Running in Heels (31 page)

I stamp around the flat straightening pictures on walls until I dare admit that while I don't like to be reminded of how ugly I feel inside, what actually unsettled me was Alex. She's so sorted, so capable, so at ease with herself. And, despite the Concordes, dolphins, and pearls, I can't imagine ever being like that. As if to prove my point, I gorge on chocolate, then throw it up.

IT OCCURRED TO ME A WHILE BACK THAT YOU
can go for months and months without being insulted, then speak to a relative and be resoundingly snubbed three times in the first minute. With this in mind, my mother is
not the person I want to hear from at ten past ten on Sunday morning. The memory of yesterday hangs over me like a noose, and my aching spine has less in common with a string of pearls than with a rusty bike chain. I feel fragile, and if my mother says anything less than complimentary I may fragment. At her worst, she is the human version of lemon-scented bleach. Her token nod toward petty sensibilities accentuates the toxic undertone.

“Mum. How are you?”

“Patronized!” ricochets the response. I gulp, and grope through my recent past for possible transgressions.

“W-why?”

“Yumminess, that's why!” snaps my mother.

I wait, and she waits too. I realize I've unwittingly engaged in a theatrical contract and my line—in the tradition of a doofus sidekick—is: “Yumminess? What do you mean, ‘yumminess'?”

“I mean,” shrills my mother on cue, “yumminess, as in ‘Slimwell's Whole Meal bread—All the delicious yumminess of brown malted wheat bread but a lot less calories!' The wretched stuff—advertised on every second page of
Lite Weight
magazine—until I felt morally obliged to buy a loaf. Morag at Weight Watchers said she swore by it, I might have known she was bluffing! Utterly ridiculous! I'm not surprised each slice is only forty-five calories—each slice is mainly air! I had to eat eight slices to make the tiniest dent! How dare they? ‘Delicious yumminess!' It's outrageous, talking down to grown women, taking us for fools! I should have known. ‘A lot less calories' indeed! How's that? Not even a child's grasp of English grammar! I've a good mind to write and complain. They've even got a Web site! A Web site for a loaf of diet bread! They're lucky I don't own a computer, is all I'll say!”

I giggle. When my mother discards her alien shell and parties with the human race she can be quite likable. Her beliefs are so dissimilar to mine—square nails—not ladylike; fancy car—no money in the bank; L-shaped sofas—common—that on the rare occasions she produces a thought I can relate to, I'm too lost for words to tell her I agree.

“That is quite a cheek,” I manage finally. “How, uh, how
is
the diet going?”

As the diet's been going for the best part of twenty-six years with no sign of abatement or, indeed, waistline, this question is a formality. But I'm interested. It fascinates me, my mother's endless tussle with her weight, so much a part of who she is that her failure to lose more than two pounds in one week without gaining three the next is a warm, restful constant. While her lack of willpower irks me, I'm not sure I could stand her if she was thin. In fact, I feel it's a mother's duty to be a little plump. (If they can't manage a large maternal bosom, it's the least they can do.) Meanwhile, if
I
seem contrary, I'm nothing compared to her. My mother's double standards are such that she can talk happily about her own food fight and bewail mine at the same time.

That's a thought. I neatly divert the conversation with news of my imminent foray into the catering business.

“Jackie is going to give you a job?” she cries, her gratitude placing me as a Care in the Community case. “What a lovely, charitable idea! What a kind gesture. She appreciated the thank-you note you sent her after Barbara's wedding. It's important to cultivate people, you see? Ah, well, I must call and thank her. She knew how anxious I was.”

I feel like a beaver trying to dam the Atlantic. Every road leads to a moan. I consider mentioning my Pilates idea but decide against it. If my mother knew I planned to plow my savings into “a nonsense”—her preferred umbrella term, covering a host of unknowns including reflexology, homosexuality, Cubism, nouvelle cuisine, and the Montessori method—there'd be no stopping her. She likes me to keep “something by.”

Six years ago my grandma left me a small sum in her will, and my mother nearly swooned when Jackie inquired what I might spend it on.

