by Anna Maxted
Chris grabs my hand. “Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll fix us something for the weekend.”
My heart sinks but I decide not to hurt his feelings. And two surprisingly dull hours later, he has today’s entertainment wrapped. (As exciting as it is to play wild child with a bad boy while everyone else toils, I am shocked that buying drugs is so menial: a long, trundly drive to Wimbledon, where Chris’s white middle-class dealer resides in a neat semi, and a decade of stultifying hairdresser chat before we can make our getaway. Secretly I was hoping for something more sordid.)
“After you,” says Chris, and when I hesitate, he adds, “Coke is a clean, safe drug!”
I hesitate again. Tony says only gibbons die on drugs, but knowing my luck, my inner self is hairy, says “Oo oo oo!” and has knuckles that trail along the ground.
Chris murmurs, “You’re more of a prescription-drugs kinda girl, aren’t you?”
I’m goaded into doing a line.
“It’s very moreish, isn’t it?” I giggle as we fall into bed, young and in love with our new personalities. Chris is otherwise engaged when his mobile rings.
“Y’ello!” he says gruffly, pinging up and whipping the microphone on his hands-free headset down to his mouth. (His motto is Stay Connected.)
“It’s for you,” he says accusingly. I widen my eyes, shut my legs, and, sniggling, purr, “Hello?”
“Miller, what the fuck are you playing at?” says a voice. The joy drains away. I gulp and the taste is bitter.
“How, how did you…?” I trail off.
“Your mum rang.”
I sniff and dab my nose on my wrist. (I don’t want the coke showing down the phone.) “Right,” I say. “But this number. How…?”
“In your Rolodex. You’re just too efficient for your own good, Natalie,” adds Matt.
“I’m really, really sorry,” I whisper. Sniff, dab. And I am. Sorry to be found out. Thank you, Mother.
“Did you see The Sun today?”
“Not yet,” I mutter. Sniff. Dab.
“Mm, well, I suggest you have a look. Because today, for the amusement of their ten million readers, they ran that little health piece you organized for Mel, complete with the doctor-slash-nutritionist’s expert conclusion that her body fat is extraordinarily low, his reluctance to make an on-the-spot diagnosis, and his diagnosis nonetheless, that such low body fat is symptomatic of patients presenting with FUCKING ANOREXIA NERVOSA!” he bawls in my ear.
Metaphorically, I faint clean away. In reality, I say, “Oooooooooh!” which isn’t useful to anybody.
“Are you doing coke?” he adds suddenly.
I sniff, dab, guiltily. It’s like hiding a parrot under your jumper and it’s squawking “Arraaaakk!” and you’re insisting “Actually, no, that was me.” The excuses jostle in my head, then collapse in a heap before my brain has time to convert them into speech.
“Jesus, Natalie.” Matt sighs. “Don’t do it.” His voice is as soft as warm butter and it makes me want to cry. “You’ve screwed up.”
I curl my legs and pull the duvet up to my neck. Matt pauses, and when I say nothing, adds, “God knows. Sometimes I look at Mel and I think, There is a woman writing the longest suicide note in the world. It’s one thing us knowing, the company knowing about Mel’s little problem, the poor kid’s had it for years, we’ve tried to help her but she isn’t changing, she likes it, it’s her way of trying to be perfect. But in PR terms, the world knowing is bad news. I know she’s your new buddy, but this is your job. You could have picked any dancer but her. Most of them are gannets compared to Mel. I’m sorry, Nat. I can’t protect you this time. The ballet police are rabid, and I have to tell you, it doesn’t look good.”
My heart pumps horror. “W-what do you mean?”
He sighs. “Nat, you know the situation, they’re searching for excuses to make redundancies. But look. I don’t think they’re going to make any decisions immediately, and if the Telegraph trip is a success, I’ll make sure you get all the credit. I’ll do my best for you”—I cross my fingers. If only I had long velvety ears and breath like a drain I might be able to charm him—“but, Nat”—he pauses—“I’ve got to do what’s best for my department too.”
“I know,” I whisper.
