by Voss, Louise
But of course what I actually said was, ‘Well. Good luck. See you around.’
So I’m not at all surprised that he’s texted me since. I’m such a wuss when it comes to Sean, and because he really is a narcissist, he just wants to keep me hanging on indefinitely.
Bastard.
Chapter Twenty-One
Day 3
After Claudio’s gone I lie there for a very long time, my ear throbbing, while the stars gradually subside. I wish I could get rid of the memories of Sean as quickly.
I have to make a conscious effort to get him out of my head.
I have to make a conscious effort to get away from Claudio. I force out the bitter thoughts of Sean and try to concentrate instead on my current predicament.
Last time I read my diary there was a mention of the fact that Claudio fancied me. I think it’s weird that I had no recollection of it. I hadn’t even remembered that he was a member of the swimming club too. I had better not tell him what scant memories I have of him. He’s still upset that I didn’t remember him writing me that stupid song. I decide again that I should perhaps try to flatter him a bit instead. Tell him that I had a secret crush on him when we were kids, but didn’t realise how he felt. Would that work? It feels so deeply counterintuitive, but I need to start trying harder to get him to believe I could love him. I can’t be too over-the-top, but if I play it right maybe I can let him think I’m thawing towards him. After all, I did really quite fancy him up until recently. It can’t be impossible to ‘fake it till I make it’, can it? I remember times towards the end with Richard when he kept reaching for me and I kept backing away. I had no desire for him at all, not an iota. When I—reluctantly—used to kiss him it felt like licking a frozen pump, fearful and desperate.
I pick up the diary again. There is a section of its pages that are clipped together with a paperclip. When I first found it, I hadn’t thought much of it, thought it was random, but now I’ve got to the page, I see the warning:
PRIVATE! EVEN MORE PRIVATE THAN THE REST OF THIS DIARY. PLEASE DON’T READ.
I suppose that must have been for Mum’s benefit, although I don’t know that she ever even knew I kept a diary. I was pretty haphazard with it, though. Weeks went by without me writing anything, and most events seem to be written about in retrospect, days or sometimes months after they happened. I think I had delusions of being a novelist around that time, so I probably looked at it as if it were my ‘memoirs’.
I’m intrigued—what was going on in my life at that time that needed such rigorous censoring? But as soon as I start to read, I remember. It wasn’t scandal or misbehaviour that I was trying to keep private. It was shame. Even now, more than a quarter of a century later, I feel it afresh. My other ear starts to burn in tandem with the one Claudio whacked.
I don’t even want to write about this. Maybe it will help. But I would die if anyone ever read it. Just die.
I suppose it started after Daddy died. The first time it was a massive craving for sausage in batter and chips. But Grease + Calorific Awareness = Guilt, and it was only the taste I wanted. So I had an idea.
What if I went along to the Chinese chip shop, handed my money across the shiny metal counter, carried the hot damp heaviness of the plain paper packet home in my hands, smelling the mouth-watering scent of the chips and feeling the tingling of the vinegar inside my nostrils . . . What if, once home, I unwrapped the parcel, inhaled the full unfettered heavenly smell, added a snowstorm of salt and a spring shower of extra Sarsons, took a bite of the spicy, warm sausage in its delicious swaddling of batter . . . but just didn’t swallow it?
I could just spit the mouthful out, into a paper towel, right before that point of no return when my saliva went into overdrive and the swallowing reflex became too overpowering (we did it in Human Biology). That way I’d get all the taste with none of the calories. Perfect!
The thing is, though, I underestimated just how powerful the swallowing reflex really is. As soon as that golden vinegary potato hit my taste buds, my mouth simply refused to let it go, zipping shut my lips, forcing me to swallow. My throat wanted that food, and so did my tummy. They weren’t giving it up, not until it had reached its destination.
So that idea didn’t actually work. I ended up eating every mouthful of two great fat sausages in batter, and a large portion of chips. Afterwards I felt so bloated, huge, a grease-soaked sausage myself in a 34H bra and Lee jeans that had to be undone at the waist. The food sat uncomfortably in my stomach, like it was saying to me, Look, I never wanted to be in here in the first place. What are you going to do about it?
