A Fine Profession (The Chambermaid's Tales Part One) (8 page)

“
Baby doll,” he murmured, cradling me. We fell asleep, naked and entangled.

We woke in the night
and his fingertips scaled my body in the moonlit room. I didn't open my eyes. All I felt was a mouth at my throat and then the touch of his fingers inside my still sodden womanhood. He encouraged me to ride him hard and fast while he pummelled my clitoris. I realised I had muscles down there I never knew could do what they did that night. I had an epiphany. I realised sex could be really good without romantic notions, without even an agenda, and I understood the pleasures of the flesh finally. I wanted more of it, too. Alex told me he could maybe turn for a woman like me, but we enjoyed that one night and left it there. He was a gentleman, really, he was, insisting on holding me all night, cooking me breakfast in the morning. It really wasn't awkward. We had both given each other the confirmation we really needed. Our friendship could survive anything, our problems could be solved; I could overcome my insecurities and he might finally tell his family he was gay.

Alex's spare room was where I stayed after that, whenever it was my night off. We even spent a lot more time together, despite the mind-blowing sex we had shared that was unquestionably consigned to the archives. I had a couple of dalliances in some pub toilets (not the same pub and not the same night). I was not quite brave enough to get to know anyone. The liaisons were quite unsatisfactory but not pointless. I don't know… I guess I was trying to re-enact something I'd shared with my best friend. Something that felt at once so natural and yet so erotic was never going to happen again that easily, though.

There were sev
eral very drunken nights when Alex and I both found ourselves partner-less and I would try to initiate something. Well, he really was gorgeous, well-endowed and someone I trusted totally and utterly. He was so gentlemanly and always tried to let me down gently. Things soon got heated, however, so I got a flat of my own. It was above a chip shop in a bad area of the city centre but I made it my own and it was my own space. I could have stayed in the hotel full-time but it was becoming difficult to put up with the raucous party nights. I also sometimes felt as though I might be being watched at any one time. Have you ever felt like that? Like there might be cameras behind the mirrors?

So, Alex and I remained the best of friends,
with him always baiting me about why I didn't just find some young buck to marry and produce sprogs with. I think we both knew the answers but neither of us pushed the subject. He used to question me about all kinds of things and I would never listen, never take him seriously or consider that I had a problem somewhere along the line. He would ask why I loathed to visit the doctor or the dentist, why I didn't try to find a regular hair salon to go to, why I preferred to make online purchases rather than go to the shops in person. He asked why I chose outfits that mostly covered me up, why I never splurged on payday like everyone else, or why I could never take a compliment from a customer or anyone else for that matter.

Instead of finding my own way in
Nottingham, I latched onto Alex's life. He was a bit of a loner, like me, but he was at one with it. I joined him for Sunday strolls around Holme Pierrepont, eating pretzels from a stand situated halfway around the circuit before doing a full turn to purchase another. We egged each other on to wear the most horrific tracksuits and cagoules. Sometimes we even swapped so that he was wearing my pink one and I his zebra-print version. Come rain or shine, it became one of our things. It was beautiful in spring or summer, with the rowing lake looking blue and inviting. It was a calm place where people just sat or rowed, caught a bit of peace and quiet or exercised their dogs. We just used to talk nonsense on the way round, telling each other anything and everything that might come into our minds.

Whenever he booked
tickets for a show, he'd say, “By the way, you're coming,” and I would attend, naturally, though I'd have worked my way through at least a dozen possible outfits prior to the event. It was never easy attending civilised affairs. The thought of strangers asking me, “So, what did you think of the opening sequence?” scared me half to death. There were comedy gigs, stadium concerts, cricket at Trent Bridge or football at The City Ground (Alex's connections always got us free tickets to sporting events) and all manner of shows I was forced to sit alongside him at.

I always said, “
Well, I'll give it a bash,” but more often than not I was forced to concede my enjoyment.

