Interesting Developments in the High Street

This is the story of a murderous shopkeeper plying his trade on a dying high street somewhere in South London.

Milton’s it reads over the door.

Milton’s for all your soft furnishing needs

The original livery of chocolate brown and cream hasn’t survived well.

The cream is discoloured, the brown is dull and much of it is peeling.

The window, a large of pane of smeared glass is daubed with whitener.

Sheets from only £14.99...pillow cases £1.99...top quality...best prices!!

Through it, you can see a pile of duvets in plastic wrappings, a stripped pine, badly varnished shelf full of variously coloured sheets and a stack of tired, sun bleached cushions.

Acting as a backdrop to this dispiriting display is a large blue peg board to which is pinned a multi-patterned but faded cotton bedspread.

There’s a vase too, bottom right hand corner, swamp green and full of bleached dried flowers. It strikes you that this is a window in which nothing lives, nothing breathes, it just gawps and you gawp back.

Now, look to your left and you’ll see, slightly recessed, a tarnished metal door. This is not a friendly door. It has a sharp cornered handle that cuts into your hand on contact and like the window, its reinforced glass is also smeared. Behind the smears however, dangles a cardboard sign denoting the hours of trading. There’s also a shabby advertising decal featuring an out of date credit card.

Got the picture?

Okay, so now let’s go inside.

Ping!

You step over the coconut doormat that reads ‘elcome’ - the W having long been scuffed away – and onto the grey cord carpet which you notice is worn in places and punctuated by slivers of cotton, detritus from shoes and tit bits of rubbish blown in from the street.

Ahead of you, on the back wall you see more stripped pine shelving, crammed higgledy-piggledy with sofa throws in torn plastic wrappings, sheets, towels and tablecloths. It’s not a display that invites your further attention so you turn to your left where there are even more shelves, this time running along the side wall. These hold cushions, sponge fillers and even more bedspreads, several of which are out of their packets so you can pick them up and feel them if you wish. Otherwise there’s not much here to entertain you either.

So, now turn round and face the back of the tired blue pegboard you saw from the window. We’ll forget the right hand side of the shop for the moment because that is where the counter is and behind the counter...well, we’ll come to that in a moment.

Right, so you’re now looking back down to where you just came in. So, now look off to your left a little and you’ll see the second most interesting thing in this shop, a beautiful mannequin.

She’s a real stunner.

Rita Hayworth’s hair and Betty Grable legs; she has eyes like blue pools, lips reddened to the point of bursting, a perfect button nose and a sultry smile pouting enough to drag you off to plastic honeymoon heaven. She’s an auburn doll with ‘grab me’ breasts barely covered by a pink satin top and plunging neck line. She seems to be reaching out to you and you’re almost tempted until you see, hanging from her delicate fingers, a card reading: Milton’s for all your soft furnishing needs.

Okay, so now re-focus, tear your eyes away from honeymoon heaven and look to your right and there you’ll see the shop counter. It’s an old worktop of polished oak that runs nearly the length of the wall and boasts an old fashioned till with a lever keyboard and a pop up numerical display. Your view is obscured however because on both sides of this antiquated glory lie bundles of brown paper and plastic wrappings, spilling from an orange sack labelled: Jack in a Box.

Look up now at the back wall behind the counter and you’ll see hanging down, over a high rail, a row of cotton bedspreads overlapping each other in dull reds, greens, browns and blues. The hand written, yellow card attached, reads:

Doubles only £14.99… Singles only £9.99100% cotton....big value for a small price - Cushins to match

Okay? Right, now pay attention to this, in front of this back drop but behind the counter fusses a man talking to himself. Fifty? Could be fifty-five? An electronic cigarette pokes out from under his thin ginger moustache. He looks neither happy nor healthy as he rips away at an orange plastic sack. He’s pale, balding and going quietly mad. He’s the hero of our story. Once I’ve finished this brief introduction he’ll take over. His first words will be: ‘When I’m in the shop not serving customers...’

He’s called Frank, Frank Milton.

Look out for him because he’s illusioned and dangerous.

That’s it then, you’ve seen the shop from the inside and now you’re leaving. You take one last look around to ensure you’ve missed nothing, walk back past the counter, pull open the unfriendly metal door, step over the ’elcome mat and you’re back out on the street where the air, by comparison, smells almost fresh.

You’re new to the area, so as you turn to get your bearings you notice that you’re at the end of what was once, probably, a shopping parade. To the left of Milton’s there’s a small side road in which buses are parked up. To the right there’s a charity shop: Cancure...providing much needed funds for the terminally ill.

Next to this is Den’s Diner, a cafe come restaurant kitted out in oily yellow and red signage. Further down still, you can see another side road, a parking meter, a derelict shop and in the distance, at the bottom of the hill near the junction, WH Smiths, Macdonalds and a Poundshop. It’s busy down there, you can see it’s busy down there but then you realise that being busy down there doesn’t necessarily translate into being busy up here because up here there’s really isn’t anything to get busy about.

You won’t know it of course but ten years ago up here was buzzing. For the record, there had been a baker, a greengrocer, a butcher, two bookies, a travel agent, a tobacconist, a pet shop, two boutiques, a record shop, a TV rental shop and a convenience store but one by one, over the years, they’ve all gone belly-up taking their customers with them. So now, you’re out on a limb with Milton’s, Cancure and Den’s Diner. A limb, incidentally that was all but severed last year by a red route scheme which forbade parking anywhere in the vicinity. It was only with the persistence of our hero, his neighbours and representations from The Guild, that the council was persuaded to allow one twenty minute parking bay but it had to service all three establishments. However, so long had it taken them to come to a decision that by the time they had the customers had already moved on, so the need for the bay was, to all intents and purposes, removed.

Anyway, you’re now outside Milton’s.

It’s cold and about to rain and you want to go home to your children, your wife, your partner, your dog. You turn away and eye the buses parked up the side street but they’re going nowhere and you want to go now. You really, really want to go now. It’s so depressing. No, it’s way beyond d-pressing, it’s xy and z-pressing, so, where’s the nearest tube, taxi rank, way out of here?

“Where is the way out of here?”

′When I’m in my shop not serving customers I sometimes stand in the window and watch people pass by. Some think I’m mad. I know they think I’m mad by the look they give me. You know that look. That combination of embarrassment, anger and pity. Their eyebrows sort of go up, their mouths drop and they change colour, not much but just enough to illustrate their discomfort. It’s the sort of look that most sane people give most mad people in first encountering them. I’m not mad though, not me.

I sometimes wish I was though. I’d love to be mad then I’d have an excuse for thinking the thoughts I do...and I do think thoughts. I could get arrested for the thoughts I think, not to mention my plans...oh my wicked, wicked plans.

Not that they care of course. Why should they care? I’m just a shopkeeper in a shop they avoid. They never used to avoid it though, not when my wife was here, my ex-wife, my ‘sex with another man’ wife. When she was here, they’d come in alright, couldn’t get rid of them. She was good you see, a lying unfaithful bitch but good. She had the knack. She knew what to buy. She knew what would sell and almost more importantly she knew how to display it. But me? I haven’t a clue.

