by Lilly Miles
‘Shit, babe. He’s a twat.’
‘That much I know. What else do the rumours say?’
‘Well, apparently she’s fatter than you. People at other papers are all talking about it, and ringing me asking if I know you. I haven’t discussed it with anyone, but as soon as I heard the rumours I rang Harry Porter. And he wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Really?’ Harry’s our political reporter, knows all the gossip, and has lips looser than a whore’s drawers.
‘Yeah. He said The Editor had told everyone in the office that it wasn’t to be discussed, and that you were to be protected at all costs, but that he was sure you’d appreciate a phone call from a friend.’
I was stunned, for the umpteenth time. For journalists not to gossip is like, well, not breathing. Like a fish not swimming or a footballer asking for a pay cut. It’s the world gone mad, it’s the sun orbiting the moon, it’s very, very odd. I felt a very tiny glow inside and thought to myself: ‘Maybe not everyone hates me.’
I must have done something right, somewhere, to have caused a group of journalists – who would even describe themselves as an aggressive, self-interested and paranoid bunch of sociopaths and con-artists – to form a protective ring around me, effectively folding their arms and insisting there was nothing to see. I felt almost cared for, and strangely humbled.
I wiped a tear away and said to Buff: ‘How did it get out, then?’
‘Looks like your husband told his news desk – who thought it was so funny they told everyone else. But you know what they’re like at his place, they’re a bunch of children. Worse than the rest of us.’
Buff said he’d take me for a drink when I was back at work, and rang off. Twatface was already living up to his new name, it seemed. At least my lot had protected me – his had hung him out to dry.
It was only half an hour until showdown, so I washed, put some clean clothes on, and bit my nails until there was a knock at the door.
I opened it and there he stood, sheepish and covered in shaving cuts.
‘Hi,’ he said.
Speech was beyond me, so I simply opened the door wide for him to walk in.
We sat in the living room, he in his normal chair by the fire, and me on our scutty sofa. He asked how I was, and I shook my head. He said he was sorry, and I said nothing. All I could do was sit, my face turned away from him, as tears poured silently down. I concentrated on not making any noise, because if anything came out it would be a scream.
‘Please, say something,’ he said. ‘Shout at me, anything. I do care about you.’
I turned and looked at him, and said haltingly, gasping for breath between sobs like a child: ‘What is there to say? You’ve killed us. You’ve killed our future, every dream that we had. You’ve killed our babies. I’m not sleeping, not eating. You broke your promises to me, you stood and watched while I was taken off to the cells, and now suddenly you care?’
He stared at his feet. ‘I’m so sorry. I do care about you. I’ve made a mess of everything. I want to change my ways. What can we do? Is there any way we can work it out?’
‘Have you thought about the fact I might be pregnant? And what if she’s pregnant?’
‘I told you, we’re not having sex.’
Silence for a bit. ‘She’s bloody stupid too if she’s going out with you,’ I said.
He laughed and said: ‘Yes, all right. You’re thinner, and cleverer. You are my wife, after all. Mum and Dad were horrified, and told me to sort things out with you. They said Hattie was stupid, too.’
‘FATTY.’
He laughed again. ‘All right, then, Fatty.’
He said he was still staying with Tania. Fatty had refused to let him move in, which made my heart leap briefly. He said he wanted to come back and see me, to talk things over, to see what we could do, and then went upstairs to get his passport and a few other things.
Five minutes later I wandered, sniffling, into the kitchen to see him putting several wine bottles into his rucksack.
‘Hitting the bottle? Aren’t you supposed to be changing your ways?’
‘It’s my wine and I like it, and I think people deserve it for letting me sleep on their sofa. By the way, I wanted to ask you. Do you remember last year, when we went to the States to visit my cousins?’
‘Of course I remember.’ His cousin Alice is marrying her girlfriend in a couple of months, maybe we’d still be able to go together . . .
‘Well, is it best for us to fly to Boston and drive to Washington, or should we get a connecting flight? And do you know any good websites for hotels and things?’
I looked at him, confused. We?
