Running in Heels (35 page)

“Somebody's at the door! Thank Christ for that!” bawls Andy, staggering to his feet. “I don't know who the hell it is, but I thank them from the heart of my bottom!”

Matt looks at me, and laughs silently.
Oh please
, he mouths.

Vain
, I mouth back.
What can you do?

“I agree with Andy,” says Robbie, hopping about, trying to fit both legs in one trouser hole. “If you ashk me, that we've had mo-o-ore than enough of thingsh popping up, thank you verr mush, Matthew. And I sheem to have made shixshty quid.”

“Robert,” replies Matt, watching Robbie fall flat on his face. “Try one leg at a time. Would you like some help?”

“You shtay right where you are, ta very much.”

“Why is it,” says Matt, “that all straight men, even the ugly ones, think you fancy them?”

I shake my head. “You tell me!”

“I'm a married woman,” adds Matt. “And Robert, adorable as you are, you're not the
prettiest
boy in the playground.”

Robbie looks peeved. “What!” he says, prodding his soft white belly. “You mean, if I wash, if I wash gay—which I'm not, yeah? Yeah? Mate, Geez-aaa! Got that-ah?—you wouldn't want to have it off with me?”

“Robert,” says Matt solemnly. “you're an absolute love, but you're”—his voice drops to a whisper—“not my type.”

When Andy walks in with Mel and Tony, we are all crumpled on the sofa, sniggering like children.

“Oh
NO!
” shouts Mel, stamping her little foot. “They've been having fun without us!”

“Mel, angel,” says Matt. “You need to catch up, that's all. Have a sip of Sang Thip!”

Mel scampers across the room, then freezes as she catches sight of Robbie. Hastily, he does up his zip. Once again, I perform introductions, although a little less crisply than earlier.

“So this,” declares Matt, standing up, “is the Tony I've heard so much about. Well, well.”

Tony glances at Matt with suspicion. “Well, what?”

“Well, Anthony…you're everything I thought you would be, if not more. Big Daddy Bear!”

Before Tony has time to deconstruct this, Mel cries, “What's
he
doing here?” She points an accusing finger at the slumbering Chris.

“Yeah,” says Tony, frowning. “What
is
he doing here? And why are you lot half-dressed?”

Mel, who is used to nudity, ignores him. “I love your flat, Natalie,” she says. “Can I look around?”

“Of course,” I say, as Matt cries, “He's very growly, isn't he, Natalia? Do you think he wants a bowl of porridge?”

“Matt,” I mutter. “Shh. Er, Mel, Tony, do you want a drink?”

Mel tucks her hair behind her ears, and does a mental tot-up of the men present. Her butterfly gaze settles on Andy. “Who are you again?” she lisps.

“Andy.”

“Andy! Oh, okay. What drink shall I have, Andy? You live here, don't you? Will
you
show me round?”

Tony glances sharply at Andy. Andy doesn't notice. “I don't know what you like to drink,” he replies. “It's Nat's flat. I'm sure she'll show you round.” He smiles at Mel, but it doesn't reach his eyes. A crease of perplexity clouds her brow. She is used to men grasping the flirt baton with both hands. I feel a twinge of pity. “
I
think you should try the Soviet Strike, Mel,” I say.

Tony—whose mood has darkened from jet to pitch—pokes Chris in the leg with his foot. Chris jerks awake, squeezes his forehead, and groans. He sees Tony and scrambles to a sitting position. “You! I've got a bone to pick with you,” he croaks.

“Yeah? Then pick it.”

“You
encouraged
Blue Fiend to go with Piers, and they were in breach of contract—”

“Ah, what contract? Did they
have
a contract? I think not. Any other bones to pick? No? Good. Shut up.”

Chris stumbles to his feet. “But…but…Where's my shirt?” he mumbles. “My leather jacket?”

“There's your shirt,” I say meekly. “I don't think Bel got around to washing it for y—”

“But I've done yer jacket!” crows Bel, bouncing in brandishing what looks like a chamois leather. “It's a bit…it's a bit…”

“My jacket! It's fuckin' ruined! You maniac! You…that's six hundred and fifty pounds' worth of designer jacket! What have you…my head hurts…I'm out of here…I should never have come…you're all mad, the lot of you…”

“You
are
masterful, Tony,” coos Matt as Chris runs for his life.

“You're not going to start on him now, are you, Matt?” asks Robbie.

“I was hours washin' that jacket!” cries Bel. “Hours an hours! Aw, sod it. I'm starvin' 'ungry, I'm goin' down the chipper.”

