‘What’s his real name again?’
I tried to remember; I’d become so used to calling him Sid. ‘Umm … David Ingles.’
‘Oh, no, you’re joking – not another Dr Dave.’
‘He’s not another Dr Dave … well, he is … but not like the last one.’
‘Please think about it, Kat. It probably won’t end well. Don’t you think that if you had a thing for him you’d have known by now?’
‘I thought he was gay, so I didn’t know that I could have had a thing for him.’
‘Right, but even still …’
‘We’re only going for a drink.’
‘I’ve heard that before. You’re hurting and vulnerable; he’ll try to take advantage.’
He wouldn’t take advantage of me; he couldn’t. I was a grown woman with willpower and control. Besides, he wasn’t that sort of bloke, well, at least I didn’t think so. ‘I’ve been out with him loads of times and he’s not tried anything.’
‘But this time it’s a date. It’s different.’
‘I don’t think it’s a date, is it?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Well, it might be a little date, I suppose, but it’ll do me good to get out of the house.’
‘Just be careful.’
*
I met Sid just outside Blue Yonder, a little bar tucked away down one of Edinburgh’s back streets, a regular haunt of ours and of other hospital staff, being only ten minutes from the infirmary.
We shared a bottle of wine and nibbles and it didn’t feel strange at all, but then Sid had been very clever coming here as it felt just like another work’s night out. What usually happened was that we’d start out with a group of maybe eight or nine and over the evening this would get whittled down as those with boyfriends, girlfriends or maybe both headed off until usually only the two of us were left.
‘I used to like it when everybody else buggered off and left us on our own,’ Sid said, almost reading my mind.
‘I just thought you were a saddo like me.’
‘I am.’
We chatted for a while and it felt good, no pressure, no trying to impress each other and no mention of Nathan. We’d finished the wine and all the nibbles, so what now?
I felt comfortable sitting beside Sid. That, in itself, presented something of a problem, as I shouldn’t be that comfortable. I had no twitching or itching in my bits, no reaction at all. Not good. I needed more wine.
‘What do you want to do now?’ asked Sid, probably sensing my restlessness.
‘Let’s go back to your flat.’
‘Well, all right, if you’re sure you’re happy and—’
‘Have you got wine?’
‘Yeah, in the fridge.’
‘Let’s go, then.’
Sid only lived a ten-minute walk away, which was handy as it looked as if it might start raining. He lived in a new-build block within a stone’s throw of the hospital. I suspected most of the apartments were owned by hospital staff. It might be quite nice to roll out of bed and be at work in minutes.
He fetched a bottle of wine (Chablis – good choice) and some glasses from the kitchen and I drained my glass in seconds and refilled it quickly.
Sid watched me. ‘If you’re thirsty I can get you some water or tea or—’
‘Can I kiss you, Sid?’
‘What?’
‘Can I kiss you – you know, the bit where we press lips together?’
I took his dopey smile as permission and leaned over, pulled his head towards me and kissed him, hard. I shoved my tongue into his mouth and waited for some bit-twitching to happen.
Nope, nothing.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I pulled his hands up and got him to touch the back of my neck, which always drove me crazy.
Still nothing.
I pushed him down onto the couch and French-kissed him again, wondering why it got that name, then chastised myself for thinking about anything except Sid. He was eagerly kissing me back so what the hell was wrong with me?
I twisted my head and guided his mouth towards my ear. ‘Can you stick your tongue in my ear?’
Zero reaction, shit.
‘Right, try breathing.’
‘I am breathing.’
‘No, in my ear, gasp into my ear.’
He made a humming sound, which only served to remind me of bloody llamas. ‘Sid, gasp, don’t hum.’
He sounded like a panting Labrador; that was no use at all.
‘Right, stop panting.’
‘I’m not panting, I’m gasping.’
‘Right, this time can you growl like an angry bear?’
‘An angry bear?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll try.’
He pushed his lips towards my ear lobe and growled, but it only tickled, nothing more. Time for desperate measures. Right breast, let’s see what that does.
I took his hand and slipped it inside my top, into my bra, still nothing. ‘Bugger, that’s hopeless, kiss me, Sid.’
‘I’m sorry, Kat. I’m out of practice.’
‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ Did I really just say that?
One last try. I straddled his lap and kissed him long and deep, with his hand now trapped inside my bra and the other stroking the back of my neck. Nothing. I wasn’t getting anything, so incredibly frustrating.
I carried on kissing him, wondering if I could just pretend to be turned on whenever we had sex, but quickly realised that wouldn’t be fair on either of us. I had to tell him. I pulled back and looked sadly into his eyes.
Here was the perfect man for me. Intelligent, he adored me, wouldn’t expect me to be anything I wasn’t, didn’t have a wife or kids or any other ties and yet I couldn’t feel anything – so unfair.
‘I’m sorry, Sid. I so wanted to like you, well, I do like you, obviously, but I wanted to really like you, but it’s just not happening for me.’
The disappointment in his eyes made me feel worse and I wished I could do something to make it work.
‘I’m sorry too.’ He smiled. ‘I was enjoying that, especially the animal impressions.’
