Running in Heels (44 page)

“Oh!” I exclaim. “Aren't you invited?”

“I don't know what you're talking about, so obviously not.”

Great. Now he knows I've been thinking about him.

Wordlessly, Andy hands me an apron and starts yanking and clanking at the coffee machine. I say, “Babs and Simon have invited me for dinner.”

“You and that plank?”

“Who?”

“
Who
. You know. Silver-ring boy.”

“Saul?” I squeak in genuine surprise. “What's he got to do with anything?” I think back to the performance I staged at the bar-café and squirm. “Saul,” I say firmly, “is very much an ex. I've
seen the guy once in the last two months, we had a nice civilized chat over the kitchen table, thank you, good-bye, have a nice life.” I pause. “There is,” I add, “only one plank I've had anything to do with in the last couple of weeks.”

Andy shrugs and clanks at the coffee machine harder than ever. “The coffee goes in here, smooth it over, clicks in there, flick the switch, da da da, cup under here, milk in the jug, swirl it, slowly, froth froth froth, pour it on, bit of chocolate, there you go. Easy. You try it.” He smiles in a not altogether unfriendly way.

I try it and burn my little finger on a hot bit of machine. “Ouch,” I say crossly.

“Run it under the tap,” says Andy, gesturing loosely in the direction of the sink.

“No,” I growl, wanting to. I hate men who sulk and sulk and then—when they feel they've leached every atom of joy from you—cheer up. I
said
it! I spoke out. I dropped him a hint as big as a brick! And what do I get in return? As Bruce Willis would say, dick! (mind you, I should be so lucky). Nothing. Fine. All right. “So how's lover girl?” I add, glaring at him.

“Lover girl?”

“Don't give me that!” I cry. “Don't give me that,” I repeat in a whisper as Mrs. Edwards glances over her shoulder. “Alex!” I hiss. “You know! Sasha! Gorgeous kind witty clever bloody perfect Betty Boop Sasha-Alex! The woman you're living with! Ring any bells?”

To my annoyance Andy starts laughing. He sees my expression and quickly stops. “I'm living by myself, in my old flat in Pimlico, and have been since last Wednesday,” he growls. “I was going to tell you what was going on with Alex in the café, but you're so
feckin'
impatient you couldn't wait. You were off with Plank before I got a chance.”

“I wasn't ‘off' with him!” I shrill as my pulse goes bonkers. “
You
were off! I was waiting to hear from you all morning!”

“All morning is nothing!” Andy splutters.

“You've spent too long lolling around hostels smoking pot!” I snap. “I'm on London time!”

“You should get out more,” murmurs Andy, shaking his head.

I say in a small voice, “What did you think I'd think, when you left with her that night?”

Andy, to his credit, looks ashamed of himself. “I'm sorry,” he says, sighing. “I didn't think. I know what it looked like with Alex. I was confused that night. When I saw her, after all that time, I did think, what do I do? But, Natalie, I swear, nothing happened. She didn't want it to, and neither did I.”

I thin my lips.

Andy glares at me. “Jesus, Natalie, I'm not an animal! I can keep it in my trousers! I am capable of exerting rational thought and a bit of self-control! Not
all
men think with their schlongs twenty-four/seven! Some of us even have brains in our head!”

“All right, okay, I didn't say anything,” I mutter. “Anyway, animals don't wear trousers. Calm down.” I try not to grin.

Andy continues in a quieter voice. “Sash is still in bits about her marriage breaking up. She was pretty pissed that night, she wanted someone to cry on. It was four hours of Mitchell this, Mitchell that. How he hurt her, how I hurt her. We stayed up all night, going through a lot of the old stuff. It was good, for both of us. There was no smoochy stuff. Ask Alex if you don't believe me. And anyway.” He stops and looks at me.

I feel dizzy, so I look at the floor.

“I
am
getting out more,” I murmur. “I'm going to Australia in three weeks. Traveling.”

