Running in Heels (42 page)

“That's the trouble with not being properly employed,” she sighs. “If you take a break you lose money hand over fist.”

I ignore the barbs—hard when there's about twelve of them jabbing into your behind—and hurl one of my own.

“Well, it's not as if I'm earning much anyway.” But I'm not as harsh as I could be. I decide to reveal the three-month plan later.

“I hope there are seats left on the flight. You've left it so late. Australia's remarkably popular.”

“I'm sure there will be other flights. But, Mum, I don't
have
to come. I won't come if you don't want me to.”

“Nonsense, dear, I didn't say that, it would be a pleasure to have you along. Tara and Kelly will be delighted, I'm sure. You can share my hotel room. Although it does mean inconveniencing the travel agent. They like to have notice, but”—
sigh
—“it can't be helped, you weren't to know.”

I weather the deluge of guilt, tell myself she's undergoing a momentary lapse brought on by stress, and say, “Mum. I know you like to have your space…”

“Some people don't have any choice!”

“Yes, and it's a kind offer, but I don't think it would be fair on you. Or me,” I mutter, after a sharp prod from my conscience. “Why don't I see what else is available, or”—I wheel out a favorite phrase of hers—“reasonably priced.”

“Natalie, I can quite understand you not wanting to share with your mother, it's not a problem, I'm used to being all alone. I wouldn't want to put you out”—long-suffering pause—“I think your father should pay for you.”

“Sorry?”

“He'll pay.”

“But—”

“I'll see if
Leading Hotels of the World
has anything in Sydney.”

“But—”

“It's the least that man can do!”

“Mum—”

“Speak softly, dear, I'm getting a migraine.”

As “a migraine” is code for “my own way,” I concede defeat on this topic and try another. “Mum, have you spoken to Tony yet?”

“No, I haven't, and if he carries on like this, he won't know we're going until we've gone. I've stocked up the freezer for him. I suppose he could let himself in and take it, the BMW has a fair-sized boot, but—”

“Mum. Don't worry. I'll find out where he is.”

“I don't see how you can. That secretary of his is like a bull mastiff. And he never answers his mobile. I don't feel it's right to leave a message in this instance.”

The silence that follows is thick with disgruntlement, so I say, “I'll find him.”

I say good-bye and e-mail Tony with a short message:
Dear Tony, I'm pregnant by Chris Pomeroy
.

But I'm too much of a coward to send it. I delete and start again.
Dear Tony, I'm e-mailing you from intensive care
.

I scrap that and start again.
Dear Tony, Mum, Dad, and I are going to see Tara and Kelly in Australia. Love, Natalie. P.S. It's all booked!

Then I sit on my hands and quake until the phone rings.

I KNOW POLITICIANS ARE HARD-BOILED EGOMANIACS,
and that being a politician is a clever way of getting your Hapsburg chin in the paper, but I still find their career choice hard to comprehend. It takes a special kind of egomaniac to, day after day, stand up and address a roomful of people who then laugh and jeer openly at what they've said.
How hurtful is
that
? And wouldn't you be crushed? I couldn't cope—not even if I had a pack of self-esteem counselors passing me jolly notes from the back benches. I'd drag myself home every night sniveling “nobody likes me!”

My problem is, I like to be liked. By everyone. Starting from the paper boy and postman to—more ambitiously—my ex-boyfriends and relatives. It's a tough ambition to achieve. You have to bend yourself a lot of different ways. And even then, there's no guarantee. I was once walking to the tube station from work, some distance behind Miranda Morgan, a dancer in the
corps de ballet
. I
saw
her notice me, pretend she hadn't, and hurry ahead. Even though I happened to think Miranda was the most dull, shallow, intellectually vacant creature I'd ever met, I'd always been sweet to her and I was stung. She didn't like me either! The nerve! Obviously I had
my
reasons, but what were
hers
!?

Happily, I have improved. In the last few months I've started to risk not being liked. Thank goodness, the postman and the paper boy are still my biggest fans, but Crispin Pomeroy most definitely isn't. He was the first bend in my learning curve. The more I tried to please him, the less he respected me, so there was no incentive. Which made it easier to incite his dislike—a terrifying but exhilarating experience, and quite different from the sleepy blunders that endangered my relationships with Matt and Babs. As for the head-to-head with my mother, that was like jumping out of a burning building and hoping someone will catch you.

Escaping with some minor cuts and bruises gave me strength, I think. I saw that if I never challenged people, they'd assume I felt there was nothing to challenge. I suppose I owe my mother that acknowledgment, at least. The rows I've had with Andy are different. That man irritates me in a manner quite unique. It's hard to hold back when someone needles you as he does. He also has an alarming habit of shouting out his emotions as they occur, like a football commentator. He drives me to express myself,
and my annoyances, because otherwise I'd be standing there dumb as a post while he yelled at me. Yet, at the crucial moment, I still held back. Ultimately, my training got the better of me.

