True Things About Me

I believe that size matters





OVER COFFEE ALISON asked me what was going on. She said she had been worried about me. I haven’t seen you for ages, she said. You can’t stay on sick leave indefinitely. This is the second time in less than a month. It’s that Mr Blond, isn’t it? You’re looking decidedly wan. And what have you done to your face? I tripped, I said. And I’ve had a urine infection; it’s taking some time to clear up. I’m not surprised, she said. I nodded back towards the counter. I wish now I’d had one of those smoothies instead of coffee, I said.

Somehow I couldn’t be bothered to explain it all. We just go out for a drink, nothing happens. If you ask me, she said, you’re not yourself at all. You never used to lie to me. Don’t you trust me any more? Also it’s a very risky thing getting involved with claimants. I’m not involved, I said. And I didn’t ask you. I stared into the froth in my cup. I suppose Alison was counting up to ten again. It took her a while. Perhaps it was twenty. I looked across at her. I’m sorry, I said. I don’t know what to say. I felt utterly switched off.

We drank our coffees in silence, and listened to the conversation at the next table. One woman was telling the other about a mutual friend. You know she’s had it all taken away, don’t you? she said. The other, younger one didn’t seem impressed. Well, it wasn’t as if she had much use for it all, did she? she answered with a slight sniff. Alison and I stared at each other, trying not to laugh. Look, she said, getting serious, I know it’s none of my business, but I think you should be careful. Has he tried anything? I pretended not to understand. Has he tried to shag you yet, I mean, she said. He’s a claimant, for God’s sake. He’s just come out of prison. You don’t know anything about him. I told her there was nothing wrong with being a claimant. Also, I said, he’s paid his debt to society.

Now I know something’s going on between you, she said, and banged her hand down sharply. The two women on the next table turned round pointedly, and stared at us. Got a problem? Alison asked them. Then she leaned towards me and touched my hand. I know I sound like your mother, but honestly, will you listen to yourself? Paid his debt? Are you mad? Look, I said. It’s nothing. I hardly know him. I don’t even like him. Mmmm, Alison said. I got up to get more coffee. Now I wanted to go on talking about him.


Alison was putting on some lipstick when I got back to the table. It was a new colour for her. She seemed to have decided to shut up about the burning issue. Actually, she said, talking about getting into people’s pants, I’ve been feeling really sexy recently. Tom does as well, so that’s handy. You know how rarely these things synchronise when you’re in a long-term relationship. And having the kids around all the time doesn’t exactly oil the wheels, so to speak. I nodded. Prepare to laugh: he’s developed this mad obsession about whether he matches up, y’know, size wise. I didn’t respond. I was thinking about the wall of the pub, other things. We drank our coffees. I thought you were having a smoothie, Alison said. Yes, I said, but somehow I forgot. And the smoothies seemed so sort of smooth. I suddenly wanted a roughie, do you know what I’m saying? God, yes, she said.

We went on sipping our drinks. Before I could think of something riveting to say she began to nag me. Tom says you should give this mystery man a wide berth, Alison announced. He says wait for someone steady. Tom says better to be safe than sorry. I put my cup down. How dare you discuss my private life with Tom? I said. What the hell does he know about passion? Tom with his packed lunches and Thermos flask. Bloody Tom with his extensive, colour-coded collection of bloody Simply Red CDs. What does he know? We both stood up. You stupid, stupid girl. You’re having sex with this guy, aren’t you? Alison said, far too loudly. Yes, I am, I said. And do you know what? He’s got the biggest dick I’ve ever seen.





I eat colour coordinated snacks





I FELT REALLY bad about what I’d said to Alison. She was my one true friend. Somehow, though, it was too hard to make the first move. All weekend I was on my own. I don’t know what I did to pass the time. Lots of grooming. Lots of smoothing and creaming and masking. I can say without exaggeration that my feet looked truly angelic. I tried on the new sandals I’d bought but not worn yet. I gazed at myself for hours, wearing my new things.

Eventually I realised I just looked stupid. Like a little girl dressed up in her mother’s clothes. But not even cute. I folded the new clothes up in the tissue paper, put them in the cupboard, shut the door and left them in the dark with my ruined jacket. I lay on the sofa and ate Wotsits. I watched epic quantities of trash TV: botched cosmetic procedures, thirty-four-stone teenagers, gay blokes overhauling straight blokes, mentally disturbed dogs and their mentally disturbed owners, mad nutritionists who sniffed the poo of obese secretaries. It was all quite calming. I left a short message on Alison’s home phone.