“I like-a to have something to show,” cried Mrs. Edwards, as I quailed in my chair. “To say-a, ‘this is what I got!' ”

After Mrs. Edwards left, my mother remarked, “You do have something to show. Your bank statement!” Woo-hoo! Fun on paper!

“Have you heard anymore from Tara and Kelly?” I blurt. “Have you thought any more about going out there?”

“Jackie thinks I should go,” replies my mother, as if she needed permission. “I'll have to think about it.”

“
I
agree with Jackie,” I say, recalling my bitter rant at the art gallery and wanting to compensate. “I think it would be lovely. You deserve a holiday.”

My mother sighs. “We'll see,” she says, which—if my childhood memories serve me correctly—means no.

“But I thought you really wanted to see them.”

“Natalie, what we want in life and what we get are two very different things.”

I bite my lip. She may be right, although she often isn't. Years back, when Mr. and Mrs. Edwards were trying to think of a snappy name for their shop, my mother's inspired suggestion was “Deli Belly.” When Andy and Tony finally hauled themselves off the floor, still gasping with laughter, Jackie took one look at my mother's hurt face and cried, “Deli Belly…Deli Cirelli! Is a brilliant idea!
Brava
, Sheila!” While this idea was blatantly unconnected—Cirelli was Jackie's maiden name so it wasn't exactly a long haul of logic—my mother told everyone that she'd thought of Deli Cirelli. She needs to feel useful, I think, because she doesn't. This recollection enables me to say good-bye without crumpling. I stretch, wince, and wander into the bathroom. I am inspecting my head for pink patches—despite vitamin pills and feeding up, the dead hair still falls as steadily and silently as snow—when the doorbell trills.

My breath catches. I look like a scarecrow! I should have gotten up early to perform damage limitation on my hair and face, but…But forcing food back up is—if I may take a Pollyanna of a word in vain—holistically draining. Don't try it at home. I check the corners of my mouth for congealed spit, and race
down the hall in three low, lunging steps, like an athlete gearing up for the long jump. I'm wearing a flared corduroy skirt, knee-high boots, and a huggy top. If I'd had time to reconsider, I'd have changed back into my usual camouflage of loose layers. (My mother once said that I dressed like a
millefeuille
.)

My new look was inspired by chance. Yesterday, speeding home, I nearly crashed the car, thanks to a big flabby woman sauntering down the road in a miniskirt and crop top. Her soft white stomach bulged out of the gap between her clothes, and her large fleshy legs seemed to swell from her teeny little shoes. I was entranced. An elephant in cheeky red knickers. I saw and I couldn't compute. A bright smile, no apology. Her chins up, not in defiance but proudly. As if there was no controversy! This mountain of a woman dared to
be
, while I—a bat squeak—hid myself under the closest I could find in Next to a body bag. From what?

I couldn't produce an answer that wasn't pathetic, so, in spite of last night's toilet villainy, here I am, dressed to kill. (I may die of embarrassment.) I open the door.

“I'm back,” says Andy.

I notice his gaze flick over me. I fold my arms and look at him. My boots have heels, which makes us exactly the same height, a pet hate of mine, as I feel myself mutate into the Fifty-Foot Woman. His hair is dirtier blond than ever, and his eyes—good grief—they really are chameleon eyes. I don't mean they're reptilian and lidless, I mean they seem to change color according to what he's wearing. On Friday he wore a khaki shirt and I swear they were green. Today he's in a navy T-shirt, and they're bluish gray. The luck of some people!

“Problem?” asks Andy.

“Oh no, no,” I cry, “hello, come in.”

Although there
is
a problem. A problem that's been brewing ever since our brief corridor encounter was cut short. Despite the rudeness, despite the digging and the tartan dressing gown (for which there's no excuse, even though Babs once excused a bloke who wore slippers with “He's not from London”). Despite
the gallery of crimes this man committed in league with Tony, despite the kiss-and-run, despite his seven-year sulk in his black bedroom, despite his offensive attitude to food as celebratory, despite knowing that when he was ten he pinned down Babs and farted on her head, despite the overwhelming evidence stacked against him, I fancy the bloke rotten and it's getting worse.

