Unfamiliar Ceilings

My room is half finished. And it took me long enough to decide what I wanted it like. I spent three days just drawing up a few possibilities, then another day and a half actually decided which one I was going to use. Stephanie saw it when I’d started and decided it reminded her of One Tree Hill. I didn’t get it.

I’d just finished sketching out a large, red rose on the wall, the vine of which surrounded a quote from one of my favourite songs:

“C'est le malaise du moment, l'épidémie qui s'étend, la fête est finie on descend, les pensées qui glaces la raison, paupières baissées, visage gris, surgissent les fantômes de notre lit, on ouvre le loquet de la grill, du taudit qu'on appelle maison.”

The wall behind the words, the rose and the vine was painted a deep, midnight blue and I intended on going over the pencilled on words in a metallic gold pen. If I’d been left to amuse myself with that, I probably would’ve got finished a lot faster. Stephanie bustled into my room again a mere hour after the first time, and asked me if I’d like to go shopping with her at the city centre. I agreed, since I hadn’t opened my window while painting and breathing in paint fumes all day can’t be healthy.

I glanced down at my paint-covered three-quarter jeans and stained white T-Shirt, then back up at Stephanie. My hair was gathered back into a messy bun at the back of my head and my face was completely bare.

“Well, we don’t have to leave straight away,” Stephanie smiled, backing out of the room. “I’ll give you half an hour to get ready, okay love?”

“Yeah, okay,” I answered, lowering my paint brush into the tray my dad had agreed to let me borrow while I was painting. I rushed into my bathroom, yanking my shirt and jeans off my body as I went towards the shower for a wash. I left my hair in its messy bun and quickly washed my body.

Some ten minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom in a fluffy white towel and headed to the small vanity table across from the bay window overlooking the front garden. I applied some light make-up and brushed out my hair, letting it fall into its natural curls around my shoulders. Satisfied with my face and hair, I went to my wardrobe, grabbed some underwear and sifted through my clothes until I came to a horizontally striped, navy blue and cream tube dress.

I put my pale blue denim jacket on over the dress and slipped on a pair of plain, black, flat shoes, before grabbing my phone and my iPod off of the vanity table and walking swiftly out of my bedroom door and down the stairs to an awaiting Stephanie.

*****
“We can either go to Camden market or central London, what do you think?” Stephanie asked while we waited at a set of traffic lights. The road was busy today, so it felt like we’d been waiting there for half an hour. Each time the light went from red, to amber, to green, and all the cars accelerated on their way, it would always go back to red just as Stephanie’s car reached it.

“I think Camden would be nice,” I said, staring out the window. “I haven’t been for years.”

I could hear the smile in her voice as she said, “Good thinking, just keep an eye on your pockets alright?”

I laughed and nodded my head in response. Camden was considerably closer to our current location than central London anyway, so it was only another twenty minutes before Stephanie was parking the car.

I gazed over at the visible stalls, held up by rickety pieces of wood or stronger metal bars, while Stephanie made sure her car was locked securely. Camden never was a safe area. The sun beat down on the tarmac and I could feel the heat radiating up onto my legs. I slung my denim jacket over my forearm as I walked with Stephanie – looking about five years younger than she was in her skinny jeans and a V-neck shirt that clung to all the right places.

My sunglasses were slipped over my eyes and one bud of my earphones was in my ear, as per. We made our way from stall to stall, looking for some bargains. I spotted a stall, selling mostly old, band merchandise from the late 70’s early 80’s. There was a case full of vinyl records, which Stephanie had to coax me away from after a good twenty minutes of flipping through.

Shortly after we found a stall, full of dresses reproduced from the 1950’s. There was this beautiful, strapless, pin-up style dress, with a red lace underskirt, that would have finished around midway up my thigh. The Dress (as I called it) was pinched in at the waist, with scarlet trimming along the top.

“How about we spoil ourselves, eh?” Stephanie smiled, holding up a plain, but dazzling, pale pink number. I looked at the price tag and shook my head.

“Steph, I can’t, its £45,” I sighed, going to place The Dress back on the rail.

“Don’t be silly,” she laughed and picked it back up, thrusting it back into my hands. “My treat.”

“No,” I told her sternly, pushing it away. “I won’t be able to pay you back.”

“You don’t have to!” She sighed and draped The Dress over her arm with her own. “Come on, it’s the only one, and it’s your size.”

