Running in Heels

by Anna Maxted

  Babs nods. “I’m impressed. I’m not messing about. I really am. So whose”—tap tap tap—“is this man-size silver ring? Um, are you, er, back with Chris?”

  “Oh no!” I cry, “I’d forgotten about him. No, it’s Saul’s, if you can believe that.”

  “Saul’s?” she yells. “What! Why haven’t you told me?”

  “You and I haven’t been speaking,” I remind her. “And it’s not what you think. I did not have sex with that man. He decided to get in touch to teach me a lesson, show off his hot new body, honed and toned, starting from the day we broke up. In fact, now I come to think of it, he must have run straight from the Oxo Tower to the gym and stayed there.”

  Babs looks stunned. “Saul? God, that’s so sly! Still—shows how much he cared. You are telling me the truth, though? You didn’t fall for it, did you?”

  “It’s okay. It didn’t work. Because the hot new body remains attached to Saul’s personality.”

  “Poor Saul,” purrs Babs. “So how is the young fogey? God, that’s another thing I feel bad about. Urging you to stick with Bowcock.”

  I glance at her, surprised. “Did you…did you know you were doing it?”

  Babs dunks her digestive in her tea (my toes curl instinctively—once she performed an independent laboratory experiment to discover how many milk chocolate digestives you can drown in a standard tea before it turns into a semisolid, poor man’s tiramisu; conclusion: ten and a half). Then she says, “Not until I thought about it. I sort of realized that it mattered a bit too much to me that you stayed with sensible Saul. I think it had something to do with feeling defensive about getting married. It’s difficult when you’re the first. Sorry,” she adds.

  “Forget it. How is it with Si, really? You don’t have to tell me if it’s private.”

  She waves this notion away, smiles—acknowledging something—and says, “It’s getting better. Slowly. It’s not great. No one tells you, marriage is different. Even if you’ve been living together, which we weren’t, it’s emotionally, psychologically different. I know that sounds like a crock, but it is. The adjustment is huge. Not for me so much—I know what I want, I always have, I’ve never been that bothered with what other people think—but Si is, he’s less confident in himself, in his decisions. He’s still—and I’d say this to his face—young in that sense. He admits it. Which is progress in itself. It’s funny, Nat. You think you’re getting on great, you think you can talk about everything, you think your relationship is solid, you’re feeling pretty smug, and then—this gulf opens, you realize there’s this huge rotting problem that you’ve both expertly ignored to the extent that you no longer really believe it’s there. And then, out of the blue, you’re both of you standing on the brink. You try and approach the problem but you can’t—every time you tiptoe toward discussion, try and keep it little, it blows up big, it’s like taking a match to an oil refinery. It’s the most frightening thing, Nat. It makes you feel so helpless. It’s the worst feeling. I’m not used to it.”

  “How,” I say haltingly, “does Simon feel? Does he know what he’s done to you? Is he serious about making it work?”

  Babs forces a smile and her eyes crinkle. “He knows what he’s done, and he is sorry. I know he loves me. He’s trying. It’s still hard for him. I think he’s got to get used to it, to see that I’m not stopping him from doing much. He’s still his own person, he can do a lot of what he likes. All that shit is drummed in until they believe it—‘the nagging wife.’ It feeds the fear of men like Si, till they interpret every word you say—including ‘pass the salt’—as nagging. And the losers in his office—who haven’t matured beyond twelve and think that having any feeling for a woman other than ‘whoa, babe’ is, hilariously enough, ‘gay’—they goad him with it, they make it worse. I know what they’re like. I used to work with them! It’s like school.”

  “Have you said this to Simon?”

  “I gave him earache. I’ve tried to say that if they were happy with themselves, they wouldn’t care what Si does, they’d accept it. It’s just that because they’re so weak, a choice of lifestyle that’s different to theirs is a threat to them, it forces them to question their sad, loserish lives. That’s why they’re so vicious about him getting hitched. They’re scared. I’ve tried to make him see that they have the problem, not him.”

  “And does he?”

  “Half. He’s taken it on board. But he insists they’re happy. With their drug problems, drink problems, personality disorders, et cetera.” Babs manages a feeble grin. Then she adds, “But I did say one thing that seemed to hit.”

