by Naomi Joy
‘Right-o,’ my dad says, kissing me on the cheek as we make to leave. ‘Bye, Mum,’ I add, but the top half of her body has been swallowed by the new fridge-freezer and only a muffled goodbye comes back my way.
*
I’m face down on the floor, bottom in the air, torso balanced in an awkward diagonal between the two, shooting pains flying up each wrist, pressure on my heels; my bulging, beetroot veins bursting to the surface of my skin. Evacuate! they cry.
I steal a glance at Mishti as we move through, what the instructor has promised, will be our penultimate pose. Her eyes are closed, zenned out, you could describe the sheen on her skin as ‘light perspiration’, ‘barely there’, ‘morning dew’.
How does she do it? Even the outside air is swimming-pool thick with heat and humidity today, let alone in here. I muse upon it as the instructor tells us to hold our bodies at this unnatural angle for a few seconds longer – wondering if Mishti’s aptitude for this class is largely thanks to her regular attendance. She told me earlier she goes every day in the name of ‘aligning her energy’, which, if I’m being cynical, doesn’t quite add up. If you ask me, Mishti attends every day on account of ‘aligning her baby’ with the nursery service this studio offers its membership. I wish she felt she could admit it – babies are hard work! – but perhaps our friendship isn’t established enough for that yet.
Finally, we move from the painful cobra position to a final downward dog and, as I’m pulling backwards, I catch a glimpse of my bubbling tomato-red skin in the studio mirrors behind. I look away almost immediately, horrified. In contrast to Mishti’s cool demeanour, you could describe what’s happening to me as a horrific re-imagining of water torture. A river of sweat runs from between my breasts, down my neck, up over my chin and into my gaping, open mouth, causing me to splutter every few seconds as I try to stop myself from drowning. We’ve been holding a variety of these toe-curling poses for forty-five minutes. I remind myself that this is the final position.
Hold it.
Hold it!
Save face in front of your new friend, Emelia!
‘… And relax, everyone. Come back to seated. Hands at heart centre. That’s it. Namaste.’
Finally, mercifully, the class is over and the blue-eyed yoga teacher turns the air conditioning onto full.
‘Now, everyone, I would recommend sitting here for another five minutes as I decrease the temperature. Heading straight outside will probably cause you to faint, and we won’t actually be liable for any injuries you sustain outside of the studio.’
That’s one way to burst the yogi bubble – a class-ending lecture about liability insurance.
I smile at Mishti as the teacher attends to a larger woman who hasn’t re-surfaced from the final pose.
‘Probably telling her she’s not liable for killing her mid-class, either. “Hi, I know you’re dead but I’m not actually allowed, by law, to give a shit.”’
Mishti giggles, her gold cross necklace falling forward as she bends to roll up her mat. She doesn’t need to wait to acclimatise, she’s a regular. I follow behind, eager to keep up, but, sure enough, the air-conditioned hallway hits me like a bucket of ice to the face.
‘Did you enjoy it?’ she asks, her words muffled by the towel she’s using to wipe herself down.
I blink hard, failing to respond, and, though I don’t faint, I stagger, catching myself hard against the lockers. Any zen I’d found in the class immediately disappears.
‘Oh no,’ she says, grabbing my arm to stabilise me. ‘It’s OK, it’s just that you’re not used to it. Take a few slow breaths.’
She pulls me down to the benches behind and gets me to put my head through my legs. The ringing in my ears crescendos as the blood swims to my brain. A fellow gym bunny – I’ve been once, I probably can’t get away with calling myself a gym bunny, but whatever – slick with perspiration stops before us, and I’m half-aware of a hushed exchange between them. Mishti rubs my back, then says to the bunny, ‘Newbie,’ almost certainly nodding towards me at the same time. I don’t know how long she stands there, spraying deodorant into every orifice, but the smell of her lingers as I sit with Mishti, waiting until I can see straight again. There’s something soothing about the way she comforts me through it, the way she touches me, the confidence with which she holds my hand and strokes my back, assuring me I’ll feel all right again soon. Finding friends in adulthood is such a rarity and I cling on to it, determined to savour this moment.
