Who Needs Vivienne Westwood? Chapter One

Who Needs Vivienne Westwood

1.

“Now I look underdressed.” He seemed genuinely dejected.

It had been ages since they’d been out to dinner. Not since Jools had quit her job.

She’d done her best to make the most of the occasion, donning a Monsoon shift dress in silk, with an Asian print and a smattering of silver sequins.

She’d dusted off her only pair of high heels, a charity shop find in the way of slightly scuffed, leather peep toes.

And while she was at it, why not a smear of Chanel lipstick, a throwaway from her fashionista aunt who prided herself on following the latest trends, makeup and nail polishes included. Much to Jools’ benefit.

She’d coated her lashes in a smidge of Maybelline waterproof mascara, a mascara she’d had for years and probably well past its sell-by date.

But all the same, she’d made an effort. A compliment might have been nice.

Was he really that vain?

“No you don’t… You look positively dashing.” She hid her disappointment.

For a second it seemed as if he might protest again, but the moment passed and he placed his hand on her leg, lifting her spirits a little. He turned the key in the ignition and lit a fag and they were off to the latest hotspot for eating out, the gentrified Richmond Hill, just a hop and a skip and a jump from the rundown side of town where Jools stayed in her mother’s old apartment, her mother now living abroad.

To be honest, Jools thrived on the so-called slum of her part of the hood, with its energetic diversity and the ladies of the night that haunted the street corners and the general riffraff, characters that they were. Besides that, she positively adored her mother’s art deco apartment with its spacious rooms and its delightful balcony and wooden floors.

When she’d first moved in, she’d spent months restoring all the wood to its former glory, freeing even windows that had been painted shut. But it was remarkable crossing Russell Road and arriving in this whole other world, practically on her doorstep, with its quaint cookie cutter cottages and bustling eateries.

Soon they arrived at Flava and its neon orange sign, which had been a favourite haunt of theirs once upon a time. Once upon a time when there was a steady cash flow.

Matt eased into a parking and stubbed his fag in the car’s ashtray.

A smiling hostess seated them at a table for two near the shopfront window and handed them a couple of menus.

“Your waitress will be with you shortly,” she assured them, that self-same customer service smile firmly in place.

“Hiya. My name is Jenny and I’ll be your waitress this evening. What can I get you to drink?”

Their waitress was a small creature dressed in head to toe black with a pen and notepad poised.

“I’ll have a glass of your house Chenin Blanc, please.”

When last had she drunk wine that wasn’t served out of a box?

“And I’ll have a Carling.”

And with that, Matt pulled his cellphone out of his pocket.

Jools had come to truly loathe that dastardly phone.

It seemed more and more that Matt was barely a minute without his beloved device. Scrolling through his social media notifications, or so she assumed, as always, Jools resigned herself to watching passersby passing the window.

At least she’d get a decent glass of wine.

“What are you going to have?” Jools tried tearing her boyfriend away from his Twitter account.

“I think I’m gonna go for the fillet.”

Jools scanned the menu.

Matt had assured her that he’d scored a promising contract that week and that they could afford the splurge.

He was a website designer and since she had become a freelance writer and editor, both suffered from unreliable incomes.

She’d been a teacher before.

At a nightmare of a school with a colossal bitch for a boss, showing up intermittently in one of her many sports cars so she could terrorise the staff, before zooming off again to plan a holiday to France while the staff and children didn’t have so much as toilet paper in their bathrooms.

Try being on your period with no toilet paper.

Jools had eventually resorted to bringing her own toilet rolls to class only to have one of her students steal it before the day was even half done.

She’d been sick to her stomach from sheer anxiety every single morning because of that place, not for once managing to keep her morning cup of coffee down.

If it hadn’t been for Ben she’d never have lasted as long as she had.

When her nerves felt beyond frazzled, it was always the music teacher, Ben, who’d stick his head into her classroom on an off-period and invite her to come and get a piece of fruit with him in the town square.

She wasn’t very partial to fruit, so she usually sipped from her flask of coffee instead, while Ben savoured a pear or a peach or whatever was seasonal from one of the many vendors along the main street.

He had a voice made for radio, deep and calming. And his approach to life was refreshingly optimistic and simple. Always.

And in the square they’d sit on a bench, him with his fruit and her with her coffee, amused by the streetwise pigeons that looked a little worse for wear and pretty gangster really. Real inner-city pigeons pecking at KFC bones and nothing like the wholesome pigeons she imagined in the upper class neighbourhoods with their pristine lawns and bird feeders.

But the end was inevitable.

One evening she’d cried and cried on her balcony into the wee hours until she could cry no more, then and there drawing up her resignation for the next day.

She hadn’t a cum laude in a masters in English Literature to waste away in some apocalyptic wasteland of a job that left her unfulfilled and frankly, miserable.

It was time to become a writer.

All the same, she’d had to whittle away at her finances to make the change, and even then it was tough going most months.

Not to mention the logistical nightmare that had become the salary her former boss still owed her for her month’s notice at the school.

Although it had been a good month for Matt, she still felt painfully money-conscious regarding the prices on the menu.

In the end, she resolved to opt for the budget-wise burger. Budget-wise. Always budget-wise. That was Jools. Budget-wise was always best. And you better believer it.

Their drinks were delivered and again their waitress readied her notepad for their food order.

“I’ll have the fillet, medium-rare.”

