Pompidou Posse

by Sarah Lotz

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

You're seventeen. One night, more or less by accident, you set fire to a garden shed. Naturally, you pack up and run off to Paris, certain you can make enough money off your art to get by. You're young, you're pretty, you're full of life, and you have your best friend in all the world by your side. What could possibly go wrong? Sarah Lotz's hilarious, heartbreaking first novel has only ever been published in South Africa - Hodder & Stoughton are proud to be brining it to a world-wide audience, newly edited and with an all-new cover.

Release date: September 10, 2015

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 321

Sample

 

Backstory and Acknowledgements

Pompidou Posse was first published in South Africa almost a decade ago. When it came out, several people said to me that they’d been shocked by the behaviour and naivety of the two main characters. I secretly enjoyed the looks on their faces when I told them the book is based on true events and at least one of the characters is based on me (they were right though – I was exceptionally stupid when I was a teenager). I chose not to write the novel as a straight memoir, partly because I prefer writing fiction, and partly because I took too many drugs in the eighties and there are gaping holes in my memory. Some of the events in the novel happened, some of them might have happened, and some of them are made up.

Years after it was first published, Anne Perry at Hodder & Stoughton managed to get her hands on a copy via her partner, Jared Shurin, who is a generous and valiant supporter of South African fiction. Anne offered to publish it in the UK, and I was given a chance very few writers get, not only to see an orphan novel rehomed, but to re-edit a piece of writing that is already in print. I never re-read anything after it’s published because I’m a massive coward, and the temptation to rewrite it from scratch was huge. In the end I decided I didn’t want to completely erase the rawness of it, as for some reason I thought this would be cheating. This version has had some nips and tucks, but nothing major (a nose job rather than full-on plastic surgery).

It was disconcerting not only rereading and revisiting the book, but revisiting the memory of writing of it as well (it was written as part of an MA through the University of Cape Town), as the lines between the factual events and the made up bits are blurred for me now. It’s a real struggle to unpick the fictional from the autobiographical, but I’m not sure that really matters anyway.

Despite evidence to the contrary in Sage’s furious Franco-bashing sections, I love Paris – it’s my favourite city – but I’m not sure Vicki and Sage would get away with their antics these days. Like me, they are very much products of the eighties (I do like to think of them using Google maps to find the soup kitchen though, or starting a ‘me & my dog are hungry’ Kickstarter or Twitter campaign).

All mistakes in both versions are, of course, all mine.

 

Many thanks are due to the following wonderful people:

 

Anne Perry, who loved the novel enough to revive it from the place where first books go to die. Kelwyn Sole, my MA supervisor, who put up with reams of awful writing with grace and humour. Mike Nicol, who read the manuscript, and then – amazingly – stood up at the Cape Town Book Fair and dared a room full of publishers to publish it (I don’t think it would have ever have been published if it wasn’t for him). Jane Bowman of Penguin SA who took up Mike’s challenge and bravely published a novel set entirely in France in South Africa. My best friend Charlie, who was with me when I returned to Paris to write the first draft in 2006 – together we scoured the city looking for any of the characters and clochards who might still be alive. My daughter Savannah who is not only my most trusted reader but is thankfully far smarter than I am and has never run away from home and developed a drug habit. My mum, Carol Walters, whose help with the re-edit was invaluable and who somehow managed to hide her horror when she first read the details of what her daughter actually got up to when she went missing in the eighties. Everyone who kindly read or reviewed the book, especially Jared Shurin, Naomi Wicks, Nig, Si, Paige Nick, Sally Partridge, Karina Szczurek, Natasha Himmelman, Tania van Schalkwyk, Terry Westby-Nunn, Deji Olukotun, Helen Moffett, Lauren Beukes, Louis Greenberg and Sam Wilson.

Thanks and appreciation also goes to my agent Oli Munson, Conrad Williams at Blake Friedmann, Vero Norton and Fleur Clarke, and all at A.M Heath and Hodder & Stoughton.

The novel is dedicated to Savannah, but it’s also for Parsley, who was a great and true friend.

 

 

SAGE

 

The words to ‘Wish You Were Here’ by bastard Pink Floyd keep running through my head for some reason. I mean, I don’t even have any Pink Floyd here with me, thank God, because it’s basically shite anyway. Okay, let me get something straight here. I am NOT writing this because bastard Doctor Wankenstein Walton said I should. ‘Try and work through your feelings, Sharon, by putting pen to paper. It could help you deal with your anger issues.’ Yeah, right. As if writing stuff down would have stopped me from calling him a shit-head. He deserved it for ignoring me when I told him to call me by my Proper Name. Total bastard.