The fear pounds, yet a small squiggle of hope dances in my chest. As far as I know, I’ve done an excellent job on the Italy trip. Matt and Julietta are booked to fly to Verona on Wednesday evening, the photographer and makeup artist fly out in the afternoon—the hotel rooms are booked, the shoot has been sanctioned by the authorities and will take place early Thursday morning, giving The Telegraph ample time to slap the picture of Julietta poised on Juliet’s balcony on its front page for Friday: Valentine’s Day, and the opening night of GL Ballet’s Romeo and Juliet.
“—left, now might be the time to take it.”
“Pardon?”
“Nat! Get it together, will you! I said, you’ve got all your holiday left for this year, and I suggest you take a few days now. Lie low, sort your head out. Yes? I’ll expect you back Wednesday lunchtime.” Then he rings off.
I stare at the mobile, numb and frozen except for my heart, bop bop bop.
Chris plods back into the bedroom in a stripper’s gown. Or boxer’s robe, but frankly, it looks like a stripper’s gown. “Can I have my mobile back?” he says. “You were on it for ages.”
He peers at my brimming eyes and adds, “What’s up? You’re not going to get emotional on me, are you?”
I grit my teeth. Emotional on him? Last night this man was C3PO in a flap! Then I say, “Don’t worry, I don’t do emotional. But aren’t you going to ask me what that was about?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”
I keep the tale short, in accord with his attention span. Chris wipes a hand down his face as if erasing it and says, “He’s exaggerating. He’s pissed off because you took a sickie.” Then, “You’ve killed the mood, doll. The mood’s dead, you killed it.”
I don’t have the will to argue, so I say I’m sorry and his mood softens, and he offers to call me a cab. (He also, rather sweetly, tells me that it’s my duty to take sickies, that ideally, I should be taking ten a year, like if we all did our bit, it would make it that much easier for everyone else.) I’m neither consoled nor convinced. An hour on—after boring the cabbie to death with my woes—I fall into my flat. I don’t know if it’s me or the coke, but I feel dead inside. I hover over the phone and glare at it, like a vampire tempted to order a garlic pizza. What am I scared of? I grab the receiver and speed dial.
“Hey!” says Babs happily, forgetting we’ve argued. “I was mowing the lawn.” “Sorry,” I reply (“sorry” is my auto-response these days). I picture Babs cutting a square of grass the size of a place mat while her neighbors look on appalled, wondering why she can’t hire a garden design consultant like everyone else.
I’m about to start bleating about work when she adds, “I was going to call you. You’ve got a fan.”
“Really!” I squeal, vanity crushing my more urgent problems under its elephantine foot. “Who?”
“Robbie!” she cries. “He’s mad about you, and he’s such a lovely bloke, he—”
“He’s balding,” I say—somewhat hypocritically, as I am too—“Anyway, I’m seeing Chris.”
“Him,” says Babs, dragging this small, modest word through an ugly swill of meaning. “He ignored the dress code and he never bought us a wedding present. Si only invited him to make up the numbers.”
“You mustn’t take it personally, Babs,” I say, straining to be nice. “The thing about Chris is…Chris, er, doesn’t believe in wedding presents. He’s not very big on tokens.”
Babs reacts like a religious bigot judging an atheist’s taste in furniture. And amid the huffing, I gather that token wasn’t a wise choice of word.
I realize, with a jolt, that I’m not going to tell her about work—I no longer feel her understanding is guaranteed. I want to deprive h
er of my intimacy. And to think our relationship used to be so easy. I feel awkward around her, like an alien impersonating a human being.
To calm her down, I say, “You are right, though. Robbie is a lovely guy.”
To my relief—I suppose—Babs replies, “Look, give him a bell, go for a drink, it doesn’t have to mean anything.”
I note that while coupled female friends are constantly, kindly eager to pair up their unattached peers, their generosity rarely extends to seeking out taller, sexier men than their own. That said, I called to make peace and offended instead. I silently take down Robbie’s number and promise to ring him.
11
WHAT GETS ME IS THAT THE WORLD IS FULL OF chancers who gamble and win, whereas I, who have adhered primly to the rulebook since the day I was born, come un-stuck the second I shut it. What will I do now? For the last sixteen years, Babs has gotten me through it, whatever it was. When Dad left, even though I was fine, Babs shared a double desk with me for the entire school year. (Frannie tried to stir up trouble between her parents to no avail.) I never had to edit myself with Babs. She gave me confidence. Now she’s been taken away, I’m falling apart.
