Take A Look At Me Now

Talking of job-hunting, how’s it going? Any luck on that front? And have you heard from any of the others? Really hope things are looking brighter for you, hun. At least you have Greg and gorgeous little Ruby to make you smile. I’m keeping everything crossed for you.

Better go. I’ll email again tomorrow.

Love ya

Nell xxx

It felt strange to think that my friend was so far away – along with everything else in my life. Thinking about home made my stomach tighten. I had eight weeks to figure out what I was going to do and all of a sudden that felt like an inordinately long time to be away. I was just beginning to panic when a new email flashed onto the screen:

From: vickster1981@me-mail.com

To: nell.sullygirl@gmail.com

Subject: Re: Stop worrying – I’m here!

Woo-hoo!

I am so glad you made it safely! I’ve been driving Greg mad since you left, listening to the news in case there were any reports of air crashes or earthquakes. You know me: always cautious. The thing is, I need you to have a good time but most importantly I NEED YOU TO COME HOME IN EIGHT WEEKS. Being unemployed is doing my head in and I need our chats.

I have an appointment with a careers advisor tomorrow. A careers advisor, Nell! At 32! It’s like being 16 again and I’m dreading it. I feel like such a failure. Even though I could’ve been Britain’s best planning officer and it wouldn’t have made any difference to me losing my job. Apart from Brown-Nosed Connie, I don’t think any of us could have done it differently. And I wasn’t willing to get carpet burns on my knees to secure my career prospects, if you get what I mean …

I need updates as often as you can send them. And for heaven’s sake, have FUN. Then at least one of us will be and I’ll have something to read other than my mother’s discarded copies of Star magazine. I’d rather obsess over your trip than whether or not Kerry Katona’s had Botox.

Love ya lots

Vix xxx

It was so good to hear from my friend and the joy of reading her words coupled with my current fragile state brought tears to my eyes.

‘Hey early-bird.’ Lizzie’s smiling face appeared around the door. ‘I thought you’d still be dead to the world.’

I wiped my eyes quickly. ‘I probably should be. But my body had other ideas. I was checking my emails – hope that’s OK?’

‘Of course it is. So, ready for your first day exploring San Francisco?’

I nodded. ‘Absolutely!’

The sun bathed Haight-Ashbury, making every colour brighter and giving the streets a carnival atmosphere. As we wandered along the streets and in and out of the shops, people stopped to greet us – Lizzie providing the introductions:

‘This is Anya – I teach her daughter piano … Marcella was one of my first students when I started teaching here … Stanley’s son Karl is my star pupil …’

‘Have you taught everyone in Haight-Ashbury?’ I giggled when the fifth person had stopped us to say hello.

Lizzie blushed. ‘It looks like it, doesn’t it? This is a very close neighbourhood and I’ve had a lot of recommendations over the years. I’ve been very lucky.’

‘They’re certainly friendly,’ I said, still coming to terms with the very tactile welcomes of complete strangers. I had been hugged by four of the five people we had met that morning and was feeling a little out of my depth.

‘Ah yes, I forgot to warn you about that. It took me a while to feel comfortable with the hugs. People here have a different understanding of personal space than they do in London. Don’t worry, though, you get used to it.’

I wasn’t convinced. Having my personal space invaded by random people was a shock to the system. Even the homeless guys – who were present on almost every corner and street crossing – would step into our path and say hello. The homeless issue was a surprise to me, largely because nobody had told me how overt it was in San Francisco. Mostly men, they were polite and not threatening but there were so many of them for such a relatively small area. Already today we had encountered four men shaking paper cups on the street and I found it unsettling when Lizzie advised me to walk past them. In London I would always stop to buy a Big Issue, but the sellers there were far less willing to follow you down the street than the homeless guys were here. After a couple of hours I ducked my head whenever I heard a cup shaking, feeling awful for doing so.

I think Lizzie must have sensed my unease because she grabbed my arm when we had completed a large loop of the neighbourhood and were walking back towards her apartment.

‘Right. I’m taking you somewhere where you won’t be hugged, hounded or stalked. Come with me.’

She had stopped outside the ebony-black frontage of a coffee shop, its windows dressed in swathes of purple velvet with the name Java’s Crypt painted in spidery silver letters above.

I stared at it. ‘It looks like a funeral parlour.’

‘Appearances can be deceptive. You’ll love it.’

