My Legendary Girlfriend (9 page)

The thing about that weekend without glasses was that what I could see looked really nice. Nothing had any definition about it. Colours merged. It was like constantly being caught in the sort of cheesy soft-focus normally reserved for swooning heroines, all the rough edges smoothed away, all the blemishes blurred out of existence. Real Life seemed far away.

In my retrospective mood, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, I was reminded of the first time that Real Life and My Life collided in my head. I’d just completed a rather excellent picture of my mother. I’d painted her with a red smiling face and blue hair – most importantly of all I’d given her a neck. I’d noticed that those of my peers whose talents lay in the world of art rather than the sand pit, had drawn portraits of their mothers – specifically commissioned for Mother’s Day – without necks. Some had big round heads, others even had hair, but not a single mother had a neck. I knew my mother had a neck, so I gave her a neck. It was a long slender green one. It made me very proud.

After painting time, we were forced into our afternoon nap. The beds were set out in rows across the far end of the classroom. I usually ran to the one by the door so I could feel the draught come in and pretend that I was on a boat at sea. This particular day, I ran to a bed that faced the large window which spanned the side of the room. It looked out onto the trees in the yard near the playground. I wasn’t sleepy but I liked lying down. I could’ve run and jumped and played twenty-four hours a day, but I conceded this battle every time because the afternoon nap gave me a chance to think. Back then I rarely thought proper thoughts because I was too busy playing. Time was always NOW, in big, bold, upper-case letters. The future just wasn’t my concern.

I closed my eyes tightly and waited until I saw the red and orange floaty things that always appeared before my eyes when I did this. They were beautiful, but I could never look at them directly otherwise they disappeared and would only reappear once I’d stopped looking for them. After five minutes or so, I began to think about my mum. She had dropped me off at the nursery, as she had done every day since September. I was completely happy with this arrangement. I had no problem with being left alone with strange adults and a bunch of children I didn’t know. If my parents were trying to give me a head start on the advancement of my social skills then they should have asked me and I could have told them that I got along with everyone.

That morning I’d kissed mum good-bye but as I lay there that wintry afternoon, I began to think about where she was. I couldn’t explain it, but I suddenly wondered if she was real. I’d sometimes dreamt things that felt so real that they couldn’t possibly have been dreams. I once dreamt I could fly and, even now, can still remember what the city looked like from up in the sky and how the wind felt in my hair and against my skin. But when I woke up I couldn’t fly.

Lying on the bed thinking these thoughts, I concluded that my mother was just a really nice dream. I could remember the softness of her cheek that I’d kissed that morning and how smooth the tissue that wiped away her lipstick felt. I could remember her smell, which was warm and summery in contrast to the bleak day it really was. I remembered it all, just like I remembered that I could fly. Right there and then, I convinced myself that my mum didn’t exist, that both she and my dad, my bedroom and toys – all that I loved didn’t exist. Nothing existed except me and what I could see.

I opened my eyes, looked out of the window, saw the branches of the trees blowing in the wind and started to cry. Not loudly for attention, but softly, very softly. My eyes filled up and warm tears ran across my cheek onto the hand resting beneath my head. Within minutes I was in full flow. I felt sad and empty. I was an orphan. The teacher, Mrs Greene, a lovely lady who smelt of Pears soap, gave me a hug and stroked my hair, but I was inconsolable. ‘My mum’s not there! My mum’s not there!’ I shouted through my tears, but it wasn’t actually what I meant. What I wanted to say was, ‘My mum’s not real!’ In the end I cried so much that she had to call my mum at work from the telephone in the school office. When she explained to my mum what the problem was, she passed the telephone down to my outstretched hands to let me speak to her. As soon as I heard her voice, the tears stopped. My mum was real. It wasn’t a dream. Everything was all right.

1.05 A.M.

Right. I’m busy in the kitchen. I’m chopping parsley and sprinkling it over a dish which I return to the oven for twenty minutes to crispen – well that’s what it says in my Delia Smith cookbook, anyway. Playing in the background is
Elvis – Live From Madison Square Garden –
it just fits the mood I’m in tonight – triumphant, jubilant, ready to please the faithful. There’s a knock at the door. I brush parsley from my hands and slip on my jacket which has been sitting on the back of a kitchen chair. As I enter the hallway I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Looking good. I’m wearing a dark blue suit from Paul Smith. It looks expensive but not obscene, chic and ‘with it’. No, scrub that. The suit’s too formal – where am I going? A funeral? No. I’m in something casual that could only have been bought on a shopping trip to New York. Let’s see. A checked Calvin Klein shirt and a pair of Chinos from Bloomingdales. No, no, no, no, no. It’s just not me – only models in
GQ
wear that sort of stuff. Okay, I’ve got it. I’m in a plain white T-shirt and a pair of old Levis and – here’s the best bit – I’m not wearing any socks! Nice touch, she used to like my feet
.

I throw her a look I’d seen Nicolas Cage use on Laura Dern in
Wild At Heart:
intense, deep and unambiguous as if to say, ‘Baby, you’re mine – I’m yours – forever!’

The phone rings. I ignore it. Aggi moves to answer it and I hold my hand up, signalling that whoever is calling is nowhere near as important as she is. The answering machine clicks on and a refined voice – not altogether dissimilar to that of Audrey Hepburn – says, ‘Hi, Will! It’s Abi here. I just wanted to have one of our late-night chats but you’re not in! What’s a gal to do? Oh well. What are you doing next Thursday? I’ve got tickets for the theatre. It’s
Love’s Labour’s Lost.
It’ll be wonderful. Do say you’ll come. We can have dinner at my place again afterwards. Ring me soon. Please! Bye!’

1.17 A.M.

The phone rang, denying me the opportunity to wallow in the depressing inadequacy of my imagination. I wondered who it could possibly be, but after a few seconds I made the decision to stop wondering, on the grounds that it was both pointless and stupid. I tried to argue back that neither of those reasons had ever stopped me before but I ignored myself and answered the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s only me.’

It was Martina.

I checked my watch, trying to gauge how outraged I should be. This late at night most normal people would either be a) not in b) fast asleep or c) having sex. As I wasn’t normal I wasn’t doing any of them – but I wasn’t going to miss out on a sterling opportunity to lose my rag, dump Martina
and
fill the yawning chasm of boredom stretching out in front of me. This was obviously some sort of gift from above – maybe I’d done something right today.

‘Martina,’ I began. ‘It’s nearly three in the morning. Why are you telephoning me at three in the morning? Are you insane? I thought it was my mother ringing to say that my Gran was dead. How can you be so cruel?’

I don’t know how I managed to say all that without laughing. I especially liked the bit about it being ‘three in the morning’ – exaggeration always was my favoured weapon in wars of words.