Behaving Like Adults (7 page)

Afterwards I was cross. Why would anyone be like that? How dare they? But I was annoyed With myself too. I'd run away! Why didn't I stand up for myself? What could they have done to me in a carriage of people? Stabbed me and jumped on my head, apparently, but I was spitting that I hadn't fought back, not so much as a squeak. Truth was, I physically couldn't. And I don't mean in the sense that they
were bigger than me. I mean that my body plain wouldn't let me. Its every message service was yelling, insistent,
get out of here now
. I'd obeyed like a robot.

Not this time. I thought I was being sensible. No woman wants to be thought of as hysterical. I knew I didn't want Stuart alone with me in my house but I forced myself to be mature, rational. My system jangled warning signals but I blocked my ears. You know why? I was too damn polite. It reminds me of an advert, warning against cancer of the bottom or something, it says, Don't Die of Embarrassment. Obviously the medical establishment is aware that a good half of the population think, ‘What! Let a doctor poke around down there? No way! What if it smelt of pooh? Of
course
I choose to die of embarrassment!'

I didn't want to offend Stuart.

He was practically a friend. I didn't want to hurt his feelings by not trusting him. I
like
being decent, it's not very butch but it makes me feel good inside. If you want to live with yourself, you have to uphold at least a few of your own principles. When I bought Rachel a priceless bottle of Decléor face oil for her birthday I was twitching, I so badly wanted to keep the free tube of Anti-Fatigue Eye Contour Gel that came with it, but it felt shoddy, swindling her out of her bonus gift. I hummed and ha'd, nearly gave it to her, and then I kept it. Good grief! Every time I saw it lying unused on the kitchen table, I felt like Judas. The guilt killed me, I had to buy her the Aromatic Essential Balm to restore my faith in myself.

Nick slammed into the house halfway through. Stuart kicked the kitchen door shut. I was too frightened to scream. There were a million thoughts going through my head and nothing at all. It was as if I wasn't even there. I was aware of being jolted, of my arms being held above my head, but mostly I was out of myself. When I'm on a plane waiting for it to crash, I dream of elsewhere. I imagine Emily, a warm little black dot, curled up in a ball on our
bed, I imagine my mother pottering in the garden, her knees clicking as she bends down, I imagine my father whistling as he polishes his shoes on a newspaper in the kitchen, and it keeps the plane in the air because as long as they're with me nothing bad can happen.

And so I imagined my parents, asleep in their pyjamas under their bobbly old eiderdown. I just went to them, slipped out of my body like a ghost, they were so real I could have been hovering over their heads. I thought of Emily, sprawled in the sunshine,
hot
, God but that cat loves to bake herself like a potato. I thought of me in my tent house when I was small, draping a sheet over a chair and crouching beneath it, all my toys gathered about me like courtiers before a queen. Who'd have thought that little girl would come to
this
? ‘I want to be as close to you as I can,' whispered Stuart to someone. Then he turned the stereo up. U2. In a way I was glad it was U2. I can't stand their music. It would have been a real bastard had it been Air, or Zero Seven or any band I really like.

I didn't wish that Nick would come in to the kitchen; it was too late to wish for anything. I heard the front door slam again, anyway. And then Stuart got off me and said, ‘I think I'm falling in love with you.' I didn't reply. It sounded wrong. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?' he added. ‘You should get dressed, you'll get cold on the floor.' I shook my head and nodded but I couldn't look up from the level I was at, which was cat level. You'd think if you were that low you'd be invisible to predators but you're not. Unless, of course, the predator is wearing a head trumpet and can only see straight ahead. It's like in films when the goodie is hiding on a ceiling beam and the baddie doesn't spot him. If there's a person hiding on the ceiling, pardon me but you're
aware
of it.

‘I'd better be going,' said Stuart, who seemed to be having a conversation entirely with himself. ‘I'll call you. Bye-bye. I'll see myself out.' The way he said it, I nearly replied, ‘Okay, thanks!'

My hand reached out and turned off the stereo. I realised I wasn't breathing automatically, and I had to sniff and pant to let the air in. I wondered if he had really gone. Claudia is scared of spiders and when she sees one she vacuums it up, then leaves the vacuum on for three hours in case it tries to crawl out again. I wished there was a version of that for humans. I didn't want to move from where I was. So I stayed on the floor, looking at it, thinking that the little black and white tiles were better suited to a bathroom, the dirt and blood showed up too easily. Grey was a better colour for a kitchen floor.

