True Things About Me

by Deborah Kay Davies

  I feel sick of visitors

  BEFORE I EMBARKED on the potential fiasco of my date with wots-his-face I decided I had to do what the magazines call build bridges. As my parents and I lived on different planets, rather than opposite banks of a river, it felt like a tall order. So instead I went to do some shopping. There was no food in the house and I was tired of munching Ryvitas with Marmite. I’d even developed a small mouth ulcer, they were so salty and shardlike. And drifting through the aisles was always inspirational.

  At the supermarket I realised it was simple; I would invite my parents for a meal. So I rang them immediately. I had to have something substantial and competent to offer. A proper roast dinner would convince them I was fine, and that they were fine and we were fine. I bought a big chunk of beef and all the usual trimmings. When I got my bags home the meat had bled all over the carrots and even soaked into a loaf of bread, which had gone pink and spongy.

  It took me most of Saturday afternoon to get the meal ready. While I cooked I managed to drink nearly a whole bottle of red wine and at least one G and T. By the time they arrived I felt blurry and loose. When they came in I told my mother she ought to know straight away that the Yorkshire puds were shop-bought. Are you disappointed in me, Ma? I asked her. Have I let you down? Have I? She told me not to be so silly and pecked my cheek. Everything smells delicious, doesn’t it, Daddy? My father didn’t seem in a rush to take his coat off. He stood in the hallway looking serious.

  Somehow I got it all on the table. My dad carved the beef. We talked about the weather and their garden. When we all had our heaped and steaming plates before us I began to feel sick. My mum was telling me about Gran. How she was sinking into a sort of gentle oblivion. I know, I said, and then I had to rush from the table. I made it to the loo in time. I tried to retch quietly, but some stuff got forced up my nose. I couldn’t breathe. Mum and Dad were both at the bathroom door. I’m OK, I called, trying to sound upbeat. Something just went down the wrong way. I told them to go and enjoy their meals. They silently went back to the table. It all felt so sad I could hardly bear it.

  I said I’d eat mine later, that I really only wanted a long, cool glass of water and some paracetamol. They didn’t eat much either. That was all lovely, my mum said, when they’d finished. Where did you learn how to make those roasters so crunchy? From you, I suppose, I told her. I could see she was pleased. We quickly cleared up and then sat down with coffee and mints. I asked them if they wanted to watch some TV, but they didn’t.

  My mother took hold of my hands. Now, what’s the trouble? she asked me. Something is obviously up. You have been avoiding us. Taking time off work. We rang Alison and she said you had been staying with her. And now here you are, pale and unhappy. Is it to do with your young man? She looked across to my father. He stood up and cleared his throat. We’re worried about you, darling girl, he said. Come on, spill the beans. I picked up my cup. Nothing’s wrong, my dear aged p’s, I said. Just the usual ups and downs of life. You know how it is sometimes. Now, have we built a nice bridge or what? I asked them. They both looked at me doubtfully. They were so sweet.

  We sat quietly in the lounge. I put one of their favourite CDs on. After all the cooking, the drink, and the vomming, I felt wasted. My dad began to snore gently and my mum got her knitting out. I curled up in the corner of the settee. It began to rain, and I imagined what the room must seem like from outside. The lamps glowing, three people looking at ease together. Just as I started to drift away there was a loud series of knocks at the door. It was as if each knock was a punch in my undefended stomach. I felt a thrill of fear radiate downwards from my head. I wanted to leap up, but I couldn’t move. My father woke. My mother sat with her knitting needles poised. It’s all right, I’ll go, I said. But my father was already up. Dad, I said, don’t bother, it’s probably nothing. He went out of the room. I knew who it was. There was a brief snatch of conversation, and then my dad came back in. It’s someone for you, he said.

  I wobbled out and shut the lounge door behind me. I felt the life draining from my heart, and yet I felt terrifyingly alive again. As if I’d been electrified. He was leaning against the door frame. Well, this all looks very cosy, he said, very nice. He said nice as if it was a swear word. A family get-together. He seemed about to spring into the tiny, airless hall. I’m really hurt, you know, he said, taking a leisurely drag of his cigarette. He seemed part of the wet, windy evening. Honestly, I doubt that, I said. Why would you be hurt? Because you didn’t invite me, did you? he said, and laughed quietly.