“You'll be lucky to find a fish-n-chip shop around here, love!”

Bel ignores Robbie and veers unsteadily toward the door. My brother snags in her line of vision and she stops. “You're Nat's brother, incha?”

“What's it to you?” snaps Tony.

“You know,” says Matt, “you're really quite a grump.”

I aim to kick Matt and miss.

“Stop that, Nat,” says Andy. “You're the only person in this room who's scared of Tony. Oi, Big Daddy Bear. When did you get so tough?”

Mel giggles. “He's not tough, he's the sweetest man alive! And no one's asked me how my dancing went.”

“That's because we know you were fab, darling.”

“I wasn't, I was terrible! My back hurt, my feet were killing me, it was agony. I was like a great big heffalump stomping about.”

“You were very light and polished,” soothes Tony. “Though I didn't like the way that lech Oskar was looking at you.”

“Well,” remarks Matt, “it was
Romeo and Juliet
.”

“I'm not talking to you!”

“Oh, get back in your box,” says Matt.

Five heads swivel in the direction of Tony.

He looks stunned. “Wha? Get back…? You going to make me?”

Five heads swivel in the direction of Matt.

“Only if you insist.”

Tony laughs harshly. “I'd like to see this! What you gonna do? Hit me with your handbag?”

Matt flutters his eyelashes in an expression of acute boredom.

Tony reddens. “What?
What?
Come on then! You want to go outside?”

Minutes later, Tony discovers that homosexuals who hail
from the roughest part of Exmouth are well practiced in defending themselves—or, at least, this one is. Matt fells my brother with a single punch to the kidney. And while he does spoil the effect with a little light weeping over his bruised knuckles, Andy and Robbie declare him the hero of the night. Secretly, I can't help agreeing with them.

THE PHONE RINGS AT 10:39
A.M.
, SHAKING ME
from a booze-twitchy make-you-tireder sleep.

“You lazy girl.”

“Alex,” I rasp. “You okay?” (My pounding head and lurching stomach agree that You okay is more doable than Good morning, how are you?)

“I'm really well, thanks, Natalie, how are you?”

I lie.

“That's good. So what did you get up to at the weekend, anything nice?”

I suspect that my weekend doings are a little heavy-duty for this newborn friendship, so I lie again.

“Sounds great! Now I've got something for you,” she says. Her voice is as loud as a drill. “I spoke to my Pilates teacher, Robin, yesterday. I'm going to his studio later—I go there twice a week to teach—and I told him that you're a friend interested in training. He'd said he'd be happy to tell you about the course. If you're serious, Robin's your man. So if you're free, you can meet me at his studio at four. Otherwise I'm sure he'll chat to you over the phone another time.”

I croak, “No, I'm free, I'll see you at four.” I roll into the kitchen and enter the appointment details in my enormous new business diary (which is about the size of the Domesday Book).
Andy is out, and no wonder. We managed to do that very married thing of appearing great friends in public, while in private our relationship is tepid. I bite my lip, walk into the living room, and blanch. It looks and smells like a squat. The odor of basset hound now clogs my front room. Empty bottles litter every surface, and there is a congealed puddle of Heering's Cherry Liqueur on my pale polished hardwood floor. Multicolored plastic shards of Pop-Up Pirate—I think Andy accidentally stepped on it—have been crunched into the rug. And my beautiful beige suede sofa looks
sticky
.

I rush to the kitchen for headache pills, but the cupboard is bare. “The fresh air will do you good,” I say sarcastically, quoting my mother. It doesn't. I stumble to the chemist, whimpering. By the time I get home, I've developed the shakes. I squint at the phone, hoping for messages, but there are none. I press *69. The caller withheld their number.

Who could it be? Babs? No chance. Tony? Oh my
god
. I should think about hiring an armed guard. It's 11:01. Of course. A minute into my mother's first coffee break. But she always leaves a message; five to be certain. I don't want to call her. I think about roaring at her on Sunday night, and feel queasy. Queasier. I'd rather sweep the episode under the carpet, then glue the carpet to the floor. Before the infamous mash episode, I hadn't raised my voice to her in twenty-six years. (“You were such a
good
baby! Not a peep out of you!”) What must she think of me? I try to focus. This is why I never, ever get rollicking drunk on a Monday night. It makes the rest of the week too painful.
Think
, Natalie! Admittedly, Mum didn't seem too traumatized when I left. She waved me off from the door with, “You'll have to think about what you want to do for your birthday.” My mother is to martyrdom what Texas is to oil. Ever since I can remember, she has celebrated my birthday by frog-marching me and Tony to Odette's—a smart restaurant in Primrose Hill—for a sumptuous dinner. I think she was suggesting that if
I and my neuroses preferred, she'd take us to the theater instead. She is great at being understanding in an annoying way.