I turned the TV off and waited. I hadn’t eaten anything but pseudo cheesy snacks all weekend. I’d drunk nothing but Lucozade. It was a fact that only orange stuff had passed my lips. I went on lying on the sofa and drifted off to sleep. I didn’t hear Alison’s call. The answerphone was blinking when I finally sat up. I dived at it. She sounded just the same, and she called me her little duck egg. I was to go to her house. Tom had taken all the kids over to his mother’s.

I showered and threw on some clothes. On the way I bought red wine and a roast chicken from her neighbourhood deli. These I offered at the front door. Come here, you daft nit, she said, and hugged me and the chicken at the same time. I told her I was sorry about what I’d said. Tom had every right to his opinion. And that actually, of course, what he said was true. Also, although it was none of my business, I was sure he was more than generously endowed in the family jewel department. Stuff Tom, she said. I should never have quoted him like that. Anybody would think he was the fifth oracle. Well, I said, I did think it a bit strange, when usually you make such a point of not listening to anything the poor man says. Quite, she said.

We opened the wine and I started to eat the chicken. Alison didn’t want any. She went to get something from the kitchen and I looked around her lounge. It was a messy room, but warm and quiet. There was a weathered-looking teddy lying across the back of an easy chair, and the Sunday papers were in a heap on the coffee table. I suddenly realised how much I didn’t know about her life with her children and Tom. It was as if she knew I needed her to be the same Alison I’d grown up with. If I wanted to go somewhere she was always available. Like now, for instance. Tom had taken the children out so I could come over to see her. I started to cry. What’s the matter? she asked, appearing with a napkin and a peppermill in the doorway. Is your chicken so disappointing?

I love you, Alison, I said. That’s all. Back atcha, she said, and wiped my tears with the napkin. I told her everything had gone wrong. I really needed to sort myself out. I told her I was scared of what was happening to me. Suddenly I knew it was true. It was as if I was spinning out into space with only a thin, fraying cord holding me to some enormous mothership. Come on, she said. Don’t be so hysterical. So you’ve done some things you wish you hadn’t. Get in line. Behind me, for starters. This is true, I said, sniffing.

Now, what we need is a small plan of action, she announced. The world has not come to an end because you have slept with some waster. Did he use a condom? Are you are on the Pill? Yes, and yes, I said mechanically. I just wanted her to stop. She scrutinised me. I’m not even going to go there, she said. That is so fundamentally crucial, I won’t insult you by droning on about it. Right? No need, I told her, and smiled a calm, ultra-in-control sort of smile. She seemed to be looking for further reassurance, then she turned away and bustled about. Now, you mustn’t see him again, that’s obvious, she said, over her shoulder.

I sat with a piece of chicken in my hands and watched Alison. I felt as if she knew what to do. So you can come and stay with us for a bit, she offered. That’ll help you get your head together. Then if he comes round you won’t be there to be tempted by the bastard. I’m not sure he’s an actual bona fide bastard as such, I said. She put her hands on her hips. You’re not in a position to judge, my unbelievably naive but sweet young friend, she said. What is obvious is that you are very unhappy. Am I correct? Sexed up, yes. But unhappy also. Unfortunately the two seem to go together.

As she talked I began to feel sleepy. She ran me a bath. Go and have a nice soak, she said. I’ve put some of my magic everything-will-be-OK elixir in it. Then you can have an early night and get your stuff in the morning. She brought me a mug of hot chocolate and a gingersnap when I was in bed in the spare room. I was wearing a pair of her pyjamas. Now, can I get you anything else, madam? she asked. I pointed to a shabby book in the bookcase. Don’t tell me you’re going to wallow in The Wind in the Willows again? Yes, sirree, I said, settling back. This is my bible, you know. I’m off to see Badger. Find me a door scraper, and shut the door on your way out if you would be so kind.





I agree to things blindly





IT WAS LOVELY staying with Alison. Tom was so kind; he kept out of the way and took the children with him. They wouldn’t speak to me after the bread incident, and I couldn’t blame them. They were a bit implacable looking when we did meet. I told Tom he was a hero. Well, yes, he said, scratching his chin, I know. After two days I went back home; I couldn’t stay very long. I didn’t want to impose. When I got back I felt like Mole feels when he’s abandoned his humble pad and gone off to live with Water Rat, then returns. There was my little house, with its mound of post on the mat, and its half bottle of souring milk in the fridge. It felt very quiet after Alison’s.


