True Things About Me A Novel (Deborah Kay Davies) (8 page)

Gotta go, babe, he said. But it’s dark, I said, and a long way to the car. So? he said. You’re a big girl. He was already walking away from me. I started to cry. Don’t leave me, haven’t we been having a nice time? I called. I couldn’t help myself, even though I knew it would make him angry. He strode back towards me and grabbed my shoulders. Nice, he said. Nice? Shut the fuck up about nice, and pushed me away from him so hard I collided with the railings of the bridge. Suddenly it seemed essential I make him stay. Like some sort of test I had to pass. I’m sorry, I could hear myself shrieking, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad. Please don’t go.

He came back towards me, his footsteps resonating on the wooden bridge. I thought he was going to do something, hit me perhaps. Instead he wrapped his arms round me and kissed my forehead. Don’t cry, he whispered. I didn’t mean it. You’ll have to get used to the fact that I’m a cruel bastard.
He wiped my tears away with his warm hands. No, you’re not, I said, and kissed his cheek. Then he was gone. I stood with my hands glued to the metal railings and strained to hear him running away until I couldn’t hear him any more.

I do some double-talking

FOR FIVE DAYS
I didn’t go out. I ignored the phone and erased all messages without listening to them. God, that tiny winking eye! Like some creepy uncle at a family party. Anyway it seemed as if I’d reached some place – a precipice or something – where I needed to think. What was this problem I had with men? Why couldn’t I be a regular girl? But mostly the questions were unaskable. Just long, confused rafts of why? And how? And why not? I sat for hours in front of the mirror, gazing. The mirror was on the inside of the wardrobe door, so I had to prop it open and look, perched on the end of the bed.

I was fairly pretty, cute even, and that was the truth. Sometimes I really liked my reflection. Hey gorgeous! I said. Or I asked, affectionately, questions like, What’s your problem, lovely one? And, Who rattled your cage, you bird of paradise, you? Or even, but this was early on, So many people would kill to have your life, you ungrateful girl, go and stand
in the corner. I looked at myself from all angles. Everything was groovy. Everything was in its proper place.

I remembered watching some intense woman on a morning TV chat show talking about
strategies to aid self-knowledge
and subsequently move forward.
So I got my hand mirror and looked between my legs. Hello, I said, greetings. The whole enterprise seemed a little heavy, so I tried to be jaunty. Who do you think you’re staring at? I joked. The thing didn’t blink. It certainly didn’t talk back. I opened it up a little, though I felt squeamish. Then I got spooked; it seemed so sad and angry. The whole area looked like a punched eye. I thought I detected a look of reproach. In the end I whispered, Goodbye and good luck. I felt we both needed that. Then, at the last minute, quickly, Have a nice life.

I was feeling hungry all the time. I stocked up on the things I wanted to eat: lots of meat, like Mia Farrow in
Rosemary’s Baby
. Chicken and chops, sausages and burgers. Big slices of ham, each piece hanging out of my mouth like the tongue of a camel. Faggots like lumps of roasted brain. I ate everything in front of the mirror. It was amazing how stupid my face looked when I chomped. I vowed never to eat in public. How could the people I’d eaten with keep a straight face? Or even prevent themselves from sicking up? God! I was glad I’d had this opportunity. I could at least save myself that embarrassment ever again. Drinking wasn’t much better. As I sipped my face looked simultaneously wounded and emotional. And nauseatingly pious, as if I’d been insulted
for my faith and might break down. But this was all good, I thought: self-knowledge, and then the moving forward thing.

I decided it would be interesting to conduct an experiment. You know, go over to the dark side. So I stopped combing my hair. This was a big concept for me, and really out there. The stunning thing was that as the days rolled on and my hair got wilder and wilder, it began to look better and better. Why had I ever bothered? My slavish attachment to straighteners suddenly seemed insane. The new look was more grown-up. More don’t-fuck-with-me-ish. Even a bit rock-chicky. The messiness said something to the world. I felt like maybe I was a dangerous bitch, someone very temperamental. Someone men would fall passionately in love with.

It was a joke, of course. And I told the mirror, So who are you kidding, you loser? I knew I had to get tough. Get out of your bedroom, you adolescent twit, I shouted. You with your bird’s nest hair and your horrible vulva and your stupid, stupid chewing! Nobody likes you! You can’t even stand yourself! (I said everything with an exclamation mark attached.) Take a long, hard, honest look at yourself for once! The portion of my room reflected in the mirror was so impoverished, so drab, so totally full of aloneness, it pierced me to see it.