  “Oh?”

  “I lost patience. I just said, ‘Look, it’s not the law. You don’t have to be married to me. No one’s making you. You don’t have to be here, it’s your choice. You chose to be with me because we are—were good together.’ I think he thought I was about to leave him. It made him sit up.”

  “Oh god!” I gasp. “You wouldn’t. Stuff like this takes ages to sort out, Babs. Ages. And he is young. It’s so hard, so tough, but give it a chance. He wasn’t, he hasn’t been…ah?”

  Babs shakes her head. “He says not. I believe him. No, you’re right. I was only trying to make him not take me for granted and it sort of worked. It’s stressful, though, trying to mend a fraying relationship, because you don’t know when or how it’s going to end. Whether all this grief will be worth it.”

  “It will be, Babs. You have to have endless patience, that’s all. You have to keep making the effort, even if you do want to bash his head in with a saucepan.”

  “Don’t give me ideas.” She frowns and says, “I keep thinking, I’m just married! I should be swinging from the Chinese lantern! I should be wearing his dick out! I should be flying home to bubbling pots of chili con carne, cooked by his loving hand! Not sitting tense and huddled on one arm of the sofa, him on the other arm, the pair of us stiff and apart like bookends, him hard-faced, me on the edge of hysteria, with my fists clenched to stop myself screaming and slamming out the house. You know, we didn’t even do it on our wedding night. Si was too drunk.”

  “Babs,” I say, “ ‘should’ is like ‘nagging wife.’ It’s a term of oppression. You don’t know what other people’s relationships are like. Yes, of course, all newlyweds present smiley faces to the outside world. It’s what the outside world expects. They bow to the pressure. They’re hardly going to say, ‘Actually, we didn’t have sex on our wedding night, we were too tired,’ because to those who don’t know any better, that looks like failure. When it’s probably normal. Common. There is no normal. Most ‘shoulds’ are media hype. There to sell newspapers and magazines. And I should know, I’m a publicist, sweetie.”

  Babs reaches across and squeezes my hand. “You’re a good friend,” she says, “is what you are.”

  47

  TIME SLOWS OR HURRIES ACCORDING TO VENUE. In church, synagogue, or mosque, it dawdles, stretching minutes into months. In the kitchen with friends, great chunks of the stuff go missing.

  “It’s two thirty-five,” gasps Babs. “We’ve been gassing for three hours! Do you mind? Do you want to get back to work?”

  I shake my head, to free up some of the guilt. Coffee breaks are essential; I wouldn’t want to overdo it, and get chronic fatigue syndrome. (Chronic fatigue is a terror of mine—I’m sure I have it at least twice a week.) “No, no,” I cry. “It’s brilliant to see you, stay for as long as you want. Are you hungry?”

  “Ish. Do you want another coffee?”

  “Yeah, okay. There’s stuff in the fridge, Babs, have a look.” Brrt brrt! “Oh, let me get that.”

  I hurry to the phone while Babs hangs off the fridge door like a teenager.

  “Hiya!”

  “You sound cheerful,” says my mother accusingly.

  “I know. I can barely believe it myself. Babs is here. We’re having a chat.”

  “That’s nice, dear,” she replies in a monotone. “I hope she’s not distracting you from work. You’ve g
ot to be prudent now you’re not properly employed. How is she? Taking care of herself? I do worry about Barbara, of course I don’t say anything to Jackie, but it’s not really a job for a woman. I’m not being old-fashioned, Natalie, it’s a matter of brute strength—”

  “Mum,” I say, as kindly as I can—while booting the kitchen door shut with my foot—“Babs might not be as strong as the men, but she’s strong enough. She’s had to pass exactly the same tests. If anything she’s better than the men, she’s had more to prove.”

  My mother—who’d insist the sky was green if she was in the mood—makes a noise not a million miles from a grunt.

  “Are you okay? Is something the matter?”

  “Nothing you need bother yourself about,” she retorts. “I asked your father if he wanted to come to Australia”—a gesture requiring her to swallow about a liter of pride. He must have turned her down—“and the wretch of a man said yes!”

  “But, Mum—that’s great—well, that’s not awful news. It’ll be nice to, er, know someone. It won’t be too bad.”