My mother had left a few messages on the phone, but I couldn’t be bothered to talk to her. I thought about sending a postcard, then realised that probably wasn’t a good idea. I had to go into work for a meeting with the head of department about my mad sick leave. It went OK. I blubbed and told him some story.

In the evenings I did things people do when they’re in their own home, like changing the bed and opening all the windows. I put the radio on, and bustled about, cleaning the kitchen cupboards and watering my gasping plants. I even made a big pot of soup so I could smell it cooking. I managed to eat some, but I wasn’t at all hungry. It felt as if I was killing time, waiting for the real owner of the house to return so I could hand over the keys and leave for my other life.

I went back to the office and just kept going. Each day became a little easier, as if I were learning a new job. By the end of the week things felt fairly OK again. On Friday Alison and I were having a break at our desks when she said she had this suggestion to make. And that I wasn’t to freak out or say no before considering what she had to say. God, I said, I promise, get on with it.

She said she’d met this bloke, a business friend of Tom’s, and he was new to the area, really nice. Also good-looking. She and Tom thought he would be great for me. I didn’t say anything; I just carried on sipping my coffee. So, she said, shall I set you two up on a date? I allowed a silence to develop. I hoped it would express how I felt. Well? Alison said, still smiling like some chat show host with a reluctant celeb – if there was such a thing – What d’you think? Hmmm? Are you completely mad? I said. Since when were you a matchmaker? I told her the very idea of being set up on a date made me feel yukky. I knew you’d say that, she said calmly, but just think about it. I already know he’s nice, it doesn’t have to be a big deal. Just a drink, and then you could go on from there, if you want to. Or not.

Somehow I agreed. I remembered how kind Tom had been. How Alison wanted me to be happy, and I couldn’t say no. Alison did the organising. The guy’s name was Rob, which somehow didn’t seem auspicious to me. I began to think about the term blind date. Why blind? It sounded horribly vulnerable-making and ordealish. Not at all fun and frivolous. I’d never been on one before. I began to regret saying yes almost immediately. I decided to check the guy out, get there early, and if he looked even remotely off I would run away. Tom and Alison could stick it up their bums, thank you very much.





I feel sick of visitors





BEFORE I EMBARKED on the potential fiasco of my date with wots-his-face I decided I had to do what the magazines call build bridges. As my parents and I lived on different planets, rather than opposite banks of a river, it felt like a tall order. So instead I went to do some shopping. There was no food in the house and I was tired of munching Ryvitas with Marmite. I’d even developed a small mouth ulcer, they were so salty and shardlike. And drifting through the aisles was always inspirational.

At the supermarket I realised it was simple; I would invite my parents for a meal. So I rang them immediately. I had to have something substantial and competent to offer. A proper roast dinner would convince them I was fine, and that they were fine and we were fine. I bought a big chunk of beef and all the usual trimmings. When I got my bags home the meat had bled all over the carrots and even soaked into a loaf of bread, which had gone pink and spongy.

It took me most of Saturday afternoon to get the meal ready. While I cooked I managed to drink nearly a whole bottle of red wine and at least one G and T. By the time they arrived I felt blurry and loose. When they came in I told my mother she ought to know straight away that the Yorkshire puds were shop-bought. Are you disappointed in me, Ma? I asked her. Have I let you down? Have I? She told me not to be so silly and pecked my cheek. Everything smells delicious, doesn’t it, Daddy? My father didn’t seem in a rush to take his coat off. He stood in the hallway looking serious.

Somehow I got it all on the table. My dad carved the beef. We talked about the weather and their garden. When we all had our heaped and steaming plates before us I began to feel sick. My mum was telling me about Gran. How she was sinking into a sort of gentle oblivion. I know, I said, and then I had to rush from the table. I made it to the loo in time. I tried to retch quietly, but some stuff got forced up my nose. I couldn’t breathe. Mum and Dad were both at the bathroom door. I’m OK, I called, trying to sound upbeat. Something just went down the wrong way. I told them to go and enjoy their meals. They silently went back to the table. It all felt so sad I could hardly bear it.

