Running in Heels (33 page)

I DRIVE HOME AT TEN TO MIDNIGHT WITH THE
stereo off. (Right now, Britney can teach me nothing.) I don't feel quite as glorious as I thought I'd feel. I
am
happy that I spoke the truth to her. Or, to be exact, screamed it. Yet while it was cathartic—like relaxing after a long struggle—I am forced to realize that honesty is the selfish policy. Supposedly,
I did the right thing and am now as cleansed and pure as a white towel fresh from a hot wash. But, much as I try to shrug it off, I feel a bit of a cad.

The thing is, you make assumptions about certain people for so long, they fossilize as fact in your head. Then you learn something unlikely or unexpected about those people that explains—if not excuses—their behavior. All this time I've blamed my mother and now I discover that, in some ways, she did know best. So my triumph is muted. It reminds me of beating my father in a running race, aged six. I was proud and swaggery for one whole minute, until Tony revealed that Dad ran like an elderly tortoise on purpose.

But it's positive, I tell myself as I swing into my road, it
is
good. Our catfight was the bright shiny new start of a bright shiny new future filled with greater compassion, better understanding, and fewer stodgy meals. Possibly, yelling your head off isn't the adult way of working things out, but then again, I know very few adults who don't work things out by yelling their heads off. How else are you meant to work things out? Through lawyers? A mime show? Calm constructive rational discussion?! My first council house row. Tony would be delighted. And so would Babs.

Babs, I think, as I approach my front door, watch it swing open, and see her standing there.

“Barbarella!” I cry, bubbling with delight at the sight of her. I notice the dart of hurt on her face as she marches toward me—I'm afraid I haven't called her by this Highly Favored nickname since before she met Simon. There's enough time for me to feel a flicker at her unsmiling expression, to think that Prague must be chilly at this time of year, judging from the cold windlashed look of her, to guess that something bad has happened to summon her to Primrose Hill at midnight—Andy? a cry for help? life meaningless without Sasha?—and then she says, “You bitch,” and hits me, hard and jarringly, on the face, and then I get it.

I gasp and clutch my cheek, which burns—with shame or
pain, I'm not sure which—and stutter, “No, wait, I was going to tell you—”

For a moment Babs stares at me with intense dislike.

“Consider yourself lucky,” she says.

Having seen her floor a man who fondled her behind in a bar (he was dismissed with a swift uppercut to the jaw), I agree. I surreptitiously check with my tongue for loose teeth and taste the metallic tang of blood. Suddenly she grips my wrist in an eye-tingling pinch and drags me into my own home. I glance into the living room, hoping, but Andy is nowhere to be seen. A few hours ago this would have pleased me, but now I pray for his presence like a farmer prays for rain. I don't dare ask where he is.

“He went to bed,” says Babs.

“Speak to him,” I plead, “
he
'll tell you, he—”

“Isn't that so like you,” she sneers. “Always passing the buck. Not this time.” She just about hurls me onto a kitchen chair. “So tell me, Natalie, when exactly
did
you decide to make a move on my husband? Was it, ooh, when you saw me parade down the aisle in a big white frothmonster dress and couldn't—and I know this is a radical idea—just
be
happy for me without wanting what
I
had? Or was it”—her tone acquires a lunatic singsong lilt—“when, in the mad assumption that you were some kind of friend, I decided to trust you with the most painful problem I've ever encountered, even though it was private, even though it was the hardest thing I've ever had to admit, even though it shamed me to my fucking soul—
shame
, Natalie, that's something you don't understand—it tore me up, it still does, I feel like paper torn to tiny bits, and I tell you this, I tell you all of this, and oh yes, you make the right noises, you don't half come out with a lot of mealymouthed shite, and was it then, you thought, oh the man's seen sense, the time is ripe to have a pop? Because you never could understand it, could you? It never did make any sense to you, did it, that a babe like Simon could go for a fatzilla like myself, don't lie, Natalie, I know what you think—no one
else thinks of me that way, I'm fitter than you'll ever be—but I know what you think of me, you
abhor
that I'm a decent size, that I've got the brawn, that I don't play the little woman and I still get the man, you couldn't bear it, you had to prove to yourself—your inadequate empty self—that you could get
my
husband, that sick little ego boost meant more to you than sixteen years of friendship and my…my
life
.”