I’m not falling apart, I’m fine. And to prove how fine I am, I’ll go to the gym. Or, I could go for a swim. I haven’t swum for ages, and I love swimming. There’s an Olympic-size pool near Hendon, and when I lived at home I’d swim a hundred lengths every Sunday, then go home and fall asleep. I have good stamina. You knew it would be the gym, I think, as I walk into the cramped reception area. Even though it meant going back into town. I can’t resist the running machine. Babs will jog along the hard shoulder to avoid the running machine—it gives her the sense of “going nowhere fast.” I like it.
“Not again,” says a husky voice.
I press the red Stop button, and turn around to see a goddess in black-and-white Lycra.
“Alex, hello!” It’s all I can do to stop myself hugging her. I adore friendly people—you know, the sort who raise a hand when you stop to let them cross the zebra crossing, who catch your eye and smile when a religious zealot starts preaching on a train, who say “You dropped a fiver, love” when you dropped it—the sort who spread a little casual happiness because while they know that universal hostility is understandable, it isn’t necessary. There aren’t enough of them.
“You’re a permanent fixture on that machine,” she says. “I think that getting you into the Pilates studio will have to be my new mission.”
“Oh! Thank you. I’m flattered.” Over my dead body. Nonaerobic. Zzzz! No way is she ever going to get me into the Pilates studio, what a shocking waste of precious endorphin time!
Four minutes later I’m lying on a blue mat, getting acquainted with my corset muscles. I’m not sure I like it. There’s very little in the way of sweat, and the class is full of fat old ladies, one of whom farts like a trombone while reaching for her toes. I just about bite through my lip to keep from laughing. The exercises should be easy but aren’t. Even an order as simple as “sit on your sitting bone, with a straight back and your legs stretched out in front of you—taller! Straighter! Engage the stomach and back muscles!” proves an excruciating form of torture. Stretching is agony and a bore, and I can only deduce that I’ve been sensible to avoid it. Another maneuver requires you to sit on the floor with your fingertips on your bent knees—“don’t let your toes touch the floor!”—to scoop in your stomach and roll onto your back in a ball shape, then to haul yourself up into a sitting position using your stomach muscles. I manage it, by cheating.
Alex shakes her head and grins. “You’re using your legs to gain momentum, Natalie. Forget your legs. Imagine you have no legs!”
I hate not being the perfect pupil immediately. And there’s a tedious emphasis on breathing. My feeling is, I’ve breathed my way all my life and not suffocated. That’s got to be good enough, surely? At one point I realize I feel dangerously calm—which leads me to believe I’m not working hard enough. So I introduce a little pace to a lower back exercise and Alex tells me to take it easy! (Her exact words, “You don’t have to kill yourself—Pilates exercises don’t look strenuous but they are—they’re deep and strong, so a little goes a long way.”) I don’t believe her but when the class ends I find I’m exhausted. It must be boredom.
“It was great,” I tell Alex afterward. “I loved it!”
“That’s a relief—after I committed the cardinal sin of dragging you off the StairMaster; I’m really pleased. Listen”—she checks her watch—“are you free for a quick coffee?”
I watch Alex drink a hot chocolate and eat a caramel and raisin flapjack. She grins at me and says, “My New Year’s resolution was to incorporate chocolate into every meal. How about you?”
“Oh gosh. I had millions! To do more exercise, eat less rubbish, drink more water, spend less money, be more tidy, um, I’m sure there were loads more but I’ve forgotten them. I think I wrote them down somewhere.”
Alex smiles. “My sister Louise is like you, Natalie. She was going to give up crisps, wheat, drinking, and smoking, and exercise four times a week. She rang me on January fourth to say she’d broken all five resolutions in one day. To be honest with you, Natalie, I was surprised she’d held out that long.”
I giggle, although privately I suspect that Louise and I couldn’t be more different. I say, “It’s all about self-control, I suppose.”
Instead of adding her opinion, Alex waits for me to continue. Suddenly, I feel bashful. “I did like Pilates,” I blurt. “I must be horrifically unfit, though. It was hardly anything, and I feel jellified.”
