Isn't it Lovely?

ISN’T IT LOVELY?

It seems rather funny that one can go on for so long, actively trying to forget someone, as they actively gnaw away at your thoughts. That’s what I, Arabella Weller think, on this dreary Sunday afternoon. I think of the time Alex had me over for tea. I think of what I said then, about being a writer, being poor. I always thought it would be lovely, wouldn’t it? A nice little flat above a storefront. Typewriter clicking, rain pouring, cat curled up on my lap. I sigh. It’s the dream I know I could never achieve. Not that I would even want to, sadly, I don’t know how to get on like that. Alex was right, I’m not conditioned. Curse my father. Oh no, here he comes now. I take a deep breath as I hear a loud knock at my door.

            “Come in,” I sigh. No use arguing with him today.

            He opens the door and stares at me, sitting on the windowsill. “What are you doing, daydreaming, Arabella? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?”

            I don’t want to go to law school, but I don’t know how to say it. It’s not just Alex, I never wanted to go.

            “I might buy a computer,” I say, as nonchalantly as possible.

            “And what in the world would you do with that, Arabella? You don’t have a pound to your name without me anyway. And I’m not buying it. Unless you would use it to study law somehow.”

            “Um, Dad, hypothetical question…” I giggle uncomfortably and trail off.

            “What’s wrong, Arabella?”

            “What if I didn’t want to go to law school?”

            “I already put down the deposit, Arabella. Now stop moping. Unless there’s a high-paying profession you’d rather do. Medical field, perhaps? Or maybe, actuarial work? No, women don’t do math.”

            I don’t say anything.

            “Well, I’m sure some poor women do, but no woman of your class.”

            “We don’t live in the 1890s, Dad.”

            “Don’t talk back, Arabella.”

            “I’m sorry. But that was sexist. And I don’t like math anyway.”

            “Logged and noted,” says my father looking at me quizzically. “What’s gotten into you lately, Arabella?”

            “What do you mean?” I ask.

            “You seem, rather quiet lately.”

            “I’m fine, Father, I really am.”

            “Are you sure? Are you sure you don’t have someone on your mind? A boy perhaps?”

            “No, no boys.” I sigh, “I just, really, honestly, never wanted to be a lawyer.”

            “No boys, Arabella? Are you gay?”

            “No, no, it’s not that.”

            “Arabella, if you were gay that would be a disgrace to the family name.”

            “Yeah I know, marry a male suitor for financial stability, keep my name, blah blah blah.” I mumble.

            “What did you say, Arabella?”

            “I’m not gay. And I’m not getting married. Not right now, at least.”

            “That’s nice,” says my father. “You do that.”

            “That wasn’t very nice to gay people.”

            “Arabella—”

            “But we’re getting sidetracked. I’m not going to law school.”

            “What’s gotten into you, Arabella!” he spits, “What? That is not an option, Arabella.”

            “Oh yes, it is. I’m 22, I can do whatever I want.”

            “Well—well, you won’t get a penny from me! What kind of talk is that, Arabella?”

            “I’ve been using computers at the library. There’s this thing called email—it’s really cool. I have it on my business card now—I’m going to be a writer.”

            “What kind of nonsense is this, Arabella? Get down, now!”

            I cross my arms defiantly. “Make me.”

            “Arabella—”

            “No, I’ve been dealing with this for too long—living under your thumb! Just a bug to swat away, coming back for more crumbs, doing everything you say!”

            My father stands speechless and backs against the door.

            “You and your half a million—I don’t need it! I don’t need any of it! I can make it!”

            “Yes, you do, Arabella, you wouldn’t last one day outside, NOT ONE DAY! And I worked for everything, Arabella!”

            “No, you didn’t! You cheated and fought your way to the top! Why do the wicked always win! You never cared about any of your tenants, not for one day, NOT ONE DAY! I saw the slums you were running, I saw your scams, I saw your SHIT!” I snapped. My father drops his jaw. “Arabella—” he sputters, trying to compose himself. “ARABELLA, DON’T YOU DARE TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!”

            “AND YOU ONLY WANT ME TO BE A LAWYER, BECAUSE THAT’S SOMEHOW LESS SCUMMY THAN THE BLOODY SCAM RUN BY YOU!”

            It’s been a long time coming. He’s stifling me in perfumes, wealth meaningless things. I was taught to be purely rotten. And I am. And I want nothing to do with it!

            My father doesn’t say a word.

            “I’ve had this emergency case packed for awhile now! I’m an adult! You can’t enquire after me! Good-bye!”

            “Arabella—”

            “NO.” I pick up the suitcase and barge out of the room.

            “Arabellaaaaaaaaaaa!”

            I slam the door. I slam it so hard I think everyone on the block heard me. The block of their filthy rich houses and pompous affairs. I want to be sick.

            I look around the quiet street, look into the cul-de-sac. This is just one of the properties my father owns in London, he has three. I can’t think about that now. Everything is quiet. It’s raining. And I’m all alone.