She was smiling, tempting me. I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Fine, but I am paying you back.”

“Like hell you are,” she grinned, and walked to the cashier with a triumphant air about her.

*****
We rounded off our shopping trip by heading to the grocery stalls and picking up some ingredients for a surprise dinner for my dad. While Stephanie was there, I lurked around another record shop, flipping excitedly through vinyl’s and CD’s and trying to see if I could get a good deal on something rare, the plastic bag containing The Dress swinging on my arm.

Eventually, I came across The Clash’s first LP from 1977. I picked it up and examined it. It was in good condition, and it was only a fiver. I tucked the record under my arm and continued to flip through the rest. Then everything went black as two hands covered my eyes.

“Stephanie, stop messing around,” I said and swivelled around. I was shocked to see, not Stephanie, but Johnny Owens standing there smiling at me. I laughed lightly and put a hand dramatically to my chest.

“Thanks for the heart attack, Johnny.”

He laughed, “Hey, Leila. What you up to?”

I held the LP up and waved it a little bit. “Finding some vintage. What about you?”

“Just out with some friends,” he smiled. “Never took you for a Clash fan.”

I shrugged my shoulders and laughed. “I’m full of surprises.”

Johnny nodded his head and moved to flip through the vinyls behind me. I turned and joined him, and we had a slightly in-depth discussion on music. He was criticising my adoration of Brian Molko, right after he’d just confessed to loving Britney Spears’ new album.

“The fella’s a proper nutcase!” he laughed, stopping his frantic flipping and pulling out a copy of the Pablo Honey LP, by Radiohead. “Now these, are worth listening to. By far better than Placebo.”

I laughed. “Thom isn’t fit to empty Brian’s kitty litter!”

“God,” he laughed and slid Pablo Honey back into its original place. “You sound just like Dean. Arguing for a shit band.”

I playfully slapped him on the arm and told him to shut up. We’d managed to make our way through the entire case of LP’s, which stretched right the way around the unusually large space inside the stall. An older man behind the counter told us to hurry up, because he wanted to close up shop. I paid for my vinyl and followed Johnny outside into the sun.

Stephanie just emerged from the grocery stall across the way from where we stood, laden with about six bags. Johnny and I rushed over to grab bags off her.

“Hello, Johnny love,” she smiled as we all walked back to where the car was parked. “Do you need a lift home?”

“That’d be nice of you, Mrs. Cole,” he smiled, putting the two bags he had into the waiting boot of the car.

“Not a problem,” she said. “And call me Stephanie.”

Johnny smiled sheepishly and I elbowed him lightly in the ribs to move out of the way. After that, I and he clambered into the back of the car while Stephanie drove us back. Along the way we resumed our debate of Brian Molko vs. Thom Yorke. Among various others. Johnny was adamant in completely contradicting the majority of artists I admired, but I just laughed and told him he was full of shit. At which, Stephanie scolded me half-heartedly and Johnny pulled a face at me.

It was fairly quicker getting home. Johnny kept in tow, helping us put the shopping away in the kitchen. He’d occasionally, accidently-on-purpose drop a bottle of fizzy water on the floor before putting it in the fridge, and laugh whenever I caught him at it.

Once we were done, Stephanie offered him a cup of tea, which he politely declined because he had to go home and get ready for something or other. I checked the clock on the wall and saw it was half past five. I didn’t realise how fast the day had gone. I walked alongside Johnny, down our front path and out onto the street.

“Leila, there’s a party tonight,” he said, walking slow. “Fancy coming?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Didn’t take you for a party person.”

I saw a slight grin on his face as we walked up the path to his home. “I’m full of surprises.”

I rolled my eyes and pushed him slightly. “Shut it you. When and where?”

“It’s at my mate’s house a couple of streets over, and I can get you there and back.”

I nodded vaguely, feeling a little uneasy. “Sounds good.”

“Okay, see you in an hour?”

I thought for a few minutes. I was never a party girl. I always stayed home or went to a friends house. I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink , didn’t do drugs and I definitely didn’t have sex. The whole virgin thing got in the way. But what could a little party hurt? Nothing, really. I wouldn't drink, I wouldn't smoke, I wouldn't do drugs and the no sex goes without saying.

“Leila, still with me?” Johnny was waving a hand in front of my face. “Am I that boring that you zone out on me twice in two days?”

“No, sorry,” I laughed. “Sure, why not.”