I could have sat there till dawn, letting my mind dissolve to nothing, but Emily appeared, rubbed her head against my arm and said, ‘
Miaowwww!
'

‘Absolutely,' I replied, and stood up to get a tin out of the cupboard. She purred, ‘
prrt-rrr, prrt-rrr, prrt-rrr
' and it was the friendliest sound I ever heard. She spent two months in a cage at the vet's after her owner gave up on her, and she remains embarrassingly grateful for the smallest attention. It took me a long time to open the tin. My hands were useless and weak, all the strength gone out of them. Emily did a little bunnyhop of excitement and nudged against me as I placed the bowl on her mat. I watched as she ate and thought how easy it would be to hurt her. You could break her leg, it would be like snapping a twig. Or kick her so hard in the stomach she'd bleed to death from the inside. I decided I should keep her indoors.

I switched on every light. I smelled like Stuart. I would have a bath. I felt calm. There was some sort of squabble going on in my head but I refused to be part of it. I double locked the front door and thought of all the horror films you see where the door is locked and the killer is inside the house. I was being ridiculous. I needed to go to the toilet. I went and it felt like someone was holding a lit match to my skin. But then, fuss fuss fuss, I'd felt sore after sex with Nick before. Sometimes you
need
to fuck fast, even though
it looks undignified and you know that you'll sting afterwards. It can be quite satisfying, that rawness. A secret reminder of your pleasingly passionate love life.

I wondered where Nick had gone and if he'd come back.

‘I think I can have a bath in my own home,' I said loudly to the walls, as if they'd voiced disapproval. I turned on the hot tap. It squeaked as normal. Everything was normal. I didn't want to be in the bathroom while the water ran, because then I couldn't hear anything. So I took off all my clothes in the bedroom. Then I didn't know what to do. I couldn't put on my dressing gown because I didn't want it to touch my skin until I'd had a bath. I wanted to put my clothes in the machine right that minute, but I didn't want to go downstairs naked. I stood, not deciding, until my lungs nearly burst and the bath ran over.

I didn't know why I was being so weird. It was only sex that I didn't want. Big deal. Who hasn't had
that
before? Me, but so what. And, anyhow, maybe, subconsciously, I did want it. I'd asked him out. I'd kissed him on the mouth. I'd given him signals.

‘I think I'm falling in love with you.' What rapist says
that
? That R word was a disgusting violent word and not a word I wished to use in context with myself. I was a big tough bruiser of a girl, not some gossamer victim. It could not be that thing because I had allowed it to happen. He was sweet afterwards. So I dumped my clothes on the floor and got in the bath. It felt like sulphuric acid but in a nice way.

I don't know how long I lay in that bath but then the water got cold. So I got out, dried myself, pat pat pat, with a soft towel that rubbed like sandpaper, blowdried my hair – on, off, on, off every second so I could hear any creak in the house – and made a mental note to buy more soap. Then I put on my pyjamas, gathered up my clothes, marched downstairs, booted open the kitchen door, and every nothing noise roared loud in my head. I could hear the clock ticking like a deathwatch beetle, the hum of
electricity was so penetrating it tickled my ears and made them itch. The house was alive with activity. I rolled my eyes at myself, stuffed the clothes in the machine and stuck it on a boil wash.

Then I saw the state of the tiles.

I squirted bleach on the polluted area and scrubbed it with a scouring pad, but you can never clean just a
bit
of the floor. I always try, then I envisage my sister Issy floating over my head. So I cleaned the whole thing. By the time I'd finished, the washing machine had ended its cycle. I pulled out my pink cashmere jumper. It was the size of a hankerchief. Really. It was too small to fit a doll. For goodness' sake. I started to huff and puff, and pull at the arms – why, don't ask, it was like trying to get a Mini to grow into a tank – and then I tutted and threw it and all my other sodden clothes in the bin. Why was I getting so
uptight
? These things happen, Jesus, I'd go to the shop tomorrow, I'd replace the jumper, get a new one. It wasn't a problem. Most damage can be undone.

