by Anna Maxted
“I’m, I’m busy tomorrow night unfortunately, so I won’t be going,” I mumble.
“Oh! Weren’t you invited then?”
I grit my teeth. Frannie’s sort are incredible: if you have a weakness, they’ll tweak it.
“Natalie,” she adds, “you do know why you weren’t invited?”
“N-n-no.”
“Because you wouldn’t eat anything.”
My lips gum together in shock. Babs…Babs wouldn’t tell Frannie about yesterday…would she?
“I…I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do,” cries Frannie, “you know full well!”
I can’t stop myself. “W-what did Babs tell you?” I stammer.
“That’s not for me to say,” replies Frannie. Thags nok for me to say. I want to rip her self-righteous head off. Hers and Barbara’s. The traitor.
“I am fine,” I say in a small voice. “I do eat.”
“Well, if you do, the news hasn’t reached your hips. If you ask me, it’s high time you pulled yourself together—it’s criminal, behaving like that when people in Africa and parts of Manchester are starving!”
“I—”
“You know the other reason you weren’t invited?”
“No.”
“Your resentment of Simon is palpable and embarrassing. The trouble with you is, someone always has to be number one. You’ve got to learn, Natalie, not everyone is a threat to your position. You’ve also got to learn that sulking is for children.”
The receiver wobbles in my hand. I’d like to snap back with such verbal wit and ferocity that Frannie would be tongue-tied and mortified until her dying day. Sadly, my creative mind is a desert, its heat-parched earth cracking with creeping desperate weeds and the odd shiny beetle. In other words, the old witch puts the phone down on me before I’ve thought of anything.
20
“THE VAGINA,” SAID MY FATHER ONCE, “IS LIKE an old sock. The heel goes and you darn it, but that doesn’t stop something going wrong with the toe. The vagina can be defective in many different areas. You repair one thing, something else develops.”
I feel the same way about friendship. Babs and I struggle to mend our differences, and then she thrusts a secret dinner party into the equation, ripping a large hole in it. I feel the urge to get out of the flat again. Anyhow, I need to buy a book on downsizing. I march along the road, and fantasize about dropping in on the night in question—“Hello, Babs, I was just passing, thought I’d say hello, oh! Fee fi fo fum, I see you’ve got company, I’ll go then, shall I, no, no, don’t worry about me, I’ve got a nice lumpy bowl of gruel, some delicious tap water, and the dog to talk to”—I’ll hire Paws, okay?—“I’ll be fine…”
That would be acceptable, wouldn’t it? It’s only sulking if you don’t talk! Oh god, I’ve been branded a sulker! And everyone knows I resent Simon. But then Frannie is hardly impartial. Reassuring me that no one is a threat to my position, when she’s diligently threatened my position for the last sixteen years! As for complaining that someone always has to be number one with me—I don’t deny it! Someone does have to be number one, and I want it to be me! What’s the point in being second best? That’s failure.
Hang on, I’ve just lost my job. That’s failure. I browse along the bookshelves, and pounce on Downshifting: The Guide to Happier, Simpler Living. Probably the first copy ever sold around here. I reject Easy Ways to Make Money as I don’t wish to look too desperate in front of the sales staff, who are worryingly friendly. I waste twenty-five pounds on house porn, 100 Luxury Interiors, to put them off the scent. It might impress Andy—he’s my lodger, as of Sunday! This cheers me enough to admit that I do half understand why I’m not first on Babs’ dinner party guest list. I haven’t exactly welcomed Simon to my bosom (it hardly seems appropriate). And the last time they invited me round, didn’t I sit there toying with my food like a petulant child?
This puts me in a mood again. I can’t get away from the feeling that everyone is trying to make me fat. I do my best to deflect it—I’m always urging other people to eat. Once I fed Paws a whole pack of chocolate digestives, purely for the pleasure of abstaining while another creature put on weight. (Although he was subsequently sick in the GL Ballet lift.) My other gripe is that Chris hasn’t rung. February 14 and not a sausage! Not that I want a sausage—it’s hardly a romantic gift—but he might have sent a card. But perhaps this is his way of showing he likes me? If only I was better at deciphering the code.
