Running in Heels

by Anna Maxted

  “Princess!” says Chris, nuzzling his face into my neck. He pulls back. “What did you do to your chin? You look like you had a fight with a lawnmower.”

  “What did you do to my chin,” I reply.

  Light dawns.

  “But it was worth it, eh, gorgeous girl?” He grins. “At least you don’t have to look at it.”

  I sag. His honesty is commendable, but I work with women and I’m not used to it.

  “You need a livener,” says Chris, peering at me. He looks aghast at Andy belting out a falsetto version of “Anyone Who Had a Heart,” and adds, “Let’s go. You all right with that? These people haven’t got a bone of funk in their bodies.” He steers me out of the door. “We’re going to see a man about a dog.” My heart jigs in triumph. He’s going to introduce me to his friends. I translate this to middle class and decide it is on a par with being introduced to his parents. He must like me.

  “What’s his name?” I say happily.

  Chris shoots me a mischievous look. He says, “Well, his mates call him Chaz.”

  7

  SOME PEOPLE WILL NEVER BE COOL, AND PUFF DADDY and myself are two of them. He overdoes it on the jewelry (bracelets or rings, is my mother’s rule, and nothing too heavy round the neck) and I have too much respect for authority. I’m the only person Tony knows who calls the police “the police.” I am the kind of girl who succeeds by sticking to the rules, not breaking them. Others live on the edge, but if I tried I’d fall off it. That’s why I’ve never taken drugs. I’ve always felt that while everyone else got high, I’d get a blood clot. That’s why the last twelve hours have been surprising. I’ve actually done cocaine.

  Chris scraped the powder into a neat white line with his Visa card and my mouth went numb and it tasted like earwax and I gagged and gagged and gagged and then I felt a great whoosh of blood and I was clutching the sink and my whole being was a massive boom boom, warm pulsating power and I looked in the bathroom mirror and I was deathly white but strong, and I laughed at the black shadows under my eyes because I was bright, bold, beautiful—a girl in a stained-glass window—I was scared of nothing and second to no one and for the first time in my life it was a thrill to be me.

  The other surprise is that “Never speak to strange men” is a good rule, even for twenty-six-year-olds. Not because my father told me, but because this morning at 8:25 as I slumped on the side of my bed wondering if I could possibly have been run over in the night without noticing, the telephone rang, its peal slicing through my head like cheesewire through Brie.

  “Natalie?” said a crisp voice.

  “Matt!” I whispered, “what’s wrong?”

  He took a breath. “Get your ass into work,” he said. “Yesterday.”

  A cold drool of fear slithered down my spine and I croaked, “Why?”

  Silence.

  “I’ve got to go into work early,” I told Chris, who’d just stepped from the shower, his hair as slick and shiny as a seal. I tried not to mind that a great gloop of my pink hair putty had been scooped from its tub. You’re only meant to use a blob, I thought. Men have no idea about denying themselves, they see what they want and take it.

  “All right, princess, I’ll give you a shout,” replied Chris.

  “Oh. Okay,” I said, surveying my untidy flat in quiet horror (it is always pristine, but Chris is a magnet for mess). “W-when you go will you double-lock the door with the spare key—it’s on the top hook in the kitchen—then post it through the letterbox? I don’t feel well,” I added. “I think my body’s gone on strike.” The guilt was engulfing me in sickly green waves, but I didn’t want to sound weak.

  Chris grinned. “A night on the charles is gonna do that to you, princess,” he said.

  Never again, I’m not cut out for it, I thought as I crawled into the office. I need water. I’m close to collaspe. I mean, collapse. All the moisture has been sucked out of my head. Then I saw Matt’s rabid face—and Paws cowering red-eyed under the desk—and terror whitewashed pain.

  “Read it,” demanded Matt, shoving the day’s Record at me. I looked at the print and for one wild second prayed he was playing a trick on me. Heading the diary page was a piece about GL Ballet’s dancing star Julietta, and how she was—“said a spokes-woman”—“piling on the pounds.” The phrase I’d parroted to a stranger the night before, “There’s nothing wrong with your dancing, have you tried not eating?” leapt out at me. Next to the byline Jonti Hoffman was a photo of a thinner, younger, better-looking man than the one I’d met at Andy’s party.

  “You’re not exactly a sylph yourself,” I muttered.

