Running in Heels

by Anna Maxted

  I stagger backward into the kitchen like I’ve been shot in the chest. The first thing I see is the Married One’s coffee mug, a smug kiss of red lipstick staining its rim. I smash it on the floor and watch the milky coffee crawl along the tiles. Then coolly, methodically, I pick up the shards, and plop them in the bin. I suck a bloody finger and say dully, “It’s only a graze.”

  When the floor is immaculate I call Chris. I let it ring forty times, then wait five minutes and call again. I call his mobile, but it is switched off. So I call his home again and again and again, hitting Redial with my leaky finger like a broken robot.

  On the sixteenth attempt he answers. “Did you just get in?” I blurt. (Good grief, what if he was in the bath all this time? And why do I only think of these possibilities after I’ve pressed the nuclear button?)

  “Just,” he replies.

  “Can I come round?” I breathe, sliding to the floor with wobbly relief.

  Chris hesitates and says, “I’ve got a bit of a mad one.”

  And you’re speaking to her, dear. I squeeze my hand into a fist and keep my tone breezy. “I can tag along,” I sing as if I am not standing in a lions’ den and his thumb signal, up or down, makes no odds to me.

  After what seems like an age, he laughs and says, “I can’t resist you, princess. Yeah, go on then.” I take down his address, then smirk into the pale blue silence. Babs is mistaken. I can say no to my mother. I can say no to everyone.

  8

  IF YOU DATE A MAN FOR A YEAR AND HE DOESN’T propose, dump him. He’s wasting your time. When I was twenty my mother told me this every other day (not realizing that the whole point of under-twenty-one dating is to waste your time). But now that I’m twenty-six and galloping headlong toward forty, she is a lot less rash. Which means that when I confess the life-shattering truth about Saul over a Sunday morning coffee at Louis Patisserie in Swiss Cottage, her mouth turns downward in such a droop of dismay, it prompts the elderly waitress to ask if there is something amiss with her almond croissant.

  “So, so who…” Even my mother, who has the social delicacy of a dog in heat, cannot bring herself to complete the mystery-condom question. We each crumble our food and die a million deaths in our heads. (Although my food proves hard to crumble—without asking, my mother has ordered me a large yellow sweating Danish pastry, a garish confection that might have appealed to me when I was five and a half years old.)

  “So who what?” mumbles Tony, through a mouthful of apple cake. He is wearing Moschino sunglasses and last night’s Gianni Versace shirt and vintage Levi’s. (“Mad night at the Met,” he explained loudly on arrival, “with Noel Gallagher”—a boast sadly lost on the patisserie clientele, who might have been impressed had Tony’s mad night taken place at Blooms with Neil Sedaka.)

  “The thing is, Saul and I weren’t really suited,” I say apologetically. “But I am seeing a lovely new man.” (And if my mother chooses to interpret “new” man as “does the ironing, attends a men’s group, discusses his emotions freely” rather than “recent,” that’s fine by me. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look as if she’s processed the information that far.)

  She twitches. “You don’t look after yourself,” she says eventually. “I don’t know what to do anymore. Look at you! You look a state.”

  This is an old trick of hers. If she disapproves of something I’ve said she won’t acknowledge I’ve said it. Instead, she’ll pick on me for something unrelated. Then, when the insult has simmered and my self-esteem is zero, she’ll pounce on my original statement and tear it to bits. (I believe terrorist organizations deal with their hostages on the same principles.)

  Tony lifts his dark glasses. I stare back anxiously, because yesterday Chris told me I dressed like a librarian and hauled me to Urban Outfitters, where he encouraged me to choose a yellow T-shirt with a picture of a tiger on it and a voluminous gray skirt made from tent material.

  “Ye-es,” says Tony approvingly, “but she looks a designer state.”

  I smile gratefully at my brother. Our Sunday morning patisserie meetings once a month are always a trial, but they are family tradition. Which I suppose is the same thing. But they do allow our mother to check up on us without breaking into our homes.

  “So who is he?” she says tightly. Tony whistles and clicks at the waitress for another hot chocolate.

  “He’s called Chris,” I reply meekly, “Chris Pomeroy. He was at Babs’s wedding.”

