Running in Heels

by Anna Maxted

  I can’t bring myself to be gender specific.

  “Now you’ve done it,” I mutter, and plod inside. I can hear Andy crashing about his room. It sounds like he’s shifting beer barrels. I rap on the door.

  “Yeah?” he shouts.

  I twist the doorknob but it’s locked. And he calls me a baby!

  “Andy, I’m cooking you and Robbie dinner,” I bellow through the keyhole. “You and Robbie, and a friend of mine. Robbie’s coming round at eight, and my friend, Alex, will be here about eight-thirty or nine. So why don’t you have a shower and get ready?”

  There’s a clack and the door’s yanked open. “You sound like my mum,” says Andy.

  “Only because you’re behaving like a teenager,” I growl, trying not to laugh. I think of Alex and succeed.

  “What are you making? I just ate a salt beef sandwich.”

  “Too bad,” I snap. “You’ll just have to force dinner down, er…”

  Good question. What am I making? Whatever it is, I have an hour and a half to make it. That is, after I buy it. I look blindly around for inspiration and notice Andy’s footwear. I don’t believe this! He’s from London!

  “What?” he says, catching my stricken expression.

  I pause. Trying to arrange other people’s love lives is like being an infant-school teacher without the perk of a zillion weeks’ paid holiday. Can’t adults do anything for themselves? Will I have to force their mouths together?

  “Andy,” I announce. “If one thing stops me saying yes, it will be those foul offensive slippers. I’m sorry but even my granddad would have rejected them as being too dowdy for an eighty-year-old. They’re even worse than your nasty tartan dressing gown. I hate them. I hate everything about them, I hate the way they curl up at the toes, I hate the cheap plastic soles, I hate the fuzzy gray material, I wish Paws had peed on them, and just please please promise me you won’t wear them at the dinner table, I mean”—by now I’m spluttering—“all you’re missing is a pipe!”

  I cringe in expectation of—I don’t know what—tears? (Who knows how attached he is to those slippers, let alone the dressing gown?) What I do not expect is to be grasped by my shoulders and kissed, oh, what a kiss, hard and soft, fierce and gentle, a deep sexy kiss that shivers through me, warming me to the bone, a kiss to cling to, a kiss that I could live off, feed off, no words but so much said in one long delicious lingering—

  “I know what I’m going to cook,” I cry, springing out of the kiss with a rude popping sound. “Linguine!”

  Andy stands there, his eyelids heavy, his mouth still slightly open, his lips swollen, and a large obvious lump in his trousers. The slippers, I notice, are nowhere to be seen. Then I spy them, kicked off backward onto the floor in his room. It takes every last grain of willpower not to launch myself back at him. I suck my lips, the taste of him. “That,” I gulp, “that was cheating.”

  Andy clutches his hair. “I’m going for that shower. Excuse me if I use all the cold water.”

  I wait for the bathroom door to shut then run into the kitchen and spritz my face. I dig my nails into my palms to stop myself wailing. I want him. Me. I don’t want Alex to have him. I don’t care how nice she is or what she’s done for me. It’s too late, get a grip. I swallow the tears, and open the larder. No linguine, and an hour to go. My pulse is out of control. Any suggestions? Marks & Spencer’s home cooking for fraudulent chefs still in denial to their pals? (who recognize the dark green flecks in the lettuce anyway). It would be an honor, but they’ll be shut by now. A takeout? I couldn’t, it’s against my religion, if my mother wasn’t alive she’d turn in her grave. My mother!

  It would serve me right if she shouted my ear off and slammed down the phone. (“And after Sunday’s palaver, you have the nerve to ask me for food for your dinner party! If you think I’m going to give you so much as a baked bean after what you said!” etc.) So when she picks up after one ring, I ask the favor haltingly, braced for a cool haughty rebuff. Moments later I replace the receiver with a sigh. What was I thinking? I faff about with knives and forks until there’s a rap on the door. I open it to a long blast of sound:

