Running in Heels

by Anna Maxted

  Chris looks as if he might burst into tears. It’s a measure of his agitation that when Andy walks in, he appears pleased to see him.

  “The lovely Andreas!” squawks Matt, who—correct me if I’m wrong—has met Andy once, for the duration of a minute.

  Belinda checks out the newcomer as a possible “aristo” and arrives at a happy conclusion.

  The only person not awash with joy is me.

  “Hi,” I say awkwardly.

  “Hi,” he replies. He looks from me, to Chris, to me again, and scowls. Matt follows all this, waves a yellow Pop-Up Pirate sword in Chris’s direction, and cries, “Crispin returned to exact vengeance, Andrew. Apparently his long shaggy hair was his crowning glory—although personally I think this new butch style is beyond hot. Try telling him that! Anyway, it’s all been terribly dramatic. Paws, get down—it’s not like shaking hands! Oh, how sweet, you’ve brought a little friend!”

  Robbie, who has just shuffled in clutching his bike paraphernalia (purple helmet, passenger helmet, scarf, leather gloves, leather jacket—everything bar the machine itself), rubs his eyes. He grins at me, then at Matt. “Wotcha.”

  Hastily, I introduce everyone. Chris nods at Robbie without coming over. Bel waves and smiles but doesn’t move a toe away from Chris. Matt leaps up and kisses Robbie and Andy hello. Andy—patently gratified by the torturing of Chris—gives Matt a bear hug. When Andy glances at me, I allow myself a mini-smirk. So. I’m not the only one scared to face yesterday’s bonk alone.

  “Sit down, boys, sit down,” says Matt, patting the sofa. “Natalia, we’re nearly out of drink. Is there anything else?”

  I stumble into the kitchen—which has turned wobbly—scrape around various cupboards, and return with a large tray of clinking bottles. “Some of it might be out of date.”

  “Jesus wept!” says Robbie, dropping his bike gear in a messy heap on my afghan rug. “Where’d you get all this, this…shite?”

  Matt lines up the treasure trove of booze. “Martini Extra Dry, Beefeater Gin, Bailey’s, Mezcal Lajita, Soviet—lord alive!—Soviet Strike Vodka, Smirnoff, Taylor’s Port, Manischewitz—good god, this is frightening—Andy, dear, save that face, it gets worse—Sang Thip Royal Thai Liquor, Jack Daniel’s, Cointreau, Heering’s Cherry Liqueur, one bottle of Miller Red Dog—Paws, look what she got for you!—and three bottles of Budweiser. Mm. What a connoisseur!”

  “I wouldn’t mind trying the Royal Thai Liquor,” says Robbie, squinting at the label. “It looks…interesting. Nat, have you got any ice?”

  I fetch ice, glasses, diet Coke, tonic water, and Matt plays mother. Chris grumpily accepts a Siberian vodka and tonic, Andy chooses death by Mezcal Lajita (Matt goes to the trouble of spearing the worm with a skewer and flicking it into his glass), Bel gets a half pint of Bailey’s, Robbie stands by his Sang Thip, and I go for a large glass of Cherry Liqueur. “Well, I’m having the Manischewitz!” declares Matt bravely. He covers his head with one hand, cries, “Baruch atah Adonai!” downs it in one, and submits to a choking frenzy.

  “You sound like a cat coughing up a fur ball,” says Andy. He takes a swig of mescal. Matt observes his agony with satisfaction. “At least,” he replies, “I don’t look like one.”

  “Yer all nutters,” declares Bel. “I’m stickin’ wiv me Irish Cream.”

  “Oh no, you’re not, darling—and don’t argue, I’m your boss—we’re taking it in turns to taste everything. We’re going to broaden our narrow, bigoted horizons. Aren’t we, Crispin?”

  Everyone looks at Chris, who is bright purple and clutching his throat. He nods dumbly and snaps two fingers at Matt to indicate assent. As Chris has been keeping a safe distance from Matt—rather like a shark circling a lawyer—I am intrigued by this thaw. So is Matt: he raises his eyebrows and twists the Soviet Strike bottle round to read the label. “Thirty-seven point five percent proof,” he murmurs. “The Russians certainly have struck. What would we do without the social lubricant of alcohol?”

  “I’m sure you’d find another lubricant,” says Andy.

  Matt pouts. “Have a glass of Sang Thip, dear. That’ll scrub out your mouth.” I surrender to a giggle fit. All of a sudden I feel warm and floaty—the weekend’s many horrors blur with my vision. I let Matt pour me a sweet comforting slosh of Manischewitz. “I wouldn’t smoke as you drink it,” says Robbie. “You’re probably flammable. I think I’ll try the mescal.”

