . ” I’d been practising for weeks but it was still difficult. “I’m . . . .”
“Can you act? I’m sure you can, you are beautiful.”
“Um.”
The guy laughed, shrugged and went back towards the bar. The woman shouted after him.
“Oi!”
He turned around and waited.
She pointed at my empty glass: “Two of them please.”
She blew him a kiss. He shook his head but went dutifully on his way.
“What do you do then?” She asked. Without waiting for an answer she said: “We’re doing a play – well sort of a play – we’ve only got a month left.”
“Oh.” I said.
“Uli over there wrote it,” she said pointing at the guy from the bar. “I’m directing it. It’s good, new, risky, but good. What’s your name? Should I know you? I’m Alys.”
“No, No, I’m Tina.” I said emphatically, I was already getting used to the idea. “My name is Tina.”
“So, Tina, can you act?”
“Um.”
Two young women wandered up to the table and sat down.
“That was cool,” said one. She was probably in her early twenties, pink on blonde hair, dressed neck to ankle to wrist in a light purple chiffon one-piece suit, open-toed sandals, toenails painted orange, holding a touch screen phone, her fingers flying over its surface. She put the phone to her ear.
The other girl sat down quietly. She was dressed in jeans and a plain white T Shirt, blonde hair tied back. No make up.
“No it wasn’t.” She said.
Alys looked at her quizzically.
The girl laughed: “It wasn’t cool, it was hot, hot, hot.”
She got up and started dancing.
The first girl was talking into her phone, something about staying on for a drink. Uli came back over from the bar with the two pints. The blonde girl grabbed him and gave him a kiss on the lips.
“No,” he said, “I’m broke after this.”
She shrugged and sat down again, turning to me: “Are you the new girl? You look the part. Can you act?”
“Um,” I said.
“Leave her alone Jenny.” Alys said, then with a stage whisper: “I’m working on it.”
Another three youngish women joined us, pushing another table up against ours.
It ended up with me just sitting there while this bunch of complete, yet interesting strangers, chatted amongst themselves. It was great, like a private performance.
Ten minutes later I had learned quite a lot about Jenny, Alys, Uli and Sally (the jeans and T Shirt girl), and a little about the other three girls, one of whom was called Lowri, although I wasn’t quite sure which one.
“OK girls, just another half hour or so should do it for tonight, let’s go back upstairs.” Alys announced.
Everyone started moving from their seats.
“Come on Tina,” Alys said to me, “at least come and observe, you’ve got nothing to lose.”
“I don’t know,” I was stalling, “maybe, in a bit, when I’ve finished this.” I said pointing at my half full glass of lager.
“OK, no pressure. Nice to meet you. We’re up the stairs in the foyer, just follow the grunts.” She laughed.
I smiled. It was an appealing prospect. My first night in Cardiff and already hooked up with a group of friends and something interesting to get involved with.
They bustled off enthusiastically. I stared at my drink for a few minutes. Uli came to the table and started collecting the empty glasses and coffee cups.
“Not up for it then? Can’t say I blame you, she can be a slave driver.”
“I don’t know.” I said.
“OK.” He said, sweeping up the last of the empty glasses, and he was gone.
I got up and walked towards the foyer. My emotions said, ‘go upstairs’, my head said ‘don’t get involved’ and my instinct took me straight past the stairs and quickly out of the building. It was the right thing to do.
I walked towards Cowbridge Road East remembering I’d seen a couple of takeaway food shops there earlier and I was hungry after the drinks. I could find myself back to Plasturton Avenue from there with or without a packet of chips. I walked slowly along the street, it wasn’t very busy. It looked a little less run down in the dark. I was just coming up to the junction with Kings Road when I noticed a group of people gathered on and near the pavement. I was wary, this could be a gang of drunks and who knew what they were capable of.
I was just about to turn around and find a different route home when I heard the sirens of an approaching ambulance and looked again at the group of people beside the road. I was still walking towards them and was close enough to see that there was what looked like someone lying sprawled over the pavement, legs dangling into the road. I drew closer and peeked through the other peoples’ shoulders.
It was him, the boy I’d seen outside the post office earlier, and he looked distinctly dead.