I do my best mind and sometimes I think I do quite well. For example, some cushions I ordered from Jack in a Box, arrived today. White X’s and O’s on a black satin background. Very modern. Very now. They should sell alright. You can arrange them as you wish. Spell all sorts of things: OX, OXO, XOOOOX, OOOOOXXOOOOO, all sorts...hours of fun arranging and re-arranging. I’m generally not a cushion man myself, ‘cushions aren’t I ’ if you get my drift. Well, after what my wife did you can hardly blame me, but these, these just have something about them. If they go well I might order more stuff from Jack in a Box, zany stuff, funky stuff, fun stuff, just like me stuff.

Others think I’m counting, I’m sure of it because unless I’m looking directly at them their eyes follow mine to see what I’m looking at. Cars? Buses? Other passers-by?

I’m sure they think I’m counting but I’m not. Why would I want to count? Counting is the last thing on my mind. I’m just looking. I’m on a busy road see, the South Circular, running down from Wandsworth Common towards Clapham Junction, always plenty of passing traffic and things of interest to look at. No, no I’m not counting, that would be too depressing. All those wallets, all those purses, all that business slipping past my window.

Why on earth would I want to count it?

When I’m out with The Guild, I hate it when other traders start talking figures. I don’t want to know how well others are doing. I never tell anyone. Closed book me. Not that it makes much difference, they all seem to know that I’m struggling a bit but I’m not the only one. At least I still do some business, just not enough to allow me any leeway. If I stay open seven days a week, employ no staff and live like a third world rat I can just about get by although increasingly it’s getting more difficult and that’s why I’m advertising for a lodger. I’ve got a spare room, see. It’s my studio, where I paint. Don’t want to rent it, don’t want to rent it at all but needs must when the devil drives...isn’t that what they say?

Interesting developments in the high street

I’ve just had somebody in. Didn’t buy anything. Just looked around. Not a word, nothing. Up, down and out again. Pointless, fuckin’ pointless. There they are now. I can see them outside looking around for a bus, a taxi, a tube, a way out of here.

’Eh, buddy, don’t you know? There ain’t no way out of here, no way out at all!

Okay, so maybe I do, in a perverse sort of way, quite enjoy some days these days.

Maybe I quite enjoy Saturdays because on Saturdays more people pass my window than on any other day.

I like it that they don’t come in.

I like it that they look at me and decide to move on.

I like it that they choose to shop somewhere else.

Unfortunately some, a few, a very few don’t and I have to serve them.

If I’m lucky of course I won’t have what they want... wrong colour, wrong size...but if I do have what they want, then more often than not they’ll decide they don’t want it after all and want something else entirely, something I haven’t got and never will get because that’s just the way some people are...time wasters, no more than that, life wasters!

Of course some people I don’t serve at all. When they come in, I just ignore them. I can see they’re bemused, confused, can’t cope. They’re sad saps whose inner dialogue goes something like ‘oooooo’ (like a whole row of my funky new cushions) although their ‘oooooo’ isn’t quite as elegant. Their ‘oooooo’ is the ‘ooooooo’ as in moo, full of anger, ignorance and fear. I don’t serve them. To serve them would upset me and I’m upset quite enough already, what with my wife and everything.

You probably think I’m disturbed. I sometimes think I’m disturbed but I’m not, not really. I just run my shop, dream my dreams and take whatever life chooses to empty on me. I work alone, I live alone, I am alone apart from Veronica; that’s what I call her, Veronica, my lovely companion. She’s beautiful and I dress her beautifully. My wife used to get so jealous. Can you believe that? My wife getting the hump over a lump of plastic I call Veronica...fuckin’ Aida!

I think it’s one of the reasons she ran off with that bloke, that cushion salesman. I think she thought I was being unfaithful.

Unfaithful with a tube plastic?

She was sick my wife, sicker than sick...dead sick!

You’re welcome to her mate. Welcome to my wife. I’m sure anything she can do to make your life more pleasant...she won’t.

Do you know what she used to do? It hardly bares thinking about now but I’ll tell you anyway. When we were younger and our marriage was a little bit fresher she used to put me off sex.

She said she didn’t like sex, not with me anyway. Sex was always a problem. I’d want it, she wouldn’t. Okay, in the early days she’d tolerate it. She’d lie there as stiff as my cock and wait until I’d come.

‘Have you finished yet?’ She’d ask as I’d huff and puff into her stony face.

‘Have you finished yet?’ I can still hear her saying it. When I had finished, she’d simply tut, roll over and go to sleep. That was it. That was our sex life in the early days. ‘Have you finished yet?’ Once a week.

Later, as we both grimly hung on to whatever it was we didn’t have, she decided that once a week was too often. So, do you know what she did the moment she suspected I might feel a little randy? She’d leave her knickers out on top of the washing, sounds sexy? Not my wife’s knickers because they were always heavily shit stained and she meant for me to see them.

Now, I know some blokes get off on the thought of shit stained knickers but not me. Women and shit, as far as I’m concerned, are a bit of a turn-off but that wasn’t the end of it, oh no, because if I missed the knickers which I seldom did but it happened and I attempted to cuddle up to her, she’d fart and stink the bed out. Now, that’s another upstreamer for me, women farting, does my cock in … the very thought of it.

So I eventually learnt not to go near her.

What was the name of that dog or is it the name of the psychiatrist?

You know the one, Pavlov. That’s right, Pavlov’s dog. Well that was me. I was that dog, trained through conditioned response not to do certain things, like having an erection in sight of my wife.

So, that’s where Veronica comes in. Veronica doesn’t shit or fart and she never says no, so that’s why, when the moon shines through my window late at night and the street is empty, I sometimes waltz her round the shop to the soundtrack of my favourite musical.

Of course, she not like a real woman. She’s a bit stiff, she doesn’t kiss and she’s a bit rough around the arse but then buggers can’t be choosers, can they?

Hehehehehe!

So, that’s me really. I ain’t handsome, I know that. I wish I was. What I’d give to be handsome but I’m a bit short with ginger, thinning hair and a pale complexion. I’ve got a moustache too. A little brush just above my skimpy top lip and I’ve got ratty eyes. I know they’re ratty, sort of pink rimmed and cold, but I can’t help it. I can’t help my eyes any more than I can help my nose, which is actually okay. I’ve got a nice nose although sadly I think it’s on the wrong face. My nose would look nicer on a bigger, rounder face. Sometimes I see someone whose face is perfect except for their awful nose and I think gleefully how perfect my nose would look on their imperfect face. I could do with a smaller one you see, a little more pointed one, something beakier to compliment my ratty eyes but hell, it’s too late now. I’m not going to change my nose. I ain’t going to change nothing. I’d like to. I’d like to change the whole bloody lot but I’m not going to. I can’t see how I can...I’m a rat trapped.