“Oh,” says Andy. “Oh. Right. Good for you.” He pauses. “Well. These are the meats. That's Parma ham, prosciutto alle bonce, prosciutto cotto, speck, bresaola, mortadella, coppa di Parma, pancetta coppata, pancetta affumicata, salame Milano, salame fiocco, salame felino, salame aglio, salame ventrilina, salame finocchiona, carnevale sausage, spianata Calabrese,
chorizo, and golosa sausage, and these are the cheeses; Pecorino Romano—”

“Andy,” I say softly, “this is very nice of you, but I can read the labels myself. I need to know what everything tastes like so I can tell customers, but there's no point starting now. I've got to be at Babs's in an hour, and I've got to go home and change. Thanks for”—I waggle my charred finger—“showing me how to make a cappuccino. 'Bye then.”

I turn away and say good-bye to Mrs. Edwards, who forces me to take a box of cantuccini con gocce di cioccolato (crisp chocolate cookies) for the dinner party tonight. “At least you have a nice biscuit with the espresso!” I thank her, I glance again at Andy and walk out.

 

“
Y
ou've plumped out in the face!” says Frannie, giving me the fright of my life as I stand on Babs's doorstep in a trance. Frances Crump—in “I'm Ugly So There!” Mother Hubbard shoes and no lipstick (apparently Roman prostitutes wore it to indicate they'd perform fellatio)—is the most disagreeable sight I've seen in a while. But her bristling presence doesn't bother me. I'm too wrapped up in thinking about Andy. I want to kiss him or hit him, I can't decide. Probably hit him. “And anyway,” he said. “
And anyway
.”

Why couldn't he finish his sentence? I as good as told him he had an exclusive. I finally managed to use my mouth for its true purpose (to eat my sandwich, speak my mind) and he goes quiet on me! The biggest yap on the block, and suddenly he's inarticulate! I broke the habit of a lifetime. I expected results. As for Alex. I've been so mean to her, although mainly in my head. Such a lovely woman! I'll ring her tomorrow. Maybe we can meet for a drink sometime. I feel very charitable toward Alex.

“I
needed
to plump out in the face,” I tell Frannie smilingly. “Whereas your face looks more like a Halloween pumpkin every
time I see it. Do the babies start crying on sight? The doctors must save hours of manpower in smacked bottoms.”

When Babs flings open the door to welcome in her guests, one of them is standing there, pale with rage, while the other beams ear to ear like a demented pixie. I mean, elf.

“Nat,” breathes Babs, “your hair looks great. Look at this! It's so sophisticated! When did you do it? Frannie, doesn't it suit her?”

“As much as a pudding basin haircut suits anyone.”

“It looks sensational, Natalie.” Babs sighs.

“Thanks.” I grin, not even caring about being called “sophisticated.” (It makes me feel like a nine-year-old having her frock praised by adults at a party.) “This is for you and Simon.”

As Babs coos over the wrapping paper, Simon hovers in the background, twiddling his wedding ring.

“Hi, Natalie,” he mumbles, shaking my hand and leaning forward to bestow a kiss on the air. “Good to see you. Frannie, how are you?”

“Worked to the bone,” lies Frannie.

“Can I get you a drink?” blurts Simon, clawing desperately at social convention.

“This is
excellent
!” shrieks Babs. “My parents used to have one of these except bog green! Si! Look what she got us!”

Simon regards the orange phone in bemusement. Then his mouth twists into a grin and he says, “A fine choice.”

Frannie, whose gift is a cactus, says nothing. Babs hustles everyone into the warmly lit lounge (plump russet sofas, sheepskin rugs, orange arc lamps), forces great goblets of red wine into our hands, and the silence melts like ice. Simon does the cooking and, to my surprise, the food is delicious. It's a relatively new experience, thinking of a food as “delicious.”

