True Things About Me

by Deborah Kay Davies

  You feel so stiff, he said. Relax. He massaged my back and legs until I spread out on the mattress. Soon I began to loosen up. That’s better, let’s be gentle, he said into my neck. You’d like that, baby, wouldn’t you? I turned over, curled my arms round his shoulders and squeezed him tight. I told him I liked things to be gentle. Me too, sometimes, he said, and buried his face in my pubic hair. Don’t, I said, but he wasn’t listening. He pushed his tongue inside me. I love these little folds, he said. I wanted to knock his curly head away, but I didn’t like to. Fuck, that’s tangy, he said, and kissed me again. I didn’t like his lips on mine; it felt wrong to be tasting myself. You’ve got to learn to love it all, he said, and laughed so cutely I had to join in.

  It was surprising how much I wanted him to stick his thing in me. I grabbed his penis in the end, and guided it. We rolled around and I loved how we felt together. How everything mingled. At one point I saw myself in the dreaded wardrobe mirror, looking soft-cheeked and wobbly mouthed, my eyelids shiny. What an idiot, I thought. One minute ready to run away from the big, bad wolfy, the next romping with him in the freaking forest. Even I could see how mixed-up it was. Sick, even. I don’t know anything, I told him jerkily, as he rotated his hips between my legs. Nor me, he shouted. Now stop talking, for fuck’s sake.

  When I woke again it felt like afternoon. He could have been a slumbering angel; forehead completely smooth, feet quiet, lovely fingers curled. I kissed him all over his face and mouth. His penis was a floppy pink mushroom, nestling amongst the undergrowth. I flicked it one way, then the other. He didn’t stir. I climbed out of bed, and had a shower. I felt optimistic in the bathroom. But that may have been down to my mint and rosemary shower gel. I read the label; it promised to lift the spirits. Still, there’s something symbolic about a shower, I’ve always thought, and part of that is watching the used-up water schlooping down the plughole. From my shower cubicle I looked through the small window I’d opened to let the steam out. I could see blue sky with the prettiest white clouds imaginable, and vivid birds looping the loop, like something from a Disney film.

  I decided to make breakfast for us. I left my hair wet; the dryer was so noisy. When I tiptoed back into the bedroom to get my robe he was lying in the same position, and I covered him with the quilt. Then I tiptoed out. The atmosphere in the bedroom was different. I remembered my rock-chick-and-mirror period. How desperate I’d been then. What was all that about? I couldn’t remember now, though at the time it had seemed the end of the world.

  On the landing I noticed two supermarket carrier bags he’d thrown into the spare bedroom. I went in and shut the door. Then I emptied the bags onto the bed. I was scared he’d come in so I quickly went through the whole lot. There was nothing of any interest; just jeans, tops and pants, cheap toiletries. I fingered everything, looking at the labels, going through the pockets, and realised I was looking for something that wasn’t there. Something that would give me a clue about who he was. I shoved everything back into the bags, and went downstairs to make breakfast.

  As I cooked bacon and made the coffee the thought of him lying asleep upstairs felt good. This was what people did, surely? Had a lazy morning making love, taking a shower, having breakfast in bed. The rest of the day was a puzzle though. What else did people do with their lives? The smell of cooking, the sizzling and bubbling, felt so everyday I decided not to worry. I looked out at the table and chairs on the patio. No one had ever sat out there, except that cat, that one time. Maybe things would change now. We could have barbecues, with friends coming over. Alison and Tom and the kids might come. I even imagined him with a pinny on, cooking burgers.

  I was putting things on the tray when he appeared at the kitchen door. I made you breakfast, I said, obviously. He drank the coffee in one go. Then scratched his head and yawned. I could see he hadn’t showered. Never eat it, he said, makes me heave. He held out his hand, and said, Car keys? I heard myself tell him where they were. I need a vehicle sharpish, he said, and picked them up as he opened the front door. I ran after him.