Now, the question is; am I happy?

Do you know, I don’t know. Sometimes I think I am. Sometimes when I’m caressing Veronica in a gentle late night waltz, I’m in blissland. At other times, as I lie in bed, alone, sweating in my pyjamas, I think I could quite easily give up this pitiful, pointless existence. It wouldn’t be a loss. No one would care. It’s not as if I have family or anything. Even my friends aren’t real friends. They’re just drinking buddies from The Guild. I make no difference. My shop makes no difference. Life would go on undisturbed without me. Even my wife, my ex-wife, ‘my sex with another man’, wife wouldn’t care. I doubt she’d even send a flower.

So, the question remains; am I happy?

Well let me answer that question with another question.

Have you ever heard of the Angel of the Caps?

It’s an old Nordic myth. I like Nordic myths or at least the idea of them because if it’s true what my mum used to say, that the French have a word for everything then it’s equally true that the ‘Nords’ have a myth to explain everything.

Legend has it that before you’re born, an angel visits you and places a cap on your head, an invisible cap obviously but it’s a cap that determines the whole course of your life. Most of these caps fit like a glove and those who receive them usually grow up to enjoy a life equal to their talents. However some caps don’t fit, they’re too small, too tight and very uncomfortable but as the Angel of the Caps is deaf, dumb and blind, she’s heedless to complaints. So those unlucky enough to receive these caps are doomed to live a life that might suit the cap but not the wearer.

In ‘Nordic land’ this is seen as a way to explain why some people go through life happy and contented and some people don’t. Like me, I feel I’m wearing the wrong cap. Mine is the cap of a shopkeeper but I’m not a shopkeeper, not a natural shopkeeper; shop-keeping isn’t I, if you get my drift. I hate shop-keeping but I’m trapped in a shopkeepers cap. Not literally of course, you can’t see it but it’s there alright and I think it explains a lot because I’m actually an artist, don’t laugh. All my life I’ve known this to be the truth and yet through circumstance I’ve had to live as far removed from this truth as is possible to imagine.

Many years and tears ago I remember telling my mum I wanted to paint for a living. She thought I meant painter and decorator and she was okay with that. After all my dad was a small-time bookie, so a painter and decorator was certainly, in her eyes, a welcome step up. It was only when the idea of art school cropped up that she put her foot down.

‘Art school? No, you’re not going to art school. You’ve got no talent for art, what are you talking about? You’re going to get yourself a respectable job and get to work, we need the money.’

I was seventeen and I didn’t want a job, I wanted an easel. Why? I had no idea. No one in the family, as far as I knew had an artistic bone in their body. I was from bookie, plumber and panel beating stock and we didn’t go to art school.

Art school was for pervs, poofs and toffs, as my dad reminded me. So it was no place for me and I wasn’t allowed to go. In those days you did as your parents said, so I reluctantly did get a job, an office job, a jacket and tie job – art would have to wait.

Mum was chuffed, no chuffter than chuffed, dead chuffed.

I was to be a mail-room assistant and messenger for an advertising agency in the west end.

Okay, so it wasn’t art but surprisingly I enjoyed it. It taught me a lot. Up and down, in and out, round and round. Letters here, parcels there, drink, drink, drink. Everybody knew me. I was everybody’s friend. Frank of the franking machines that was me. Mad Frank, some used to call me. Mank Frank as well, even Dank Frank but I didn’t care because I was happy and what’s more I’d discovered the stationary cupboard.

Now, to most people the stationary cupboard is just a necessary resource but for me it was like stumbling across an alternative pornography. It was a palace of infinite possibilities. All that crisp, white virginal paper. All those unopened boxes of pencils, ball points, felt tips, day-glow markers, paper whiteners, rubber bands, staples. All those A4 binders, note pads and envelopes, boxes and boxes of them...and the smell that glorious smell of lead, paper and ink. It wasn’t so much a cupboard as an erogenous zone. A g-spot every bit as stimulating as the thought of drowning in Jane Mansfield’s breasts.

So, like an alcoholic in an off licence, I began to sneak quantities of the stuff home. I was living on my own by then. I’d moved out from mum and dad’s but still, where I could, I shared my wages although the miserable little bedsit I’d rented off the Brentford High road seemed to eat most of them up. My idea was to create a little piece of heaven in my rented hell. Sounds poetic doesn’t it? But it wasn’t, not in the end and the end came rather quickly when it occurred to me that in addition to just worshipping the stuff, I could also sell it...oh foolish me!

I was young, ambitious and keen to fund my own way through art school. So I took to pimping my pleasure down Brentford’s week-end market. Over the weeks and months that followed I’d built myself a nice little nest egg but of course it couldn’t last.

One Sunday morning, just after I’d set up, I was recognised by one of the agency’s senior management team. He was on the trawl for rare books and I was sacked on the spot because I’d failed to remove the agency’s name from some of the boxes...fuckit!

They threatened to prosecute but luckily for me nothing came of it. It was my fault of course. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place. It was as if all those quires and sheaves, ball-points and boxes of sticky tape had delivered me a sharp slap for putting them on the street.

So Dank Frank walked the plank and fell full time into market trading. I’d got the taste see and the cash and carry card from my mum, on account of her being a member of The Women’s Institute.

So, cheap tinned food it was, followed by rubber gloves and washing powder all stacked high and sold cheap. No, cheaper than cheap, dead cheap.

She wasn’t happy though. My mum was never happy except when she saw me in a suit and tie. Come to think of it, my dad wasn’t happy either, not really. The idea that I should be working for myself and not for somebody else seemed to disappoint him. I don’t know why. He worked for himself, well I say worked, he ducked and dived with the small time betting fraternity. Win some, lose some, curse everything, that sort of work, strictly back pocket; so why I disappointed him I couldn’t tell you.

Maybe he wanted me to be better than him. Maybe somewhere in his miserable, drunken, two-to-one bar the field existence there whispered that still small voice of hope, maybe, but he’d never say. He hardly ever talked to me anyway, except to call me a bastard, a wanker, a git, arsehole, poof, cunt, fucker and nonce, pretty much all the words he used to describe mum, almost as if we were the same person.

No, you couldn’t really have a conversation with my dad and especially not about still, small voices, he just wasn’t that sort of bloke.

On the other hand, my mum, Lord love her, she would talk about anything, especially when he wasn’t there. I felt sorry for my mum. She hadn’t been born to marry him. She’d had ambition once; educated she was and quite well read, that’s where I get it from I suppose, she preferred BBC to ITV and only listened to Radio 4.

However, when her ambitions were all hung out to dry on the three o’ clock at Rippon, Lingfield, Epsom or wherever the hell it was, she took them down, wrapped them up and passed them on to me.

Oh, how she wanted me to be somebody. Somebody in a suit, earning a suitable wage, marrying a suitable wife. She wanted me to live in a suitable house, in a suitable suburb and to produce suitable grandchildren who’d live a suitable life.

Well of course it didn’t work out like that did it?

