Getting Over It (6 page)

Chapter 7

L
IZZY HASN’T DONE IT BECAUSE
“it has never even occurred” to her. Tina hasn’t done it because she’s “never met a man who deserved it,” and I’ve done it once, with Jasper who—ungrateful sod—didn’t respect me for doing it.

I refer, of course, to sending a man flowers. Laetitia recommended the florist she uses to pacify important freelancers after shredding their copy. “How much would you like to spend?” asked the florist.

“Um, fourteen or fifteen quid?” I replied.

There was a haughty silence, then the cool inquiry, “Fourteen or forty?” Not wanting Jasper or the florist to think I was a cheapskate or poor, I snapped, “Forty, of course!”

Forty quid. That’s practically a foreign holiday! I kept the resentment at bay by imagining how touched—and inflamed to lust—Jasper would be on receiving the bouquet. (After all, it was two months into our relationship, a stage at which libido conquers frugality.) At 5:56
P.M.
I gave in and called him.

“Did you get it?” I asked breathlessly.

“Yes,” he replied in a flat voice. “What a surprise. I’ve never been sent flowers before. And certainly not pink ones.” Said in such a way that I immediately realized sending Jasper pink flowers signified to his colleagues, beyond reasonable doubt, that Jasper was gay.
You,
I thought furiously,
with your nautical prints and green corduroy trousers, should be so lucky.
But all I said to him was, “Fine. I’ll take them back, then.”

Incidently I sent flowers to Tom yesterday. Only this time, I took no chances and briefed the florist. “It’s got to be a manly bunch,” I said sternly. “Can you put loads of twigs in there and stuff?” I discussed my intention with Tina and Lizzy first, in case it was a blatant gaffe. But Lizzy thought he sounded “angelic” and agreed he deserved flowers for chauffering me to the funeral. Tina thought he sounded “suspiciously nice, probably married,” but agreed he deserved flowers for helping me to irritate Celine. He hasn’t called though, to say thank you. Oh, well. See if I care. I’m far too busy lying on my bed staring at the ceiling to worry about men. And I’ve taken next week off as holiday. Inexplicably, I’ve started waking up—head buzzing, blood jangling—at 5
A.M.
Me, who usually has trouble rolling out of bed at 8:15.

Lizzy suggested it might be to do with my father—she insists on relating everything to my father, she’s obsessed. Finally, I told her coldly, “I don’t think about him at all. I did on the day of the funeral, but now I don’t. There’s no point.” It’s not quite a lie. I’m too numb to think, and I don’t have to. The death of my father is a constant, like tinnitus. It’s just there. My edginess is probably the dread of returning to work. I’m exhausted, and I don’t feel strong enough to spend nine hours, five days a week, sweating and toiling under Laetitia’s manicured thumb. Or maybe I’m just lazy. Trouble is, I know the feeble excuse “My father just died so I’m knackered” will cut no ice.

Then Tina rang to inform me that according to the fashion director, Laetitia had had sex for the first time in thirteen months with a count, and was in a rapturous mood. So if I wanted another week off, now was the time to ask for it. I owe the count a drink. Especially as he is—according to Tina, who heard it from the fashion director—actually a plumber who used to caretake at Gordonstoune.

Thanks to Tina and the count, I have been able to spend Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday in my bedroom. I prepared for it. On Friday morning I drove to Pet World and stocked up on tins for Fatboy. I forgot to stock up on tins for myself, which is possibly why, when I rang Taste of India yesterday for the fourth night in a row, the man taking my order asked me out for a drink because I “sounded lonely.”

I have also been screening my calls. My mother has rung approximately fifty times and I know I should be with her in her hour of need, I know it’s bad of me to be avoiding her, but just the sound of her petulant voice, it’s suffocating, it hems me in, like she’s pressing me down into a small, dark, airless box, and I want to scream at her to go away, leave me alone, stop wanting, I can’t stand it, I can’t give you anything.

Jasper and Tom, however, haven’t rung at all. Meanwhile, Marcus—Luke tells me—has been giving the doll from Second Edition a series of intensive personal training sessions which, it would appear, involve him staying at her Hampstead pad five nights in a row. All I can say is, her inner thigh muscles must have been extraordinarily out of shape. Lizzy has also been calling, but I’m not up to facing the full force of her good intentions.