  “I took four calls at home this morning, before eight, shall I list them?” says Matt. I nod. “The AD, the director of public affairs, Julietta, and a Guardian reporter. We are s-o-o-o in the doodoo! What were you thinking of? This is so unlike you!” Matt rubs his eyes, and Paws and I stare at the floor. My brain feels so parched and swollen it might burst from my head. I chew my hair. What is wrong with me? I don’t make mistakes. Not at work. Never. Matt’s always praised me as “the acceptable face of nit-picking professionalism.” Not recently, though.

  “How did you know it was me?” I whisper.

  “The source is described as ‘chewing her hair in agitation.’ Who else could it be?”

  I sink into my chair. The thoughts scramble—Andy is a moron, how dare he invite a tabloid hack to his cheesy bash and not warn me, and Mel, why did I believe her, and why didn’t I keep quiet, why do I always take on the social grunt work, am I—shudder—a publicist to the bone?

  “Do the ballet police know it’s me?” I ask.

  Matt glowers. “I convinced them it was fabrication. Luckily for you, our president was at Oxford with the paper’s chief exec.”

  This is code for “groveling puff piece ahoy.” I smile at the thought of Jonti having to eat his press hat.

  “Thanks, Matt,” I say. “I’ll start back-pedaling anyway, if you like.”

  “I like,” he replies.

  I spend the rest of the morning working like a dog—although the one occupant of the office truly entitled to that name (or maybe I flatter myself) spends a solid four hours sprawled and snoring on the floor. I don’t come off the phone until the Sunday Times has agreed to a “Life in the Day of Julietta Petit,” and the Telegraph Italy trip—booked for Thursday week—is 95 percent in the bag.

  “I’m going for lunch,” Matt declares at ten past one. Paws gives me a cold glance that says, Look who’s in the doghouse.

  I purse my lips and nod sadly. My brain is no longer swollen—in fact it’s shrunk to a walnut and is rattling tinnily around my skull and giving me a headache. I feel listless but I can’t keep still. I’ll go to the gym. I stand up and trip over my sports bag. Usually I run, but today I need a distraction. I’ll do a class. I run out of the building and across the road to my gym (small, functional, full of gay men, and though Matt “wouldn’t be seen dead in there” I love it because I’m as invisible as a child’s wish floating up to heaven).

  Fifty minutes of jumping about later I’m hunched on the changing room bench, slick with sweat, rasping for breath, my face mottled white and scarlet. Well, now I know I’d never make it in ballet.

  “Do you want some water?” says a voice. It’s the kind of dipped-in-cigarettes husky voice that makes me long for laryngitis. I look up to see a curvy woman gazing down at me, frowning and smiling at the same time.

  “Please. My legs have stopped working,” I wheeze. She hands me her water bottle and I drain it in two gulps. “How come you’re not sweating?” I whimper, nodding at her midriff (I don’t have the strength to lift my head any higher).

  “I wasn’t working as hard as you,” she replies. This is an endearing lie. Why is it that women love to evoke envy but would rather die than admit it? I smile. I’ve noticed her around the gym. Sure, the men watch her, but she gets lots of attention from other women. When that happens, you know you’ve arrived.

  “I think you
’re just fitter,” I croak.

  She replies, “If I am I should be. I teach Pilates mat work here. You might know it. It’s nonaerobic but tough.”

  “Oh,” I gasp. “I know what Pilates is—I work at GL Ballet, a lot of the dancers do it. Julietta Petit—you’ve probably heard of her—she’s always going on about it. I’ve, I’ve not tried it myself, although I’m sure it’s, er, great. I’m Natalie, by the way.”

  “Hi,” she replies. “Alex. I see you here pretty often.”

  I feel grateful for her attention and I want to hang on to her kindness. I say, “Do you want a coffee? I mean, I owe you a drink.”

  She glances at her watch. “Yeah, ten minutes, why not?” We shower and change—I into a cable-knit navy top and long skirt, she into fresh gym gear—and march next door to the juice bar. I learn that Alex used to be a solicitor, lives in Shepherd’s Bush, and is recently divorced.

  “But you’re only twelve!” I exclaim, before realizing this could be construed as impertinent. She booms with laughter at my worried face. She has a rich, hearty laugh, like being given a present.