I said I’d eat mine later, that I really only wanted a long, cool glass of water and some paracetamol. They didn’t eat much either. That was all lovely, my mum said, when they’d finished. Where did you learn how to make those roasters so crunchy? From you, I suppose, I told her. I could see she was pleased. We quickly cleared up and then sat down with coffee and mints. I asked them if they wanted to watch some TV, but they didn’t.

My mother took hold of my hands. Now, what’s the trouble? she asked me. Something is obviously up. You have been avoiding us. Taking time off work. We rang Alison and she said you had been staying with her. And now here you are, pale and unhappy. Is it to do with your young man? She looked across to my father. He stood up and cleared his throat. We’re worried about you, darling girl, he said. Come on, spill the beans. I picked up my cup. Nothing’s wrong, my dear aged p’s, I said. Just the usual ups and downs of life. You know how it is sometimes. Now, have we built a nice bridge or what? I asked them. They both looked at me doubtfully. They were so sweet.

We sat quietly in the lounge. I put one of their favourite CDs on. After all the cooking, the drink, and the vomming, I felt wasted. My dad began to snore gently and my mum got her knitting out. I curled up in the corner of the settee. It began to rain, and I imagined what the room must seem like from outside. The lamps glowing, three people looking at ease together. Just as I started to drift away there was a loud series of knocks at the door. It was as if each knock was a punch in my undefended stomach. I felt a thrill of fear radiate downwards from my head. I wanted to leap up, but I couldn’t move. My father woke. My mother sat with her knitting needles poised. It’s all right, I’ll go, I said. But my father was already up. Dad, I said, don’t bother, it’s probably nothing. He went out of the room. I knew who it was. There was a brief snatch of conversation, and then my dad came back in. It’s someone for you, he said.

I wobbled out and shut the lounge door behind me. I felt the life draining from my heart, and yet I felt terrifyingly alive again. As if I’d been electrified. He was leaning against the door frame. Well, this all looks very cosy, he said, very nice. He said nice as if it was a swear word. A family get-together. He seemed about to spring into the tiny, airless hall. I’m really hurt, you know, he said, taking a leisurely drag of his cigarette. He seemed part of the wet, windy evening. Honestly, I doubt that, I said. Why would you be hurt? Because you didn’t invite me, did you? he said, and laughed quietly.

I felt poised between the safe, well-lit room and the rainsoaked night outside. Me in the cold spotlight, standing like a wraith; like someone who never ventured outside. He with his body inclined towards me, one foot inside, his hair dark with moisture, his blue eyes cloudy, slightly blind-looking, already gone. The hallway briefly became the still centre of the universe. I could see trees thrashing behind him. I looked at the way his thigh strained against the damp denim of his jeans. Where’ve you been? Hiding? Wanna come out to play? he asked me, his voice soft and coaxing. I’ve missed you like mad. I lifted my hands and somehow pushed him out of the doorway. I felt his warm, thumping chest under my palms. He smelt of wet pavements, alcohol and cigarettes. Get lost, I whispered. He was smiling. Don’t think I’m letting you slip away that easy, he said. Just as I went to shut the door he leaned in and kissed me punchily on the lips.






I show too much





THE MEETING WITH Blind-Date Rob was in a pub on the outskirts of town. Getting ready needed to be done at the last minute. I slipped into my new cream trousers and the bustier. They were a little loose because I’d lost weight. I pulled the jacket on and stood in front of the mirror. Something felt really wrong. Then I remembered the beautiful sandals. After I’d put them on I felt OK. In fact I felt like the kind of girl who thought blind dates were a laugh a minute. Then I nearly plunged down the staircase; I was unused to the high heels. I told my reflection in the hall mirror that I loved living on the edge.

I got a taxi to the pub because getting trollied seemed the only way to approach a blind date. I always felt more fascinating when I was smashed. Anyway it gives you an excuse to behave in new ways. I watched the streets thin out as we drove. The sun was setting and all the little semis and bungalows were drenched in a sort of Hollywood glow, the various strips of lawn bright, bright green, as if they’d been touched up. There were people in their gardens, pruning, I supposed. Dogs on solitary walks. Each bus stop shelter I passed had a hooded group of boys scuffling inside. I heard an ice cream van. I began to feel the soggy, sluggish, melancholy feeling early evening can give you. In no time I was at the pub.