I unlock the front door, plod into the kitchen, and stare. There on the white table, stunning the room’s quiet color scheme, is a small terra-cotta pot of passionate purple blooms. I unpick the envelope stapled to the cellophane and open it. A trip to Paris? The message reads, “Dear, at least give the Pipkins a call! I’ve put some food in your fridge for the weekend—shop bought, forgive me, it’s been crazy at the office this week—you’ll have to tell me what Andy likes! I’m at bridge tonight, but I’ll call you tomorrow. Mum.”
I slump, and—it would be childish not to—tenderly water the flowers. Then I about-face and yank open the fridge. The squash of produce makes me giddy. Tuna and sweet corn, salmon and cream cheese in dinky pots, smoked salmon, crab pâté, sushi—good lord, the sea must be an empty tank!—pasta filled with asparagus, spaghetti, four-cheese pasta, ricotta and spinach pasta, cheese and sun-dried tomato pasta—wheat allergy, anyone?—a pineapple, two mangoes, green pesto, red pesto, fresh tomato sauce, cottage cheese, mushrooms, onions, minced beef, pepperoni pizza, and four squat cans of M&S lager—oh my goodness, Man Food!
I shut the door and back away. Normally at this point, I take a large rubbish bag from the second left-hand drawer and, methodically, throw every morsel into the bin. I want to scrub the fridge clean, I itch to get the food out of the flat, away from me. I can’t see it but its malign presence infests me like the smell of a decaying corpse. I squeeze my hands into fists, digging my nails hard into my palms until the pain relocates. I’ll get out of the flat. For the third time this morning. I walk to the video shop, puff puff puff, choose three films suitable for today’s theme, and walk home again.
Now I have a plan.
I imprison all the food in the freezer except for the fruit, the spaghetti, and the fresh tomato sauce, which I place in an orderly line on the side. Then I vacuum Andy’s room, boil some water in my Porsche kettle for a peppermint tea, sit on my Heals suede sofa, put The Nutcracker Suite on my Nakamichi Soundspace 8 stereo, light a Diptyque scented candle, and read Downshifting: The Guide to Happier, Simpler Living. It’s very informative. I could save money on salon facials by staying at home and rubbing my face vigorously with a warm flannel. As for approaching the council to register my interest in an allotment—Primrose Hill is a big park: they could easily afford to cordon off a small plot.
I jot down the address of Original Organics Ltd., in case things get really desperate and I need to buy a wormery. Then I stick the first part of my Valentine’s entertainment in the video. Full Metal Jacket.
I take a half-hour break for dinner—a half bowl of spaghetti cooked with no oil, with a tablespoon of fresh tomato sauce on the side to add in. I slice the pasta into a neat crisscross of cubes, and slowly, grimly force it down. Four hundred calories, approx. Another hundred for the mango. The numbers reassure me, but the process bores me. I don’t like eating. It’s so dull. Nothing even tastes. It’s a chore. I want to do a Joan Collins—divide the food on the plate in two and leave half—but each concession to abstinence sees a hair loosening its grip on my scalp. Babs better be grateful.
I squeeze down the last slither of spaghetti—hoping each strand makes its way directly to a head follicle—and wash the bowl and saucepan until they shine. Then I spend the dying hours of the day watching Thin Red Line and the full extended director’s cut of Das Boot.
I wake up purged by gunfire and go straight to the gym. London is subdued at eight on a Saturday and I pelt along the roads feeling superior to its slothful populatio
n. I bounce into the gym, beeline for the running machine, and soon the bliss of emotional stasis descends. Thump thump. Will Alex be here? Thump thump. Are there Pilates classes on the weekend? Thump thump. It would be nice to see her again. Thump thump. But you don’t know her that well. Thump. Inappropriate desire to access other people’s lives. Thump. Not receiving you, over.
I shower at home—in communal changing rooms women gawk at me and I feel like Gretel being sized up for the pot. And I’ve stopped taking baths because I hate the sight of all that floating hair. I’d heave myself out of the water and strands would coat me like a web, their sly insect tickle telling the repellent truth. In the shower, they fall, are washed away, and I wallow in ignorance. I pump the dregs of conditioner from its bottle and console myself that if Chris and I are over, at least I’ll save on grooming products. I leave my hair to dry naturally—I don’t want my remaining locks burned off by the hair dryer. My elaborate precautions let me believe that hardly a hair has been lost.