We had a favourite pizza p
lace on the rougher side of West Bridgford, where we used to travel to on bad days, if one of us was feeling down in the dumps. Huge chunks of greasy cheese, coupled with chips and cola would do the trick, though I'd probably end up laid in bed the rest of the night. I wasn't built for mass consumption. There were curries in front of the fire, or horror marathons in front of the TV. Sometimes we didn't even need to talk.

I quite vividly remember us going to see t
he Russian State Opera's production of
Eugene Onegin
. I had decided most adamantly that I would hate it. I really had. But as ever, he'd got the tickets and I was bound by his generosity to go. He said it was black tie and gowns so I'd been forced to drag some black velvet relic out of my wardrobe. He looked outstanding in a tux and I was fit to burst with desire. I was a little bit in love with him. Actually, since our night of passion I had very nearly touched myself over him on several occasions. Hiding my desire for his mouth against mine was almost impossible. My eyes always veered toward his abnormally plump pink lips. I loved him and the not having him drove me insane. In the Nottingham Theatre Royal, behind the Corinthian columns that had welcomed us in, we sat up on a balcony and I watched with awe from a viewpoint that allowed me full vision of the stage, the audience and the extravagance of such a place. The theatre's carvings were exquisite. When the curtain closed, I sat with tears streaming from my eyes, quite certain nothing as miraculous had ever occurred before. Unrequited love. Could anything else be so painful or more entrancing as a plot device?

I remember looking at Alex that night, as he walked me home, feeling that
he was the love of my life. We got to my door and he revealed, “Thanks for making my birthday perfect.”

He had not even told
me it was! I was flummoxed and he said, “I didn't want any fuss. Just you in a dress with that smile on your face.”

We hugged it out, but really, I
felt the only way of expressing our emotion was to head for the bedroom. As ever, I padded on up to my one-bedroom flat and he made his way to his more luxurious pad on Canal Street.

For my 26th birthday, Alex insisted on taking me shopping. I had known him for nine months by then and for sure, he seemed to know me better than anyone. He wanted to buy me something nice to wear for our night out celebrating the annual event. He did not give me much notice, telling me the morning of said outing. I thought about feigning illness, or something, but it was a busy day and I didn't have time to think about it all really.

It was
3pm. We were meeting at the end of our respective shifts. That gave us around two hours to find something suitable. A short window but one I had decided I could perhaps cope with.

Alex, oh, my dear lovely Alex thought he was doing me a great service, really, he did. However, he was not to know the depth of my paralysing self-consciousness. He did not realise how painfully and thick it ran.

We had visited several stores, nothing seeming to appeal to me. Everything was either too patterned, too short, too revealing, too tight, too lacy, too eye-catching, too sparkly. Nothing offered me all I wanted. I needed demure, sophisticated, stylish, but at a price that suited me. And certainly nothing that appeared to be a fashion statement. I would not allow him to spend over £50. He tried to push so many things on me, declaring I would look great in any of them, but nothing would do. He just did not quite comprehend the damage he was doing.

We were in John Lewis, panicking because our time to find something was almost up. Alex spotted a friend and left me for a few moments, dashing off to catch them before they exited in a lift.
In the designer section, I wandered alone. Everything I saw was unsuitable. If something was low-cut, I would imagine strangers staring at my breasts, thinking how vulgar I was to be displaying them so brazenly. If something was tight, I imagined people assessing my behind and groaning at its disproportionate size. I saw the sales assistants, impatient and weary from a full day's work, staring at me. I wore my work uniform beneath a fleece jacket that could not be any plainer, and reached the conclusion that they probably thought me poor or destitute, browsing what I could never afford. If I chose something revealing, I would be deemed a slut. If I selected a garishly fashionable item, I might be seen to be trying too hard. Anything Victorian and modest would label me a prude or trying to hide some deformity only a mother could love. The stress that crept up on me was intense. I felt unattractive, unsuited to anything we had seen that day, and totally ill at ease within my own skin. The inability to choose a single item meant I was a failure. The shop girls possibly thought I had just been released from prison, with no make-up, my work clothes and not a clue what to buy. I wanted to leave and run, but I was not so lucky.