Finally, on Tuesday evening, Tina broke the lethargy spell. She marched round to the flat (I only opened the door because I thought she was from Dominos) barged in, and bellowed, “You old slag! Donchou look a state! You’ve got a day—one day—to get yourself decent! Tomorrow night we’re going out and we are going to party! And you, darling, are going to get wasted!”

She was so forceful that Fatboy puffed up his tail in fright and helter-skeltered down the hallway. “If you say so,” I replied meekly. The party is at a hip new bar in town and Tina is picking me up at eight, on the premise that if we arrive unheard-of-ly early, we can stake out the best table—and the best men. I suspect she just wants to get me out of the house. Before she leaves, she shoves a silver shopping bag at my chest. I open the bag to find she’s pinched a hot pink camisole top from the fashion cupboard, the one I was drooling after last month when these things mattered.

Wednesday lunchtime and I am wandering around the flat, peeling apart my split ends and prising the flaky bits off my fingernails, when the phone rings. I brace myself, but it isn’t my mother, it’s a man. It’s Tom.

“Hi, this is Tom, calling for Helen, to say thank you again for the brilliant flowers, called on Friday and spoke to your landlord, he said he’d pass on the message but—”

I snatch up the receiver. “Hello, Tom?!”

“Helen?”

“Hang on, let me switch off the answer mach—oh, bugger, okay, hi!” I am garbly with pleasure and indignation: “Marcus never told me you rang!”

Tom says, “Yeah, well, he sounded like he was in a rush, so I thought I’d ring again to make sure. Those flowers were wild! Thank you so much, you didn’t need to! So how come you’re at home, anyway?”

I am unable to think of a funky excuse so I say, in an attempt to sound attractively rebellious, “Oh, you know, can’t be bothered to go back to work.”

Realizing this could easily be interpreted as unattractively loserish, I add—may God forgive me—“Also, I’ve been looking after my mother.” Hmm, too spinstery. “And seeing friends. I’m seeing my friend Tina tonight, we’re going to this new bar.” My fwend! I curse myself, but Tom says warmly, “Sounds good. Where is it?” I am seized by a burst of recklessness, “Just off Picadilly Circus, it’s supposed to be so cool that no one talks, they just stand about, do you want to come?” So as not to appear too keen, I add, “Bring someone if you like.”

Pause. Tom says, “Great! I’d be on for that. Although it’ll probably just be me. I’m on call tonight, but it shouldn’t be a problem.” So I arrange that Tom will meet Tina and I inside the bar at 9
P.M.

I put down the phone, and ring Tina immediately in a panic. “Do you fancy him?” she demands. “Not sure,” I say. “That means yes,” she replies and tells me what to wear.

Ten past nine. Squidgy red leather sofas. Dim lighting. Retro music. Beautiful women with hair clipped up in that messy, sexy, just got out of bed, wanna go back? style, sleek men in slim-fit shirts and dark trousers. Feeling smug. Looking good, for me. Slinky top. Black trousers. Killer boots. Subtle makeup. Troweled on but barely there. Barky laughing girly talk with Tina. Sips of champagne. Half past nine. More champagne. Bigger sips. Gulk-gulk. Golden tequila. Thick golden tequila.
But you don’t even like tequila.
Ten past ten.
Don’t care. Gimme a straw. That’s what I want. Gimme a fag. But you don’t smoke. Don’t care, wanna fag.
Chunky glass after glass of Cuervo Gold tequila. Screechy, slurry, blurry talk with Tina. Twenty to eleven. Staggering, giggling, swaying, to the loo. Dazed, smudgy mascara, jerky check in mirror, scrunchy, clumsy, puffing up, limp hair. Lurching, dizzy, teary, back to Tina. Eleven-thirty. Feel ill.
Whiny where is he the fucker bastard git wanking wanker fuck more tequila tastes gross fags making me dizzy don’t care want more want more wasted Tina need more tequila my purse take it what who lemme alone tired wanna lie down tom tom Tom Tom! flucking buddy late you tossing tosser tissing posspot… .

I wake up. I feel sharply awake. I am lying in my bed. The ceiling is in clear focus. But something isn’t right. “Helen?” says a male voice. I emit an involuntary whimper and stare in terror at Tom who is sitting, scruffy, fully clothed, on a chair in the middle of my bedroom debris. He looks as if he is trying to stifle a grin. “How are you?” he drawls.