***

The building is modest and tucked away just as I remembered it, as I put down my bags and hit the button for the third floor. At least this place has an elevator, unlike my Aunt’s complex. It’s a shaky ride up though, and I think I’m going to get stuck, or I’ll be sick. But I can’t complain now. I barely have time to even think. Doesn’t he have a roommate? It’s so late, it’s past two o’clock. No one else is around, there isn’t any security here. I got right in. So could a murderer or a thief. No, Arabella, that’s just your silly mind at 2 AM. I try to convince myself, but this might be the first time since I was a kid when I actually felt unsafe. Not that anyone could feel safe around my dad. I catch myself laughing at my own joke. Maybe I have gone mad.

            As I knock on the door, my hands are shaking. And it’s not from the cold rain outside. What if they think I’m a burglar and pull a knife on me? What if his roommate calls the police? I try to take a breath. I have nowhere else to go. I don’t want to bother my aunt, and no one else is close enough. It’s too late to take a train, and I don’t have money to stay at a hotel. I could go to my cousins up in Manchester, but I barely know them. And I’d need train money. And safety. I don’t want to get hurt. I really did have everything in the suitcase. A little money, not much, but maybe I could go there—I really don’t have many options, do I? Unless I start working immediately and get cheap rent with someone—but I don’t know anybody who would take me. All my friends from school are such snobs. They wouldn’t take, self-centered, dirty, rain-drenched, penniless Arabella. They only liked me when I could buy them treats from Soreill’s.

            I take a deep breath and knock again louder. I hear footsteps, then the door click. I’m afraid. What if I have the wrong person? Or what if he doesn’t want to see me. The door opens slowly, and I see Alex standing there, holding a half-spilled cup of coffee.

            “Arabella? Is that you?”

            “Yeah. Guess I should’ve called.” I didn’t get to the telephone booth. I wasn’t thinking.

            “No, it’s fine. I wasn’t sleeping anyway. Are you okay? Come in!”

            “Thanks.” I nod as I follow him into the flat. “Like, thanks a lot. It’s crazy.”

            “What happened?” he asks, sitting down at the little round table, the refrigerator droning in the background.

            “Where’s your roommate?”

            “He’s out of town, thankfully. Took that no-good cat with him.” Alex laughs. I like his laugh. I’m getting sidetracked. He probably only liked me for my money. He already said I wasn’t conditioned for this. He’s right. “So, what happened? Are you ok?”

            “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, quickly, “I mean I’m not dying or anything. I just snapped.”            

            “Is this about your father? Don’t blame you.”

            “I stopped by the library on my way…well, it was hours ago. I guess I’ve just been wandering, and I came back here.” I stammer, “Anyway, he was blowing up my email. Guess he found it on my business card. He kept saying that he’ll never let me treat him like that and he won’t take me back for a million pounds, and I don’t have any money to my name anyway, and I’m a disrespectful little rat who doesn’t deserve to have nice things—he’s right though. I told him what I thought of his business.”

            “I’m sorry,” says Alex, “I mean, I’m glad you told him the truth but—”

            “He’s good for nothing.” I say, “I don’t even understand. I don’t want to be tied to him.”

            “Do you have any other family?”

            “Not that would take me. Or who are close.”

            “You said you wanted to move up North?”

            “Not anymore, I mean, I don’t have any money to move, or get started.”

            “I know some people who could help you move.”

            “Everything I own is in this suitcase, Alex.”

            “Oh.”

            “Yeah. I was prepared, too. I knew I might snap. I knew he might hate me.”

            “Did he kick you out?”

            “No. I just got mad and he said I couldn’t talk to him like that again. And I just kind of left.”

            “That took guts.”

            “I wasn’t thinking about guts, I was thinking about getting the hell out of there.”

            “I understand.”

            “Thanks. I literally…I thought you’d hate me now that I’m broke.”

            “Why would I hate you?”

            He doesn’t…he just said…it’s 2 am, I’m tired, cold, hungry, and I left my credit card at the library. It’s embarrassing now that already embarrassed Arabella starts bawling like an already embarrassed baby, but I swore on an alter to tell the truth when I was three, so here I am now. “I was gonna take you out for coffee!”

            “Hey, it’s okay.”         

            “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry!” I’m curled up in a ball on the floor now, and I think I forgot chairs existed. So much for hospitality and sitting like a lady. Screw my father’s morals anyway. I don’t have time to think about what could have been. And what I lost.

***

I blink, opening my eyes a little. A soft, evening light envelopes me. Did I really sleep the whole day? I sit up in the sleeping bag on the floor that Alex set up for me, sitting in Alex’s old (but dry) clothes, listening to the little washing machine sound like it’s having a seizure.

            “Oops, okay, sorry.” Been meaning to fix that.”

            I look up to see Alex in the other room, making yet another cup of coffee. That boy has a problem.

            “What time is it?” I yawn.

            “Six O’clock. I just got back from work. Yes, you really did sleep the whole day.”

            “Are you hungry?”

            “Ravenous. But don’t worry about—” The smell hits me all at once, oh that smell. Nothing other than a slice of steaming hot Soreilli’s Specialty Banana bread. “You didn’t.”