  “I’ve bought the vegetable lasagna there’s enough for eight cover it in foil and stick it in the oven now on two hundred it’ll be ready in an hour now here’s four pints of spinach soup stick it in the microwave on high it will be ready in no time and here’s some cream to pour on it that’s optional of course and here’s an avocado salad it was already in the fridge I just chopped the avocado sprinkle lemon on it to stop it going black I brought a whole lemon and I thought you might not have bread so I’ve bought three olive breads and a block of unsalted butter and I’m going to Susan and Martin’s tomorrow night so as luck would have it I’d made this chocolate mousse it’s not a problem I’ll just whip up another one tomorrow now it goes a treat with oranges so I’ve bought a bag of six and I thought you’d need something sweet to go with coffee so here’s a fresh pack of Bendicks mints I knew you’d have the coffee I wasn’t sure that you’d have the milk so here’s a pint of semi-skimmed I thought you’d prefer it over the full cream now do you think that will be enough they won’t go hungry?”

  My mother dumps the industrial-size picnic basket on the side and smiles, a smile as wide and bright as a crescent moon. It shocks me because I realize how rarely she smiles.

  “Thank you, Mum. Thank you. This is amazing. I’ll tell everyone it was you. I feel embarrassed after what I said at the weekend.”

  My mother busies herself unloading the picnic basket. “That was different,” she says finally. “I’d better get going. Who’s coming to this dinner of yours?”

  “Andy, and a couple of friends of his. He’d say hello except he’s in the shower.”

  “Well, I won’t disturb him,” retorts my mother, as if I’ve suggested she pop her head round the bathroom door. “Enjoy your evening.”

  “Thank you. Hang on, I’ll write you a check for all this.”

  For the first time today my mother looks insulted.

  “Not for food,” she cries. “Never for food!”

  My mother departs and I realize it’s twenty to eight. I shove the lasagna in the oven and the soup in the microwave, then speed to my room to get ready. Ready for what? Ready to play the martyr? No. Ready to be the martyr. I look at my face in the little mirror as I apply lipstick and I think, you know, this isn’t a bad face. It could do with some padding, but it’s not a bad face. I peer at myself until my breath fogs the mirror. I snap it shut. I am not looking forward to tonight. For so long, I’ve played at being the martyr—not eating, not loving, not living—but I realize that until now that’s what I wanted, I chose to do it. Does that still count as martyrdom? I think not.

  Offering Andy to Alex on a plate of lasagna is real martyrdom: for the first time ever I feel the burn and I don’t like it one bit.

  43

  DOT ON EIGHT ROBBIE RAPS ON THE DOOR, clutching his large purple helmet in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.

  We won’t be needing that, I feel like saying. “Hi,” I bleat instead. “Thanks for coming. Champagne. You shouldn’t have.”

  Robbie leans forward for a kiss. “Only the best for my favorite,” he murmurs. “And now I know what you keep in your drinks cabinet, I didn’t want to risk it. I didn’t feel too clever this morning. You don’t look too good either. How’s the hair doing by the way?”

  “The hair? Oh, my hair. Not too bad. I’m trying to be more healthy. It’s still falling out but I think hair takes awhile to catch up with the rest of you. And I don’t wash it in the bath anymore, so it can fall as much as it likes and I can’t see the damage.”

  “Good plan,” says Robbie. “I like it! Mine’s still going strong. As in, it’s still going.”

  I laugh. It’s hard to panic with Robbie around. I want to confide about Alex, but as I start to speak he grins, and I turn to see Andy emerging from his room with wet hair. I bite back a lustful whimper.

&
nbsp; “All right, Rob,” says Andy. “Feeling butch enough in that biker’s jacket?”

  “It’s a feeling you’ll never know, Andrew,” retorts Robbie.

  I smile tightly. Time’s chopping on. I need an ally for the moment Alex walks through the door and all hell breaks loose and does the cha-cha-cha. I wonder how to distract Andy’s attention while I confer with Robbie. Send him to purchase peanuts? Pretend I’ve misplaced the napkins? Then I think, oh for heaven’s sake, and say, “Andy, I need to talk to Robbie in the living room for a second, can you check the oven for me?”

  Andy trots obediently into the kitchen and Robbie meekly shadows me to the living room.

  I shut the door, lock it, remove the key, peer through the keyhole to check that Andy isn’t eavesdropping, and tell Robbie.

  “Fuck!” he gasps. “Oh fuck!”

