An Unremarkable Body

by Elisa Lodato

  ‘Laura? Are you in?’

  ‘Yes. I’m in and I’ve got my dinner on.’

  ‘Oh, well done, darling. I’m so pleased. What’s it like?’

  ‘It’s perfect. And it’s all mine,’ I said, opening the oven door to check it was getting hot.

  ‘When can I come and see it?’

  ‘As soon as you like. Tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow? Hang on, let me just check … yes, I can do tomorrow. What time?’

  ‘Any time. I’m just going to be here unpacking boxes.’

  She rang the bell at ten the following morning. In her arms were a bunch of yellow roses and a tall, cut-glass vase still wrapped in tissue paper. ‘I stopped off in Kingston on the way. Bought you this. And these,’ she said, offering me the flowers.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, opening the door wide. ‘I’m up on the first floor. Come on in.’

  She stepped into the carpeted hallway gingerly, glancing up at the stairs ahead of her. ‘How many flats are there?’

  ‘Three. One here,’ I said, pointing to the door on her left, ‘mine’s on the next floor up, and then one at the top.’

  ‘Oh, I see. And how do you get your mail?’

  ‘It all comes through the same letter box,’ I said, closing the door behind her and pointing, unnecessarily, to the slot. She nodded her head. ‘Come on up. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  She took each step with careful precision as she ascended into the darkness.

  ‘The light bulb needs replacing up here – it’s pretty dark,’ I said, opening my front door so that the light from my flat would illuminate the last few steps.

  When she stepped into my little hallway, her face suddenly opened into a smile. ‘Oh, Laura.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘I love it. And it’s all yours.’

  ‘I know, I know. I keep thinking that too. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Shall I show you round?’

  ‘Yes. Here, take this,’ she said, handing me the vase. ‘It’s for the flowers. Where’s your loo?’

  ‘Just in here,’ I said, attempting to push open the bathroom door. I’d left a half-emptied box of toiletries behind it. ‘Hang on,’ I said, putting the vase down so I could push with both hands. ‘There’s some toilet roll on the side of the bath.’

  I went into the kitchen and boiled the kettle. She came in a few minutes later, wiping her hands on her trousers.

  ‘Sorry, I need to find the towels.’

  ‘Don’t worry about any of that. I think it’s absolutely brilliant. I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘The area’s really cool. At first I was a bit worried about leaving Angel, but actually everything’s on the doorstep. And it’s very handy for the Northern Line.’

  ‘Yes, so I see.’

  ‘And it’s not that expensive. Compared to Surbiton, I mean.’

  ‘You never looked at Surbiton, did you?’

  ‘No, but I’m thinking about you.’

  The kettle had boiled and the room was quiet again. ‘Where are your cups?’ she asked, suddenly businesslike.

  ‘Oh … I need to wash these ones up.’

  ‘I’ll do that for you. Do you have any milk?’

  We made tea and sat down in the living room. I didn’t have a sofa yet, but I had managed to buy two chairs and a small dining room table on eBay the previous week. We sat opposite one another.

  ‘So, how about it?’

  ‘How about what?’

  ‘Moving. I hate to think of you alone in that house. Especially now Christopher’s gone.’

  ‘Balham is great for a young girl like you, but what am I going to do here?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be Balham. You could look at other areas that might suit you better. But at least you’d be closer to me. And you don’t need so many bedrooms.’

  She leant forward on her elbows and looked down into her cup of tea. ‘I have thought about moving, actually.’

  ‘You have? That’s great.’

  ‘But not here. I was thinking of Twickenham, or somewhere like that.’

  ‘Twickenham? Isn’t that where Helen lives?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  ‘It’s pretty expensive. And isn’t even on a tube line.’

  ‘I know, but it’s near the river. And Richmond Park. You know how Helen and I like to go walking together.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it be nice to be near me too? Clapham Common is just down the road.’

  ‘Laura, come on. It was just a suggestion.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’d choose living near Helen over me.’

