True Things About Me A Novel (Deborah Kay Davies) (6 page)

I agree to things blindly

IT WAS LOVELY
staying with Alison. Tom was so kind; he kept out of the way and took the children with him. They wouldn’t speak to me after the bread incident, and I couldn’t blame them. They were a bit implacable looking when we did meet. I told Tom he was a hero. Well, yes, he said, scratching his chin, I know. After two days I went back home; I couldn’t stay very long. I didn’t want to impose. When I got back I felt like Mole feels when he’s abandoned his humble pad and gone off to live with Water Rat, then returns. There was my little house, with its mound of post on the mat, and its half bottle of souring milk in the fridge. It felt very quiet after Alison’s.

My mother had left a few messages on the phone, but I couldn’t be bothered to talk to her. I thought about sending a postcard, then realised that probably wasn’t a good idea. I had to go into work for a meeting with the head of department about my mad sick leave. It went OK. I blubbed and told him some story.

In the evenings I did things people do when they’re in their own home, like changing the bed and opening all the windows. I put the radio on, and bustled about, cleaning the kitchen cupboards and watering my gasping plants. I even made a big pot of soup so I could smell it cooking. I managed to eat some, but I wasn’t at all hungry. It felt as if I was killing time, waiting for the real owner of the house to return so I could hand over the keys and leave for my other life.

I went back to the office and just kept going. Each day became a little easier, as if I were learning a new job. By the end of the week things felt fairly OK again. On Friday Alison and I were having a break at our desks when she said she had this suggestion to make. And that I wasn’t to freak out or say no before considering what she had to say. God, I said, I promise, get on with it.

She said she’d met this bloke, a business friend of Tom’s, and he was new to the area, really nice. Also good-looking. She and Tom thought he would be great for me. I didn’t say anything; I just carried on sipping my coffee. So, she said, shall I set you two up on a date? I allowed a silence to develop. I hoped it would express how I felt. Well? Alison said, still smiling like some chat show host with a reluctant celeb – if there was such a thing – What d’you think? Hmmm? Are you completely mad? I said. Since when were you a matchmaker? I told her the very idea of being set up on a date made me feel yukky. I knew you’d say that, she said calmly, but just think about it. I already know he’s nice, it doesn’t
have to be a big deal. Just a drink, and then you could go on from there, if you want to. Or not.

Somehow I agreed. I remembered how kind Tom had been. How Alison wanted me to be happy, and I couldn’t say no. Alison did the organising. The guy’s name was Rob, which somehow didn’t seem auspicious to me. I began to think about the term
blind date
. Why blind? It sounded horribly vulnerable-making and ordealish. Not at all fun and frivolous. I’d never been on one before. I began to regret saying yes almost immediately. I decided to check the guy out, get there early, and if he looked even remotely off I would run away. Tom and Alison could stick it up their bums, thank you very much.

I feel sick of visitors

BEFORE I EMBARKED
on the potential fiasco of my date with wots-his-face I decided I had to do what the magazines call
build bridges
. As my parents and I lived on different planets, rather than opposite banks of a river, it felt like a tall order. So instead I went to do some shopping. There was no food in the house and I was tired of munching Ryvitas with Marmite. I’d even developed a small mouth ulcer, they were so salty and shardlike. And drifting through the aisles was always inspirational.

At the supermarket I realised it was simple; I would invite my parents for a meal. So I rang them immediately. I had to have something substantial and competent to offer. A proper roast dinner would convince them I was fine, and that they were fine and we were fine. I bought a big chunk of beef and all the usual trimmings. When I got my bags home the meat had bled all over the carrots and even soaked into a loaf of bread, which had gone pink and spongy.

It took me most of Saturday afternoon to get the meal ready. While I cooked I managed to drink nearly a whole bottle of red wine and at least one G and T. By the time they arrived I felt blurry and loose. When they came in I told my mother she ought to know straight away that the Yorkshire puds were shop-bought. Are you disappointed in me, Ma? I asked her. Have I let you down? Have I? She told me not to be so silly and pecked my cheek. Everything smells delicious, doesn’t it, Daddy? My father didn’t seem in a rush to take his coat off. He stood in the hallway looking serious.