It's a warning that, despite making progress, I'd be no match for my big brother. He's all I'll never be—sleek, smooth, and so full of confidence he leaves a glittering trail of the stuff behind him, like a dolphin dancing through the sea at night, trailing phosphorescence. When Tony favors you, little else matters. You're a cat basking in sunshine after a chicken dinner. His patronage is so selective, you are blessed. The phrase I keep thinking of is “he shines his light upon you,” and I'm sure it's from a prayer—which might seem a little
overexcited
(as my mother would say), but that's what it's like. Equally, when he chooses not to bless, favor, and illuminate you, it's hell.

I pick up the receiver and say hello.

“What the fuck is this about?”

“Hi, Tony,” I squeak. “I hope you're feeling better after Monday and your kidneys aren't too bruised. I—I, just thought you'd, ah, like to know. Mum couldn't get through to you.”

“You're not going.”

“But”—vowing to book my ticket the second I get off the phone—“it's booked.”

“Are you deaf?”

“No, but I thought—”

“Did I ask what you thought?”

“No, but—”

“Tell me what you're not going to do.”

“Tony, I—”

“Did you hear me?”

I'm silent. It's like trying to reason with a cat.

After a knee-trembling pause, Tony speaks again, and this time his voice is a low hiss. “Get this. What I did in my year off was my business. It was nothing to do with this family. The woman and I came to an understanding about the kid. The end.
She goes back to her life, I go back to mine. No
shit
. No fucking
bother
. Everyone's
happy
. Until you open your big mouth, and the whole bloody world gets involved. It's not what I want, Natalie. I don't want this. Do you understand me”—his tone is incredulous—“or are you too stupid?”

“No,” I reply miserably. “I mean yes. Yes. No.”

“So,” he says softly, “tell me what you're not going to do.”

“I'm not going to go to Australia,” I whisper.

He cuts me off.

I stare at the receiver in disbelief. The rage boils, froths, and explodes.

“It's YOUR kid!” I scream at the phone. “It's
your
daughter, you stupid pillock! What's wrong with you, you moron, you should be PLEASED! We're going because of
you
!”

I fan my hand in front of my face, and catch my breath. I want to snatch up the phone and tell it all to Babs in one long wail. My finger is on the speed-dial button when it strikes me that Simon will have got home in the last half hour and maybe now is not a good time to ring. I cross my arms. She's got enough problems. She doesn't need to be wrenched from a romantic opportunity by my spat with Tony.

“What a foul man!” I say aloud and indignantly. “Foul, foul, foul.” I repeat this until I feel a bit better. Then I purse my lips. And I e-mail the foul man again.
It's your kid. It's your daughter, you stupid pillock. What's wrong with you, you moron, you should be pleased. We're going because of you.

It doesn't look so bad without exclamation marks, so I send it.

I chew my hair and my fingernails—I would chew my toenails too, but I can't reach them—but the phone doesn't ring. Keep calm, I tell myself, it's classic power play. He'll call in a minute. I sit like this for a quarter of an hour and then the doorbell trills.

Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggg gggggggggggggggggggggggg.

It isn't Andy.

My brother doesn't grab me by the scruff of the neck, but he looks as if he wants to. I open the door an inch, and using his torso as a battering ram, he sails in. I'm all but crushed between the door and the wall.

“I said, you're not fucking going!” he screams. “What's wrong with you, you stupid fat tart!”

I think he's slightly upset. I gingerly edge myself out from behind the door. “I—”

“Shut up!” he roars. I can't help noticing that his ears are bright red with rage. It makes him look silly, and I wonder if he knows this—it could matter in meetings. My brain shakes itself like a wet dog, and the insult hits me with a splat. Stupid. Fat. Tart.

“What did you call me?”

“You heard,” he snarls.

“No, Tony,” I exclaim, “you—”

“Shut up,” he murmurs, in the way an executioner might murmur “sorry” before chopping off a head.

“No, you shut up,” I murmur. (It was a good tactic,
I'm
not proud.)

Amazingly, it works. Tony blinks and splutters, “What?”

“I am not stupid, I am not fat, and I am not a tart, Tony.” I prod him in the solar plexus three times; once for stupid, once for fat, once for tart. He coughs, gasps, and stares.

“I'm tired of you, Tony,” I say, hoping he can't hear my heart banging against my rib cage. “I'm tired of your attitude—”

“The mouse that roared,” he says scornfully, rubbing his neck. “You sound like my fucking headmistress.”

“…toward me, Babs, Mum, toward all women, in fact. You're pathetic. You think it makes you look big, but it doesn't. Everyone thinks you're a misogynist prat.”

“What is it
really
, Natalie? You on the rag?”

“That, Tony,” I spit, “is exactly what I'm talking about.”

“I don't know
what
you're talking about, darlin'.” Tony seems to be considering another tack because he's stopped bellowing.