But this isn’t about back then and what happened next. I lost touch with then, a long time ago. Then, is just a fleeting snapshot that flashes through my mind but seldom stays in my head. However, to bring you up to speed here is a list of notable thens that bring me up to now.

Then, I lost my pitch on the market, developers moved in ruined it.

Then, I got a job in a shop.

Then, my dad died of a heart attack.

Then, my mum died shortly afterwards. Heartbroken they said. I don’t know why, she hated the cunt.

Then, I cried for both but grieved for neither.

Then, I lost my job.

Then, I found another.

Then, I met Jane.

Then, we dated.

Then, we married.

Then, we rowed.

Then, she left.

Then, you walked in and I said: ‘when I’m in my shop not serving customers.’

Okay, so that’s it. Then, accounted for although within those ‘thens’ there exists a legion of other ‘thens’, tributaries that all lead to now but I’ve ignored them for the sake of brevity, for example:

Then, dad made me rub his cock.

Then, I got drunk.

Then, I discovered the joy of girls in dirty magazines.

Then, the cushion salesman ran off with my wife.

Then, the red route arrive

Then, I grew a moustache.

Then, business began to fail.

Then, then, then, the only constant amongst all these ‘thens’ is me, little mean Mary Anne, me. That’s what they call me now, Mary Anne. I heard a customer call me that the other day.

‘Oh, he’s such a Mary Anne.’

What does that mean I’d like to know? I’m not going to ask, I’m just not going to serve her if she comes in again.

Anyway, so much for then, then, let’s get back to now, no, nower than now, dead now!

Look at these lovely new cushions from Jack in a Box. I’m squidging them, they feel great but where in the hell are they going to go? God knows. On that shelf there? In the window? On the counter? She’d know of course. She’d know instantly. She’d say up there or down here or in that corner or on that shelf and wherever she’d choose it would be right. She was always right. But me? Me, I’m in a quandary, I’m quandrified if you get my drift. They just don’t fit in with the existing stock. I don’t know. I can’t decide. I hate this. I can’t tell you how much I hate this. I can’t do display, that was her job, not mine. I was the hod carrier. I did pretty much as I was told, that was how it worked…. not this, not bloody this.

Brrrring, Brrrrrring, Brrring!

Fuckin’ phone…I’m never ready…fuckin’ thing!

“Yes....What?..What ad?...What?”

Oh shit, I’ve forgotten about the ad, the ad of course.

Room to rent. Suit student. Well appointed. All mod cons. Convenient location. Affordable. Refs required.

“Oh, that ad.... yes, that was me...yes, I do have a room to rent....yes, a single room in my flat...yes… (sounds pleasant… sounds sexy….sounds…interesting) I’m sorry if I sounded a little sharp.”

Have you ever done that? Have you ever switched from barbed wire to butter at the drop of an attractive voice? Me, I’m terrible like that. Give me a voice, especially the voice of a nice girl that’s warm and inquisitive and I’ll give you;

“That’s a lovely name. Where are you from Anya?...Russia eh?....Well you speak beautiful English if I may say so...I’m Frank, by the way and I’ll be your landlord and flat share...No, no, you’ll have your own room....all mod cons and we’re close to the tube...So what are you studying Anya?....Business, good, I’m in business myself...A shop....Soft Furnishings...yes, I live above it...In the flat...Oh yes, very warm and cosy, you’ll like it.....Good, Wednesday then...What time?...Yes that’ll be fine. I look forward to meeting you Anya and if you could bring your references. Lovely, bye Anya, bye.”

Charming? Was I charming? Was I Prince Charming? If that had been you on the other end of the line you’d have thought I was six foot two, eyes of blue, Gucci, Conran and Prada.

Oh my God, Godder than God, dead God!

Interesting developments in the high street

The news just keeps getting better and better and fifty-four pounds and seventy-eight pence better. One customer. One sale. Three cushions. Two X’s.Three O’s. The combinations are endless. Everything is coming up Anya, everything is going my way.

Anya Ostropovitch returns the phone to its cradle. She’s shaking with relief. This hasn’t been her first phone call. Ever since Kerry broke the news, she’s been feverishly ringing landlords and agents, trying to find alternative accommodation but without success. A tall, slim and graceful girl, there’s something of the Modigliani about her. She has a swan neck, a finely chiselled nose, full lips, purple eyes and long black hair, black almost to the point of blue. She’s not pretty but she has a rare beauty that grows on you the more you look. Still only twenty-one, her upbringing in London and Moscow has imbued her with experience well beyond her years.

The daughter of a Russian diplomat and an English air stewardess, she’d been born in Pinner, a smart suburb on the richer side of Harrow. After a decade of prosperous and enjoyable living, her father had been recalled to Moscow to take up a more senior governmental post. Dutifully, her and her mother, had accompanied him uncomplaining.

However, in comparison to the made to measure joys of an ordered English suburb,

Moscow, for all its beauty, had proved to be a series of diminishing shocks. First there had been the language she’d had to learn; then the food she’d had to get used to and then of course there had been the culture, the bloody complicated social culture that seemed to infest even the simplest of daily activities, particularly for a family in her position and lastly there had been the cold, the bone breaking chill of a winter from which the capital seldom seemed to escape. Her change of schooling too, that had proved to be something of a challenge but, over the years, she had gradually assimilated and adjusted to her surroundings and had it not been for the suburban seeds sewn in her earlier life, she probably would have settled for a life in her father’s all enveloping shadow. As it was however, by the time she’d turned eighteen, those seeds had taken powerful root and were now blooming bulbs of doubt.

She had ambition and a hunger. She wasn’t to be contained by a status quo that dictated a slow waltz through marriage, middle age and the mortuary.

On expressing these views to her parents one night, just after her nineteenth birthday, she was dismayed at their reaction. Far from understanding her discontent, they dismissed it out of hand. Russia was her home now and in Russia she would stay.

Perhaps her father’s attitude was understandable but her mother’s? Her mother was English for God sake, surely she would sympathise. But no, so cowed had she become under the weight of a society that thrived on patriarchal convention that the very thought of disagreeing with her father left her short of breath.

However, no matter the opposition Anya’s mind was made up. She was going to leave

even if it did mean having to sleep with one of her father’s more influential friends on the understanding that he’d see her through the red tape and provide her with enough funds to set her up in Poland.

Okay, so he might not have proven to be the gentlest of lovers but he had proved to be generous, so generous in fact that within six months of her decision, an ageing Tupelov trundled down the rutted runway at Sheretmentayova Airport carrying Anya and her world of happy, sad uncertainties to an old, new life in Europe.

In Poland she settled for a while. Finding work in Warsaw as an order processing clerk. Her languages proving a useful asset to a company that had both links with Russia and the UK but as the position offered no real prospects, it wasn’t long before she was on the move again; this time to London with the intention of taking a business studies course and eventually setting up in business on her own.

