Part one:
The bit before chapter one, last Thursday: 17thoctober2013, 4pm
There's an old Chinese proverb that says: ‘the nail that sticks up, gets hammered down.’ People seem to like uniformity in behaviour and appearance, it makes them comfortable somehow, well, I have my own proverb: ‘let them try.’ Nonconformists like me relish our difference, we feel sorry for the masses who flock together, because they lack imagination.
The story that follows is an account of a young woman journeying through life in the way normal people do, without plan or thought. But with strong instinct and creativity to live life extraordinarily, a life lesson?
Dear reader, it's time to put the kettle on.
“Write drunk, edit sober” Hemingway. Good advice.
Bloody phone.
Note to self, learn to ignore inanimate objects, it's the vibration, I must respond, I’m only human (and a woman).
HC: “Aaaarrrgh!” That’s about right.
TC: “Hung-over?” You should be.
HC: “No, it’s wine flu” stupid boy.
Another note to self, Henry is inanimate.
It’s October bright, very bright, the sun is hot on my face, but like ice in shadow, a still and a sharp type of cold that permeates inside. The air is quiet, my brain is not. My favourite time of year, I like the contradictory nature of autumn. The sky is a deep Mediterranean turquoise blue, without any white vapour spoiling its perfection, paler at the horizon ombreing into a deeper blue as it rises into the lower atmosphere. Half the moon is visible, with its craters, mountains and shadows adding texture to the part circle.
A vibration alerts me to an incoming message:
PF: “Good luck today” that’s nice.
TC: “On my way” can’t type well whilst I’m going along.
PF: “Good, try to concentrate” cheeky bugger.
TC: “The cheek!” Indeed.
PF: “Friends can be that way T, it’s our job” true story.
TC: “See you later” you betcha.
PF: “Did you at least remember to brush your hair?” Not you too, traitor.
TC: “Shame you can’t see what finger I’m holding up! Love you Tx” I’m so amusing.
My phone goes away, on silent.
As I look up my cab is turning another corner taking me further into a maze of back streets, all looking strangely familiar, as the last street we turned into looked exactly like this one. As if we were driving some sort of weird temporal loop, like a déjà vu. If I had any sense of direction at all I would be completely lost, but I don’t, so it doesn't concern me when I glance around I recognise nothing, it's a feeling I’m well used to.
Another vibration, when did I become a slave to my phone?
EC: “I don’t hear from you in weeks” here we go.
TC: “Sorry Mum, I’ve been busy” true story.
EC: “Always busy, will I see you soon? …She asks herself fully knowing the answer…”
Note to self, make time to see Mum.
TC: “Mum, I’ll call you later” hope I don’t forget.
EC: “I’ll not hold my breath” she knows what I’m like.
Deep sigh, phone away, note to self: call Mum.
The area is closed, very closed, Ennio Morricone is playing in my head as I imagine an urban version of a tumble weed blowing and rolling down the street, which would be a crisp bag or chip paper, but there is nothing here at all. Shut away curry houses, a key cutting narrow frontage and take away shops, metal grilles and security fascia’s. Narrow, clean streets. Someone looks after this deserted neighbourhood. And that feels odd to me, my brain hums, a disquiet, it's not happy at juxtapositions or odd contradictions.
I apply some lip balm, it's a calming mechanism, plus it makes my lips soft and kissable. Who am I kidding, I’m single.
Who am I talking to when I do that? Mum's right, I am weird.
Is this the right place? I wonder as I stare hard out of the cab window. I check the address I have been given saved in my iPhone, twice, check the GPS too and we're right on top of it. My black cab pulls over. It looks like an unlikely place for any business that doesn't fix old cars and in all likelihood hasn't fixed anything in years. Large fronted metal shuttered doors, padlocked shut as if no one had any cars to be fixed today. The padlock is shiny and galvanised, large and new, not rusty and breakable, that's the tell someone is paying attention, on the lookout, it's a fake kind of old film set where it seems like one thing, but on closer examination it’s something entirely different. There’s a camera set high on the front wall pointing directly at the black London cab.
Worried? A little nervous, yes.
Enter at C in a sitting trot, stop at X salute. Feel better now? No. Usually the complex nature of dressage which is equal parts art and clever riding, plus remembering which way the hell to go next, helps clear my mind, it helps me focus.
I flick the slider bar on my phone to check it’s on silent, yes, proceed.
The cab driver sits idling outside the address. A deserted looking building. He looks at me questioningly in the rear-view mirror. "You sure this is right?" His voice betraying a little concern, perhaps he’s a father. The tick, tick, tick of the cabs slow engine rhythm. What song does that remind me of? 'Feel you', Depeche mode. Yep.
"I hope so." I smile. Smiling disarms people with bad intentions. It puts off anyone wishing to destroy me. It has the added benefit of demonstrating I know more than they do, about what it doesn't matter, that I’m confident is key. Off guard a confrontationist will simply stare as if he doesn't quite understand this creature in front of him. Yes, a smile can be very helpful tool indeed. It gives me a little courage.
I pay the man, I give him a tip: not the 'don't talk to strangers' type of tip, but the monetary kind, and drag my portfolio and laptop case up to the closed concertina metallic fascia of the large dull square of a grey brick warehouse.