“Yes you do.” Suddenly, the coolness is no longer a front. I feel as if I'm facing him through a shield of ice.

“Floozie,” says my brother, “calm down.”

“You,” I reply, “are the one who's out of control—shouting and screaming like a baby with wind.” (I choose to forget the solar plexus attack.) I smile and add, “I'm going to Australia, and so is Mum and so is Dad, and no one is asking your permission, we're just informing you of the fact.”

“I don't want you to go,” says Tony through his teeth. “And I don't want
him
sliming around
my
daughter.”

“Your daughter! You haven't seen your daughter since she was born! You've got no say who slimes—who sees her! And this pointless ignoring of Dad! Have you noticed you've modeled your fatherhood on his? You're only spiting yourself. No one else.”

Tony starts. “Not true,” he says. So quietly the words are barely there. “Not true,” he repeats, louder. “It
kills
him that I won't see him.” He scowls, turning fifteen for a second. “And that pleases me.”

I shrug. “Fine. Just be prepared for the fact that in ten years' time your daughter might be saying the same about you. We'll all be off in Sydney having a laugh”—while this phrase is not notably applicable to my mother I use artistic license in the name of my cause—“with Kelly and Tara, and you'll—”

“That fat bitch.” But the way he says it is almost mechanical. As if his mind is busy elsewhere.

“Tony,” I exclaim. “You're obsessed with people being fat. Even if they aren't. You were always on at me when we were growing up, even though I had the figure of a car aerial. And Mum. Giving everyone else
your
complex. You really should see someone about that. What is it? Were you a fat kid? Were you teased at school for being fat? I should get out the old photo albums and—”

“Natalie,” snaps my brother. “Yap yap yap. Do what you fucking like. But if you go to Australia, that's it. You won't be seeing me again.”

“Is that a promise?” I say wearily. “Get out.”

He turns at the door. “Never,
ever
tell me who I'm like.”

By the time I work out who he means, he's revving up the Beamer. I watch him go and wonder if it's worth it.

Damn, I think, two minutes later. I've got to warn Mum.

“You
told
him?” she gasps. “I thought you were finding him! You didn't say you'd tell him! What did he say?”

I give her the uncensored version.

“Oh Natalie!” she cries, and I can't deduce if she's disappointed in me or angry with me or both. I brace myself for the rebuke. I've upset him, I've interfered, I've driven him away, why couldn't I keep quiet?

“Oh Natalie.” She sighs again, and her voice brims with regret. “He's a difficult boy. But he has to learn.”

When I put the phone down I'm choked. I'm not sure—because that's all she says—but I
think
she's on my side.

I decide to go for a run. There's too much grog in my head, running will clear it. And to be honest, despite preaching to my brother, I'm still not comfortable being heavier. If I'm going to put on weight, I'll have to keep going to the gym in order to feel smug. I mean, fit. The bigger me needs wearing in, like new shoes. The other reason I decide to go for a run is that if I stay in the house I might stuff myself with stale biscuits. I feel low about the showdown with Tony. My brother tends to carry out his threats. That said, Mum will be forever trying to force us back together, organizing rogue dinners and so on.

I check the class schedule before setting off for the gym—I don't want to see Alex. Happily, there's no Pilates tonight nor any sign of her. I bound toward the StairMaster like an old friend, and try to run with good posture—hard when you want to slump and curl with exhaustion. After five weak staggery minutes, during which I feel horribly self-conscious, my posture being that of a galley slave—I give up and switch off the
machine. Oh my
god
. I can't run anymore. My heart is a cold little pebble, sat there for show. I walk out and drive home depressed.

I can hear the phone shrilling as I go to unlock the door. Instantly, my fingers become potatoes and I drop the keys and finally clatter in to silence. Whoever it was hasn't left a message. I press *69, don't recognize the number, decide this is in my favor, and dial it.

“Natalie? Is that you?” The bundled-up Eskimo sounds snuffly. “That's a coincidence. I just called you.”

“Mel,” I say, in surprise. Has Tony asked her to ring? To try to persuade me against Australia? Not his style. Tony doesn't employ heavies, he is the heavy. Anyhow, no one could ever call Mel “heavy.”

“I rang you the other day,” I say finally, “about
Alice in Wonderland
. Although it might be a bit late now…”

Sniff

“I was writing the press release, and as you're one of the Alices, I thought…”

Sob

“Mel? Mel! What is it? Are you okay? I'm sure it's not too late, I'm sure we can still squeeze in your quote—”

blu-uhuhuhuhuuurr

“Mel! Oh no, what, sorry, please, what is it?”

With a great shuddering gasp, Mel stops crying and manages to spit a few words out, All I can understand is “mithing periodth” and “danthing ith my life” and “parmethan thauth.”

Parmesan sauce?
“Pardon?”

“They said I had a severely low body weight and there was all this stuff I have to eat and it was fattening things like pints of semi-skimmed milk—
pints
of milk—and P-P-P-Parmesan sauce…”