However, her time in London had so far been marred by accommodation problems. Having enrolled at The London College of Business in Euston, she’d had to endure a series of grim bed and breakfasts that she could hardly afford and the company of spotty male students whom she didn’t really like until Geoff caught her eye. The attraction of Geoff, over and above his shallow charm, was the flat that came with his job as manager of a take-away chicken store in Tottenham Court Road. It was a large flat which, in her opinion, was quite as capable of accommodating two as it was, one. So, by now, well versed in how to get her own way Anya had no compunction in repeating the recipe that had proved so successful in Russia.

1. Prepare the meat with a generous bouquet of flattery.

2. Add a sprinkling of saucy charm.

3. Toss in some spicy dressing.

4. Knead the meat until the juices run.

5. Pop in the oven and cook with honey before laying out on a warm surface,

legs akimbo.....resultski!

It hadn’t lasted of course. Geoff had turned out to be as shallow as a skillet and flat or no flat there was a limit to the humiliation she would endure. A limit reached when she’d caught him finger-licking the new chicken waitress over the powder tray no more than three months after she had moved in – fuckoffski!

Unable to find a berth in the student hostel, she was beyond gratitude when Kerry, her best friend, had offered her temporary asylum in her flat on the understanding that she’d have to leave if her mother sought refuge, as she sometimes did, when things with her father grew difficult.

Anya had agreed, hoping of course, that wouldn’t happen...but it had!

Kerry’s mother was coming to stay and she only had a few days to pack her bags and leave. That’s why she had been ringing around the small ads in The South London Gazette with such growing desperation. Coming across Frank had been like stumbling across a fresh water spring in the Gobi desert. A room to let, affordable, all mod cons, above a shop and most importantly, available.

Phone calls didn’t get much better than that.

On replacing the receiver Anya gives a little yelp of pleasure. She can’t wait to tell Kerry but first she has to e-mail her mother with the news.

Booting up her lap-top, her most prized possession, she begins to write, balancing the box on her knees as the television burbles meaninglessly in the background.

Dear Mama

I have more good news.

London is great and I’m really enjoying myself here with Kerry, a friend from college, with whom I’m sharing a flat. Anyway a great opportunity has arisen and I’m on the move again, to my own flat in Clapham. I’m really excited. It’s close to the tube and to college and the rent isn’t too bad either, although I could always do with some help... hahaha... funds are running a little low. Otherwise everything is fine, including the weather, cold today – but not as cold as Moscow I bet.

I do hope you and papa are well and I look forward to seeing you both soon with my diploma.

All my love, always xxxx xxx

As she signs off so her hand automatically directs the cursor towards the send option but she pauses. Does her mother need to know? Probably not but then she needs money and her mother will help if she asks, she’s convinced of it. She re-reads what she’s written and then...click, it’s gone at precisely the same moment as Kerry arrives.

“Hiya.”

“Hiya, how’s it going?” Kerry takes off her coat and throws it onto the hook by the door. She’s shorter than Anya by a head and curvier. Indeed, if Anya has something of the Modigliani about her, then Kerry has something of the Rubens. A Rubens’ with short, blond hair, a puckish smile and fun writ large in the beam of her electrifying blue eyes.

“Guess what?” Says Anya, her voice fat with promise

“What? Kurt Cobain lives? I don’t know.”

“I think I’ve found somewhere.”

“A flat?”

“A room in a flat.”

“Sharing?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Clapham.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Going to see it on Wednesday.”

“That’s great,” lies Kerry who doesn’t think it’s great at all, “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you too.”

“You can always come back when my mum’s gone, you know.” She offers tentatively

“I know, thank you. I probably will.”

“Sharing?”

“Just the landlord.”

Kerry pulls a face,

“Just one bloke?”

“He sounds fine.”

“You be careful.”

“He’s old.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know. Forty, fifty?”

“They’re never too old to be a nuisance.”

“I’m off men Kerry, I’ve told you. Anyway if I don’t like him, I won’t take it.”

“You promise.”

“I promise.”

“OK...well I hope...

The phone rings. Kerry picks up the receiver.

“Yes...oh hello mum.” She pulls another face, Anya smiles and with a wave of her hand disappears into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

As the kettle bubbles its’ way through the boiling process, so Anya begins to reflect on Frank. He seemed alright she supposes but there had been that rapid change of tone from a peppery hello to a sugary goodbye. She ponders the point momentarily and then decides that that it could have been caused by any number of things. After all the guy is running a shop, he was probably busy, maybe a customer had upset him, can’t be easy, maybe he needs a little help. Maybe I could help, weekends, extra money, why not? As she doodles around with the possibilities so she makes the tea, hoping that fate might have dealt her a kind card at last.

“Mum is still determined.” Says Kerry, wandering into the kitchen gloomily and picking up a cup.

“Oh well...” Anya shrugs,

“I’m not looking forward to it, you know, I’d much rather you stay.”

“I’d like to but....”

“She’s my mum, I know. Christ, what’s wrong with the woman?”

Anya shakes her head.

They drink their tea.

“Maybe, not for long.”

“It was a fortnight last time and I’m stuck in the middle. Can you imagine that?”

But of course Anya can’t imagine that. Her parents have never rowed, not in her presence anyway, and she doubts if they have on their own. You just didn’t argue with her father. Whatever he said on whatever subject was always held to be right, no matter how wrong he might be.

<Director’s cut>

So Anya, your parents aren’t happily married then?

Happily? I don’t know.

Surely you can tell?

Well, okay. No I don’t think they are and I don’t think they’re not.

I don’t understand.

I’d be surprised if they knew. It’s just a marriage.

How about Kerry’s parents?

I don’t know. I’ve never met them, doesn’t sound much to me though.

What about you, do you want to get married?

No, I don’t think so.

Not ever?

Why should I? Men are pigs.

What about Geoff?

He was a pig.

Sergei, Petrov, Alexie?

Pigs, all pigs.

You sound rather bitter?

I’m realistic.

Don’t you like men?

Men like me.

Are you going to answer my question?

I already have.

Are you going to answer my question?

I’m not a lesbian if that’s what you mean. I’m just off men for the moment.

I’ve described you as having something of the Modigliani about you. Agreed?

If that’s how you see me.

How do you see you?

I see me.

How will your new landlord see you?

As someone he wants to fuck.

Are you sure?

All men want to fuck all women.

Is that true?

Of course it’s true.

Shall I write it down?

For your book?

I’m not writing a book.

Then what are you writing?

Just notes

And pulling my strings?

No.

Yes, dancey, dancey, dancey.

No.

Hahahaha!

One small suitcase, books and a toothbrush pretty much comprise Anya’s packing. Her time in London hasn’t so far proved particularly conducive to amassing a wardrobe.

All she has, including her lap-top, she lays on top of her bed.

“But you haven’t seen the room yet,” says Kerry, leaning up against the door holding a cup of coffee, “you might not like it.”

“I know but it’s good to be prepared.”

“Yes but supposing...”

“Kerry, your mother is coming, I haven’t much choice.”

“Yes but....”