It didn’t take me long to realise that it wasn’t too late to fix it. A clandestine trip to the bathroom, two saliva-slick fingers down my throat, and whoosh, problem solved. Slowly at first, and then in great liberating splurges of anti-calorie. Straight down the toilet, cut out the middle man.
Not quite as satisfactory as spitting into a paper towel, and harder work, but infinitely more rewarding, tastewise.
That night, the night of Balaclava Man, after Donna took her damp togs and my appropriated Europe single and went home—in a mini-cab, paid for by Mum, I later found out, ‘in case he was still out there’—I was lying in bed, on my left side so as not to put any weight on my grazed right cheek. But my nose was all blocked up on the left, from crying, and I wanted to roll over. I tried lying on my back, but it made me feel vulnerable. Then I realised that I was starving. Crying always makes me peckish. On the day of Dad’s funeral I ate sixteen mushroom vol-au-vents, one after the other.
I waited until all was silent downstairs, knowing that Mum would have nodded off on the sofa, the fire out, test-card on the television, nobody to tap her on the arm and say, ‘Come to bed, darling, you’re snoring,’ as Daddy used to do. It never occurred to me to tell her to wake up and go to bed. It would have been presumptuous. I tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen in my dressing gown and slippers.
I opened the larder door and conducted a quick recce of the contents. Not much that day, since it was a Friday, the day before our big Safeways shop-cum-ogle-at-John, but enough to make do with. I found four tins: a tin of custard powder, one of fruit cocktail, one of peaches, and one of prunes. I heated up a pint of milk and stirred in the custard powder. I love custard powder. It’s the way it’s pink, before it goes yellow, and it tastes gritty, pink and sugary. I poured it into a big mixing bowl and added the tinned fruit. If only there was some fresh cream in the fridge. I thought about adding a carpet of hundreds and thousands, and some glacé cherries, and bingo, I’d almost have a beautiful trifle—but decided that the aesthetics weren’t really top of my agenda. I rinsed out and squashed the empty fruit cans as quietly as I could under the hard rubber sole of my slipper before hiding them at the bottom of the bin under the sink. Then I washed up the custardy saucepan and wooden spoon, running the taps at little more than a trickle. Eventually I tiptoed down the hall past my snoring lonely mum and back to my bedroom, nursing the mixing bowl.
It occurred to me as I sat in bed shovelling in the fruity custard that this was the same mixing bowl that Dad used to bring out whenever I was poorly. He’d perch on top of the covers next to me, holding the bowl underneath my chin for me to vomit into, stroking my sweaty hair away from my face. ‘My beautiful girl, my beautiful daughter,’ he’d murmur, even when I was bug-eyed, retching stinking bile.
That night I didn’t need to stick my fingers down my throat. In fact I hardly made it to the bathroom in time before the whole yellow lot came up again, prompted only by the memory of the sour breath of that man in the balaclava, and his mean trespassing hands roaming over my fat helpless body.
I close the diary. I don’t do that any more, thank God. But I still want to sometimes. I hate myself so much that I want to push everything good away, out of me.
That’s the crux of it, really: I have never loved myself, so how can I love anybody else? Since J
ohn, I’ve always faked it. I faked it with Richard at first, and when I stopped faking it then I pushed him away. In hindsight I faked it with Sean—I thought he was the love of my life, but if I’m honest, I fell for him out of vanity, sheer vanity and boredom. The fact that a beautiful, fit, young man could love me in such an all-consuming way blinded me to the truth—that I was a conquest to him, a MILF, a sexy older married woman. When I extricated myself from my marriage, he ran a mile. I guess I hadn’t been the only one faking it.
Therefore I can fake it with Claudio too.
