Diva. Carrie Duffy
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developers, footballers with their wives or girlfriends or mistresses. The footballers were the worst, their eyes roaming over her as she walked back and forth to their table. Men often looked at her like that, with a predatory, covetous gaze, and Alyson found it unsettling. She didn’t realize it was because she was beautiful – stunningly so, ethereal almost – and ripe for the picking.
The bus pulled into Piccadilly and Alyson jumped off, walking briskly towards Exchange Square. The pavements were already glowing with a thin sheen of frost, the bus covering her with slush as it drove away. But Alyson simply sunk her chin deeper into her knitted scarf and moved on.
She reached the restaurant in a few minutes, hurrying into the back and quickly saying hi to the other girls who were crowded round the tiny mirror applying mascara and lip gloss, spraying their slicked-back hair firmly in place. Alyson didn’t even glance at herself as she slipped out of her school uniform and into her well-worn white shirt and black skirt, pulling on thick black opaques and her smartest shoes. Stashing her bag in her locker, she dashed back through the double doors into the mania of the kitchen and grabbed the dishes that were waiting on the hot plate.
‘Table twenty-four,’ yelled the sous-chef, and Alyson was on her way.
It was an exhausting, spirit-crushing way to live, but it had become so routine that Alyson rarely stopped to think how tired she was. It was a necessity, a way of life, and it had been like this ever since her father walked out on them.
Alyson slammed down a plate with more severity than she had meant to, apologizing profusely to the indignant-looking woman at the table. The woman arched an over-plucked eyebrow, then smiled graciously – well, as far as she could manage with a face full of Botox. Alyson smiled politely, hoping she hadn’t just blown her chances of a good tip, and scurried away.
Even after all this time, memories of her father were still painful. Alyson had been just nine years old when Terry Wakefield had walked out on them, taking her younger brother, Scott, who was only six at the time. She remembered all too clearly the feeling of abandonment, the painful realization that her father had opted to leave her behind, that she somehow wasn’t good enough for him.
The reasons behind his departure were complex. For as long as Alyson could remember, her mother, Lynn, had had issues. Her erratic behaviour had characterized Alyson’s childhood – there were periods when she wouldn’t leave the house for weeks, convinced that the neighbours were plotting against her, or that Mrs Davidson next door was trying to communicate evil thoughts through the wall. Alyson wasn’t frightened, simply confused.
From time to time, her mother found work – low-skilled, low-paid appointments, like factory work or cleaning – but she struggled to keep a position as she swiftly gave her employers reason to get rid of her. Sometimes she stayed in bed for days on end, simply not turning up for work, until her employers got sick of trying to contact her and her P45 arrived in the post. Other times they would be disturbed by the bizarre things Lynn did – refusing to drink the mugs of tea she was offered for fear they were ‘contaminated’, or completely forgetting how to do a task she’d been shown a few hours earlier. It was only when she went to clean for an affluent and compassionate doctor that someone finally recognized what was wrong. When Alyson Wakefield was eight years old, her mother was diagnosed with schizophrenia.
For a while, life got better. With an accurate diagnosis, Lynn’s condition could be treated, but the run of good behaviour didn’t last long. Some of the side effects were unpleasant and she became increasingly reluctant to take the medication prescribed, treating her pills like headache tablets – taking one if she felt unwell, not bothering if she was having a good day. And as someone who enjoyed a drink, she didn’t see why being on heavy medication should stop her.
For Terry Wakefield, the final straw came one night when he awoke to find his wife standing in the freezing cold kitchen, wearing only her underwear and holding a heavy metal pan high above her head. She claimed Mrs Davidson was trying to tunnel through from the house next door, and she wanted to be prepared for when she surfaced through the dirty lino floor.
The following day, Alyson came home from school to find the house unusually quiet. Her mother was slumped in an armchair, her eyes staring blankly into the middle distance and a near-empty bottle of vodka beside her chair.
‘Where’s Dad?’ asked Alyson, an ominous feeling creeping over her.
Lynn glanced up at Alyson. She looked exhausted, huge purple bags under her bloodshot eyes. ‘He’s gone.’
Alyson swallowed. Her father had left before – so many times that she’d lost count. Often he’d disappear for days at a time and there would be furious rows when he got back, her mother crying and screaming and drinking, while Alyson and her brother huddled together at the top of the stairs, longing for them to stop. But this time there was something different in Lynn Wakefield’s tone, an air of finality.
‘He’s taken Scott with him,’ she confirmed resignedly, picking up the vodka bottle and swallowing the final dregs.
From then on, it was just the two of them. Alyson never heard anything more from her father and grew to deeply resent him, furious at the way he’d abandoned them to struggle, choosing her brother over her and splitting up their family.
Alyson had had to grow up very quickly, learning to care for herself and her mother, ensuring she was always presentable for school lest the teachers became suspicious. One of the kids in her class had been taken away by social services, and for nine-year-old Alyson that seemed every bit as terrifying as being snatched by the Child Catcher. She was determined to avoid the same fate; after all, her mother was all she had left now.
Lynn Wakefield gave up looking for work when her husband left, the pair of them getting by on benefits and disability payments. There was barely enough to cover bills and food, let alone any money for extras like school trips or new clothes. Alyson dressed as cheaply as she could, buying clothes from charity shops and wearing them until they were threadbare. She wasn’t like the other kids, with fashionable outfits and designer trainers. She was different, obviously so, and was ostracized accordingly.
She began working as soon as she was old enough – a paper round, babysitting for the neighbours’ kids, then glass collecting at the local pub when she hit sixteen. Every penny she earned she took home to her mum, to help pay the heating or the water or whichever bill was coming through the letterbox stamped ‘Final Demand’ that week.
Sometimes, in her rare, quiet moments, she secretly dreamed of getting out; of escaping and going far, far away, like an adventurer in a fairytale. But in reality, she couldn’t see an end to this life. There was no time to think about her own dreams and ambitions, to consider what she wanted from the future. She was too busy fighting tooth and nail to keep everything together – school, work, home. She couldn’t stop for a second. If she did, she might break.
‘Alyson?’
Alyson jumped as her shift manager’s voice cut into her thoughts.
‘Yeah?’
‘I really hate to ask, but Carmen’s just rung in sick and I wondered if there was any chance of you covering for her tomorrow night?’ Helen bit her lip and looked pleadingly at Alyson.
Briefly Alyson thought about the English essay that was due in two days’ time, and the French verbs she was supposed to learn by tomorrow. She was a good student, bright and hard-working, but her troubled home life meant she couldn’t always finish her work on time or study as hard as she wanted for that exam. Her teachers got frustrated that she wasn’t reaching her full potential, but Alyson simply bowed her head and took their criticism, unwilling to go into details about her problems.
‘Sure,’ she told Helen, with a little shrug of her shoulders. Schoolwork could wait – they badly needed the extra money.
‘Great!’ Helen smiled gratefully at her, before disappearing back through the double doors into the restaurant.
It was raining lightly when Alyson climbed wearily off the night bus and set off through the darkness towards her house. It was almost one a.m., and the