London Bound (Heart of the City #3)(5)

'I'm a prisoner,' I said, mainly to myself, but I could tell Vera's eyes were on me as she dried her hands on the tea towel.

'She just worries, is all.'

'Oh yeah, I could see how worried she was when I was nearly the victim of a hit-and-run; all she cares about is herself.'

'She'll ease up on the curfew as time goes by; there are going to be times when you'll need to go out.'

This did not reassure me in the slightest.

'There has to be more to life than milk-and-bread runs to the shop, Vera. I need to explore, be inspired, soak up the rich culture of my heritage. Have a pint at the local, pash an English boy in muted disco light: you know, the normal things we aspire to.'

'What, like the English boy next door?' Vera said teased.

I laughed. 'Oh don't. I can't bear to think about it,' I said, burying my head into my hands and desperately wishing I'd never met Jack Baker and his perfect bloody smile.



I stared, unblinking, at the flicking cursor on the page, the very blank page, which was even more depressing than the rain outside. It was a damning indictement of my lacklustre entrée into the blogging world. Don't get me wrong, the setup was amazing  –  flashy but classy, factual and interesting. Covering my three biggest loves  –  fashion, beauty, travel  –  my blog had been an absolute obsession of mine at home. Once upon a time I had been rather prolific with my daily musings about my destined travel. Blog entries of the latest, life-altering make-up haul I bought on sale, or the recent eBay package I had won, a pre-loved Burberry scarf that had cleaned out my bank account, forcing me to take on extra shifts so I could pay my phone bill; you know, the usual. The past three weeks, however, my muse had fled and I struggled to update my site; I had zero inspiration and my mood was utterly black. It hadn't happened instantly; I had afforded myself the luxury of exploring my surrounds and, as far as digs went, I couldn't exactly complain. I wasn't shoved into a basement, or a windowless attic with no heating. I occupied the whole second floor, which consisted of an apartment-sized room with bed, lounge and terrace. More than enough for Kate Brown Blogging HQ, should inspiration choose to strike again  …  ever. I was even more cranky when I was prevented from stepping out onto my terrace to enjoy the scarce sunshine. And after today's disastrous discovery, Nana Joy was going to be more diligent about me being a prisoner than ever before, including brief sojourns on the balcony. 

Even before the Jack Baker incident, Nana had been vocal on the dangers that lurked beyond our front door. 'The neighbourhood isn't what it used to be, Katherine.' Her beady blue eyes focused across the road as she spoke about the increasingly multicultural neighbourhood, her borderline racism adding to the charming little package that was Joy Ellingham.

Mary and Tomas Peersahib were the cheery lower-level occupants of the terrace next door. They had an adorable little boy, Spencer, who would merrily thunder up and down the street on his bike, with his grandmother Esther in tow. Sitting in the back garden, my eyes would often stray to the long, colourful line of their clothesline that peeked over the top level of our courtyard, and the delicious spicy smells from their kitchen always made my stomach rumble. On the level above the infuriating Jack Baker lived a Belgian couple, and a German family occupied one of the split-levels. Aside from Jack, I enjoyed the interactions I had with the neighbours on the street; Lord knows I felt sorry for them having to live next to Joy. When I explained what had brought me to London and where I was living, their raised brows and nods of sympathy were enough to tell me that Nana Joy's reputation preceded her, and I couldn't help but feel embarrassed, wondering how on earth she had come to be so hateful. My mum was nothing like her: she was open, warm, friendly. It was no wonder she immigrated to Australia in her twenties; she had picked the furthest place she could think of.

Dismayed, I closed my laptop with a sigh, just as I had done every day for the past three weeks. I had such grand plans: blog about my London adventures; grow my subscriber list; become one of the internet 'It' girls and be offered a regular column in Vogue. I'd even changed the theme on my blog.

'Kate on the Thames': black-and-white tones with pops of red. The very first picture I had taken was of me standing in a red telephone box answering a call with mock surprise, which I posted with a short piece about my (now futile) plans in Ol' Blighty. But since then I'd written nothing, and in the fast-moving world of the interwebs I knew that a lack of new content meant certain death. I had to get my shit together, I had to find a way to balance being an attentive punching bag for Nana, and being able to get out and about. But any time I thought about leaving Nana's fortress, a certain man's smile would flash in my mind.