  I felt poised between the safe, well-lit room and the rainsoaked night outside. Me in the cold spotlight, standing like a wraith; like someone who never ventured outside. He with his body inclined towards me, one foot inside, his hair dark with moisture, his blue eyes cloudy, slightly blind-looking, already gone. The hallway briefly became the still centre of the universe. I could see trees thrashing behind him. I looked at the way his thigh strained against the damp denim of his jeans. Where’ve you been? Hiding? Wanna come out to play? he asked me, his voice soft and coaxing. I’ve missed you like mad. I lifted my hands and somehow pushed him out of the doorway. I felt his warm, thumping chest under my palms. He smelt of wet pavements, alcohol and cigarettes. Get lost, I whispered. He was smiling. Don’t think I’m letting you slip away that easy, he said. Just as I went to shut the door he leaned in and kissed me punchily on the lips.

  I show too much

  THE MEETING WITH Blind-Date Rob was in a pub on the outskirts of town. Getting ready needed to be done at the last minute. I slipped into my new cream trousers and the bustier. They were a little loose because I’d lost weight. I pulled the jacket on and stood in front of the mirror. Something felt really wrong. Then I remembered the beautiful sandals. After I’d put them on I felt OK. In fact I felt like the kind of girl who thought blind dates were a laugh a minute. Then I nearly plunged down the staircase; I was unused to the high heels. I told my reflection in the hall mirror that I loved living on the edge.

  I got a taxi to the pub because getting trollied seemed the only way to approach a blind date. I always felt more fascinating when I was smashed. Anyway it gives you an excuse to behave in new ways. I watched the streets thin out as we drove. The sun was setting and all the little semis and bungalows were drenched in a sort of Hollywood glow, the various strips of lawn bright, bright green, as if they’d been touched up. There were people in their gardens, pruning, I supposed. Dogs on solitary walks. Each bus stop shelter I passed had a hooded group of boys scuffling inside. I heard an ice cream van. I began to feel the soggy, sluggish, melancholy feeling early evening can give you. In no time I was at the pub.

  Rob hadn’t arrived, so I ordered a double G and T and sat behind a pillar. They were playing that Jennifer Rush song about the power of love. Alison and I always laughed through it, but in the pub, waiting for Rob, it was like some sort of true cry from the heart. I started to feel like I might start sobbing, so I slugged down my drink and bought another.

  I was still twenty sad minutes early, surely a total no-no in blind-date terms. I began to feel hot, then cold, then hot again. I must have looked wired, the way I kept taking my jacket off and putting it on again. I finished my second drink and just knew this was going to be a totally rubbish evening. I was at the bar when Rob arrived. I introduced myself. I’m not sure if we shake hands, he said. I told him I hadn’t read the blind-date how-to manual. He had a nice laugh. He bought a bottle of red wine. We went outside and sat in the garden and began to drink.

  So, Rob, I said. You’re actually very handsome, aren’t you? Did you know? Have you always been handsome? How does it feel? He wasn’t fazed by my questions. He just laughed again and told me I was more than pretty. And how do you feel about that? We seemed to be getting on really well. The garden was end-of-Augusty, just the way I love a garden to be. The sedum was swaying around us in pink clumps, top-heavy with butterflies.

  We talked for a long time, and he bought another bottle
. You go ahead and drink, he said, I’ve had my two glasses so I’ll drive you home. It got almost dark but we stayed outside. I told Rob I liked him. You can hold my hand if you so desire, I said. I’d drunk so much the plants and bushes around me seemed pulsing with energy, as if they were whipped by a silent storm. Rob was wearing really nice shoes. So much depends on that. His hair was black and he smelled woody. I asked him if it was time to go.

  We walked to his car. I was weaving about, and Rob supported me. He felt slim but strong. He kissed me lightly, and it felt lovely, sort of airy and shy. I wanted him to do it again. When we got in the car I said, Why don’t you just drive? He seemed surprised, and asked if I was sure. Don’t you want me to take you home? he said. God no, I said, and stretched out. He drove into the countryside. The lanes got darker and darker. I’ll tell you where to go, I said. Everything looked unfamiliar, but I made up directions.