  “I’d better go,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I have a meeting at two-thirty.” I shuffle to my feet. “Well, thanks for the water,” I say shyly. “Maybe see you at next week’s class—if I live that long.”

  Alex beams and, as she walks away, calls, “You’ll be back before then!”

  I smile after her, confused but warmed by the fading sunshine of her presence. There’s a glow about her that reminds me of Babs. I’m so childishly pleased to have made a new pal, I forget I’m in disgrace and tell Matt.

  “And did you,” he says, “tell this new best friend that Paws has gained four pounds through his addiction to peanut butter basset biscuits?”

  I redden but decide that if he’s cracking jokes about my blunder, I’m half forgiven. This, plus the insufferable smugness of having exercised, puts me in such an excellent mood I call Babs.

  “Sorry to bother you at the station, only we didn’t get a chance to speak last night,” I gabble. “And I’ve got so much to tell you. And, of course,” I add quickly in deference to her recent mood swings, “I want to hear your news. Have you got your wedding video back yet?”

  “As it happens, it’s at my parents’,” she says. “I’m going to get it tonight. Si’s working late, poor love—shall I bring it round?”

  “Oh!” I say—I want to be on standby in case Chris calls, but Babs won’t stay long, not these two-by-two days—“Definitely. You get off at six, don’t you? Why don’t you come straight over?”

  “Well I’ll be at Mumandad’s till about half-seven, I reckon, so I could be at yours fifteen after that. The video’s an hour and a half but we don’t have to watch all of it.”

  “Fine, brilliant, can’t wait,” I crow. I put down the phone and make a face. An hour and a half! It’s Babs’s wedding, but in my experience, all wedding videos are alike: endless footage of people milling about or dancing badly and a series of middle-aged men telling plotless tales and bad jokes. Still, the Italians might compensate. And Chris, of course.

  I take a taxi home from work—I feel as fragile as scorched paper, like I might crack and crumble at the slightest touch. So I’m not about to trust myself to public transport. I’m pleased, if surprised, to find that Chris has double-locked the door as I asked him to. I look for the key but it isn’t on the mat. Then I squint at the Afghan rug and breathe deep. He—he—he has vacuumed! I sweep into the lounge and run an incredulous finger along the mantelpiece. Not a speck! “Unbelievable,” I murmur to myself. “Unbelievable.”

  I run into the bedroom. Spotless. I shake my head in awe when I see that even the used condom he dropped on the bedroom floor last night has vanished. In my experience, the most devoted men have trouble with the concept of “tidying,” and even when they do clear up after themselves, it’s with an absentminded sloppiness that makes you feel that if only you were Robert De Niro or Muhammad Ali, they’d have put some elbow into it. So if this isn’t proof of Chris’s infatuation, I don’t know what is. I skip into the (gleaming) kitchen and see he has left a little note on the table. Funny, his handwriting is exactly the same as that of my…

  Mother.

  “Why does she do it?” I moan into my hands, as Babs shakes with silent laughter at the condom tale—she can barely hold her coffee mug she’s sniggering so violently.

  “Does she know about Saul yet?” she chokes.

  I wince. “No, but that’s no consolation. I swear, half the reason she likes Saul is that she can’t imagine him doing anything vulgar to her little girl.”

  Babs bites her lip. “You shouldn’t have given her a key. Then again, your mum is a hard woman to refuse.”

  “Tell me about it. I can hardly confiscate it now, can I?”

  “Well, it’s a scary idea but you could try. You could suggest a key amnesty. It’s your home.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Bought with money given to me by her and Dad.”

  “Na-at! Whose side are you on?! Si says a gift is unconditional. You’re a grown-up. Tell her you’d prefer her not to barge into your flat, even if it is to slave after you. That said, rather you than me.”

  “Can you imagine? I couldn’t! Anyway, it makes her happy. She means well.”

  “Aw, I know that,” replies Babs. “Your mum has a heart of gold. But what she does isn’t what you want. Or is it? And can I have milk and sugar?”