Despite the vehemence of this speech, Babs whispers it. It's like being very quietly sprayed in sewage. I stare at her, fearing another gush.

“Well?” she hisses, “I'm right, aren't I?”

I'm desperate to contradict her. Yes, I wanted what she had—
not
Simon, for god's sake!—what I craved was unconditional love from another human being whom I loved as much, but more than that, Babs, I craved your ability to love yourself, every bit of you, and the peace it brought.

I dig deep for courage. I'm such a stupid girl there's got to be a few scraps left down there.

Then I say, “It's true that I…I felt, uh, left out, that I felt
left
when you got married. And it's true that I feel more comfortable with you being”—I gulp—“physically bigger than me.”

I pause, in case she feels the need to reach across the table and wallop me again. But she doesn't. She nods, coldly. I wince. I hate this. Hostility from Babs is forty thousand times worse than hostility from anyone else. To quote Princess Diana—not a frequent habit of mine—she is my rock. And being hit on the head by a rock is very upsetting.

“It's true, I already told you, I was jealous that you were—are—so in love, that you'd found the right man. The rest is wrong, though,” I blurt. “Simon is…is, er, wonderful, but, er, he's not my type, but even if he was, I'd never…I wouldn't. I've got such respect for you, Babs, what you do, who you are, and…and I've never thought that you were f-f-f…what you think I thought, you're Amazonian and it suits you. And, yes, I…I know it wouldn't suit me, but”—I am about to add that I see her as a real
live Wonder Woman, with finer dress sense, of course. Thankfully she interrupts before I do so and earn myself another slap.

“You'd rather
die
than look like me,” she growls.

“Babs,” I whisper—“I wouldn't betray you like this. I can't bear that you think I would. I hate that I've hurt you. Whatever Simon or Frannie told you, it…it—I promise, I swear—it isn't like they said.”

I stop, aware that I sound like a sneak and that Babs is cracking her knuckles. But I can't resist adding, “When did she tell you?”

“She rang my mobile in Prague,” replies Babs curtly.

Foiled again. I'm so correct, so constrained by etiquette, that I refrain from calling my friend's mobile on her dirty weekend to confess my inadvertent mouth wrestle with her husband because I feel it would be improper to shatter the romantic atmosphere with such a crude, indelicate blow. Frannie, however, barges right in there, trampling rose petals and convention beneath her flat hammertoed feet, and is acclaimed as a heroine!

I bite my lip. “And Simon?”

“He was
building up
to telling me when Frannie rang,” says Babs in a tone so acid it could pickle onions.

“But,” I splutter, “Frannie saw what she wanted to see! Didn't Simon tell you what really happened?”

“You've got a nerve,” snarls Babs. “I don't think you're in a position to be asking questions, do you? Yeah, Si tried to shoulder the blame, of course he bloody did, but I'm not stupid, Natalie—it takes two to snog in a bar, and Frannie saw what she saw, and I know
you
.”

Then you don't know me as well as you think you do. I may lack confidence, but I'm not…empty. I'm not a lost soul. There are certain crimes I wouldn't commit, even to satisfy my hungry ego, and stealing my best friend's fright of a man is one of them. I think all this, but don't have the guts to say it.

My last chance. “But Andy, why don't you ask hi—”

Babs bangs her fist on the table. “Why are you so determined
to bring Andy into this?” she snaps. “I don't want my family involved, I told you that! As far as he's concerned, I came round for a late-night chat because that's what women do.”

I feel this is an underserved slight on Andy and foolishly, it shows in my expression. Babs bristles.

“What's wrong, Natalie? My husband not enough for you? You want my brother too? I don't care what's gone on between you, put an end to it. I want him out of your flat, and out of your life. I don't give a toss what you tell him, just end it. As for working at the deli—in your dreams! You'll ring my mother and tell her you've changed your mind.”