  ‘This is silly. I’m not choosing anyone or anywhere.’ She got up from her chair and stood beside mine. I remained, petulant and unmoving, in my seat. She put her hand under my chin and lifted it gently. As I looked up at her she bent down to kiss my forehead. Then she patted my cheek and said, ‘Come on. Let’s unpack your kitchen.’

  The business of the boxes absorbed both of us for a few hours. Just after two, she went to find her coat in the living room. I stood beside her as she buttoned it up, waiting for the right moment to speak. ‘I’m sorry about earlier. Of course you should do what you want. I just want to see more of you, that’s all.’

  ‘And you will. You’re closer now, anyway. Why don’t we try and get together on a Sunday for lunch? Either here or at home? It doesn’t have to be every week, just when we can.’

  ‘That sounds nice. I could drive over to you. I think it’s about forty minutes.’

  ‘There we go. There’s always a solution,’ she said, kissing my cheek.

  After I’d waved her off and come back upstairs, I saw she’d trimmed the stems of the roses and arranged them in the new vase on my mantelpiece. And for some reason, I started to cry. At the time I put it down to tiredness, but perhaps, deep down, I knew my mother had tried to give me something infinitely more precious that day. She’d tried to offer me the truth.

  Driving back from New Malden to Balham took a long time. The traffic was awful, and after trying several alternative routes, I found myself in Tooting, very near Andrea’s flat. I decided to pull over and phone her. I wasn’t ready to go home just yet. Her phone rang and then went to voicemail. I tried her again in case she hadn’t managed to get to the phone in time.

  ‘Laura. What is it? I’m on a date.’

  ‘Oh shit. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, almost on a date. Just waiting for him to turn up. Can I phone you back?’

  ‘Can’t you bin it and come out with me instead? I need to drink wine and feel like the rest of the human race.’

  ‘No, I can’t. He’s got a really good sense of humour.’

  ‘He hasn’t arrived yet! No one’s banter is that good.’

  ‘No, silly. It said so on his profile.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘You need a bloke, Laura. I love that you’ve phoned me, but what you really need is to have sex again. And then that person is obliged to listen to you. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’m serious. You need to start dating. Look, I’ll come over one night in the week and we’ll get you registered with a dating site, OK?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Have a nice date with Mr Charisma. I’ll speak to you soon.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Why won’t you even try it?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to meet anyone new. Sometimes I don’t even want to talk to you, Andrea.’

  ‘OK, but what if you end up meeting the one?’

  ‘And what if that’s total bullshit? Have you met the one?’

  ‘No, but I’ve met some really nice guys. You remember Rob with the carrots? Come on, Laura, you need to get back out there. How long has it been?’

  ‘I can’t think about that right now. I’m happy the way I am, where I am.’

  ‘You’re not happy, Laura. You’re busy. There’s a difference. Oh, fuck, I think that’s him. He’s fat. I’ll phone you lat
er.’

  I hated the thought of marketing myself to others. I was having enough trouble maintaining the few friendships I had, let alone admitting someone new into my life. Someone who would ask me questions and wait for me to show an interest in them. The idea exhausted me. But out of respect for Andrea – who averaged two or three dates a week – I permitted her to come over one night and create my dating profile. We ate dinner, and as soon as I’d opened another bottle of wine, she began casting about for my laptop. She opened it up, the backlight illuminating her face like an eager witch.

  ‘Where can I find a nice photo of you?’ she asked.

  ‘Can’t you just take one of me now?’

  ‘No. You look like shit.’

  ‘Yes, Andrea! Because this is what I look like.’

  ‘Hang on. I’ll find one.’ And, with renewed vigour, she logged into Facebook, determined to find a suitably misleading image.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said, turning the laptop screen to me in triumph.

  She’d found one of us on a night out in Angel, before my move to Balham. We’d ordered cosmopolitans in self-conscious mimicry of Sex and the City. As we lifted our glasses, Andrea had leant over to the barman and asked him to take a photo of us. We looked like young, fictionalised versions of ourselves.