I realize several things at once. I am wearing a t-shirt and nothing else. I can’t recall what happened last night. There is a curious absence of head pain. But I think it was bad. Very bad indeed. “W-what? How?” I croak. As I use my voice for the first time, I realize my throat is sandpaper and my chest feels at least one size too small. Tom coughs. I suspect he’s playing for time. “Tina undressed you—you had sick on your top. She’s asleep in the living room.” He stops.

“What happened?” I whisper.

Tom looks sheepish. “I was on my way and there was an emergency.” His voice rises as if he’s asking a question. “Emergency op. It was bad timing. I called the flat to say I’d be late, but you’d already left. I’m so sorry. It’s kind of my fault.”

What is his fault? He’s talking in code. He sees my fearful expression and grins again. “I haven’t seen you naked, if that’s what you’re worried about. Me and Luke stayed outside while Tina did the business. You were impressively plastered.” I manage a nod. I don’t dare speak.

Tom shifts to his feet. “I’ve got to go to work but I’ll call you later.” He strides over, kisses me once, on the forehead, then walks out, softly shutting the door behind him. I wait until I hear the front door shut, leap out of bed, run into the hallway, remember I’m knickerless, run back into my room, scrabble through the wreckage for my tracksuit bottoms, yank them on, run into the living room, shake Tina awake, and wheeze in a—painful but aurally pleasing—husk, “Shit shit shit, what happened, now now now!” Tina struggles upright, groans, squeezes the bridge of her nose and screws up her face, growls, “Get me an Advil out of my bag,” and swallows two of them dry. Then, she tells me.

“Helen, you big tit. You made a right arse of yourself. He was late, but it wasn’t his fault. He’d tried to ring but he didn’t have your mobile. I think he might’ve even called the bar but they’re too pissy to take messages. He came straight from doing the op. I think it was an Alsatian. This Alsatian escaped from its owner, and ran into the road, and this car, I think it was a BMW, a green one, Three series, fuel injection, and—what? Okay, okay. Well, he got there just before twelve and we were both wasted, but you, you were something special. You’d been on the tequilas, neat tequila all night. You were storming! I’ve never seen you that bad. I was on the bubbly, I was way behind you. You don’t even like tequila! But no, it had to be tequila. You were a right stroppy cow. And you pinched all of my fags. Anyway. So Tom turns up and, excuse me, but that man is fit. And you’re about comatose. You were rude to him, actually. Called him a tosspot, except you said it teapot, so maybe he didn’t realize. You were jawing on and on and on about how you’re sick of wimpy men and you can’t stand it and this always happens to you and you just want a bloke who doesn’t let you down and, like, really cringey, whingy stuff. I tried to shut you up but you weren’t having any of it. Then you tried to stand up to, I think, slap him, and you fell over. He caught you and then the bar staff were getting pissed so we dragged you outside and you were in a
bad
way and we thought we ought to take you to the hospital to get your stomach pumped, but none of the cabbies would let you get into their cabs. So I used the
GirlTime
account. Then you started crying because you felt sick and then you
were
sick and then the cab came and it had to stop to let you be sick again and maybe that’s why you don’t feel so bad today, but you will, darling, because we got back to your flat and we tried to find your keys and then you wa—I mean, then we rang the bell and woke up Luke and—What? No, nothing. Helen, I’m telling you, you don’t want to know. All right then. You asked. You wet yourself. Easy tiger, my head’s killing me. Look, you asked, what can I tell you? I’m sorry. You pushed me. I wouldn’t have said. Yes, of course, he saw. What? He gave you a fireman’s lift. I don’t know if any went on him! I was wasted! Christ, woman, keep the noise down, I’m in pain here! Look on the bright side, the guy works with animals, he’s used to being pissed on! What? Ow! Take it easy, I was trying to help! So he put you on your bed and I said I’d undress you, which I did, and you owe me, you big pissing tart, and I put you in a t-shirt, but I was wrecked and knackered, I couldn’t manage anything else and then he was jawing with Luke and I said I thought you were okay, but he said he’d sit with you in case and so I crashed on the couch and Luke went to bed and yeah, that’s it. That’s the end of it.”