 

“
H
ello, Mum,” I say quickly, before I lose my nerve.

“Hello, dear,” she exclaims. “Nice to see you on Sunday, how are you?” She sounds on edge.

“Nice to see you too,” I echo disbelievingly, wondering if it's possible that I dreamed the weekend. “I'm fine, thanks, how are you?”

“I'm well, thank you, dear. I didn't want to bother you, that's why I didn't leave a message. I wanted to ask your advice, I didn't want to ask Tony. But it can wait, I know you're busy.”

I manage not to laugh. This is my mother trying hard.

“Now is fine,” I say.

“It is?” she replies anxiously. “You're not working? What about the deli?”

“I am working. But not at this precise moment. And, er, not at the deli. Babs and I had a…an argument.”

“You did?” shrills my mother. “What about? But this is your future!”

“Not really, Mum,” I say gently. “It was only meant to be temporary.”

“Well, there's always Eee—” She stops, and with difficulty, corrects herself. “I suppose there are other options open to you,” she adds, as if reading from a barely decipherable script. “So tell me”—her voice drops to a shocked hush—“what happened with Barbara?”

“Nothing serious,” I lie. How long does it take these Stone Age headache pills to work? “It'll be fine. Don't worry about the deli, and please don't say anything to Jackie. Anyway, I've decided on a career change.” I take a breath and try to sound assured. “I'm going to train to teach Pilates, which is a form of exercise, it strengthens mind and body and”—to placate my mother—“even old, er, more mature people can do it. I'm going
to use my severance money and do freelance work for Matt, and I'll keep on a lodger, so I won't starve, it'll be fine, it's a proper job, there's no need to worry.”

There is a long doom-filled silence.

“Who,” replies my mother, her voice tight as an overstretched elastic band, “said anything about being worried?”

I am so gratified by her restraint—proof that she actually heard what I yelled at her the other night and modified her hysteria gauge accordingly—it's not until I'm sitting in a small dingy reception room in Crouch End at 3:45, waiting for Alex, that I realize I didn't ask my mother what she wanted my advice on. I'll ring her the minute I get home. I write down this intention in my business diary, which looks pleasingly full as a result.

At 4:06 the prehistoric lift opposite my threadbare sofa clunks open and Alex appears. A tall shaven-headed hunk of a man with dark blue eyes and black eyelashes stands beside her. He's dressed in sweatpants, trainers, and a blotchy purple T-shirt. With no apparent effort, he has the grace and bearing of a god.

“Natalie, what a surprise,” says Alex with a grin. “You're on time!” Robin takes us to the coffee shop next door. From a purely anthropological viewpoint I can't take my eyes off him. After we've ordered a decaffeinated latte, a chamomile tea, and a still mineral water (just call us the Crazy Gang) he says, “So, Natalie. Why Pilates?”

I blush.

“Well I”—I think, hang on, I'm
paying
, aren't I? “Until recently I was in PR, and it wasn't very, er, karmic.”

As I'm unsure if
karmic
is even a word, I add quickly, “So now I'm freelance, but I've decided I want to do work I actually enjoy. I used to run a lot but my knees are starting to creak. Then I tried Pilates, Alex suggested it, and it was wonderful. It makes me feel calm and I never feel that. It's a total change from what I'm used to, but I'm addicted. I'd love to make a living from it. I hope,” I add hurriedly, “that doesn't sound bad.”

“Not at all.” Robin's hands are gently expressive, rising and
falling in emphasis as he talks. “When someone tells me they want to train in Pilates, I need to know why. And yours are very good reasons.”

I feel inordinately pleased, as if the teacher has cried, “Apples are my favorite!”

Robin smiles. “Someone who wants to train with me,” he says, “must come to the studio and work on their own body first. For a minimum of six months, twice a week. I don't like to compress that. The length of time is important. People should be allowed time to change.”

As someone who has always fought change with the determination of an ill-trained dog hanging on to a slipper, I nod and cry, “Oh, absolutely!”

“The training itself is a year long. For the practical part, you spend twelve hours a week in the studio with me. Each teacher has to develop his or her own way of thinking.”

