Girl Reading (31 page)

B
ritain’s Jeannine Okoro steps onto the ice to compete in her first Winter Olympic Games.
Deafening applause.
At eight years old, she is Britain’s youngest ever figure-skating champion. She was spotted at the tender age of six by Torvill and Dean when she came to this very rink for Big Sister’s birthday party (obviously). The rest, they say, is history. Now she’s the favorite for an Olympic gold medal. She waves and smiles to the crowd, especially to her dad, who is sitting by the drinks vending machine with a cup of chicken soup.

She glides and performs the perfect twizzle.

Dad, watch me.

She does two more in rapid succession, twizzle, twizzle. The judges are thrilled.

Jeannine is wearing a fetching Betty Boop sweater and her new ice-skating skirt—bright green with polka dots, it twirls and flutters with each and every swish and turn—and her bestest leg warmers.
She has also borrowed a pair of Big Sister’s gloves because hers had tea spilled on them and are in the wash.

Now she’s going for the toe loop jump. Can she do it? She builds up speed, bends her knee, launches from her toe pick, brings in her arms, and lands—finishing with a sweeping gesture to acknowledge the cheers from the stands.

Dad, did you see that?

She glides. She gliiides. Another brilliant toe loop jump. The judges are in awe.

And she’s going for the parallel spin. She spirals into the center of the arena and extends her torso and leg into a T, hands thrust back, she spins faster, faster. She’s doing it. She grabs the blade behind her and brings her foot up toward the back of her head in a Biellmann spin—making it look easy—releases it into an upright spin—this girl is amazing . . . and out. No wonder the judges are on their feet.

Dad, I span. Dad, I’m gonna do a Salchow. I said a Salchow.
Sal-chow.
You watching?

Jeannine Okoro circles the rink, her arms spread like wings. She zooms. Six, three, nine is all she has to remember. She does another twizzle, just to warm up. Six o’clock, three o’clock, nine o’clock with her free leg and her body will do the rest. She skates. She skaaates. Her leg comes up behind her at
six o’clock,
then right,
three o’clock,
swings over to
nine o’clock
and she jumps turns lands wobbles . . .
oh no,
the judges won’t like that. If she still wants the gold, she’ll have to pull out her star move.

Sorry, Dad, that was rubbish. I’m gonna do an Axel instead.
Axel.

The Axel is the most difficultest jump in figure skating. You take off going forward,
which is mad,
making one and a half rotations in the air; the trick is timing—don’t twist too early. All the limbs have to work together to get you there. One arm early, or late,
messes it up completely. Will the years of practice pay off? Jeannine looks calm as she skates past the fans, who have traveled all the way to north London to support her. She needs to jump
out
with arms stretched
out,
then pull ’em
in.
But whatever you do, Jeannine, don’t pull into the jump too soon.

The crowd holds its breath.

She’s moving. She’s going. She’s going to do it. Backward then
forward
to make the leap . . . gets scared . . .

She has only managed it once in training, when she had help; doubts whether she can make it. Her instincts anticipate the unnaturalness of the jump; she knows she is bringing her arms in quicker than she should and by then the whole move is already lost.

Twisting early taking off late sends Jeannine down
hard.
She feels the disappointment before she feels the physical pain as her body makes contact with the ice; automatically she pushes out one hand to break her fall, remembering to tuck her fingers in so they don’t get sliced off by someone else’s skates.
Bang
like an explosion. She is winded by the impact. She is hot and cold, doubled in two; the sound of the crash buzzes in her ears. She shakes her head at her own stupidity, at the shock.

Dad saw it all, is up out of his seat, flat against the transparent barrier still clutching the vending-machine chicken soup. Jeannine, are you all right?

Jeannine can’t bear to look at him. She doesn’t care that other people saw her but why did she have to fall in front of him? She wanted to show how much she’d improved, how the money spent on lessons and kit wasn’t wasted. Jeannine hardly ever falls, and certainly never hurts herself. She’s good at skating, she knows she is, practically ready for local competitions, according to her coach.