I’ve run long enough to eat breakfast. Brown toast. Marmite. Coffee. The same as yesterday. My new regime and I won’t deviate. I don’t like surprises. As I work on the toast I add and subtract—calories gained, calories spent, eating it on, running it off—the sabotage is involuntary. I should gain weight but as Liz Hurley once said, if I was as fat as Marilyn Monroe I’d kill myself. What do people do, who don’t think of food? Their lives must be gaping holes, chasms of nothingness punctuated by random meals. What would I think about, if I didn’t think of food? I’d think the unthinkable. So food is what I think of. I gnaw the toast and do my sums. I leave a square, I need to. I pick a crumb off the floor and catch myself. If Chris saw me doing that! I throw the crumb back on the floor and put my plate and cup in the sink and think of Babs. Just once leave the fucking washing up! Well, I will. I’ll leave it until tomorrow. Or until this evening (no need to go mad). I feel this breakthrough gives me a valid reason to ring Babs. Anyway, I was thinking of asking her to come round while Andy moves in. I can’t help it if she feels guilty at my hospitality in the face of her nonhospitality, can I?
“Party on,” murmurs Babs, when I tell her about the washing up, making me feel foolish.
“Would you and Simon like to come round for tea tomorrow, while Andy moves in? Simon’s invited too, obviously,” I add, so my generosity is not misunderstood.
“What a nice idea,” she replies. “I’ll see if he’s free.” There is no trace of surprise or guilt in her voice. In fact, she sounds sunny, playful, carefree. Probably she’s just had sex. I want to ask, “So what are you up to tonight?” but I’m too much of a coward. Instead I say gruffly, “I’ve been trying to eat more, like you said.”
“Have you? I’m pleased.”
I wait for more praise but there is none. I can’t believe it. It’s like the love of your life announcing himself as a one-night stand the following morning. But what about our deep and meaningful talk? Me baring my soul and my underwear? All that and now this! No reassurance, no well done? I need feedback (my sort of nourishment). It’s enough to drive me to my mother. I am cooking up a suitably cool retort, when Babs chirrups, “All right then, Nat, have a nice evening, we’ll see you tomorrow,” and rings off. I stare at the receiver and consider being more spontaneous.
Sunday afternoon, the pinnacle of a bland weekend. I am bleaching the toilet bowl for the third time when the doorbell rings. Ten to three. Andy. He’s early, which is better than late. I fret when people are late. I bare my teeth in the mirror, rip off my apron, hang it on its hook, and pull open the front door.
“Wotcha,” says Chris. He leans against the door frame, all harsh cheekbones and sharp edges. Dark eyes, red lips, sent from hell.
Oh, go away, is what I should say but my common sense short-circuits. I might as well press “defrost” and crawl into the microwave. He has the same effect on me.
“I bought you something,” he mumbles, handing me a white plastic bag. “I was busy Friday.”
A present. He bought me a present! The greatest gift of all! I open the bag. A CD. “The Offspring,” I say. “Wow,” I simper, not daring to admit I’ve never heard of them. “Thank you.”
Chris smiles. “They’re Yanks. They’re great. Blue Fiend are very, er, inspired by them.”
He trips into the living room. I watch him approach my CD player in his complicated trainers and loose jeans. Why do I find it endearing that the man has no arse?
“You know,” I say, nervously, “my lodger is moving in, in one minute.” I brace myself for fuss but Chris nods and says, “Yeah, I know, princess, you said.” He grins. I grin back, but even as I do so, I feel like a tourist smiling at a time-share salesman. Just me is not enough. What does he want?
“So, what have you been up to?” I say.
Chris grins again. I’ve never seen him smile this much. Unless a scowl is imminent, his image will soon be toast.
“This and that,” he replies, lifting my hair and licking my neck.
“Euw!” I say, breathing in the smoky scent of him, and trying not to wilt. Suddenly he hoists me over his spindly shoulder and hauls me, gasping and flapping like a fish on a line, into my bedroom.
