such as getting dressed, picking things up, most food preparation and using toilet paper
she ditched the weaves sewn into her scalp for months at a time, many months longer than advised because, having saved up to wear the expensive black tresses of women from India or Brazil, she wanted her money’s worth, even when her scalp festered underneath the stinky patch of cloth from which her fake hair flowed
she felt freed when it was unstitched for the very last time, and her scalp made contact with air
she felt the deliciousness of warm water running directly over it again without the intermediary of a man-made fabric
she then had her tight curls straightened, Marcus said he preferred her hair natural, she told him she’d never get a job if she did that
she was invited into family homes that were privately owned
homes without carpet on the floors (out of choice), with no nets at the windows so any old nosy parker could see inside (bizarre)
homes with a preference for the old and decrepit such as grandfather clocks that rattled loudly in hallways and antique wardrobes that suffered from woodworm
tatty old sofas were covered with blankets (throws) and were much preferred to shiny leather ones that squeaked when you sat on them
wooden dining tables proudly displayed knife wounds from generations of graffiti vandalism such as
The Rule of Man v. The Rule of Law: Discuss
Is Grey the New Black?
Esme loves Jonty who loves Poppy who loves Monty who loves Jasper who loves Clarissa who loves Marissa who loves Priscilla who loves Clemency
or something like that
her new pal Rosie’s home even had sections called wings and parapets, in case the Vikings invaded again, as Rosie joked when she showed Carole around
the gardens were called grounds with no neighbours for miles around, because they were in the middle of nowhere and could make as much noise as they liked, which in Rosie’s case meant hiring a garage band to play on the lawn for her twentieth birthday party
among the guests were those Carole also now called her friends, Melanie, Toby, Patricia, Priya, Lucy and Gerry
in the morning she heard the squeaky toy screech of tropical green parakeets as they flew past the bedroom window, which she mistook for parrots
she looked out on to a lawn, a lake, peacocks roamed free
later that day she was introduced to the concept of walking
just for pleasure.
5
This morning, Carole steps off the escalator, exits Liverpool Street station
begins to move down Bishopsgate with the inner force of a swinging wrecking ball through the choreographic chaos of the rushing hour
as she takes the long way around to her place of work in order to get just a little more exercise in because she’ll probably spend most of the next fourteen hours sitting down
even though she went for her daily jog as she does every day
while Freddy is still snug in bed until he’ll spring out of it twenty minutes before he’s due to leave, shower, shave, dive into a bowl of Rice Krispies and put on the suit he rotates with seven others
ditto the shoes
she runs from Fulham to Hammersmith every morning
along with all the other fitness freaks in their bright designer jogging gear and pedometer wrist straps that measure everything from their blood pressure and heart rate to see how far and fast they’re running
a few like her even pound the pavement in the freezing dawn of winter
when icy particles hang off the illuminated green and gold of Hammersmith Bridge with its eerily glowing towers and heraldry
she runs for her life because to slip up is to begin descending the slippery slope to giving in to failure, to inertia, to feeling sorry for herself about that moment in her life which still creeps to the front of her memory when she least expects it
she was a child at the time, how could those beasts have done that to her? how could she have blamed herself when she was so blameless?
the only morning she doesn’t run is when she’s doubled over with period pains for which she takes extra-strength painkillers in order to haul herself to work or risk being accused of pulling a monthly sickie
busted! yes, you are a woman
she even contemplated having her womb taken out to eliminate periods altogether, which would surely be her greatest possible career move, a tactical hysterectomy for ambitious women with menstruation problems
Carole arrives at the bank’s headquarters overlooking the river, where it was clear from her first day on the job she was expected to be as groomed as her counterparts on American television dramas about female lawyers, politicians, and detectives
women who miraculously spend their working day wearing bondage-tight skirts and vertiginous, destabilizing heels which make their feet look bound
the erogenous zones of crushed muscles and cramped bones, encased in upmarket strippers’ heels
and if she has to cripple herself to signal her education, talent, intellect, skills and leadership potential then so be it
her morning mantra in the bathroom mirror
I am highly presentable, likeable, clubbable, relatable, promotable and successful
I am highly presentable, likeable, clubbable, relatable, promotable and successful
I am highly presentable, likeable, clubbable, relatable, promotable and successful
forget the fact she’s got Vivaldi’s Four Seasons as her ring tone, the public face of her musical taste
sometimes
Carole loves dancing like a warrior queen to frenzied beats of the war-painted shamanistic godfather, Fela Kuti
loves the way he rips apart her emotions with his polyrhythmic percussions and unashamedly flatulent horns blasting away all pretence at nicety-niceness with his anti-corruption-lyrical-political broadsides
and the futuristic psychedelics of Parliament Funkadelic
who teleport their freakilicious mothership logic into her brain, activating its neglected right side with their crazed imagination
and outrageously costumed performances she loves to watch on YouTube
while dancing
for herself
out of it
out of her head
out of her body
feeling it
freeing it
nobody watching
nobody judging
moving on to James Brown, the Godfather of Soul
get on up, Carole, get on up
which is exactly what she’s doing as she disappears between the glass revolving doors of the tall office building
steps on to the oceanic green and grey whorls of 900-million-year-old Connemara marble (proudly inscribed on a plaque)
walks past the cheery school leaver receptionist wearing a cheap plastic weave (she really should tell her) who’s so grateful when Carole stops for a motivational chat – what are your plans, Tess? you can’t stay here for ever, you’ve got to move on up
she swipes her card on the turnstile, enters the inner sanctum
glides into the sleek lift when its glass doors slide silently apart, behind Brian, her boss
who took her out for a drink a year after she’d joined the firm
she spent hours trapped in a brick alcove with him in a basement wine bar, listening to him going on about how he’s never got over the fact that while his father, grandfather and great-grandfather were fishmongers at Billingsgate who came home stinking of rancid fish, he himself had walked into a job as a trader at the Stock Exchange straight out of a crap secondary modern school (in the days when you could), with no qualifications other than a savant ability with numbers and the gift of the gab
and worked his way up
he was committed to opening doors for others such as herself, he said, because the idea of the meritocratic culture of banking was a myth, and you’re never going to be invited to join any gentlemen’s clubs or golfing clubs and get fast tracked that way