Java’s Crypt was the kind of place you would run for the hills to avoid in the UK, but here in San Francisco its presence on Haight Street made perfect sense, despite being slightly scary to walk into at first. I could imagine Edgar Allan Poe feeling right at home in its black and purple interior, sipping his iced Java latte beneath silver spider’s web lampshades in booths bedecked with purple velvet and black lace. The coffee shop (or ‘caffeine lair’ as Lizzie told me its owner preferred) was buzzing with a diverse mix of clientele, from members of the Goth community to loudly dressed American tourists, Chinese families and kookily attired locals. It was a surprise to see so many people who ordinarily would avoid each other sitting together in apparent harmony.

We approached the black ash serving counter and I jumped as a tall, black-haired man with a deathly pale face and all-black clothes rose from behind it, looming ominously over us. I was about to turn and run when his black-lined eyes wrinkled and a broad smile spread across his purple stained lips.

‘Yo Lizzie! Haven’t seen you in a while.’

‘Hey Ced.’ To my surprise – and amusement – my cousin and the happy Goth greeted one another with a respectful fist-bump. ‘I thought I should introduce my cousin to the delights of your establishment.’

His pale blue eyes flicked to me. ‘Hey, Lizzie’s cousin.’

‘Hi – I’m Nell.’

He held out his fist, the black leather and silver bangles wobbling around his slim wrist. Following Lizzie’s example I offered a tentative fist-bump. It certainly made a refreshing change from the over-friendly hugs I’d been receiving.

‘Good to meet you. I’m Ced. Welcome to Java’s Crypt. What can I get you?’

‘We’ll have two of your Peruvian filter coffees please,’ Lizzie smiled.

‘Cool. Listen, find a booth and I’ll bring it over.’

‘Come here often?’ I whispered to Lizzie when we were sitting down. ‘I didn’t have you pegged as a Goth.’

She laughed. ‘I’m not – as most of the customers in here aren’t. Ced’s wife Autumn is one of my piano students. And they’re good friends.’

Five minutes later, Ced arrived with our coffee, together with a huge slice of white and dark chocolate-swirled baked cheesecake. ‘From Autumn,’ he explained, sitting next to Lizzie. ‘She said she’d been telling you about it?’

Lizzie’s expression was one of pure joy and I had to laugh despite my slight unease in Ced’s company. ‘She did! We spent most of last week’s lesson talking about this amazing recipe.’

‘Your weapons of choice, ladies.’ Ced produced two forks and presented them to us. ‘So, Nell, how long are you visiting for?’

‘Eight weeks.’

He seemed impressed by this. ‘Big US adventure, huh?’

I took a forkful of delicious cheesecake and nodded. ‘Something like that.’

‘Nell just lost her job in the UK, so she’s come out here to have fun,’ Lizzie offered, which surprised me. I must have been staring at her because her smile suddenly vanished. ‘Sorry hun. But that is why you’re here.’

‘It’s fine, I’m just –’ I looked at Ced. ‘Forgive me. I’m still getting used to how forward everyone is here.’

The Goth smiled. ‘It’s cool. And hey, good call. I’m in this city because I lost my job, actually.’

‘You are?’

He nodded. ‘Ten years ago this July. Believe it or not I used to be a lawyer in New York City.’

The thought of Ced as a suited lawyer was incredible, given his appearance. ‘Wow.’

He waved a pale hand. ‘It’s OK, Nell, you have my permission to laugh. I find it hilarious myself. Hard to believe I was the golden boy of Jefferson Jones and Associates on Wall Street for two years. Golden in more ways than one, actually. This,’ he wound a strand of jet-black hair around his fingers, ‘is, unsurprisingly, not my natural colour.’

His dry sense of humour made me smile and I began to relax a little. ‘I like it,’ I replied. ‘How come you ended up in San Francisco?’

‘I got fired. For nothing more than the fact that one of the partners decided to hate me. And that was it for law and me. I walked around Central Park for hours, thinking about how much of my life I’d given to my career – and how fruitless it had proved to be. So, I made a decision. I quit my apartment, trashed my business suits and moved to the West Coast with one suitcase and my guitar. I busked around for a while, met Autumn at a beach gig in Santa Monica, we settled here and within two years I’d opened Java’s Crypt.’

I was amazed by his story but also encouraged that he had achieved so much from such inauspicious beginnings. If it had happened for Ced, could it happen for me? ‘That’s really good to hear.’