Much worse. The way he's looking at me is best described by the legal term “with intent.”

I shouldn't, what if—

The remainder of this query is muffled as I find myself hanging off Andy's neck, my mouth clamped to his like a barnacle to a boat. He's squeezing me to him so tightly, I couldn't let go even if I wanted to, and when he staggers into the hall, kicking the door shut behind him, my size-nine feet trail along the floor. I would laugh but our kissing is so frenzied and ferocious I can barely breathe—I've no oxygen for luxuries like laughter.

Oh god, I think: bad news, what are you doing—he's not just delicious, he's, ugh, ick,
decent
, and if that doesn't put you off him, you are in serious trouble….

It doesn't. And I am. Andy isn't quite as decent as my mother imagines and neither—I discover—am I. What we do next is deliciously indecent, my pale blue hallway has never seen the like. (Chris, despite his allegiance to rock 'n' roll, could rarely bear to have sex anywhere but the bedroom. Saul could rarely bear to have sex anywhere.) Oh. Yes. This is real. I feel like an animal. I want him I don't fucking care, the blood pulses red hot, and we're moving together, hard, harshly, gripping, grunting, his jeans at his knees, my knickers yanked to one side, my back pressed against the cool blue wall, this is, this is, I've never, it's not like me at all, but me, him, us, this—I love it, oh hang on, oh blimey, Oh, oh,
OH!

We do it again, slower this time, in the cool dark of my shuttered living room.

Andy says my name over and over, and I feel like a pudgy green caterpillar turned into a butterfly.

WE LIE, TANGLED, ON MY AFGHAN RUG, AND
Andy says, “So will you still charge me rent?”

I reply, “Depends if you put out more than once a month,” and we kiss, giggling. I realize I haven't chortled this much since Frannie burned her chin on the steam off a pita bread she was jabbing out of the toaster. Small niggles fly at me like insects and I swat them. I don't want any
fluids
staining my rug (Nat, dry cleaning is a wonderful invention). Andy, can you not balance that glass of water on the edge of the table, can you place it in the center, otherwise we might accidentally jolt it and it will drop off (Nat, try to live with it, it'll be a test).

I try, and win. It's hard to care when you're this floppy. If a herd of buffalo charged through the flat, chipping my glass-topped table, I might just smile. Right now smiling is the most I'm capable of. My body is very gently buzzing and all I can think is, me and Andy. Nat and Andy. We…we…there is no way round it. We fucked. The feeling is incomparable. It really puts Prada in perspective. He is squashed up to me, his eyes shut, clasping my hand.

“I wasn't sure if you fancied me,” he murmurs suddenly.

Neither was I, I think.

“But”—a smile cracks his lips—“waiting for a sign from you. Christ it was like waiting for Godot.”

“Well, you weren't exactly blatant,” I complain. “I wasn't sure about you either.”

I don't add that I'm not sure now. What happens next? What does this mean? Any port in a slight drizzle? I certainly feel very
snuggly
toward him. Maybe it's an evolutionary trick. I felt snuggly toward Chris when he made me…you know…but not like now. That was more gratitude, like he'd found my car keys. This is wonder and terror, fused. It's as if I've been promoted to the next level. Blissful, but there is further to fall.

Then Andy says in my ear, “Let's have a bath,” and I stiffen. The shared bath is an evil invention, thought up by a misogynist. I suppose I could airbrush with candlelight.

“Yeah, okay,” I bleat, squirming out of his grasp and slipping on his T-shirt to delay the moment of truth.

I scurry from the dim safety of the living room, my happiness dilute. It is no comfort that Andy appears to be at home with his nudity to the point of arrogance. He wanders whistling and naked down the hall with the blithe assurance of the fully clothed! My heart flutters, lust mingling with fear. He's like a Rodin—well, a slightly softened, wimpier Rodin—but I don't care. To me, he is perfect, I want to eat him up. I realize my mouth is ajar, and I shut it tight against my greed.

“Having a good look?” says Andy, with an insolent grin.

