by Anna Maxted
It’s difficult to reconcile the gnashing fury of the last ten minutes with the benign glow of the last sixteen years. The tears keep falling and I don’t bother to wipe them away. If you’re ditched by a man, you can console yourself that he didn’t really know or understand you, sex is sex, it wasn’t personal. When it’s your best friend, there is no denying that you’ve been judged, and condemned, on who you are. The pain is sharp like a knife. But pain I can deal with, that’s not what’s causing the tears. I’m crying because Babs deserved her happy ending and I helped botch it.
39
I SLEEP LIKE A BABY. THAT IS, I WAKE CRYING fifteen times in the night. I give up at 6:37 A.M. I dress in black to suit my mood, and clank loudly and needlessly around the kitchen in order to wake Andy. Monday’s a working day, he’ll be grateful. Anyway, the layabout doesn’t know it but he’s moving house today. It’ll be a joy to be rid of him. I’ll be doing myself a favor as well as Babs. I will not be used, abused (pleasurable though it was), and tossed aside like a tissue. His problem is postcoital cowardice, spreading to general cowardice later in the day. He knew my friendship with Babs was at stake and what does he do?—stands aside to watch it burn!
“You can stop banging about now, I’m up,” says Andy, from somewhere behind me. I spin around from the sink so fast it takes a second for my body to catch up with my head. “That was a mildly Exorcist moment,” he adds. For once in my life I’m in no mood for pleasantries.
“You knew what was going to happen yesterday,” I snap. “Why didn’t you stick up for me?”
“Hey, baby doll. I did stick up for you yesterday.”
I struggle to maintain composure in the face of monstrous cheek. “Don’t give me that,” I splutter. “You know what I meant! You might like to know that Babs has dismissed me from her life as of last night! You knew why she came round. Why didn’t you say something? I might have known Simon would make a hash of it!” I stop, panting for breath.
Andy deletes his smirk. “You’re a big girl now, Nat,” he says coolly. “You can fight your own battles.”
My mouth opens and shuts. “I didn’t, I wasn’t asking you to…to fight my battles,” I bleat, “I, oh god, just forget it.”
I drag out a chair and plonk myself in it. He’s wearing a tatty old baseball shirt. While this is the antithesis of style, it suits him, and I don’t even mean that as an insult. I can’t look at him.
He sits down, and says, “Nat.”
“What,” I reply, eyes still averted.
“Don’t be a baby, tell me what she said.”
I light a cigarette and tell him, defiantly, keeping the whine out of my voice.
“You knew it was a risk,” he says, “not telling her immediately. It’s always going to sound five times worse coming from someone else. From Frannie, ten times.”
I nod.
“Maybe I should have talked to her,” he adds. “But she didn’t want me to. I could tell.”
I shake my head in a charitable manner. (I find it easier to be gracious in victory than in defeat.) “No, you were right not to,” I say. “You were right to keep out of it. I should have told her earlier, not delayed. It was my fault. I suppose I can’t”—I pause; I needed a scapegoat—“I can’t believe that this is the end of our friendship, that’s all. It’s a hideous mess, it’s spiraled. And.”
“And what?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just a silly thing.”
“Go on,” he says.
“Well,” I blurt, “I just remembered this time, Babs and I were at a party and the bathroom door didn’t lock properly and so we guarded each other while we went to the loo and then we had this hour-long discussion about…about…if you were very beautiful, say, like Naomi Campbell, and someone burst in on you while you were on the toilet, would it be less embarrassing than if you were a normal person, and I just think”—with difficulty I stop my tone ascending to a wail—“there are very few people in this world that you can have that kind of conversation with…”
I realize my dignity is halfway out the door.
“I told you it was silly,” I growl. “You shouldn’t have made me tell you.”
“I apologize.”
I cough, stub out my cigarette, and light another. Andy raises an eyebrow. “You’re dedicated,” he observes, “this early in the day.”
“Silk Cut Ultra,” I reply gloomily, indicating the packet. “The nonsmoker’s cigarette.”
“Nat,” he says slowly, taking the cigarette from my lips and dragging on it—a move that should absolutely not be sexy but is—“Ugh, god, yes, I’ve given up, it tastes foul. I’m sure you’ll make it up eventually. She’s in shock right now. It might take her a while.”
