My Book

by Alam, Donna

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You keep saying that.’ Her words have a watery quality to them as I pull her to my chest, pressing my lips to her head. ‘But it’s not your fault.’

  Except it is. But I can’t say so. I need to stop this remorseful outpouring. Anyone would think I’d picked up a bunch of apologies on special offer from some internet site. Apologies! Apologies for every-fucking-one!

  Except I’m not sorry at all. Not really. This was an intervention!

  Maybe if I keep saying so, I’ll believe it at some point.

  Fuck, her stoic tears feel like they’re tearing something inside of me.

  ‘I’m sure something else will come along,’ I murmur softly, rubbing equally soft circles on her back.

  ‘Will it though? I’ve never been sacked before. They won’t give me a reference, and it’s not like I can go and work in a pub or a restaurant because I’ll be as big as a house in a couple of months.’ Too bloody right she’s not working in a bar or serving plates of ceviche in a bistro somewhere. Big or not, the point is moot. ‘Pet sitting was easy,’ she adds with a sniffle. ‘Inconvenient, yes.’ I second that. Bloody inconvenient. ‘But relatively stress free. Where else am I going to get paid to cuddle up on the sofa with you?’

  ‘I can always get that goldfish.’

  She smiles sadly and I have to remind myself I’m doing this for us both—for the three of us. What started in the bedroom, or the dog door more likely, has bled through both our walls. But her walls have always been a little taller than mine, a little tougher to break through.

  My actions are kind of like bringing in a demolition crew.

  Her face is cold. Thanks to the evening chill, but her lips are warm as I press my mouth to hers.

  ‘It’ll all work out.’ I promise.

  She pulls back, rubbing the back of her hand under her nose. ‘How am I ever going to be able to afford to move out now?’ All will be revealed in good time. ‘Seriously, I thought I was going to start hyperventilating when the estate agent called and started reeling off the prices of what he has available. Olivia has already given me half of the fee we agreed on. I won’t get the rest until after next week.’

  ‘Ah, the big day looms.’ Maybe she’ll let me take her as my date. Or maybe the pack of bacon I have in the fridge will sprout wings and take to the air before then. ‘Let’s go and eat. You’ll feel better with a full stomach. Bad choice of words?’

  ‘You might say that. Anyway,’ she adds dismissively, ‘I couldn’t think about eating right now.’ With a groan, she falls forward, pressing her head to my chest again. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your dinner.’

  ‘I’m not eating alone. But I might have just the thing to cheer you up.’

  She pulls back, taking my face in her hands. The whites of her eyes are a little red, and the skin underneath looks almost bruised. But she’s smiling, at least, even if it is a tiny wry looking thing. ‘I’m sorry to say I’m not in the mood for penis.’

  ‘It was worth a try.’ Her shoulder shake with an almost silent chuckle. ‘And while penis is always good for a little mood lift, I actually had something else in mind.’

  Before she has a chance to ask, I’m up from the sofa and pulling the brochure from the mantlepiece, something I’d printed off from the real estate agents website this afternoon. I also pick up a small early Sarah Lucas sculpture from a side table as I make my way back to sit next to her once more. Miranda gaze is circumspect as I slide the brochure out of sight for now to the cushion behind me.

  ‘I’ve never been sure if this is what I think it is.’ She trails a finger along the bronzed length of the sculpture.

  ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘Well, it looks like a penis, but it seems to have boobs.’

  ‘It is quite an androgynous piece,’ I agree lifting the piece between us as though examining it myself. ‘I always thought there was something a little Matisse about the composition.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘You don’t need to. Most people are only interested in what it’s worth.’ The art of art is dead? I wouldn’t say so, but most buyers are only interested in art for investment purposes. ‘But for the purpose of this exercise, this is just a talking piece, or talking stick if you like.’

  ‘Okay.’ Her reply is a little wary. ‘I am pleased it can’t talk. I’d be a little frightened about what it might say.’