“No! Yes! Yes, all right, I'm looking at you, you gorgeous boy!”

“Boy?
Boy!
Natalie, I can't believe you! We've just done
it
—this is an egotistical disaster…”

He pretends to look crushed.

I fall into his hug, inhaling the warm scent of sex. It's intoxicating and I fight the urge to sniff like a bloodhound.

Instead I say, “So two”—I search for a dainty phrase and don't find one—“ah, orgasms from me aren't enough of a tribute? You want more, do you?”

(I blush. I've never said “orgasm” out loud in my life—except once in biology when, during a lesson on amoebas, I mispronounced the word
organism.
)

“Yeah, I do, Nat. I want more.”

Various parts of my body twang.

“Take this ratty thing off,” he mutters, “I want to
see
you.”

He starts yanking at the T-shirt as we kiss.

“Wait a sec,” I say, struggling. “Let me turn off the light, it's in my eyes.”

Andy tilts my chin so I'm forced to meet his gaze. “Please, Nat,” he whispers, “let me see you.”

My desire turns to lead. I lift my arms listlessly, like a five-year-old, as he gently removes the T-shirt. I flinch as I see the distress in his eyes. For once, he doesn't seem to know what to say. He runs his hands from my shoulders down to my fingertips. He doesn't let go. The pink enchanted fairy-tale mood is tortured, killed, and hacked into a thousand pieces.

I pull away my hands and cover myself.

“I'm eating more,” I say defensively.

Andy looks unconvinced.

“I wasn't eating much, I had a problem, but I'm eating more now, I promise,” I add, crouching, and groping for the T-shirt. Andy tweaks it out of my reach with his foot.

“There's more to it than that, Nat,” he replies gently.

I glance at the mirror and see myself. Next to him. I don't look well. I'm embarrassed. I can't think of what to say.

“Shall I run you a bath?” he asks suddenly. “Give you some privacy.”

“No, don't bother, I'll run it,” I bleat.

Andy hesitates. Then he exclaims, “You don't have to hold back. You can cry if you feel like it.”

I nearly laugh out loud.

“Don't patronize me,” I hiss. “
This
is my way of crying!” I rake my nails down my skinny chest. “This!”

He snatches my hand away—the hot smarting beads of red smear—and snarls, “Don't you ever do that to yourself! Ever! Jesus, Natalie!”

It's frightening to see a man so furious he's impervious to the comical effect of his willy wobbling. It's also frightening to realize your own rage is so deeply buried inside you, the only way to release it is to scratch yourself like a cat.

“Oh god,” I whisper, appalled, “what have I done?” And then I do cry.

Andy dabs iodine on my wounds. I wail throughout. I thought thin was good! I thought it was good!

“And I…I've started making myself si-i-ick,” I blubber.

Not the greatest line in the history of romance.

“Well, then you've got to stop,” snaps Andy. “It's not necessary!” He looks horrified at his own gormlessness.

“Tell me something I don't know!” I say thickly through my tears. “I think I'll have a bath now, if you don't mind.”

I feel marginally better, washed and dressed. I tiptoe into the kitchen. Andy has found some clothes and is sitting at the table reading the paper and eating a cheese sandwich. He smiles warily.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, wiping his mouth and dropping the sandwich as if the bread was green.

I grin weakly. “Not bad,” I say, “for a nutter.” I pause. “You can eat in front of me, I won't faint. I'm even a bit hungry.”

“So you should be,” cries Andy gratefully. “All that exercise!”

We laugh tinnily. We are less like two people who have gloriously bonked for the first
and
second time than a pair of compulsive-obsessives forced into germ-ridden proximity on the rush-hour tube.

“If I make you a sandwich will you eat it?” says Andy, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Oh! Uh, yes,” I squeak.

Andy raises an eyebrow.

“Depending what's in it,” I add in a rush. Andy's eyebrow descends a fraction. “No butter”—down a bit more—“wafer-thin cheese but mainly tomato”—down—“and has to be brown bread”—and rest.

