Running in Heels

by Anna Maxted

  “Where’s your daddy, then?” I say, hoping to ingratiate myself and avoid being bitten.

  Paws yawns and says, “Behind you, dear,” and I squeak and whirl around to see Matt hanging off the kitchen door frame, trying not to smile. “A very fanciable blond let me in—it’s okay, he’s gone out. I presumed he was Chris, which didn’t go down at all well. I forget how fast you operate, Natalia, I can’t keep up with you. I brought you your check,” he adds.

  I blush, run, and hug him, in that order. “The cheek of you! That’s Andy, my new lodger. What check?”

  “Your severance check, sweetheart. Three months’ salary and not a penny more.”

  “Oh my gosh! I didn’t even think!”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “You’re very clever indeed.”

  “I must be.”

  We grin at each other. “I can’t believe you,” I say. “I’ve caused you all this trouble, I’ve messed up again and again, I’ve done the opposite of my job, made the whole of our department look gormless, and yet you come round—hang on, aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “I took the day off. I wanted to make sure you weren’t suffering an existential crisis. The first Monday of being between jobs can be a bit of a downer.”

  “Oh, Matt. On your day off! You’re a guardian angel!”

  “I prefer fairy godmother.”

  “I’m so sorry, Matt,” I say. “And I know I’ve said it before. This time I mean it. I owe you big. I should have been sacked.”

  Matt waves away my thanks. “I’ll be calling in the favor when you’re rich and famous, I promise. In the meantime, I’ll write you a reference. Have you organized yourself any work?” He nods at the copy of Vogue. “Or are you settling down to a life of idleness?”

  “Er, no, and no. I thought I should get myself into a nine A.M. routine of going to the news agent. I’m lost without a routine.”

  “Bless. Well, I’ve got some bits for you.” He digs an envelope out of his rucksack. “If you could get these blurbs into shape in the next few days. And as soon as Stephen’s back at work—in a couple of weeks, please God—I’m sure he’ll have something for you.”

  “Thank you so much! He’s going back to work so soon? That’s great! He’s got a good recovery rate. Is he still in the wheelchair?”

  “No. Although if it were his choice, he’d have sat in that hideous chair flicking through glossy magazines till he dropped dead, the big queen. The physio had to practically tip him out of it.”

  I bite my lip. I’m not sure if you’re allowed to laugh at these things. I say instead, “Hang on—I’ve got a present for Stephen.” I run into the lounge, snatch up 100 Luxury Interiors, and hand it to Matt.

  “Oh dear.” He sighs. “This will only encourage him.” I beam.

  Matt says, “Darling, Belly and I want to take you out—any excuse for a piss-up, obviously—so we’ll have to arrange something.”

  “Definitely! But I, I will be seeing you anyway, won’t I? As a, um, friend?”

  “Paws and I intend to dog you all our lives,” says Matt gravely.

  I hug him again. “Matt, I will make it up to you, I will. I know it’s too late for you, for the department, I mean, but I kind of know what’s been, well, wrong with me, and I’m working to make it better. So I won’t embarrass you if you do give me a reference.”

  Matt flaps his hands, as if batting a fly, and says, “Oh stop.” He pauses. “What has been wrong with you?”

  I feel awkward. I respect this man. I want him to respect me. I don’t wish to be classed in the same bracket as Mel. She’s up to her neck in it. I’m just paddling. So after hesitation, I say, “Women’s problems.”

  “I won’t pry,” says Matt regretfully.

  I work on Matt’s press releases for the rest of the day, and I’m grateful for every minute. I am disturbed from labor three times. Once by Chris, who calls to report that Piers Allen is meeting the band tonight, so “yeah, man, it’s looking cool.” He doesn’t ask when we are next seeing each other, and it occurs to me that he has a pathological aversion to making plans. It also occurs to me that I have a pathological aversion to not making plans.

  My second caller of the day is Mel. I hear her lisp and presume her ears are on the waggle for intrigue. But she actually sounds upset. “Natalie, I am distraught! What will I do without you? You’re the best publicist in the world!”

  What! After I outed her as an anorexic and prompted the company to pay for her to see a nutritionist? I’d presumed that was why she was offish when I popped in on her dressing room last week.