‘You’re such a lovely man and you’ve got everything going for you and yet …’
‘It’s the chemistry thing, isn’t it?’
I nodded, tears forming in my eyes.
‘Well, there’s nothing to be done about that, I’m afraid.’
‘Maybe I can take some drugs to make it happen, like female Viagra.’
Sid laughed out loud but it had been a deadly serious suggestion from me. ‘Oh, Kat, the chemistry thing’s there for a reason. I’m pretty sure it’s an evolutionary block designed to make sure that when people have babies there’s as big a gene gap between them as possible. That’s why they say opposites attract – there’s some truth in that. Maybe we’re just too close on the evolutionary gene pool.’
I blinked.
A smile formed on his face and he said, ‘Or maybe that’s a load of bollocks and I’m trying to find a way to make us both feel better.’
‘Sid, why are you so clever? I didn’t think you were.’
‘I’ve got a medical degree.’
‘Yes, I know, but that doesn’t mean anything, well, no, that’s not true; of course, it means something, but it’s not relevant to this, about you knowing stuff.’
‘Well, I know you’ve still got the major hots for the zombie and, knowing you as I do, until you get that sorted you’ll not be able to focus on anything.’
Truth be told, I hadn’t really been thinking that much about Nathan, which I took to be a good sign, but it might have had something to do with me trying to get my body to want to jump Sid’s bones.
‘I suppose as a friend I should really tell you to just give up on him; that would be the sensible advice.’
‘But that’s not what you’re going to tell me?’
‘I’ll probably regret this, so might you, but the problem is, if you’re still in love with
him it’s going to stop you finding anyone else. Take it from someone who knows.’ He smiled at me and I felt incredibly guilty about, well … everything.
‘I’m not sure if you’ll even go for this, but to get Nathan back, assuming you want him back, you need to compete on a level playing field. You can bet his wife has played the “weirdo” card with him, saying you’re evil or whatever, and he’s maybe not bought into the whole idea, but he’s bought into it enough.’
‘You’ve said that to me before – so you want me to stop being who I am?’
‘Not me, I love who you are.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s only for a little while, tone it down, then once you’re back together you can go back to normal, or not normal, or whatever … well, you know?’
‘Thanks for being so supportive after what just happened … or didn’t happen.’
‘I do have an ulterior motive. I have to work with you and I need you to be happy and focused or the contents of your handbag are liable to end up inside random dead people.’
‘It was a pair of scissors.’
‘This time, yes, but next it’ll be a lipstick, a phone or your Silver Bullet Vibrator. Then at some funeral, the service will grind to a halt, as they try to identify where the strange buzzing noise is coming from.’
I didn’t own a Silver Bullet Vibrator but laughed out loud anyway, knowing he’d chosen humour to try and cover up the awkwardness of the situation. On that note, ‘Sid, you can probably take your hand out of my bra now.’
‘Aww, do I have to?’
‘I’m afraid so. We can’t go about like this.’
He removed his hand and I pulled my top straight while Sid went to make tea. Nothing a good cup of tea couldn’t fix.
As we sat nursing hot mugs, chatting as if nothing weird had happened, I sensed that I’d lost something important in the last few hours. Not Sid’s friendship, but something else. His admiration? Maybe. His respect? Give our antics this evening, probably, but it wasn’t that. Then, with a start, I realised: he’d given up on me. Even I’d not managed to do that yet.
*
Chapter 32
The next morning, I lay soaking in a hot bath, putting together a plan of action in my head.
I needed hair dye. Well, no, first I needed to grab my razor. I shaved my pits and my legs, then examined my arms and considered turning the razor on them, but they weren’t that bad … and I thought perhaps that might be a shave too far.
I turned my attention to my bikini line – well, line might not be the best description; fuzzy bush would be better. I considered getting the wax out and going for a Brazilian, but in the end plumped for a ‘Scottish’– wild and untamed.
After getting out of the bath, I dressed and went shopping. I decided to skip the town centre and headed to the shops at the Fort Retail Park instead – it had everything I needed with the added bonus that I could park my car for free.
I stood in Boots for ages staring at dyes. My natural hair colour used to be dark brown, though it had been jet-black for so long I couldn’t remember exactly how it looked. I quickly glanced around and, as nobody appeared to be taking much notice, I sucked my tummy in, pulled my jeans and knickers forward slightly and peered at my pubes. They appeared to be black (with the odd alarming grey exception sticking out – why did they do that? And why didn’t I notice them in the bath?). In any event, that didn’t help. Whilst I was still examining my aging pubic region a sales assistant chirped brightly, ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
I quickly let my jeans go and realised that she’d been watching me watching my crotch. I felt like asking her outright, ‘What have you got for grey pubes?’ but instead smiled sweetly and chirped back, ‘Just looking, thank you.’
I picked up an ‘ultra-fun blonde’ box of hair colourant, which showed a blonde girl (strangely enough) having a great time on roller blades. I couldn’t roller blade, skate or ski so I put that one back. I then looked at ‘blonde infusion’, which showed a blonde girl again and she must have been standing in a wind tunnel as her hair had blown behind her in an almost straight line. I didn’t own a wind tunnel, so I put that back as well. Maybe going completely blonde would be too drastic without an extraordinary sense of balance or a force nine gale.