Shall I kill myself now or later?

Chapter 8

I
’VE LIVED IN THIS RED BRICK
mansion block for three years and every springtime, as soon as the trees blush pink with blossom and the air turns hazy with warmth, they appear. They sit together, he and she, on the lawn. They have a favorite spot, a few meters from the brook that runs behind our communal gardens. During winter I’ll forget them, then one bright day glance out of the window to see the yellow daffodils and they’ll be there, content in their coupledom. He’s gorgeous, flamboyant, very striking. She’s plump-chested, plainer, yet quietly beautiful. Sometimes, the sight of their constant love makes me smile. Other times, I hurl a few hunks of stale bread onto the grass and think,
Helen. You’re twenty-six and you have a less fulfilling relationship than a pair of puddle ducks!

And today, I don’t have any relationship at all. In fact, even daring to compare the state of our love lives is grossly insulting to mallards. I make the mistake of telling this to Tina who says, “Stop it, you’re freaking me out.” Tina is in a mood with me—and not just because she had the unenviable task of changing my diaper on Wednesday. Tina makes a huge show of her cynicism toward men to disguise the embarrassing fact that she has never lost in the mating game. Her first time was with her childhood sweetheart, aged sixteen, and it was—get this—enjoyable. They saw each other for eight years, then parted amicably. Since then she has had two one-night stands, leaving each lover wowed out and heartbroken, a longer dalliance lasting seven months—she ended it and they’re still friends—and has spent the recent past happily single and fending off drooling offers.

Blessedly untouched by the Jaspers of this world, she therefore sees male-female relations in pre-war black and white. Her attitude is—although she tries to hide it—if you like him, you date. If he gives you trouble, you don’t. So she cannot understand why I don’t want to speak to Tom and becomes aggressive when I try to explain. Even when I tell her the man has wormed his way into my life, messed me around (Alsatian or no Alsatian), and frankly, I don’t like to make a great gallumphing fool of myself in front of people I barely know.

“You mean pee your pants in front of ravishing men,” says Tina.

“Will you stop going on about that!” I shout. Having played the urination scenario over and over in my head a million mortifying, miserable times, I don’t need reminding of it. “Anyway,” I add sulkily, “you’re wrong.”

Tina doesn’t buy it. “Then what’s your problem?” she says rudely.

I shrug. “It’s just… well, saying those things, you know, when I was tipsy.”

Tina snorts. “Tipsy!” she crows. “That’s a new one! You were ninety percent proof! Although,” she concedes, “you did come out with some grim and embarrassing stuff. What was it, oh, yeah, ‘Men! They’re all the same! They all piss off and leave me! I’m going to be a spinster with cats!’ You arse! What a bunch of rubbish! No one made you buy a cat!”

I am about to argue when I realize The Self-Sufficient One has unwittingly won my case for me. “Exactly!” I cry. “Grim and embarrassing! Which is why, A, I am never going to drink tequila ever again ever, and B, I do not wish to see or speak to this man ever again ever, or at least, for a very long while!”

Oddly, this seems to pacify her. “Oh,” she says, in an irritating I-know-something-you-don’t tone, “All right, darling, if that’s how you want to play it.” I wait for the catch. But all she says is, “Ring us if you want to go out this week. Laters!” and puts the phone down.

A picosecond later, the phone rings again. I snatch it up and bark, “Now what!” There is a short pause, then a voice says uncertainly, “Helen?” It isn’t Tina.

“Yes,” I reply shortly. “Who is this?” In fact, I know damn well who it is and I am nursing a grudge of watermelon size. “It’s Michelle, honey!” Oh, I say in my head. Would that be the same Michelle who professes to be a close friend yet doesn’t turn up to my father’s funeral, explain her absence, or bother to send her condolences? Sadly, I am the Terminator in theory and Stan Laurel in practice, as pathetic at confronting friends as I am at confronting spiders. So all I say is an unenthusiastic, “Hi.”

Michelle is oblivious. She rushes on, “Gotta make it quick. The reason I rang is—and I guess you forgot, but never mind—it’s my birthday tomorrow, and we’re going for drinks and a boogie at the U-Bar in Soho.”

