by Claire Peate
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
Big cats and kitten heels
by
Claire Peate
HONNO
For David
Trwy cicio a brathu mae cariad yn magu
Through kicking and biting love develops
(Welsh proverb)
1
“So, Rachel, just what do you do?” Marcia asked me, her bony bottom perched on the edge of the sofa. If she lost any more weight her skinny behind would actually puncture the leather cushions and all the stuffing would come springing out beneath her like squirty cream from an aerosol can.
“What do you mean ‘what do I do’?” I asked, sipping my wine and popping another olive into my mouth. I didn’t like her tone.
“Well, you don’t ski.” Marcia held up a manicured hand and stuck her thumb out, as if counting.
“That’s right,” I nodded, mimicking her by holding up my hand and sticking my own less manicured thumb out.
“And you don’t ride,” she counted.
“Right again.”
“And you’ve never tried hiking, surfing, sailing, climbing, mountain biking…” She counted my non-activities on her fingers, each one an admission of my failures to do anything remotely exciting.
I nodded, lips now pressed together in a tight smile, clutching my wine glass in a stem-crunching grip. Marcia always had this effect on me. Why had I agreed to meet my pal Angela when I knew her new-found friend Marcia would be joining us? Why did Angela even like this brassy upstart – surely she could see what Marcia was like by now?
Apparently not.
Marcia had attached herself to my friend Angela after meeting her at the gym six months ago where they discovered they had a shared passion for bikram yoga, whatever that was. The gym is an alien place to me so right from the start I was excluded from their little in-jokes. I had nothing to add to their banter about that ugly man with the pink towel and the woman who never shaves her legs, so I just smiled and waited for the conversation to move on to something I could actually contribute to. Like the controversial reorganisation of our local supermarket or the poor choice of blockbusters at the video shop. But sadly neither topic was ever brought up and the gym-talk just increased and extended to include beauty spas, holidays and sports.
I was in danger of fading into the background almost entirely, at the rate things were going.
Marcia was busy pouring out a bottle of wine for us, winking at Angela about some no doubt secret joke they had between them. Probably at my expense. She was one of those people who got a real kick out of manipulating others – I’d seen her do it in the past few months and I had thought that she couldn’t manipulate me, or at least that she had enough respect for me not to try it. But here she was, giving it her best shot. I took a deep breath and steeled myself. I could rise above it because I knew that deep down I was a strong and confident person and her previous victims had always been a little edgy. Well, they had been by the end of it. From the safety of a bar sofa well out of range, I’d watched Marcia effortlessly insult Angela’s friends, belittling them so subtly that anyone not directly in the firing line wouldn’t be aware that it was happening. But the strange thing was no one ever said anything about it to Angela. Maybe because Angela was never on her own. Marcia seemed to be hanging round her all the time lately and if you invited Angela out then there was a pretty sure bet that the bony-bottomed one would be tagging her scrawny arse along too. I had hoped tonight it would be just me and Ange but clearly Marcia had other ideas.
I was brought back to the present with Marcia laughing an exasperated little laugh and looking at Angela, who up to this point had been sitting back on her own leather sofa, checking out the bar menu. I put another olive into my mouth, trying not to look bothered. Ordinarily I would easily have laughed off Marcia’s petty behaviour, but I was tired from a long day at work and I could feel myself having a sense of humour failing. Another deep breath in…
“What about something a bit less exciting, Rachel? What about … jogging?” She cocked her head to one side and looked at me, clearly enjoying herself.
“Nope.”
“You’ve never been jogging?”
“I ran for the bus once.”
“Yoga?”
“No.”
“Pilates?”
“No.”
“Sp–“
“–No.”
“But you didn’t even hear what I was going to say!”
“Well, I wouldn’t have done it anyway,” I whined like a kid in the playground.
I was angry now. Angry that she was trying to play with me, angry that I could feel myself rising to it and angry that it must be so obvious that my Achilles heel was my recently lacklustre life. Marcia really knew how to get to people.
“Look, Marcia.” I set my wine glass down on the table sharply – the crack drew looks from around us. “I just…”
I just what? What could I say? Come out and admit my life was dull and she was right? Cheers for pointing it out?
I decided to give it a go. “Look, Marcia, the answer’s going to be no to whatever stupid sports thing you say because I just don’t do crazy stuff like you. I don’t paraglide naked off mountains or water-ski off the back of a flaming yacht. So what? Lots of people live their lives without doing crazy stuff like you. Angela doesn’t do any of that! And, as it happens, I don’t care that I’m not a sports freak, I think I’m perfectly normal. Now can we move on please?” I turned to the bar menu. Pasta or pizza?
“Well, you can’t know Angela very well then,” Marcia said softly. “She does do ‘crazy stuff’, as you call it, and it’s you who’s the freak, my love.”
I flung down the bar menu. “How dare you call me a freak?”
“You implied that I was a freak just for being an active, normal person who enjoys perfectly normal, healthy interests. Personally, my love, I don’t think it’s normal to vegetate in front of the TV every night like a pensioner, but then that’s just my opinion. You really should try to incorporate some exercise into your life. It might help with…” She smiled and her eyes flicked down to my waist. Heart pounding in anger, I watched as she calmly reached into her handbag and, pulling out a lipstick, she touched up her lips. She looked at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for the next move.
