London Belongs to Us Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  ALSO BY SARRA MANNING

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  London

  Dear Sunny

  Saturday Night Check-List

  8.00 p.m.

  Reasons Why I Thought Mark Was the Heir to My Heart

  9.23 p.m.

  Things My Mother Has Strongly Advised Me Against Doing

  9.55 p.m.

  What the Hell Am I Doing With My Saturday Night?

  10.57 p.m.

  The Hot Wing Rap

  Midnight

  A History of My Hair

  1.45 a.m.

  What the Hell Am I Doing With My Saturday Night?

  2.53 a.m.

  London Calling

  3.45 a.m.

  Grandma Pauline’s Pineapple Punch Recipe

  5.30 a.m.

  To-Do List

  6.25 a.m.

  The State of Me

  8.00 a.m.

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Sarra Manning

  Copyright

  ALSO BY SARRA MANNING

  Adorkable

  Nobody's Girl

  Guitar Girl

  Let's Get Lost

  Pretty Things

  Series:

  Fashionistas

  Diary of a Crush

  Dedicated to absent friends: Jacqui Johnson, Jacqui Rice, Karen Auerbach, Peter Knight, Adam Lowe and Rupert Jones – companions on so many adventures through London during my own wild teen years.

  In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London.

  Mrs Dalloway, Virginia Woolf

  LONDON

  A city of eight million people. Eight million lives. Eight million stories.

  This is just one of them.

  Dear Sunny,

  The important thing is to remember that you’ll be fine staying on your own in the house for a week. Absolutely fine.

  If you do get scared then Emmeline or one of your other (female) friends can stay. But no boys overnight. Please do not abuse our trust in you by using this as an opportunity to have Mark over and then making a decision that you may well regret for the rest of your life. Of course, legally you’re old enough to have sex with whomever you want, but do you really want to lose your virginity to a boy who walks around with his pants on show? Also, seventeen is not old enough to vote or buy alcohol or fireworks, so is it really old enough to have sex? Think on!

  Mark is a very nice boy, I’m not saying he isn’t, but there’s something about him that I just can’t warm to. Call it mother’s intuition. But my mother’s intuition also knows that YOU’RE SENSIBLE ENOUGH TO DO THE RIGHT THING!!!!!!!

  Don’t forget that the hot water comes on at six every morning. It will be the boiler making that funny thudding noise and not someone breaking in to burgle us. (Though do remember to lock up like Terry showed you. Including all the windows and the back door.)

  If you do think there’s an intruder in the house, or there’s a freak storm and a tree comes through one of the windows, call Max from the upstairs flat. But only if it is an absolute emergency, because you know how stroppy he got when we left you overnight at Easter and you thought we had a poltergeist.

  If you really can’t handle being on your own then you can go to Uncle Dee and Yolly. There is a chance that your father might get back from Edinburgh early, so you could stay with him like you were meant to, but as your father constantly puts his career ahead of his family obligations, don’t hold your breath.

  Please don’t bring meat products into the house. Even if I’m not there, you know how I feel about eating meat, Sunny, and it would wound me. On some cosmic level, even though I’ll be on a campsite in the South of France, I will know and I’ll be very disappointed in you.

  There is special (and very expensive) wet food for Gretchen Weiner instead of her usual Whiskas. If she starts rubbing her bottom on the carpet again and making that awful mewling sound, you’ll have to take her to the vets to have her anal glands expressed. Again. The best way to get her into her carrier is to wear the really long washing-up gloves, throw a towel over her and say a prayer.

  No parties. You may have a small gathering of a few friends, but don’t put an invite up on Facebook. I don’t want to come home to find that five hundred teenagers high on ketamine have razed the building to the ground. I’m sure the insurance won’t cover it.

  We did a big shop before we left but there’s thirty quid in the fake jam jar in the tin cupboard for milk and perishables. I want receipts!