“Andy, she hates me.” I sigh. I stub out the cigarette. It’s too distracting after where it’s been.
“She hates you,” he replies, “because she’d prefer to hate you than to hate Simon. If you were Babs who would you want to believe was the bad guy? Your best mate or your husband? It’s not a nice choice, but if I was her I’d go for the best mate.”
“Oh! Yes, yes you’re right,” I cry, before remembering I don’t want to owe Andy anything. “But actually you’re not right,” I add, “because even if she does admit the truth to herself, even if Simon does clarify what went on properly instead of in a useless flop-haired unconvincing way, or I write to her, or”—I refuse to suggest that Andy might intervene—“or Frannie’s nose triples in length breaking all records, Babs will still resent me for being the conduit”—I stand by that word—“of Simon’s unfaithfulness.”
Andy blinks. “Even if it takes a long time I still think she’ll come round,” he says. “Usually, she shouts her head off, gets it out of her system, and that’s the end of it. If it isn’t,” he adds, “it’s going to be very awkward, what with you and ah—”
“Oh no,” I exclaim, snapping my fingers, “that’s another thing. She’s banned me from the deli!”
“Right,” croaks Andy, “right.” He coughs. He looks as if he’s just sat on a porcupine. I am preparing to announce his imminent change in living arrangements when he says, “Natalie, there’s something I was going to tell you.”
“What?”
“Yesterday. Do you remember when I said I couldn’t stop thinking about my ex?”
“Vaguely,” I reply. Good grief. Why did I ever think I’d have trouble letting go of this fool?
“It was bad timing. It didn’t come out right. I told you because I don’t want to mess you around. You didn’t let me finish. I’m not in love with Sasha anymore. It’s more about unanswered questions, about why she left me. I can’t say why it still matters. But I wanted you to know what’s going on. I’ve got to work through it. I was gutted when she left me and it’s only now I’ve started to see how much. I don’t want it to get in the way of…of what might happen with us. I don’t know how you feel, but I think you’re lovely. We could have something. If you want.”
He looks at my stunned face and adds, “Or not.”
Ten seconds later, Andy and I are frantically entwined on my bed, making passionate yet tender love, as the white organza curtains billow softly in the gentle spring breeze. Actually we’re not. But hey, we could have been. My hand was in his and he was very lightly stroking the underside of my wrist. His fingers felt rough and scratchy on my skin, and made me shiver. He looked at me and I recognized the tense look, that holding back of un-sanctioned desire. I wanted to melt into him. Oh, god, yes, take me, have me, all of me, I’m all yours.
But I didn’t. Instead, I stammered, “Can I think about it?”
He replied with a brisk, embarrassed nod. I stared longingly at his mouth for a short moment, replied in a high, squeaky voice, “Great. Thanks!” and ran to my room.
I heard the front door slam soon after. How could I evict him after that? I couldn’t say it to his face and I wasn’t about to write him a note. So I wandered, lackluster, round the flat, forcing myself to tilt every picture frame a
skew. It made me itch but it wasn’t enough. You blithering idiot, you should have said yes! I found myself gliding fridgeward, dropping a succession of fourteen slices of bread in the toaster, spreading each square thickly with butter, and guzzling the lot.
Twenty seconds later I felt rotten and the toilet bowl beckoned, but I shunned it. So what so what so what. I was sick of pretending to rave about salad. I’d gain a pound. A pound! So what. Who’d notice except me? Gaining a pound would be less psychologically damaging than selling my soul to the toilet. Anyhow, I promised Mum. I felt bloated and porcine but stuck with it. A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips! Every oppressive slogan ever invented by the diet industry popped by to taunt me, but I wouldn’t be baited. Nothing tastes as good as being slim feels! The size-sixteen bottom line was, my résumé was fragile enough. I didn’t wish to add bulimia to my dubious list of achievements.
We could have something. If you want.
I repeated Andy’s offer over and over, using it as a charm against the toilet. Surely this was the pinnacle of romance? But sheepish though I felt—and I felt sheepish enough to say “baa”—it worked. And while I couldn’t resist straightening the tilted pictures, I still felt ridiculously proud of myself. There was a seed of warmth inside where before there was a cold cavern.