I picked up a box of ‘ash’. I assumed they were referring to the colour and that I wouldn’t get home to find a pile of cigarette ends in the box, but ultimately I put ‘ash’ down as I thought a better description would be ‘mousy brown’. I didn’t want to be mousy anything.
Along at the end of the bewildering line of hair colourants a box caught my eye, mainly due to it being half-price – ‘dirty blonde’. Well, I figured, if I’m going to be a blonde I might as well be a dirty one. I picked it up, took it to the till and received a strange look from the checkout girl, who almost did a cartoon double-take when she looked at me and my purchase. ‘Miss …’ she said, biting her lip. ‘I don’t think that this will be suitable for you.’
‘What do you mean?’ I fired back. ‘I can go blonde if I want.’
‘You can, of course,’ she said, ‘but it won’t work very well with your colour of hair and with the amount of, er … treatment it’s had, you may not get the result you expect.’
‘Why, what’ll happen?’
‘Well, from experience … not mine,’ she hastened to add, ‘people with hair like yours that use this type of product tend to get a … well, a dark shade of green.’
‘Green?’
She nodded.
‘But it says, “dirty blonde” on the box.’
‘It does, but that’s not what you’ll get.’
‘Why doesn’t it tell me that?’
‘It probably does on the instructions, but most people don’t read them properly.’
‘So how do I get to be a “dirty blonde”?’
‘You’ll need to go to a proper salon.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bother.’
I left the box of hair colour behind and went to a coffee shop to search for a salon that might have a free appointment. I figured that if I didn’t do it today, I might go off the idea altogether. I phoned three, all within a five-minute drive, and bingo, the third one – Tony Wilkinson Associates (which sounded more like a law firm than a hairdresser) – had a cancellation. I gulped my latte and drove there in three minutes. They greeted me apprehensively and when I said what I wanted, Cheryl – who should have been a model – said, ‘Well, it can be done, of course, but …’
‘But what?’
‘It’s complicated. First, we need to bleach out the black dye. This may take two or …’ she peered at my hair and ran a piece of it through her fingers ‘… or maybe more applications before we even think about the next step. We normally suggest you wait a week before the next stage.’
‘I can’t wait a week. I want it all done today.’
She called over Tony, one of the directors – who also should have been a model – and explained my request to him. He raised one eyebrow and looked me up and down. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘We’ve got a new bleaching agent that they developed in Los Angeles – this might be a good time to try it out.’
‘I’ll be a guinea pig?’
‘Kind of, but we’ll give you a discount.’
The money didn’t overly worry me, but I had to ask, ‘How much of a discount?’
‘Well, what you want done would usually cost around £180, but we’ll do it for £110.’
‘What are the possible side effects?’
‘Your hair might fall out.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Is that not enough?’
‘Yeah, probably. Okay, let’s do it.’
I had to sign some forms and then I spent the next five hours, yes, five hours, moving between numerous chairs and sinks. They applied the LA bleaching agent twice, dye removers, col
ours, fixers, shampoos, conditioners, enriching agents and protein emulsified water – but not necessarily in that order. I fell asleep at one stage, so they might have added some garlic and oregano while I’d been snoring away.
When I woke up, I found three stylists/models and Tony staring at my hair with worried expressions on their faces. When they realised I’d returned to the land of the living they all dispersed, smiling sweetly at me, and offered more coffee.
Eventually, they declared me done, and relieved me of £110. The transformation was astounding. A stranger peered back at me from the mirror, but I needed to get some other supplies before I could do a proper assessment.
I returned to Boots and scoured the make-up counters for some darker foundation and a few other bits and pieces. Then it was time for clothes.
Now, I wasn’t completely unfamiliar with mainstream clothes shops like Topshop, Gap, River Island, H&M, New Look and Oasis as they all did black garments and I’d even been known to make the occasional purchase from M&S (usually underwear). What I hadn’t done for a long time (ever?) was buy normal clothes in normal colours. I wandered about for ages before deciding I hadn’t a clue.
I watched loads of people walking in and out of the shops, trying to work out what normal looked like, and decided there was no such thing. Then I spotted a poster in River Island’s window depicting a model in a blue and white mohair dress with patent pumps (whatever they were) and chunky jewellery. The poster said ‘Retro Look’ but what clinched it for me was the girl had ‘dirty blonde’ hair, like me.
I found the rack of mohair dresses and picked my size to try on. Satisfied with the fit, I then rounded up the rest of the items and headed home.
I put on the new foundation and some powder, but before dressing I had my eyebrows to deal with. I was surprised the salon hadn’t offered to do something with them but perhaps my head hair had exhausted them. It was fair to say that my eyebrows were not my best feature. If I left them – which I had for a while – they began to resemble the larvae of the Giant Leopard Moth (thanks to Dr Dave for that little nugget of information) and required drastic surgery. I usually got some poor Eastern European girl to thread them at one of the in-shop eyebrow bars. I was sure they cringed when they saw me coming and wished they could charge double.
The Second Life of Nathan Jones Page 25