  “Really? You don’t mind about the…Sun piece and the, um, nutritionist?”

  “Natalie, you made me famous! Who cares what that silly doctor says? And as for the food woman, I don’t have to listen to her! If they want to weigh me, I just drink a ton of water! But how are you, you poor thing, how are you feeling? It must be awful, losing your job. Is it?” she adds, hopefully.

  “It’s quite awful,” I say, unwilling to disappoint her. “But I’ve got some work.”

  “Oh goody,” she replies unconvincingly. “Guess what, though—I saw Tony at the weekend, and he’s such a sweetie [thweetie] and I haven’t seen you properly for ages, and I thought it would be so nice if you and me and Tony all went out together and had a nice chat, and I’m not dancing tomorrow night so then would be perfect, we could do something fun like go and feed the ducks in Hyde Park!”

  I check my wasteland of a diary, then, for lack of anything more interesting to do, agree.

  I’m touched at her concern, and warmed by Matt’s generosity. The only spoilsport kicking over my sandcastle is Babs. You would have thought she would call to see how it was going with Andy. She hasn’t, and I can’t help feeling used. She fussed and cooed until I bought the dress. Now the sale’s gone through the smile’s wiped and she’s back to filing her nails. I’m stewing over this when the phone rings.

  “Hello?” I say, hoping.

  “Natalie?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Andy.”

  Three minutes later I click off and scowl inwardly. All the men I know and love—Tony, Dad, Chris even—have no emotional attachment to food. That is how I like it. They eat what’s there. They don’t own recipe books, preferring tomes where the name of every character is preceded by rank. They have no interest in menus, are more concerned in appearing at the right restaurants. So why is Andy such a girl? He’s rung from work like a new wife, asking me to join him and a friend for “supper” in my own home! He’s not been here twenty-four hours and already he’s hosting dinners! I can’t be rude so I’m forced to attend. I feel like a foie gras goose. My mother couldn’t have planned it better. I go for a preemptive run around the park. I return to chaos.

  “You look cross,” says Andy, waving a wooden spoon in the air.

  “Are you annoyed about the kitchen?”

  I survey the bomb site.

  “No,” I lie, deftly stepping aside to avoid a splat of gloop off the spoon. It’s all very well taking in lodgers to pay the mortgage, but the downside is, they think they’re entitled to live with you.

  “You are,” replies Andy, wiping his hand on his jeans. “I’ll clear up. But don’t worry. I’m not a full-time wok-wielding maniac. This is a one-off, to say thanks for having me. Robbie’s also going to stop by—not that I’m slaving over a hot stove for that little sod. You don’t mind, do you?” he adds, as my eyes flicker.

  “Of course not,” I croak, wondering if it can get any worse. Will my mother jump from a cake, then make me eat it?

  “What are you making?” I ask, to disguise my ill grace.

  Andy whirls the spoon again. Splat, splat. “I forgot to ask if you were vegetarian, so I thought I’d make tomato bread soup. It’s a bit of a bastard, because you have to de-pip and peel the tomatoes, but it’s gorgeous. And there’s something irresistible about primary-colored food. Do you want a drink?”

&nb
sp; Why be a hero? “Yes,” I say, “okay, whoa! thanks. Great. Well, I’ll just go and, um, have a shower.”

  I plod down the hall, carrying my wineglass and feeling suburban. I half expect him to shout after me, “Hey, I looked up from Sally Jessy earlier and that hussy next door was hanging out her washing in a slip!”

  The first thing I notice on entering the bathroom is that Andy has placed his shampoo, razor, and shaving cream on Babs’s old shelf. And Clinique moisturizer, bless. I keep my box of tricks in the bathroom cabinet as I feel the more beauty products you have on display, the less excuse you have to be ugly. The first thing I notice on leaving the bathroom is that Robbie has arrived. This is because I tiptoe out in a towel and run smack-bang into him. For the second time today, I scream.

  “My darleenk, eet’s been too long!” he cries, arms flung wide. I repeat the scream and rush into my bedroom.

  “Pervert!” I shout, slamming the door. I hear him laugh, and I laugh too. I’d forgotten how much I like Robbie. He gets better-looking as you get to know him. And he’s not a sulker. Although maybe he just wasn’t “mega-keen” on me. I think it’ll be okay tonight.