That said, it wasn’t enough that he’d asked. Once it would have been but not anymore. Denial is so last century. But his asking would have to do for now. I had a cute fantasy to call my own, and fantasies can be surprisingly sustaining—often more so than the real thing. (During my teens, Tom Cruise and I shared many happy years together.) Right this minute, the real thing would have been inappropriate. I wanted Andy but I also wanted to make it up to Babs. I’d do anything to make it up to her. I wasn’t about to start shagging on friendship’s grave.
But there was more to it than that. I agree, every bit of me, with Andy. I think we understand each other. We go together. Like jam and coleslaw, admittedly, but we do go together. Even if it means years ahead of shouting, “Don’t stuff your socks down the side of the sofa,” I know we could have something. It makes me tremble to think of what we could have—its potential feels gothic in scale. By which I don’t mean spooky and sinister with me in a castle and him in a cloak, I mean the possibilities are so awesome I’m daunted. But I’ve spent too long living life as second best. I have to draw the line somewhere. And I recognize a severe case of Ex-girlfrienditis when I see it.
So, much as I’d love to, I don’t feel I can take Sasha’s place until it’s vacant.
40
I FOOLISHLY HINT TO MATT OF UPHEAVAL—SO to speak—between lodger and landlady, and he starts planning his outfit. (“This is the big one, I can feel it!”) I tell him it’s a nonstory as I’ve renounced men for, er, Lent, and he goes ballistic. What! What’s going on? Don’t I trust him as a friend? He doesn’t dance the Nutcracker Prince for just anyone, you know, he feels spurned. I explain that after an excitable weekend, I’ve called a halt on talking about myself. “I’ve been jilted by Babs,” I add, breaking my resolution. My voice cracks. “And this time it’s official.” Matt invites himself round after work for a “debriefing.”
I say if he’s going to force himself upon me like this, we might as well be civilized. Would Mel and Bel like to come too, and I’ll cook? I’d like to thank everyone for Friday’s show. In that case, says Matt, don’t cook. He’ll bring some red booze and show up around seven. He’ll see if the others are free, although I needn’t think there’s safety in numbers. Minutes later, Bel rings to say “I’m there!” and Mel calls to tell me she’s dancing tonight but she might pop round later. With Tony. I’m not wild about facing my brother, but then, I’m not wild about facing Andy. A friendly barricade could be just what I need.
When the doorbell shrills at 6:54, I’m surprised. Matt is never early (“It’s suburban—I’ll run round the block three times if I have to!”). I pull it open and find myself facing someone else I’m not wild about.
“Chris…pin!”
Chris, who, judging from his bully-boy expression, was planning a verbal attack, turns poppy red. Good thinking, Batman, I tell myself. I try to appear calm. Is he going to hit me too? Thank heaven Babs warmed me up. From the look of him, he’s not too keen on his new army regulation hair. I’d better strike first.
“Your sister came round the other day. Henrietta,” I add. “What a lovely, traditional name.”
Chris takes an uninvited step into my personal space. “That stuff of yours dissolved my hair! I was the spit of Sherlock Holmes! I had to shave it all off! And now look at me! I look like a Nazi! You and your brother have near enough ruined me. I’ve got no band, no hair! I want you to know that I’m thinking of suing. I—”
“Oh my Lord, what delicious hair! You mustn’t tell me! Michaeljohn? Toni & Guy? Nicky! It was Nicky, I know it, now don’t be coy, I’ve got to have a feel, I insist, you must allow me—Ooh! Ooh yes, a forest of soft little pricks—a baby hedgehog! Ashorn lamb! Oh I’m in heaven, darling, in heaven—Natalia, who is this juicy biteable peach of a boy? He should be locked up!”
“Get off!” bawls Chris. “Get your hands off me you, you freak! I don’t even know you!”
I try to communicate my immense gratitude without laughing. Matt—having finished his virtuoso impression of a Carry On queen—clasps his hands to his chest and sucks in his cheeks to a perfect pout.
“This is my friend Matt,” I say. “He loves your new look.”
Matt simpers and extends a limp hand. “I adore it! I’m so happy I came!”