‘This town is a place for adventurers, Nell. There ain’t nothing you can’t do here if you work hard at it.’

As we were speaking one of the homeless men Lizzie and I had encountered that morning entered the coffee shop. I felt every muscle tense in my shoulders: in London this situation usually was a precursor to an ugly scene. Calmly, Ced left our table and walked over to greet the man.

‘Hey brother, what can I do for ya?’

‘You got any coffee on hold?’ the man asked, his voice gruff and low.

‘Sure, man. Come over to the bar.’

I watched as the man accompanied Ced to the counter, where the coffee shop owner made him a large coffee. Thanking Ced, the man shuffled out, tipping his baseball cap to us as he went. I turned to Lizzie, confused by what I’d seen.

‘What just happened?’

Lizzie smiled. ‘That happens a lot here. People buy a coffee to take out and one “suspended”. It then means that when the homeless guys come in they have a drink already paid for. It doesn’t happen everywhere, but it’s something Ced has always done since he opened this place.’

I was quickly learning that this was a city that made no bones about itself. Everything was presented just as it was – good and bad, beautiful and not-so-attractive. It was brash and bold and would definitely take some getting used to.

By the time we returned to Lizzie’s apartment I felt as if I’d gone eight rounds with a heavyweight boxer. Succumbing to the jetlag still pummelling my body, I slept for another couple of hours and when I woke I checked my emails, the familiar task comforting. And then I don’t know why, but I clicked on the latest email from Aidan. Despite my best efforts earlier that day to convince myself I didn’t want to hear from him, the temptation to know what he had to say was too great. As soon as I opened it, however, I wished I hadn’t:

From: a.matthews@me-mail.com

To: nell.sullygirl@gmail.com

Subject: Nell – please read this

Nell

I feel terrible. I wish we could talk so I could tell you all this in person. But you won’t return my calls and seem to have disappeared off the face of the planet, so this is the best I can do.

I hated giving you the news about your job and I hated even more that you left before I had a chance to explain.

I fought for you, honestly I did. I tried everything I could to save your job. But I couldn’t change their minds. And now the office is like a morgue and you’re not here. And I miss you.

I know I was an idiot to say what I said about us. But it’s still true. Being without you for the past week has only strengthened how I feel. I love you, Nell. I’m going to email you every day until I get an answer. Because I know you feel it too.

You’re angry now – I get that. But look in your heart. Can you honestly say you don’t want us to be together?

We’ve been through too much for this not to happen. I’m not giving up on us.

I love you.

Aidan xx

Angrily, I logged out. I didn’t want to know that Aidan was hurting too and I certainly didn’t want to feel the glimmer of hope it gave me. Suddenly I was stuck in limbo between the newness of San Francisco that I didn’t yet feel a part of and the aspects of my old life I was trying to leave. I decided to ignore the other messages waiting unread in my inbox. Reading any more of Aidan’s words while I was here wouldn’t solve anything, only leave me with more questions. I was still angry with him for making me redundant and then trying to get back with me. Besides, I wanted to use the time I had here to think about the future and how I fitted into it. Whether Aidan could – or should – ever be a part of my life again was something I wasn’t ready to consider yet.

While I had been sleeping, Lizzie had been busy. Keen to make me feel more a part of her city she had invited her friend Eric to join us for dinner.

‘You’ll love him,’ she promised me, dashing around her tiny kitchen as she prepared food. ‘If anyone can cheer you up, Eric can.’

Eric Walker was a six-foot bundle of pure energy, from the cheeky grin playing on his face to his ever-moving hands which he used to accentuate every word. Even sitting at Lizzie’s dining table he didn’t keep still, animatedly jumping from anecdote to anecdote. Originally from Dagenham in Essex, Eric had come to San Francisco for a year and ended up with a lucrative job entertaining visitors at Pier 39 with his unique blend of British humour, circus skills and crazy unicycle riding – which he was still doing fifteen years later. It was wonderful to meet him and especially lovely to talk to another British person, even if his accent had adopted a noticeable West Coast twang.

‘If I’d stayed in the UK I’d be an accountant by now,’ he told me, after reducing me to tears of laughter by juggling various ornaments from Lizzie’s living room. ‘That’s what my dad wanted me to be. Instead I’m in San Francisco, where juggling swords while balancing on a unicycle is perfectly acceptable. I make a good wage from the daily shows and teach circus skills to private students – most of which are accountants, lawyers and bankers. Can you imagine me doing that for a living in Dagenham?’