“Girls, girls.” Angela leant forward on her sofa and laid a placating hand on Marcia’s and my knees. “Neither of you is a freak. Marcia, you are – perhaps you’re a bit sportier than the average person, and Rachel, well, you’re not sporty! There. That’s all there is to it. Now who wants to go halves on a pizza with me?”
“Yes but I do do stuff,” I whined again. “Marcia’s implying that I don’t do anything remotely sporty and that’s not true. I’m not boring. I’m not a slob.”
“Oh honey, don’t take it like that,” Marcia purred, feigning disinterest by examining her lips in a compact. “I never said you were a slob, that’s just untrue. I just wanted to know what sports you particularly liked.” S
napping the compact shut she sat back and folded her arms, a smug look on her face. “That’s all I was asking for, nothing else. It just seems to me as though you don’t get up to very much. That’s all. Did you walk here from the bus stop, for instance? I mean, that’s exercise isn’t it? It’s practically hiking,” she laughed.
“Oh just fuck off, Marcia!”
There, I’d said it. Now everyone around us was looking in our direction. The laid-back ambience of the Bay Canteen had been broken by the bickering children in the back. Or rather the bickering child, because Marcia was looking completely relaxed and in control and it was me ranting and raving.
“I was only asking,” Marcia said sweetly, sipping her wine and watching me from over the rim of her glass.
“Sure you were!” I bit back.
“Oh come on Rach!” Angela said, “Marcia was only trying to find out what you do.”
“It’s obviously a bit of a touchy subject for you,” cooed Marcia.
“It is NOT a touchy subject for me!”
She’d done it. She’s pushed and pushed and here I was. Just like the others she’d worked on before me. Looking ridiculous for no obvious reason. Worked up over seemingly nothing at all. My heart was thundering in my chest. I was going to go home before it got any worse. How could I compete with a person with so much experience of manipulating people?
“Angela, I’m off,” I said, jumping up and grabbing my handbag. “I’ve had enough. I’ll call you next week.” I bent down and kissed her cheek. “Sorry hon,” I whispered into her ear.
“Actually, Rach,” Angela suddenly looked uncomfortable, fiddling with her wine glass, “I’m away next week…”
“Oh.” I didn’t know she had holiday booked.
There was an awkward pause before Marcia gave her little laugh again. “Oh, didn’t Angie tell you? We’re going horse riding in Northern Spain together. It’s going to be amazing, isn’t it Ange?” She squeezed my friend’s knee. “Two crazy sports freaks riding in the Spanish countryside!”
I stood rooted to the spot. Angela made a move to rise up from her chair. “You’re not going home too, are you honey?” Marcia said, putting her hand on Angela’s shoulder, gently but firmly, effectively keeping her on the sofa. “The night is too young for you to hide away at home on your own! Good then, I’m going to get a bottle of wine for us, and now Rachel’s decided to leave us we can plan what we’re going to get up to in Spain. I’ve bought some guidebooks with me. OK with you?”
“Oh, er,” Angela faltered, looking at Marcia and then back to me. I stared back, open mouthed.
“That’s if you’re still thinking of going off home now, Rachel.” Marcia turned her attention to me, still standing at the table. “We’d love you to stay, if you want to change your mind.”
I felt as if Marcia had physically hit me.
They were going on holiday together. Marcia and Angela. Horse riding. It turns out that I didn’t know my friend much at all. And now Marcia was telling me that I could stay and talk to my friend if I wanted to.
How had this happened?
“White OK?” Marcia rifled through her purse and when Angela wasn’t looking she shot me a look that said, “Are you still here?”
I could feel tears prickling at the back of my eyes.
“Don’t go Rach –”Angela made another move to get up from the sofa.
I opened my mouth to say something, but there was a lump in my throat. I turned and headed for the door, pushing past the people who were still turned in our direction, watching me lose it, waiting for what I’d do next. “Well, where did all that come from?” I could hear Marcia saying as I walked away. “She’s got some real issues, don’t you think?”
2
I did not have Some Real Issues.
I stomped briskly through the streets and back to my flat, pounding out my anger on the pavement.
I did not even have One Real Issue.
Marcia was a spiteful, thoughtless, self-centred, scrawny old cow and I wished more than anything I had kicked her skinny arse all the way from Cardiff Bay to East Anglia. And possibly further.
Bitchy, scheming little health freak.
How did she do it? How had she picked up on exactly the one aspect of my life that I was most unhappy with and used it against me? I hadn’t talked about my boring life to her – of course I wouldn’t be that stupid. And besides, I rarely got the opportunity to get a word in edgeways; she usually hogged the conversations with her long list of “crazy stuff” that she bragged about endlessly whenever I had the misfortune of being out with her. I regularly had to sit tight and listen to her rattle on about weekends spent hiking in Chamonix, mountain biking in the Lake District or sunning herself in Portugal. So how she had found the time to learn one single thing about me I don’t know. It must have come from Angela – she knew how I’d been feeling lately. But surely Angela wouldn’t have shared my innermost thoughts with Marcia, would she?