  ‘Andrea, that was taken over three years ago.’

  ‘Yes, and you look fit. I’ll crop me out.’

  I left her to it. To her credit, she did a very good job of making me appear an attractive prospect. Her descriptions pointed to someone motivated, driven to succeed and eager to engage with life. This, coupled with my photo, prompted several messages from men keen to meet. I went on a few dates, all calamitous in their own way. One confident twenty-five-year-old asked me – within five minutes of meeting – for my favourite sexual position. I sat there stunned, not just by the nature of his question but at his sense of entitlement, probing quickly for something not readily on display. I told him to go fuck himself.

  Andrea’s attempts to push me back into the world had relied upon airbrushing out what was new about me. The deep loss I’d experienced, the slow uncovering of an uncomfortable past – they had changed my outlook. And my face. I was thinner than I was at the beginning of the year; dark circles from late nights and uncontrollable weeping underlined my eyes. I no longer wore make-up. So I did what I should have done in the first place: I took a photo of myself with my laptop camera and edited my profile to include the fact that I am a writer prone to spending long periods of time alone. And it all went quiet.

  By mid-July, just as I was finishing my final article (‘The Olympic Flame: London Lets the Light In’), written to coincide with the opening ceremony the following week, I received a message through the dating website from someone called Tom. I hadn’t exactly forgotten about my profile, but the radio silence that followed my edits had, more or less, convinced me I’d be left alone. His enquiry was simple and willing: What are you working on? Tom. Without thinking, I typed, quickly and casually, Just something on the Olympics. Laura.

  He responded almost immediately: Sounds interesting. Fancy meeting for a drink?

  I looked around my empty flat and then at my profile picture. And realised I did want to meet. That I felt ready to tell someone about myself again.

  We agreed to meet in a bar in Clapham the following Thursday. It was almost 8 p.m. by the time I got there. He was standing up against the bar, his jacket in his hand, watching the door for my arrival. He was very short. My heart sank as I took in his five feet four inches. I tried to rescue my reaction and look at his face. It had a feminine quality I found disarming – he was almost pretty. And he beamed the moment he saw me. As though there were no one he’d rather meet. I blushed at his obvious pleasure, conscious that I couldn’t muster the same enthusiasm. He insisted on buying me a drink and ordered a bottle of beer for himself. I sat on the only available bar stool and, raising myself up even further, took off my jacket. There was nowhere to put it, so I folded it up on my lap and looked around for something to say. He stood below me, short and expectant, like a loyal subject.

  ‘So, tell me about the Olympics,’ he said with open invitation. I felt myself recoil in embarrassment.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Just what you’re writing about. Are you a journalist?’

  ‘Yes. I write a mix of things, really, but I was looking specifically at how parts of east London have remained untouched by monumental changes like the Olympics and the LDDC.’

  ‘What’s the LDDC?’

  ‘The London Docklands Development Corporation.’

  ‘And that’s a bad thing?’ he smiled.

  I smiled back apologetically. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out tonight. I’m tired and I don’t really want to talk about my work.’ I turned back to my glass of wine and waited for his reaction in my peripheral vision. A woman on the other side of him got up and gave him her stool. He took it gratefully and pulled it over to mine. He climbed up comically, as though he were scaling a mountain, huffing and puffing at the effort, and then feigned vertigo as he looked down. I chuckled despite myself and looked back at him. His pretty face was full of humour.

  We began to talk more easily then. He worked as an IT project manager for a healthcare company and owned a flat in Wimbledon. He’d had one serious relationship that had ended the year before and little success with women ever since, telling me how he had come to recognise the dark shadow that passed over their faces as they took in his height. Dates were rarely salvaged after that, he said, quickly ordering a second round of drinks. I became more relaxed and open – telling him about the guy who’d asked for my favourite sexual position. He laughed, and matched my anecdote with one of his own: a Polish woman who had asked him for his exact height measurement as though she were conducting a medical.

  ‘What was her conclusion?’

