Running in Heels

by Anna Maxted

  Weary, I force a smile at Andy, and say, “The guided tour.”

  He trots down the hall behind me, his heavy boots clunking on my painted floorboards, and says, “Your flat is like a show flat! Are you renting?” My proud grin disintegrates and I splutter, “No!”

  Andy sees his mistake and adds, “After months of shag pile and chintz, this is awesome. It’s so sort of seventies minimalist, I’m tempted to leave that second bag of wires in the boot. I feel like clutter already. Christ knows how you put up with Babs—no joke, the woman’s a fire hazard!”

  This is a nice try, so I grant him a smile and he smiles back. He has orderly teeth, a wide jaw, slanted green eyes. His nose is straight except for a slight bump in the middle, and his hair is dark blond. I stare at his affable open face and think, Bag of wires or not, you’ll always look like you’ve just trekked round India on a trust fund.

  “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” inquires Andy.

  “Oh! No. No, I, er, was just thinking how you and Babs look nothing like each other.”

  Andy raises an eyebrow. “True.”

  “Your room,” I cry.

  “A glitterball! Very Austin Powers.”

  I smile. “You can thank your sister,” I say.

  “It’s great. It’s going to be great. What a cool room. I like big windows.”

  He lollops to the window and flings it wide.

  “We must celebrate!” he shouts. “Dinner in Primrose Hill! KFC! My treat!”

  He’s joking, of course, not to mention that I wouldn’t set foot in a fast-food joint for fear of absorbing rogue oil particles through osmosis—but Chris sounds a swagger away from hurling Andy through the bay window.

  “Sorry, mate,” he growls from the door—in a tone that suggests he isn’t sorry at all—“that’s my bird you’re coming on to and tonight she’s got a date with me.”

  Andy and I swing round. It’s all gone a bit Brooklyn, as Tony would say, and for a childish second I hope the two of them will start fighting over me, like mongrels scrapping over a chop. My heart hops and I yearn for a lace handkerchief to flutter over my lightly glowing brow. So what if Chris is goaded to affection only in the face of imaginary competition? It’s the affection wot counts. He’s taking me on a date.

  I am so caught up in the impossible romance of the moment that I deflate like a cold soufflé when Andy snaps, “I’m sure Natalie can speak for herself. And why not do another line, Chris? You’re not paranoid enough, I think you need it.”

  Talk about bludgeoning the mood stone dead with a claw hammer. I mean, where are the violins and sunsets in that?

  21

  WHEN MY FATHER FIRST ARRIVED IN L.A., HE stayed at the Beverly Wilshire and one day decided to walk three minutes down the road to get some tea bags. A Shogun drove past, and the driver leaned out and bawled, “Hey, buddy! Why don’t you fuck off and buy a car!” My father pretended not to hear. The truth is, my parents are not big on confrontation. My mother’s finest moment was saying to a woman in the supermarket, “Can’t you control your child?” The woman replied, “No,” and my mother scurried off. I have cowards’ genes, and it takes me seconds to realize I don’t want Chris and Andy fighting over me.

  “Chris,” I simper, dreading his anger, “it’s fine, it was a joke.” I smile in horror at Andy—stupid stupid boy!—and ask, “Do you need help getting the rest of your stuff out of the car?”

  Andy shakes his head. “I’ll manage.”

  His petulant air, plus a tuft of hair that sticks up on his head, renders him six years old for a second. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I’ve reluctantly dismissed the idea that he suddenly adores me and that he did want a welcome-back kiss at his party. I’ve watched him closely since he arrived and he doesn’t look at me in the right way. (I am expert at covertly watching men covertly watch me.) He doesn’t flirt. There’s no dragging out of eye contact. He’s treating me like a pal. So it can’t be that he’s jealous of Chris, it must be something else. Could it be that, in scientific tests, Chris was found to be a wanker?

  “Is Andy, er, okay?” I whisper to Babs ten minutes later, as I arrange a pack of boudoir biscuits on a plate. “He doesn’t seem to like Chris that much.”

  I hold back from saying what I want to say, which is: You’d think he’d be chilled after poncing round India for a year, but I’ve never seen anyone so rude in my life!

  Babs makes a face and boots the kitchen door shut. “Ooh,” she squeals, “sponge fingers!” She swipes one, decimates it with a crunch, and says, “He, well, actually—it’s because of Robbie. I wouldn’t have said, Nat, but Robbie is mega keen on you, and you gave him the brush-off. Rob is Andy’s best mate, and Andy sees Chris as being in the way.”