I sit, while he makes me a tailored-to-psychosis sandwich. I tell myself this is progress. After all, the first step to defreaking arachnophobes is to hand them a picture of a cute baby spider; the big hairy tarantula-fondling comes later. Maybe Andy should have drawn me a bagel.

“Nat, you know I find you so attractive it's almost undignified.”

I wait. I can feel the “but.”

“But confidence is more attractive than fear.”

Here we go! The Charter of
What's Wrong with You
.

“What I mean is, it's sexy when you ask for what you want. I wish I didn't have to force it out of you.”

I refuse to be lured by the sugar pill of “It's sexy when you…” Is my vanity
that
transparent?! Anyway, we went over this in incy-wincy detail forty billion times two days ago.

Andy places the sandwich before me, peeling it open like a sardine tin to prove the absence of butter. Then he leans on his elbows and watches me lift it to my lips. I take a teeny bite, chew forty times, then swallow.

“Andy!” I gasp. “Can you not stare while I'm eating! You don't watch people like me eat! It makes it worse!”

“Sorry,” cries Andy. He stops. He rubs his nose. “You won't ralph it up, will you?”

I put the sandwich down, cover my face with my hands, and start laughing. “I don't even know anyone called Ralph,” I say. I laugh some more.

“What?”

“I, well,” I croak, “I don't normally have cozy little chats about this.”

It makes a change from the usual postcoital backpedaling.

Andy takes a small bite of his sandwich. “Why…why do you think you do it? Not eat, or eat and, ah, throw it up.”

I don't answer for a long time. I want to get this right.

“It helps me block stuff. Sometimes,” I add, “I hate myself. I feel thick and ugly.”

The way he asks, with real concern and zero embarrassment, makes it easier to speak. There is a sense of relief each time I reply honestly. I can say what I feel without being condemned. This is a freedom I've rarely experienced with anyone, including Paws (canine king of the dirty look).

“Ugly?” repeats Andy, choking on his sandwich. “Natalie. If you saw you like I see you, you'd see yourself so differently. I tell you.”

I can't speak.

He adds softly, “You're so pretty. Although you don't do yourself any favors when you're this pale and frail.” He blushes. “You look better when you're healthier, so it's great you're eating more.”

After a second he adds, “I can see why you might have an inferiority complex if your mum favored Tony. But I don't think you
hate
yourself.”

Now it's my turn to choke. Honestly, it's like being counseled by a steamroller.

“Really,” I say icily—thank you, but
I'll
be the judge of whether I hate myself!—“And how do you make that one out?”

“Well,” says Andy, beelining for the eye of the hurricane like George Clooney in
A Perfect Storm
. And look what happened to him. “Well, Natalie, what stopped you going the one stage further? From doing a Karen Carpenter? You obviously have some sense of self-preservation.”

I bite my lip. Pass.

“I know you don't like me saying this,” he gabbles on, “but I don't care. I think you're right. You're using food to block stuff. I think a lot of this has to do with resentment. Certain people pissed you off, but instead of saying so, you went on a hunger strike.”

I snap, “It's not that simple!”

“I know it's not that simple, I'm not a gibbon! You might not be wildly in love with yourself, but don't tell me you hate yourself when you get
this
”—he gestures at me—“angry with people who diss you!”

I'm about to jam the last bit of sandwich into my mouth in defiance, when I realize what I'm doing and drop it on my plate. Using food to block stuff. Babs said pretty much the same thing, and I blocked that too. I can feel the mulch of bread and cheese in my stomach, and at Andy's harsh words I itch to run to the bathroom and get rid of it. Using food to block stuff. God, but
why
? I've only yakked twice and already it feels like a compulsion. Using food to block stuff. From now on, I tell myself, it's not an option.

“Then…then what should I do?”

I'm paralyzed. Using food to block stuff has been a flop of the highest order. The anger is still there underneath. It's just curdled.

Andy lifts his hands. “What do I know? I've said what I think.”

I light a cigarette, although my hands are trembling so violently it takes me about a minute. I know what he thinks I should do. Although it's nothing to do with him, and anyway,
I
know what I should do. It's doing it that's the great hulking problem with a glacé cherry (ten calories) on top.