Tell her to fuck off, you’ve got enough friends, I said.
He laughed. Okay, I’ll tell her to fuck off tomorrow.
You’re too nice, Sean, that’s your problem. You’re gorgeous, you should have girls falling all over you. Where’s all your confidence?
I don’t know, he said.
So is Callum really a dealer?
I don’t know. I just don’t trust him.
The next day I told Rita about Sean’s knock-back. He obviously hasn’t inherited Dad’s womanising genes, I said. Poor Sean, said Rita. Don’t tell him I told you, I said. He’ll kill me.
Callum didn’t phone and he didn’t come round with the contact sheets. I couldn’t bear to admit to myself that I was disappointed.
When the article came out I didn’t look too much like a pie. The other people Angus had interviewed had similar stories: full lives and then grey invalids.
Richard came over to congratulate me on being famous. I asked him if Callum was a drug dealer. I really don’t know, he said. His mum was in buying a carpet last week. She’s a dinner lady at my wee sister’s school. She had a bruise on her face but she didn’t seem embarrassed. She’s quite attractive for an older woman.
Maybe it was an accident, I said. What colour of carpet did she get?
Lilac Heather Twist. Hard-wearing. Ideal for living rooms and halls.
I hope his dad didn’t hit her, I said. I bet he hates his wife working at a private school. He’s in the Communist party.
You should phone him.
Oh, yeah. Hi, Callum, I’m just wondering if your dad hits your mum and why the fuck you didn’t bring my contact sheets round.
You look fine in the photo.
I suppose so. Anyway, how’s the lovely Clare doing?
Fine. She’s away to London on an electrolysis course.
Will we be getting the wedding invitations soon?
I don’t know. Her mum’s doing all of that. I think it’s six weeks before.
Well, there’s still time to change your mind if the invitations aren’t out.
He laughed.
You’re going to go through with it, aren’t you? I said.
Of course I am. I’m just a bit worried that I’ll want to go to college and we won’t be able to afford it ‘cos she’ll need the money to set up her own beauty business. It’s her dream.
What about your dream of art school? You’ve kept your dad happy, working for him for four years. Now you should do what you want. You can keep seeing Clare. Just don’t marry her. She’ll get over it.
But I want to marry her and, even if I didn’t, the wedding’s like a typhoon, you can’t stop it. Anyway, how would you feel if Ivan finished with you?
My heart would break, my world would end.
It would be the same for Clare.
Yes, but I’ve got a mystery illness.
Does that really make a difference?
I couldn’t do aerobics or run away. Clare could and she’d have endorphins to mop up her grief. I have no endorphins.
You’re crazy.
Or she could just have a facial.
You’re terrible.
Actually you can’t cancel it, I said. It’s the next big thing I have to look forward to.
When Richard had left I phoned Fizza – we’d kept in touch since the plasma exchange – and told her to get the Lomond Herald. She was having a bad week, new symptoms of creeping, burning feelings over her legs. And not being able to breathe properly, like there was a giant cat sitting on her chest. I told her I got that all the time and was always going to the back door to get a deep breath of air. I tried to cheer her up with Angus’s saliva beads and the woman Rita’d told me about who’d been coming into the library: she’d sit there until closing time, reading Jean Plaidy, talking to herself and pushing up her breasts.
Can’t sleep. I am such a bastard, slagging off Clare, when she gives me half-price leg waxes. I just don’t want Richard to make a mistake. He deserves to be happy.
I’d got an extra copy of the paper and cut out the article to send to Ivan.
Walking to the post-box, legs shaking.
I kissed the letter before it went in. The post-box looked beautiful, dusted with frost and bathed in lamp-post amber. On the way back, I fantasised I was jogging in pink Lycra leggings.
March 1986
Back to see Bob.
I handed in the diary and told him I hadn’t felt any different with the yellow capsules. Bob revealed that I’d been on the real thing.
Sometimes I think my legs are a bit less weak than others, I said. And sometimes I think I feel a bit better when I wake up, until I try and do something, like make breakfast or wash my hair, and then I realise I still feel horrible. I still feel mashed up.
Chin up, he said. We’re doing a trial with ACTH in a few months.
What’s ACTH? I said.
It’s a naturally occurring hormone that stimulates the adrenal glands to produce corticosteroids, which are anti-inflammatory.
Oh, I said. Will it help?
Maybe, he said. We also use it in flare-ups of multiple sclerosis. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t. You’ll just have to keep your fingers crossed.
I sat cross-legged on the floor in the living room.
What are you doing, said Rita. Are you meditating?
No, I said. I’m trying to keep my chin up and my fingers crossed but it’s very uncomfortable.
D’you want to go to the bench later? We can drive. It’s a lovely day.
Okay, I said. I’ll go and get dressed.
The weekend after Easter, we went into town to change some bras that Rita had bought me. Jana was just back from Barcelona. I was meeting her in the Next cafe afterwards.