  Something told me to be quiet – I even clamped my hand over my mouth – but I ignored it. Where are you going? I squeaked. Something drove me on, even when I saw his face darken. When will you be back? I’m going to ignore all that, he said. Seeing as you’ve been so nice about the car and breakfast and all. And there I was, standing on the doorstep, holding a spatula, listening again to the sound of him going away.

  I’m at home to Mr Truthful

  I SPENT A few hours sorting the house out. I changed the bed and washed the sheets. It was nice to see them dancing around on the line, just like they did in other people’s back gardens. In the kitchen I tried not to look directly at things. I hid the bacon and eggs. The coffee grounds clogged the sink, and that worried me. I dressed with care, and put plenty of slap on; as my mum always said, You’ve got to keep your end up, because no one else will do it for you. Outside I was dazed to see my car was missing. For a split second I even thought I should call the police. Then I went to the supermarket on the bus and bought stuff. It was quiet there in the evening. Lots of traumatised-looking women drifting around. Perhaps that’s what we do: food shopping.

  I ended up in the café, drinking thin hot chocolate. I read a magazine. There was lots of shit about relationships, and how to do great sex, great homes, great food, great children, and really great holidays. God, I could feel my own wonky ideas about how to live seeping out of every pore as I read. It was as if they were talking about life on some other almost-identical-but-not-quite planet. Not the one I was existing on anyway. There was nothing about what to do when you were afraid to go home. Nothing about that particular problem anywhere.

  I waited for thirty-five minutes before the bus came. It was late when I got back, and the house was in darkness. No messages on my phone. I had to force myself to turn on the lights. Everything was in its place. I locked all the doors and shut the windows. Then I ran a bath. I poured in something that made the water a sludgy shade and slid into it. The steam in the bathroom smelled like vanilla, like delicious ice cream. I could feel the water softening me. I sang a song to myself and the taps plinked in time. The water quivered, and I realised it was because I was trembling. I was listening so hard I was actually trembling. I went to bed with some pills.

  The next day I remembered to go to work. I threw my clothes on, called for a taxi, and practically ran out of the house. Miraculously I knew what to do at my desk. It was as if I’d switched to auto mode. Alison ignored me all day, which was fine by me. I felt as if everyone was ignoring me. By mid-afternoon I realised it was probably because I was invisible. Or only visible in a certain light, like those pale brown moths that fly out of a favourite jumper. Eventually it began to get to me, and I went to the loo to cry. Someone came up to my cubicle as I was silently howling and knocked on the door. It was Alison of course. I recognised her sensible shoes. I could have kneeled down in the lav and kissed them. Come out, she said. I need to say some things to you.

  I washed my hands, and told her to get on with it. Come here, you, she answered sweetly, and put her arms round me. I rested my head on her shoulder. I told her I wished she was my mum. No thanks, she answered, and held me away from her. You are a nightmare child. I feel sorry for your parents. I didn’t care what she said, just so long as she was talking to me. She folded her arms. Do you know how upset they are? she asked. How Tom and I feel? Do you have any idea how horrible it was when you flitted off after the funeral fiasco with that vile man? So many squealy, spiky questions. I didn’t have any answers. Your mother is ill with worry. She’ll cope, I said. She always does.

  She was silent for a while, just sort of staring at me and shaking her head. So are you just going to stand there and tell me what a bad person I am? I said. Don’t you think I know that? Lovey, you’re not a bad person, she smiled, just a mixed-up, self-absorbed one. You always have been, admit it. Shit, Alison, I had to say, you’re such a disgusting head girl. I’m actually fe
eling as if I might throw up just listening to you chant on. I felt something break loose inside me. If we were into home truths, why not? I thought. I began to see how it was, how it had always been. Alison was one of those types who loved to sit on the sidelines of someone else’s fascinating life, and shout advice at them. She fed off me, and I let her. It made people like that feel even more smug about themselves when they could observe another human being struggling. Unravelling, if they were lucky.