 

Speaking of names, I’m not going to do the crappy Anne Frank ‘Dear diary’ bollocks. From this day on I hereby name this book Gladys. That sounds better.

 

So. Dear Gladys . . .

 

I did mean to write stuff down when we were at Natalie-the-Bitch’s, but this is the first time I’ve been on my own for fucking weeks. I know you’re supposed to start diaries and shit with dates and stuff, but I’m not sure of the exact date. It’s sometime in February 1988. That’ll do.

 

So. We’re back in another crappy old hotel room that stinks of other people’s BO and old fags, and Vicks is out buying food for us with the money we had left over from that pervert’s stash. I told her to take her time, which probably wasn’t a nice thing to say, but then, who cares??

 

But I have a huge confession to tell you, which is one of the reasons I wanted to write this. It’s not like I’m a Catholic or anything. But I do feel bad.

 

First things first. Me and Vicks have met this vile pervert called Bobby who says he wants to help us, but I want you to know, Gladys, that I do not trust him at all. I mean, nobody just gives money away for free. I know he wants something, and it makes me sick that Vicks can’t see the way he looks at her. I should never have helped her look so good this morning. Anyway, after he gave us some cash he said he’d take us to get something to eat. I was dead suspicious and didn’t want to go, but I went anyway for Vicks’s sake only.

 

So we help the pervert load up his rubbish paintings and follow him for hours through this maze of streets. All the time he’s talking non-stop to Vicks about himself and about how well known he is. He goes on and on and I’m surprised he can find a hat big enough for his big fat head. Just as I’m about to say, ‘Oi, where the fuck are we going?’ he finally shuts his trap and we stop outside this building that doesn’t look like a restaurant at all. I mean it didn’t have a sign on it or anything. I wanted to drag Vicks away right then, but she just followed him in like a lamb, so of course I had to go in there as well.

 

The place was bloody massive, with a glass ceiling and lots of different floors. There were hundreds of tables (I’m not exaggerating, honest, Gladys), and it was heaving with Frogs babbling in their Frog language. It was a far cry from Kath’s Caff where we used to go when we were skiving from fart college, I can tell you.

 

And this was weird: Over in the corner there was this little brown bird flitting around the pot plants, and everyone ignored it as if it was normal to see birds inside places where you eat. Okay, so maybe then I started to feel less suspicious, as the pervert couldn’t really do much with all the people around, could he?

 

So. We were shown to a table near the back. The head waiter bloke looked really happy to see Bobby (why????), but looked at me and Vicks as if we were dog shit. Snooty. But I didn’t really care, Gladys, because the smell of the food was so immense and I’ve never been so hungry, ever. We sat down, and the waiter plonked down a basket of cut-up French bread. Well obviously me and Vicks fell on it like zombies on a corpse, and I didn’t even bother putting butter on mine (which is weird because I normally hate dry bread). Then, just as we were both going for the last piece, bowls of boiling soup appeared in front of us. At first I didn’t know what to do with mine as there was something floating in it which turned out to be a huge piece of bread and melted cheese. Frogs have bizarre ideas about food and stuff obviously. Even though the soup was as hot as fuck, I slurped it down (I’ve still got juicy bubbled blisters on the roof of my mouth) and because I wasn’t sure what to do with the big cheesy bread dollop, I shoved it into my gob in one go!!! You should have seen the pervert’s face!! He almost shat himself.

Anyway, I’m getting to the bad part, Gladys . . .

 

The second we finish our onion soup, our bowls are whisked away and on comes the next course. Both Vicks and me just stare at our plates, and the pervert is dead confused. ‘There is a problem?’ he says, and Vicks says, ‘We’re vegetarians.’ And he goes: ‘You mean you do not eat meat?’ And I’m like, ‘Duh, that is what being a vegetarian means, arseface’. And then he says something like, ‘Oh, this is a real pity, because this is no ordinary meat it’s (guess what, Gladys??) VEAL’.

You should have seen our faces. Everyone knows that veal is the cruellest of meat. Me and Vicks had been on an anti-veal protest just before all the shit hit the fan at home.