  Then we stopped in a car park by the side of a lake. The water was completely smooth, and full of starry reflections. It was eerily beautiful. We sat quietly and looked. Does it matter that we don’t know each other? I asked him. Do you like me? I couldn’t see his face properly in the dark, but I felt he was smiling. Of course I like you, he said. You’re very cute. Cute? I said. Is that a good thing? You’re sweet, he said, and patted my knee.

  Suddenly I didn’t feel drunk any more. Or cute either. I thought about stuff I’d done. I told him looks could be deceptive. I s’pose so, he said. He sounded a little switched off. He rested his head against the back of the seat and we watched some big white birds unfurl like flowers and land silently on the lake. It was as if they were dragging nets of stars down with them. The dark water whirled and the stars stretched and shivered. I waited for them to firm up again. Then I started to take my new clothes off. They slipped off almost as if they were enchanted. My body looked startlingly white in the half gloom of the car. I could feel the moon’s glow on my skin. I sat and waited for him to touch me. I closed my eyes so that I would feel even more naked. It was a fantastic sensation. I knew I looked amazing.

  Nothing happened. Rob was resting his arms on the steering wheel, still gazing out at the lake. I shook his arm. Don’t you want me? I asked him. I began to feel more than pathetic. Don’t you like these, Robby the handsome Rob? I said in a stupid voice, and lifted up my breasts and pointed them at him. I could see they looked like two unappetising, sunken buns. I moved them about a bit; one pointing up, the other down, then vice versa. He turned and tried to focus on my boobs. What are you playing at? he asked quietly, his hands gripping the steering wheel. Put those away, it’s too cold for them to be out. He settled back onto the headrest. God, he said, and sighed. You are so drunk. Then his hands slipped onto his knees and he closed his eyes as if he were about to fall asleep.

  I felt as if I were disintegrating. I struggled to dress but I was shaking too much to do it properly. My bare bottom squeaked like a frightened mouse against the car seat. I shoved my bra in my bag. I put my pants on back to front. My clothes had lost their magical properties. The lake was blank, its surface corrugated with little waves. No stars. Rain started to thump against the windshield. Then he drove me home. Once or twice he tried to make conversation. The windscreen wipers grated against the window. A snake of laughter kept wriggling in my throat, but I swallowed it down. When he stopped I slammed the door and ran into the house. On the hall floor I screamed with laughter until I was paralysed.

  I am a one-trick pony

  I KNEW THAT weeks went by. The calendar said so, but I didn’t feel them as days and hours, minutes and seconds. I felt them in my blood maybe, or my bones. I longed to see him. When I woke up in the morning the longing woke up too, like a strange cat on my bed. The feeling moved up from inside my pelvis and settled in my throat. That’s where it stayed all day. I found it difficult to eat, even if I’d wanted to, with this thing in my throat. Then I began to worry it might go away. It was as if I carried him around with me somehow; his springy blond hair and beautiful feet. The soft fuzz in his groin. His neck with its jumping pulse. The flavour of his spit. And the smell of his cool, even-coloured skin like some buttery, crushed herb.

  At the same time if I closed my eyes I played out another, idiotic blind-date version of myself in a moonlit car, waving her empty tits around in circles. And another lay motionless on the hall floor, dribbling onto the carpet. I even saw myself out on the ruffled waters of a lake, surrounded by silent, hovering white birds, raising a glass of red wine to the rain. Why had I been there? Whom had I been with? I found it hard to recall how long ago it had been. Everything was blurred, leaching into something else, painfully punctuated by encounters I didn’t understand. I know I managed to get to work almost every day. But I didn’t know much else.

  Repeatedly I relived the early summer meal by the river. The way he had gripped my breasts with his hands, the electric current that forked downwards into my belly when he had pinched my nipples and pulled them hard. I remembered the giant hogweed craning in on us. I cringed when I thought about how my cheek had scraped against the rough wall of the pub, the sounds I’d made in the hot afternoon. The two women, motionless under a faded parasol, poised with bread rolls, holding cutlery. Listening, listening.

