True Things About Me A Novel (Deborah Kay Davies) (11 page)

Some people started to leave. I went up to my old bedroom and lay down on the bed. In the top drawer of the side table were my diaries. I pulled them out and began to read. I seemed to have been meticulous in recording all the school dinners I’d ever eaten. There were lists of birthday and Christmas presents, lists of the books I’d read, and the interminable walks I’d gone on. So boring and sort-of sweet. And lots of pages in code. I knew what they were about. Not sweet
at all. Very boring though, and a bit pathetic, as those things usually are. I put the diaries back. Had I always been stupid? I fell asleep.

When I woke it was evening. I could still hear murmuring outside. I tottered down to the garden where some more people I assumed were close friends of my parents were sitting round a table. Alison and Tom were there. A parasol blossomed, its frilly edges fluttering. It all looked quite jolly. They had obviously been drinking for some time. The soft sunlight glowed in each pink glass. Having fun? I asked my mum. Someone found me a chair and I joined them. They were talking about summer holidays. Everyone was chipping in with lovely memories of happy times. Even the most boring remark sent them all into fits. I watched a tiny, dishevelled bird pecking at a crisp. Its wiry claws made a whispery sound on the metal table. I could feel tears blooming in my eyes; the little bird was so happy there with his meal. I was glad the bird didn’t care about us. It put things in proportion. So I chilled out and drifted, drinking cold wine. I began to feel blissful.

There was a commotion near the back gate. Someone was shouting. It sounded like my father, which was unusual. Tom and two other men from the table got up, and went towards the noise. Mum strained to see what was going on as I poured myself another drink, then she looked at me, gesturing with her glass. Are you going to tell me who that might be? she asked me. Then she turned to Alison, and let out a loud  gulping
sound. We don’t know what to do, she said into Alison’s shoulder, her daddy and I are out of our depth. I think she was crying. Alison put one arm round her and gave me a look. Slop went her wine over the pin-tucked bodice of Mum’s M& S blouse. Is all this something to do with you? she asked me. Maybe, I said, and gulped some wine, turning towards the struggling men. He broke through the little cartoony cluster, and ran headlong across the lawn, falling at my feet. One of his flip-flops flew off. My dad walked slowly towards us, trailing a jumpy, spouting, garden hose.

Apart from the snaking pipe and the hiss of the water there was silence in the garden. Everything else was motionless. I looked at Alison but somehow I couldn’t hold her gaze. What’s going on? she said quietly, reaching across the table to gently shake my arm. I couldn’t answer because there he was, sprawled on the grass looking perfectly at home. I’ve come to get you, he said, grinning. His T-shirt was wet. I shrugged Alison off, and turned to face him. He sprang up and executed a perfect handstand. I couldn’t help clapping.

Surely my dad didn’t spray you, I said, as he lightly turned himself upright again. I could hardly speak I was so limp with laughter. My father coiled up the hose and shouted, Yes, I bloody well did, then held the nozzle up like a gun. I felt sorry for my poor old pa, with his forehead red and sweaty, his sparse hair tufty. At the same time it was all hilarious and exhilarating. Why did you do that, Dad? I asked. I did it because this person is not welcome here, he said, more quietly
this time, and pointed the hose again. And now I want you to tell him to leave. It would be for the best, I think.

My mother made a wheezy, sobbing sound. She was still at it. Soaking Alison’s best dress. Chill out, Mum, I said. Why can’t you ever be happy for me? It’s not as if anyone’s died. She jerked upright in her chair. How could you? she said, in an odd, strangled voice. You poor, selfish, stupid girl. But I was already touching his beautiful damp hair, connecting with him again. It seemed to me the garden was suddenly filled with birds and butterflies, petals and flashing rainbows. And rooted to the ground all these stiff strangers dressed in black. God, what a crowd of absolute zeroes, I thought. How did you know where I was? I asked him. Sssh, he whispered, holding his finger up to his lips, I have my ways. Are you coming?

I provide bed and breakfast

I COULDN’T SLEEP
. But that was nothing new. It seemed to me I hadn’t slept since the late nineties. So I lay on my side, hugging the little nobbly pillow I’d brought back from my parents’ house, and watched the dawn slowly bleach the curtains. I was paralysed by this creepy new mood, some new feeling that at its top end felt like utter exhaustion. For hours my brain had refused to move out of a circle of linked ideas I didn’t want to think about. I saw a series of pictures clicking around like scenes from a shaky, antique film someone had projected on a grainy wall.