“I was in the deli before and your mum didn't have high hopes,” I say to Babs, forking a small heap of wild mushroom salad into my mouth, “but Simon is talented.”

“Aw, he is, isn't he?” Babs beams, stroking her husband's arm. “He's been practicing, he used to be awful. I'm useless, I've always relied on men to cook for me. Men and my mum, and the guys on the watch.”

“I like men who cook,” says Frannie, whose plate is already stripped. “Although the kitchen remains largely the woman's domain. Every female has one foot straddling the cooker whether she likes it or not.”

“It sounds rather kinky,” I say.

Frannie shoots me a death look.

“I enjoy cooking,” says Simon. “It relaxes me. And Babs is so appreciative. What was it I made that you really liked? Risotto with lentils and sausages?”

“Mm,” says Babs. She grins. “
Risotto con lenticchie e salamini
. Si's been swotting up on northern Italian cookery in a bid to impress my mother. I've told him it'll never work and to concentrate on impressing me. So what was she on about before? She didn't tell you the Christmas pudding story again, did she?” (When Jackie Cirelli first came to England she bought what she described as “a horrible pudding” in Harrods. “I don' know what dis is, exactly,” she scolded her husband-to-be, who worked at the food counter, “but I tried with it, and then I put it in da bin.” He found her honesty, and her huge brown eyes, endearing and offered to take her out for a pudding-free dinner….)

“No,” I say. “She might have got onto it, but the shop was busy and—”

“I can't believe you're eating,” says Frannie, resting her elbow on the table and jabbing her knife at me. “I should take a picture.”

“Frannie,” says Babs. “Fourth helping?” She nods at me to continue.

“And so she had to serve the customers. So”—I fantasize that saying his name will summon him like a genie—“so Andy,
your brother,” I explain helpfully, “came by to collect something, and your mum made him show me how to make a cappuccino.”

“Don't tell me,” murmurs Simon. “You burned your finger on that blasted machine.”

“
Yes!
” I cry, never so pleased to have burned a finger in my life.

Simon and Babs smile at each other and laugh.

“But it wasn't Andy's fault,” I add quickly, lest anyone should think I'm apportioning blame. “I mean”—I feel my face turning as red as the wine—“it was very sweet of him to show me, he was in a rush and I…I…I…he left one of his slippers in my flat, did I tell you, I nearly brought it along!” I realize I'm talking rubbish and stammer to a halt, under the collective gaze.

Babs sucks in her cheeks and places her fork on her plate. For a second I think she's going to shout at me. But she doesn't. She looks at me through her eyelashes and smiles.

“Well, I do declare,” she drawls. “That big ol' brother of mine is a true gentleman!”

Frannie looks from me to Babs, appalled.

“You don't mean Natalie's got her sights set on
Andy
?” she barks, eyes bulging in pique. “My god, there'll be no men left for the rest of us!”

“I was under the impression you were fine on your own,” I mutter to my plate.

“We all want to find love, Natalie!” snaps Frannie, as if love is something that can be yanked out from behind the dresser drawer if only you pull hard enough.

Everyone nods meekly, but later, when Frannie is in the loo, Simon addresses me and Babs in a timid whisper:

“Natalie,” he says. “I know we've had our, er, differences. But if it's going to be you or Frannie—
please
, I beg you, don't let it be her.”

ALL LOVE IS CONDITIONAL ON SOMETHING. IT'S
just establishing what conditions you're prepared to accept being loved on. That makes it sound easy, but it's not. When you want to be loved by someone and want to
keep
being loved by someone, you can find yourself accepting terms that, in an ideal world with no sharp edges, you wouldn't stand for. There was a point when I'd say yes to anything even if, deep down, I didn't agree with it. But I'm a lot fussier than I was and, what's more, I'm not nearly so coy about making it known. I find it cuts down on bother.