I have to be able to—my life depends on it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Day 3
I haven’t heard the home phone ring all day, or the doorbell. Eileen hasn’t checked to see why I didn’t show up for my appointment—well, maybe she phoned, but she hasn’t come round. I suppose why would she? She probably thinks I forgot. Stephanie hasn’t come, and neither has Donna. This is how old people die alone in their houses. Minus the lunatic obsessed kidnapper.
For the past couple of hours I have been teetering on the precipice of hysteria, that feeling that something could set me off at any moment and I would either laugh myself into a heap or howl uncontrollably.
I’ve not had much of a sense of humour in the last couple of years. Although I think a lot of people forget, or lose the ability, to laugh daily once they’re well into adulthood. My Eighties diary is full of stories about Donna and me laughing until our bellies ached and tears streamed down our cheeks, collapsing on one another’s shoulders with merriment. But I only remember doing it before the end of that year. We’ve laughed since, of course, but not like that.
Surely Donna will come! She knows I’m never away from my phone for long. She would come and ring the doorbell, I know she would. My phone will be full of increasingly puzzled and concerned messages.
Although our friendship seems to have waned a bit since Richard and I split up. That kind of hurts, if I’m honest—when I need her more than ever, she backs off? I know she’s busy with Henry and the twins, and Henry and Richard are friends—but she and I have been friends since we were fourteen.
We’re still managing to go swimming once a week, though. On a Thursday—so when’s that? Two days’ time? I’m starting to lose track. No—three. It’s Monday today, Eileen day. Whenever a radio announcer mentions the day or the date, I scratch it—literally scratch, with my fingernail, because Claudio took the pens—in a notebook I found in my room, because I can see it all getting hazier by the hour. The notebook is one of Megan’s, with pink unicorns on the front and a few scribbles of hers on the first few pages.
We swim at the old pool in Brockhurst, the one we used to train at when we were kids. I prefer the more modern pool at the gym—the changing rooms at the old baths are so scummy, you think you’ll catch a verruca the minute you set foot on the slimy, hair-swirled tiles, and there’s always bits of detritus lurking in the bottom of the lockers, sweet wrappers and used tissues and, if you’re really unlucky, somebody’s forgotten dirty knickers—but I can’t go to the one at the gym any more in case I bump into Sean.
Donna never even got to meet him properly. She was always asking to, but I have to admit I felt a bit embarrassed, when Richard and I were such good friends with her and Henry. I told her that it was too soon and too weird for them to see me with someone new. It was true—but if I’m honest I think the real reason was because I was a bit embarrassed to be seen with him. I thought he would compare unfavourably to Richard, who is the perfect dinner guest, despite his working-class origins. Richard knows about wine, and the correct way to eat asparagus or oysters, and any other tricky matters of dining etiquette—you could take him anywhere. Whereas I could see that Donna would think Sean was great eye-candy for a night out on the town but a bit of a social liability in any restaurant more classy than the local Indian. In fact, the local Indian is called the Viceroy, and Sean once referred to it as the Vicky-Roy.
Donna did see him, just once—I sneaked her up to the gym and surreptitiously pointed him out when she’d brought the twins for their tae kwon do class in the dance studio. I was a bit disappointed that she didn’t seem to share my views on how gorgeous he is—I suppose it was a bit unfortunate that we caught him sort of preening in front of the big mirrors by the free weights. All she said was, ‘Bet he has those massive tubs of protein powder in his kitchen cupboards.’ She can be a bit of a snob, can Donna.
It was pretty obvious that she believed my relationship with Sean was pure rebound, a reaction to what I perceived as being wrong with Richard. She thinks I ditched the small, skinny intellectual platonic friend-husband for the huge, muscly passionate meat-head lover.
I suppose she’d be right.
Wait—Donna knows about Claudio too! I’ve just remembered: we talked about him last time we went swimming—she asked if I’d been on any more dates lately. She specifically asked about Claudio! And when I smiled secretively, she got all excited.