  Terror crawls over me in a thick slime. “Robbie!” I screech under my breath, “what do you mean, ‘Oh fuck!’? I did the right thing, didn’t I? Tell me I did the right thing!”

  Robbie drops heavily onto my suede sofa with what can only be described as a bang. I think he may have burst it. He wipes his hand over his face as if removing a sheen of sweat. “I don’t know, Natalie,” he mutters. “Christ. I don’t know what’s going on with Andy right now, he hasn’t been that keen to talk about it.”

  “Well, he’s talked about it with me,” I hiss. “He’s still in love with her. Speak quietly!”

  Robbie lowers his voice to a wall-penetrating whisper. “Okay,” he says hoarsely, “here’s what I think. If he’d wanted to get in touch, he would have, but—”

  “Yes, but he thinks she’s still with the guy, he doesn’t know it fell through!”

  “Fair enough, but you can’t just have him open the door to her with no warning! And what about Sasha? She ever mention wanting to get back in touch with him?”

  I squirm. “Andy said she’d wanted to stay friends. I can’t remember, she might have said something wistful about her ex—”

  “Whatever,” interrupts Robbie. “We should tell him right now before she arrives, and if he doesn’t want to know he can piss off to the pu—”

  Drrrrrg!

  Robbie and I stare at each other in dismay and dive for the door.

  Clomp clomp!

  “Locked!” I croak.

  “Key!” shrieks Robbie.

  “I’ll get it!” roars Andy.

  Clomp clomp!

  “Wait!” I bawl.

  “Stop!” screams Robbie.

  “I’ve got it!” shouts Andy.

  Click!

  Silence.

  Robbie and I freeze as we stand. We look like two contestants in a very miserable game of musical statues. Slowly, silently, Robbie hands me the key. We both strain our ears.

  “Bloody hell! Sash.”

  “Well, this isn’t at all embarrassing.”

  “Last time I saw you, er…Haven’t, um, seen you around for a while.”

  “You didn’t want to see me around for a while, Andrew.”

  “Can you blame me? So how is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Ah come on, Sasha! Whatsisface, Satchel, Shoulder Bag, the bloke you ran off with a month before our wedding, or don’t you remember that little—hiccup?”

  “Mitchell, Andy, his name was Mitchell. I wouldn’t know how he is. We broke up.”

  “Oh. Right. Well. I can’t say I’m sorry.”

  “Neither can I, Andy. It was a nightmare, as I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know.”

  “Why should it please me? It’s nothing to do with me.”

  “If it’s nothing to do with you, why can’t you say you’re sorry that my marriage failed?”

  “You…married Satchel?”

  “Mitchell! Yes, Andy! I didn’t leave you for a one-night stand!”

  “So the white dress didn’t go to waste.”

  “There was none of that, if you must know. Just two witnesses in a registry office.”

  “How incredibly tasteful of you, Sasha. That makes me feel so—much—better.”

  “Why don’t they just bonk on the floor and get it over with?” whispers Robbie.

  “What do you mean?” I hiss. “They’re having a godalmighty row! This isn’t to do with sex, it’s about…it’s about—it’s about, wait, now we’ve missed a bit! Shh!”

  “Andy, don’t give me that shit. You were the one who refused to discuss it. I pleaded to give you an explanation, you wouldn’t have it.”

  “And why do you think that was, Sasha? Any idea? Anything to do with the pain you caused me? I didn’t know there was unhappiness like that.”

  “Andy, all I’m saying is, don’t play the guilt card on me now. I know I hurt you. But it was hard for me too. It was hard for me to do that to you. It devastated me to see how hurt you were.”

  “You and your bleeding heart.”

  “Oh god, Andy! What would you have preferred? That I went through with the wedding and started an affair when we got back from the honeymoon?”

  “No, actually, Sasha! Call me a head-in-the-clouds idealist, but I’d have preferred that my fiancée had no fucking affair at all! With Rucksack, Clutchbag, or whoever!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What?”

  “I said I’m sorry. Sorry for all of it. I am, Andy.”

  “Yeah, well. You did what you had to do. It’s done.”

  “So, Andy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Me? I live here. What are you doing here?”

  “You live here! What, with Natalie?”

  “How do you know Natalie?”