Somehow I got it all on the table. My dad carved the beef. We talked about the weather and their garden. When we all had our heaped and steaming plates before us I began to feel sick. My mum was telling me about Gran. How she was sinking into a sort of gentle oblivion. I know, I said, and then I had to rush from the table. I made it to the loo in time. I tried to retch quietly, but some stuff got forced up my nose. I couldn’t breathe. Mum and Dad were both at the bathroom door. I’m OK, I called, trying to sound upbeat. Something just went down the wrong way. I told them to go and enjoy their meals. They silently went back to the table. It all felt so sad I could hardly bear it.

I said I’d eat mine later, that I really only wanted a long, cool glass of water and some paracetamol. They didn’t eat much either. That was all lovely, my mum said, when they’d finished. Where did you learn how to make those roasters so crunchy? From you, I suppose, I told her. I could see she was
pleased. We quickly cleared up and then sat down with coffee and mints. I asked them if they wanted to watch some TV, but they didn’t.

My mother took hold of my hands. Now, what’s the trouble? she asked me. Something is obviously up. You have been avoiding us. Taking time off work. We rang Alison and she said you had been staying with her. And now here you are, pale and unhappy. Is it to do with your young man? She looked across to my father. He stood up and cleared his throat. We’re worried about you, darling girl, he said. Come on, spill the beans. I picked up my cup. Nothing’s wrong, my dear aged p’s, I said. Just the usual ups and downs of life. You know how it is sometimes. Now, have we built a nice bridge or what? I asked them. They both looked at me doubtfully. They were so sweet.

We sat quietly in the lounge. I put one of their favourite CDs on. After all the cooking, the drink, and the vomming, I felt wasted. My dad began to snore gently and my mum got her knitting out. I curled up in the corner of the settee. It began to rain, and I imagined what the room must seem like from outside. The lamps glowing, three people looking at ease together. Just as I started to drift away there was a loud series of knocks at the door. It was as if each knock was a punch in my undefended stomach. I felt a thrill of fear radiate downwards from my head. I wanted to leap up, but I couldn’t move. My father woke. My mother sat with her knitting needles poised. It’s all right, I’ll go, I said. But my
father was already up. Dad, I said, don’t bother, it’s probably nothing. He went out of the room. I knew who it was. There was a brief snatch of conversation, and then my dad came back in. It’s someone for you, he said.

I wobbled out and shut the lounge door behind me. I felt the life draining from my heart, and yet I felt terrifyingly alive again. As if I’d been electrified. He was leaning against the door frame. Well, this all looks very cosy, he said, very nice. He said
nice
as if it was a swear word. A family get-together. He seemed about to spring into the tiny, airless hall. I’m really hurt, you know, he said, taking a leisurely drag of his cigarette. He seemed part of the wet, windy evening. Honestly, I doubt that, I said. Why would you be hurt? Because you didn’t invite me, did you? he said, and laughed quietly.

I felt poised between the safe, well-lit room and the rainsoaked night outside. Me in the cold spotlight, standing like a wraith; like someone who never ventured outside. He with his body inclined towards me, one foot inside, his hair dark with moisture, his blue eyes cloudy, slightly blind-looking, already gone. The hallway briefly became the still centre of the universe. I could see trees thrashing behind him. I looked at the way his thigh strained against the damp denim of his jeans. Where’ve you been? Hiding? Wanna come out to play? he asked me, his voice soft and coaxing. I’ve missed you like mad. I lifted my hands and somehow pushed him out of the doorway. I felt his warm, thumping chest under my palms.
He smelt of wet pavements, alcohol and cigarettes. Get lost, I whispered. He was smiling. Don’t think I’m letting you slip away that easy, he said. Just as I went to shut the door he leaned in and kissed me punchily on the lips.

I show too much

THE MEETING WITH
Blind-Date Rob was in a pub on the outskirts of town. Getting ready needed to be done at the last minute. I slipped into my new cream trousers and the bustier. They were a little loose because I’d lost weight. I pulled the jacket on and stood in front of the mirror. Something felt really wrong. Then I remembered the beautiful sandals. After I’d put them on I felt OK. In fact I felt like the kind of girl who thought blind dates were a laugh a minute. Then I nearly plunged down the staircase; I was unused to the high heels. I told my reflection in the hall mirror that I loved living on the edge.