‘What? You have? You’re in love with Claudio? Come on, spill the beans!’ She ruffled up the water around us with exaggerated enthusiasm and it reminded me of her fifteen-year-old self. I laughed and told her to calm down, that we were going on another date but I wasn’t exactly crazy about him, I was just seeing how it went. Then we got on to the subject of internet dating.
‘The whole dating thing makes me laugh,’ I said. ‘It’s fun. I like meeting new people. I like the attention, and the anticipation, and the whole rigmarole of getting ready to go out on a date and all the different sorts of characters you meet. I need fun in my life. Do you remember that song that went There’s an army of lovers/Just waiting to meet you? That’s what it feels like—internet dating anyway. That, or online grocery shopping: browse the products, click on the ones you like, add them to your basket, proceed to checkout . . .’
I don’t feel like that any more.
‘You do need some fun,’ Donna agreed, laughing too. ‘Henry thinks you’re mad to do internet dating, you know. He’s convinced the websites are bulging with married men looking for a bit on the side, and white slave traffickers or, at the very least, ruthless sex maniacs preying on vulnerable single women . . .’
‘Well, the only really bad experience I’ve had so far was with that nutter Gerald—you know, the one who told me I was a stuck-up whore of Babylon. But he was the exception—I hope. It’s not like that any more. Everyone does it these days,’ I said.
I always thought Henry was such a square, but I don’t any more. I think he’s totally sensible.
Donna continued, ‘I know. I didn’t tell Henry about the Whore of Babylon guy, or the wine-bottle poo guy—although you have to admit, they’re great stories. And you met Claudio on the Babylon date, so it can’t all be bad. I reckon those tales of doom and gloom about internet dating are like the story about swans being able to break a man’s arm. Is that truth, or urban myth? Because nobody’s ever actually met anybody who’s had their arm broken by a swan, have they? I told Henry that, too. It’s generally assumed to be a dubious and potentially dangerous activity, but whoever heard of anybody who’s been imperilled by someone they’ve been on a blind date with? If you’re careful, and don’t do anything silly like inviting them round to yours for the first date, or agreeing to go on a long walk in a remote part of the countryside, with a man who brings black bin-liners, rope, and a large curved knife “just in case . . .” And you’re always so careful. You never even walk anywhere on your own after dark!’
Those words come back to me now like a kick in the teeth. I hadn’t ever invited Claudio in and I’d known him since I was sixteen: he wasn’t just ‘some guy off the internet’. But I didn’t like him then, so why didn’t I just listen to my instincts?
Donna knows about Claudio. She’ll come, I know she will. She has to.
But what if she doesn’t? She thinks I like him. She’s glad I’ve met someone new. I even rang her up, f
ar too late at night, after my second date with him.
Date number two with Claudio was in Kingston, halfway between our two homes. We ate soft, salty focaccia dipped in olive oil at Carluccio’s, where he then impressed me by ordering our main courses in fluent Italian. Unfortunately the waitress was obviously from New Malden or Surbiton or somewhere, and had not the faintest clue what he was saying, which was a bit of a shame. But it worked for me.
‘You’re a dark horse. I didn’t know you could speak the language,’ I said admiringly.
‘The language of love,’ he replied, making a corny face at me. ‘I have my mother to thank for that—she insisted I grew up bilingual.’
‘How is your mother?’ I asked. Claudio’s lip wobbled slightly, and my heart went out to him.
‘Not good,’ he said, after a pause. ‘I offered to move back down to Brockhurst to be nearer her, but she wouldn’t let me. She prefers it this way. She is very independent. But I visit her every week.’ It’s the most he’s ever said about her.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I put my hand sympathetically on top of his and gave it a squeeze. He managed a brave little smile, like a small boy who’s fallen off his bike. He gazed at a shelf full of packets of dried pasta and exotic oils, tears welling.
‘I will miss her very much when she’s gone.’
‘Yes. It’s so tough. But I’m sure she’s really happy that you’re there for her, and seeing so much of her.’
He turned his hand over and grasped mine, and for the first time I was able to fully forget the Claudio I had disliked as a teenager.
‘But now I’ve got you, Jo, and I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.’