Running in Heels

by Anna Maxted

  Sniff

  “I was writing the press release, and as you’re one of the Alices, I thought…”

  Sob

  “Mel? Mel! What is it? Are you okay? I’m sure it’s not too late, I’m sure we can still squeeze in your quote—”

  blu-uhuhuhuhuuurr

  “Mel! Oh no, what, sorry, please, what is it?”

  With a great shuddering gasp, Mel stops crying and manages to spit a few words out, All I can understand is “mithing periodth” and “danthing ith my life” and “parmethan thauth.”

  Parmesan sauce? “Pardon?”

  “They said I had a severely low body weight and there was all this stuff I have to eat and it was fattening things like pints of semi-skimmed milk—pints of milk—and P-P-P-Parmesan sauce…”

  She’s the queen of drama queens, but this über-hysteria is exceptional. I am starting to feel terrified.

  “Mel,” I say, “I’m so sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Nobody knows yet, not even Tony. I thought you’d know what to tell him.”

  “About what?”

  With much prompting, it emerges that last week Mel slipped in the shower and hurt her back. She barely knocked it, but the pain was so inordinately excruciating, her flatmate called an ambulance. The X-ray found a vertebral fracture. A bone scan confirmed low bone mineral density, which doctors agreed contributed to the fracture. The fact it fractured so easily showed the loss of bone mineral density had reached a certain stage. Mel has starved herself into osteoporosis. The specialist told her, “I can only speculate that constant high-impact work will significantly increase the risk of a second fracture.”

  So Mel will not be dancing Alice in Wonderland. She may not be dancing again.

  49

  MEL’S ANGUISH STILL REVERBERATES IN MY head two days later. At one point she’d cried, “Oh, Natalie! Bad things happen to good people!” It was like she’d reached her little hand into my rib cage and squeezed my heart till it bled. I feel shaken. Mel is regarded as silly. She has a naive gigglish way about her that undermines her talent. People pet her and patronize her and I have too. You pat her on the head, call her sweet, and chuckle quietly over her baby-doll lisp. But osteoporosis turns her into a serious person. That’s awful.

  Guilt and shame don’t stop me from eating a calcium-rich breakfast of muesli with semi-skimmed milk and a low-fat strawberry yogurt with a chopped-up dried fig mixed in with it, and freshly squeezed orange juice not from concentrate. I hope she’ll be okay—you never know (as one always says when the worst is a definite and you can’t quite summon the gall to say: It’ll be fine). Poor Mel. I’ve called to see how she is twice, but she hasn’t got back to me. I know she was upset that I didn’t want to help her break the news to Tony. “Break” the news! She’s the one with the fractured back, what’s she fretting about him for?

  I suggested that she shouldn’t treat Tony like a delicate plant. She said what if he stopped liking her when she put on weight. I told her, partly to comfort her but mainly because I meant it, “I’ve never seen my brother in love, until he met you.” (I was about to announce it was love at first sight, but thought better of it.) “I swear it, Mel, you’re the love of his life. He worships you. He’s never been like this with anyone. Ever. And I don’t think there’s anything you can do to change that.” Meanwhile—and maybe this is also because of Mel—I’ve booked my flight. I’m leaving on a jet plane (with my mother, which slightly soils the glamour of it) in three weeks. It’s an open ticket, so I can fly back when I want to. I’m salivating at the thought of white sand and turquoise sea but I can’t quite bring myself to buy a rucksack. I called Robin yesterday to ask permission before I paid the travel agent. I said if he objected I’d just pop over for a fortnight, and the three-month trip wasn’t my idea, but everyone kept threatening that it would be “An Experience,” though if he thought it would be wrong to interrupt my training—

  “Natalie,” he said. “I don’t usually encourage my students to go traveling directly after they start the course. You have to put in six hundred hours’ work to qualify, so if you want to teach before the age of a hundred and five, you need to stick with it. I need to know that you’re committed.” (“Oh, I am, I am, I won’t do this if you say no!”) “Okay. But the time has to be right. There’s no point in me forcing you if you need to be doing something else. And I think you need to do this. I’ll make an exception and we’ll treat these first few weeks as pre training. I’d prefer to start afresh when you’re back. Shall we book a session now?”