This might be why I haven't contacted Tony, and why Mum and I might feasibly last twenty-four hours in an airborne tin, squashed up like a pair of battery hens, without needling each other to death. This might be why I haven't returned Andy's calls. It's been two and a half weeks since Babs's dinner and he's rung five times. He also turned up in my front garden last Friday at 2
A.M.
, singing a drunken solo—a travesty of Tom Jones's “It's Not Unusual”—while Robbie staggered around on the pavement with a traffic cone on his head. I'm not saying it wasn't persuasively cute, but I'm harder than that. I'm certainly harder than Robbie bawling, “I'm so bloody bored of his moping, aw, Natalieeee, please!”

This might sound nuts, but I'm very busy with Visas and mini–sewing kits and water purification tablets (well,
I
don't know what the water's like in Australia), so right now a relationship is not convenient.

Not yet. It's not easy, retraining to be normal. I still think about the caloric value of everything I eat. There's still guilt, worry, twitching. I can't imagine that I'll ever feel wholly comfortable around cake. And forgoing the manic exercise in favor of a more holistic—I'll never like that word—pursuit sucks up gallons of willpower. But I'm making slow progress and I want to
reach a certain point without a placebo. If I can be fine without Andy,
then
I can be fine with him. I need to be sure that my mental health doesn't depend on someone else. Not my father, mother, brother, Babs, or Andy. (Although if all five were wiped out in an earthquake, I suppose it might have some bearing.)

I feel quite calm about it. This may have something to do with Pilates—the boost I got from acquiring the ability to bend over an imaginary beach ball without squashing it cannot be underplayed—or it may relate to the fact that I now know that Andy didn't lie to me about his ex. I guess I knew it in the deli. Anyhow, I asked Alex straight out. I suggested we go for a drink, relayed the entire story, and to my surprise, she said she already knew. Andy had told her everything after the café debacle. I asked if she minded, and she laughed and said, “Would it make a difference if I did?”

Actually, it makes no difference. Nor does the fact that Babs isn't going to shoot me for trespass. (She's said nothing on the subject since the dinner, and I'm assuming she's decided to keep out of it.) Right now, I want to sort myself out at my own pace, and see what he does meanwhile. As well as untangling the food/body/mind/weirdo issues, I need to know that Andy wants me
first
—that I'm not a fallback because he's over Alex. Then I'll know what
I
want.

 

“
Y
ou want to get yourself some new kit,” says Babs. “If I see you in that dreary pink top one more time I'm going to rip it off you and cut it up. Get yourself into town and burn plastic. Nothing shapeless or baggy, though, or it's going back.”

“But,” I plead, “I've already spent about a hundred pounds on knickers.”

“What sort of knickers?”

“Your average ladies' knicker, Barbara.”

“What! Common-or-garden pants?”

“Babs, this isn't
Debbie Does Dallas
—I'm going traveling, it's just so I don't have to do washing every day.”

“Natalie, it isn't
Nuns on the Run
either. Anyway, I'm talking about your leaving do. Do me a favor and go and get yourself some nice lingerie. Nice knicks are good for the soul. And some new shoes. Tarty ones. If you can't find anything down the road, go to Selfridges. And a dress. A dress that stops traffic. People won't start arriving till nine. It's only 3
P.M.
, you've got ages, now go on, go!”

I put down the phone and check my list again. Crisps, got, carrots, got, dips, got, nuts, got, orange juice, got, alcohol, got, more alcohol, got, extra alcohol, got, reserve alcohol, got. What else do people need? Should I get extra toilet paper? I don't know why I let Babs talk me into having an I'm Off party. The last “celebration” I hosted was my flat-warming—a disaster seared deep into my ego. No one turned up till 10:40, and the first guests to arrive were an ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend. My mother had advised me not to move in the furniture until afterward—consequently, there was a vast and humiliating excess of space per person.