  “I’ve told him he’ll have to stay in a separate hotel. Otherwise Lord knows what poor Kimberli Ann will think.”

  As my mother has never, in eight years, betrayed the smallest concern for what Kimberli Ann might think (indeed, has questioned whether Kimberli Ann thinks), I suspect this rush of anxiety on Kimberli Ann’s behalf masks a desire to punish my father for his presence.

  “I did ask Kelly if she thought it would be too much, to have him along too, and you won’t believe what she said.”

  “What did she say?”

  “ ‘No worries!’ I didn’t think Australians actually said that! I didn’t think Neighbours was true to life! I’m the one who made contact, and now he’s muscling in! And Kelly told me to pack my ‘swimmers,’ my ‘sunnies,’ and my ‘thongs’—I was speechless! I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I do know what thongs are, and I most certainly will not be packing any. I didn’t know what to say, so I said, ‘I see,’ and left it at that—”

  “Mum,” I say quickly, “I think a thong in Australia means flip-flop. I don’t think she was asking you to pack your G-strings.”

  “Oh. Oh. Oh. I see. Well, I don’t own flip-flops either. And now I’ve read up on Australia, good heavens, it’s a minefield! I’m surprised it’s inhabited. It’s teeming with poisonous creatures, I’ll be lucky to survive the trip. If I’m not eaten by sharks, or bitten by a redback spider, I’ll be stung to death by a box jellyfish. If you’re stung by a box jellyfish you’re dead in seconds. It sounds so uncivilized! And Susan said friends of theirs went and they saw a snake and the heat was choking.”

  “Mum, it’ll be fine. They probably saw a snake on television. And I doubt there are box jellyfish in the Hyatt Regency. And it will be lovely to see sun, you haven’t had a holiday in—in sixteen years. You’ve been so looking forward to this, don’t let Dad spoil things. He’ll be fine. Look, why don’t we talk later?”

  “And I can’t reach Tony,” whines my mother, who is on a roll, “I don’t know where he’s disappeared to, he could be dead for all I know.”

  “There are no box jellyfish in Camden. He’s probably in meetings, Mum.”

  “Natalie, I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. Just go back to Barbara. We’ll speak when you can spare me a minute without being juvenile.”

  Pank!

  I return to the kitchen, teeth clenched. They unclench only slightly when I see that Babs has transferred all the food in the fridge to the table and is waiting patiently for me to say “start.”

  “Start.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Brown bread, tomatoes, lettuce, and cottage cheese. So, Nat, tell me, what does cottage cheese bring to the party?”

  “It’s very good for you.”

  Babs sighs in the direction of the tub. “It’s gotta be. What’s up? I’m joking. Cottage cheese rocks!”

  I smile grimly and hand her the Pringles I’ve stashed in the top cupboard. (She mimes fainting with joy.) Then I tell her about Australia.

  Babs nods all the way through, then claps her hands, creating a sonic boom. “I’ve just had a brilliant idea. You should go!”

  “Me?” I cough on a crisp.

  “Yes, you!”

  “I can’t!”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I’ve got work to do.”

  “Yes, well. The deli. That’s so urgent.”

  “Oh! That’s back on? No, the other stuff. The PR stuff. And the Pilates! That’s urgent!”

  “Says who?”

  “But I’ve started. I’ve paid for the first six months.”

  “So? You’re getting private tuition, aren’t you?”

  “Yes but…”

  “So if you take time off you won’t fall behind the class.”

  “No, but Robin—”

  “You could take three months out and pick up where you left off.”

  “Three months?”—I laugh—“Where did you get that from? Mum’s only going for three weeks!”

  “So? You could stay on, travel, see Australia. It’s a big place, love.”

  “What? By myself?”

  “Why not?”

  “But it would be highly dangerous!”

  “Oh, get off! Not unless you’re stupid. You’ll make loads of friends—all the other backpackers.”

  I stifle an involuntary shudder. Backpackers! And me, one of them!

  “Don’t you want to meet your niece?” adds Babs slyly.

  “Yes.”

  “And see your dad?”

  “Might do.”

  “So?”

  I sigh. “It seems so…so…”

  “Exciting? Adventurous? Spontaneous?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Frivolous? Unnecessary? Reckless?”