Jesus, she’s got a nerve. I say frostily, “Unfortunately, my father died two weeks ago, as you may recall, so I’m not really doing much socializing.”

Michelle does a hammy gasp down the phone. “I know that! That’s why I haven’t called—I figured you didn’t want to be disturbed. I thought you’d want to be left alone! That’s why I didn’t mention it! I didn’t want to remind you!”

A likely story. “I’m hardly likely to forget, am I?” I say sharply.

“I realize that,” she says, equally sharply, “but apart from anything else, it’s a tradition in my family. Women don’t go to funerals.”

Really,
I think. That will cause a dilemma when one of them snuffs it. I break a tradition of my own and am pointedly silent. Michelle, the mind game queen, bulldozes my attempt to shame her by adding, “Helen, I’m thinking of you, here. It would do you good to get out instead of moping around your apartment. Life goes on. And”—here, a slight whine—“I’m going through a rocky patch with Sammy. I need your support. Please come.”

Hilarious. She needs my support because her worthless wimp of a man who won’t drink a spritzer or a chocolate liqueur without permission from his mummy is in a sissy little huff. Michelle must have asked him to change a lightbulb or boil the kettle. She has been going out with Sammy for five years and two months and he has been a milksop namby-pamby bore for about 1,886 days. Michelle’s favorite hobby is griping about him to any friend too gutless to cut short a strident two-hour telephone diatribe, but she takes outlandish offense at my free therapy sessions and considered attempts at constructive criticism (“Michelle, why don’t you dump him?”).

“So will you?” she demands. I give in. There is little point making a principled stand, because as well as being as thick-skinned as an elderly rhino, Michelle is a hardcore grooming addict and will actually believe me if I say I’m devoting all of tomorrow night to washing my hair. “Yes, okay.” I sigh. “I’ll be there.”

“Honey, you’re the best!” says Michelle, who has read Jackie Collins’s
Hollywood Wives
four times and adapted her speech patterns accordingly. I replace the receiver, slump on to the sofa, exhale crossly through my nose, then call Tina to request backup. She is looking for a reason to avoid staying in tomorrow tonight as she is trying to wean herself off Coronation Street and is delighted to accept.

I expected the U-Bend—sorry, the U-Bar—to be tacky, but it way exceeds my expectations. For one thing, there is a purple life-size Cadillac bumper stuck to the wall. I refuse to sit under it in case it falls on my head. Michelle is resplendent in a fake leopardskin crop top and tight white jeans and appears to have modeled her hairstyle on Monica Lewinsky’s.

Tina, meanwhile, is hypnotized by the heavy concentration of proudly flaunted fashion crimes and repeatedly gasps, “What
is
she wearing?” I am dressed in bog standard black trousers and a crumpled silver shirt I retrieved from the depths of my linen basket. It had been in there for three months on the pretext that I’d take it to the dry cleaners when I had a moment, but I never did and know I’m never going to, so why bother to maintain the pretence? Anyway, silk, crushed silk, who’s to know? That said, when Tina saw it she asked in a carefully neutral tone, “Where did you get that?” I replied, also in a carefully neutral tone, “From the linen basket.” She gave me a reproving look and murmured, “I’ll say no more.” I glared at her and said, “Good.”

My mood does not improve when—after ignoring us for an hour in favor of a stocky ginger guy whose back is shaped like a triangle—Michelle sashays over for a “quick chat.” Tina immediately excuses herself and speeds to the Ladies. I clink the ice in my Coke. Michelle glances sharply at my drink.

“Jack Daniels and diet Coke?” she says.

“No,” I say evenly, “just Coke.” I know what’s coming.

“Aren’t you dieting?”

I slam the Coke on the table and squeak, “No, I am not dieting! Are you?”

Michelle laughs and pats her pancake-flat stomach. “Sweetheart, are you kidding! Born lucky, I guess.”

Born going to the gym seven days a week and eating one meal a day like a Weimaraner, more like. But it is her birthday. Let’s be charitable. “So how’s your sister?” I say.

Michelle flares her nostrils. “Nightmare! On and on and on about that freakin’ baby! You’d think she was the first person in the world to give birth, my god! Say what, though, her tits are fantastic! Normally, she’s got nothing! She’s like you! Now all of a sudden, she’s Dolly Parton!” I am speechless with indignation, which gives Michelle enough time to summon an oily-faced man with a concave chest, press him down beside me, say, “Helen, sweetheart, this is my cousin Alan, I know you’ll just mesh,” and swan off.