  So, to recap: Emmeline can stay. Mark can’t. No meat. Boiler clicks at six. Keep an eye on Gretchen Weiner’s bottom.

  PLEASE DON’T HAVE SEX WITH THAT BOY (IF YOU DO – AND THIS IN NO WAY CONDONES YOU HAVING SEX WITH THAT BOY – PLEASE USE CONDOMS).

  We’ve left you a box of Calippos in the freezer.

  See you in a week. You’ll be fine. We believe in you!

  Lots and lots and lots and lots of love,

  Mum and Terry xxx

  PS: Dan says thanks for agreeing to feed his lizards. He’s left a detailed list of instructions on what to do, but you’re not to snoop while you’re in his room. I did tell him that you have better things to do with your time than rifling round in his pants drawer.

  SATURDAY NIGHT CHECK-LIST

  Purse

  Oystercard

  Topshop sunnies

  Cherry lip balm

  Mascara

  Hair-band

  Hand cream

  Ordinary plasters

  Blister plasters

  Tampons

  Bottle of water

  Phone charger

  Mum’s Jo Malone Blackberry & Bay perfume (REMEMBER TO PUT IT BACK IN HER BEDROOM BEFORE SHE NOTICES IT’S GONE.)

  Chewy

  Tissues

  Check yourself before you wreck yourself.

  8.00 p.m.

  CRYSTAL PALACE

  Crystal Palace is one of the highest points in London and takes its name from the Crystal Palace, originally built in Hyde Park in 1851 to house the Great Exhibition. It was moved to a site on Penge Common in 1854, to become the magnificent centre of a Victorian pleasure ground, which featured a maze, thirty-three life-sized dinosaur replicas and so many fountains that two water towers had to be built to keep them flowing.

  Alas, Crystal Palace burned down in 1936, but the park remains and is now home to the National Sports Centre.

  Famous people who have lived in the Crystal Palace hood include Sherlock Holmes author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Francis Pettit Smith, one of the inventors of the screw propeller.

  It’s taken us over two hours and we had to get a proper train from Victoria, not even the Overground, but Emmeline and I finally arrive at Crystal Palace Park. Well, it calls itself a park but basically it’s a massive hill. Maybe even a small mountain.

  We walk upwards, ever upwards, panting as the incline increases. The handles of the clanking carrier bags from the offy cut stripes into our wrists, the condensation from the ice-cold bottles brushing against our bare legs. The backs of our necks glisten too because it’s still steamy hot – even as the sun starts to ever so slightly droop in a pale-blue sky streaked pink and orange.

  We have no idea where we’re going.

  ‘The thing about South London, right, is that it wasn’t designed to be colonised. Otherwise it wouldn’t be so bloody hard to get here,’ Emmeline pants.

  ‘True,’ I agree. ‘But isn’t that a b
it South Londonist?’

  ‘I don’t think South Londonism is a thing, Sun. It’s not like racism, is it? Or homophobia. You can choose not to live in South London. Jesus, if this hill gets any steeper, we’re going to need crampons.’

  ‘Can’t talk any more. I need to conserve my oxygen.’

  We trudge on. Emmeline holds her phone out in front of her, like she’s divining for water. ‘We follow the path round the Lower Lake like we’re doing, although there’s two other lakes and I’m not sure which one is lower than the others and – oh, look! Dinosaurs!’

  ‘What?’ I look up from sending another text to Mark to see dinosaurs right in front of me. Not, like, actual dinosaurs. They’re made of fibreglass or something and are arranged in candid action poses around the edge of a small lake. ‘Oh God, that’s some deep Jurassic Park shit.’

  Emmeline shakes her head. Even though she’s slathered in factor fifty, her face is bright red. ‘Maybe I’ve judged South London too harshly.’