The bra-measuring woman had a flat, isosceles face. She told me I’d probably been wearing the wrong size (36A), nicked the tape round me and declared me a 34C.
That explains why I can never get them to fit, I said.
I hope you’ve got your receipts, she said. We can only exchange goods with receipts.
You could tell she was bitter from grazing other women’s breasts all day, with no one to touch hers when she got home. Obediently, I looked for some 34Cs to try on. I hated the way the hangers locked together like antlers and you had to fight to separate them. It was such a waste of energy.
Three of the bras fitted perfectly and I exchanged them for the old ones. Isosceles didn’t crack her face.
I wanted to look for a dress for Richard’s wedding but my neck felt like it had been caned. I told Rita I needed to sit down.
We squashed into the lift to get to the store cafe on the fifth floor. I leaned into the corner, avoiding the jabbing eyes of old women with hunches, and young women with babies, wondering why I was taking up space. Rita got out again and said she’d take the escalator. The lift stopped at every level and went down when it should have gone up.
When I got there, Rita was already at the self-service counter of dimly lit pies and haddock. I sat down. There was sugar spilled on the table. When I asked the girl if she could please wipe it she glared at me and came back ten minutes later with a cloth the size of a nappy. Rita had brought tea and sweating hot-cross buns (the least harmful of the snacks). Can you shift your stuff, please? the girl said, wiping the table in circles.
When we’d finished, Rita lit a Silk Cut.
You had one an hour ago, Mum, I said.
These are very mild, she said.
You said you’re only on five a day but you’re not.
Some days I have more, some days less. Please don’t nag me.
I’m not nagging. I just don’t want you to get lung cancer.
You don’t understand, Helen. You don’t smoke.
I do understand. Relapse is the norm with addicts. I saw it on a documentary.
She took a last long drag and stubbed out the cigarette. Are you happy now? she said. Happy you’ve got your own way?
It’s not about me getting my
own way.
Let’s go, she said. Remember your bras.
We got the lift back down to LADIES’ FASHION. I’d rather go straight to Next, I said.
You might as well have a look here, she said, trying to interest me in the Jaeger sale rack. The quality’s gorgeous.
I’m not forty, Mum.
You never know what you might find, she said. There’s seventy percent off.
There was nowhere to sit down. I hung round her like a reluctant toddler while she whizzed through the racks until she was satisfied there were no bargains and we could head for Next.
I was disappointed. There was nothing I really liked there. Half-heartedly, I took three dresses to try on.
The first one, a Chinese print dress, hung on me like curtains.
It’s horrible, said Rita.
I know, I said. It’s like something you’d make at school.
We both laughed, defrosting in spite of ourselves.
The second one, a sexy black number, cut under my arms and the security tag dug into my neck. I didn’t even bother coming out of the cubicle to show her.
The sleeveless navy one was a surprise. It made me look quite healthy. It stopped a couple of inches above my knees before my legs got too thin.
What d’you think? I said.
I like it, she said. It’s lovely at the bust.
Yeah, I said. I like the wee bow.
You could always have it taken in at the hips, said Rita.
The clothes in here are always too big at the hips, I said.
A nip and a tuck is all you need. I’m sure the Italian woman Heather knows could do it.
I pulled the dress in where it was too big and tried to imagine it tighter.
It would be nice with red shoes and a red bag, said Rita.
Blue with red?
They’re classic together, she said.
It’s not the ‘60s, Mum.
She made a face. Are you too tired to look for shoes just now?
I think so, I said. I should really go and wait for Jana. She’ll be here soon.
We can always get them in Helensburgh, she said.
No way! I said. The shops there are so twee. Fine if you want elasticated sandals for bunions, that cost a hundred pounds.
Don’t exaggerate, Helen. I’m just trying to help. It’s less tiring for you to go there than come here.
Sorry, I said, going back into the cubicle.
I took the dress off.
D’you really like it, Mum? I said.
I do like it, she said through the curtain, but I don’t think you like it.
I might as well get it, I said. I don’t know when I’ll be able to come into town again.
Right. I’m away to look for a shirt for Nab. I’ll be back in an hour. Will you be okay?
Yup.
Don’t get the dress if you’re not sure.
I won’t.
D’you want me to take the others out? she said, poking her head through.
It’s okay, I said. I’ll take them.
I got dressed. My arms burned when I lifted them above my head and I panicked when I couldn’t find the plastic disc they give you for the number of items you take in. (Whenever I’d been shopping since getting ill I’d always had the feeling I might be shoplifting because I was so spaced out.)
Relief like Calamine lotion: the plastic circle was on the floor under my new bras.
As I watched the girl folding the navy dress in tissue paper, I felt guilty (again) for punishing Rita for caring so much.
It’s a lovely dress, the girl said. Not too fancy. You could wear it to work too.
I smiled and colluded.
Have you thought about opening a store account? she said.
No, I said. I’m a student.
Your receipt’s in the bag. Enjoy the wedding, she said.
Thanks, I said.
Jana was late. I knew she would be.
