True Things About Me A Novel (Deborah Kay Davies) (12 page)

I must have said all that out loud, because Alison took a sharp breath and said tearfully, If that’s how you feel then there’s nothing else to say. She sounded like a second-rate actress in a daytime soap. I almost laughed. You know where I am if you need me, she said. Then she walked out sniffing. I rummaged in my bag for a comb, but my vision was blurry. I splashed some water on my face, and blotted it carefully. When I looked in the mirror I seemed to have grown younger. I could have been my own little sister, only I didn’t have one, thank God.

Alison’s not my friend any more, I said out loud to the echoey loo. It’s official, I now have no friends. Even my parents hate me. I watched my silly smile fade in the mirror. As I combed my hair I thought maybe it was all part of the scheme of things. I had to grow up sometime. No one really understood. They all thought they knew what was best for me. I had started a new chapter. I was living with a man, for holy Saint Ikea’s sake. I was moving on. I was cooking stuff in my kitchen at last. Someone was occupying the empty side of my double bed. I felt equal to it all. But round the back of my little heart I could hear a lonely breeze whistling away everything I cared about.

I have red letter days

HE DIDN’T COME
back and he didn’t come back and he didn’t come back. For the last couple of weeks I had been spending loads of money on taxis. I missed my car a lot. I fooled everybody at work. It was amazing. On the outside I looked like myself, and I sounded like her. I ate what she ate. I wore her clothes, although some of them I didn’t like. I even put her make-up on. But inside I was just sloshing about. It made it awkward to use my computer and answer the phone, but I managed. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep things going.

I felt as if some wet substance filled my cavities. It could have been water, it might have been blood; some sort of disgusting broth anyway. I was surprised my colleagues couldn’t hear it lapping around as I stalked up and down the corridors. For all I knew I was leaving liquid splodges on the office floors. My vital organs had been sucked out. Inside my skull sat a microchip and some circuits. Inside my chest nothing at all. Not even an empty Coke can.

Alison was nowhere to be seen. I asked the dolphin necklace woman I’d always made a point of ignoring. She smirked, and told me how surprised she was I didn’t know Alison was on leave. Gone abroad somewhere. But Alison doesn’t like abroad, I said. She hates paninis. She likes Skegness and buckets of tea. Whatever, she answered, brushing dandruff off her acrylic jumper. That’s all I can tell you. I could have slapped her stupid face. Well, I’m unimpressed, I said lamely; you haven’t a clue, have you? and sloshed away.

I toyed with the idea of phoning blind-date Rob. He was the only other person in the world I knew. But after I’d walked myself through our meeting I remembered certain things: drinks in a garden; a ride through dark lanes; the pockmarked lake, a squeaky car seat; his white knuckles gripping the steering wheel; and finally that naked girl convulsing on the hall floor, and it didn’t seem such a stunning idea. I felt sorry for him. How could the poor boy, with his nice shoes, have known that he was going to take weird little me out? And he’d doused himself with such nice perfume. Just as if he was going out on a common or garden, straightforward, pleasant, snoggy date. Let that be a lesson to him.

Every day in my lunch hour I went to the hole in the wall and took some money out. I liked seeing the little wad of notes in my bag as I travelled home on the bus. Systematically I cleared out my accounts. It gave me such a buzz. It became the highlight of each day. When I got home I would push it in a kitchen drawer. Finally there was enough. I already had
something to put the money in. It seemed right to use the red treasure box I’d had since I was a little girl. Then I’d used it for my secrets. I’d loved that it had a lock and key. Now I started to look for somewhere to stash it. The garden seemed like an ideal place; it was somewhere I felt safe, somewhere only I visited. I stood on the patio and tried to imagine a really unlikely spot. There was a smell of rain, and all the plants were drooping. I used the trowel my father had given me. I don’t know why I was doing this thing with my money, but it seemed like an excellent idea. And I chose a good, secret place for it all.

Each evening I performed a ritual. I ate some food; two slices of toast and marmite cut into postage stamp pieces. Then I drank a cup of camomile tea. Anything else made me feel deathly ill, and I was afraid to eat it. I thought that if I did all my insides might pour out like a thin emulsion, and I’d be unable to stand up and carry on. After posting squares of toast into my mouth and systematically swallowing I arranged myself on the sofa in front of the TV. Just on the off-chance someone looked in through the window. There I’d be, lounging, engrossed in a programme. In fact I sat there like a mannequin. The real me was groping about, banging into things, ripping my hair, shredding my cheeks. Screaming for him to come back.