He went on: ‘Only I’m going back for the wedding, and Fatty wants to visit the Smithsonian and stuff. Obviously the wedding’s in Boston, but it would be nice to see other bits if we’re there for a week or so.’
I blinked. And blinked again.
‘Are you seriously asking me to arrange a holiday for you and Fatty?’
‘You used to do all this stuff. You’re much better at organizing than me. And like you said, she is a bit stupid.’
Another blink. ‘Are you fucking mad?’
If I hadn’t been so weak for lack of food I might have had a second attempt at murder. As it was I just spluttered for a bit, and he said she might not go, and he’d love it if I could go with him, the cousins would much rather see me, and let’s see, yeah?
He’s gone now. The house smells of paint, but he didn’t notice it. It’s only 9 p.m. but I’m ready to fall into bed. I’ve got more serious sleeping pills now, and will take one of them, but it looks like my dear old dad was right about one thing at least – physical exercise does help. It’s the only thing I managed today with any success, and it did me good to see the change a lick of paint made. It’s not much, but the house is better than it was yesterday, even if I’m not.
DAY TEN
TWATFACE texted at 7 a.m. ‘Hi, I forgot my electric toothbrush last week. Can I pick it up on my way to work? Oh, and more wine.’
I heaved myself up, every bone and muscle aching after days of painting and climbing ladders, and staggered to the bathroom. Located toothbrush, and was about to dump it by the front door when I stopped and looked at the toilet.
I looked at the bowl. Looked at the brush. Looked at the bowl again.
I thought: ‘I can’t.’
Then: ‘I really, really can’t.’
No solid food has passed my lips for nearly two weeks. Not wishing to draw you any diagrams, my bathroom visits were at first pretty unpleasant (stress chemicals do strange things to your digestive system), and then very infrequent and unpleasant. I’ve barely bothered to wash my hair for the past fortnight; I certainly haven’t cleaned the bog.
I looked at the toothbrush again. The annoying git never washed it, just used it and put it back on the charger. Dribbly toothpaste and spit would ooze down the handle and dry, building up layers like rock strata until, even though I never used the stupid thing, I felt compelled to chip the hardened grey mass off. It had a couple of days’ worth of icky tooth sludge on it, I noticed.
Lifting up the toilet seat, I touched the bristles, briefly, against the rim, and quickly pulled it away. No lightning bolts shot out of the sky, and outside the window birds continued to sing. I held the brush against the rim a little longer. Still nothing. Next I wiped it around the edge of the seat for a couple of inches. Then, gingerly at first, and with increasing force, I shoved the end under the inner lip of the pan, right up into the gunky horrible bits where even bleach doesn’t reach, and had a good dig around.
Then I turned it on.
Before I knew it that brush had been used to polish the entire bowl, inside and out, and under the rim, at least twice. By the end I was bent over the bog, cackling like a witch with two children in the oven.
I looked at the end of the brush – no sign of any abuse, at least not with the naked eye. Under a microscope it was probably alive.
When Twatfa
ce turned up an hour later I opened the door and grinned delightedly at him, and he looked confusedly back. He had brought a couple of wine boxes but was further disorientated when he went into the cellar to load up.
‘How long ago did we go to Calais?’ he shouted up to me.
‘About a month,’ I replied from the kitchen. ‘Why?’
‘I spent £300 on booze,’ he said. ‘Where’s it all gone?’
‘You’ve probably guzzled it,’ I said, making sure the oven door was shut and wouldn’t suddenly swing open to display the ten bottles I’d hidden.
‘I have not,’ he called up, outrage in his voice. ‘This is really important!’
Muffling a giggle, I double-checked the washing machine was still holding a dozen bottles, and prayed he would have no reason to go upstairs and check in my knicker drawer, under the bed or behind the computer desk, where another fifty or so had been secreted.
‘Well, I did have some friends over,’ I lied. ‘And it’s our booze, because I paid for half of it.’
‘Have you wasted it on bloody Fifi and Porter and that lot?’ He paused, and there was angry clinking from the cellar. ‘You’ve been spanking the Mâcon Villages, haven’t you?’