  I must have said all that out loud, because Alison took a sharp breath and said tearfully, If that’s how you feel then there’s nothing else to say. She sounded like a second-rate actress in a daytime soap. I almost laughed. You know where I am if you need me, she said. Then she walked out sniffing. I rummaged in my bag for a comb, but my vision was blurry. I splashed some water on my face, and blotted it carefully. When I looked in the mirror I seemed to have grown younger. I could have been my own little sister, only I didn’t have one, thank God.

  Alison’s not my friend any more, I said out loud to the echoey loo. It’s official, I now have no friends. Even my parents hate me. I watched my silly smile fade in the mirror. As I combed my hair I thought maybe it was all part of the scheme of things. I had to grow up sometime. No one really understood. They all thought they knew what was best for me. I had started a new chapter. I was living with a man, for holy Saint Ikea’s sake. I was moving on. I was cooking stuff in my kitchen at last. Someone was occupying the empty side of my double bed. I felt equal to it all. But round the back of my little heart I could hear a lonely breeze whistling away everything I cared about.

  I have red letter days

  HE DIDN’T COME back and he didn’t come back and he didn’t come back. For the last couple of weeks I had been spending loads of money on taxis. I missed my car a lot. I fooled everybody at work. It was amazing. On the outside I looked like myself, and I sounded like her. I ate what she ate. I wore her clothes, although some of them I didn’t like. I even put her make-up on. But inside I was just sloshing about. It made it awkward to use my computer and answer the phone, but I managed. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep things going.

  I felt as if some wet substance filled my cavities. It could have been water, it might have been blood; some sort of disgusting broth anyway. I was surprised my colleagues couldn’t hear it lapping around as I stalked up and down the corridors. For all I knew I was leaving liquid splodges on the office floors. My vital organs had been sucked out. Inside my skull sat a microchip and some circuits. Inside my chest nothing at all. Not even an empty Coke can.

  Alison was nowhere to be seen. I asked the dolphin necklace woman I’d always made a point of ignoring. She smirked, and told me how surprised she was I didn’t know Alison was on leave. Gone abroad somewhere. But Alison doesn’t like abroad, I said. She hates paninis. She likes Skegness and buckets of tea. Whatever, she answered, brushing dandruff off her acrylic jumper. That’s all I can tell you. I could have slapped her stupid face. Well, I’m unimpressed, I said lamely; you haven’t a clue, have you? and sloshed away.

  I toyed with the idea of phoning blind-date Rob. He was the only other person in the world I knew. But after I’d walked myself through our meeting I remembered certain things: drinks in a garden; a ride through dark lanes; the pockmarked lake, a squeaky car seat; his white knuckles gripping the steering wheel; and finally that naked girl convulsing on the hall floor, and it didn’t seem such a stunning idea. I felt sorry for him. How could the poor boy, with his nice shoes, have known that he was going to take weird little me out? And he’d doused himself with such nice perfume. Just as if he was going out on a common or garden, straightforward, pleasant, snoggy date. Let that be a lesson to him.

  Every day in my lunch hour I went to the hole in the wall and took some money out. I liked seeing the little wad of notes in my bag as I travelled home on the bus. Systematically I cleared out my accounts. It gave me such a buzz. It became the highlight of each day. When I got home I would push it in a kitchen drawer. Finally there was enough. I already had something to put the money in. It seemed right to use the red treasure box I’d had since I was a little girl. Then I’d used it for my secrets. I’d loved that it had a lock and key. Now I started to look for somewhere to stash it. The garden seemed like an ideal place; it was somewhere I felt safe, somewhere only I visited. I stood on the patio and tried to imagine a really unlikely spot. There was a smell of rain, and all the plants were drooping. I used the trowel my father had given me. I don’t know why I was doing this thing with my money, but it seemed like an excellent idea. And I chose a good, secret place for it all.

  Each evening I performed a ritual. I ate some food; two slices of toast and marmite cut into postage stamp pieces. Then I drank a cup of camomile tea. Anything else made me feel deathly ill, and I was afraid to eat it. I thought that if I did all my insides might pour out like a thin emulsion, and I’d be unable to stand up and carry on. After posting squares of toast into my mouth and systematically swallowing I arranged myself on the sofa in front of the TV. Just on the off-chance someone looked in through the window. There I’d be, lounging, engrossed in a programme. In fact I sat there like a mannequin. The real me was groping about, banging into things, ripping my hair, shredding my cheeks. Screaming for him to come back.