  ‘I’m sure whatever it would say, it couldn’t be as bad as what the nanny cam repeated, especially if it was repeating me.’

  A ripple of amusement crosses her face.

  ‘Thankfully, the camera was in the rabbit’s room, not anywhere else.’ Yes, the rabbits had their own room. ‘But I must admit that was my first concern. I’d hate to think we had an inadvertent sex tape floating around the internet.’

  ‘Yes, that kind of thing is much more dangerous than porn watched on a flat screen mirror.’ At the mention of this, she drops her head, her hair shielding her face like a pair of drapes. ‘I can’t believe you’d bring that back up at a time like this,’ she mumbles.

  ‘Bring it up? It’s practically the first thing I think of when I open my eyes in the morning. And let me tell you, it certainly brings me up in record time.’

  ‘Oh, the innuendo,’ she protests, red cheeked as her head comes up again as she treats me to a gimlet stare. ‘Such filth and lies; I know for a fact you don’t need any encouragement in the morning.’

  ‘Not when you’re with me, I don’t.’

  This conversation is going our usual way. Banter and silliness that eventually leads to the bedroom, and I’m fine with that ordinarily. But right now, we need to have this conversation. I’ve laid the groundwork. Now it’s time to bring the dynamite. I didn’t take time out of my day to go and speak with a couple of strangers to let this moment fade.

  ‘The talking piece,’ I repeat, my voice a little more forthright as I grasp the sculpture in the middle of its turgid length. ‘Whoever holds it—’

  ‘They’re lucky? Giving, not taking?’

  ‘Whoever holds it talks. The other person keeps quiet. Got it?’

  ‘Oh, you’re so masterful.’

  ‘Stop pretending you don’t love me for it.’ Her mouth opens with a sharp intake of breath before she closes it again with a snap. While her words go unspoken. I hear them anyway.

  I love it.

  I love you.

  I love your penis.

  Any of those would be a step in the right direction.

  ‘I have it.’ I brandish the piece in her direction. ‘So I talk. Ready?’ She nods. ‘This week, I bought something for the baby. Ah-ah, you don’t have the talking stick so you can’t respond.’ But you can look at me with that small swell of pleasure, particularly as I sense it won’t last very long. ‘I bought this.’ Reaching behind me, I bring the printed brochure between us, placing it in her hands.

  ‘What—’

  ‘My turn to talk still. Maybe I should’ve gone with a forfeit,’ I mutter as her gaze falls to the paper as she begins to read.

  31

  James

  BELGRAVE MEWS SOUTH

  A tastefully refurbished three storey mews house in a cobbled lane with exceptionally large reception rooms and master bedroom. An unusually light house with three ensuite bedrooms, complete with . . .

  ‘It has a book nook,’ I declare, unable to help myself. ‘And original wainscot panelling. And a working fireplace. High end finishes; Miele appliances, marble and bespoke cabinetry. And it’s within walking distance to my place. And it’s pink. Just look at the place—it’s as cute as a button.’ Only she’s not looking at it. She’s looking at me. Or glaring might be a better description. ‘And a terrace,’ I add, still reciting the ad copy. ‘And it’s in a very pretty cobblestoned lane . . .’

  Suddenly, Miranda reaches out, snatching the sculpture out of my hand.

  ‘You’ve bought this place already?’ I nod. ‘Without waiting to
speak with me about it?’

  Try as I might, I can’t help the rise of my eyebrows or the way my lips curl up at the corners. Angry Miranda is so fucking pretty. And fiercely cute. And I understand completely now what she said about Beckett and Olivia and the benefits of making up after an argument. One can but hope.

  ‘Well?’

  I shrug. Then I nod, because it appears my gosh-shucks shrug wasn’t a clear statement.

  ‘I can’t believe you would do this,’ she murmurs, her voice dangerously low. ‘I already said no.’