Chris, who suspects this is a double entendre, shrinks away.
I bite back a giggle. “Why don’t you come in, Chris—”
“Forget it. You’ll be hearing from my solicitor.”
Name anything it’s possible to be scared of, and I’m scared of it. I hate trouble. I live in dread of stubbing someone’s toe and being dragged to court by one of those “Suffered an injury that’s not your fault?” companies that advertise on TV and doing a ten-year prison sentence. But I find it hard to be scared of Chris. He’s so terrified of Matt.
“Oh you big silly!” cries Liberace. “Come in and have a cup of cha! You’ll feel so much better!”
“Tony might be along later,” I add. “But I wouldn’t want you to feel intimidated.”
Chris glares at me. “A dash of semi-skimmed. No sugar.”
When I carry the tea and the red booze into the lounge, Chris is squeezed into the corner of the sofa, pale hands clenched between his legs like a shy virgin. Matt is just about on top of him. “And so I said, ‘He’s a member of the family, darling, he knows all about swagging!’ ” Matt laughs uproariously at this probably bogus punch line. Chris nods stiffly, then leaps up, clutching his mobile.
“I gotta make a call,” he bleats. “Uh, no reception, I’ll go outside.” He exits the flat at speed. Matt and I choke ourselves.
“I love you,” I tell him. “I bloody love you!”
Matt blows a raspberry in the direction of the front door. “I hate bullies. What a dick. I knew I should have vetted him! Well, thank heaven I’m here to vet Andy! So vite! Tell me, tell me all. Is he in? Please tell me he’s in!”
I explain that there isn’t going to be any Andy. And I explain why. I’m doing fine until I get to the bit where Babs stormed out. Then my chin starts to wobble. I can’t believe she’s gone forever. It’s as if a little piece of my heart has chipped off. I take a huge gulp of wine to douse the ache. It works, sort of. Matt looks at me and slaps his forehead. “If ever there was a person who could be said to make a meal of things, it’s you, Natalia.”
“That’s very ironic,” I say. I think about this for another moment, and snigger. (We’re two glasses in the red by now—I find most things funny after one.)
“Allo! Anyone there? Yer door’s open!”
“Belly!” we cry as one. I rush to greet her. Paws waddles to the door behind me.
“All right.” She grins, ki
ssing the air. “There’s a geezer ’anging about yer front. Ee looks right fed up.”
“Most geezers who hang about my front look right fed up,” I say. We machine-gun-laugh in each other’s faces.
“Nice ’air. Oo is ’ee?”
“An ex. Come to exact retribution.”
“Why don’t you see if he wants to come in, Bel?” adds Matt. “His name’s Crispin. He’s a tad dour, but only because he’s shy. Public school, you see. Not used to ladies.”
Belinda’s eyes widen. “I love a bit of posh,” she exclaims, and hurries out. Matt smirks into his wineglass. “Poor Chris,” he sighs. “The fun has only just begun. Ooh, has Bel been shopping?”
By now, our inhibitions are marinated in alcohol, which allows us to start ruffling about Bel’s carrier bag. “Pop-Up Pirate!” cries Matt, lifting out a brightly colored box. “What a sweet girl! She’s bought us a game to play!”
I wrinkle my nose. “Matt, it says ‘age 4 plus.’ I think it’s more likely she’s bought it for a niece or nephew.”
“Balls! Children are too young to appreciate these things. Anyway, one’s mental age is all that counts.”
When Belinda and Chris return, Matt and I are immersed in our fifth round of Pop-Up Pirate. (It’s a game that requires cunning and strategy. You take turns in sticking red, blue, green, and yellow swords in Pop-Up Pirate’s barrelly sides until one of you accidentally stabs him and his head pops up, and off. The score: 2–3 to me.)
“Blame him!” I squeak. “He opened the box!”
“Oh you know me—can’t resist a red box,” purrs Matt, for Chris’s benefit. Bel, who is flushed with excitement, barely glances at it.
“So, so, carry on, Crispin,” she murmurs, “you was sayin’, at school, yeah, you ’ad fags, dija? To toast yer crumpets an all? And like, was it like, ’ow they say it is? Aw, go on! This is amazin’!”