I gazed at the discarded plate of bones on the bed next to me, the straighteners on the floor, and I cried with complete abandon. Me-in-the-mirror and I cried bitterly together. I felt for her, she felt for me. But even as I blubbed I knew I would have to stop soon. I swear that once, after a sobbing bout in
which I cried into my hands like someone in a Victorian painting, I peeped out through my laced fingers and she was greedily watching me with the faintest of smiles on her face. The second she saw me looking she dropped her shaggy head and started bawling into her cupped hands again.

I sat up and hiccuped. Why doesn’t he love me though? I asked her. Why? Why? It felt comforting to indulge in repetition. I sounded like someone in a play. Why? She shook her head slowly and shrugged, miming one of those haven’t-got-a-clue faces, which was surprisingly annoying. Perhaps he does, I suddenly thought. Perhaps he does, and he can’t show it. Perhaps he needs me to help him. She looked sceptical. And also maybe you should get lost? I said. Honestly, what do you know about anything? You miserable, insincere cow! In a flash it occurred to me. Maybe he’d been trying to tell me something. Perhaps he wanted us to move in together, something huge like that, and he found it difficult. That’s why he’d been a little touchy. It made sense. I reluctantly glanced in the mirror. My reflection had her hands over her ears and her mouth open.

I got up and slammed her into the wardrobe. There was another mirror on the outside, and things looked much better in it. I showered and dried my hair. Then straightened it to a luxurious shine. I rang Alison and we chatted. Her voice sounded faint, as if she was up on the surface of the ocean and I was down on the seabed in a submarine, but it was lovely to speak to her. She wondered if I would do a favour
at short notice and mind the baby. I asked if she really wanted me to be sole carer for another of her children, after the bread incident. That wasn’t your fault, she said. You can take him out for a nice walk in his buggy; he’ll be asleep the whole time. I won’t be long. It seemed like an excellent way to get back into the real world. Though I didn’t say this to Alison.

I indulge in retail therapy

MY HOUSE NEEDED
sorting out. The baby probably wouldn’t notice, but it didn’t feel right to have him in a sad, dishevelled place. And who understands what babies see? Maybe everything. Maybe we all start off very wise and far-sighted and end up stupid. Anyway I was worried the invisible, dark mood clouds swirling around might get to him. So I opened the windows and pushed the vacuum around, sucking up more than dust and cobwebs. I picked some rice pudding-coloured dog roses from among the undergrowth at the bottom of my garden. Their open faces looked like gentleness realised. They had the frondiest of leaves, and when I sniffed them they gave me the most honeyed, creamy distillation of rose I have ever known. I put them in a sage-green bowl and they arranged themselves perfectly, the leaves spraying out in perfect collars around each flower.

I had lunch because when the baby came I didn’t want to think about things like that, then I sat in the kitchen near the
roses and drank some tea. The warmth in the room and the flowers’ fragrance made me feel drowsy; sort of heavy and thick-tongued. I rested my head on the table and drifted off. The doorbell rang and I leaped up and ran down the hall. There was Alison, a bit breathless, and the lovely baby in his buggy. So, I’ll see you at five, she said. You’ve officially saved my life, and pushed the buggy up over the doorstep whilst handing me a bag of equipment. It’s a good afternoon for a walk, she called back as she got in her car. He loves a walk. Then she was gone and the baby and I were alone in the silent house.

In the kitchen I had a good look at him. Crikey, I told him, you are the most scrumptious baby I have ever seen. He smiled kindly at me, and sighed, looking around calmly, his pudgy hands resting like two pink cakes on his lap. He seemed to be interested in the roses so I picked up the bowl and brought them near him. He laughed and grabbed at them, then let out a sharp and shocking scream. I dropped the vase and it smashed, spraying water over his little brown legs. He stiffened and started bellowing.

His tiny hand was still closed round one of the rose stems and I realised with a razor-sharp slice of fear that all the thorns on the spine were hurting his tender palm. I burst into tears and sat beside him in the spilled water. Somehow I forced him to open his hand and took out the strangled rose. I got cold water and bathed his palm, singing to him through my tears. He quietened and watched without malice as I soothed his hand, shuddering rhythmically.