  I gibbered with gratitude in the face of such goodwill. Even if I was a little taken aback at being regarded as a special needs student. Whatever, I’m going to the studio at 4:30 tomorrow. I’d have liked to have gone today, but today is a squash. I’ve got to write a short piece for Matt’s theatrical friend. I’ve got to nip into the deli so Mrs. Edwards can show me how to make a cappuccino and use the meat slicer. I’m having my hair cut. I’ve got to ring the bank to organize an overdraft (the work is generating a trickle of income, whereas the gallivanting is hemorrhaging money from my account at a fatal rate).

  And Babs and Simon have asked me round for dinner tonight, so I want to buy them a present. Considering the state of Simon the last time we met, I feel champagne or alcohol of any kind would be inappropriate. Babs told me not to bring anything, but I’d like to. I was touched, and shocked when she asked—we’ve never formally invited each other anywhere, so grown up. I blurted, “Don’t feel you have to invite me!” The second I said it, I felt ungracious. Thankfully, she took it the way it was meant and retorted, “Don’t feel you have to come!”

  “I’d love to,” I said hastily, biting back the inappropriate questions on the tip of my tongue (but won’t it be awkward with Simon? won’t we all be thinking about the bar attack? does Babs mind having an elephant in her living room?).

  “If you’re worried about Si, for god’s sake don’t be,” declared Babs airily, as I squirmed and pulled elaborate “please no” faces at the phone. “He was very keen to have you round, to make a new start and all that. He’s promised not to make a lunge at you over the canapés!”

  “Blimey, Babs!” I spluttered, amazed at her capacity for the unattractive truth. She’s not afraid to take the elephant by the horns, as it were.

  “Oh, I know,” she replied with mock disgust, “canapés. Don’t tell anyone.”

  I was desperate to ask if Andy would be there. “So is anyone else coming?”

  “Just one other person,” crooned Babs.

  “Anyone I know?” I said, trying to sound tinkly and unconcerned.

  “It’ll be a surprise,” she sang. “The clue is, I thought it was about time you two kissed and made up. See you eightish.”

  That means yes!

  I speed to my hairdresser—who is based in Hendon but whose soul is forever Soho. Stuart is the kind of gay man that Matt would call “a poof.” His first word to me was “Sign?” When I said I didn’t know what time I was born he made me ring my mother. She didn’t remember, so he ordered me to find out and tell him the next time I came in. “Mercury rising,” he lisped as he clipped. Stuart has the air of being interested but it’s mortifyingly clear that everything I say bores him. I have to beg him three times to cut my hair short, because he doesn’t want to and sulks. We compromise on a “Beatles crop.” Retro chic though this sounds, it looks remarkably similar to the bowl haircuts my mother cursed me with at age six.

  “Elfin!” Stuart sighs.

  “Lovely,” I warble bravely.

  On the way home I manage to impulse-buy Babs and Simon a seventies-style phone the exact color of Heinz cream of tomato soup without looking the shop assistant in the eye once. I feel shy and vulnerable without my long hair. Lighter, bouncier, and possibly—oh dear—elfin. But I’m not ready for it to be assessed by shop assistants. I skid-park outside my front door, carefully place the orange phone on the kitchen table—I have a hunch Babs wil
l love that phone, it’s so screamingly 911—and race to the bathroom. A blond elf blinks at me. I jut out my chin. What will Andy think? The message is: “I’ve got you out of my hair.” I hope he’s read enough women’s magazines to get it.

  I picture his face. I’ve been strict so far, but I can’t resist. I open the door of the spare room and pad in. It’s so silent. The glitterball hangs grayly over the bare mattress. There’s a sad feel to it, like a fairground in the rain. I sniff, and smell dead air. It’s just a cold empty room. I pull open the wardrobe. The metal hangers clink. I drop to my hands and knees and squint under the bed. Hang about, there is something. It’s so far under I can’t reach it. I grab a broom from the kitchen and poke it out the other side of the bed. I scramble over the mattress to see what it is. A slipper! A dowdy fuzzy gray plastic-heeled slipper! Size eleven. Wahay, that figures. I grin, recall our last shouting match, and the grin fades.

