Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

Some people had all the luck.

And so I settled back on my mattress and watched something fuzzy and forgettable on my portable television (I had yet to find the best position for the indoor aerial) and started to read an article in Cosmopolitan titled Men and Violence: Is it them or is it their Hormones? and then, before I knew it, I was waking up with the morning light streaming on to my face. It was too early to get up, but I lay there gazing contentedly at my new surroundings. Today was the first day of the rest of my life.

Now was the time to establish a new routine — a brisk new schedule in which I would be up with the lark and get my daily quota of step-by-step drawings out of the way before lunch, so I could spend the afternoon immersed in non-commercial but artistically challenging projects suitable for display in galleries or on the pages of magazines. My works of art would impress people and make them want to know me. And I would cut down on carbohydrates and ask Carolyn and Charlotte how much it cost to join the health club they visited twice a week. I would even ask my optician once again about switching to contact lenses, though I'd never had much success with them in the past, because my eyes were too dry. That's what the optician said anyway, though they looked watery enough to me. But maybe it was time to try again.

But I'd done it. My sleep had been dreamless and sweet. I'd proved there was nothing to be frightened of. I'd glimpsed nothing in the darkness but giddy new heights of career excellence and an exhilarating social life stretching into a glorious future.

It was what I truly wanted to believe. You can make yourself believe anything if you try hard enough.

For those first few weeks, I walked on air. I went swimming. I watched films at the Gate and the Coronet. When I wasn't slaving over a hot drawing-board, I wandered up and down Portobello Road, and though no one yelled hello to me the way they yelled hello to Dirk and Lemmy, I basked in the feeling of finally belonging. I did most of my food shopping at the market, and only got fobbed off with rotten fruit two or three times. I cut down on carbohydrates, and began to lose weight at a slow but steady rate.

During the long, light evenings, I sauntered up and down Kensington Park Road or Portland Road or Westbourne Grove, glancing furtively into Virginia's, or the Coppa Kettle, or the Bar None, all of them lit up like jazzy shop window displays and thronged with well-groomed people who had lovers to meet, money to spend, projects to discuss, esoteric brands of lager to drink.

And when I worked, I worked at the sort of desk I'd always dreamed about: an old oak table picked up for a song and hauled (with Dirk's help) up to my living-room, where it stood in front of the window, warmed by the afternoon sunlight, littered with bottles of ink and pencils and paints and sketchpads and jars full of brushes and rulers, and a cracked blue vase of tulips which had looked good while they were alive but which looked even better since they had drooped over the rim and gone crisp around the edges.

I felt positively inspired by my new surroundings. I attacked the step-by-steps with gusto, sensing that even my routine work was attaining a new depth. The table, and everything on top of it, offered irrefutable proof of artistic industry, but the most important quality, for me, was its location. Every few minutes I would glance up from the intricacies of jam roly-poly or spotted dick and out of the window on to Hampshire Place and the Victorian terrace on the other side of the street. The only eyesore was a Sixties block of flats a bit further down, but that was nearly obscured by the leafiness of the plane trees lining the street.

It wasn't heaven, but it was near enough.

The only blemish on my brand new life was a minor one, and I forced myself not to dwell on it. So long as I didn't dwell on it, it wouldn't be a problem.

The only blemish on my brand new life was neighbour noise, though I couldn't be certain which of my new neighbours was the culprit. Once or twice I had been woken up in the middle of the night by the tap tap tippy tap tap of distant typing. But it was very faint, and I soon learned to block it out.

About a week after I'd moved in, I came home to find Marsha chatting on the front doorstep to a tall fellow with a blond buzz-cut and dark glasses. He was clean-shaven and tanned, but with limbs that were way too long for his torso, and an unexpectedly sharp angle to his jaw that prevented him from being merely good-looking.

Lucky old Marsha, I thought.

'Here she is now,' she said as she spotted me. 'Clare, let me introduce you to our downstairs neighbour, Mr Walter O. Cheeseman. Take a good look at him while you can; it's not often he's around.'

Walter Cheeseman and I shook hands. He had the firm, dry, confident grip of someone who regularly pressed flesh for a living. 'Pleased to meet you,' he said. The accent was American. I liked the look of him, and feeling playful and confident after one of my liquid lunches with Dirk and Lemmy, asked what the O stood for.

Walter Cheeseman grinned, displaying a set of preternaturally perfect teeth. 'An old cultural reference,' he said. 'Won't you guess my name?'

'Oscar?'

He shook his head. 'A film reference.'

'Oliver…? Osbert…?'

He shook his head.

I'd run out of Os for the time being. 'So what is it?'

'Nothing,' he said.

'Go on,' I urged coquettishly. 'Tell me.'

'The O stands for nothing,' he repeated. 'Like Roger O. Thornhill in North by Northwest .'

In my lightly plastered state, I wasn't listening as closely as I should have been, but I knew I'd seen North by Northwest . It was a thriller by Alfred Hitchcock, who'd been one of my favourite film directors until Sophie had convinced me that thrillers were stupid and adolescent and couldn't hold a candle to arty costume dramas adapted from classic works of literature. I vaguely remembered a scene in which James Stewart dangled from the Statue of Liberty's torch, but I couldn't remember any names beginning with the letter O.

I asked Walter if his name was Ogden or Ozymandias. 'It's something too embarrassing to reveal in public, isn't it?'

Walter was very patient, though his grin had slipped a couple of notches. 'It's nothing !' he shouted, no doubt hoping that by raising his voice his words would penetrate my thick skull.

I jumped, and he lowered the volume apologetically. 'My mother thought middle names frivolous. She favoured a return to wholesome, apple-pie, middle-American nomenclature. But I was determined to be rich and famous. I was going to have monogrammed shirts, like the Great Gatsby, and I was damned if I was going to have them monogrammed with the letters WC.'

'Whereas with the O,' I pointed out, 'you're WOC.'

You could still see traces of that grin, but now it was more than a little frayed. 'Nice meeting you Clare,' he said in a resigned tone. He nodded farewell to Marsha and started down the steps to the basement.

I had no intention of letting it go at that, so I called after him, 'I understand you're a film director .'

Walter Cheeseman looked back, surprised and (I thought) a little pleased. He glanced at Marsha. 'You understand correctly.'

'I'd love to see some of your films,' I gushed. 'Can I get them on video?'

'I told you she'd be interested,' said Marsha.

'As a matter of fact, yes,' said Walter. 'They are all on VHS, though I'm afraid it's the American format, otherwise I'd certainly lend them to you.'

He frowned slightly, as though working out a complicated equation in his head. 'However, if you have an afternoon to spare, you're more than welcome to come down and watch them on my equipment.'