Heart pounding, I scan the room for Tina and, to my dismay, spot her propped against the bar practically rubbing noses with a handsome blond man in a dark suit. She flicks back her hair and cups his hand as he gallantly strikes a match to light her cigarette. The brazen hussy. I’ll get her for this. If Alan doesn’t get me first. A few more hearty blasts of death breath and he might.

I’m cornered. He asks me a question about me—as all the self-help books for social lepers recommend—but as soon as I’ve rapped out a sentence, he—as I very much doubt the self-help books recommend—ricochets it back to the glorious subject of him. For instance, where did I last go on holiday? I went to Spain. What a coincidence! He went to Spain when he was three, yes, he went to Madrid and saw a bullfight and decided he wanted to be a matador, but, ha ha, he’s settled for being an intellectual property lawyer, and he travels all over Europe, and only last week the senior partner was remarking on his singular dedication to the firm and how the drone drone drone.

I’ve sunk into a trance which I snap out of when Alan’s woolly-jumper-clad arm snakes around my shoulder. I shake it off and snarl, “I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Although this is a lie, he looks greasily insulted. “And I’ve got a girlfriend!” he says weasily. “But I presume we can still be friends.”

I shoot him a killer look and hope he dies—or at least goes away—but no. Alan’s type never does. He prates on about himself for approximately eternity. Then, praise the lord, a swig of his lager and lime goes down the wrong way and he stops bragging to choke for a minute. I take this fortuitous opportunity to stand up and say, “ ’Bye, I’m going now.”

But,
but
! He sweatily grabs my hand and croaks, “Can I have your phone number?” The bumptious, conceited oaf.

“I thought you had a girlfriend,” I say.

“I do, but, you know, if things start going badly in either of our relationships—”

I interrupt. “I’m happy with mine.”

He scratches his oily nose. “Yeah, me too, but you know, say in a month’s time, I could ring you up and we could get together.”

As if. “For what purpose?” I say icily.

Alan assumes a slow nasal drone as if he were talking to, I imagine, his secretary. “Helen,” he says, “how old are you?”

Like a bleating fool, I reply obediently, “Twenty-six.”

He smiles loftily and—before I realize what he’s doing—slides a slick paw onto my left buttock and squeezes. “When people of our age get together, I’m sure you know for what purpose,” he leers, as I furiously knock away his hand. A frizz-haired groper, and patronizing to boot!

“I’m sorry,” I say in a sweetly vicious lilt, “I don’t think I will give you my phone number. But”—consolingly—“thanks for trying.” Then I angrily elbow my way through the U-Bar’s brightly attired clientele—heaven knows where Tina got to—and leg it to the tube.

Even the train journey is incensing. I don’t mind the hoardes of raucous, rowdy, shouty, drunken louts—after all, any other Friday night, they’re me and Tina. It’s the pair of perniciously canoodling pensioners who sit directly opposite me holding hands and smiling soppily who make me want to scream and scream, strangle them, and smash up the train with a sledgehammer.

I hate them. It’s disgusting at their age.
Why aren’t you dead,
I think.
You should be dead. My father’s dead, why aren’t you?
By the time the train pulls into Finchley Road subway station, I am buzzing with a hatred so vivid I feel physically ill. I stamp home in the dark, daring any mugger, rapist, or murderer to attack.
Just try it, matey, and you’ll wish you hadn’t, because I don’t care and by the time I’m finished with you, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.

I arrive home, unscathed, ten minutes later. It’s only 10:50. I quietly shut the door, take a deep slow breath, glide to the kitchen table, and in a stiff robotic movement, sit down. Then I rest my head in my hands and think,
Help me, someone, please help me,
over and over and over. I don’t know what to do. My life is lurching, hurtling, spinning out of control. I’m going mad.
Oh God, please help me.
I think I say this aloud, because suddenly Marcus is beside me, stroking my hair and saying softly, “Hey, Hellie, my all-time favorite girl, what’s up?” and I say it again, “Oh God, someone, please help me,” and burst into tears.

Ten minutes later, I’m making out with Marcus.