There’s a door in the great frontage shutter with a buzzer. I wonder whether prisons have this kind of set up, door-wise. An old manky looking unit with a feint light, the bulb either needs changing or cleaning as it blinks on and off, it belongs in Blade Runner, but the dark Tokyo rain is missing, my impression that this is also fake crawls into my brain, what is this place?
Proceed at sitting trot to A. Feel better now.
One name is handwritten on a slip of card and slid into a buzzer slot, a swirly creative hand, unusual, masculine, I press the obvious button, and get a tight feeling across my chest as my heart pumps blood round so fast I actually hear it swoosh through my ears. I watch as my cab turns the corner out of sight and my exit plan becomes more complicated, it's too quiet now.
Canter at F. where in the arena is F? Bloody hell.
My phone vibrates and I ignore it.
I press the buzzer again, was that impatient? Half expecting no answer, and already planning my escape...I Try to recall which way did I come and how close is the main road?
A loud crackle from the buzzer unit...".....ell...o.....lp you?" It splutters.
The camera hums above as it moves to point at me, I am tempted to smile and wave, so I do.
"It's Tharie to see Daniel, I have an appointment."
...very loud screech!! "...kay, push the door..." I hear a buzzer around the frame and a loud click from within it, and push the door hard, I expect it to malfunction because that's the whole illusion of the place. To a casual observer you'd to taken in, you think what you’re meant to, what the place is designed to, but to an observer? I’m not fooled, but I am curious. My brain notices things, it can't help it, and it tells me everything, sometimes noisily.
Not surprisingly then the door opens smoothly and a whiff of scented air hits me in the face, smells connect pathways in my mind and I begin making memories of the smell, a masculine note, but fresh and young and my belly stirs, nice. It’s unexpected.
As my eyes adjust from the blinding autumn sunshine outside I enter a cavernous warehouse space, easily enough room to park a 747, clean, airy, painted shades of grey and black, even the floor which feels rubbery and non-slip beneath my Isabel Marant boots....well, this is an interview.
Ride a 20 metre circle at B. Circles, can’t get lost there!
Suddenly my carry-on feels heavy and I’m anxious for a place to sit it down. "Hi, come over..." comes a voice from beyond, I can’t see the owner of the deep strong vocal, but I smell his cologne and I make my way towards the sound and ground zero of the gorgeous smell. My mind begins to wonder, it's not letting these strings of thought go, they are too delicious, if only I had some tea, that would calm me...
BM shoulder-in right. Right? Which way is that? Bloody hell, this is supposed focus me.
A huge old desk sits centrally in the back end of the huge room, a low snooker hall light swings gently hovering 6ft above from a very long chain coming down from an anchor in the ceiling, too far away to see in this light its fixed point of origin. It's shafted beam lighting everything on the desktop and giving the effect of putting the whole rest of the space into graduating shadow. This is definitely the focal point, and I suspect the person it belongs to would be my focus when he finally appears.
The desk is huge and thickly decorated, it looks and probably is an old oak piece salvaged from a shipwreck. It has fish tailed maidens, mythical sea creatures and waves beautifully carved in its tree trunk legs, winding and mixing like a story.
..."won’t be a second...please take a seat Miss Charles" comes the voice again. Miss Charles? I’m not a geography teacher!
"Thank you" I say to the disconnected voice, where is this man? But my brain is taking in all the details, it can’t help it.
His desk is tidy to the point of obsession, control, order, all his pens lay neatly in an old jack Daniels jar, two iPhones lay side by side along with his watch perfectly perpendicular to the desk edge and aligned to each other: a vintage Rolex: black, a Monte Blanc pen and a little round pot of Carex lip balm, I’m too far away to see the words, but he has 4 new message alerts queued up on the screen of one of his phones.
A bashed-up old black leather biker jacket, a real one, not a fashion version, hangs over the back of his chair. Revealing a hint of the Kevlar elbow linings under the quilting where the leather is worn, and no.3 chunky metal zips at the cuffs and front pockets. No photos anywhere, not personalised at all. Just a clean space where work is done.
A Mac laptop with an extra huge screen sits atop the desk with a drawing tablet and pen, no mouse...just how I like my own set-up. A cold half cup of very dark tea, the periodic table on the cup belies a complicated mind and the dark tea suggests, like me Daniel has a builder in his ancestry, but unlike me I won’t let tea to get cold, it's too good. Too useful. Too calming.
Behind the desk on the wall, where I hear a rustling beyond, are rows and rows of anvil made metal meat hooks forged by a blacksmith not by Wickes, with jeans hanging from their belt loops in all states of development. I can smell indigo and 32oz Japanese denim. Selvedge, dark and raw. Heavy and unyielding. It's only by wearing and never washing them, these grow to become part of the wearer. I’m in a place I belong, denim is my game.
I 'cool hunt' the trends before they become trends, I notice things other people don’t, that’s my gift. I have a strange aversion to things that aren’t right, I know instinctively what’s coming and can't explain when asked to justify a prediction. It's a gut feeling like a detective who can tell when someone's lying, he doesn’t know how, just instinct and experience working in a marvellous partnership. Brains, I think to myself, are as mystifying as the universe, ever accelerating and expanding space and knowledge...
Now, I’d really like a cup of tea.