“Anyway it will make a change.”

Kerry saunters off, frowning; any sense of fun inherent in her face, hard to discern.

Anya’s obvious enthusiasm to leave, has tainted any pleasure she might have felt at her finding alternative accommodation.

That’s why on Wednesday evening, just prior to Anya’s leaving, her good wishes aren’t quite as effusive as they might be.

“See you later then?”

“Going to wish me luck?” Asks Anya.

“Yeah, alright, good luck.” Barely a smile crosses her features.

“Go for a drink later?”

“Maybe.”

Anya notices the chill in Kerry’s voice but because she’s already running late and doesn’t want to keep Frank waiting, she has to ignore it and leaves without saying goodbye.

Dressed in a multi-coloured, hooped jersey and a knee length black skirt she looks respectable but not too buttoned-up. She’s purposely forgotten any jewellery and loud make up. She’s been told that landlords can be funny about such things.

Sexy is fine but sleazy isn’t. So she’s sought to strike a balance. That’s why, all the way to the tube, she checks her appearance in the windows of shops and the windscreens of cars. Sexy or sleazy...sexy or sleazy...sexy....?

Do you know what I did last night?

I got her room ready. Broke my heart having to turn my studio, my little palace of paint, into a bedroom but money talks I suppose.

Hours it took me and now I keep asking myself if this is such a good idea? It seemed like a good idea when I was pissed and placed the ad but now I’m not so sure. Dam, I like living on my own, on my ownio if you get my drift. I don’t want to share. It’s a bit small see and there’s only one bathroom but it’s too late now, she’ll be on her way.

I wonder what she will be wearing. She’ll be foreign, that’s for sure. Half foreign, half Russian, all vodka chick. I like vodka. I got a bottle in, just in case. Vodka and coke, lovely. Vodka chick and coke, lovelier. Vodka chick, coke and ice, loveliest. Vodka chick, coke, ice and caviar. No, I don’t like caviar. If she wants caviar she’ll have to eat it alone in her room… ech!

Maybe she won’t turn up. Maybe I’m worrying for nothing even though I’ve changed. I’m wearing a cravat by the way, a yellow one and a brown sports jackets, I wonder if she’ll think I’m smart. I feel smart. I’ve combed my moustache and dusted off my shoes.

I’ve even put a mirror in her room...and one of my paintings. I won’t tell her it’s one of mine, I’ll just wait for her to comment.

Do you know I think I’m quite excited? She’ll be here in a minute if she’s going to be here at all. Do I want her here? Well, let’s see, part of me does and parts of me doesn’t. I’m all parts, me.

Interesting developments in the high street.

Oi, you twat. You twat in a hat, fuck off! Honestly, some people, some people just hang around outside my shop window like I was a Sainsbury’s or a Tesco’s. Oi tosser, toss off, I’m expecting a chick, a Russian chick and she don’t want to see you in your shit stained jeans and silly hat giving the place a bad name, now fuck off!

So, she’s arrived.

All tits and arse dressed up in a jumper and skirt but she’s not fooling me sitting there crossing and uncrossing her legs. She’s laughing at my unfunny jokes and leaning forward as if what I have to say is of unmissable interest.

Oh, no madam you’re not fooling me.

You think I want to fuck you, don’t you, don’t you?

Well I don’t.

Surprised?

I don’t want to fuck you. I just want to talk to you but not like this, not in this situation. I’m not comfortable. Lots of men would be. Lots of men would love it but not me, I’m not that sort of man.

“So, tell me about Russia?” I squint, half smiling.

“It’s cold,” she says and then adds, “there’s no work.”

“For a beautiful girl like you? I’m surprised.” She likes that, I can see she likes that by the way she uncrosses her legs.

“For anyone.”

“So, you’re looking for work in London?”

“I’m studying in London.”

We are sitting in my sitting room drinking vodka. Cheap vodka, made in England vodka, eating crisps. The soundtrack to Carousel is playing in the background on my Aiwa sound system. I’m on the couch and she’s perched on the arm of my armchair, she won’t sit, despite my invitation.

The room isn’t tidy. I haven’t tidied it up on purpose. I don’t want her to think she’s coming into a tidy flat. Her room is tidy though. I’ve tidied her room and she seems to like it. She even commented on the picture I’ve put it above her bed.

‘Good.’ She said. She said it was good. She said my painting was good, so I went on to tell her that I wasn’t by nature a shopkeeper, not really, not by inclination because I was an artist and she said she could see that by the state of the place and that was good too. So everything’s good...goodio!

“Another drink?” I offer.

“No.” She shakes her Modigliani mooey, causing her blue black hair to nudge her cheeks.

“Are you sure?”

She smiles sweetly.

“No, but thank you. I think I must be going now.”

“Already?”

She’s looking at her watch.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, would you like the room?” I ask. “I need to know.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you’d like the room?”

“Yes.”

“For how long? A month, six months, a year?”

“Week by week?”

“Week by week?” I can’t say that I’m not a little disappointed at this turn of events. Week by week? Week by week doesn’t really do it for me or my plans but then because in all other aspects she’s pretty dam near perfect, I’m forced to agree.

“Okay,” I say, “week by week it is, with one week’s deposit up front.”

She agrees. She’s looking at me with those strangely luminescent purple, almost Mongolian eyes.

“When would you like to move in?”

“Tomorrow?”

I hadn’t been expecting this either. She’s full of surprises this Anya. I had been expecting at least two or three days to finalize my plans but I don’t want to lose her...fuck it...I don’t want to lose her.

“Okay,” I say, “tomorrow it is but not until the evening, can’t have you disturbing my customers with all your luggage can we?”

“I travel light.” She says.

“Even so, make it after six. I’ll need to get keys cut and things.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

“Good”

I’m standing up now and wiping my hands clean of crisps.

“Let me show you out.”

“Thank you.” She replies, rising from the arm of the chair and placing her half empty

glass on the table.

Very graceful, very Lauren Bacall.

When I’m walking her down the stairs, bringing up the rear, I’m trying not to get too close. However, on stair seven I do tip forward accidentally and rub my crotch across her shoulders. I apologise of course but she pretends not to notice (the little minx).

As we continue on through the shop so Veronica looks on jealously.

When we reach the door, I unlock it and hold it open for her (ever the gentleman me) She half turns, smiling.

“Thank you, Frank. Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow then’”

“Goodnight Anya.” I say, smiling too and then she’s gone, gone into the night.

“See you tomorrow.” I call out before turning back inside, it’s chilly and I close the door with a flourish.

Good, gooder than good, dead good...time to finish up the rest of the vodka...dosvadenya!

Much later, as he lies in bed, his pyjamas damp, sticky and in need of a wash, Frank revisits paradise lost.

‘I’m leaving you Frank, I’ve had enough.’

That’s my wife squawking, my ex-wife, ‘my sex with another man’ wife.