  “Exactly.” I’m nodding, grateful she understands, and then I look at her, and realize she doesn’t.

  “Nat,” she says. “I urge you to think about it. You didn’t take a year off, you missed out, girl. All the time I’ve known you, you’ve never cut yourself some slack. This would be such a treat for you. You’d love it. You’d have the time of your life. Ah, Nat, imagine it. You deserve a break. That’s what life’s for. It’s not about working yourself to the bone, always being careful, sticking to every boring pointless rule in the boring pointless rulebook.”

  “I’m not working myself to the bone,” I say sulkily. “I’ve put on four pounds. And what about the cost?”

  “Fuck the cost!” shouts Babs. “Get an overdraft or a fourth credit card like everyone else!”

  “But—”

  “Nat,” says Babs, sighing, “I’m sorry, but I parked next to you, and yours is the only car in the street with the glove compartment left open and empty, like the police advise, to deter thieves from breaking in to nick your stereo. You can’t watch The Breakfast Club because you start fretting about everyone’s careers. Now I’m afraid that’s not normal. You need to chill out.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Tara and Kelly live in Sydney, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which part?”

  “Um,” I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember what my mother told me. “Paddington?”

  “Padd-ing-ton!” Babs smirks.

  “What? What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing. Couldn’t be better! Paddington is cool. Nice cafés and great clothes shopping. It’s in the middle of everything and it’s just down the road from Bondi. It’ll be interesting to see what your mother makes of Paddington.”

  “Why?” I say, suspiciously.

  “It’s a place where anything goes,” says Babs, head bent in concentration over the crumbs on her plate. “It’s got the San Francisco vibe. It’s very trendy, very arty, and it’s a big gay area. It’s got The Albury, the best-known gay pub in the city—it has drag shows every night. It’s fantastic. It’s a pity you didn’t go earlier, you would have caught the Mardi Gras, your mum wou
ld have loved that, it’s a real family event, all the families watching the gay couples on their floats in tight pants—”

  “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

  “Doing what?” shrills Babs, wide-eyed.

  “Trying to make it impossible for me not to go.”

  “Not at all,” she says primly. “I’m merely acting as tourist information.”

  “Blackmailing me into feeling obliged to escort my mother.”

  “What?”

  “To stop her unleashing her Hendon personality on the Paddington Aussies.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “It’s a big thing. I’ll have to think about it.”

  Babs returns to scrutinizing her plate, but to no avail as her grin is so wide it reaches her ears.

  When Babs finally leaves, it’s 4:30, and she only goes because Simon calls to ask if she wants to see a film tonight.

  “See. He is trying,” I say, and she smiles.

  “He probably means on Channel Five.”

  After she’s gone, I wash up—the protest coffee cups included (“in the sink with you, you’ve had your fifteen minutes”)—taking ages over each cup. I find washing up therapeutic in small doses, though I know it’s treason to admit it. Babs and I discussed everything except Andy, who I suppose is now taboo. Beyond her initial comment, Babs didn’t mention him, so neither did I. The old fears pound heavy in my chest. He could vanish from my life. Even if they are interested, men are lazy. The ones you’d sell your mother for (well, my mother) are hopeless at keeping in touch. What hope is there if you shun their interest to death?

  I champ my teeth hard together. Australia. Why shouldn’t I go? An adventure. I’ve never had one of those (apart from when someone sold my Visa card number to a gang who went on a spree with it in Hong Kong). I’ve always needed to know what I’m doing before I do it. I like routine—it makes me feel safe. But I suppose there is no safe. I once thought if you got married, you were safe. I’m as bad as my mother.

  My mother.

  It would be easier for everyone if I was there to smooth the way. But I won’t go because Babs thinks I should. Or for my mother. If I do go I’ll go for me. I won’t go to get away from Andy. I refuse to be a love refugee—I haven’t got the right clothes, and Frannie would be cock-a-hoop—apologies, but that word is perfect for her—if she knew. Andy will not affect my decision. He made his choice (and I helped him make it) and that’s the end of it. I wouldn’t want a man who wears slippers anyway. And didn’t he use the word wiener once? What a wiener.