  ‘You judge everything too harshly. It’s what you do.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I like to play to my strengths.’ Emmeline’s attention is fixed on the rocky crag, separated from us by a rail and the small lake, where the dinosaurs are frolicking. I know exactly what Emmeline’s thinking before she even says, ‘So, there has to be a way that we can get into the dinosaur enclosure and take some pictures, right? You, me, riding on a whateverasaurus. Post them on Instagram. We’d get even more likes than that picture of me pretending to deep throat a Cumberland sausage at your barbecue.’

  ‘You have to take that picture down before my mum sees evidence that there was a meat product in her back garden.’ I peer at the water. There’s an empty Coke can floating forlornly against the far bank. ‘I would happily wade into that lake except it doesn’t look very clean and I don’t want legionnaires’ disease.’

  ‘You can’t get legionnaires’ disease from paddling. Come on, take off your trainers. We’re wearing shorts. How deep can the water be, anyway?’ Emmeline is already toeing off her sneakers. ‘If we do get some horrible disease and you have to have your legs amputated, I’ll visit you every day. Pimp out your wheelchair. Let you have the TV remote.’

  ‘Well, in that case, how can I refuse?’ It’s not that hard, for once. ‘No, I think I’ll pass.’

  ‘You have no sense of adventure …’

  I hear the chirp of my phone. Perfectly timed to save me from Emmeline’s attempts to talk me round, which usually end with me doing something that results in detention/grounding/injury. One time, when we were on a school trip to the Globe theatre to see As You Like It and Emmeline forced me to join her in her one-woman moshpit, I scored the hat-trick.

  When I retrieve my phone from the depths of my bag, Mark’s face is flashing up on my screen. ‘I got sunshine on a cloudy day,’ he sings when I answer. ‘Babe, have you made it to Crystal Palace yet?’

  ‘Yeah, it took ages! Not even on the Overground but a proper train.’

  ‘Let it go, Sunny,’ says Emmeline who, thank God, is putting her Converse back on as she’s obviously given up on walking with dinosaurs. ‘Least you could do after making me stay round yours this week.’

  ‘You like staying around mine.’ Emmeline’s mum works nights and Emmeline’s older sister, Mary (Emmeline’s mum is really into women’s issues so she named her daughters after Mary Wollstonecraft, eighteenth-century feminist, and Emmeline Pankhurst, leader of the Suffragettes – Emmeline feels that she got the rough end of that deal), commandeers the lounge with her revolting boyfriend. They always end up horizontal on the sofa snogging wetly, so coming over to mine isn’t exactly a hardship.

  ‘Sunny! Stop talking to Em and start talking to me, your boyfriend. Remember me?’

  I smile. ‘I’m hardly likely to forget you.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad to hear that. So, you’re only going to stay an hour, aren’t you? Then you’re coming back to civilisation, like we agreed.’ It’s not often that Mark acts like he’s pining for me. I wish it happened more. ‘Can’t believe you had to trek to Crystal Palace tonight of all nights.’

  ‘Yeah, but Em and I have an arrangement. She protected me from intruders all week and so this evening, I act as her wingman.’

  ‘I could have protected you from intruders,’ Mark points out. He makes a funny noise: half choke, half giggle. ‘Could have done other things too. A whole week of doing other things.’

  ‘But I wasn’t sure that I wanted to do other things …’ I glance over at Emmeline, who never has a problem with shamelessly listening to other people’s phone calls – or my phone calls specifically – but she’s frowning at Google Maps on her phone, bottom lip caught between her teeth, her fringe sticking to her forehead in damp, blond clumps.

  ‘But you are sure now?’ Mark’s voice goes up, squeaky high, at the end of the sentence, like he’s nervous. ‘I mean, you want to?’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose. I mean, you still want to, right?’

  ‘Well, only if you want to.’ Mark sounds like he’d be cool with it if I said no, but freaking out a bit doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to say no. ‘But I’m totally up for it. Figuratively. Not literally. Yeah, actually I’m literally up for it, or I will be. You know what I mean.’

  It makes me feel better that Mark, who’s always so sure of himself, so clear of purpose, so straight-forward, is freaking out a bit too. ‘I’d be offended if you weren’t literally up for it.’

