‘Well, I only say that because it’s a controlling, manipulative, latently sexist dream, in which I am essentially a doll-like creature to be played with at your whim. But, now I say it out loud, maybe you’re right, maybe that’s fine.’
His face contorts in thought. Then pauses. Then gives me a look like he’s about to cut through this whole conversation with something utterly brilliant. A real showstopper.
‘Don’t let anyone else’s dreams control you, Lily. For you are the master of your dreams,’ he mumbles with a degree of earnestness.
The room cringes.
‘Wow, that’s great, Aid. You should put that in front of some clipart of a sunset and whack it on the Internet. People love that sort of shit.’
‘Well, laugh it up, Lil. But your reaction to all this is very telling. You care too much about weird signifiers of what you are to others. You are the master of your fate and your–’
‘Yep, got it. Don’t worry, I’m fine as I am. But, thanks for the pop psychology, Pops.’
I’m irked but it soon turns to flirtation. It always does in the end.
‘That’s OK, honey… badger,’ he says.
He absorbs my mocking. It’s one of the many things I like about him. His discretion. His lightness of touch. He’s self-effacing and utterly pretentious at the same time. And somehow I’m still intrigued as to how exactly he does it. It’s a puzzle. The sort of thing that keeps a relationship going. He glances back at his screen again. Six, eight, ten taps.
‘Oh, one more thing. What happened when you pushed the button?’
‘Ah. Hmm,’ he mutters. ‘Dunno. As soon as I pressed it, I woke up.’
Without formal ending, Aiden’s eyes fall onto his computer. I am to consider this conversational cul-de-sac over, as we segue seamlessly back to our own worlds. Then he peers up over his device and smiles at me for a second. Full beam. All of him there, without any side. Then he disappears behind it again. And the tap-tapping goes on.
As I look at him, I see the binoculars sitting at his side and I get up and grab them in an instant and see what I can catch. I’m limiting myself to two sightings a day; I don’t want to get obsessive. You know how I get. That’s why I’m writing to you above anybody else. Because you know me, what I’m like. I fancy seeing one more bird while there’s still a little light. A wood pigeon or a goldfinch. Just a little one. You know. Just for a bit of fun.
35 days till it comes.
BT – Cyanistes caeruleus – Grassland – Magic-hour sunlight, still, 18 degrees – 10 flock – Bright yellow breast, black chest line, male – 12 cm, perhaps – Excitable, jerky hops and aphid swoops.
I’ve never been creative. I’m more a facts and figures type. My oeuvre is no great loss to the artistic world. I’m the only person I know that literally cannot paint. Not on a canvas, or wall, nothing. You may say this isn’t a thing, but it is. Even when I started painting the flat Aiden would say ‘long, smooth strokes’ and I’d try to do it but somehow I couldn’t and he ended up doing the whole room himself, telling me to ‘just watch and make funny comments to keep me going’.
Hey, you know what? This is creative. Ha, Aiden, ha! This will be my project that will lift me from the partial doldrums. Maybe engage my heart a little as well as my graph paper head.
But I think what he really wants to know is, when I’m going to get back to my book. I know this because he said it today. He said:
‘When are you going to get back to your book?’
To which I sighed. Then thought. Then replied.
‘Aid, enough sweaty academics have written Hitchcock essays, I don’t think I need to throw in my tuppence. It’s rehashing. It’s a remake of a remake. It’s just regeneration.’
He raised his eyebrows to this. I knew it without even looking up. I felt it.
‘Sure, agreed. Damn right. You give up on those dreams. Anyway, I mean, it’s not like nobody told you Film Studies doesn’t make anyone any money, honey.’
‘Oh, don’t do the dad jokes, Aid. My dad did them all at the time.’
‘You don’t need a degree to work in Saturday Night Video!’ He roared.
‘There we go. Thank you!’ I shouted. I read his mind. I always do. We’re that close.
‘Well, it looks like it’s Medical Market Research for you for ever then. Sounds like a strong plan. Is that the plan?’
‘Trust me, this was definitely not the plan.’