Watching Lizzie’s friend performing his impromptu routine I found it hard to imagine Eric wading through tax returns in an office.

‘So Lizzie tells me you’ve had a tough day?’ he asked, when Lizzie was in the kitchen dishing up dessert.

‘Not really. I’ve just felt a bit out of place. Everything’s different here: crossing the road, ordering a cup of coffee, even buying things in shops.’

Eric laughed. ‘Don’t worry, we all go through it. Listen, have you been to Fisherman’s Wharf yet?’

‘No, I only arrived yesterday. But it’s on my list of places to visit.’

‘Excellent!’ He grabbed a handful of cutlery and began to juggle it, making me laugh again. ‘Why don’t you two come and see my show tomorrow? You’ll love Pier 39. It reminds me of summer holidays in Southend and Bournemouth when I was a kid.’ He added a pepper grinder to the collection of tumbling knives and forks – chuckling when a cloud of pepper dust covered his lap. ‘Trust me, it’s impossible to feel out of place there. Lizzie, what do you reckon?’

Lizzie returned to the table with enormous bowls of ice cream sprinkled with tiny Oreo cookies. ‘I think it’s a great idea, but this is Nell’s trip.’

By now I was laughing so hard I had to struggle to catch my breath, feeling so much better already. Eric’s suggestion sounded like the perfect choice.

‘Yes – let’s do it!’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cable cars and seaside jazz

Next morning we made our way down to Fisherman’s Wharf. Eric had recommended a great place for lunch and suggested it was worth spending time wandering along the Bayside streets to soak in the atmosphere before we visited his afternoon show.

‘I really like Eric,’ I said to Lizzie as we walked past the numbered piers stretching out into the San Francisco Bay. ‘How did you come to meet him?’

‘He was teaching circus skills in one of the schools I teach piano at. My friend Tyler introduced us – he’s the principal of Sacred Heart Elementary where my after-school kids’ club meets. I think his exact words to me were, “we have another crazy Brit here you should meet”. Of course, he expected me to know Eric simply by virtue of the fact we both hailed from the same country. You’ll notice Americans think that a lot. As it turned out, we got on instantly and he became a really good friend. Actually, it was because of Eric’s work with the children that I was inspired to start the club, so I have a lot to thank him for.’

Restaurants and food stalls selling fresh crab, clam chowder, hot dogs and seafood lined the seafront, the scent of cooking food surrounding us as we walked past gift shops (stacked with jokey t-shirts, souvenirs and cheap sunglasses), brightly painted coffee stalls, bicycle hire companies and electrical goods stores. I breathed it all in, feeling decidedly more positive than I had yesterday, the innate sense of fun making me grin like a big kid.

On every street corner, we passed buskers playing. Their music styles were as varied as the food stalls they were often performing beside: reggae by the clam chowder stands, classic rock by the coffee and pretzel stand, jazz by the Italian pizzeria unwisely named ‘Pompeii’s Grotto’, funk by the twenty-four-hour breakfast diner and even classical opera next to an Asian-Japanese restaurant. It was my first introduction to the two major things that seemed to underpin everything in San Francisco: music and food.

‘The restaurant Eric recommended is over there,’ Lizzie said, putting a dollar in the bucket of a reggae-playing dreadlocked busker who appeared to be working his way through the Bob Marley Songbook on a battered synthesiser. She pointed towards a cluster of wooden tables beside a fish restaurant.

We ordered steaming clam chowder served in bowls made of hollowed-out bread loaves and settled down for a great lunch.

‘I read one of Aidan’s emails yesterday,’ I confessed, blowing on a hot, sweet spoonful of buttery chowder.

‘You did?’ She made no attempt to disguise her reaction. ‘And what did he have to say for himself?’

‘That he’s sorry. And he loves me. He said the experience of making me redundant made him realise how much he wants me in his life.’

‘He actually said that?’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘Oh well, how nice for him. How do you feel?’