I could hear him breathing. One beautiful leg was hooked over me, both arms were flung above his head. I inched round and studied his armpits; the tiny coils of golden hair were almost like shells. I sniffed him. Then my scalp stretched, my stomach contracted, and I finally understood all the pictures I’d refused to look at in the night: I was terrified. That was it. The thought of him waking up made me pant like a
cornered dog. I must have looked unhinged, craning round, dribbling, my hair electrified.

I don’t know; maybe I fainted. When I opened my eyes again the curtains were a solid block of light. He was leaning over me. I need a slash, he said. Then a nice shag. When he got back into bed his penis felt wet against my leg. He asked me if I liked sex in the morning. It was a question I couldn’t answer. One, because I didn’t know, and two, because I was too afraid to speak. What’s the matter, baby? he asked, and kissed me gently on the lips. I began to feel better. I hoped he hadn’t noticed my eyes bulging out of my skull like a mad witch’s.

You feel so stiff, he said. Relax. He massaged my back and legs until I spread out on the mattress. Soon I began to loosen up. That’s better, let’s be gentle, he said into my neck. You’d like that, baby, wouldn’t you? I turned over, curled my arms round his shoulders and squeezed him tight. I told him I liked things to be gentle. Me too, sometimes, he said, and buried his face in my pubic hair. Don’t, I said, but he wasn’t listening. He pushed his tongue inside me. I love these little folds, he said. I wanted to knock his curly head away, but I didn’t like to. Fuck, that’s tangy, he said, and kissed me again. I didn’t like his lips on mine; it felt wrong to be tasting myself. You’ve got to learn to love it all, he said, and laughed so cutely I had to join in.

It was surprising how much I wanted him to stick his thing in me. I grabbed his penis in the end, and guided it. We
rolled around and I loved how we felt together. How everything mingled. At one point I saw myself in the dreaded wardrobe mirror, looking soft-cheeked and wobbly mouthed, my eyelids shiny. What an idiot, I thought. One minute ready to run away from the big, bad wolfy, the next romping with him in the freaking forest. Even I could see how mixed-up it was. Sick, even. I don’t know anything, I told him jerkily, as he rotated his hips between my legs. Nor me, he shouted. Now stop talking, for fuck’s sake.

When I woke again it felt like afternoon. He could have been a slumbering angel; forehead completely smooth, feet quiet, lovely fingers curled. I kissed him all over his face and mouth. His penis was a floppy pink mushroom, nestling amongst the undergrowth. I flicked it one way, then the other. He didn’t stir. I climbed out of bed, and had a shower. I felt optimistic in the bathroom. But that may have been down to my mint and rosemary shower gel. I read the label; it promised to lift the spirits. Still, there’s something symbolic about a shower, I’ve always thought, and part of that is watching the used-up water schlooping down the plughole. From my shower cubicle I looked through the small window I’d opened to let the steam out. I could see blue sky with the prettiest white clouds imaginable, and vivid birds looping the loop, like something from a Disney film.

I decided to make breakfast for us. I left my hair wet; the dryer was so noisy. When I tiptoed back into the bedroom to get my robe he was lying in the same position, and I
covered him with the quilt. Then I tiptoed out. The atmosphere in the bedroom was different. I remembered my rock-chick-and-mirror period. How desperate I’d been then. What was all that about? I couldn’t remember now, though at the time it had seemed the end of the world.

On the landing I noticed two supermarket carrier bags he’d thrown into the spare bedroom. I went in and shut the door. Then I emptied the bags onto the bed. I was scared he’d come in so I quickly went through the whole lot. There was nothing of any interest; just jeans, tops and pants, cheap toiletries. I fingered everything, looking at the labels, going through the pockets, and realised I was looking for something that wasn’t there. Something that would give me a clue about who he was. I shoved everything back into the bags, and went downstairs to make breakfast.

As I cooked bacon and made the coffee the thought of him lying asleep upstairs felt good. This was what people did, surely? Had a lazy morning making love, taking a shower, having breakfast in bed. The rest of the day was a puzzle though. What else did people do with their lives? The smell of cooking, the sizzling and bubbling, felt so everyday I decided not to worry. I looked out at the table and chairs on the patio. No one had ever sat out there, except that cat, that one time. Maybe things would change now. We could have barbecues, with friends coming over. Alison and Tom and the kids might come. I even imagined him with a pinny on, cooking burgers.