Everything had gone wrong and I’d only been in charge of the baby for ten minutes. I kissed his head and tried to look at his hand again, but he wasn’t going to allow me. Little boy, I said to him, I’m so, so sorry. His cheeks were shiny with tears and I gently wiped them. I felt as if my heart would break, he was so sweet. I emptied the bag Alison had left and found a cup with baby drink in it. He drank it all. I sat on the kitchen chair and shook. Inside it was as if I had emptied out, like a cloud after a downpour. I wondered how to explain to Alison about his poor hand. Little man, I asked him, would you like to go for a nice walk?

I pushed the sleeping baby in his buggy through town. The wind barrelled round and round the concrete walkways. I went in nearly every shop. They were all playing the same music. The shop assistants were dusting shelves and rearranging things, talking about their weekends:…
anyway, he said,
then I said, then he said, then I said
… lowering their voices when I passed by. Girls, girls, girly girl girls, I wanted to say, as if I give a damn what he said and you said. All the shops were empty; I didn’t see one single, other shopper around. It was as if the real people had been spirited away. I concentrated on keeping the buggy moving, otherwise the baby might wake up.

There were lots of lovely things to buy. I wanted a scarf patterned with blobby circles; a pair of caramel leather sandals; some chicken marinating in olive oil, chillies and garlic; a dusty, plaited loaf of bread; a long Cossack coat with a fur
collar, but I didn’t want to disturb the baby. In a department store I decided to stop and sit down; my legs felt decidedly dodgy. The café was empty, and the food looked artificial. I ordered a cup of camomile tea and perched on the edge of the chair, rocking the buggy. As I drank I worked out how much time was left till five o’clock.

In the home furnishing section they were going for an oriental theme. I wondered why people would want to decorate their homes that way. I touched all the curtains and picked up vases and candlesticks. In the lift going down I detected the faintest of stirrings from the buggy, so I rushed out of the shop and started to run. Only when I reached the underpass did I slow down. The lights were dim and I could smell wet concrete and maybe urine. People had daubed messages on the walls. One, written using red gloss paint read: Is this fuckin all? I wanted to get the baby out of there quickly, but it was difficult; I had to manoeuvre round a warped trolley.

As I emerged into the bright light I stopped. There were some things on the cover of the buggy, things I knew I hadn’t bought: a candlestick and a little Chinese cushion. Silky, emerald-green tassels dripped from each of its corners. An embroidered dragon or bird or reptile, I couldn’t tell, stared up at me, its eye a sparkling blue gem. The colours glowed in the gloomy mouth of the underpass and seemed to undulate over the creature; it looked as if it were about to take off, hightail it back to the department store and tell security.

I was so shocked I felt winded. The path ahead was deserted. The wind gushed out of the underpass and sent my hair upward in a swirling cone, pushing me towards home. I walked as briskly as I could whilst still looking normal. When I got there I rested against the front door for a little while. I left the still-sleeping baby in the hallway and carried the things into the lounge. I arranged them on the coffee table. Then I sat on the sofa and looked at them, waiting for Alison to come back.

I get tied up once in a while

I WAS SUMMONED
to the head of human resources’ office. He wasn’t someone any of us knew very well. It was the first I’d heard of him. I had been hoping, when I gave it a thought, that no one had noticed my slightly spasmodic work attendance over the past months. Obviously I had been wrong; these people notice every sad little thing. The room was in a part of the building I had never seen before. I walked slowly up this weird corridor, reading all the names on the doors until I found the right one. It occurred to me that he could just be an actor, someone they employed for the day to do interviews with rubbish employees. I knocked and entered. He looked the part anyway. Sit down, he said, and went on shuffling through a file. He read it for so long I thought it must be about me.

I checked everything out. No photos on display, just one of those stupid pens jammed in a holder stuck to the desk like a thrown dart. Yep, it all looked like a stage set. There
were shelves and shelves of ring binders full of Health and Safety information. God, I thought, the poor bloke must be so bored, but then I remembered the day job idea. It was a way of earning some dosh. Finally, because I felt he was overdoing the file-reading sequence, I was forced to ask him if he found the story of my life interesting. He looked up slowly. The story of your life is of no concern to us, he said. Believe me. And this, he held up the file, is not about you. What we are concerned about is your productivity, or lack of it.