Knowing it was his favourite, I twisted the knife. ‘Is that the one with the yellow label? It tasted a bit funny. I might have poured it away,’ I said as innocently as possible.
His face was purple with rage as he peered into the kitchen in disbelief. ‘You threw it away?’ he shouted, in the same tone you might say, ‘You killed a baby?’
‘I might have. Don’t really remember,’ I said, breezily, and wandered into the living room nonchalantly to bury my face in a cushion and stifle the laughter.
He saw himself out, in shaky alcoholic dudgeon, with six bottles and his faecal toothbrush.
Halfway through the afternoon the phone beeped and it was ‘bloody’ Fifi Jenkins, the world’s tiniest and most Welsh showbiz reporter. ‘Come to Bar du Musée at the weekend – my brother Beamy’s having drinks with the lads, do you good, it will.’
Now most journos are only friends with other journos because normal people don’t talk to us. Even if they do, we don’t know how to handle it and prefer to stick to our own kind. Fifi, inexplicably for someone who pirouettes through a world of PRs, WAGS, wannabes and celebs both major and minor, has friends who buy a newspaper only occasionally, watch the TV news when they can be bothered and have no idea who’s in the latest Big Brother.
Normal people, in other words.
The lie to Twatface about having a party had just been another way to hit him where he hurt – the booze nodule. But it played on my mind. I’d spent nearly a fortnight nursing the pain and licking my wounds. It was time I at least cleaned my armpits and emerged, blinking, into the sunlight. A night out would do me good, I thought.
I told Fifi I’d see her there, and wandered into the bathroom, thinking I should probably wash my hair. Then I caught sight of myself in the mirror over the sink.
There hadn’t been any point in washing my hair because it only got more paint in it. It had also been pointless wearing make-up, or anything other than yesterday’s tattered, stained jeans. I could still barely eat, so there had been no reason for breakfasts, either.
The creature looking back at me was someone I didn’t even recognize. It had greasy hair scraped back into a ponytail, grey hairs springing free, sallow skin, a down-turned mouth in a gaunt, lined face and dead, misery-filled eyes. And it smelled truly awful.
I leaned in and looked closer. Squeezed a couple of spots, then gave up because I only noticed more. Stuck out my tongue and put it away again in horror. There were new lines across my forehead that I swear hadn’t been there a week earlier, and fresh wrinkles around my eyes. I was looking at a woman who, despite being only twenty-nine, appeared to have had fifteen tearaway children and a hard life somewhere with a low life expectancy – like Croydon or Zimbabwe. I half-expected my teeth to have fallen out.
It had been just under three years earlier that I’d walked down the aisle a blushing bride, a healthy size ten, with glossy hair and a happy glow. A thousand days at Twatface’s mercy and I’d become a haggard crone. I looked like the ‘after’ pictures of crystal meth addiction. How could I possibly go out in public again? I felt old, I felt barren, and I felt I was over.
Trying to work out how those lines had appeared so suddenly, I frowned. Nope, the wrinkles went across my forehead, not between the brows. I contorted my mouth, squidged my eyes, wiggled every muscle there was, until finally I hit the one expression which deepened the new furrows.
Staring into the mirror, I saw my eyebrows raised and my cheeks pushed up and out as my eyes crinkled. Beneath it my lips were separated, and lifted at the ends. It was a look of surprise, of laughter – the expression of a woman who had got through three decades, and had smiled more than she’d scowled.
‘Well,’ I told the mirror. ‘That’s something, at least. They’re not wrinkles, they’re laughter lines.’ I might end up with a face like a walnut, but if it’s from spending my life laughing I’ll say bugger to Botox.
Then I looked at the rest of it: the grey hairs and the thin, gaunt face. A spot of hair dye’d fix those, and good Lord, were those cheekbones?
The shop at the end of the road produced some dye, and while it was on I had a bath, a face pack, and shaved my legs – then did it all again because I had been so filthy. At the back of the wardrobe I found a pair of tight white trousers I had never been able to fit into and a slinky top.
When I looked once more in the mirror, I saw a girl with big worried eyes surrounded by black kohl, translucent skin, long legs and an arse which could finally, after years of failed struggle, be legitimately described as tiny.