I got a taxi to the pub because getting trollied seemed the only way to approach a blind date. I always felt more fascinating when I was smashed. Anyway it gives you an excuse to behave in new ways. I watched the streets thin out as we drove. The sun was setting and all the little semis and bungalows were drenched in a sort of Hollywood glow, the various
strips of lawn bright, bright green, as if they’d been touched up. There were people in their gardens, pruning, I supposed. Dogs on solitary walks. Each bus stop shelter I passed had a hooded group of boys scuffling inside. I heard an ice cream van. I began to feel the soggy, sluggish, melancholy feeling early evening can give you. In no time I was at the pub.

Rob hadn’t arrived, so I ordered a double G and T and sat behind a pillar. They were playing that Jennifer Rush song about the power of love. Alison and I always laughed through it, but in the pub, waiting for Rob, it was like some sort of true cry from the heart. I started to feel like I might start sobbing, so I slugged down my drink and bought another.

I was still twenty sad minutes early, surely a total no-no in blind-date terms. I began to feel hot, then cold, then hot again. I must have looked wired, the way I kept taking my jacket off and putting it on again. I finished my second drink and just knew this was going to be a totally rubbish evening. I was at the bar when Rob arrived. I introduced myself. I’m not sure if we shake hands, he said. I told him I hadn’t read the blind-date how-to manual. He had a nice laugh. He bought a bottle of red wine. We went outside and sat in the garden and began to drink.

So, Rob, I said. You’re actually very handsome, aren’t you? Did you know? Have you always been handsome? How does it feel? He wasn’t fazed by my questions. He just laughed again and told me I was more than pretty. And how do you feel about that? We seemed to be getting on really well. The
garden was end-of-Augusty, just the way I love a garden to be. The sedum was swaying around us in pink clumps, top-heavy with butterflies.

We talked for a long time, and he bought another bottle. You go ahead and drink, he said, I’ve had my two glasses so I’ll drive you home. It got almost dark but we stayed outside. I told Rob I liked him. You can hold my hand if you so desire, I said. I’d drunk so much the plants and bushes around me seemed pulsing with energy, as if they were whipped by a silent storm. Rob was wearing really nice shoes. So much depends on that. His hair was black and he smelled woody. I asked him if it was time to go.

We walked to his car. I was weaving about, and Rob supported me. He felt slim but strong. He kissed me lightly, and it felt lovely, sort of airy and shy. I wanted him to do it again. When we got in the car I said, Why don’t you just drive? He seemed surprised, and asked if I was sure. Don’t you want me to take you home? he said. God no, I said, and stretched out. He drove into the countryside. The lanes got darker and darker. I’ll tell you where to go, I said. Everything looked unfamiliar, but I made up directions.

Then we stopped in a car park by the side of a lake. The water was completely smooth, and full of starry reflections. It was eerily beautiful. We sat quietly and looked. Does it matter that we don’t know each other? I asked him. Do you like me? I couldn’t see his face properly in the dark, but I felt he was smiling. Of course I like you, he said. You’re very cute.
Cute? I said. Is that a good thing? You’re sweet, he said, and patted my knee.

Suddenly I didn’t feel drunk any more. Or cute either. I thought about stuff I’d done. I told him looks could be deceptive. I s’pose so, he said. He sounded a little switched off. He rested his head against the back of the seat and we watched some big white birds unfurl like flowers and land silently on the lake. It was as if they were dragging nets of stars down with them. The dark water whirled and the stars stretched and shivered. I waited for them to firm up again. Then I started to take my new clothes off. They slipped off almost as if they were enchanted. My body looked startlingly white in the half gloom of the car. I could feel the moon’s glow on my skin. I sat and waited for him to touch me. I closed my eyes so that I would feel even more naked. It was a fantastic sensation. I knew I looked amazing.

Nothing happened. Rob was resting his arms on the steering wheel, still gazing out at the lake. I shook his arm. Don’t you want me? I asked him. I began to feel more than pathetic. Don’t you like these, Robby the handsome Rob? I said in a stupid voice, and lifted up my breasts and pointed them at him. I could see they looked like two unappetising, sunken buns. I moved them about a bit; one pointing up, the other down, then vice versa. He turned and tried to focus on my boobs. What are you playing at? he asked quietly, his hands gripping the steering wheel. Put those away, it’s too cold for them to be out. He settled back onto the headrest. God, he
said, and sighed. You are so drunk. Then his hands slipped onto his knees and he closed his eyes as if he were about to fall asleep.