I had two letters in the post on the same day. Two white envelopes spread out on the mat like the wings of a dead dove. My parents wrote to say they loved me. I found it difficult to
decipher the words; my eyes weren’t working properly. They said they had to mention the man I was living with. How unhappy they were about that. They’d heard bad things about him. They said it wasn’t too late. Why didn’t I pack a bag and stay with them? Nobody’s angry with you, the letter said. Just come home to us. I wondered what they were talking about; I was home. The other came from the HR department. They regretted to have to inform me that I was required to attend a second warning interview. And could I respond within seven days. And in the meantime not to come into work. This was standard procedure, the letter said.

I had a delayed reaction to the letters. After I’d read them I enjoyed ripping them both up into confetti. Then I sank to the floor and sobbed. So not actually such a huge delay. I cried until I was numb, my head rocking on the confetti-strewn carpet. I didn’t have a tissue, and my face stung bitterly. Later I heard steps on the path to my house. Then vigorous banging. I held onto the walls and the hall table as I ran to open the door. He sprang in and lifted me up in his arms. As I ran my fingers through his hair I could hear laughter. You’ve been crying, he said, and let me down gently. If it’s about the car I can explain. The car doesn’t matter, I said, now you’re here. That’s good, he said, ’cos my mate needs it for a couple more days.

He wanted something to eat. He said soup would do. As I prepared it for him he sat at the kitchen table and talked to me. All the time he talked his foot tapped the floor. He
smoked a cigarette. Everything had changed. Even the utensils on the walls stood to attention; I could hear them clang against each other. He asked me if I had any news. No, I said, and kissed his forehead. He ate quickly, ripping chunks of bread apart, and dunking them into his bowl. Then he picked me up again. What’s happening? I asked him, although I didn’t care where he took me. Wait and see, he said, and ran upstairs with me in his arms. Oh yes, he said, and plonked me on the bed. He quickly took his clothes off. We’ve got time for a sly one, he said, and climbed on top of me. Then we’re off to a party.

I don’t like parties

I SEARCHED THROUGH
my wardrobe for something to wear. Everything was too dark and corporate. The few special, slinky things seemed too special and, well, slinky. When I asked him what sort of party it was, he said the usual sort, and looked at me as if I was mental. Is someone celebrating something? I said, as I tried to tidy my hair at the mirror. God, I was way beyond plain, almost ugly. My eyes were like currants in raw pastry.

Finally I put on jeans and an unfamiliar, smocky kind of top I found hiding under some shirts. I can’t think what had possessed me to buy it. Usually I wouldn’t be seen dead in something like that. He wanted to listen to music, have a drink. He said it would get us in the mood. What mood? I asked. And for what? He stood in the bedroom doorway, and pointed at me. OK, he said, what is it with you and all these questions? What are you, some crap private detective? he asked. I know, he said, showing all his teeth in a grin. You’re Miss
fucking Marple the Second. Holy shit, he laughed, pretending to look at me through binoculars, you actually look a bit like her. Turns me right off anyway. I sat on the bed, and looked at him grinning, filling the door frame. Then he went downstairs. I felt an icy scarf creep round my neck. I don’t want to go to a party, I told the mirror and all the things in my bedroom.

By the time we were picked up by one of his friends we were both drunk. The bass from the speakers in the car was strong enough to melt your brain. I sat on his lap, and collapsed on to him. The back seat was already jammed with blokes. For the entire journey he ran his hands over my body, and pushed his swollen cock against me. I looked out at the streets where ordinary people shopped and talked to each other. I sort of wanted to wind down the window, and shout at them to help me. But it did look boring out there. Safe and boring, I thought. Someone in the car was passing a bottle of vodka around. He grabbed it. Drink up, he yelled. You need to zone out a bit. He took a swig, and held it to my lips.

We screeched interminably through a housing estate. When we stopped I couldn’t get out of the car; my body was so lax and heavy. We had to fight our way. A crowd of people stood around in the garden smoking and drinking. He carried me through the open door of a house, and laid me on a sofa. Won’t be long, he said, and gave me a full, uncorked bottle of red wine.