‘There you go,’ she says as I lift my head. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Much better,’ I reply. ‘Thank you.’ I catch my breath. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry. I probably should have told you already…’
Mishti retreats from me slightly, concern creasing at her eyes.
‘I have a heart defect; it plays up sometimes.’
Mishti recoils.
‘Why didn’t you say? Should you even be doing a class like this?’
‘It’s fine,’ I insist. ‘Exercise is good. The doctors want me to exercise.’
She stares at me, blinks, shakes her head, then stands up.
‘Right… but if you ever feel dizzy or whatever you must tell me. And we’ll let Magda know next time, OK?’
There’ll be a next time, then. I smile, pleased to have cemented a second friendship-date, and push myself to standing, spotting my reflection in the mirrors that line one side of the locker room as I do. My eyes are puffy and slightly swollen thanks to the class, but the rest of my face is unsettlingly gaunt: the bones rising to points, skin pulled taut over each summit. It occurs to me I am beginning to look less and less like myself, somehow. Re-drawn since I’ve been living in London, stripped and faded by the grey of the city.
Mishti undresses next to me – not that I’m staring but, in my peripheral vision, I observe the smooth tone of her skin that doesn’t change from toe to fingertip, the dark moles that dot her back as though someone’s flicked a black paintbrush at her naked body and let each mark take root.
‘Are you off to work today then?’ she asks. I’d told Mishti during one of our chit-chats in the lobby that I was a journalist, so I’d probably given her the impression I spend my days in a crowded newsroom, writing to deadlines and filing rushed copy.
‘I mostly work from home, actually,’ I tell her. ‘I work freelance… so it’s quite flexible.’
Since I married Anthony, the inconveniences of paying rent and bills and worrying about how I’ll afford to buy food are long gone and, though when I was first axed from my full-time role it was devastating, now it’s a blessing. I can pick and choose the articles I want to write, the money an added bonus.
‘That’s great, far better than being chained to a desk.’
‘I love it,’ I agree. ‘It also means I can choose what to write about… gone are the times I had to pretend I knew something about modern art or turn of the century architecture.’
‘Your husband’s in the same line of work, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, but Anthony’s the real deal, a full-time archaeologist – the digging-up-skeletons-in-the-garden type.’
‘How different,’ she says. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met an archaeologist before.’ She loops her towel round her perfect body, waits for me to do the same, then we pad towards the showers. Mishti flings her curtain to one side, metal hooks clanging together, then she thumps the water on, loud as it splatters to the floor.
We shower alongside one another, scrubbing and perfuming in sync, the aroma swirling from her cubicle heady with vanilla and earthy tones. My little handful of green gel is overshadowed in contrast, much like the pair of us in person.
After the class, we head to a brunch spot, the kind with a line out front that promises more than it will deliver. We’re lucky, though: Mishti knows the owner and we’re seated right away.
The waiter comes over as we settle into our bronze-cage bucket seats, and takes my order first – scrambled eggs with kale, a glass of oran
ge juice and a black coffee. He turns to Mishti, pen poised above his tiny notepad. ‘That sounds great,’ she says. ‘I think I’ll have the same.’ As the waiter leaves, we joke about how unimaginative, and how similar, we are.
‘Anyway, though this is a fantastic post-yoga treat, I can’t be too long,’ Mishti adds. ‘The nursery closes at noon.’
‘That’s fine,’ I reply. ‘It must be tough looking after Eva virtually by yourself. I’m not sure I’d cope in your position.’
‘I’m not sure I am coping, to be honest,’ she sighs, letting her guard down. ‘It’s hard work.’
I mumble an agreement as our drinks arrive, a splash of coffee escaping from my cup as the waiter clatters it onto the table top.
‘So, do you want kids then?’ she asks, somewhat abruptly. ‘While we’re on the subject…’ she adds, worrying when I don’t answer right away that she’s overstepped a mark, her eyes bouncing nervously between mine.