  I had two letters in the post on the same day. Two white envelopes spread out on the mat like the wings of a dead dove. My parents wrote to say they loved me. I found it difficult to decipher the words; my eyes weren’t working properly. They said they had to mention the man I was living with. How unhappy they were about that. They’d heard bad things about him. They said it wasn’t too late. Why didn’t I pack a bag and stay with them? Nobody’s angry with you, the letter said. Just come home to us. I wondered what they were talking about; I was home. The other came from the HR department. They regretted to have to inform me that I was required to attend a second warning interview. And could I respond within seven days. And in the meantime not to come into work. This was standard procedure, the letter said.

  I had a delayed reaction to the letters. After I’d read them I enjoyed ripping them both up into confetti. Then I sank to the floor and sobbed. So not actually such a huge delay. I cried until I was numb, my head rocking on the confetti-strewn carpet. I didn’t have a tissue, and my face stung bitterly. Later I heard steps on the path to my house. Then vigorous banging. I held onto the walls and the hall table as I ran to open the door. He sprang in and lifted me up in his arms. As I ran my fingers through his hair I could hear laughter. You’ve been crying, he said, and let me down gently. If it’s about the car I can explain. The car doesn’t matter, I said, now you’re here. That’s good, he said, ’cos my mate needs it for a couple more days.

  He wanted something to eat. He said soup would do. As I prepared it for him he sat at the kitchen table and talked to me. All the time he talked his foot tapped the floor. He smoked a cigarette. Everything had changed. Even the utensils on the walls stood to attention; I could hear them clang against each other. He asked me if I had any news. No, I said, and kissed his forehead. He ate quickly, ripping chunks of bread apart, and dunking them into his bowl. Then he picked me up again. What’s happening? I asked him, although I didn’t care where he took me. Wait and see, he said, and ran upstairs with me in his arms. Oh yes, he said, and plonked me on the bed. He quickly took his clothes off. We’ve got time for a sly one, he said, and climbed on top of me. Then we’re off to a party.

  I don’t like parties

  I SEARCHED THROUGH my wardrobe for something to wear. Everything was too dark and corporate. The few special, slinky things seemed too special and, well, slinky. When I asked him what sort of party it was, he said the usual sort, and looked at me as if I was mental. Is someone celebrating something? I said, as I tried to tidy my hair at the mirror. God, I was way beyond plain, almost ugly. My eyes were like currants in raw pastry.

  Finally I put on jeans and an unfamiliar, smocky kind of top I found hiding under s
ome shirts. I can’t think what had possessed me to buy it. Usually I wouldn’t be seen dead in something like that. He wanted to listen to music, have a drink. He said it would get us in the mood. What mood? I asked. And for what? He stood in the bedroom doorway, and pointed at me. OK, he said, what is it with you and all these questions? What are you, some crap private detective? he asked. I know, he said, showing all his teeth in a grin. You’re Miss fucking Marple the Second. Holy shit, he laughed, pretending to look at me through binoculars, you actually look a bit like her. Turns me right off anyway. I sat on the bed, and looked at him grinning, filling the door frame. Then he went downstairs. I felt an icy scarf creep round my neck. I don’t want to go to a party, I told the mirror and all the things in my bedroom.

  By the time we were picked up by one of his friends we were both drunk. The bass from the speakers in the car was strong enough to melt your brain. I sat on his lap, and collapsed on to him. The back seat was already jammed with blokes. For the entire journey he ran his hands over my body, and pushed his swollen cock against me. I looked out at the streets where ordinary people shopped and talked to each other. I sort of wanted to wind down the window, and shout at them to help me. But it did look boring out there. Safe and boring, I thought. Someone in the car was passing a bottle of vodka around. He grabbed it. Drink up, he yelled. You need to zone out a bit. He took a swig, and held it to my lips.