Robin talks and, despite a low-boil sense of panic, I nod until my head feels loose. Five thousand pounds for the bogus privilege of my own way of thinking! I'll be learning about my own body, core stabilization (whatever that may be), postural analysis, and movement in relation to other people (
other
people? Yawn!), basics and remedial exercises, then traditional Pilates work in the studio, Pilates matwork and its benefits, then an apprenticeship and practical exams. We can start tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

“Don't I have to, er, audition to prove that I'm dedicated?”

“You've got six months of studio work before we decide whether to continue with the year of training,” replies Robin. “That's enough of an audition, don't you think?”

 

“
I
don't mind exams,” I tell Alex after Robin exits the coffee shop with every eye—female and male—upon him. “I can learn stuff by heart. It's the thinking for myself that scares me. I was taught to listen.”

Alex shakes her head.

“Natalie,” she says, “you're not happy unless you've got something to worry about. One thing Pilates'll teach you is to let it ride. It gives you control but it's also about letting go. All Robin means is, eventually, you won't use the language he's used with clients, you'll use your own because it suits you better. You'll adapt the exercises to
your
way. And if you're nervous now, that's good, because it means you won't be arrogant, you'll be careful. That's important when you're dealing with people's fragilities. But,” she grins, “steady on, girl, you've got a while yet.” I nod gratefully, pop a few more headache pills, and set to work on changing the subject.

“You're right. It's just that I can't quite believe I'm about to do this. I
never
take risks, never! I'm not an impulsive person. But this feels right. It feels…this is a weird word to use,
healthy
. I'm excited but it's terrifying. So that's my excuse for being a wimp, how are things with you?”

Alex traces a finger round the rim of her cup. “Not great.”

“Not great?” I gasp—I thought her life was wrapped in pink ribbons—“why not?”

She shrugs. “Little things, Natalie.”

I can't restrain myself. “Like what?”

Alex sighs. “Last week,” she says, “my car got broken into—window smashed, stereo nicked—the day after my insurance ran out. The hassle, Natalie, you wouldn't believe. And then, this weekend, I visited a friend in Aldershot with my little sister. We were in this pub, and there were these guys, I think they were army recruits. That type of rough white guy. Like, they fancy you but they don't want to because of your skin color. There was this one good-looking guy, and he was looking at me, and I saw the girl he was with say one word: ‘black.' I said to my sister, ‘Come on, we're going.' I'm telling you, Natalie, it's always a shock. I'm a middle-class girl, I grew up in Islington, for god's sake! And then I get home, and my other sister, Louise, tells me my dog ate something in the park, vomited sixteen times during the night, she rushed
her to the vet, they did an op, and poor Miffy's stomach was full of bones, twigs, and bits of crab. She didn't tell me because ‘I know how you get about that creature.' She's okay now, poor thing, but I
warned
Louise that Miffy heads for bins at the first opportunity! It's her trademark! Andy, my ex—my ex-boyfriend—Andy called it Miffy's bin habit. Anyway, Natalie, I can't be dealing with it!”

Alex looks at me. “You asked. I told you.”

I nod. I feel ashamed about the racism, almost as if
I
am responsible, but I can't think of anything to say that isn't inadequate or patronizing or both. I feel a twist of anger in my gut toward the ignorant woman in the pub, I want to smack her in the mouth but—to my shame—it's not the racism tale that's rendered me speechless. Eventually, I find my tongue.

“What a vile week you've had,” I croak. “I'm so sorry.”

We stretch our lips over our teeth in mutual empathy. But my mind tumbles over itself and all the while I sit there stretchy-lipped I'm screaming mutely,
What? What?
Miffy, I know about Miffy, and oh god, it can't be. Andy. There are a billion Andys. Am I going mad? How did this
happen
?

If Babs were here—well, if Babs were here this fiasco wouldn't have occurred in the first place but—if Babs were here she'd say I had a frog on my tongue. And I can't hold it in any longer. “Alex,” I blurt, “this may sound like a stupid question but, is Alex your real name?”

She narrows her eyes. “Not entirely stupid,” she replies teasingly. “Obviously, Alex is short for Alexandra, but I only started calling myself Alex after the divorce. Fresh start and all that. I reverted to my maiden name too. My husband's surname was”—she giggles—“Clench.”

I wait. It would be polite to giggle back but my giggle stock has been abruptly depleted.

“I guess,” she adds, “I could have called myself ‘Sandy' or ‘Sandra' but they're too Olivia Newton-John.” She stops to take a sip of cold chamomile tea.

“So, Alex,” I husk, knowing the answer but needing to hear it, “what did you call yourself before the divorce?”

“Sasha,” she says. “It's my favorite abbreviation of Alexandra!”

“Sasha,” I echo.