  Oh. I have not got him out of my hair. If he and Alex are at dinner tonight it’s going to be very tough. But you’ll get through it, madam, you’ll put a face on. For a moment I think of a cousin of my mother’s who disgraced herself—according to my mother—by refusing to attend the christening of her best friend’s son, because she couldn’t have children herself. She asked them to excuse her as it was too painful. This was years back, but at the time my mother behaved as if she was the best friend. “Selfish!” Ought to “rise above it!” I privately disagreed. It was a decision palpably made in therapy, but I felt for the cousin. Forced to celebrate what she couldn’t have. But babies are different from men (true). I’ll be there tonight—if I have to keep my smile in place with a coat hanger. I sit at my desk, tap-tap-tap out a press release—one hundred fifty pounds, ching!—and wonder. Freelance publicity and making cappuccinos isn’t a bad life but I won’t be a millionaire by thirty. What will I be? All the best ideas are gone already. A friend of Simon’s has a nifty sideline in Driveways of the Rich and Famous, tootling Japanese tourists around Totteridge in his car. Another is working on Houdini, the Musical as we speak. In five years’ time though, I could be teaching Pilates in my own studio. Five years’ time. My own studio. Well, I could convert the spare room if necessary. While I know happiness can’t buy you money, the thought of it makes me smile.

  I’m still fantasizing as I drive to the deli. Jackie said that 5:30 would be best, as it’s quiet around then. I keep touching my hair—it ends at the nape of my neck!—to check it isn’t a dream. That’s one habit to shed before I reach my destination. I park round the corner, and check in the mirror in case I’ve got carrot stuck in my teeth and am a hygiene hazard. I used to drive Babs mad asking her if I had anything stuck in my teeth. “Yes,” she’d reply. “A large prawn.”

  But today my teeth are clear. I look presentable. It will be fun to work with Mr. and Mrs. Edwards, when I get used to it. They squabble and flirt and are quite shockingly still in love. I watched Addams Family Values, and was reminded of their relationship.

  Mrs. Edwards engulfs me in a mammoth hug and says, “Ciao, bella!” I feel the soft squash of her breasts against me. Mr. Edwards, who is sitting at a table in deep discussion with a man with a pencil mustache, waves at me. There are two empty espresso cups on the counter, and the place is hot with the rich aroma of ground coffee. And there’s a peeling bluish poster of the Tower of Pisa on the wall. I grin like an idiot. This is so continental!

  “You wan a cappuccino?” says Jackie, peering at me. “A sandwich? Parma ham? Salame? So different from the English one, much more tasty!”

  “I’d like a black coffee,” I say shyly. “I won’t have a sandwich, though, thank you—I’m going to Babs’s for dinner.”

  Jackie wrinkles her nose and says, “You better have a sandwich!”

  I giggle. “Don’t you think the food will be nice tonight, then?” This is a sly question as I know it’s going to start her off on her favorite topic. It’s bad of me but I like listening to her talk.

  “Her cooking is medium quality! People here, they eat so much shit! The junky food! They don’t wanna cook! Barbara, she don’t wanna cook! The pizza, Domino’s Pizza, packed on the weekend, dey so lazy! The English, all the week, they don’t wanna ’ave de ’alf an hour for cooking! Food in Italy, the taste is better than here! All this stuff”—she indicates the shelves—“for me is common, for you, special! Dis is a small choice! If you go in a deli in Italy, is double sized!”

  All this is said as she constructs a giant sandwich. She places it before me and watches me as I eat. I have to stretch my jaw perpendicular like a snake’s. I try to smile reassuringly between mouthfuls. (More for my benefit than Jackie’s, as all unscheduled food has to be accounted for and each mouthful sticks until I rationalize that I didn’t have lunch, so this can be it.) Once the math is done, I start to taste it. And while this is undeniably, deliciously, a non-British sandwich—in size, attitude, and flavor—a worrying thought occurs.

  “What if customers ask me to recommend something and I don’t know what it is?” I mumble.

  “Slowly, slowly, you taste everything,” she replies.

  “But there’s about a hundred different salamis and cheeses here!” I squeak. “Buon giorno, signora!” cries Mrs. Edwards as a large pale woman waddles into the deli, with an eye on the tiramisus. She winks at me and rushes to serve her. I struggle on with my sandwich and watch as the queue grows. Mrs. Edwards greets each customer as if they were a dear friend and I watch as their tense office faces relax into smiles. Her husband is still talking to Mustache Man, who Mrs. Edwards identifies for me as a rep. I look at the clock. I can’t stay for too much longer, I’ve got to get ready for tonight.