 

So the pervert goes: ‘You want that I order you something different?’ But thing is, Gladys, it just smelled so amazing. It was like it was calling to me, going, Saaage, Saaage, no one will eveeer know if you eat me. And Vicks goes, ‘I suppose we could just eat the potatoes’. Bollocks to the potatoes. We ate the lot – inhaled it really. ‘Slow down, you will be sick!’ the perv kept saying. We ignored him.

 

So that’s why I feel so guilty, Gladys. And I feel even worse because I didn’t actually get sick or anything after I ate it. Quite the opposite. I want more. If you brought a cow to me right now, I swear I would just sink my teeth into it, eat the whole fucking thing raw.

 

Vicks has promised the vile perv that we’ll meet him tomorrow morning so that we can meet his friend who might put us up for a while. I could tell he was scamming for an invite to our hotel room, but no such fucking luck. Okay, I can hear someone coming down the corridor.

 

REMIND ME TO CHECK ON THE TABLET SITUATION

SAGE

 

Things I miss about crappy old England:

 

Pints

Good old English fags

Kath at the caff

Kath’s mushroom on toast

Cadbury’s Creme Eggs

Star’s newsagents

PRIVACY!!!!!!

Money

Easy access to batteries for music listening purposes.

Crappy old pubs full of nutters

Showers

Normal toilets

Clean sinks

 

Things I don’t miss:

Being arrested

Coronation Street and EastEnders

Reg Varney

Art College

Art College lecturers

Being thrown out of pubs

Fights on buses

Bonjour, Gladys, comment sa va (or however the fuck you spell it, I mean, how should I know?)

 

Vicks has been sleeping all morning and Hervey the pervey is out somewhere. Probably out scoring more black. I have never been so stoned so often. Hervey and his cronies smoke all the time. It’s almost like a job. I still haven’t figured out where Hervey gets his money. He hardly ever seems to leave the room. At first I thought it was because he didn’t want me and Vicks pawing through his stuff, but I reckon it’s actually because he’s too stoned to walk down the fucking stairs most of the time. He must go to university even less than me and Vicks went to fart college. Just what me and Vicks need, another professional waster in our lives. And he’s like twenty-five or something, which is basically quite old to be doing nothing, isn’t it? Vicks isn’t into the whole smoking thing. She keeps coming up with excuses not to take drags on the joints. Like she’s got tonsillitus (can’t spell it soz) and stuff. No one seems to notice that it doesn’t stop her smoking everyone’s fags.

 

Dracula and Potato Head slept over last night and left (thank God) with Hervey this morning. Vicks says she doesn’t fancy either of them. Actually, if you scrunch your eyes up and make your sight blurry, Dracula isn’t that bad. Weirdly, neither of them has tried it on with Vicks, although when Hervey was shit-faced the other night he said to her (and I quote) ‘One day I will fuck you like King Arthur’. Can you believe it? What a tosser. Vicks says Dracula asked her where we go to wash ourselves. Well, where does he think? What are we supposed to do? We’re hardly ever alone here, so we can’t very well strip off and wash in the (gross vile) sink while everyone’s sitting around, can we? So insensitive. Vicks says that there’s a place we can go and pay for a shower, but she’s not too sure where it is. Tomorrow Hervey says he’ll take us to the laundromat. THANK GOD. All of my clothes stink like a tramp’s. What else can I whinge about? Lots, actually. Like the food situation.

 

All Hervey gives us to eat is this sloppy rice gunk. The chopped-up veggies that he adds to it look far too bright to be real. Like bits of plastic or the carroty bits you always find in sick. Prison food. And you know what rice does to your bowels, don’t you, Gladys? Yeah, but that’s a good thing considering what the toilet paper situation is at the moment.

 

One good thing is that the tablet situation is still quite good. I think I have about two months left if I halve them. Dr Wankenstein didn’t say what would happen if I stop taking them. Maybe I’ll turn into even more of a freak.

 

He did say that I shouldn’t:

Drink alcohol (excessively) and take drugs. Yeah right. Shows how much he knows. Me and Vicks drank a sixth of whisky a day at least, as well as lots of pints in good old England and I was utterly fine. Fuck him.

 

I’ve just remembered that my sister Karen calls the tablets ‘medicine for a broken heart’. Which is a bit crap but sounds better than their real name.