  I dawdle over what to wear and twenty minutes later emerge transformed, in an orange wool jumper, black trousers, brown boots (I know I should wear brown trousers to match the boots but there’s something about the concept of brown trousers I can’t get along with), and meticulous makeup. I’m not like some women, such diehard professionals that their smooth foundation and flawless lipstick are not so much applied as created. But neither am I a total disgrace. I sidle into the kitchen like a crab.

  “You look nice,” says Robbie, coughing. Andy, fussing over the saucepan, doesn’t comment.

  “Do you need any help?” I say.

  “No, it’s all done,” he sings, “although you could put some plates on the table. Actually, no, why don’t you sit down. Rob!” he adds. “Pull your finger out, you lazy git, get out the bowls and spoons and grate the Parmesan.”

  “Yes, all right, Jamie,” replies Robbie, pretending to bustle. He rolls his eyes at me and mouths, “Twat.”

  “I heard that,” says Andy, without turning his head. I sip my wine to stifle a giggle. “Okaaaay! Here it is.”

  He dollops a steaming red glob into my bowl and rips up a leaf of basil, which he places prettily on top. He starts to do the same for Robbie, who pipes up, “I can rip me own basil, ta very much.”

  “Then rip it,” says Andy, affecting huffiness. “See if I care!”

  “It smells fantastic,” I say, scarcely believing my own ears. Tomato, bread, basil, these are ingredients I can deal with. I breathe in the rich scent and my stomach rumbles. A bold statement, for me. God, I…I…I actually want to eat this. My fingers creep toward my spoon, and I catch Andy frowning at me.

  “We will of course say grace,” he says sternly. My spoon clatters on the table and I blush as red as the soup. “I jest,” he adds.

  “I jest can’t help being a pillock?” suggests Robbie.

  “At least you can admit it,” replies Andy smoothly. “Isn’t that the first step?”

  I want to laugh, but am speechless at this spell of a recipe. My taste buds are dancing the tango on my tongue. No. My brain clogs with the terrible implications. What am I doing? This isn’t what I trained for! I have a talent for deprivation, that’s what I’m good at. And here I am, lured into a greed trap. My stomach stops rumbling and boils with resentment. How dare he? Barge into my home and force himself and his pan upon me.

  “Leave me alone!” splutters Robbie.

  “What?” I say, keeping the edge out of my voice with effort.

  “I did wash my hands,” cries Robbie. “Natalie! Tell him to leave off!”

  “What?” I ask Andy.

  “Well, Robbie’s a good lad,” says Andy, leaning on both elbows like a small boy, “but he’s forever—”

  “And! Do me a favor!” squeals Robbie.

  “No, carry on, I want to hear, what?” I exclaim.

  “He’s forever fiddling with himself, to make sure it’s still there!” Andy grins and stuffs a glob of tomato bread soup in his mouth.

  “I’m only doing what the doctors advise!” shouts Robbie. “Anyway, you’re no great model of hygiene. What about you at college? Your room! Did you tell Natalie about the pint glasses of—”

  “Robbie!” bawls Andy, “that was twelve years ago, I was sodding eighteen, the toilet was down the hall!”

  “Mm-mm,” I say, fighting a swell of laughter, “I’m so enjoying this meal.”

  “Yeah, pack it in, Rob,” growls Andy. “You’re putting Natalie off her food. Let’s be ad-ult. It was a lie,” he whispers to me. “Anyway he used to pee in the sink. Middle-class pretensions.” And in a louder voice, “I see the Dow Jones is up sixteen points…”

  Happily, the Dow Jones is accorded short shrift and we move swiftly on to juicier topics. Such as, Andy’s glittering new career. (He has managed to wangle himself a weekly financial column on an Internet magazine site—“I think they need someone to predict when they’ll go bust”—and he’s doing freelance work for the City desk—“and it is one desk”—of a London free sheet. And he’s earning a thirtieth of what he earned on the stock market. But he doesn’t care—as a broker it was “work work work with no life at the end of the tunnel.”)