  “I want to play Pop-Up Pirate,” exclaims Andy. “Budge up, Natalie. And I want to be the blue sword. Matt, will you teach me?”

  “Look out, Matt,” says Robbie. “He’s on the turn! Watch yer back!”

  Matt crosses his legs. “I don’t think I will watch my back. It’ll be a lovely surprise!” He squeezes my thigh. “Natalie—we’ll have to toss for him!”

  Filthy pissed as I am, I recognize this comment as the great waddling oink of a faux pas that it is, and bare my teeth at Matt.

  He grins at me and sings, “No one heard! Anyway, look at them, they couldn’t care less!” Then he turns to Andy and says, “Now, darling. You take your sword in your hand…”

  Heart pounding, I glance at Robbie. He’s clapped a hand over his bulging mouth, is shaking his head in horrified mirth, and holding out his glass to Bel. Chris is sitting on the floor, tipping Heering’s Cherry Liqueur down his throat. His gaze is fixed on the middle distance and he seems unaware of the red trickle dribbling down his chin. Bel oscillates between fetching His Lordship a tissue, and trying the Sang Thip. Matt is right: they couldn’t care less. I sneak a glance at Andy. He’s smiling. “I’ll be the green sword,” I say.

  When the doorbell rings two hours later, Chris is snoring on the floor, bare-chested, occasionally whimpering in his sleep. Ditto Paws. Belinda is in the kitchen, singing “Diamonds Are Forever” at the top of her voice, and scrubbing the Cherry Liqueur stains off Chris’s Miu Miu tan leather jacket with dishwashing liquid and a Brillo pad. Robbie, Andy, Matt, and myself are ensconced in, possibly, our fortieth game of Pop-Up Pirate. We don’t know the score. It’s quite hard to see the slots in his sides to stick the swords in. I feel a bit sick, so I’ve given Robbie power of attorney. A while back, Matt decided that whoever loses removes an item of clothing. This accounts for the fact that Robbie is in his pants. Andy is wearing green boxers, a T-shirt, and one sock. Matt is sporting a fake fur hat with earflaps, and black jeans. I took preventative action an hour ago, went to my wardrobe, and put on seven cardigans. I can’t remember quite when Robbie decided we should play for money, and that he’d be banker—“That’s banker with a ‘W,’ ” said Andy—but I suppose it explains why I’m twenty quid worse off than I was thirty minutes ago.

  “Somebody’s at the door! Thank Christ for that!” bawls Andy, staggering to his feet. “I don’t know who the hell it is, but I thank them from the heart of my bottom!”

  Matt looks at me, and laughs silently. Oh please, he mouths.

  Vain, I mouth back. What can you do?

  “I agree with Andy,” says Robbie, hopping about, trying to fit both legs in one trouser hole. “If you ashk me, that we’ve had mo-o-ore than enough of thingsh popping up, thank you verr mush, Matthew. And I sheem to have made shixshty quid.”

  “Robert,” replies Matt, watching Robbie fall flat on his face. “Try one leg at a time. Would you like some help?”

  “You shtay right where you are, ta very much.”

  “Why is it,” says Matt, “that all straight men, even the ugly ones, think you fancy them?”

  I shake my head. “You tell me!”

  “I’m a married woman,” adds Matt. “And Robert, adorable as you are, you’re not the prettiest boy in the playground.”

  Robbie looks peeved. “What!” he says, prodding his soft white belly. “You mean, if I wash, if I wash gay—which I’m not, yeah? Yeah? Mate, Geez-aaa! Got that-ah?—you wouldn’t want to have it off with me?”

  “Robert,” says Matt solemnly. “you’re an absolute love, but you’re”—his voice
drops to a whisper—“not my type.”

  When Andy walks in with Mel and Tony, we are all crumpled on the sofa, sniggering like children.

  “Oh NO!” shouts Mel, stamping her little foot. “They’ve been having fun without us!”

  “Mel, angel,” says Matt. “You need to catch up, that’s all. Have a sip of Sang Thip!”

  Mel scampers across the room, then freezes as she catches sight of Robbie. Hastily, he does up his zip. Once again, I perform introductions, although a little less crisply than earlier.

  “So this,” declares Matt, standing up, “is the Tony I’ve heard so much about. Well, well.”

  Tony glances at Matt with suspicion. “Well, what?”

  “Well, Anthony…you’re everything I thought you would be, if not more. Big Daddy Bear!”

