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Oxford Proof
‘My name is Viola.’
‘It makes a change from Mickey Mouse, I suppose,’
she says. She’s got a sarcastic voice and she’s
standing there in a black cashmere coat with a funnel neck,
swaying slightly on her four-inch knife-blade heels, looking
like she owns the place. Well, maybe she owns one of the
flats, at that, but I don’t believe she owns the whole
block. She’s got the confidence that comes from downing
three double vodkas, though apart from her bloodshot eyes,
you wouldn’t know. It’s not like she’s
slurring her words or anything.
‘What’s your problem?’ I ask. I’m
not as tall as her, and I’m wearing my favourite Etonics,
which have flat soles, since they’re designed for running,
but I’m standing tall and staring straight into her
eyes.
‘I live here,’ she’s saying. ‘What
about you? What are you doing in this block of flats in
the early hours of the morning, poking around in our dustbins?
Viola!’ she said again, disbelieving.
I don’t know why my mother gave me that name. It
must have been the only romantic impulse she ever gave into.
She was a severely practical person as a rule, and that’s
what I was brought up to be, too: severe and practical.
I’ve always hated ‘Viola’, and when I was old
enough – six, maybe, or seven – I changed it for something
short and plain. It was the first act of rebellion, the
first rejection of her and all she stood for.
The first change of identity. |
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