  “What!” exclaims my mother. “Not that man named after a poodle?”

  I grit my teeth. She’d criticize a rainbow for being bent, and although I’m used to it, today it grates.

  “He’s an old friend of Simon’s. He works in the music business,” I add, raising my voice as Tony’s attention wanders.

  “Yeah?” says Tony. “Doing what?”

  I sip my coffee and say, “He was at our table, remember?”

  Tony shakes his head, “Doing what?”

  I sit on my hands and say, “It would be nice for you two to meet properly. He…he manages a band. Called, er, Blue V”—on impulse, I castrate them—“called Blue Fiend.”

  Tony snorts. “Never heard of them.”

  My left hand shoots up to twirl my hair. “I mentioned you to him the other day,” I say, “and…and he was very impressed—”

  “This band of his is unsigned, right?”

  “Yes, but, Tony, I think you’d get on. He’s so dedicated, and his band, we were with them last night, they had a gig at The Red Eye—”

  “Pay to play.”

  “Er, I don’t know, but it was really good, Chris said the response was even better than when they played at—”

  “So who are they like?”

  “Chris says they’re a loose genre, sort of New Romantic Rock, the first Romo Metal band, think Iron Maiden meets Spandau Ballet with a dash of Rage Against the Machi…”

  I trail off as I realize I am not being heard. My mother, who has been sitting in silence, follows Tony’s mesmerized gaze to the patisserie door, where a tiny Eskimo with dark glossy hair and huge blue eyes is standing in a long puffy black coat, a faint line of anxiety clouding her dolly features.

  “Mel!” I cry, leaping to my feet. “Well done for making it, you’re early!”

  “You know her?” murmurs Tony.

  “She’s one of our principal dancers, she’s being interviewed and shot by The Sun today, and I’m the nipple police, we’re due at the gym in, oof, one hour—Mel! The taxi picked you up okay? knew where he was going? I told him precisely where it was, great, sit down, would you like anything? This is my mother, my brother, Tony, this is Melissandra Pritchard, star dancer of the GL Ballet.”

  Mel shakes hands with my mother and bats her eyelashes at Tony. Should she ever fancy a career change, she could bat for England.

  “Delighted,” says my brother, sizing up Mel with a reverence he usually reserves for expensive cars. He even takes off his sunglasses.

  “Hi,” replies Mel, tilting her head so that her dainty chin all but disappears into the collar of her coat.

  Tony spies a whiskery woman hobbling toward a faded gilt chair, leaps up, intercepts the prize, and presents it with a flourish to Mel. My mother looks on in silence as I fetch another chair for the woman, who has stopped to catch her breath and is leaning hard on her walking stick. “Sorry,” I say, wincing, “my brother didn’t see you.”

  I return to the table in time to hear Tony asking, “Can you do the splits?”

  I glance at Mel, who giggles and says, “Yes!”

  Tony—whose knowledge of ballet is nil—purses his lips, impressed.

  Mel giggles again and lisps, “That’s the least I can do!”

  My brother narrows his eyes and says throatily, “Sounds to me like you’re the cleverest girl in your class.”

  Mel shudders in delight and cries, “Oh, do you think so?”

  I look at my mother. Her face is an exquisite clash of pleasure and pain, reminding me of the time
Tony explained, age fourteen, how he was able to afford a stereo with woofers like slabs from Stonehenge. (He’d spent his holidays chasing ambulances, fire engines, and police cars with a camera and selling the pictures to our local paper.)

  “It must be so wonderful, dear,” says my mother eventually, “dancing in a pretty dress in front of all those people, all adoring you.”

  Mel gives her a pitying smile. Her gaze keeps flickering toward Tony. “Oh, it is,” she replies. “It’s addictive. Although an audience will go wild at any cheap flashy dancing with an odd spin thrown in. The best thing is when you dance for someone whose opinion matters.”

  My mother’s smile is twenty-watt. “You’re such a delicate slip of a thing,” she says, “you’re almost translucent. Do you eat?”