I hope I've learned from the trauma. Tonight's ordeal—sorry, party—will be restricted to the kitchen and living room so however measly the attendance, I'll achieve a deceptively high concentration of guests—no one can thin it out by sneaking off to the bedrooms, both of which will be locked. Also, last time I was picky. This time I've invited everyone I've ever met, including my enemies. I've practically handed out flyers on the street. I've also invited the neighbors so they can't moan about the noise. I'm considering paying an escort agency to send people en masse. Or borrowing the cardboard Stallone from the video shop. My mother, Susan, and Martin the Raconteur are on standby.

I decide to stop fretting and go shopping instead.

Why am I going to Kensington? It's the other side of London. And what am I doing paying for a pair of pink snakeskin mules? And tell me, how can a pair of sugar-spun knickers cost fifty
quid? And I should know by now that if it isn't navy it doesn't suit me. What made me hand over good money for a sheer purple top with ruffle trim and only
two
pieces of string where the buttons should be? Of course it looked good in the shop, they tilt the mirror so far back, Roseanne Barr would look like a waif. The stark reality of your own mirror is a different, fatter matter. I scramble into the top, yank on my black trousers—
Christ,
they're tight!—and dangle a foot in the mules. I bite my lip. I feel as heavy as a bus. But I look like a real woman. I take everything off and lay it lovingly on the bed. Then I leap in the shower, wash my hair, wiggle into my new extortionate knickers and high-concept bra, scrub my teeth, spend a good five minutes coaxing my new short hair into an elfin shape (it wants to go from elfin to goblin), and a further ten on makeup. (I can't ever spend longer than that—I run out of features to emphasize and find my hand creeping toward novelty stuff like “gold hair mascara”). I don't want to think about other people getting ready right now, I don't want to tempt fate. Babs and Si are definites. Matt
said
he'd come—I told him Paws was welcome, he could even bring friends from puppy school, anything to make the place look busy. And Saul. Well, that's five of us, plus dog, six.

At 8:15, I take off the purple top and put on an old navy one. I feel too exposed in sheer purple, I might as well attend stark naked. Should I start putting out dips? Are garlic dips the key to a good party? I fear not. I arrange the alcohol nicely on the table instead. Music. Elvis is safe. No one would dare object. But the shocking truth is, I'm not an Elvis fan. I like
him
, I don't like his music. And I've met far too many people (Saul, although I'm naming no names) who fake an Elvis obsession as a populist cloak for their sad unpopulist personalities. I dig through my CD collection and put on Burt Bacharach instead.

I've just scraped the garlic dip into a bowl, then back into its plastic pot because I don't want to come across as chichi (whatever
that is, but I suspect that garlic dip in pottery bowls is it), when the doorbell goes. Thank god now I can start drinking! I pull open the door and—

“I think there's been an error, what is
that
?” booms Babs, whose hair is resplendent in a chic flyaway style—think Louis the Sun King meets Salon Selectives.

“Hi.” Simon grins, very establishment in a blue quilted down jacket. “Thought we'd get here on time, make the joint look, er, jumping.”

“It's a navy jumper,” I say weakly.

“Yes, yes,”—she sighs impatiently—“and where's the
real
top you bought this afternoon?”

“This is it.”

“Nee-nor nee-nor, it's the fibber police! I repeat—where is the real top you bought this afternoon?”

“In my room,” I reply in a small voice. “How did you know?”

“Because I know you,” she says, frog-marching me to the end of the corridor.

“Help yourself to garlic dip!” I squeak at Simon.

“Will do,” he shouts back.

“Please wear the purple,” cries Babs, when she sees it, crumpled on the bed. “I implore you to wear the purple. It's stunning, I love it, it's so
riaowww
!” (She makes a noise identical to the noise next door's cat made when I accidentally trod on his tail.)

I sigh heavily, throw off the navy, and pull on the purple. “You can see my bra through it,” I say grumpily.

“Hardly,” scoffs Babs. “Anyhow it's an exhibitionist bra, it wants to be seen. And it's your party. It's your prerogative to dress how you want.”