Inside I was empty, and as scared as if I was on my first day at school.
But the boys wouldn’t see that.
DAY TWELVE
THE boys didn’t notice a thing.
Partly because Bar du Musée is heaving with totty of all sorts on a Saturday night, and partly because for most of the time I hid in a corner like an MP who’s just been told a reporter wants a word about their expenses.
When I arrived Fifi was nowhere to be seen. Like much of Greenwich the place was packed with students and tourists, but weaving through the bottlenecking crowds I eventually picked up a barely believable Welsh lilt over the music.
‘You’ve got FABerluss arms, you ’av, izzeht?’
Looking across, I saw tiny Fi – five-foot nothing in her socks – gripping a bicep bigger than her leg and grinning flirtatiously up at a blond beefcake who must have been six feet five inches tall, and about the same across the chest. In fact, Fi was stood in a pack of guys all of similar heights and girth, who had gathered around her in a circle like men always do with tiny, cute, big-boobed flirts. She glanced up, saw me, and burst through the pack. Holding a large glass of white wine out in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other, she threw her arms around me, and said: ‘Ow the devilll ah you, my lovellly? Av some wine and come and meet the boys. Thur all friends of Beamy. Thez is my friend, ’er ’usban’s a rrrright little shet. Thurs some wine for you, lovely. Getoutovvit you! Now ’ow have you been?’
This last was said more quietly, after she had shoved a couple of boys out of the way, pushed me into a seat at a table, thrust a glass of wine into my hand and looked at me kindly.
‘Pretty shit, to be honest, Fi,’ I sighed. ‘I’m not sure I should be here.’
‘You can’t stay a’tome on yer own. I know things are all over the place at the moment, but that doesn’t mean you can’t lev a little.’
I told her everything Twatface had said and done, and she cackled loudly at the bits about hiding his wine and cleaning the bog with his toothbrush. She hugged me when I told her about the cell, and my dad, and got me another glass of wine. She laughed until she cried when I said: ‘Her calves were the size of my torso!’ Then, after three large glasses, and finally bored of my o
wn dramas, I looked around and asked her who everyone was.
Beamy’s her brother, and he’s a member of an unofficial club which supposedly plays cricket and limps through some local leagues, but is really a drinking society for misfits. I’d met Beamy a few times before, and he’s aptly nicknamed for having a constant smile on his face – but the rest of the fraternity were new to me.
The big blond beefcake, said Fi, was ‘Bazzo’ (surname Barraclough), another was known as ‘Slappim’ because he had wandering hands. There was a smaller one called ‘Boney’ (some kind of Napoleon complex), a skinny one called ‘Porky’, and another couple of tall ones called ‘Gammy’ and ‘Raffles’. They were all drinking beer and joking, and there were more male hormones surging around me than I’d been within sniffing distance of since school.
‘You should get talkin’ to them,’ said Fi. ‘Your next man’s out thur somewhur, izzeht.’
‘I think it’s a bit soon for all that, Fi,’ I said uneasily. ‘Twatface wants to see me again and talk about things.’
‘Ooh, I’m not sayin’ do anythen. Just get back on the bike, izzeht? ’Av a flurt. Come on, there must be one you fancy. Which one do you like?’
Starting to feel trapped, I looked around and randomly pointed out one with dark hair. ‘That one.’
‘Say ’ello, then! Come on.’ And she pulled me to my feet, pushed another glass in my hand, and marched me up to the poor sod. ‘Thez is Foxy,’ said Fi, before nudging me in the back and walking away.
Christ. He stood and looked at me.
‘Um, er. Hi,’ I stammered. It had been nearly six years since I’d last had to flirt with anyone, and I hadn’t been any good at it then. How the hell did this work?
‘Hello,’ he said.
We stared at each other as someone turned the music up.
He held his hand out. ‘I’m Spacker.’
Oh, well done. What a brilliant choice you’ve made. Again.
‘Spacker?’
‘No, Spicker.’
‘Bicker?’ I said, with a hand around one ear.