  Alison started bringing sandwiches into work for me; I didn’t have anything in the fridge. The supermarket seemed like such a complicated place. Instead of going out and sitting in the park for lunch we decided to use the staff canteen. Everywhere I looked people were cramming chips into their mouths. What’s with all this manic chip-eating today? I asked her. Is it just me, or is there some sort of contest going on that we don’t know about? No idea, ducks, she said. Who cares anyway? Let them all choke. I want to know about your blind date. It’s been a while, and you haven’t even mentioned Rob’s name. Rob who? I said. Has he been in touch with you or Tom? I asked. She shook her head.

  My throat contracted, or something inside it expanded. Alison gave me a look. Oh, it was all right, I suppose, I said. Alison stopped chewing her celery stick. Do you know that thing has negative calories in it? I told her. Mmmm, OK, she said, we’ll talk about him some other time. Who? I said. Rob, you dreamy twit, she said. And for God’s sake, eat something.

  The afternoon stretched ahead like one of those sick-making family car journeys. Are we nearly there yet? I mouthed across the office to Alison. She just stared at me and went back to her computer. I sat at my desk and tried to look busy. I couldn’t do much anyway. All the paperwork looked like new, more difficult versions of the stuff I usually worked with. Our boss left early, and we all relaxed.

  Alison and I sloped off to get a coffee. Some women from another section were in the kitchen, and Alison seemed to know them all. They were talking about a television programme. Everyone was really into it. Alison was the most knowledgeable. God, Alison, I said, when did you start to care about stuff like this? Everyone stopped talking and started to listen to us. Believe it or not, Alison said, this is the real world. She was smiling at me. TV, magazines, stuff like that. It’s how we bond in the workplace, love. Over trivialities. It’s known as communication. Comprondayvoo? I do watch TV, you know, and films, she told me. I even listen to music when I’m not with you, believe it or not.

  There was some giggling. Then someone I didn’t even recognise, a woman with open pores all round her nose, said if you asked her I’d always been on another planet. I stared at her. She was wearing a smiling silver dolphin on a silver chain round her neck. Its eye was picked out with a tiny green stone. I thought how creepy that was, when you really analysed it. She’s just a little dark horse, that’s all, someone else said, and leaned over to mess up my hair.

  I looked at Alison. She was holding her cup to her lips, but I could see she was smiling at me. A little dark pony, maybe, she said. I couldn’t think of an answer. They all looked so together, there, making drinks, chatting about stuff, giving their opinions. Suddenly I felt them all shoot away until there was a huge empty space all round where
I stood. Then, faintly, I heard someone start talking about how much weight they’d put on, and they all turned their backs and joined in. Alison was in the thick of it.

  I went off to the loo, but really I was bored with the whole loo thing. It was like I was spending all my life in there. Still, I felt it was my space. There was someone in a cubicle, so I had to wait until they had done everything they had to do, which took ages. To pass the time I swished my hands around in a basin of cold water. Eventually the slow woman came out, adjusting her skirt, which is always so irritating. As she washed her hands, she looked at my bluish fingers floating in the water, and then at me in the mirror. Are you all right? she asked. Why? I said. Are you? What were you doing in there? Writing a love letter?

  Finally the loo was empty. I made sure all the taps were shut off, and then I wiped the surfaces with a wad of paper towels. I was thinking of being a dark horse, or pony maybe. I remembered a time when I was little and my mother and I tried to call some horses over to talk to us. She sat me on a stone wall, and waved a droopy clump of especially succulent grass. They may come, she said, smiling at them as they stood in a self-contained, leggy group in the middle of the field. Suddenly, as if they’d agreed amongst themselves, they broke apart, wheeled round and thundered towards us.

  As I sat on the sun-warmed wall I thought they would soar over my head and gallop up into the sky. I thought they might take my mother with them, and leave me alone on the edge of the field. It felt like magic, the way they slowed and stopped in front of us. They stood and kindly ate the grass my mother offered, although I knew they didn’t need it. I sat with a horse either side of me, and breathed in the smell of bruised grass, muscles and hair. I imagined each huge heart with its maroon tubes and valves. I patted each solid, springy flank as it moved against me and felt its warmth, its horsiness. As I gazed into a tender, blackly brown, wise eye, I could see myself floating on its liquid surface. I ran my hands over each silky, quivering nose, and breathed in the sweet breath from inside. And then they were gone. They were dark horses.