‘Ah, I’m not sure if it’s in my future to be honest. With my heart and everything, plus, I’m not sure if Anthony wants children.’
‘Do you, though?’ she asks, brushing her hair to one side, then up into a thick bun on top of her delicate head. ‘Because that’s all that really matters.’
‘I’m not sure,’ I reply. ‘When the doctors told me it wasn’t a good idea to put my body through childbirth I guess I just accepted it.’
‘But you could adopt… use a surrogate,’ she points out.
‘I suppose I haven’t really thought about it…’
‘I see,’ she replies, cutting in, picking up on my reluctance to talk, sipping her black coffee with her little finger pointed upwards.
‘You know,’ she says, leaning closer, about to let me in on something. ‘I used to think the same… then Eva happened.’ Mishti sighs as she speaks, as though letting out a breath she’s been holding in for a while. ‘She was sort of a mistake.’
My eyes pop a touch wider, grateful for her honesty.
‘Perhaps mistake isn’t the right word. She was unplanned.’ Mishti pauses, her warm eyes dipping to the floor, her shame in this admission clearly evident. ‘When we found out, I wanted to keep her but Damien, my other half, didn’t. He asked me to get an abortion and, when I told my parents we were considering all options, they stopped talking to me. It’s been difficult ever since.’
‘That’s awful,’ I remark, taken aback. ‘But she’s here now, and there’s nothing like a new baby to force people to move on.’
‘Well, Damien’s accepted a new job that means he’s travelling all the time so… you tell me. He’s in Bhutan this week, China next.’ She looks down again. ‘And my parents are still riding on their moral high horse, determined not to get over it. They even tried to have Eva taken in to care – can you believe that? Even tried to get a court order against me before she was born. I don’t trust them alone with her. I’ve had to hire a nanny to help out.’
I don’t know what to say. I picture myself in a few hours’ time engaging in a little l’esprit de l’escalier, replaying this part of our conversation, trying to get it right.
‘That’s insane,’ I say. ‘But, against all of that, you have Eva. And she’s gorgeous.’
Mishti smiles in response with her cow eyes and full lips, but I know I’ve missed the beat. I need to do better. I am so out of practice at this kind of chit-chat.
As my breakfast arrives, my stomach swells and a cluster of needle-pains shoot out from my chest and down into my gut. I bite my lip and press my foot into my trainer, trying to divert it elsewhere.
‘Is everything OK?’ Mishti asks, concerned.
‘Just bad cramps,’ I reply through gritted teeth.
‘Not your heart?’
‘I don’t think so, this is different.’
‘Here,’ she says, plucking something from her bag. ‘You should try this, it’s a kind of cannabis without the psycho-active…’
I dip out of what she’s saying, gripping the chair with all my might as the feeling builds, then fades, just as fast as it began.
I nod at Mishti, take the little pot of oil she’s placed between us, and thank her.
Then, from behind me, I feel someone.
I don’t know how I know, but they’re there.
Watching.
Run.
*
I fight my way home, surprised to find Anthony when I arrive. He should be at work. He sips on a glass of white wine as his fingers speed over his keyboard, the kitchen stuffy with today’s insufferable heat.
‘I didn’t know you were working from home today,’ I say, humid air from outside following me in.
Anthony looks up from his laptop. ‘Hi darling,’ he replies, rising to greet me, enveloping me in warm arms. ‘How was yoga?’ he asks, sitting back down.
‘Great.’ I head to the tap and fill a pint glass with tepid water. ‘Mishti’s lovely, you’d like her.’
‘Are you sure you’re OK doing it, I mean, isn’t it a bit strenuous?’
‘It’s good for me.’
I move back towards him and stroke his scalp with my fingernails, enjoying having him close, the sun’s blaze radiating onto my back from the window behind. I bend down to rest my head on his shoulder but, as I do, he closes the lid of his laptop with a decisive snap. The gesture makes me think of my own device, sitting pretty beneath the bed.