“Chris,” I bleat, “we can’t, Babs and Andy’ll be here in a sec—”
He answers me with a kiss. I watch his pale slender hands travel over my gray top, under it, tracing cold patterns on my colder skin. I lie there passive. He kisses me again, his eyes wide, pupils huge and needy. And I give in. It’s not so much the physical release, which feels like a dream, lifting me out of myself. I love it but I distrust it. What I crave is to be desired. It empowers me (if only for ten minutes). As for desiring, the doing is fun, the feeling alarms me. When Andy rings the door, I’m in the throes of living dangerously.
Chris lights a cigarette, and watches me, amused, as I leap from the bed and dress in a blur. I restrain my hair in a pert ponytail, pat my face to eradicate all X-rated traces, and wipe the sin off my lips.
“How do I look?” I ask.
“Postcoital,” he replies smugly.
The doorbell shrills again.
“I’m coming!” I shout.
“Again?” drawls Chris.
I beam, rush to the bathroom, squirt a blob of toothpaste into my mouth, and bound to the door. My new lodger is standing there in jeans and a T-shirt, clutching a bag of wires.
“Hi!” I cry, blushing to the hilt. “Sorry, I was tidying up.”
Andy smiles the curt smile of someone who dislikes to be kept waiting.
“Not for me, I hope,” he says.
“Only partly,” I reply, and his smile gains warmth.
Andy glances beyond me and I turn, as Chris pads toward us, barefoot and tousle-haired. I sigh inwardly. He might as well bowl up naked with the words “Just Been Shagging” scrawled on his forehead.
“Um, Chris is here, you’ve met, haven’t you?” I bleat.
Chris nods tersely, sucks on his cigarette, and extends an unfriendly hand.
“All right,” says Andy, and I sense the unspoken words, You wanker, fogging the air.
I am reminded of two tomcats fluffing up their tails, so it’s a relief to spy Babs bounding up the stairs, two at a time.
“Scandal!” she cries. “We’re polluting Primrose Hill with cheap motors—it’s like Deals on Wheels out there!”
“Oh Babs!” I exclaim. “And oh, Simon. Hi, come in. Chris, look, Simon’s here!”
Chris unbristles and Andy’s hard expression softens.
“How nice,” I croak thankfully (I was waiting for the pair of them to down trousers and compare penis size). “Andy—shall I show you your room and you can, um, put that bag of wires down?”
Babs looks at her brother and laughs. “You had a bag of wires, didn’t you, Si?” she teases.
Simon—the dictionary definition of colonial chic in a thin linen shirt and cotton trousers (or, for short, the dick)—offers me his cheek to be kissed, and says, “All men over twelve have a bag
of wires, Bee, it’s a rite of passage.”
Andy says, “I’ve got two bags, what does that say about me?”
Simon laughs a deep baritone laugh probably copied from his father and says, “I dread to think.”
Pompous twit. I glance nervously at Andy and, before I know I’ve said it, blurt, “You’ve got superior equipment?”
The joke escapes with a suggestive shimmy and for a second I don’t breathe as if a lack of oxygen will grab it back and everyone looks at me and laughs. Everyone except Simon and Chris. I smile at Andy. Even though I want to, it’s surprisingly hard to resent him in the flesh. Part of me wanted to taunt him, parade my relationship with Chris to punish him for his so easily forgotten teenage crime. When he made that joke about the kiss, I felt the power balance shift—ever so slightly, but the nastiest part of me wanted to make the most of it. Yet now that he’s here, clutching his bags of wires, I feel the venom start to melt. Laughter transforms his face. I want to watch him, but Chris is acting the Ice Queen, so I don’t dare.
“So, Natalie, are you going to show me to my quarters?” Andy asks in a teasing voice—put on, I suspect, purely to irritate Chris. I think we can safely conclude it’s hate at first sight. And what, I am dying to ask Babs, is up with her brother and Simon? I thought they were pals and yet here they are just about gnashing their teeth at each other.
“Oh sure,” I say, wondering if I’ve introduced the match and petrol to the paper factory.
“I’ll do the tea, shall I?” suggests Babs.
Simon grunts, plods into the lounge, and flops on my suede sofa. I’d object, only his white linen and beige cotton complement my color scheme. Chris, nose in the air and clashing, follows him.