‘TRIUMPH!' CRIED NIGE,
making me jump when I walked into the office. He was wearing rose-tinted shades, a white shirt, white jeans and a smug look on his face. Thankfully, he'd drawn the line at white shoes. ‘Sunshine. Arse. Behold!'

‘For the ninetieth time keep your voice
down
,' whispered Claudia, as pale as Nige's outfit. She scowled at a tub of Nurofen. ‘These pills must be sugar pills.'

Nige amended his pitch to a deafening whisper. ‘Twenty-three messages when I got in, er, at nine fift—'

‘You got in at eleven forty-nine, Nigel, like Holly cares. And will you stop, I don't know what you call it, throwing your voice. You're in an eight by ten office in front of two people with hangovers, not on stage at the National. Stop
rehearsing
on me, please.'

‘Twenty-three messages raving about the party,' echoed Nige, in a tone as rich and seductive as warm chocolate. ‘At
my
club.'

He beamed at me, a kid presenting a picture to a parent. I was observing from a great distance, but I cracked a smile. It was cosmetic. Who, I thought, is this person, really? Is he thrilled or is he pretending to be thrilled? He is an actor, his
métier
(as he'd say) is deceit. Nige can recite ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep' and make it sound like a sonnet. All the world
is
a stage for him. I've watched him when he thinks he's alone. He's like an unread book, inanimate, he needs an audience to be alive. Which means that everything he says or does is an act. I stopped smiling.

‘Success. Hooray. Wonderful. Well done.'

Nige sat down, disappointed. I think he'd expected an ovation.

Claudia looked at me. ‘So, Tallulah. Quiet today. What happened to you? Jesus Christ.'

There was a tennis ball lodged in my throat. ‘Talllulah? What do you mean?'

‘“
What?
” Don't be coy. It's obvious!'

‘Is it?'

My hands were trembling for no reason.

‘Nige. Help me out.'

Nige embraced his role with the eagerness of a dog falling on a chop. ‘Holly. We are your dear friends. You have alarmed us. An explanation
silver plate, toot sweet
.'

I felt like a mouse in a corner. I opened my mouth but all it contained was a squeak. Nige was having trouble holding back. Claudia smiled through the pain as he boomed, ‘Holly Appleton. The prosecution demands to know why, for the first time in twenty-nine years, you are not wearing on your person an item of clothing the colour pink?'

In your
head
, I wondered, do you give a damn?

‘There was nothing in the drawer this morning. Okay?'

I know I was being grouchy but his gaze unsettled me. I felt like a germ under a microscope. You do something once, twice, suddenly it's your trademark. No wonder people rarely change. They
try
in a tiny way and their friends and relatives go ballistic, as if they've broken a law. It's as if, as long as you remain static, they feel safe. You're less of a threat. Well, that's their problem. That morning, I'd opened my wardrobe and the brown said
pick me
.

The second after I'd snapped I felt lousy. I decided there was no real reason for me to be acting the way I was. It was like waiting for your ears to pop. And waiting. Everyone treats you as normal so you resign yourself to the invisible barrier between you and the rest of the world. You hear your own voice trapped inside your head and it sounds
unfamiliar. Other people sound far away. Normally, I'd be jabbing at my ears with cotton buds, pencils, drumsticks. But that day, I was happy to leave them blocked. A blissful disconnection, like the moment before you fall asleep and dream.

I grinned at Claudia and I made myself grin at Nige. ‘Brown in deference to the communal migraine, of course. I thought if I wore pink, one of you might start fitting.'

‘Angel child! I don't dare look in the mirror in case my head has actually transformed into a watermelon and my eyes are nasty little black pips. Jesus, Claw, you're right, why don't these pills
work
, I've taken at least forty, oh, boo, I want my mummy!'

‘Well,' I replied, wanting to make up for my own mean spirit, ‘could you make do with a doughnut instead?'

‘Holly, I didn't know you'd met my mother,' replied Nige, making me laugh before I could think about it. I undid the box and ended up eating three, because despite the fact that they were doused in sugar and haemorrhaging jam, the first two doughnuts didn't taste. The third wasn't much better but I thought I should quit before my heart did.