  If I dared, I’d kick my mother under the table (not just her ankle, I mean I’d kick her right under it—what does she think she’s doing?). Mel flutters as if this is an almighty compliment and says, “My body is my tool of work. I have to be light enough to be lifted. I have to be disciplined.”

  “I think you look crackin’,” exclaims Tony, interrupting my mother, who is muttering something about skin and bone.

  “I think we’d better go now, Mel,” I say. “We don’t want to be late.”

  I kiss my mother and Tony good-bye and—to her surprise and his amusement—Mel does the same, flinging her pipe-cleaner arms tight around them and singing, “Lovely to meet you, I hope to see you again, you must come and see me dance!”

  My mother dabs her mouth with her napkin and says quietly, “That’s a very kind offer.”

  Tony adds, “You say when, darlin’, I’ll be there,” and arranges his hand into an imaginary gun shape, which he fires at Mel.

  “That was a friendly gesture,” I explain as we walk to my car.

  Mel beams. “I know that, I’ve seen chat show hosts do it on television, I can’t believe he’s your brother, he’s so cute! I wonder what he’d be like to kiss—oh, Natalie, I can’t believe I just said that! I’m outrageous! What does he do for a job?”

  I tell her and her reaction is such that I wonder if I accidentally said he was chief exec of the Royal Ballet. “You must bring him to see me dance,” she says in a tone that is an order not a suggestion, “and we could all go out afterward.” I look at Mel to see if she’s joking. “Although probably your mummy would get bored,” she adds, checking her reflection in the car mirror.

  “Now,” I say as I floor it, “we’re going to the gym first for the stamina tests—the personal trainer will test your resting heart rate, flexibility, and all that, compare it to the rugby bloke’s, it shouldn’t take too long, and the journalist will be watching and taking notes and the snapper—the photographer will take pictures. You remembered your kit, didn’t you? Remember I rang twice to remind you? Then we go to the studio, where all you’ve got to do is put on the gear—I’ve got a swan tutu, tights, and shoes in the boot—and they’ll do your makeup and hair. I think it’ll be great fun.” I glance at Mel, who is nodding vigorously.

  I take a deep breath and add casually, “Now, you can chat to the makeup lady, that’s fine, but if she or the journalist asks you any leading questions about food, you just tell them that you eat cereal and fruit for breakfast, a sandwich and a banana for lunch, snacks when you can fit them in, like yogurt, and fish or pasta or a baked potato and cheese for dinner, chocolate, and, er, lots of water. The reason you’re slim is that you do five or six hours of dance exercise daily and burn up to six hundred calories an hour. I don’t know if you heard about the Recorder diary piece—that was a bit of a boo-boo—but we don’t want anything else appearing in the press that suggests the GLB dancers aren’t healthy.”

  Mel screws up her face and says, “I couldn’t possibly eat all that!”

  I say firmly, “That said, you’re representing the company, and the artistic director will read it. If he thinks you don’t eat, he won’t cast you in the big roles, will he?”

  Mel considers this and says, “Yes, he will!”

  I say sternly, “Not after the Julietta fiasco he won’t.”

  Mel nods meekly. Then she murmurs, “Poor Julietta, now everyone thinks she’s fat!”

  “And don’t say anything today about Julietta,” I add. “This story isn’t about her, it’s about you, this is your chance to shine, so we mustn’t let her steal the limelight, must we?”

  Mel thinks about this and replies, “No.”

  I sigh with relief—Machiavelli was a tactless goof compared to me—and light two cigarettes, one for each of us. Although I’m tempted to smoke them both, at once.

  Five torturous hours later I make it home. The interview didn’t go too badly. Unless I’m deluding myself. Best not to think about it. I’m sure it will be fine. I rub my eyes and press the Play button on my answer machine in the hope that at least one message will be from Chris. Sadly, all three are from my mother. I feel she should have her own flashing light on my machine so that I’m spared those three seconds of false hope. As her voice fills my hallway, an ugly feeling starts to swell inside me. Why isn’t she sitting quietly with a bar of Dairy Milk watching any television drama starring Jane Seymour? I’m sorry if that sounds uncharitable, but since the uneasy dinner celebrating Tony’s promotion, our carefully neutral relationship has acquired an acidic tinge.