  My expression says what I don’t: that’s all very touching and Stand by Me, but what business is it of his? What is he, a pimp?

  Babs’s face displays a portion of the guilt I’d liked to have seen earlier. “I didn’t help,” she mutters.

  “Pardon?” I say.

  “Last night,” she says, sighing, “we had people round and Andy was there, and what with him moving in here today, the subject of Chris came up, how he’s changed since Si first knew him, for the worse, frankly, and I’m afraid I said”—here her tone becomes defiant—“that I thought, as far as you were concerned, he was bad news.

  “It’s only because I worry about you, Nat,” she adds fiercely. Her voice cracks and “Nat” comes out as two syllables.

  My heart melts so hot and fast I expect it to ooze viscous red through my navel. I whisper, “No, no, it’s fine, I understand.”

  Babs pauses. “I know he’s good in the sack,” she says at last. I quail—how does she know? It’s nothing to do with her! Who the hell has she been talking to? What shameless gossip with no respect for anyone’s bedroom business spilled the beans? Actually, I think it was me. “I know he reached the parts no other man—or you, for that matter—could reach,” she continues. I cross my eyes in alarm and slide low in my seat. “And that’s great,” she declares, oblivious. “I’ll grant him that. Well done, Chris. But he was the training wheels. Now you can ride the bike on your own—wham, bam, thanks, Pomeroy, you’ve served your purpose!”

  Babs finally notices that I’m mortified. She flicks a curl out of her face, cracks another boudoir biscuit in half, and says, “I’m sorry about Andy. Look, this is strictly confidential but—there’s a bit of tension between him and Si right now. God knows why, Si won’t admit to it and I don’t want to get involved. That might be part of it. Chris being a mate of Si’s. But please don’t say anything,” she adds quickly.

  “Oh! No, of course I won’t,” I cry, hugging this nugget of privileged information to my chest. I surprise myself by snatching and wolfing a boudoir biscuit. It dissolves in my mouth like fairy dust and turns my speech sticky. I’ll burn off every last calorie tomorrow in the gym. I brush the crumbs off my lips with the urgency of Lady Macbeth scrubbing the blood from her hands, and say to Babs, “Shall we go in the other room?”

  The next thirty minutes are a challenge as the conversation doesn’t flow so much as stagnate. A few choice samples:

  Chris: “Pass me the Jane.”

  Andy: “The what?”

  Chris: “The Jane Asher.”

  Andy: “Sorry?”

  Chris: “The flippin’ ashtray!”

  Andy: “Oh, right, you should have said.”

  Me: “Would anyone like some boudoir biscuits?”

  Chris: “Boudoir biscuits! They’re not boudoir biscuits, man, they’re sponge fingers!”

  Babs: “Everyone I know calls them boudoir biscuits.”

  Andy: “So which part of Manchester are you from, Chris?”

  Chris: “You what?”

  Simon: “Chris isn’t from Manchester! What a hilarious notion! Last I heard, Chris was a Hertfordshire lad, isn’t that right, Chris?”

  Chris: “I spend a lot of time in Manchester.”

  Simon: �
�Still making waves at the Hull Adelphi?”

  Chris: “There’s a big buzz around Blue Fiend, man.”

  Andy: “A big buzz? As in, flies around—”

  Chris: “Piers Allen. Of Piers Artistes. One of the biggest agencies in the biz. Sent him the demo, and he called yesterday, gagging for it. We’re meeting tonight.”

  Simon: “What, on a Sunday night?”

  Chris: “At a gig. You’ve been a suit way too long, man.”

  Me: “But…but I thought we had a date?”

  Chris: “We do, princess. You’re invited. You’ll love it.”

  Babs: “Ooh. Lucky you, Nat. You’ll have to wear your prettiest frock.”

  I wear what I’m wearing—a gray top, long navy skirt, and navy boots. Chris suggests that I change into something a little more “street,” and I say, “Like what, a Dumpster?”

  He looks at me in surprise—because when am I ever terse? But eating that sponge finger has made me irritable. I feel loathsome. Uncomfortable. The shame of wanting it. I blank these thoughts and kiss Babs good-bye. I nudge the air in the region of Simon’s cheek, blocking my nose against the waft of his Chanel Homme Allure aftershave.