  ‘She closed her eyes in compassionate understanding and asked me whether I had bought my own property. I mean, it’s the obvious follow-up question.’

  ‘She was probably just thinking of you – you know, whether you’d be able to reach the lock, turn the lights on, stuff like that. God, how awful. Did you tell her where to go?’

  ‘Absolutely I did. The following morning.’

  ‘You mean, you slept with her?’

  ‘That’s a very personal question. Shame on you.’

  We drank into the early hours, moving on to shots and then into a cab. I sobered up enough to direct the driver to my house. When I invited him up, he had the presence of mind to decline, saying he’d watch me go in and call me in the morning.

  My phone sounded its alarm at six the following morning and I reached for it in despair. I had been asleep for about four hours. And had neglected to take a glass of water to bed with me the night before. The result was a mouth that was dry and unyielding. I got up to have a wee and then trudged into the kitchen for water. I gulped it too quickly and retched into the sink, disgusted with myself. Then I remembered Tom’s refusal to come upstairs, and groaned with remorse.

  I went back to bed, too hungover to cry, and was woken at nine-thirty by my phone ringing. I didn’t recognise the number but, thinking it might be Andy, coughed my voice back to normality and answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Well, good morning! And how are you feeling?’ It was him. I must have given him my number.

  ‘Tom. Hi.’

  ‘Hello. I was just phoning to see how you are. And to say how much I enjoyed last night.’

  ‘Me too. I don’t remember much after the shots. I blame you for my complete loss of memory.’

  ‘That’ll be the Rohypnol. I know it’s not the done thing to drug someone on a first date, but when you’re under five and a half feet you’ve got to use every tool in the box.’

  ‘Did you just call me a tool?’ I could hear him laughing at the other end.

  ‘I’d really like to take you out to dinner. And give you the opportuni
ty to finally seduce me. Are you free Saturday night?’

  ‘As in tomorrow? Erm, I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know? Well, you do now. You’re coming out with me.’

  ‘You’re bossy.’

  ‘I just know what I want.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Someone who’s really pretty, funny and intelligent. With massive tits. I’ll pick you up at seven.’

  ‘OK, see you then.’

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I can’t wait to see you again.’

  I got out of bed, motivated by the thought of a cup of tea and a chance to replay our conversation in my head. I went into the kitchen to boil the kettle and, as I went to open the fridge, saw Nicola’s note pinned to the door. I’d brought it home and put it somewhere prominent. So prominent that I’d forgotten all about it. I had the whole day to myself – the Olympics stuff all done and dusted – so I decided to phone Nicola and take her up on her offer. It would take my mind off agonising over what to wear for my date with Tom.

  A young female voice answered. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh, hello. Is that Nicola?’

  ‘No, she’s not in, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Can you tell me when she’ll be back?’

  ‘This afternoon, sometime. She’s gone into town to get a few things. Who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘Laura Rowan. I’m Katharine Lambton’s daughter.’

  Nicola phoned me back a couple of hours later, just as I was unloading some shopping from the car onto the pavement. She suggested meeting at one o’clock, outside Surbiton Library. I looked at my watch – it was eleven forty-five.

  ‘That’s a bit tight for me. I don’t live in Surbiton any more. I’m in Balham.’

  ‘Oh, I see, I’m sorry. Well, I can do four, if that’s any better?’

  I hadn’t planned to spend my afternoon driving back and forth across south London, but Nicola sounded keen and she’d gone out of her way to post that note in the first place. We arranged to meet at four.

  The day contracted before me and I tried to do too much. I unpacked the shopping, washed my bed sheets, tidied the flat and then filled the car up. By the time I hit traffic on the A3, it was three fifteen and the only number I had for Nicola was a landline. I decided to phone her before she set off for the library and tell her I might be late, but nobody answered. I sat in the traffic, sweating and angry with myself. It was twenty past four by the time I sped up the hill to Surbiton. I parked at the back of the library and sprinted to the front of the building, searching urgently for the woman who wanted to meet my mother’s daughter.