I do not re
member the woman, but I recall what she said.

“
Are you looking for anything in particular? Maybe I could help if you are? We shut in ten minutes I am afraid.”

By then, shaking with self-loathing, frustration and claustrophobia, I felt I was being attacked. I decided that everyone was my enemy. Nothing, not a single item, was for me. Everything would say something about me that wasn't true. I felt sure not a thing would represent me and what I stood for and therefore it was the woman's fault. It was the world's fault. It was fashion's fault for favouring the slimmer figure and not catering to small, curvy girls like me. Girls who were a certain size up top and another down below, and for whom, dresses rarely fit properly and would not unless custom-fit, or couture, I heard it once called.
It was terrible.

“Nothing in here will suit me!”
I shouted angrily, turned and went. I was sick with myself, really, but I just wanted to be left alone. I wondered why those people had to bother others who just needed to have their own space and find their own clothes, in an environment they felt comfortable with.

I almost did run away
. I made it to the escalators and started making my descent. Alex saw me and caught up.

“
Hey, did you find anything?” he asked.

He and I had never once fought, up until then. Not really.

“I am not best pleased, Alex. Why did you force me into this?”

“I didn't,”
he protested.

As always, we knew the issue, but we never spoke of it.

“You are trying to prove a point,” I spitted.

“
Yeah, perhaps I am. But never maliciously.”

“
You don't understand.”

“Oh, but, I really do. I do,”
he tried to assure me.

“
Alex, today… all this shopping, has only made me feel bad. It has only… I haven't enjoyed it, okay?”

“
You're avoiding yourself, life, love, everything…!” he protested. I was incandescent with rage. He was unperturbed, continuing, “You seem to treat everyone else like a lesser mortal. You're offish, unapproachable, untouchable. I know different. I know you. I know why you're like that!”

I flushed purple probably, with anger and resentment.

“Don't judge me. You know, I have never judged you and your inability to be honest about who
you
are!”

We had traversed two escalators and were on
the last.

“
Listen Char, okay? Please. Maybe I hope I can save you from the same fate as me.”

He tried to squeeze my shoulder in a loving, affectionate, understanding gesture, but I shrugged it off.

“This has caused me pain,” I muttered, glancing back at him with a scowl. I could feel my teeth chattering, my lips trembling and my eyes stinging. I was going to draw attention to myself in the worst manner possible and break down right there.

“
Char, you are really beautiful, you are. Even in your scruffs you knock spots off most women! I promise you are lovely, please believe me! I love you. I do. You are gorgeous, inside and out. I only want you to see that. I thought I was helping to snap you out of this!”

We reached the bottom and I turned on him.
I pointed at him, tears rolling down my cheeks, telling him, “You don't know Alex, you don't know!”

“I do,” he said softly.

He stood so solidly in front of me, almost gloatingly, I perceived. He did not swerve or falter at my exclamations. I decided he was actually an unkind, unloving bastard who really had no clue who I really was. I slapped him. There was nothing else I could possibly do. If it were a romantic connection between us, he might have tried to win me over with a kiss. But we were better than that, more, and knew only too well how our more earthly, platonic bond had become so vital. That he was now trying to edge his way into the monogamous realms of changing me ‒ goading me toward overcoming all the protective barriers I had set up with one fell swoop – was totally unreasonable and exacting in my mind. It was calculating and uncalled for. It was unbearable to think that someone who was supposed to be my comfort was now my enemy, my challenger, my judge and executioner. He had not thought how this would set me back. I was not like him. For me, my level of exactness was well-hidden and closeted. He did not know how many layers there were to peel away and how my essence was shrouded by so many protective cushions.

He stepped back, unemotional, and walked away.
I was left there alone. In one last act of persecution, I was curtly told the store was closing and to leave immediately. I went, out into the wilderness, and a zombie pushed its way through my front door, falling into its bed for some days after that. I spent my birthday totally alone.