Perhaps I’m not the only one with secrets.
My brow furrows as I briefly entertain the idea he’s hiding something from me, but I push it away before it has a chance to take hold, and slot my head into the nook of his neck.
‘Just be careful, darling.’
‘I will,’ I reply.
The truth is, since I had open-heart surgery to correct the problems caused by the failed mechanical device, my heart’s been fairly stable. Occasionally I’ll experience brief moments of dizziness – like the day I met Anthony in the trench and tottered into the muddy wall, or on our wedding day where I collapsed on the heath – but apart from those isolated incidents, nothing worse has happened.
‘I can look after myself, you know,’ I joke, twisting my body round the chair until I’m sitting on his lap, cuddling into him.
‘You’re still taking your medicine?’ he asks, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘Have you had your vitamins today?’
‘No,’ I groan. He moves me from on top of him and heads to the large cupboard that sits below our kitchen island. He clasps a pot of vitamin gummies in his grip.
‘You know,’ I begin. ‘I was reading about how the West has the world’s most expensive urine: we take so many vitamins but it’s all based on junk-science and none of them actually work.’
‘Well, these do.’ He squeezes the cap. ‘You’re still alive, aren’t you? They must be doing something right.’
I take one, the taste is metallic – they’re always less sweet than I expect – and suck on it, too hot to argue.
I watch as he puts the pot back and briefly imagine him as a father, lining up his children before school to make sure they all take their vitamins. He’d be a good dad – attentive, caring – but we’ve never really spoken about the possibility. I replay my earlier conversation with Mishti and build myself up to ask him.
‘Do you think you’ll ever want kids?’ I blurt out, watching as his expression clouds, clearly surprised by the abrupt change of topic.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Sorry. Mishti and I were speaking about it earlier and I suppose it’s been playing on my mind.’
He moves towards me and wraps me up in strong arms. ‘I have you,’ he says. ‘I don’t need anything else, plus, I know you can’t…’
I wrestle to look up at him and push away slightly, his body heat stifling. ‘You wouldn’t want to look into adoption, or surrogacy?’
‘Not really, no. I’ve never seen myself as a father. I think perhaps because my own did such an awful job.’
*
That night, as I toss and turn and my dreams turn dark, I feel my heart thud against my chest, a fever building. I’m coming down with something and, when I get sick, I get really sick. It’s as though the virus knows my heart is weak and travels straight to it, sucking the life from me. I know I will be bed-ridden for a while and that Anthony will take over my care, feeding me and coddling me, as I lie in bed sweating through the sheets.
I will wake up tomorrow in a suffocating bedroom. Dank. Its walls infected with early morning sunshine thanks to the unwelcome late summer heatwave. It’s going to be another scorcher.
Blog Entry
21st October, 7 p.m.
Followers, my debilitating symptoms since falling at the excavation have been unbearable. Anthony tells me over and over that I am OK, that I am safe and that I am well, that I just need to rest. But I do not feel very safe, or very well. I feel like a prisoner being refused proper medical attention. I want to go and get a second opinion, but Anthony tells me there’s no point, that we’ve looked up my symptoms and that time is the only healer I need to consult for my current list of ailments.
Between you and me, I am fantasising about pushing the chest of drawers up against the window, throwing the duvet out Mission Impossible style and scaling the brick walls to the outside. He’s not being unkind, though, quite the opposite – he is patient and attentive and caring and I’m certain that many other partners in this position would have reached breaking point by now. If we look at it bluntly, relationships are transactional and recently I’ve been all take and no give. I know it is unfair that I am the one growing tired of Anthony.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ he calls from the kitchen and I push my laptop beneath the bed, joining my diaries, always keen to keep them out of his sight, just in case he gets any ideas and tries to hack into my private world.
He’s been fussing about for the past hour preparing our evening meal and I can hear him muttering to himself as he shuffles towards the bedroom and loops his arm round my waist to get me up.