  Now that utterance was at a higher volume. I hope she’ll excuse me as I snatch the penis out of her hand.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘My turn. You said I couldn’t buy you a house. You also said I couldn’t help you find somewhere to live, in any capacity. You didn’t want my input, you wouldn’t countenance living in one of my properties, and you were positively obstreperous when I recommended you speak with my property agent. You won’t let me help you financially. In fact, I bet you wouldn’t let me help you pitch a bloody tent!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Ah! No cock, no talk. I haven’t bought you a house. I’ve bought Harry the Haribo one. And when he’s born—’

  ‘Or she.’

  ‘Shush, woman! When our child is born, I’ll transfer the deed into his or her name. And you will be responsible for keeping the investment for him. Or her. What you do with it is up to you. You can live in it with Harry, or you can rent it out and use the income to help pay your own rent. Or mortgage. Whichever. Though, quite frankly, that seems a little ridiculous when this place is perfect. There are parklands and excellent schooling nearby, and it’s pink for goodness sakes!’

  ‘I can’t take it.’ Her expression firms as she leans over, placing her hand on the penis head. The head, not my head. ‘I can’t, James.’

  ‘I’m not giving it to you. I’m just entrusting it to you for our child. Stop being so bloody pig headed. You need somewhere to live. Some sort of permanence. Somewhere you can nest.’

  ‘I’m not a bird.’ This time, she doesn’t even bother touching my dick.

  The dick, I mean. I set it down on the coffee table, then sit back with a sigh.

  ‘We can’t keep on like this. And I’m a little tired of being treated like your own personal travel sex toy.’ Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d ever utter. Do travel toys come in regular sizes, or only small ones, I wonder? Not that it matters. Have penis, will travel for this women, despite my currently much aggrieved tone.

  ‘I don’t treat you like . . . like . . . badly.’

  ‘Like a vibrator? Perhaps not intentionally, but if I want to see you, I’m at the whim of your job, and you don’t like visiting me here at my home. We hardly go out together, as a couple or not, because you worry we might be spotted. I’m beginning to feel like your dirty little secret.’

  These are our truths unacknowledged until now. Perhaps not even realised until the moment the words launch from my mouth.

  ‘I . . . I know.’ Her shoulders slump as she exhales heavily. And this wasn’t the answer I was expecting. What could be the issue? ‘You and I, we’re—’

  ‘If the end of that sentence is not suited, I’m going to withhold the D. Indefinitely. And I don’t mean the one on the table.’

  ‘I was going to say that we’re getting on well. That we have this huge amount of mutual like going on between us.’ Like. I can work with that. It’s promising. ‘And I enjoy spending time with you. You’re smart and charming and you make me laugh. You make me feel a whole heap of stuff, and a lot of those things I’m feeling are brand new.’ More than promising. I’m feeling confident now. Feeling good. ‘But whether you agree with me or not, we are different. And this is no more apparent than when I step into this house.’

  Annnd, not so good again. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’ It’s just a house. Bricks and mortar and money. An investment. I don’t even spend long enough here to call the place a home. It’s a status symbol erection—a concrete dick!

  ‘You live in a house with two kitchens, James. You have four or five floors? I’m not even sure. There are countless rooms, a gym, and a subterranean pool. There’s art on the walls and fancy furniture,’ she says, throwing out her arm. ‘And you sneer at the mention of Ikea. You have cleaners and gardeners and even someone who comes in weekly to tend to your indoor plants. And your housekeeper dresses nicer than me!’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I reply, running my hand over her knee where the hem of her skirt lies. ‘I’m sure Sandy has nothing as nice as this. In fact, no one has any item of clothing I’m interested in getting under. No one but you.’

  And it’s not just your clothes I want to get under. I want to get under your skin. I want to crawl under your ribs and wrap myself around your heart. Can one touch convey that? One look? Maybe not.

  ‘I feel like this house is a huge fence or a wall; a demarcation line between your world and mine. And when you invite me around for dinner, you don’t pop into Sainsbury’s for a couple of steaks or a pizza, you get Sandy to cook. And she leaves the fridge full of breakfast things which just makes me feel odd.’

  ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Miranda. And you’ve been so sickly lately I wanted to give you the best start to your day.’ This conversation is asinine. Can’t she hear what I’m saying?

  ‘So have a loaf of bread in the cupboard! You don’t need to provide yoghurt made from goats that live at the base of the Himalayas, goats that are fed on a diet of basil and kale. And homemade granola? Come on, James, I’m sure Sandy has much better things to do with her time than bake oats and nuts.’

  ‘Right. So, no nuts.’

  ‘Are you saying it like that because you think I’m one?’

  No comment. ‘Actually, I’m not finished.’

  ‘Oh, God. What else?’

  ‘Miranda, I want you to move in with me.’

  32

  Miranda

  ‘You’re funny.’ And either really dumb or really clever. Right now, I’m not sure which.

  ‘If by funny you mean serious, then yes, I am.’

  ‘Don’t buy me a house. You buy me a house—’

  ‘It’s not for you.’

  ‘I say we’re not suited. You ask me to move in!’

  ‘You’re clearly not listening.’

  ‘Oh, I am. My issue is that I don’t understand.’ I push my hands through my hair then let them drop to my lap. ‘Why buy me a house and then ask me to move into this one?’

  ‘Let’s unpack this for a minute. You need to move out of your parents’ house, correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answer carefully. The same kind of careful as when, mid-stride, you find yourself about to step in a puddle of rainwater. You’re in such a position that you can’t do anything but carry on and step in it, but you hope it doesn’t soak you right up to the shin.

  ‘And you no longer have the pet sitting job, which means both less income and more time at home.’

  ‘Thank you for the reminder. This is a happy conversation.’

  ‘It’s a necessary one because, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, living at your childhood home is detrimental to your health.’ He’s right, I know he is. I can literally feel my blood pressure rise the minute I step through the door. That can’t be good for our little Haribo.

  ‘But you also have the chance to move into a beautiful chocolate box worthy house.’

  ‘Urgh. Not this again.’

  ‘But this charming abode won’t settle ownership for at least another six weeks. Possibly even eight.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you can’t move in until then.’

  ‘Who said I was moving in at all?’

  ‘You will. You’re a bright woman, when all is said and done.’

  ‘Do you think I’m bright, or desperate?

  ‘You want what’s best for the baby,’ he says, ignoring my attitude, ‘and right now, that means doing the best thing f
or you.’

  My response is a dissatisfied sound that is pure Marge Simpson.

  ‘And here I am, living in this great big house. All alone. With so many empty rooms. And a bed just crying out for you.’

  ‘You seem to have managed quite well on your own so far.’ I sit back, my spine now pressed against the arm of the sofa. ‘

  ‘How do you know what happened before you, well, happened.’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me you cried yourself to sleep alone every night?’

  ‘No. Just like you, I have a past. A past that barely registers. A past that doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Also, did you not just hear me say I don’t like being in your house? That it makes me feel like Cinderella or the chambermaid who the lord and master got up the duff?’

  ‘I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.’ I’m not surprised. I don’t feel very dignified myself. ‘But if you move in, live here, it’ll become easier. Think of it as exposure therapy.’

  Like spending more time with him in order not to want him? Yes, because that’s already worked out so well. I’m practically repulsed by him. But at least I have another eighteen years to get it right.

  ‘There’s another good reason behind my suggestion.’

  ‘I’m almost afraid to ask.’

  ‘Having you around would, well, help.’

  I shake my head as though shaking away flies from my stagnating brain.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean by help.’

  ‘I’m not interviewing for someone to push me around in my bathchair, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘Ha, no. I’m sure someone of your advanced age would want a woman more experienced around for that kind of stuff. You know, someone who at least knows what to do in the event of a stroke.’

  ‘Your stroke action is more than adequate.’

  ‘And that’s why I’m not moving in with you,’ I sort of singsong in response.