Rob hadn’t arrived, so I ordered a double G and T and sat behind a pillar. They were playing that Jennifer Rush song about the power of love. Alison and I always laughed through it, but in the pub, waiting for Rob, it was like some sort of true cry from the heart. I started to feel like I might start sobbing, so I slugged down my drink and bought another.

I was still twenty sad minutes early, surely a total no-no in blind-date terms. I began to feel hot, then cold, then hot again. I must have looked wired, the way I kept taking my jacket off and putting it on again. I finished my second drink and just knew this was going to be a totally rubbish evening. I was at the bar when Rob arrived. I introduced myself. I’m not sure if we shake hands, he said. I told him I hadn’t read the blind-date how-to manual. He had a nice laugh. He bought a bottle of red wine. We went outside and sat in the garden and began to drink.

So, Rob, I said. You’re actually very handsome, aren’t you? Did you know? Have you always been handsome? How does it feel? He wasn’t fazed by my questions. He just laughed again and told me I was more than pretty. And how do you feel about that? We seemed to be getting on really well. The garden was end-of-Augusty, just the way I love a garden to be. The sedum was swaying around us in pink clumps, top-heavy with butterflies.

We talked for a long time, and he bought another bottle. You go ahead and drink, he said, I’ve had my two glasses so I’ll drive you home. It got almost dark but we stayed outside. I told Rob I liked him. You can hold my hand if you so desire, I said. I’d drunk so much the plants and bushes around me seemed pulsing with energy, as if they were whipped by a silent storm. Rob was wearing really nice shoes. So much depends on that. His hair was black and he smelled woody. I asked him if it was time to go.

We walked to his car. I was weaving about, and Rob supported me. He felt slim but strong. He kissed me lightly, and it felt lovely, sort of airy and shy. I wanted him to do it again. When we got in the car I said, Why don’t you just drive? He seemed surprised, and asked if I was sure. Don’t you want me to take you home? he said. God no, I said, and stretched out. He drove into the countryside. The lanes got darker and darker. I’ll tell you where to go, I said. Everything looked unfamiliar, but I made up directions.

Then we stopped in a car park by the side of a lake. The water was completely smooth, and full of starry reflections. It was eerily beautiful. We sat quietly and looked. Does it matter that we don’t know each other? I asked him. Do you like me? I couldn’t see his face properly in the dark, but I felt he was smiling. Of course I like you, he said. You’re very cute. Cute? I said. Is that a good thing? You’re sweet, he said, and patted my knee.

Suddenly I didn’t feel drunk any more. Or cute either. I thought about stuff I’d done. I told him looks could be deceptive. I s’pose so, he said. He sounded a little switched off. He rested his head against the back of the seat and we watched some big white birds unfurl like flowers and land silently on the lake. It was as if they were dragging nets of stars down with them. The dark water whirled and the stars stretched and shivered. I waited for them to firm up again. Then I started to take my new clothes off. They slipped off almost as if they were enchanted. My body looked startlingly white in the half gloom of the car. I could feel the moon’s glow on my skin. I sat and waited for him to touch me. I closed my eyes so that I would feel even more naked. It was a fantastic sensation. I knew I looked amazing.

Nothing happened. Rob was resting his arms on the steering wheel, still gazing out at the lake. I shook his arm. Don’t you want me? I asked him. I began to feel more than pathetic. Don’t you like these, Robby the handsome Rob? I said in a stupid voice, and lifted up my breasts and pointed them at him. I could see they looked like two unappetising, sunken buns. I moved them about a bit; one pointing up, the other down, then vice versa. He turned and tried to focus on my boobs. What are you playing at? he asked quietly, his hands gripping the steering wheel. Put those away, it’s too cold for them to be out. He settled back onto the headrest. God, he said, and sighed. You are so drunk. Then his hands slipped onto his knees and he closed his eyes as if he were about to fall asleep.

I felt as if I were disintegrating. I struggled to dress but I was shaking too much to do it properly. My bare bottom squeaked like a frightened mouse against the car seat. I shoved my bra in my bag. I put my pants on back to front. My clothes had lost their magical properties. The lake was blank, its surface corrugated with little waves. No stars. Rain started to thump against the windshield. Then he drove me home. Once or twice he tried to make conversation. The windscreen wipers grated against the window. A snake of laughter kept wriggling in my throat, but I swallowed it down. When he stopped I slammed the door and ran into the house. On the hall floor I screamed with laughter until I was paralysed.