  Before Tony has time to deconstruct this, Mel cries, “What’s he doing here?” She points an accusing finger at the slumbering Chris.

  “Yeah,” says Tony, frowning. “What is he doing here? And why are you lot half-dressed?”

  Mel, who is used to nudity, ignores him. “I love your flat, Natalie,” she says. “Can I look around?”

  “Of course,” I say, as Matt cries, “He’s very growly, isn’t he, Natalia? Do you think he wants a bowl of porridge?”

  “Matt,” I mutter. “Shh. Er, Mel, Tony, do you want a drink?”

  Mel tucks her hair behind her ears, and does a mental tot-up of the men present. Her butterfly gaze settles on Andy. “Who are you again?” she lisps.

  “Andy.”

  “Andy! Oh, okay. What drink shall I have, Andy? You live here, don’t you? Will you show me round?”

  Tony glances sharply at Andy. Andy doesn’t notice. “I don’t know what you like to drink,” he replies. “It’s Nat’s flat. I’m sure she’ll show you round.” He smiles at Mel, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. A crease of perplexity clouds her brow. She is used to men grasping the flirt baton with both hands. I feel a twinge of pity. “I think you should try the Soviet Strike, Mel,” I say.

  Tony—whose mood has darkened from jet to pitch—pokes Chris in the leg with his foot. Chris jerks awake, squeezes his forehead, and groans. He sees Tony and scrambles to a sitting position. “You! I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” he croaks.

  “Yeah? Then pick it.”

  “You encouraged Blue Fiend to go with Piers, and they were in breach of contract—”

  “Ah, what contract? Did they have a contract? I think not. Any other bones to pick? No? Good. Shut up.”

  Chris stumbles to his feet. “But…but…Where’s my shirt?” he mumbles. “My leather jacket?”

  “There’s your shirt,” I say meekly. “I don’t think Bel got around to washing it for y—”

  “But I’ve done yer jacket!” crows Bel, bouncing in brandishing what looks like a chamois leather. “It’s a bit…it’s a bit…”

  “My jacket! It’s fuckin’ ruined! You maniac! You…that’s six hundred and fifty pounds’ worth of designer jacket! What have you…my head hurts…I’m out of here…I should never have come…you’re all mad, the lot of you…”

  “You are masterful, Tony,” coos Matt as Chris runs for his life.

  “You’re not going to start on him now, are you, Matt?” asks Robbie.

  “I was hours washin’ that jacket!” cries Bel. “Hours an hours! Aw, sod it. I’m starvin’ ’ungry, I’m goin’ down the chipper.”

  “You’ll be lucky to find a fish-n-chip shop around here, love!”

  Bel ignores Robbie and veers unsteadily toward the door. My brother snags in her line of vision and she stops. “You’re Nat’s brother, incha?”

  “What’s it to you?” snaps Tony.

  “You know,” says Matt, “you’re really quite a grump.”

  I aim to kick Matt and miss.

  “Stop that, Nat,” says Andy. “You’re the only person in this room who’s scared of Tony. Oi, Big Daddy Bear. When did you get so tough?”

  Mel giggles. “He’s not tough, he’s the sweetest man alive! And no one’s asked me how my dancing went.”

  “That’s because we know you were fab, darling.”

  “I wasn’t, I was terrible! My back hurt, my feet were killing me, it was agony. I was like a great big heffalump stomping about.”

  “You were very light and polished,” soothes Tony. “Though I didn’t like the way that lech Oskar was looking at you.”

  “Well,” remarks Matt, “it was Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I’m not talking to you!”

  “Oh, get back in your box,” says Matt.

  Five heads swivel in the direction of Tony.

  He looks stunned. “Wha? Get back…? You going to make me?”

  Five heads swivel in the direction of Matt.

  “Only if you insist.”

  Tony laughs harshly. “I’d like to see this! What you gonna do? Hit me with your handbag?”

  Matt flutters his eyelashes in an expression of acute boredom.

  Tony reddens. “What? What? Come on then! You want to go outside?”

  Minutes later, Tony discovers that homosexuals who hail from the roughest part of Exmouth are well practiced in defending themselves—or, at least, this one is. Matt fells my brother with a single punch to the kidney. And while he does spoil the effect with a little light weeping over his bruised knuckles, Andy and Robbie declare him the hero of the night. Secretly, I can’t help agreeing with them.

  41

  THE PHONE RINGS AT 10:39 A.M., SHAKING ME from a booze-twitchy make-you-tireder sleep.

  “You lazy girl.”