  I can’t stand it any longer. The storm is over and, if anything, I want to prevent the reunion hug. I rattle open the lock and burst into the hallway. “Surprise,” I say weakly.

  Two faces stare at me accusingly. I glance at Robbie for backup. He chirps, “Just call her Ricki!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Sash?” demands Andy. He sounds furious.

  “Alex,” says Alex. “I should have said. I don’t call myself Sasha anymore.”

  “Exactly!” I blurt, “I didn’t know Alex was Sasha, she was my friend Alex, I only realized today and…and”—I finish lamely—“I thought it would be nice for you two to meet up again.”

  “So let me get this straight,” says Alex curtly. “You two are living together?”

  Her implication is, if Andy and I are romantically involved, why would I invite his former fiancée round to be reacquainted? I might ask myself the same question. I feel reluctant to clarify the misunderstanding. Robbie has no such qualms. “Not in that sense!” he pipes up. “They’re not saucing each other! He’s just Natalie’s lodger. Nat’s a friend of Andy’s sister Babs. There’s nothing going on between Nat and Andy. He’s free and single, darlin’!”

  I treat Robbie to a smile as sweet as sulfuric acid. So—I am gratified to note—does Andy.

  “Robbie,” purrs Alex, “what a pleasure to see you again after all this time.”

  I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic, but I pray she is.

  “Natalie,” interrupts Andy in a cool voice, “you still haven’t explained how you know Sa—Alex.”

  “From my gym,” I reply gruffly. “Alex was the one who got me into Pilates.”

  “Now I get it.” He sighs. “So you thought—”

  He abandons this sentence, and starts a new one. “And to think I once wanted to be a psychologist. So. Are we going to eat or what? Do you want to stay, er, Alex?”

  His tone softens, and I feel the cold clutch of jealous rage. This wasn’t the plan. When I say I wanted to test Andy, to see if he really was still in love with Sasha, I should have said that deep down I thought it was a controlled experiment. An hour ago he and I were kissing! We were having a thing. I thought I was safe. But incredibly, it looks as if my bluff has been called. I was wrong. I should have waited. Years of uncertainty would have been better than thi
s.

  “I wouldn’t want to spoil the party,” drawls Alex, smiling at Andy from under her eyelashes.

  I tense in annoyance. So you’re leaving then? I say in my head. I try not to stare at her. The woman has an X-rated figure, thrown into relief by a bright turquoise open-neck shirt, cream bootleg trousers, and high chunk-heeled mules. I recognize raw sex appeal when I see it, and wish Babs—oh great, I’ve lost her too—were here with a fire extinguisher. I want those curves. For the first time in my life, I want curves. I feel like a pencil.

  “Great,” I say, cranking my lips to a smile. “Why don’t you all go and sit in the living room?”

  I put one foot in front of the other and somehow make it to the stove without strangling any one of my guests. I am pouring the defrosted soup into a pan, when Robbie lollops in.

  “That was hairy on and off!” he booms. “But all credit to you, Nat, it’s looking good! You did a nice job clearing up the front room an’ all! They’re drinking champagne. I thought I’d leave them alone for a sec—know what I mean?”

  I am fond of Robbie, but it takes all my strength to refrain from tipping the soup-filled saucepan onto his balding head.

  “Actually, Robbie,” I reply through my teeth. “I think you might have made a mistake. They could start fighting again. It could turn nasty. You’d better get in there now.”

  “But—”

  “Go, Robbie!” I hiss, trying to sound like a senior official in the FBI. “Go! go! go! go! go!”

  Robbie gives me a stung, surprised glance over his shoulder as he hurries out. It reminds me of the look Paws gave Matt on being scolded for chewing up his Puppy Album. (Matt had brought it in one Christmas to show us—lots of photographs captioned “Paws with His Squeaky Toy,” and “Paws Eating a Peanut Butter Basset Biscuit.” It was cute, but I think Paws felt the pictures were degrading and took affirmative action.) I wrestle the soup bowls out of the cupboard and yell, “Everyone! Dinner’s ready!”

  Robbie runs in—“Sir! Yes, sir!”—and Andy and Alex shuffle in behind him looking moony-eyed. Or maybe I’m paranoid.

  “Can I help?” offers Robbie.