‘You’re a weak, gutless loser, I don’t know what I ever saw in you. At least Dan’s a man, he knows how to treat a lady.’ Oh yes they were all there, all the clichés she’d picked up from all the soap operas she’d ever watched. Of course, according to her script, I was expected to reply:

‘If he knows how to treat a lady what’s he doing with you then?’

But I didn’t. I just kept my mouth shut and let her get on with it.

‘You’re a pathetic little man with a nasty temper. You’re cold, unkind, bitter, twisted and cruel, no wonder customers don’t like you. I don’t like you, no one likes you, you’re horrible.’

Ho Hum.

‘And what’s more you’re a lousy painter. You’re crap, you couldn’t paint a door let alone a picture.’

Ouch!

Now that did hurt. I don’t care about much, certainly not bedspreads, but I do care about my art and the bitch knew it.

‘Fuck off.’ I screamed, quite suddenly, out of the blue, ‘fuck right off... right now!’ I don’t normally like swearing in front of ladies but just then it felt sort of right. It shocked her I can tell you.

‘Go on, fuck off out of it.’ I waived my thumb in the direction of the door and she did and I haven’t heard from her since.

From ‘I do’... to... ‘fuck off.’ That about sums our long and hideous marriage. Mum was right, she was never right for me. I needed someone more adventurous, more liberal, more subservient and more interested in art.

Whilst she?

She needed a real man. A screwdriver and jump leads man. A change that plug and pay that bill man. A steak and chips and bunch of roses man, not me, I’m not that sort of man at all and nor was that cushion salesman she ran off with. She’ll soon tire of him, by the way, trust me and then she’ll find herself a Gary. He’s bound to be called Gary, men of his ilk always are and then at last she’ll be happy.

Me?

I’ll never meet whom I should meet. I’m too plain, too ordinary. I’ve got nothing to offer but I can dream can’t I? I can pretend that Anya and I end up together.

The more you look at her, by the way, the more beautiful she becomes.

She’s so young, so fresh, so beautifully bloody lovely. .

I’ll try. I’ll probably try. I won’t be half a man if I don’t probably try but I know it will be fruitless. Lovely breasts she has too, not too big but made for hands, artistic hands, just like mine. Gorgeous legs too, she has gorgeous legs, long crossed, long uncrossed and of course her arse. What a superb arse, not too high, not too swollen just enough to cradle.

Oh God, I’m getting a hard on!

I should have been painting tonight, preparing myself, getting my eye in so to speak but the vodka got the better of me. The cheap English vodka with the fancy name sucked all the will out of me so putting on another record and dancing Veronica slowly round the shop suddenly seemed so much more important than painting.

Mind you, she can’t dance. Her legs are stiff and she has no sense of rhythm.

Yeah, I know it’s a bit weird, me grabbing a plastic mannequin in a waltz but in reality it’s quite nice. I close my eyes and imagine she’s a real woman, a real pissless, shitless woman.

That’s the only thing that put’s me off Anya but if I want her company so I’m going to have to put up with it aren’t I? Oh, yes I want her company. I’m looking forward to it. Someone to talk to, someone to listen to and maybe even someone to love.

Such a beautiful arse and luscious breasts, I wonder what her cuntle is like, hairy or shaved, wide or tight, wet or dry?

God, I’m getting excited again.

I hate being like this... betwixt and between.

Shall I? Shan’t I? Shall I? Shan’t....

Shall I rub myself off over her hungry, gaping cuntle and squidgy tits or think about her shit filled arsehole and pungent farts, one a turn-on and one a turn-off but both valid, both real and each a part of the whole.

Am I being sick or am I being honest?

Honest I think. At least more honest than all those magazines and films that would have you believe that women only shit honey and piss warm tea. That’s what I thought until my wife, my ex-wife, my ‘sex with another man’ wife opened my eyes to the truth. Do I make sense? Probably not. That’s because I’m excited, revolted and pissed all at the same time and I want to......

I don’t want to.

I want to.

I don’t want to.

I want to... I want to...I fucking want to...I fucking...fucking...fucking...fucking

…fucking…fucking….fuckingggggggggg!

Now look what I’ve gone and done all down my leg and onto the sheets. I feel good though. God, I feel good, tired but good, too tired to get up and too good to care.

Phew!

Do I really want to fuck her though? Really fuck her? She thinks I do but I don’t, not now, not really, not in reality…. no.

<Director’s cut>

So, Anya, what do you think of Frank, then?

He was a bit creepy.

Did you like him?

No, I can’t say I did and I can’t say I didn’t

Did he like you?

Of course he liked me, its part of your story

What story?

The one you’re writing about me.

I’m not writing a story about you?

Then why are you asking me?

I’m an interested bystander

Ha!

What do you think he liked about you?

What all men like about me. My tits and bum.

Are you flattered?

No.

So how did he make you feel?

Uncomfortable. He made me feel uncomfortable. I don’t think he meant to, I think he was trying to be charming but after a certain age, charm can appear seedy. Do you understand?

He was seedy?

Yes, a little but he was sweet also. He made an effort with the vodka and everything. I appreciated that.

What did you think of the flat?

My room was nice, well nice enough except for that painting he seemed so proud of.

You didn’t like the painting?

No

Why did you say you did?

I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Do you feel sorry for him?

Yes I do, he seems very lonely, very alone, very frustrated. When he spoke of his painting his eyes lit up and his lips wetted. Have you ever noticed that when people talk about things they are passionate about their lips grow wet? I couldn’t see his top lip because of his moustache but his bottom lip, definitely.

So, you’re happy to take the room?

I’ve no choice and there is a lock on the door?

You checked?

Yes.

Do you need a lock?

Yes, I think so.

But isn’t he harmless?

You tell me. He looks harmless but then so did Christy?

You know about Christy?

Twenty-two Rillington Place? Of course.

So, if he reminds you of Christy, why are you taking the room?

Maybe I like the idea of living with a murderer, it’s a very Russian thing you know.

But he’s not a murderer is he?

Hahahaha. You tell me.

As Anya is making her way through the knitting pattern of trains, buses and tubes on her way back to Earls Court, Kerry is sitting in the kitchen rehearsing life with her mother again. She’s been looking at the still stained walls, ceilings and carpets that comprise her surroundings.

‘Haven’t you had it painted yet, darling? I told you I would help.’

‘I know mum but I haven’t had the time.’

‘Weekends, can’t you get a man in? I can’t bear to see you living in squalor.’

‘Mum, it’s not squalid.’

‘Mmmm.’

‘Anyway it’s the landlord’s responsibility.’

’Then have a word with him dear, it would make all the difference.

‘Yes, mum.’

Kerry has no intention of talking to the landlord. She likes the ‘squalor’ after all it’s not the squalor of the tower block. The stains aren’t damp or mildewed. They’re louche, caused by candles, cigarettes and carousing. They’re the stains of youth, of friends, of Pete’s wine, Emily’s coffee and Mark and Dave’s joints. They’re cultured stains. Some have been there since she moved in, like the one in the sitting-room under the sofa. Some are from parties, others from accidents but most of them mean something, like entries in a diary.