  “Gosh, yes, sorry.” I open the fridge and squeak. “Alien fridge alert!” Babs jumps up and we stare into the (ex) abyss: apples, pears, mangoes, pineapples, avocados, a mushroom risotto (labeled “homemade button mushroom risotto”) a vat of soup (marked “homemade carrot and coriander soup”), an enormous chicken (covered in foil but labeled “roasted chicken”), a great bowl of mash (labeled “homemade butter mash”), three packs of fresh sugar snap peas from Marks & Spencer, and a cheesecake the size of a football field (no label—because, as my mother is fond of saying, her cheesecake “speaks for itself”).

  “It’s hard for me to say anything,” I tell Babs after we’ve established that, right now, my brother will be staring into an identical bulging fridge. “Would you like some cheesecake?” I add.

  “Nah. Tell you what I do fancy,” says Babs. “Roast chicken. If you’re having.”

  I make a face.

  “What?”

  “I’ve gone off chicken,” I say. “I don’t like the cut of a chicken’s jib.”

  Babs pouts in mock alarm. “Nat. If you don’t say something, how’s she to know what she’s doing is wrong? By the way, you’ve been stirring your coffee for four minutes and you have it neat!”

  “Sorry,” I mutter. I wash and dry the teaspoon, which gives me time to think. And what I think is, when you’re too young to know better, your parents are flawless, they fight dragons and win. Then you get a little older and notice the cracks. Your heroes are frail. They need protection from the extent of their offspring’s depravities because despite their protestations “I was young once too!” you know they couldn’t hack it. (I’m not referring to myself here, more Tony.)

  Maybe a little bit me. How can I tell my mother she’s out of a job? It’s much easier to need her, to pretend I haven’t moved on. I earn a modest £24,000 and yet I live in a sunny flat in luscious leafy Primrose Hill, a spot that—except for the dog poo (rich people own big dogs)—is as darling and desirable as it sounds. It would have been treason to rent a basement in Vauxhall. My mother would have been less mortified if I’d poisoned the Queen. She had the money off Dad, what else would she do with it? And it wasn’t as if I was a high earner like Tony.

  Her purpose in life was to marry well and provide for her kids who would in turn marry well and provide for their kids who…It’s bad enough that Tony and I broke the cycle. (Sometimes I feel like I’ve accidentally extinguished the Olympic flame.) I’d feel wicked telling my mother, “I’d like to earn it myself, I prefer to clean my own flat, and by the w
ay, don’t cook for me.” She’d feel hurt and it would make no sense to her. Or to most people. Even when I told Matt, he drawled, “We should all have such problems.”

  I glance at Babs.

  “How’s she to know what she’s doing is wrong?” she repeats.

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “Let’s not talk about it, let’s talk about nice things.” I grin winningly.

  “No,” says Babs. “I think we should talk about it, actually.” From nowhere, my heart is hammering.

  “Guess what—I took coke last night.” It emerges as speech before I’ve approved it as thought. I giggle as I remember the scene. Chris saying, “Do you want a line?” and my blushing refusal and his shocked realization that I was a coke virgin. “Oh my god,” he’d murmured, “I feel like a pervert hanging round the school gates!” When he said that, I changed my mind. I mean, the stuff looked like talcum powder. He’d chopped it out on his ironing board, how bad could it be? And the truth was, I felt proud. I was flattered to be asked, “Do you want a line?” Me, ten years behind everyone else, but finally being invited to join the party.

  Babs looks angry. I gulp. I can’t look at her.

  “You know,” says Babs slowly, “that taking coke, for you, was a very bad idea.” She drums her fingers on the table.

  “Wh-why?” I quaver. I feel defensive and decide not to tell Babs about the aftermath. (I’d been on the brink of a heart attack and Chris had said, “Take some Xanax.”)

  Babs stands up. “No offense, Nat,” she says sadly, “but you haven’t had the training. You can’t even say no to your mother. Do you really think you’ve got the strength to deal with a class A drug?”

  She looks at me, picks up her wedding video, and walks into the hall. “Natalie, I’m seriously worried about you,” she says, with the loftiness of a person whose life is all sewn up. “I so want to talk to you about what’s going on with you at the moment. But Nat—and please know I only say this because I value our friendship, not because I’m being sanctimonious—it’s hard to be close to you when you’re so shut off. You’re not honest with me, Nat, and if you’re not honest, I can’t help you. I know you were raised to keep a stiff upper lip, put a brave face on, and all that. But it’s done you no favors.” She wrenches her lips into an apologetic smile, then shuts the door behind her so softly it doesn’t make a sound.