 

Oh, almost forgot. Bobby the Bastard introduced us to another wankerish friend of his yesterday, whose name is Jules and who’s also about a hundred years old. Supposed to be another artist or some crap. Anyway, he couldn’t take his eyes off Vicki as per usual. He looks like a reject from Jethro Tull, like he should be on the cover of Songs from the Wood or something. He was all dressed in leather and had long grey hair that almost came down to his waist. Pathetic. Him and Bobby started having some gross conversation about who’d be first to paint Vicki in the nude.

 

I hate them.

 

Vicks gets pissed off when I sulk with Bobby, so I’m careful not to do it around her. And when it’s my turn to help Bobby the Bastard with the paintings we don’t say much to each other. He never offers to buy me any food. I hate him. I tried to talk to Vicks about the new bastard Jules but she didn’t seem to want to discuss him. I think she fancies him, which sucks. Especially as he was trying so hard to be cool and aloof.

 

The work situation is dire at the moment. Vicks and I pretend to go off and look for work, but really all we do is wander around a bit. We’re getting to know the area quite well. My favourite place to walk is Sacré-Coeur by Montmartre. Long lines of steps like railway tracks that go up and up. Vicks keeps getting me to run up them like in Rocky, but I get too out of breath. Also, don’t want tachycardia to visit again. Not telling Vicks this though. But I do need to resume old exercise habits at some stage. Also, really love Pigalle. Crazy place full of lovely trannies.

 

Everyone here either thinks I’m a skinhead or a bloke unless I wear one of my floppy hats. I like that. It keeps them away. But the art they sell in Montmartre is crap! Almost as bad as the dire paintings Bobby sells. Even the tossers at fart college could do better. Me and Vicks keep talking about maybe setting up there. We’ll have to do it soon, before Hervey gets fed up with us eating all his rice.

 

Got to stop now, but TO BE CONTINUED . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Gladys,

 

Okay, so I’m back. Soz to keep you hanging. How are you? I’m very well, thank you. Sorry I haven’t been in touch for a few days, but I found out the date! Today is Valentine’s Day, as if you didn’t know. I have loads to tell you and luckily managed to nick a new pen from Dracula.

 

Yesterday, Potato Head came to the flat and said he was going to take us to his place for a shower. That’s when I realised that me and Vicks were stinkier than we thought.

Potato Head lives so far from Hervey’s dump that we had to go on the bus, which was quite an experience. French buses are totally different from good old English buses. They’re weird and long and stuck together with tubing. The journey was excellent though, because I got to see all the things I haven’t yet, like the Eiffel Tower close up, and Potato Head was dead nice and acted like some sort of tour guide. As we were walking from the bus stop to his apartment (through this posh area) he starts saying things like, ‘When do you think you’ll be able to leave Hervey’s place? It’s quite small for so many people, don’t you think,’ etc. Etc. He was really nice about it though, so me and Vicks lied to him and said we’d be gone soon.

 

 

You wouldn’t believe the place Potato Head lives in. Potato Head’s parents must be millionaires or something. Huge apartment full of antiques, African masks and white sofas. Me and Vicks were scared to sit down in case we fucked things up. Potato Head looked a bit embarrassed when we said how posh we thought the place was and then he left us to make some coffee. Then the front door opened and this amazing woman came in. She was dressed in this Jackie O suit and was the thinnest person I have ever seen. She had bright red lipstick and long red nails and her short black hair looked as if it was painted on her head. She looked dead surprised to see us, but then Potato Head came in and spoke to her and introduced us to her, saying she was his mother. She was chain-smoking these long black cigarettes and she offered them to me and Vicks. They were dead strong, like Woodbines or something, and I saved half of mine for later. She spoke to us for a bit, but although she was polite she had this superior look on her face all the time. One good thing about this, though, was she told us about a place called the American Church where they advertise for au pairs. Then she sort of dismissed us and went to talk on the phone, which was a relief, as Vicks had spilled some of her coffee on the sofa, and we needed to smear it in without her seeing.

 

The shower was fantastic. My hair needs work though. It would be rubbish if it grew out too long. I was good and didn’t nick anything from there, just in case we’re ever invited back.

Anyway, after that, Potato Head and his scary mum waved goodbye to us and Vicks and me found our way back to the bus stop. I told Vicks we didn’t need to buy a ticket, we could just use the old ones on the floor and pretend to push them in the slot. She wasn’t too keen, but guess what – it worked! Now we can travel around for free!