“And I’ll just take the classic burger with a side salad. Thanks.”

Jon, the owner and head chef, popped by their table shortly after their order.

“How’d you like my new signature gorgonzola sauce on your burger?”

They had once been locals and Jon knew them well enough.

Jools sometimes suspected that chefs tried to impress her because her father had been something of a legend in the culinary circles in town before he’d left for England.

“Ooh, I’d love that. Thanks, Jon.” And the giant of a man was off to work his magic in the kitchen, leaving Jools yet again stranded with a man and a phone.

On the plus, she had a drink for people watching, grateful for the smaller things.

She took a sip.

Mmmm… Simply glorious...

Back at home, Jools scrubbed her face clean with a bar of soap and changed into her pyjamas. Emerging from the bedroom into the lounge, she put the telly on, and connected the laptop so they could watch Netflix. Another super hero series. Meanwhile, Matt was going over the slip from the restaurant.

“Did you have two glasses of wine?”

“Yes.”

She felt she’d been curter than she’d intended. But he’d made her feel for a fleeting second like a schoolgirl caught out for bunking a class and she resented him for that. She steadied herself, her hackles ever so slightly raised.

“Oh. OK.”

Maybe he’d have noticed if he hadn’t been on his blinking phone.

And the ‘oh’ was a little loaded.

He had a cheap streak to him that was perhaps one of her least favourite qualities in him, herself tending to be more than generous, even to a fault, when she had the means.

Tucking the slip back into his wallet, out came the phone, predictable as ever. This time playing Candy Crush while Jools sat fastened to the telly screen pretending it didn’t bother her, when in truth it was setting her teeth on edge. They’d barely spoken a word at Flava. Now this. Sometimes she’d never felt so lonely. With a someone in her life.

How she longed for the days when they’d first met up…. Those earlier weeks of dating, where they’d sat on her balcony drinking from a box of dry red, playing gin rummy and laughing and talking the night away. How much it had all changed. Even in the mornings, over their first cup of coffee, before he left for his place, when she’d put her pride aside and beg for a little quality time while he’d vehemently deny that he’d been on Facebook, like she hadn’t seen it, like she was bloody blind.

She turned her attention yet again to the telly and attempted to give a rat’s arse about Daredevil and his exploits and perils but found herself feeling increasingly irritated with Matt so glaringly engrossed on his phone. Her mind began to drift. Perhaps she’d ensnared him in this relationship.

Theirs had been a very casual beginning, with him entertaining dates with other women, while she had remained faithful. Finally, another man had come into her life, and she’d decided to explore her own prospects. Matt hadn’t liked this.

Not.

One.

Bit.

Within a week he’d proposed that they ‘go steady’.

But it had been nigh on two years now and he still hadn’t uttered the words ‘I love you.’

He told her he was in the throes of a depression, and his emotions felt dulled and he didn’t want to tell her and not entirely feel he meant it.

She knew depression. Intimately. She’d been diagnosed with bipolar disorder three years back and after a manic high, she had plummeted fast, struck down by a devastating depression for six months while trying to finish her masters. Barely able to wash the dishes or brush her teeth or wash her hair, she’d remained in bed most days, tirelessly dedicating herself to her masters as something she could at least sink her teeth into while it felt all else around her was crumbling.

So she wasn’t one to be glib about depression.

Never.

But it sometimes felt as though Matt’s depression was all too convenient when he needed it to excuse his actions.

His inability to do anything that included her circle of friends.

His inability to help with basic chores around the apartment where he spent most of his time, living as he did with his mother and aunt.

Their sex life which had recently nosedived into sheer oblivion.

He never initiated anymore and she had simply grown exhausted of inevitably being the one to try and light that particular fire.

She still loved him, she supposed, the familiarity of him.

Of their relationship.

But she wasn’t happy.

Not really.

Urgh.

Jools got up to go to the drinks trolley in the lounge which had once been an old surgical table. She poured herself a veritable goblet of wine. When in doubt, have a drink. Perhaps that would relax her and take her mind off things. Oblivious, Matt remained glued to Candy Crush.

Suddenly Poh surfaced.

At least Matt had got that right.

For her birthday the year before they’d gone to the local animal shelter in the hopes of finding a kitten in need of a good home.

This tiny ball of fluff had climbed the front gate of the enclosure for kittens and was giving it her all, screeching as loud as her little lungs would let her. Jools knew instantly that the poor, desperate thing was The One.

A scruff as a babe, Poh had grown into a handsome Siamese cross with gorgeous eyes as blue as a cloudless sky.

The task of naming being a serious one in Jools’ books, she’d named the feline after her much-loved Masterchef contestant, Poh Ling Yeow.

“Ah, come here, my baby.” Jools cooed and leant over, picking up the cat and setting her upon her lap, stroking Poh with one hand while cradling her glass of wine with the other. At least Poh adored her.

Thank goodness for the few creature comforts of home, Jools thought to herself, mellowing slightly and returning to the show on the telly where Daredevil was beating the crap out of some serious low-lifes.

Again.

Her boyfriend and his stupid Candy Crush be damned.

Wine and a cat could make up for his shortfalls for now.

She was determined to be contented tonight.

All the same, an itch was building, and even she knew that it would only be a matter of time until she could bear it no longer and simply had to, just had to, give it a scratch...

And isn’t that just the trouble with itches?