When I Ran Away, Ilona Bannister [read 50 shades of grey TXT] 📗

Today I’m like a broken compass. I can’t find north. It’s never warm here. There’s twelve and a half beautiful summer days every year when London is lush and full of light and green and the people rise up and strip down and lie in the sun. But today is gray and misty and my memories are mixed up. I left my kids and I should be home packing Johnny’s bag for soccer camp and taking Rocky to baby music but instead I’m buying cigarettes at the corner store.

I buy a little half-pack. Ten cigarettes patiently waiting in a slim box. So European. Like those tiny two-person elevators and eating cheese for dessert. I walk down to the common—it’s called a common instead of a park—to sit on a bench. Mist hovers over the grass. It feels like it’s rained, but it hasn’t. That’s just the morning air here, so thick you can see it. So thick you can take a bite out of it. I strike a match and light a cigarette. But the air is so damp and heavy that I can’t tell the difference between the mist and the rising smoke. Smoking is one more thing that’s not like it is at home.

I’ve been holding my wallet, keys, and phone in my hands all this time. When I left the house I reached for the diaper bag out of habit. I hate that bag. The main zipper’s broken from overstuffing, the shoulder strap’s fraying. The front utility pockets always spewing their guts of baby wipes, chewed-up board books and empty baby-food pouches. I couldn’t stand the sight of it. So I just grabbed the essentials and walked out of the house. That’s what happens when you escape a burning building or a war. You grab what you can. And run.

That’s very fucking dramatic, Gigi, don’t you think? Who are you at war with? Who burned down your house?

I stand up from the bench and start walking toward the high street. I don’t know why they call it “high” instead of “main.” I look over my shoulder as I leave the common to enter the stream of pedestrians on the way to the Tube and I see a woman pushing a stroller walking in the opposite direction. Fit, firm, and looking good for thirty-something with a baby in her turquoise Lululemon outfit. I wonder if she’s ever felt like me. Probably not. She’s not shuffling in the streets in men’s sweatpants and a bathrobe so I’d say that alone puts her several levels of functioning above me. You never know, though, I guess.

I walk with the commuters past the common but it’s hard to keep pace in my flip-flops. As everyone branches off to the Tube and the Overground and the bus stops I keep walking until I get to the Grand Euro Star Lodge Hotel on the other side of the station.

“Hello, I’d like a room, please,” I say to the very pretty, very bored Slavic girl at reception.

“Yes, madam, we have vacancy, how many night you require?” She doesn’t look at me, and even if she did, it’s clear she wouldn’t be concerned about the fact that I’m wearing pajamas and holding all of my possessions in my hands.

How many nights? I hadn’t thought about that. How long do you leave a family for? Not knowing what else to tell her, I say, “Two, two, please.”

“Yes, madam, single room available two nights. Cost is £45 per night, £5 extra for towel.”

“Is there a TV in the room?” The TV is critical.

“If you want room with TV is £10 extra, Freeview.”

“Yes, yes, please, a room with a TV.”

“Is deluxe room, also has half bathtub.” I don’t know what she means by that and just assume it’s a language thing. The important thing is the TV and checking in even though it’s 8:45 in the morning.

“Great. Can I check in now, please?”

“No, sorry, check-in half-past-three. Leave bag if you like.”

“I’ll pay fifty percent extra if you let me in now.”

“No, sorry, madam, I cannot make excuse. I have to explain my boss.”

I pull out all the cash I have, £25 in bills and two £1 coins, and slide it across the reception desk. I force her to meet my eyes. “I’d like to check in early, please,” I say, with a smile. I haven’t brushed my teeth today. And the cigarette. A toxic smile from a crazy lady but this girl’s seen worse. She doesn’t give a shit about me. She slides the money across the counter and under a folder on her desk.

“Room 506. I bring key.”

Should I do something different? I got all of London at my feet, should I take this credit card and go to the Dorchester and drink champagne all day and get a massage? Or go to Westfield and buy a new wardrobe? Get a manicure, get a haircut. Put me first. Fuck it all and take a train to Paris? No, that’s not what I want.

I get to the room and put my phone, wallet, keys, and cigarettes on the little card table next to a metal folding chair. This place is a shithole. An anonymous place for hippie backpackers and married men who don’t want to spend money on their lunchtime lovers and people in business suits engaged in “business.” It smells of stale smoke, lemon air freshener, and prostitution. A shady, cheap, crappy place. Perfect.

I put my head down on the pillow and sleep is instant. Then the phone dings. Another message from Harry. He’s been calling and texting since I left the house. I don’t read it.

Harry should know it’s August. He should know that it’s almost Frankie’s time. It’s been eight months since Rocky was born and seven years since they gave me Johnny and fifteen years since Frankie died and none of them are here in this room with me. And neither is Harry. But he should be.

Staten Island, June 2009

“Sharon, Jesus, slow down!” I