“How
you
want, more like,” I mutter, doing up the strings.

“Doorbell!” trills Babs unnecessarily. “It could be Mark and Ben off the watch, I lured them here with the promise of ballerinas. And Si's invited a few of the less cretinous guys from his
work. Oh, perfect. Very bling-bling, darling! It
so
shows off your figure!”

I scurry down the hall, flustered. Until five minutes ago I didn't know I
had
a figure. It's great to be told I look “bling-bling” (I'm presuming bling-bling means something nice rather than a dog's dinner), but I still feel like I've ransacked an adult's dressing-up box. I yank open the door, to see Mel standing there with two soloists (she'd never fraternize with the foot soldiers) and three burly men who look like they can't believe their luck.

“We followed this lot.” One grins.

“These men are firemen!” exclaims Mel. “We met them outside the station. I mean the tube station, not the fire station.” She giggles and tilts her head like a robin, and I come close to witnessing three grown men swoon. “Tony isn't coming, he refused to, and I can't stamp my foot in case I jar my back. Natalie, you've got all big, I like your top though!”

I decide to leave this last comment unscrambled.

“How
is
your back?” I say as they all troop in. I didn't expect Tony to come but it still hurts.

“It's awful,” she murmurs. “The pain has been horrible, I've had to take it easy, I hate taking it easy! I feel like a big fat frump, I cried all day yesterday. Then I stopped because I didn't want to go to your party with puffy eyes. This is the first day I've felt okay about walking about. I decided to get a cab here with Clara, and we arranged to meet Isabelle at the station and pick her up. And she was talking to the firemen and then they jumped in too, Clara and Isabelle sat on their laps. I sat in the front because of my back.”

I'm about to ask her what she wants to drink, but one of the firefighters beats me to it.

“Red wine please, Mark,” she lisps sweetly.

“I've got soya milk if you prefer,” I whisper. “It's good for…for, er, bones.”

“Yes, but it tastes foul. Alcohol tastes nicer and it's a good
anesthetic,” replies Mel. “Have you got a straight-backed chair, Natalie, to support my back?” I rush to get her one. “So, you must have told work and Tony about your”—I hunt about for a euphemism but can't think of one—“osteoporosis.”

Mel nods and says sadly, “I've got sick leave.” Suddenly her cheeks dimple. “But when I told Tony he was so sweet!” she cries. “So, so sweet, your brother is the sweetest man I've ever met! He cried a bit when I told him, although he tried to hide it, and when I told him they said to put on weight he said the important thing was that I was healthy, and if that meant putting on weight I had to do it, and I'd always be the most beautiful woman in the world to him, whatever I weighed. I don't think I'd love him anymore if
he
got fat, but it was lovely of him to say that, wasn't it?”

I hear this and the whoosh of relief just about knocks me flat. Because as certain as I was that his love wouldn't shrink as Mel grew, I could have been wrong. (It has been known.)

“What did I tell you, Mel?” I sigh, as Mark hands her a glass and crouches at her feet like a giant puppy. “He'll stick like glue.” For a second I feel something between envy and awe. With no effort, Mel has unblocked a seemingly endless flow of love from my brother. I can't help think that it would be nice if a trickle could be diverted to his thirsting family. I say casually, “I don't suppose Tony's said anything about me, has he?”

“Oh yes,” chirps Mel. “He says he's furious with you because you're going to Sydney. I told him to stop being a silly billy, but I think he wants to sulk at home for a bit longer. I think he's still cross that Matt beat him in a fight. Ooh, thank you, Marky Mark!”

I bite my lip. “Mel,” I say. “Do you think I should ring him?”

Mel looks startled, shocked even, that I would ask
her
opinion. And then she blushes with pleasure. She even tilts her head to help herself think. Finally, she lisps gravely, “No. I don't think you should. I think”—and her voice trembles with the weight of responsibility—“that Tony will call you before you go. That's what I think.”