  He also wants to know if Robbie and I saw the picture in today’s paper of the richest person in the world. (A software businessman worth $50 billion. Apart from a fancy beard and good teeth, you’d never tell just by looking at him. You’d think he’d be wearing a tiara.) And Natalie, what about the way Chris smiles? Yesterday! He kept doing a funny thing with his lip. I say I think it’s meant to be a rueful smile. Like Billy Baldwin. Andy’s sorry but it really wound him up.

  I confess that I’ve been reading the Daily Express sports pages to impress Chris with my fake expertise on football. Andy and Robbie are appalled. Stop immediately! Does he read the Daily Express beauty pages to impress you with his fake expertise on lipstick? You sexist baboon, Rob, Natalie might be a rugby nut for all you know. Um, it’s okay, I’m not.

  Talking of unreasonable behavior, what about the time Rob dated a woman who forbade him to drink water after 9 P.M. because she hated being woken in the night by his trips to the toilet. Hang on a sec, Andrew, didn’t Sasha used to make you walk her Chihauhua? It was a Yorkshire terrier, I’ll have you know. Had a terrible habit of eating other dogs’ pooh. Name of Miffy. Miffy, I love that name! And when Rob bought his Vespa and Andy dared him to ask the big hairy bloke in the bike shop if he had “an extra-large purple helmet”? And what are you up to now you’ve left the ballet company? (Freelance dance publicity, although the work doesn’t exactly thrill me. What would you like to do? Like to do? I never thought. I, I should think, shouldn’t I?) And then, finally, casually, so it comes across as a great big joke, does Andy remember his sister’s fifteenth birthday and kissing me in the linen cupboard a dozen years ago?

  The momentum falters slightly, and Andy looks horrified. “Christ, we did, didn’t we?” he blurts. “You were this adorable fifteen-year-old and I was a big greasy lout slobbering all over you! I made the mistake of telling Tony that I thought you were a babe. He beat me to a pulp.”

  “No!” I gasp.

  Andy grins ruefully. “I was a wimp, I admit it. I spent far too much time listening to Morrissey. I didn’t dare go near you after that. I snuck off to college, tail between my legs, if you know what I mean. Not that you weren’t better off without me. Bloody hell, I’d totally forgotten. You’ve got a good memory.”

  There is a brief uncomfortable silence. Then:

  “Ur, you filthy perv, preying on innocent fifteen-year-olds!” cries Robbie, monobrow stern. “Natalie, what a creep, he’s disgusting!”

  I stare at Andy, struggle to keep a straight face, and the remainder of that cherished venom dissolves. We talk and talk, laugh and laugh and my shoulders lose their stiffness and I glance do
wn at my plate and it’s empty.

  I honestly think for a second that I’m seeing things. But no, there it is, scraped clean. An alien heaviness in my stomach confirms the truth. I was aware of eating. I allowed myself. I made myself. For Babs. It reminded me of being spoon-fed when I was little. “And a spoon for Mummy. Good girl! And a spoon for Daddy. Well done! And a spoon for Tony. Goo—Tony, don’t be silly, of course your sister can have a spoon for you. What? It’s your spoon? Okayokayokay! No tantrums! All right, all right. Please darling, get up off the floor now, there’s a good boy. [sigh] And a spoon for Teddy…”

  What’s the big deal? After all, I skipped lunch. I went for a run. I watched my dinner diminish, I measured the remaining quantity with every scoop. But to actually finish. Clear my plate like a pleb. What next—snacks? Natalie, did Andy tell you about the time he went about saying “Get the photo?” because he’d read it in The Man with the Golden Gun and fancied himself as Scaramanga? (Christ, Rob, you’re allowed to be a dickhead when you’re nineteen years old. I’m talking about last week, pal…) I cover my mouth to stifle a giggle fit and try to forget my immaculate plate.

  When I answer the phone I’m still laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” says Babs.

  “Oh hi!” I squeal. “Your brother! Your brother’s funny. Him and Robbie. They’re like a pair of bickering old women! I…I think it’s going to be nice, him living here.”

  I expect Babs to be pleased. Particularly as I am tactful enough to blur the subtext: I thought Andy was a grumpy New Age twit, smug on pop philosophy filched from other backpackers and Wisdom of the Dalai Lama, Abridged, but after an evening in his company I’ve almost revised my opinion.