As soon as he’d gone I began to feel hyper-awake and
excited. I spilled wine down my stupid top as I gulped it. Dim lamps glowed in the lounge, and I could only just make out the shapes of people. The music was so deafening no one was talking. They seemed to be absorbed in touching each other instead. I wasn’t sure if anybody could see me, and that made me happy. Eventually I had to get up to find the loo. I didn’t want to leave my sofa; it felt like a little boat that magically no one could board.

Bodies were propped on every step of the stairs, drinking and smoking. I picked my way between them. I was unsteady on my feet, but no one seemed to mind if I stepped on them. There was a queue for the loo. The woman in front of me turned, and I realised I’d seen her before. I tapped her shoulder, and as she faced me slowly I knew who she was. She coughed the cough I remembered. How’s your dog? I asked her. I told her I was the person who’d given her a note. What note? she said, without the slightest interest. Then she focused on me. Oh yeah, she said, and took a long drag from her cigarette. Are you OK? she asked me through a cloud of smoke, narrowing her eyes. I asked her why I shouldn’t be. It seemed like a weird question to ask a stranger. Just wondered, she answered, and went into the loo.

I crept through the house. There were two guys snogging on the bed in what looked like a child’s room. I stood and watched them. They seemed really sweet; at least they had each other. One of them noticed me. What’s your name? he said, fondling his chest and belly. I told him I didn’t remember. That
can happen, he smiled, and patted the bed. Are you on your own? Why don’t you come and lie down with us? The other guy looked as if he’d dozed off. I said I didn’t think I would do that. I was with my partner, and he might not like it if I did. The guy put his head to one side. No problem, babe, he said, and held my hand.

I sat on the edge of the bed, and realised I was totally on my own. The man massaged my fingers. No offence, but I think you need to loosen up a bit, he said softly, you seem really tense. That’s not even one bit true, I answered, and stood up. I couldn’t be more relaxed and happy. God, I sounded like some head-girly heroine in an Enid Blyton school story. The bedroom felt tiny and airless. OK, OK, the man said, and lay back down. Say hello to your partner for me when he surfaces, won’t you?

I negotiated the stairs and made my way to the kitchen. People were gathered round a table with food arranged on it. Even though I wasn’t hungry I struggled to get through. Next to a mug of buttercups there were bottles of wine and cans of lager. In the centre I could see a huge bowl filled with tomatoes and foreign-looking lettuce leaves, a pile of bread rolls, and various cheeses arranged on a wooden board. Sausages and burgers were being handed round. People offered me things and I accepted everything. The wine was warm, perhaps at blood temperature. The cheese was crumbly and sharp, then creamy and mild. The flavours of everything tasted extreme.

I looked around at all the chewing people. Frilly lettuce hung out of their mouths. All these human beings, I thought, but he isn’t among them. Not one of them was lovely him. I looked but couldn’t see his blond curls anywhere. Not one person knew who I was. I spat out the lump of sausage stuck in my mouth, and dropped my plate on the tiled kitchen floor. The room was so noisy it smashed soundlessly. I began to cry, then I was sitting on an easy chair in a quieter room. I fell asleep, and woke up when a girl came round with a huge plate of hash brownies. Everyone cheered. There was coffee, and a liqueur tasting of cough medicine. I had some of that. I knew I had to be careful but the brownies were so tender and moistly chocolatey I ate four.

I go to the pictures

I ENDED UP
at the back of the house, and fell over a child’s bike as I stumbled about. Finally I found something to sit on. My leg felt wet so I examined it. A street light cast an electric aura into the garden that made the grass and trees look as if they were coated in mauve suede. Warm tar-black blood ran down my leg. The weird thing was it didn’t hurt at all, even though the cut looked long and deep. I watched it spread. Everything was dead; rinsed of colour, muffled and still. There was total silence, whilst above me the grey trees gyrated about.

I wasn’t sure where I was, or how I’d got here. The house looked as if it might be burning down, but I didn’t care. Every smoky window was lit up, and the figures of people writhed around each other. Actually, no. It was a party, I remembered. Those people were having fun whilst I buggered about in the monochrome garden, bleeding as usual. I could see a rabbit hutch behind some bins so I went to have a look. I had to
kneel on the stiff, scorched grass. It was surprisingly beautiful inside that little hutch.