  “See you later,” I say to Andy from a cool distance, as we leave for the gig.

  I’m quiet in the Volvo, and amused to find Chris attempting to jolly me.

  “How’s our Tony?” he asks.

  “Our Tony?” I say—thinking, have him, he’s all yours. “He’s fine, thanks. Why?”

  “Why not?” jollies Chris. (Jollity doesn’t suit him. I feel uneasy.)

  I try to make an effort. “So, good news about Piers Allen. It’ll be great for Blue Fiend”—I am tactful enough to ignore the fact that Chris, despite initially shunning my advice to drop the Veined, seems to have done so—“to have an agent. Especially one like him.”

  “Yeah. Your…Tony, he a mate of Piers at all?” Chris strains so hard to sound casual he nearly gives himself a hernia.

  Now I understand. He’s petrified that Tony will rubbish him to Piers before the deal is done. Chris wants to keep me on his side as he thinks I have power over Tony. He thinks Tony would never diss his sister’s boyfriend. I almost laugh. How little Chris knows about my brother. If anything, it would encourage him! From nowhere, I feel the urge to annoy Chris.

  I itch to ask if this sudden interest from Piers (the kind of shark that makes Jaws look like a small goldfish) is to do with a bandwagon. There’s a law in the music business that states you are nothing until an act three million times more gifted than you get successful and then—because you too happen to be, say, Welsh—the A&Rs start courting you (if it worked once, they’ll work it again, they’ll build the Taj Mahal with egg cartons!), and before you can say Britpop, you the impressionist and your crime of an album—call it Art Forgery—are big on the back of someone else’s talent.

  “Do you think it’s anything to do with Acitate going to number one on Thursday?” I murmur. “And Dodge Kitty being signed by Uranus?”

  Chris reacts like I’ve poked him in the eye with a drumstick. “No! What! What the fuck do you mean by that?” he gasps.

  “I mean,” I say—as an unseen presence takes the words right out of my mouth—“that they’re both from Doncaster, they have the same groggy haircuts, the same King of the Hill dress sense, their sound is being described as Trashrock and, by remarkable coincidence, Blue Fiend fulfill all the same criteria, except the last, and that can be worked on. They’re practically a tribute band.”

  Chris turns a mortuary shade of pale. I sit on my hands, and hope he doesn’t hit me. Without warning, he swerves the poor beleaguered Volvo into the curb. The blood boils in my veins. It’s like there’s rocket fuel in there. I said what I thought to Chris. I said it because I thought we had a date. And because if I knew I was tonight’s eye candy I don’t think I could stand it.

  Now I know that’s a bit rich, coming from me. I, who crave physical perfection—shrinking from my walk-on part as object of desire! Do I want to be beautiful but not treated as beautiful? And is that because people treat beautiful as stupid? Maybe it’s because I want to have it all: the looks, the brains, the status, the respect. In that case, I should drink Coca-Cola and upgrade my car. Chris (who should also upgrade his car) crunches the handbrake like a breaking neck, and it occurs to me that this is no time for a Christmas wish list. I hunch my shoulders. I should have kept my mouth shut.

  “Natalie.”

  “Yes?” I squeak, twitching at the sound of my name. What happened to “princess”?

  “You don’t have to come along tonight if it’s not your scene. Why don’t I drop you in a cab?”

  I glance at Chris and see that he wants to drop me in a cab very much indeed. “Good luck with Piers,” I manage, fumbling with the door handle.

  “Thanks,” he replies. He looks me in the eye and says it like he’s actually heard me.

  I creep home and catch Andy standing in the kitchen with a new iron in one hand and an instruction booklet in the other. “Getting to Know Your Iron,” he murmurs as I peer round the door. “Fuck orrrrff!”

  “You didn’t have to buy one, you could have used mine,” I say shyly.

  Andy smiles. “Now you tell me,” he replies. “I hate spending cash on frivolities like irons. Why are you back? What happened to the guy from Piss Artists?”

  “Piers Artistes!” I squeak. A rogue giggle escapes, but at the same time I feel anxious. He’s like a nanny!

  “We decided that it might be better if Chris spoke to him in private,” I say primly. Andy opens his mouth to reply but the doorbell interrupts him.

  I frown. “I wonder who that is, I’m not expecting anyone.”

  “I am.” Andy grins, speeding past me. I watch with concealed disapproval. I mean, please, make yourself at home!