I was putting things on the tray when he appeared at the kitchen door. I made you breakfast, I said, obviously. He drank the coffee in one go. Then scratched his head and yawned. I could see he hadn’t showered. Never eat it, he said, makes me heave. He held out his hand, and said, Car keys? I heard myself tell him where they were. I need a vehicle sharpish, he said, and picked them up as he opened the front door. I ran after him.

Something told me to be quiet – I even clamped my hand over my mouth – but I ignored it. Where are you going? I squeaked. Something drove me on, even when I saw his face darken. When will you be back? I’m going to ignore all that, he said. Seeing as you’ve been so nice about the car and breakfast and all. And there I was, standing on the doorstep, holding a spatula, listening again to the sound of him going away.

I’m at home to Mr Truthful

I SPENT A
few hours sorting the house out. I changed the bed and washed the sheets. It was nice to see them dancing around on the line, just like they did in other people’s back gardens. In the kitchen I tried not to look directly at things. I hid the bacon and eggs. The coffee grounds clogged the sink, and that worried me. I dressed with care, and put plenty of slap on; as my mum always said, You’ve got to keep your end up, because no one else will do it for you. Outside I was dazed to see my car was missing. For a split second I even thought I should call the police. Then I went to the supermarket on the bus and bought stuff. It was quiet there in the evening. Lots of traumatised-looking women drifting around. Perhaps that’s what we do: food shopping.

I ended up in the café, drinking thin hot chocolate. I read a magazine. There was lots of shit about relationships, and how to do great sex, great homes, great food, great children, and really great holidays. God, I could feel my own wonky
ideas about how to live seeping out of every pore as I read. It was as if they were talking about life on some other almost-identical-but-not-quite planet. Not the one I was existing on anyway. There was nothing about what to do when you were afraid to go home. Nothing about that particular problem anywhere.

I waited for thirty-five minutes before the bus came. It was late when I got back, and the house was in darkness. No messages on my phone. I had to force myself to turn on the lights. Everything was in its place. I locked all the doors and shut the windows. Then I ran a bath. I poured in something that made the water a sludgy shade and slid into it. The steam in the bathroom smelled like vanilla, like delicious ice cream. I could feel the water softening me. I sang a song to myself and the taps plinked in time. The water quivered, and I realised it was because I was trembling. I was listening so hard I was actually trembling. I went to bed with some pills.

The next day I remembered to go to work. I threw my clothes on, called for a taxi, and practically ran out of the house. Miraculously I knew what to do at my desk. It was as if I’d switched to auto mode. Alison ignored me all day, which was fine by me. I felt as if everyone was ignoring me. By mid-afternoon I realised it was probably because I was invisible. Or only visible in a certain light, like those pale brown moths that fly out of a favourite jumper. Eventually it began to get to me, and I went to the loo to cry. Someone came up to my cubicle as I was silently howling and knocked
on the door. It was Alison of course. I recognised her sensible shoes. I could have kneeled down in the lav and kissed them. Come out, she said. I need to say some things to you.

I washed my hands, and told her to get on with it. Come here, you, she answered sweetly, and put her arms round me. I rested my head on her shoulder. I told her I wished she was my mum. No thanks, she answered, and held me away from her. You are a nightmare child. I feel sorry for your parents. I didn’t care what she said, just so long as she was talking to me. She folded her arms. Do you know how upset they are? she asked. How Tom and I feel? Do you have any idea how horrible it was when you flitted off after the funeral fiasco with that vile man? So many squealy, spiky questions. I didn’t have any answers. Your mother is ill with worry. She’ll cope, I said. She always does.

She was silent for a while, just sort of staring at me and shaking her head. So are you just going to stand there and tell me what a bad person I am? I said. Don’t you think I know that? Lovey, you’re not a bad person, she smiled, just a mixed-up, self-absorbed one. You always have been, admit it. Shit, Alison, I had to say, you’re such a disgusting head girl. I’m actually feeling as if I might throw up just listening to you chant on. I felt something break loose inside me. If we were into home truths, why not? I thought. I began to see how it was, how it had always been. Alison was one of those types who loved to sit on the sidelines of someone else’s fascinating life, and shout advice at them. She fed off me,
and I let her. It made people like that feel even more smug about themselves when they could observe another human being struggling. Unravelling, if they were lucky.