No, not even the most left field career adviser would have put me here. Except one. The left field career adviser that is London: with its ever-shrinking career opportunities and economic demands. Bugger off, London. I’d move back to Chesterfield, if I didn’t think it’d make me end it all. I’m serious. I would. But it would. The way I’m feeling now, at least. Everyone always said I was just like my mum. I hope I’m not too like her.
I go out on the balcony and my gaze runs past the trees to a flock of starlings, dancing around above the reservoir, swooping up into the bluing evening sky. I try to get a better look when they rise higher, hoping the moonlight will give me a better view of the plumage. Then I focus on the moon instead. We used to do that sometimes, didn’t we? It’s so clear tonight. If you look hard enough it actually looks like a place, not just a star or whatever. It’s mad to think people have had their feet all over that big rock in the sky, isn’t it? I know it sounds stupid, but it is weird, isn’t it? Then, absent-mindedly, I let the binoculars run to the block of flats on the right side, Waterway it’s called. All the blocks have got these serene ‘natural world’ names, to convince everyone they don’t live in a pigeonhole in North London and work in new media. We even have a concierge. Don’t ask me what they do. But he wears a uniform. I don’t think he can handle dinner reservations, like in a New York hotel in the movies. I think he mostly signs for post and solves ‘parking disputes’. Of which there are many. It’s that sort of building.
There’s a light on in the penthouse. And I’ve always wondered how big it is in there and I stand and stare. I stare at his Habitat curtains, which I saw in the shop the other week actually. They don’t look super posh or anything. Then I stare at the swing chair he’s got on his balcony, that does look expensive. And then I see him. Look at him. There he is. The million pound penthouse guy. Doesn’t look that impressive. In fact he looks downright odd at the moment. What’s he doing in there? I look closer. I analyse.
His back rises. Up and down he goes. A slight sheen on his back. He’s in his pants. This fair-haired (sweaty) man of average height, who has actual abdominal muscles, which I catch briefly in a reflection, is doing squats with dumb bells in his hands. With his back to me. No idea I’m here. Seeing it all. And he’s in his pants.
He looks ridiculous, a real cliché. He mechanically turns ninety degrees to his right, so I can see his moist, blush aspect in profile. He’s gurning, how bizarre, how odd. It’s like a music video now as Aiden’s ’90s Trip Hop spills out from our bedroom. He dips and straightens mechanically, as if to the music. It’s hilarious – does he have no shame? What curious manoeuvres. What an odd gait. How little shame he has in his natural habitat. Can’t he see that people can see him? If they look close enough.
And then he stands, turns and looks right at me. Without thinking, I duck, and I’m giggling like a schoolgirl. I disappear from his view. Gone in an instant. I peek up again and he can’t see me. I think he’s resolved his mind was playing tricks. He thought he saw something, me and my apparatus, but then resolved it was his imagination or… no, he’s venturing out, arse partially exposed. He’s on his balcony. He’s looking for me, but I’m behind a wooden garden chair, hiding like a child. He can’t see me. I’m safe. I’m in the hide.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Aiden shouts from inside.
33 days till it comes.
Chaff – Fringilla coelebs – Wetlands – Red-rust breast, female – 8 flock – Chirruping but sad-seeming – 16 degrees, light rain – 15 cm.
Oh, shit. I’m in trou
ble. Aiden called me into the bedroom after the peeping incident and took on a grave tone.
‘We’ve bought our first flat here, Lily, we are pretending manfully… and womanfully… to be adults and you are out there… er, perving on Jeremy…’
‘Can we call him Gregory?’
‘On… OK, Gregory… on Gregory the account manager as he bellows at you in his skintight underwear while the woman below dashes out to see you crawling back inside on your hands and knees…’
I can see him smiling though, all the while. Just that tiny smile in the corner of his mouth that lets me know he still loves me. That it’s all OK really. That little smirk I fell in love with. Followed by the smallest snort and snicker. He’s still there. That man I fell in love with.