  “Alex,” I rasp. “You okay?” (My pounding head and lurching stomach agree that You okay is more doable than Good morning, how are you?)

  “I’m really well, thanks, Natalie, how are you?”

  I lie.

  “That’s good. So what did you get up to at the weekend, anything nice?”

  I suspect that my weekend doings are a little heavy-duty for this newborn friendship, so I lie again.

  “Sounds great! Now I’ve got something for you,” she says. Her voice is as loud as a drill. “I spoke to my Pilates teacher, Robin, yesterday. I’m going to his studio later—I go there twice a week to teach—and I told him that you’re a friend interested in training. He’d said he’d be happy to tell you about the course. If you’re serious, Robin’s your man. So if you’re free, you can meet me at his studio at four. Otherwise I’m sure he’ll chat to you over the phone another time.”

  I croak, “No, I’m free, I’ll see you at four.” I roll into the kitchen and enter the appointment details in my enormous new business diary (which is about the size of the Domesday Book). Andy is out, and no wonder. We managed to do that very married thing of appearing great friends in public, while in private our relationship is tepid. I bite my lip, walk into the living room, and blanch. It looks and smells like a squat. The odor of basset hound now clogs my front room. Empty bottles litter every surface, and there is a congealed puddle of Heering’s Cherry Liqueur on my pale polished hardwood floor. Multicolored plastic shards of Pop-Up Pirate—I think Andy accidentally stepped on it—have been crunched into the rug. And my beautiful beige suede sofa looks sticky.

  I rush to the kitchen for headache pills, but the cupboard is bare. “The fresh air will do you good,” I say sarcastically, quoting my mother. It doesn’t. I stumble to the chemist, whimpering. By the time I get home, I’ve developed the shakes. I squint at the phone, hoping for messages, but there are none. I press *69. The caller withheld their number.

  Who could it be? Babs? No chance. Tony? Oh my god. I should think about hiring an armed guard. It’s 11:01. Of course. A minute into my mother’s first coffee break. But she always leaves a message; five to be certain. I don’t want to call her. I think about roaring at her on Sunday night, and feel queasy. Queasier. I’d rather sweep the episode under the carpet, then glue the carpet to the floor. Before the infamous mash episode, I hadn’t raised my voice to her in twenty-six years.
(“You were such a good baby! Not a peep out of you!”) What must she think of me? I try to focus. This is why I never, ever get rollicking drunk on a Monday night. It makes the rest of the week too painful. Think, Natalie! Admittedly, Mum didn’t seem too traumatized when I left. She waved me off from the door with, “You’ll have to think about what you want to do for your birthday.” My mother is to martyrdom what Texas is to oil. Ever since I can remember, she has celebrated my birthday by frog-marching me and Tony to Odette’s—a smart restaurant in Primrose Hill—for a sumptuous dinner. I think she was suggesting that if I and my neuroses preferred, she’d take us to the theater instead. She is great at being understanding in an annoying way.

  “Hello, Mum,” I say quickly, before I lose my nerve.

  “Hello, dear,” she exclaims. “Nice to see you on Sunday, how are you?” She sounds on edge.

  “Nice to see you too,” I echo disbelievingly, wondering if it’s possible that I dreamed the weekend. “I’m fine, thanks, how are you?”

  “I’m well, thank you, dear. I didn’t want to bother you, that’s why I didn’t leave a message. I wanted to ask your advice, I didn’t want to ask Tony. But it can wait, I know you’re busy.”

  I manage not to laugh. This is my mother trying hard.

  “Now is fine,” I say.

  “It is?” she replies anxiously. “You’re not working? What about the deli?”

  “I am working. But not at this precise moment. And, er, not at the deli. Babs and I had a…an argument.”

  “You did?” shrills my mother. “What about? But this is your future!”

  “Not really, Mum,” I say gently. “It was only meant to be temporary.”

  “Well, there’s always Eee—” She stops, and with difficulty, corrects herself. “I suppose there are other options open to you,” she adds, as if reading from a barely decipherable script. “So tell me”—her voice drops to a shocked hush—“what happened with Barbara?”

  “Nothing serious,” I lie. How long does it take these Stone Age headache pills to work? “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about the deli, and please don’t say anything to Jackie. Anyway, I’ve decided on a career change.” I take a breath and try to sound assured. “I’m going to train to teach Pilates, which is a form of exercise, it strengthens mind and body and”—to placate my mother—“even old, er, more mature people can do it. I’m going to use my severance money and do freelance work for Matt, and I’ll keep on a lodger, so I won’t starve, it’ll be fine, it’s a proper job, there’s no need to worry.”