            “Yeah I did,” He grins, “Catch!”

            I barely catch the bag with one hand, as I begin to tear off the paper. I suddenly look down at the crumbs tumbling down onto the sleeping bag. “Should I—”

            “No, it’s fine. I should take a load of wash in the morning. Your clothes were soaked when you came in. I try to run this old thing but—”

            “Yeah, it sounds like a dinosaur,” I say as I watch him press a button on the washing machine, as it screeches loudly, then cuts to silence. “The death of the lone poet.” I say. I almost snort my milk with how hard I’m laughing.

            “I have an old typewriter in the other room if you want to—”

            “Thanks.” I say. “If I want to pitch anything.” I try to sound dignified, but it sounds funny. “I do need to find work. Like tomorrow.”

            “Like Monday.”

            “No, like tomorrow. When does your roommate get back?”

            “I called Greg. He said his cat ran away and he’s down in Southampton looking for it. Said he met a girl down there too.”

            “So maybe never? Maybe to grab his stuff? I promise Alex, I’m not moving in. But I do need your advice. As you said, I’m not conditioned.” Gosh, it sounds even funnier out loud, I erupt into another fit of laughter.

            “You let yourself get rain-drenched, you’ll get used to it. Where’s that umbrella you forgot to pack anyway?”

            “Right. Also, thanks. Banana bread is actually my favorite—well, second favorite. My absolute favorite is—”

            “Don’t tell me, chocolate chip muffin?”

            “No!” I shout, “Anyway let me pay you back for the bread. And how much do you want for board until Monday?”

            Alex laughs. “Trust me, if you’re going to get conditioned, paying for things is the least productive way to go about it.”

            “Yay, so stealing’s cool now?”

            “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant the bread’s on me. It’s bread.”

            “I used to buy like four of those and the workers there thought I was crazy. My dad didn’t like it either. Got sick off it once.”

            “I see,” says Alex, “Oops, I burned the spaghetti.”

            “How do you burn spaghetti? Doesn’t it just ‘mush-up’?”

            “Mush-up, huh? I want that on my tombstone.”

            “You’re funny,” I say. Let’s go get Antonio’s. I’m starving.”

            “Or I could order pizza?”

            Just then, the phone rings. I reach for it, but Alex intercepts. “Hello…oh, yes, she’s here.” My heart stops. How did he find me? “Girlfriend? Yes, that’s very amusing, Mr. Weller. I’m just putting her up until—”

            I can hear my father on the other end, “Put her on!”

            “Speaker then.”

            “Uh, hi, Dad?

            “Arabella, what do you think you’re doing?”

            “Nothing. I laugh. And I’m on speaker. He can hear all the scummy things you’re about to say about him. And I’m sure he has a few choice words for you as well.”        

            “In fact, I do,” says Alex, “But I’ll wait.”

            “This is your last chance, Arabella! Your last chance to come home, do as I tell you and accept the money for law school!”

            “Give the money to someone who actually needs it. Someone who actually wants to go,” says Alex, “Maybe that will teach you to stop spoiling your own children like brats!”

            “How dare you—”

            “I think we’re fine, actually.” I say, firmly.

            “Well, about those choice words, Alex? I’m grabbing my paper. This could take a while.”

            “Actually, it won’t take long at all,” I said, “I know you, my parents know you, everyone in that slum knows you—”

            “IS THAT IT? ONE LAST TIME, ARABELLA?”

            “No,” I say. “I’ll be just fine, thank you.”       

            “You won’t last a day, not a day, do you hear me, ARABELLA?”

            “She’ll last many days, I’ll see to it.” Says Alex. I roll my eyes, “I can support myself—”

            “Just in case.”

            “YOU CAN’T SUPPORT HER! YOU’RE INSANE!”

            “Is that all?” asks Alex, calmly, “I never said I was doing that. Just a little nudge in the right direction of jobs. I know the area.

            “IS THAT ALL?” shouts my father over the phone. “IF YOU HANG UP THAT PHONE, ARABELLA WON’T GET A PENNY FROM ME, DON’T YOU HEAR!?”

            “I can hear.” I tell him.

            “Then, yes, that’s all,” says Alex.

            “Great. Take care of the brat. She’s going to need it.”

            “Oh, Mr. Weller, and one more thing?”

            “Yes.”

            “About those choice words I was going to say to you—”

            “Yes, get on with it!”

            “Well there’s only four of them, so it will be quick.”

            “Ah, the classic ‘I love you, honey’ treatment.”

            “No,” says Alex, Actually, they were, “Fuck you, Land Broker.”

            And I, Arabella Weller have never heard a phone click so fast.”

            “I know someone who might hook you up with a place. On Monday.”

            “Well, it’s Thursday, isn’t it?” I ask.

            “Yes. It’s Thursday.”

            “And you know what that means?”

            “What?”

            “Discount coffee! I know just the place.”

            “I’m always game. As long as you’re okay staying up all night.”

            “Yeah,” I laugh, “After all that, I don’t think I could sleep anyway.”