Alex shakes her head. “Don’t kid yourself. I also teach Pilates privately at a studio, with the apparatus. A week ago I had this guy come in with a calf injury. Six foot, he was, fantastic body—pecs, no body fat, ripped. Never done Pilates before, wanted me to ‘take him to the limit.’ Fine. I tell you, this guy sat in reception afterward for an hour and twenty minutes. He drank five glasses of water. That’s the difference between working on your inside and your outside. All that bodybuilding stuff is a facade. You’re like a balloon—all puffed up, full of hot air. If there’s no inner strength, you can’t withstand anything. Pilates focuses on your core muscles, and believe me, that is not ‘hardly anything.’ You can’t see it from the outside, like gym work. But it strengthens you from within. And it is hard. Especially if you’re not used to it.”
“I’m just annoyed that I couldn’t do that roly-poly thing right.”
Alex bursts out laughing and squeezes my arm. “Natalie. Don’t be so hard on yourself! You did brilliantly, it was your first class, for goodness’ sake. And there’s no real right way of doing Pilates—it’s all about what’s best for your body. That’s why I like it so much—it’s customized. I hope you come again. I think I might make you! A few more classes and you’ll be an addict.”
Not likely, I think, as I stuff my dry and unsullied gym kit into the washing machine at home. Although Alex herself is a sweetheart. I feel as if I’ve known her a lot longer than I have. She’d have sympathized if I’d told her about being laid off. Oh hell. I’d forgotten about that. I flop at the kitchen table and pass the time by pulling at my hair and watching it fall. At ten past five, the phone rings.
“Dear how are you I called you at work this morning and Matthew was under the mistaken impression you were ill and were staying with me well I was so concerned I rang you back instantly but your mobile was off and I’ve been going out of my mind all day what are you doing tonight?” she demands and, without waiting for a reply, adds, “I’ll make you dinner, why don’t you come round at six-thirty if you’re not at work.”
After seeing Alex, I was feeling relatively balanced. Not anymore. On the way to Hendon I drive through a shaft of sunlight and jump because I think I’ve been snapped by a speed camera.
“Get it together, Natalie,” I growl. I force myself to sing along to the Pet Shop Boys and tell myself that my redundancy is a threat, not a certainty. But when
I share this thought with my mother she disagrees.
“Oh, Natalie!” she cries—dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her knuckles and staring at me as if the HUNGRY AND HOME-LESS sign is already visible—“Whatever will you do now? You’ll be unemployable!”
With these cheering words, she deposits a sailboat-sized plate of liver and onions and mash on my side of the table. On her side, she deposits a glass of white wine, a small bag of salted peanuts, and a low-fat chocolate mousse. (This is patently not a dinner recommended by Weight Watchers, but my mother is an expert on points and mistakenly believes she can cheat the system.) I inhale through my mouth to avoid smelling the liver. Tony is the one who likes liver, remember? I shout inside my head. As for me, the idea of eating a chicken’s liver—anyone’s liver in fact, I’m not fussy—makes me want to puke.
“Mum,” I say soothingly (although I want to scream: I’m the one who needs soothing here!), “I haven’t been kicked out yet. It could be all okay.”
She bites her lip, as if she cannot understand what she has done to deserve such a stupid daughter. Then she blurts, “It could be, but it never is!”
“It might be,” I say in a low voice, because I barely trust myself to speak.
My mother throws down her napkin. “I knew Chris Poodle was a rotten influence!” she exclaims. “But it’s too late—Saul won’t have you back now. I wouldn’t mind, but you don’t even give the nice ones a chance!”
I think of Saul. I want to screech, His boobs are bigger than mine! And he’s got a tongue like an anteater!
When I don’t reply, my mother jerks out of her poor-me pose and stares accusingly. “I don’t understand, Natalie,” she says. “You haven’t even explained what it is you did. It must have been terrible for Matthew to do this!”
I’m unsure if she means that my crime must have been severe, or if she is commiserating with Matt over the agonies he suffered in shopping me to the ballet police. I scrunch up my napkin until it is invisible to the human eye. And I say dully, “I made a few silly mistakes.”