She spends several minutes slumped over in the middle of the ice, her knees and buttocks wet. Skaters zip around her, dodge past,
dangerously near. Plenty of people fall over when the rink is this busy. Little girls should learn not to show off.

Are—you—all—right?

Yes, Dad, I’m fine.

Now a supervisor is helping Jeannine up and her wrist is killing her. Ow ow ow. It
kills.
She holds it to her chest with her uninjured hand.

Please let it be a sprain. If it’s broken, Mum will never let her skate again.

Saturday night, light pollution bounces off wet pavements and coats the buildings in orange fur. A couple walks through Clifton hands and arms entwined, around his waist, around her shoulders; they stop to kiss. Hurry on.

Not a couple, though: two individuals who met in a hectic nightclub the music rumbling the walls vibrating an assault of beats and bass. She likes a sweet man. If she didn’t, she would be out of his reach.

Leaning on the bar, he smiles weakly, persuades himself she is a lost cause, someone has put her up to it; until she is linking her fingers through the loops of his jeans, until she is pressing his earlobe in her divine mouth; he can’t really believe the overtures are genuine. Why is she showing him her key ring, a large letter
J
made of sparkles? She isn’t. She is showing him a set of house keys, that they have somewhere private to go, and is now leading him through the dirty streets, clearly expert in these matters. It is captured on CCTV.

At a terraced house she struggles with the front door, works the lock back and forth like she is unfamiliar with it. Shared accommodation, she explains, and takes him upstairs past the potted plant, the tangled phone, the smell of curry, and strewn junk mail.
The bedroom is a female student’s, filled with cosmetics, CDs, ring binders, handbags, floppy discs, and a boxy computer with wires trailing from it. Several issues of
Fields of Science
magazine have been left in a heap on the carpet. One is open to a feature about natural language processing:
NLP-based information access technologies will continue to be a major area of research and development in the new millennium, but will computers ever accomplish human-like language processing?
(An illustration of a stern reader absorbed in her book belies such a thing is possible or desirable.) The notice board is cluttered . . . handwritten notes and eclectic leaflets, a two-for-one restaurant offer (expired). Slotted into the frame is a snapshot of a girl in a spangled outfit clutching a tiny trophy in the shape of an ice dancer in midflight.

Is this you?

Oh . . . a very long time ago. Don’t look at it.

I think it’s adorable.

She takes it from him, turns it over, and reattaches it blank side out. There’s Absolut and some shot glasses on the windowsill.

It is an instruction. He finds these and pours two.

Lip-glossy grin— She sinks her vodka in a single swallow, then takes off her shoes and stretches on the bed, revealing a jeweled piercing at her navel.

The textbooks are about computer science, and one detail from their hasty half-conversation rattles in his skull; he thought she was doing a politics degree; in fact, he was certain of it.

No one’s coming home unexpectedly, are they?

It’s my sister’s place. She’s away for the weekend. Lets me stay whenever I need to.

You need to now because . . . ?

She kneels up on the bed and gives him kisses where he is standing.

His hand strays to the bare gap between her vest and her trousers
and the peep of a pretty thong, but the caresses he places there are lukewarm.

She sighs, What’s the matter?

Nothing.

Something is. Do you have a race problem?

No.

Some men do. Sometimes I get the signals wrong.

Not me.
I think you’re stunning.

What is it, then?

Usually I do this with a girlfriend. Not with someone I just met.

You’ve nothing to be afraid of . . . She kisses him again.

What if we just chilled tonight, spent the day together tomorrow?

Don’t you want me?

Ye-es. But we could get to know each other first, maybe, do this another night. You can tell me all about your course and your family and your dreams and . . . your name.

There isn’t going to be another night.

Right. I see.

She takes one of his hands, gently, pulls back his sleeve to reveal a distorted plastic wristband. What’s this?

Glastonbury.

It’s
filthy.
You must have been wearing it for weeks.

He picks up a pair of scissors from the desk and snips it off.