While I waited, I watched the other women in the cafe – taking it all for granted with their blonde highlights and black shoes with bags to match. I would’ve liked highlights but I’d need to go into Marion’s salon and I couldn’t face the noise of hair-dryers like helicopters.
Jana looked frail when she came in. You feel very wee, I said when I hugged her. I’m so glad you’re back.
I’m fucking exhausted, she said.
Must have been all those upside down question marks.
What question marks?! I didn’t open a book. Too much partying. God, I wish you could have visited. You would have loved it. What d’you want to drink?
Hot chocolate, please. D’you mind going up, my legs are like jelly? Let me pay though.
Jana looked sad when she was queuing, sliding the tray down the counter like she couldn’t be bothered.
You look so thin, she said when she was sitting down again. What’s the latest with Dr Bob?
It’s all so boring. I’ve finished the evening primrose oil trial – the one I wrote to you about – and I’m starting another one in a few months, some adrenal hormone thing. But the good news is…I know my proper bra size. I’m a 34C!
I took the new bras out to show her.
Sexy, she said, biting her lip.
I’m so happy to have cups that fit, I said. The bra woman was so grumpy. She looked like an iron.
I’m really worried, Helen. I think I’m pregnant.
I knew there was something wrong! I said. I could tell the minute I saw you.
My period’s two weeks late. I just keep hoping it’ll start. I’ve got so much reading to do. All that fucking Rabelais. I can’t face it.
Have you done a pregnancy test?
Not yet. I’m too scared.
You always think you’re pregnant. Are you sure ?
Yeah. I’ve been really stupid. I think I could be this time.
You have to have a test. You can’t be pregnant during your finals, you just can’t. Promise me.
I promise. She took out a cigarette. I started again in Barcelona. They all smoke like devils there.
You shouldn’t be smoking if you’re pregnant, I said.
Like I’m going to keep it if I am!
I know, I said. I’m just trying to make you laugh.
Let’s talk about something else. How’s Ivan doing?
He’s fine. He’s coming next weekend.
Still crazy about him?
Of course. And I’m famous. I’ve been in the Lomond Herald. Callum came to the house a few weeks ago and took my photo for an interview. He was flirting with me. He’s quite sexy. We talked about photography.
That’s good, she said, a girl needs to flirt now and again. So what else is new?
Richard’s getting married at end of May.
Cool.
I got this for his wedding, I said, taking the dress out to show her. I hope I can wear it to your graduation too.
It’s cute, she said, but she wasn’t really paying attention. She was miles away, smoking like a bad actress.
Jana, you better not be pregnant, I said, folding the dress back into the bag.
I know, she said.
You have to do a test. Go and get one now. We can do it together.
I can’t. I’ll do it tomorrow.
Phone me as soon as you know.
I was thinking of going to Student Health.
Don’t. They get all the reject doctors. You should go to the Family Planning Clinic.
What if I get some judgemental old hag who’s never had sex? She’ll just lecture me like crazy.
Well, if you are pregnant you’ll need to go somewhere for advice.
Is it hard to get an abortion?
I don’t know. I think you need two doctors’ signatures.
Fuck. Maybe I should just quit school and have a Spanish baby.
Don’t even joke, I said. Then neither of us will have careers.
Don’t say anything to Rita, she said.
I won’t.
On the way home in the car I thought
about Jana and how stupid she’d been and how I couldn’t tell her how stupid she’d been because she had been so supportive and believed that I was ill right from the start: she was like golddust. I wanted to share the pregnancy scare with Rita but I knew I couldn’t.
I wished I hadn’t bought the blue dress.
Jana phoned two days later. She was crying. I’m okay, she said. I got my period this morning. It’s gross, it’s the heaviest it’s ever been but I’m fucking glad of the pain. I deserve it.
Thank God! I said. Now go and study. Off to the library with you!
I will. Thanks for not lecturing me for being so stupid.
Just don’t do it again. Please!
I won’t. What are you doing today?
I’m trying to read Midnight’s Children. It’s the third time I’ve started it but I can’t get into it.
God, you’re so disciplined.
I hate not finishing a book.
Go flirt with Callum or something. Call him and ask him over.
Maybe I will, I said. My horoscope says I’m running on high-energy voltage and am capable of extraordinary things.
Clammy moths nibbling my face. I feel wrung out like an old cloth that’s been left to dry and stiffen under the sink. I look outside at the daffodils bending in the wind and wonder how long this is going to go on.
One afternoon, when no one was in, I practised dancing for Richard’s wedding. I put on Rock The Casbah and watched myself in the mirror. I felt like a marionette with weak legs being jerked on a string. I didn’t like watching, self-conscious in front of myself. I had to lie down during the first verse. When I tried to stand up my muscles felt like elastic pulled to its utmost tension. I lay on the floor ‘til the end of the tape. I wondered if I’d damaged my legs for good.
The phone rang around three. It was Callum. It was six weeks since the newspaper interview.
You sound funny, he said. Echoey.
The State of Me Page 9