  ‘Oh, I will be. I promise.’ I hope that sex becomes less terrifying once you’ve done it because never before has one word had the power to strike this much terror in my heart – not even words like ‘retakes’ or ‘gusset’ or ‘cauliflower’. ‘So, I’m going to buy some, y’know, condoms and I was wondering if you had any, like, preferences?’

  Preferences? ‘You what?’

  ‘Ribbed or coloured – maybe not coloured ’cause that would be weird. Or if you’re allergic to latex you can get these special non-latex ones.’ Mark spits out the words. ‘You’re not allergic, are you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Maybe just get the ones that don’t let out any sperm.’ I’m amazed that I manage to say it in a calm voice, but then I giggle because this is such a surreal conversation and also proves that my mum’s so-called special mother’s intuition is obviously broken.

  Mark is lovely and he’s being all informed and responsible about us not catching any revolting diseases of the genitals or me getting pregnant. In short, he’s being a god among boyfriends.

  ‘OK,’ Mark says. ‘I’ll get those ones. Shall we meet in the Lock Tavern at eleven?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll see you then. And you’ll help me varnish the shed and finish clearing up any traces of meat left from the barbecue tomorrow morning?’ I think I might even be more freaked out about Mum-proofing the house before she gets back from France than I am about the sex.

  ‘It depends. If you’re a crap shag then I’m going to make my excuses and leave.’

  ‘Don’t say that! It might be crap. It probably will be crap. It’s the first time. Don’t be putting pressure on me to –’

  ‘Sunny! Sunny! It was a joke. I was joking. I have to leave pretty early in the morning because I’m having Sunday lunch at my grandmother’s in Godalming, but we love each other, right?’

  ‘Well, yeah …’

  ‘Then it will all be good. I’ll see you later, babes.’

  I have so many feelings. All the feelings. All at once. I can’t even start sifting and sorting through them, mainly because Emmeline shoves her phone right up in my face and orders me to ‘Smile!’ – so now my feelings consist mostly of being startled. ‘Don’t do that!’

  ‘I wanted to take one last picture of you in your virgin state,’ she says and shows me her phone screen where I’m gurning in shiny-faced confusion. ‘I can’t believe you’re going to have sex. With Mark!’

  ‘Who else would I be having sex with?’

  She jerks her head. ‘Come on. We’d better g
et going if you’ve got an urgent appointment with Mark’s penis later.’ Emmeline stomps off without waiting for me. She’s very good at stomping. Much prefers it to walking. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,’ she says when I catch up with her.

  ‘I only decided for definite this morning and I thought that you might be a little … y’know …’

  ‘I just think, Sunny, you’re not ready for it,’ Emmeline says, like she’s so much older and wiser than me, when she’s only two months older than me and she had to retake her Maths GCSE. ‘No one we hang out with has had sex yet and you’re not really – and I don’t mean this in a horrible way – a trailblazer, are you?’

  She really doesn’t mean it in a horrible way. I am risk averse. I was the last of our crowd to do boyfriend jeans, neon nail polish or white-water rafting when we went on an Outward Bound trip with school and even then, as soon as I got into the raft, I went full-on panic attack and burst into tears and decided that I could live my life quite happily without the possibility that I might die horribly and painfully by being dashed on the rocks. Even so, it wasn’t as if I was jumping on the sex bandwagon before anyone else. ‘Alex has had sex and the boys have had sex.’

  ‘The boys don’t count,’ Emmeline says immediately. ‘Because they’re all liars. Like, what a coincidence that they’ve all claimed to have sex with girls we’ve never met. “Oh, you wouldn’t know her. See, I met her at my cousin’s house.” “Yeah, she goes to a school on the other side of London.” Bullshit! They’re all virgins, and Alex got really drunk at Glasto, had sex with a random in a leaky campervan and do I need to remind you who she’d gone to Glasto with?’