I am a one-trick pony





I KNEW THAT weeks went by. The calendar said so, but I didn’t feel them as days and hours, minutes and seconds. I felt them in my blood maybe, or my bones. I longed to see him. When I woke up in the morning the longing woke up too, like a strange cat on my bed. The feeling moved up from inside my pelvis and settled in my throat. That’s where it stayed all day. I found it difficult to eat, even if I’d wanted to, with this thing in my throat. Then I began to worry it might go away. It was as if I carried him around with me somehow; his springy blond hair and beautiful feet. The soft fuzz in his groin. His neck with its jumping pulse. The flavour of his spit. And the smell of his cool, even-coloured skin like some buttery, crushed herb.

At the same time if I closed my eyes I played out another, idiotic blind-date version of myself in a moonlit car, waving her empty tits around in circles. And another lay motionless on the hall floor, dribbling onto the carpet. I even saw myself out on the ruffled waters of a lake, surrounded by silent, hovering white birds, raising a glass of red wine to the rain. Why had I been there? Whom had I been with? I found it hard to recall how long ago it had been. Everything was blurred, leaching into something else, painfully punctuated by encounters I didn’t understand. I know I managed to get to work almost every day. But I didn’t know much else.


Repeatedly I relived the early summer meal by the river. The way he had gripped my breasts with his hands, the electric current that forked downwards into my belly when he had pinched my nipples and pulled them hard. I remembered the giant hogweed craning in on us. I cringed when I thought about how my cheek had scraped against the rough wall of the pub, the sounds I’d made in the hot afternoon. The two women, motionless under a faded parasol, poised with bread rolls, holding cutlery. Listening, listening.

Alison started bringing sandwiches into work for me; I didn’t have anything in the fridge. The supermarket seemed like such a complicated place. Instead of going out and sitting in the park for lunch we decided to use the staff canteen. Everywhere I looked people were cramming chips into their mouths. What’s with all this manic chip-eating today? I asked her. Is it just me, or is there some sort of contest going on that we don’t know about? No idea, ducks, she said. Who cares anyway? Let them all choke. I want to know about your blind date. It’s been a while, and you haven’t even mentioned Rob’s name. Rob who? I said. Has he been in touch with you or Tom? I asked. She shook her head.

My throat contracted, or something inside it expanded. Alison gave me a look. Oh, it was all right, I suppose, I said. Alison stopped chewing her celery stick. Do you know that thing has negative calories in it? I told her. Mmmm, OK, she said, we’ll talk about him some other time. Who? I said. Rob, you dreamy twit, she said. And for God’s sake, eat something.

The afternoon stretched ahead like one of those sick-making family car journeys. Are we nearly there yet? I mouthed across the office to Alison. She just stared at me and went back to her computer. I sat at my desk and tried to look busy. I couldn’t do much anyway. All the paperwork looked like new, more difficult versions of the stuff I usually worked with. Our boss left early, and we all relaxed.

Alison and I sloped off to get a coffee. Some women from another section were in the kitchen, and Alison seemed to know them all. They were talking about a television programme. Everyone was really into it. Alison was the most knowledgeable. God, Alison, I said, when did you start to care about stuff like this? Everyone stopped talking and started to listen to us. Believe it or not, Alison said, this is the real world. She was smiling at me. TV, magazines, stuff like that. It’s how we bond in the workplace, love. Over trivialities. It’s known as communication. Comprondayvoo? I do watch TV, you know, and films, she told me. I even listen to music when I’m not with you, believe it or not.

There was some giggling. Then someone I didn’t even recognise, a woman with open pores all round her nose, said if you asked her I’d always been on another planet. I stared at her. She was wearing a smiling silver dolphin on a silver chain round her neck. Its eye was picked out with a tiny green stone. I thought how creepy that was, when you really analysed it. She’s just a little dark horse, that’s all, someone else said, and leaned over to mess up my hair.

I looked at Alison. She was holding her cup to her lips, but I could see she was smiling at me. A little dark pony, maybe, she said. I couldn’t think of an answer. They all looked so together, there, making drinks, chatting about stuff, giving their opinions. Suddenly I felt them all shoot away until there was a huge empty space all round where I stood. Then, faintly, I heard someone start talking about how much weight they’d put on, and they all turned their backs and joined in. Alison was in the thick of it.