I know it seems awful, but it was funny. It’s amazing what people do when you’re not looking. Not the pant squats as such, I understand that, but it was the look. That expression on his face that he must only use when he’s on his own.
It’s like the birds. But they know they’re being watched, they’re ready for it somehow, they’re ‘natural show-offs’. We used to say that. But humans are incredible. They’re these amazing, living breathing things, that get up to things and have these looks on their faces. I’m not going to prescribe spying on people as a remedy for your aches and pains, but I do have to say there is something about it. Just something. Something thrilling.
I think we got in just in time here you know. The whole thing’s being regenerated, it’s a twenty-five year project. And yes, that is another word for gentrification and no I don’t think that’s awful, it’s nice round here, it’s beautiful. And we scraped together the money so we deserve to live here.
I do feel sorry for the people in Canada House, though. Some of them have lived there for thirty years and they’re being turfed out. Half the place is boarded up already. The others are just waiting until they get the shove too. ‘Rehoused,’ they say, but who knows. You hear stories about people being forced to pay rent in new builds they can’t afford. You hear stories of people becoming homeless. Or, worse still, getting moved to Birmingham. That’s a joke, I know you were born in Birmingham. I went to one of the exhibition centres for a conference and it was fine. I mean, nice, it was nice. Yes, I know there’s more champagne drunk per square mile than anywhere else in Britain, so they must be celebrating something. Yes, I know. And they have more canals than Venice. Although I’ve always thought it was the quality of the surroundings people enjoyed in Venice, not just the raw statistical length of the canals, but there we are. But it’s really nice here, you’d like it. It’s so sad to think that people who grew up here can’t stay.
There was a quote in the paper that read:
‘… the people in the newbuilds across the road tend to avoid the people in the old council estate…’
And, if that’s true, it’s awful. But I’m sure it can’t be. I mean, as soon as I got off the Tube today, I crossed to the newbuild side of the road, but that’s because they spray water cannons on the building site, to disperse the dust or something. I didn’t want to get soaked by the mud and brick dust from the houses. It gets in your face and hair. I don’t want to be covered in what’s left of those poor people’s homes. I mean those poor people. Not ‘poor’ people. Poor as in their plight. Not economically. I do. I do feel bad.
But I only mention this because just as I crossed the road… This is awful. Just as I crossed the road I looked up and that’s when I saw her. I looked her straight in the eye. Jean. She’d been used as an example in the Guardian. She’s the one who’d given the quote. There was a photo and a big piece about her feeling like she was
waiting in line for the guillotine, seeing homes demolished all around me. Seeing the building works get closer and closer. As I wait my turn to be slung out. It’s like a death sentence.
It’s awful. It really is. But what did she want me to do as I left the Tube, stay on her side of the road with the mud and brick from those houses spraying me just so I could give her a hug or something? Because, that’s pretty much what I plan to do now actually.
I can’t tell Aiden because he’d be worried about the rumours of what goes on and the sort of people that we’re told lurk around those flats at night. But I’m sure it’s scaremongering. It’s not like I’ll be wandering about looking for her. I saw her. I saw her go into her home. I saw her and I thought, Now I know. So as soon as I’m ready, I’m going to go and see her. And apologise. For crossing the road. For everything. I’ll see how she is. What she’s like. It’ll be interesting. Maybe take her some soup. Would that be condescending? People like soup, right? Perhaps we’ll be friends.
I saw a Missing poster today, stuck crudely to a lamp post as I cut through the estate. A girl from over there has disappeared. It seems. Into thin air. I won’t tell Aiden. People go missing all the time. But he worries about that kind of thing. He really worries.
One last thing. You really can’t tell anyone about what I tell you when you read all this. Not Aiden, not anyone. In fact, especially not Aiden. If I ever do change my mind about seeing you. And we come over to you or we decide to have you here. If that does happen. You can’t say a word about this.
It will always be between us. Just us. You and me. For ever. Just like our bird stuff. OK? I’m serious. So, no matter what happens. No matter how old and senile you get.
Remember that.