I didn’t ask you to do that.

I could see it was annoying you.

Despite his good intentions, he gives in to her mouth and her inviting breaths and runs his hands over her body. As his confidence swells, he whispers a little question into her ear: Is there anything you would like me to do? (It was never important enough to ask before.)

Actually, now you come to mention it . . .

He is surprisingly good at this, her sounds, her shaking, she
arches her back, one hand caressing her own breasts, the other gripping the bed frame. He is good at this.

But there is a moment that subdues the mood between them. She assumes control, becomes businesslike. His pride is stung by the implied criticism—

I’m not like that, I can take care of you.

Let me take care of myself. (There will be no careless mistakes.)

Then it is done. They pass over the awkwardness and fall back into their rhythm.

She does not let him cuddle long afterward, does not allow him to settle for the whole night, can’t stand his compliments or sentimental murmurs; these gestures are unwelcome. Has put her top and panties back on, becomes brusque and impatient.

I like you.

She laughs. You don’t like me. You don’t know me.

I want to. Do you live in Bristol?

Nope. Neither do you, Essex Boy.

I had a friend’s stag night. Not really a friend, we went to the same school. What brought you here, anyway?

A bad breakup.

I didn’t know you were breaking up with someone. I thought you were single.

I am single.

How bad was it?

She licks her lips, then smiles. Does it matter?

Do you want to talk about it?

I’ve got absolutely nothing to say. She picks up his clothes from the floor, chucks them at him without making eye contact.

He puts on his T-shirt under duress. I’d like to phone you sometime.

No. Thanks.

Then let me leave you my number?

I’ll throw it away, you know I will. Don’t look offended; I didn’t make any promises.

I know. I think you should have told me, though.

She frowns. About?

Your ex.

It’s none of your business.

True, but now I can’t help wondering if you’re still vulnerable. What if I’ve taken advantage of you?

How thoughtful . . . and yet how patronizing.

I didn’t mean it like that.

Do I look upset to you? Do I look like I need rescuing?

He flattens his hair and decides to try a different strategy. Spend the day with me.

I’m sorry, I can’t.

Nothing serious, just a bit of fun.

She appears to consider but replies, Stop being ridiculous.

You’re going back to him, aren’t you?

I’d like you to leave now.

Please? Just one day together? It’ll be great. We’ll do whatever you want.

Make sure you’re quiet on your way out, other people are sleeping.

He finishes getting dressed.

She ignores him, picks up a compact mirror, reapplies her lip gloss, snaps it shut. Her parting kiss is chaste, almost maternal; she pats his bum.

He’s all wrong for you. You should be with me.

She should feel insulted. Instead, she has the urge to giggle.
Go away, Essex Boy.

The member of parliament for Bexhall South decides this applicant will fill the post. He reclines in his chair, occasionally fingers his
tie, rubs his chin stubble as he listens. The young male opposite is wearing a pink shirt and a whiff of Hugo Boss, has spiked hair and pitted skin from acne during adolescence. Went to a top university. Is polite and talkative, right of center and a believer in the green agenda, confident, has a
keen
interest in journalism and PR, which will be useful . . . his main weakness is that he has not been a member of the party for long, appears to have had no specific involvement in politics until five months ago.

And why is that?

I always wanted to join, of course. However, when I was pursuing my career in journalism I was advised by someone, who I’m sure was entirely well meaning, that I shouldn’t join any political party, as it could cast a shadow on my impartiality. Then when I realized it was more honorable to become (he mimes the quote marks in the air) “part of the solution” instead of just being a critic, I felt it was time to “come out of the closet,” so to speak. On reflection, I regret I did not become a card-carrying member sooner.

If the politician has another worry, it is that this metrosexual man presents too well. His slick speech has the squeaky timbre of rehearsal. This chap likes to impress, but if he is as good as he says he is, if he is even half as good—

The last interviewee is shown in, extends a slim hand adorned with nail extensions and nail art, wears a flattering pencil skirt and fitted jacket, a vintage brooch on her lapel.