I went off to the loo, but really I was bored with the whole loo thing. It was like I was spending all my life in there. Still, I felt it was my space. There was someone in a cubicle, so I had to wait until they had done everything they had to do, which took ages. To pass the time I swished my hands around in a basin of cold water. Eventually the slow woman came out, adjusting her skirt, which is always so irritating. As she washed her hands, she looked at my bluish fingers floating in the water, and then at me in the mirror. Are you all right? she asked. Why? I said. Are you? What were you doing in there? Writing a love letter?

Finally the loo was empty. I made sure all the taps were shut off, and then I wiped the surfaces with a wad of paper towels. I was thinking of being a dark horse, or pony maybe. I remembered a time when I was little and my mother and I tried to call some horses over to talk to us. She sat me on a stone wall, and waved a droopy clump of especially succulent grass. They may come, she said, smiling at them as they stood in a self-contained, leggy group in the middle of the field. Suddenly, as if they’d agreed amongst themselves, they broke apart, wheeled round and thundered towards us.

As I sat on the sun-warmed wall I thought they would soar over my head and gallop up into the sky. I thought they might take my mother with them, and leave me alone on the edge of the field. It felt like magic, the way they slowed and stopped in front of us. They stood and kindly ate the grass my mother offered, although I knew they didn’t need it. I sat with a horse either side of me, and breathed in the smell of bruised grass, muscles and hair. I imagined each huge heart with its maroon tubes and valves. I patted each solid, springy flank as it moved against me and felt its warmth, its horsiness. As I gazed into a tender, blackly brown, wise eye, I could see myself floating on its liquid surface. I ran my hands over each silky, quivering nose, and breathed in the sweet breath from inside. And then they were gone. They were dark horses.

I dried my hands. They were so cold it felt as if I was touching another person’s hands. I looked at my reflection and thought my eyes looked more like the eyes of some small domestic creature. Perhaps a hamster’s or a rabbit’s. Or the eyes of the last unsold kitten in a cage at the market. A kitten that understands the truth about the waiting, brimful bucket and the stallholder’s strong, competent fists.

When I got home I dug out his phone number. I tried to keep it simple and low key. I tried not to sound needy or tearful. I put a CD on so that he would hear it in the background and think I was a normal girl. Someone who had decided, on impulse, to ring a guy she thought was nice. I left a voicemail asking him to call. I suggested we meet for a chat or something.





I gather at the river





IT WAS THE end of the third week after I’d left my message. Just as I thought I would have to ring again he got in touch. He didn’t say much. If you want, he said, when I suggested we meet. I spent a long time getting ready; it was important to strike the right note. I wanted to look gorgeous, irresistible, eatable even, and not as if I’d tried too hard. It was a tough one. But after messing about in front of the dreaded mirror for half an hour I was unhappy with my make-up. My eyebrows looked like two wrong words someone had tried to scribble over with a black felt-tip pen. One was higher than the other, which made me look like a joke chef in a cartoon. My cheeks were way too pink, and my eyes were starey; haunted somehow. I washed it all off and started again. It was safer to go down the ‘no make-up’ make-up route that all the magazines were talking about. When I’d finished it looked as if I wasn’t wearing any. But not in a good way. My blank canvas was still blank. I wasn’t sure if I’d failed spectacularly, or it was a startling success. I told myself if you had to ask, then you knew the answer.

I drove to the pub in town he’d said he’d be in and waited outside for him to appear. As I sat in the car I listened to a whole episode of The Archers. I watched the pub door repeatedly open and close. Each time it opened I thought it was him, but it wasn’t. On the radio two old, posh agricultural people were making love. The Archers had changed since I used to listen to it in the kitchen with my mother. The sound effects were so real I felt embarrassed, and all the love action seemed to be occurring on horseback. It was difficult to decide who was huffing and puffing, the lovers or their mounts.


Just as the closing music came on he got in beside me. I couldn’t say a word. He filled the car with the smell of beer and cigarette smoke. I revved the engine madly and shot off. He asked me if I was OK. I nodded. I couldn’t look at him. It was as if my eyes were locked on the road. He put his hand on the back of my neck and massaged it. He asked where I was taking him but didn’t sound at all curious. I told him to wait and see. Fine, he said. I don’t care where I go. I had planned a walk by the river. I wanted to make things more ordinary; more like other people’s relationships. It seemed like a good idea to take him to one of my favourite haunts.