Would she?
I stomped on.
Maybe Angela did share my secrets with Marcia? Maybe I was wrong to hope that Angela would respect my confidences and keep them to herself? Perhaps she had no loyalty to me, after all, where was the support this evening? She’d let herself be manipulated by Marvellous Marcia and she’d not even had the nous to realise what Marcia was doing. How could she be so blind and why on earth was she actually hanging out with that undernourished, scheming, petty ego-freak? Angela wasn’t like me; she had lots of friends to choose from in the city because she’d lived here all her life. So why chose to spend such an increasing part of her time with Marcia? What was it about Marcia that was so appealing?
I knew the answer all too well.
It was her energy. Her God-awful in-your-face zest for life. What had she done now, who was she with, where had she been? Every time I saw her she had notched up another series of fantastic experiences which had served to move her further and further from the dull and plodding life that I was living. But while it just irritated the hell out of me, Angela and others lapped it up, eager to be drawn into this manic lifestyle themselves.
Never mind. I took a deep breath in and slowed my pace. Even in my red-hazed anger I could see that it was a beautiful evening and ten minutes after I’d stormed out of the bar I was calming down. The pavements were still wet from the rainstorm, reflecting back an orange sunset. It was beautiful. I’d arrived at the park. Away from all traffic and noise I finally slowed down to an amble and, as far as I could, began to enjoy what was left of my evening.
OK, so Marcia was right. I was going through a bit of a crisis. Just a bit of a crisis and certainly nothing dramatic. It was about being a bit dull, a bit quiet. Hitting thirty and feeling as if I was sixty. And it certainly wasn’t helped by being in the presence of Marvellous Marcia.
It had been a hard couple of years. Leaving London behind, with all my friends and family, and moving to Cardiff. The job was tough, the hours were long, but I did enjoy it and Cardiff was a great city to be in. But there was something missing. Somehow I had gone from drunken nights spent with friends at poky Soho bars and clubbing in shiny high-heeled shoes to long hours climbing a career ladder, owning a shoebox flat crammed with Ikea furniture, hiring out videos and microwaving meals.
Since I’d moved from London it had been an effort to meet people. I’d met Angela through work and she had taken me under her wing almost straight away. She’d introduced me to her circle of friends and I’ve been slowly building on that ever since. But maybe she was tired of me now? Maybe I wasn’t sparkling enough for her? Maybe I was too flat, too still, compared to her effervescent other friend. Was I losing the first friend I had made in this city? The real key to my social life to date here in Wales?
I hoped not.
It’s not as if I’ve been maudlin about the whole moving-out-of-London thing. I have tried my hardest not to think too much about my change in lifestyle since I moved west; to put on a brave face and realise that things will pick up. Eventu
ally. But if I have a great weekend or a particularly good time at work and I think things are looking better, within half an hour of meeting Marcia I feel completely crap about myself again. Would other normal, mortal people feel the same in her company? Was she a particularly super-active sort of person or was she typical of what people in their early thirties were doing? I found myself, begrudgingly, wanting to be like her. To be her. I wanted to swan around and live the life she did with the horses and boats and snowboards. To go exploring in an off-road vehicle; I hadn’t even been inside one, let alone take it down a steep-sided mountain. I hated to admit it, but although she was a malicious, brassy-haired, snub-nosed little cow, Marcia was nevertheless everything that was sophisticated, stylish and exciting. She was somehow at the core of everything, knew all the right people and went to all the right places. If she were a magazine she would be Tatler or Harpers. Me? Given my current mood, I would probably be more like People’s Friend.
Or TV Quick.
I’d felt the rumblings of my Dull Life Crisis for a while now. Months, I suppose. But I can honestly say it was right there, right at that moment in the trendy bar with its matt chocolate walls and sparkly chandeliers that it had really hit home. I was in such a dull old rut that I didn’t even have a boyfriend – I’d left him behind in London. I’d finished with him because, and this makes me laugh now, I’d thought he was too boring. Compared to me now he would look like bloody James Bond. Maybe I should give him a call…
No!
No, I wasn’t desperate. And he was boring. Deeply, fundamentally dull. Whereas I was certainly not dull, I just hadn’t adapted to my new not-twenty-now, not-in-London-now lifestyle. It would come. Surely this DLC was a result of my circumstances? Surely it was because I’d uprooted from my established life in London, not because I was thirty and was genetically programmed to become dull and boring and shun all kind of excitement now that my twenties had past?
Wasn’t it?
I was a fun person, I was friendly, and I would find some new and exciting road to go down. And maybe I’d go down it in a sports utility vehicle. As for men, well, I’d never had a problem there. Long black hair, curvy and tall, while I wasn’t exactly beating them off with a big stick, I’d had my fair share of attention. I was just finding that at thirty a lot of the good ones were taken. Blah blah blah. It’s such a cliché but it’s true. Everyone knows it. That’s why it’s so clichéd.