“B-but,” I stutter.

I'd find it easier to share a bath with a piranha than to confront Babs, and my defense dries in my throat. I risk a glance at her from under my eyelashes. She's wearing a black polo neck sweater under a blue track suit and she looks like an undercover cop. All that's missing—thank god—is the gun. I sigh. I don't understand Babs, and I don't understand Andy. He knew Simon was going to confess this weekend. So when Babs banged on my door late Sunday night, he'd have needed a remarkably low IQ not to realize why. It would have been as plain as a boil on a chin—she'd either prized the harlot's identity out of that twit Simon, or Frannie had blabbed. Why didn't Andy speak up in my defense? He's not exactly renowned for keeping silent!

“Do it,” says Babs.

With that, she stands up and stamps to the front door. I scurry behind her.

Desperate, I cry, “I only wanted to tell him off about how he was treating you! He came on to
me
—” I am about to add: But that kiss wasn't sexual, it was anger, resentment, and nine pints.

But Babs stops me with a second supersonic slap, which cracks and echoes like a gunshot. “Enough,” she snarls as I decide whether or not to faint with pain. “Good-bye, Natalie. And may you get what you deserve.”

I stumble back into the kitchen, dazed. One door opens, another
slams shut in your face. Does “May you get what you deserve” count as a curse? I don't think it's the imperative. What should I do? Run round a church three times or will that double it? Actually, I want to run to the biscuit tin—only I polished off its entire contents in 0.02 seconds during last night's binge. I could drive to the gas station. I glance at my car keys. No. No. No. You won't, Natalie, you won't. Just feel bad,
feel
the badness, don't try to convert it because you'll make it worse. I grip the underside of the chair, and the tears run down my face. For so long, such a fuss over coming second. Is this what victory feels like?

I think back through sixteen years of precious friendship and the ache is so searing it's as if Babs is dead. I want to bang down Andy's door and shake him awake. Will it be so hard to give up this man when he wasn't mine to begin with?
Ouch
. As for his sister, it doesn't seem real and I already feel her loss. Babs is the kindest, bravest, most generous person I've ever known. She's always been there for me. No one can replace her. As for me, I'm the opposite of Babs. I
am
selfish. It's incredible. To be so amenable and yet, at heart, so horribly horribly selfish. I sit, disconsolate, and rake through the ashes.

She always fought for me, and I let her. Babs is a fighter, in every sense. I remember when Matt first met her. He said, “I admire you, Bar, but I think you're mad. When I see a fire I'm running out of the building. You're running into it!” My ex-friend, the hero. And she really was. Saving lives was the least of it. Two years it took, for her to be accepted into the service. And then, her welcome speech from the governor: “Sleep with anyone and you're out.” The bullying. It took the guys on her watch three years to accept her.

Three years, and she didn't complain once. “They don't perceive it as bullying,” she explained patiently to her dad, who wanted to go in there and sort them out. “They think it's acceptable.” From the day she bowled up to her boss and said, “Hello, I'm your new recruit,” and he snarled, “You're not
my
fucking new recruit!”—not a squeak. She took it, as they say, like a man. Except she didn't have a nickname because no one would talk to her. They'd sit in the mess room, eat dinner and ignore her, and she'd look at the table and say nothing. They'd play rounders in the yard and she'd study. Then she'd be pulled into the office and yelled at: “You're not trying to be part of the watch!”

And then an inferno. Babs and this guy called Dean, on the second floor, fighting the flames, Dean steps forward, the ground disappears, and he's up to his waist in floor. Babs yanks him back. “It was right where the fire had started, we didn't realize,” she said afterward, playing it down. Dean wasn't exactly fulsome in his gratitude. And still there were jibes. “Barbara will do your washing,” they told the new guy. “She'll take it home and clean it for you.” The innocent approached her with his dirty kit and she told him where to go. She stuck it out until the most piggish offenders transferred or retired and the rest had to accept she was a five-star firefighter. And the first thing she did? She invited me to the station.