My phone goes. Bleep bleep. And we both know who’s texting. And we both know what about. But no. No thanks.
I’m not ready to talk yet.
30 days till it comes.
WFC – Tippi and Janet – Waterway – Blonde and red – 2 flock – Relaxed, feminine, serene – 19 degrees, under cover of night, a light breeze – Both around 5’ 6”.
I turn off the light. Binoculars in hand. Aiden has a beer on the go and he’s giggling at the ridiculousness of it all. I was looking at the moon through them. Sipping some wine. He finally noticed what I was up to and mistook it for something more sinister. I don’t know what. Having another perv at Gregory perhaps. But now he knows he can be involved and it’s all quite silly and fun, he loves it. He’s really up for it now, in fact. It’s become a game. It’s so funny.
We roll down the blind and leave ourselves the smallest gap at the bottom to look through. We make sure all the lights are off and I walk him through it all. You would love this. It’s like being back in the hide, but better. I get my elbows in place on a magazine and look up, playing with the focus dial and looking for a light on in the Waterway building. I flash past a couple of darkened ones, probably owned by overseas investors, so many flats are empty here. Then I see it. Lit up like a Christmas tree. A couple. At it. Not sex. Just at it. Living. You can see their whole room.
‘OK, get the notebook out. The one I got you from the Japanese shop. Come on. What do you see?’
‘The Waterway building?’ he says, flatly.
‘Good, that’s habitat, make eight columns and put “Waterway” in the third slot. What else?’
‘They’re fashionable looking, they’re pristine, like they’re in costume. Maybe they work in—’
‘Woah, there, cowboy, let’s stick to the facts for the columns. How many of them are there?’
‘OK, Lil… there are two of them. One blonde, one redhead.’
‘Good! Two flock! Put that in column five and the colour of their plumage, blonde and red, in column four. We don’t know their names so we’ll pick some later for column two. We’ll do a brief weather description for column seven. Something about behaviour in six and an estimated height for the last column. I’m good at this so let me suggest five foot six for both. It’s a skill. You can get better with practice. It’s my party trick, have I never told you that? I’m usually right to the centimetre.’
‘Inch.’ He smiles. He loves corrections. He loves a bit of control. ‘Is zis your farzer’s method? Tell me about your farzer?’ he says.
I look at him, maybe a beat too long.
‘It’s my method. So. For column one I’m going to say… WFC. What do you think that–’
‘White… female… couple.’
‘Very good! Very. Good. Now…’
A lesbian couple. They’re a lesbian couple! How exciting! Not that it’s unusual or anything. It’s just that I don’t have any lesbian friends and I’d really like to. I would’ve voted for the marriage thing, if they’d asked me. Definitely. I’d have knocked on doors. If I’d lived in Ireland or something. I heard a podcast about people knocking on doors over there, changing people’s minds. It sounded really cool. It’s a no-brainer.
Look at them. We could be friends. We could have lesbian brunches. Or a lesbian book group. I’d love to have a lesbian book group. And now I have some lesbians.
‘They’ve got a globe that lights up. They’ve got a record player. They’ve got a retractable punchbag. On a stick. They’ve got… an oak bookcase. They have blue fairy lights. They have a Dualit toaster, like we do! Ooh, they’ve left the Country Life butter out. Perhaps one of them thinks they might fancy some more toast in the not too distant future. They’ve got… cushions from Heal’s, not cheap those ones, I’ve seen them online. They’ve got a tall fern in the corner where the exterior windows meet. They’ve got a pink orchid. They’ve got a twelve-bottle wine rack. They’ve got empty bottles ready to go down to recycling. They’ve got a bike in the corner, even though there are racks beneath the building. Oh. It’s a Brompton! It folds. They’ve got a Chinese-framed print of the original poster of Nights Of Cabiria, the Fellini movie, and I think… yes… it’s limited edition!’
‘How do you think they do it?’ he says.
‘What? Keep the place so tidy? They both do their fair share, I’d imagine.’
‘No, the sex. The two-woman sex… thing.’
The Watcher Page 2