Suddenly, as if about to embark on a survey, she parks her coffee on the kitchen table and walks down the short hall, lit by a shade less, forty watt green bulb, and into the sitting-room.

Okay, so it is scruffy – the whacked out sofa, the chipped, gilded mirror, the black cavernous fireplace with the rusty grate and the dirty French windows overlooking the tangled garden below – but she loves it, she loves it all.

Of course it could do with a wash and brush-up, she knows that but not now, not until her student days are over and she’s swapped jeans for skirts, politics for property and joints for gym...but not yet... please, not yet.

She looks around fondly, wipes her hand over the mantelpiece and then, as if for something better to do, picks up an unfinished joint from the ash tray, lights it, turns on the television and crashes out on the whacked out sofa. As she inhales so the television burbles.....

′A new report out today suggests that the high street is already a thing of the past. For years experts have been predicting the demise of the independent retailer. Well, new figures out today suggest they might be right as the so-called ′ birth to death’ stores take an even bigger hold on our buying habits. Usually situated out of town, these huge conglomerate retail parks already account for over sixty per cent of all retail purchases but that figure is set to rocket with the introduction of....

A little while later, while Kerry dozes dreamily, Anya enters wreathed in smiles.

“Hi.”

“Oh hi, how did it go?”

“Okay.”

“Well?”

“Well?”

“Well when are you moving in?”

“Tomorrow.”

Kerry slowly swings her legs off the sofa.

“What’s he like then?”

The smell of weed is still pungent.

“He’s okay. How about you?”

“I’m good, just a little tired, dozed off.” Kerry rubs her hand through her short blond hair.

“Well, wake up, we’ll go for a drink and I’ll tell you all about it.

“What time is it?”

“Eight thirty.”

“I thought it was later.”

Anya picks up the remaining roach from the ashtray and frowns.

“Only a couple of puffs.” Says Kerry with a skewed smile.”

“It’s strong.”

Kerry gets to her feet unsteadily.

“Where would you like to go?”

“Anywhere”

How about Pex?”

“That’s a pick-up joint.”

“So?”

“So, I thought you were off men.”

“I am.”

“So why do you want to go there?”

“I fancy a night off.”

They both laugh but as mellow as Kerry feels, she shudders as a little bit of summer that shone in her, seems to shines no more.

‘Coming up. The Turner Prize. All the runners and riders and we have an exclusive interview with last years’ winner.....

Have a look at Den’s Dina will you? What the hell is that grease monkey doing? A Pound-a-Round breakfast. How in the hell is that then? A pound? He can’t do breakfast for a pound. Toast, tea and a sausage for a pound – eggs, bacon, beans or tomatoes extra. Okay, it’s a right old rip off – looks good though, I’ll give him that.

Do you know what I’m doing this morning, apart from getting over a hangover?

I’m standing in front of my shop in the sunshine. It’s a lovely day and I’m looking down the hill thinking about all those wallets and purses dipping in and out of all those big shops down there. It makes me laugh and it makes me angry. There isn’t really a word to describe how I feel but that’s how I feel. All that money just a hop, skip and a jump away in the wrong direction.

It’s a pisser. It’s more than a pisser, it’s a pisser’s pisser – a dead pisser!

Of course I should be making final preparations for the arrival of Anya but I can’t be bothered. That cheap English vodka with the fancy name has a lot to answer for. Maybe I’ll get round to it later when I’ve finished feeling like this, maybe... but for the moment...Jesus, it’s like some high street hokey-cokey down there. In out, in out...splash it all about. Come up her you cunts. Up here and see my beautiful bedspreads, my duvet covers, my sheets and my lovely, lovely cushions. Come on you bastards, come up here.

Now at this point if you are on a bus or in a car heading down the South Circular towards Clapham Junction, look to your left and you’ll see Frank standing there. He’s wearing a white shirt and grey trousers. He’s smoking, rubbing a hand through what’s left of his ginger hair and talking to himself. If you’re particularly keen of eye you’ll notice his brown sandals and odd socks but that’s all by-the-by because over and above everything else you’ll be asking yourself what’s he doing there in the first place? So, look again and then look at the shop behind him - if the sun isn’t reflecting off the dirty windows and dazzling you, you’ll see man and shop go together. One is the mirror of the other. Both are shabby, both are out on a limb and both looked doomed.

As you slowly stutter past with the traffic easing, you’ll see he doesn’t really look at anybody. His attention seems fixed on something that’s happening down the road.

‘What’s he looking at?’

‘Is there an accident?’

‘Are there police on the scene?’

It’s annoying isn’t it? What can he see that you can’t? As the congestion finally melts and you proceed, these questions go on niggling and will probably go on niggling you for the rest of the day.

I’ve been standing here for about an hour now. No customers of course, although Den’s been quite busy. His Pound-A-Round breakfast seems to be dragging them in. Don’t they know it’s a rip off? Can’t they see it? A sausage and a bit of toast for a quid? Do me a favour. Anyway his sort of people aren’t my sort of people, so it’s no help to me but it has got me thinking though, maybe I should take a leaf out of his book and hold a sale myself. A get rid of all the old stuff and start again sale. Sale, sale, sale, everything must go. A half price, quarter price, any price you like price sale.

Why not?

What have I got to lose? Certainly not any business. Might even give it a paint job while I’m about it. Grey, I fancy grey, grey and maroon. I like grey it’s my favourite colour. I think it’s cool. My ex didn’t. When I told her one time that I wanted to paint it grey she nearly had a brush stroke. It’s one of those colours, see. People think it’s bland but I beg to differ. Grey’s great, there are so many different shades. There’s grey, grey grey, green grey, white grey, black grey, brown grey, red grey, orange grey, any grey you like grey because grey is never really just grey. It always has an inner colour but then maybe that’s just the artist in me and I see the colour within the colour.

She didn’t of course. All she saw was surface, the first colour, the primary colour so to speak, that what she saw, that was the philistine in her. Nothing meant anything to her but money… money, money, money and we used to make it, believe me. When she was running the shop we used to be busy. I’d never get the chance to do what I’m doing now, there wasn’t the time, there was always something to do. Mind you, I’m going to be busy again. I don’t see why Den should have all the action. Yes, I’m going to let my artistic tendencies run wild and buy, buy, buy more cushions, more bedspreads, more duvets, more sheets, more throws, more than ever before...a carnival of colour...a rainbow in riot...a symphony of softs, all bought to you by me. I’ve proved I’ve got it, I’ve got the eye. Look at my new cushions, four in one day that’s more than I usually do in a week. I was pissed of course when I ordered them so I’ll just get pissed again. It brings out the best in me. It brings out the artist and drowns out the shopkeeper, that’s why I’m going to be successful again. I’m going to bring out the artist. I am, I am, I am, I amsk!

As Frank’s intentions spill silently from his wildly twitching lips, so The Angel of the Caps, throws back her toothless head...and laughs.

End of chapter 1