  I’m feeling full and edgy and wondering if I could hide the rest of the sandwich in my pocket so as not to offend Jackie, when I hear a voice say, “Hiya, Mum. I’ll load the car up, then come and help if you want.”

  I freeze in my chair, head low, sandwich to lip. Good grief, what’s he doing here? I look wildly at the deli door, as the nearest escape route. He must have sneaked in through the back! But I’m not ready. Only my hair! I’m bare of face and scruffy of dress, and I’ve got about a pound of salami stuck in my teeth. This will ruin the impact of later! I hastily wipe the crumbs from my chin. I’m hidden by the counter, but I can’t cower behind it like a frightened animal. I rise slowly to my feet, as Jackie announces my presence, gestures to Andy to teach me how to make a cappuccino and to show me what’s what.

  “Hello,” I say.

  Andy gawks. “Ringo,” he declares eventually. “Best drummer in the world!”

  My hands fly to my hair. I can’t scowl in case Jackie sees me. I duck under the counter and think of the nastiest thing I can say in front of her.

  “You left one of your lovely stylish slippers in the spare room,” I purr. “I’ll bring it along tonight, I’m sure you don’t feel whole without it.”

  “What’s tonight?”

  “Oh!” I exclaim. “Aren’t you invited?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, so obviously not.”

  Great. Now he knows I’ve been thinking about him.

  Wordlessly, Andy hands me an apron and starts yanking and clanking at the coffee machine. I say, “Babs and Simon have invited me for dinner.”

  “You and that plank?”

  “Who?”

  “Who. You know. Silver-ring boy.”

  “Saul?” I squeak in genuine surprise. “What’s he got to do with anything?” I think back to the performance I staged at the bar-café and squirm. “Saul,” I say firmly, “is very much an ex. I’ve seen the guy once in the last two months, we had a nice civilized chat over the kitchen table, thank you, good-bye, have a nice life.” I pause. “There is,” I add, “only one plank I’ve had anything to do with in the last couple of weeks.”

  Andy shrugs and clanks at the coffee machine harder than ever. “The coffee goes in here, smooth it over, clicks in there, flick the switch, da da da, cup under here, milk in the jug, s
wirl it, slowly, froth froth froth, pour it on, bit of chocolate, there you go. Easy. You try it.” He smiles in a not altogether unfriendly way.

  I try it and burn my little finger on a hot bit of machine. “Ouch,” I say crossly.

  “Run it under the tap,” says Andy, gesturing loosely in the direction of the sink.

  “No,” I growl, wanting to. I hate men who sulk and sulk and then—when they feel they’ve leached every atom of joy from you—cheer up. I said it! I spoke out. I dropped him a hint as big as a brick! And what do I get in return? As Bruce Willis would say, dick! (mind you, I should be so lucky). Nothing. Fine. All right. “So how’s lover girl?” I add, glaring at him.

  “Lover girl?”

  “Don’t give me that!” I cry. “Don’t give me that,” I repeat in a whisper as Mrs. Edwards glances over her shoulder. “Alex!” I hiss. “You know! Sasha! Gorgeous kind witty clever bloody perfect Betty Boop Sasha-Alex! The woman you’re living with! Ring any bells?”

  To my annoyance Andy starts laughing. He sees my expression and quickly stops. “I’m living by myself, in my old flat in Pimlico, and have been since last Wednesday,” he growls. “I was going to tell you what was going on with Alex in the café, but you’re so feckin’ impatient you couldn’t wait. You were off with Plank before I got a chance.”

  “I wasn’t ‘off’ with him!” I shrill as my pulse goes bonkers. “You were off! I was waiting to hear from you all morning!”

  “All morning is nothing!” Andy splutters.

  “You’ve spent too long lolling around hostels smoking pot!” I snap. “I’m on London time!”

  “You should get out more,” murmurs Andy, shaking his head.

  I say in a small voice, “What did you think I’d think, when you left with her that night?”

  Andy, to his credit, looks ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry,” he says, sighing. “I didn’t think. I know what it looked like with Alex. I was confused that night. When I saw her, after all that time, I did think, what do I do? But, Natalie, I swear, nothing happened. She didn’t want it to, and neither did I.”