  He opens the door and the high voice of a young teenage male squeaks, “All right, mate. Fourteen fifty, yeah. Ta, mate!”

  Ten seconds later Andy marches into the kitchen wielding two large pizza boxes. The sweet greasy smell of cardboard and burnt cheese is like an assault. “Ground beef,” he announces, “and Vegetariana—which is really salad on toast. You’ll help me out, won’t you?”

  “I, no, oh, I don’t—” I begin, my hands fluttering in panic, the smile dead on my face.

  Andy doesn’t reply; he opens the top box. I don’t want to look, but it’s compulsive viewing, like a car crash.

  “I’ll get you a plate, shall I?” I croak.

  “Where are they? You sit, I’ll get them,” he says. I gesture wordlessly to the cupboard.

  Andy pulls out two large dinner plates.

  “I…I can’t, I don’t eat off those,” I bleat. “I use a smaller plate.”

  “Oh, okay.” Andy bends and retrieves a side plate and I think, I didn’t say yes, but I fetch him a knife, and he cuts into the thick dough and it yields and oozes like a lover, and I watch.

  “Which would you prefer, beef pizza, salad pizza, or both?” he demands, knife poised.

  “Salad,” I hear myself say. “One slice is enough.”

  I wait for the cry of, One slice! Is that all? You can’t just have one slice! One slice isn’t enough! Have more, look, have five slices, and there’s more in the box, one slice, etc., etc….

  But Andy slides one slice onto my small plate without comment.

  No escape now.

  I sink, defeated, into my seat, like it’s an electric chair. The slice of vegetarian pizza lies before me, a fat poison slab, its warm hot scent clogging my nostrils and sticking to my clothes, the tang of green peppers sharp and distinct against the dense oily reek of the cheese. I don’t eat cheese. Cheese is fat with a bit of protein thrown in for effect.

  I don’t want to touch it with my hands, taint myself, but I can’t use cutlery, I’d look like my father trying to get “with it.” So I pick it up with prissy fingertips—I’ve never eaten food this heavy!—and take a small bite. And another. Bigger this time. An
d another. And another, and another.

  “Buon appetito!” says Andy with his mouth full.

  22

  THE THING I ADMIRE ABOUT BABS IS, SHE always finds an excuse to do exactly what she wants to do. The purchase—against her parents’ advice—of an unwieldy cappuccino machine that took four hours to dribble out a small weak coffee and seven hours to clean was justified with “One day that’ll be a valuable antique.” The ill-fated staking of a week’s wages on lottery tickets was waved away with “If I hadn’t I’d still be torturing myself wondering if I would have been a millionaire by now.” And the eating of an airport-size Toblerone between lunch and tea was dismissed with “I obviously needed the energy.”

  I follow her impressive example and try to legitimize the pizza:

  → It’s not what you eat, it’s how much. No, don’t like that one.

  → No food is intrinsically bad. Unless it’s cooked by a kitchen terrorist who isn’t paid enough to wash his hands between the toilet and the chopping board.

  → One enormous honking pig of a meal can’t make you fat.

  → Andy ate more than me.

  After lengthy consideration of these thoughts and skipping breakfast, I feel better. I walk to the news agent to avoid seeing Andy before he leaves for work—or whatever it is he does—and buy myself Vogue. According to the Guardian Against Fun, it’s the only women’s magazine that doesn’t descend to the level of its readers. Also, one of its writers has had a boob job, and I’m keen to see if she can match Babs in defensive flanneling. There is a lot about symbols of womanhood and failing the pencil test but the words that stick with me are, “It took me a while to accept that nobody could ever describe me as ‘skinny’ now; to live with the fact that I’m not an eight any more, I’m a ten…”

  The jumbo challenge of living as a size ten occupies my mind and won’t budge. To what advanced level of Zen must a woman clamber to “accept” that nobody could ever describe her as skinny? How can you accept it? My parents dying—yeah, okay, that has to happen. But ballooning to a size ten! How can you “accept” a tragedy that could have been avoided? I am tense and preoccupied as I walk back from the news agent, ruing the day that meals were invented, fretting over how to atone for the pizza, aware of the globs of dough oozing through my gut, settling stodgily on my hips, and feeling green and bitter to the core, a walking gooseberry of ill will toward those women who can self-whittle without side effect. I walk in the front door, trip over a large brown sausage lying in the hall, and scream. Paws slowly raises his head and looks at me with sad red eyes. Eh? Matt!