 

But back to Valentine’s Day . . .

 

So this morning, Vicks and me were eating breakfast (cold yesterday’s rice again) as per usual. Hervey had gone on one of his mysterious errands. Me and Vicks joke that he’s some sort of spy for the government because he’s always sneaking off without saying where he’s going. He carries round this pathetic satchel thing which looks like the one I had at school. He never leaves it alone for a second, so I haven’t had a chance to see what’s in it (yet). Anyway, Bobby the Bastard knocks on the door. He’s holding a big bunch of flowers for Vicks for Valentine’s Day. Ha Ha. Vicks didn’t know what to do with them. She had to stuff them in empty wine bottles. Stupid arsehole, did he think we’d have a vase or something in this dump? He could have at least bought chocolates or fags or something useful. While Vicks was doing this I said to him, ‘Did you get the same for your wife?’ And he went a bit red, but as he’s Moroccan or something it wasn’t really obvious. Then he says he wants to take Vicks for dinner at this Vietnamese place in the evening, but Vicks says no, she’s not leaving me alone on Valentine’s Day, so B the B says something like, ‘But I meant both of you’. Liar. At that moment Hervey arrived back. But guess what??? He had a girl with him!

Amazing! Me and Vicks were dead excited. We’ve never seen him with anyone except Potato Head and Dracula. We’ve been having these long discussions about whether or not he’s gay (the only evidence we’ve got that he isn’t is that King Arthur thing he said to Vicks, but a) he was pissed then and b) it was such a crap thing to say, we reckon it doesn’t count.)

 

The girl was very good looking which was more of a surprise. She looked very French and thin and was almost as tall as Hervey. Vicks said, ‘Do you want us to leave, Hervey?’ but the girl said, ‘Non, we are not boyfriend and girlfriend, just friends,’ and poor old Pervey looked very sad. Bobby said he would take us for breakfast, but I said ‘No thanks, we’ve eaten’, so he just left, and we didn’t kiss him!!! Hurrah!

 

Anyway, Hervey’s non-girlfriend’s name is Genevieve, which is probably French for Guinevere, very funny considering Hervey thinks he’s King Arthur reincarnated. (Not sure if he knows that Guinevere fucked off with one of Arthur’s best mates, but I don’t think there’s much chance of Genevieve screwing around with Potato Head or Dracula, because she’s beautiful and they’re ugly).

 

We had a lovely chat with her and she seemed to really like us and be interested in the fact that we’re artists etc. She said that lots of people sell small drawings and paintings outside the Pompidou Centre for like ten francs a go (about a quid), and that we should do a whole bunch of sketches and sell them. Me and Vicks were dead excited about this although neither of us have even been to this Pompidou place. We’ll go there next time we’re ‘looking for work’ , for a recce. She smoked a joint with us (even Vicks had some this time), and then she left.

 

Obviously we were full of questions for the old perv. He is such a soppy git though, and he said straight away that he was in love with Genevieve and had been for ages. So we sat him down and gave him some dating advice. Hilarious!!! Especially as Vicks has never had a proper boyfriend and you know what I’m like.

 

The rest of the day was dead boring, but then Bobby the Bastard turned up and talked Vicks into going to supper with him and that vile Jules guy. Vicks just can’t say no to anyone. I said I wasn’t going to go and Vicks and me had a bit of an argument without anyone else really knowing we were fighting. When they left, Hervey asked me what me and Vicks were doing about work. I think he wants us to leave soon, but is too polite to say anything. So ungrateful especially after all the help we’d just given him about his love life and stuff. I don’t think he’ll just throw us out, but me and Vicks must make some sort of a plan soon. It’s not our fault though. Most of the time we’re too stoned to do anything except cook a bit of rice etc.

 

Then Hervey went out with his school bag and I searched through all his clothes but didn’t find any money at all worse luck.

 

Oh – forgot. We’ve been totally confused about Hervey’s neighbours. We’ve lived here forever and we’ve never even seen one. It’s like they don’t exist, except for the music you hear sometimes. Me and Vicks have been dead keen to meet whoever lives next to the Toilet of Death because their music taste’s quite good (apart from the Beatles which is crap, obviously). We’ve been daring each other to knock on the door, but no one ever answers. Anyway, after Hervey left I was . . .