‘I don’t know. I mean, when he called me into his office I thought he was going to ask us to get back together, so in one way knowing that’s how he feels confirms what I’d been thinking for a while. But that was my life before and losing my job has called everything into question. And I’m still angry with him. He said he tried to save my job, but that’s easy to say after the event, isn’t it? When I thought about it this morning I came to the conclusion that I’m just not ready to go down that road again yet. Not until I work out which direction I want to go in.’ I stirred another handful of crunchy oyster crackers into my chowder. ‘Does that make sense at all?’

‘Yes, absolutely. This trip should be about you, not about Aidan’s guilt.’ She held up her hand. ‘Not that I’m saying he doesn’t love you. I’m sure he does. But you need to focus on yourself, not him. It’s like when I first moved here. I got involved with a bloke a couple of years ago who was enthusiastic one minute then cold as ice the next. I’d been battling to keep the relationship going for six months when Eric pointed out that the guy was demanding so much time from me that I never had any for myself. I argued with him about it for a couple of weeks, but he had totally summed up where I was. I pulled back and the guy disappeared.’

It was so good to find that Lizzie understood what I was feeling and also to share in more details about her life. I was intrigued by the fact that Eric had been the one to dissuade her from her previous relationship. Seeing how close they had been last night made me wonder if their friendship was a precursor to more. ‘Eric seems like a good friend.’

‘He is.’ Her expression gave nothing away.

‘And you have Ced and his wife, too. And who was the principal guy you mentioned? Tom?’

Lizzie gave a self-conscious giggle. ‘Tyler.’

This was too good an opportunity to miss. ‘What’s that giggle for? I think you need to tell me about Tyler.’

She shot me a look but her smile was as bright as the seaside sunshine. ‘Nothing to tell, thank you very much. I’ve known him about four years. He’s thirty-five, one of the youngest principals in the area and he’s a great friend. I asked for his help with the cross-city education programme I’ve been writing and he’s been amazing with it. And that is all.’ She looked down at her watch to signal the subject was closed. ‘Right, we’d better head to Pier 39.’

We made our way along the seafront past the multicoloured vintage trams of the F-Line system, the crowds of tourists with their cameras and matching anoraks and the lines of bicycles waiting for hire towards Pier 39. We reached the entrance, flanked by colourful flags flapping in the Bay breeze and a giant sculpture of a crab made from iron and clad in growing plants.

‘Where does Eric perform?’ I asked Lizzie.

‘Right in the middle of the pier’s boardwalk. But we’ll hear him before we see him.’

‘What does that mean?’

My cousin smiled. ‘You’ll see. We’re a little bit early but I reckon we should just head straight there.’

We walked onto the dark wooden boardwalk and as we rounded a corner a familiar Essex voice called out above the hum of the crowd.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, roll up, roll up! Fifteen minutes to the show of the decade, a plethora of pluck, a phantasmagoria of feats! You do not want to miss this, people! Come and see me by the carousel at two p.m. sharp!’

I turned to Lizzie. ‘Eric?’

‘That’s him.’

We followed the sound of his voice until we saw Eric, dressed in black t-shirt and baggy red streetdance trousers, wheeling around amused tourists on a unicycle. When he saw us, he raised his hand and pedalled over.

‘You came!’ He wobbled between us, planting a kiss on my cheek then Lizzie’s. ‘Are you having a better day, Nell? Was I right about this place or what?’

I smiled back – but then with Eric around it was impossible not to. ‘My day is much better, thank you. And I love your office.’

He chuckled and spread his arms wide. ‘Beats a stuffy accountancy firm, eh?’

‘Can I get you anything before your show?’ Lizzie asked. ‘Do you have water?’

Eric’s eyes shone. ‘Darlin’, you read my mind. I’m good for water but I could murder a coffee. I didn’t get the chance for one this morning. Would you mind?’

‘Not at all.’ My cousin opened her bag and searched around its considerable depths to find her purse.

‘Why don’t I get them?’ I offered. I was enjoying the atmosphere and wanted to say thank you to Lizzie and Eric. ‘What can I get you?’

With their coffee orders, I made my way back through the crowds to the boardwalk entrance where I’d seen a coffee kiosk. The friendly lady behind the counter asked where in England I was from and wished me a pleasant stay in the city as she handed over cups of steaming coffee. Popping plastic lids on the paper cups, I fitted them into a cardboard carrier and turned to leave the kiosk – just as somebody’s elbow caught under mine and sent the carrier and three cups flying into the air. Shocked, I jumped out of the way to escape the hot liquid’s rapid return to earth and turned to confront the person who had knocked into me.