We parked the car under some pines and started off. I began to explain to him how I felt about the river, and he listened, smiling. He said he had places he felt like that about. I stopped and looked at him. We were holding hands. The river was behind him, the evening air leaf-sweet and cool under the trees. He gazed steadily back at me. It felt like a miracle, as if I’d caught something everyone had warned me was dangerous, which instead was gentle; as if something wild had calmed down. You are beautiful, I love you, I said. I wasn’t sure if I’d spoken the words out loud or if my heart had blurted them silently.

He didn’t react, so I repeated them loud and clear. He smiled and put his arms round me. I could feel his gorgeous, strong heart thumping. I burrowed my head into his neck. I felt as if my spine were turning into a rippling, honeyed liquid and I was about to slide down his body into a pool at his feet.

We walked again, holding onto each other. Along the riverbank we passed people with their dogs, parents helping their children learn to ride bikes. He was quiet and relaxed. I kept my arm round his waist, and he rested his arm round my shoulders. Everything was so lovely. I could see how we looked together. After a while I asked him if he was having a good time; I’d begun to think he might be getting bored. But he didn’t answer me. I don’t think he heard. I started to feel jumpy and nervous. I had that feeling you get when something is slipping away, and you can’t stop it. Like the light on a short winter afternoon. I needed something to happen. I thought probably he was being nice because he was going to dump me. His arm on my shoulders felt dead. I started to think he didn’t want me any more.

It was getting dark, and the little bats that live by the river began to flit about like animated leaves. It was always a sad time when that happened. We stopped by the bridge and looked down at the water flowing fast and smooth, the same colour as the sky, but full of sparkling streaks. We watched the sky turn a creamy cerise that slowly leached into the water. As we stared at the river it began to look weird: solid and slow moving, silent and muscular, more like dry sand than liquid. I pushed my hands into my pockets and found a sweet. It must have been there a long time. He turned away from the water and looked at me.

In the half-light he looked unfamiliar. The sunset made his skin glow and his hair paler. He still looked like his other, good, gentle self. The one I didn’t know. What have you found? he said. I held up the squashed sweet in its ragged paper wrapping, and he took it from me. These used to be called Opal Fruits when I was kid, he said, do you remember? Then he put it in his mouth. We stood on the bridge together and he held me tightly. Here, he said, kissing me, open up, and pushed the warm gooey sweet into my mouth with his tongue. Strawberry! I said, but really I felt as if it was a little chunk of him, and I could eat it. He hugged me to him. I wanted to stay on the bridge, out there, suspended, but I knew that was stupid. It was dark now, and the river beneath us held onto the last glow of the sky.

Gradually I realised I was gripping him so tightly my arms were trembling. I told myself to chill out, it was obvious the moment had passed. He wasn’t responding to me any more. I let my arms drop. I wasn’t surprised when his phone shrilled, the little screen shining bluely. Yeh, he said, yeh, yeh, OK. Then he listened for a moment. Nothing important, he said, looking at me without recognition, concentrating on his conversation. Yeh, mate, you f*ck yourself, he said, and laughed. Pick me up in, say, ten minutes at the usual place. No probs. The blue light died. Without it the evening felt pitch black, the trees along the sides of the river bent over.

Gotta go, babe, he said. But it’s dark, I said, and a long way to the car. So? he said. You’re a big girl. He was already walking away from me. I started to cry. Don’t leave me, haven’t we been having a nice time? I called. I couldn’t help myself, even though I knew it would make him angry. He strode back towards me and grabbed my shoulders. Nice, he said. Nice? Shut the f*ck up about nice, and pushed me away from him so hard I collided with the railings of the bridge. Suddenly it seemed essential I make him stay. Like some sort of test I had to pass. I’m sorry, I could hear myself shrieking, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad. Please don’t go.

He came back towards me, his footsteps resonating on the wooden bridge. I thought he was going to do something, hit me perhaps. Instead he wrapped his arms round me and kissed my forehead. Don’t cry, he whispered. I didn’t mean it. You’ll have to get used to the fact that I’m a cruel bastard. He wiped my tears away with his warm hands. No, you’re not, I said, and kissed his cheek. Then he was gone. I stood with my hands glued to the metal railings and strained to hear him running away until I couldn’t hear him any more.