  Today, her tone has an edge. The first message is to say that I “looked peaky” and it was a shame that I had to “rush off like that” and to call her when I get in. The second is an octave higher and suggests that “it might be a nice idea” if I arrange for Tony to attend a ballet because he “is quite smitten” with my friend and to call her when I get in. The third is as high and unsteady as a card tower in a gale, and begins “I’m worried about you” and ends “I don’t mind if you don’t have time to call me but I’m surprised you can’t do this one thing for your brother, you were such a good little girl and now…”

  And the ugly feeling in my chest grows like an alien child, ripping and clawing to get out. I am a good girl. I am so fucking good Mother Teresa could have taken lessons from me. I am so fucking good I didn’t have an orgasm until I was twenty-six years old. I am so fucking good that until last Friday the baddest thing I’d had up my nose was a tissue. I am a good girl and while I see that my Nordic-jawed brother is a more beauteous boastworthy proposition than me, he is not the chocolate-box perfection my mother thinks he is.

  I stand over the wittering machine like a dark shadow and think bad thoughts. That’s what good girls do. Nice on the user-friendly outside, nasty to the gristle and bone. When the train grumbles into the station every morning, I could extend a pink pearly polished fingernail and tip that limp celery stick of a man onto the track. When I approach the zebra crossing in my car and a woman hurls a wheelchair into my path, what if I pressed my kitten heel to the accelerator? And when I know that my brother is the father of an eleven-year-old girl, the flaxen-haired result of a nine-month fling during his year out in Australia, what if I told my mother—who aches to become a granny—that she can stop mourning my lack of procreation with such operatic grief because she already is?

  9

  I WOKE THIS MORNING AND WAS AGHAST AT MYSELF. Yesterday! What a nut. Feel free to disregard everything I said, I must have lost control of my hormones. Now they’re in line again, I ring my mother to grovel for making her worry, and she is gracious in victory. Especially when I tell her that Mel is keen on Tony.

  “I’ll call him the minute I get into work,” I add.

  “He’s in a meeting,” says his PA, as she invariably does. “He should be out by eleven.” When he hasn’t rung by twelve I call again. As “it’s your sister calling” cuts as much ice as a cardboard ice-cutter, I ask his PA to say, “It’s your sister calling about the ballerina.” Seconds later, Tony’s on the line.

  “Yo,” he says.

  “Hi,” I reply, stiffening as I realize I’m on speaker phone. “Listen, I’m calling about Mel. Er, can pe
ople hear this? She’s dancing tonight, Thursday night, and Saturday matinee, and I thought it would be great if I invited Chris too and then we could all watch the show together, it’s Coppélia, a really sweet ballet, you know, peasants dancing round a haycart, and you and Chris could get to know each other and then Mel would come out with us and we could go to see Blue Fiend, they’ve got a couple of gigs—”

  “Floozie,” says Tony, “I like it, but I’m balls to the wall for the next two days, could you put it on a fax?”

  “What a splendid idea,” I say, but as I am rarely sarcastic and Tony is immune to it anyway, he booms, “Cheers easy,” and disconnects me.

  “Tony can do Thursday,” I tell Chris, when my brother’s PA gets back to me on Tuesday afternoon.

  “Boss!” says Chris. “The band is playing at the Monarch.” However, he does not say “Boss!” when I add that prior to watching Blue Fiend at the Monarch we will be watching Mel in Coppélia. “Shit. I might have to leave early to help the band set up, they’re on at ten,” he says.

  “Oh, sure,” I say, unwilling to admit that it isn’t that easy for me to secure free tickets nowadays. When I asked Matt for three seats, he said tightly, “Press, are they?” I think he’s anxious about The Sun health piece that is out this Friday. (“I’m not doubting you, Natalia, but I can’t believe the ballet police sanctioned it.”) But he relents and so on Thursday at 7:10, Chris strides into the lobby of the Coliseum, and Tony follows ten minutes later. Chris looks different, and I realize with pride that he’s actually shaved. Tony—who wins Black Moon Records’ Freeloader of the Year Award at their Christmas party every year—is hung over in Helmut Lang but dashing even so.