Don't You Want Me?

by India Knight

  ‘Yes, but at least you’d have a good time. Your Toby’s a ridiculous shape, as well as piggy-nosed. Sort of boxy – look.’

  ‘Size isn’t everything, Stella. And I don’t think it’s an indicator of pant-content, either. Toby’s hung, if you ask me.’ Our second bottle of wine is finished. Louisa cranes her head and examines Toby from all angles.

  ‘What are you doing, Lou? Checking out his bulge?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answers solemnly. ‘But I can’t see anything.’

  ‘Well, that would be because …’

  ‘I’m really glad – so glad – that we met,’ Louisa says. ‘I’m really happy you’re my friend. But I think you’re sizeist. I mean, Tom’s – that’s him now – may not be the biggest of them, but I’d give him one any time. I suppose it’s because I know him best.’ She sighs thoughtfully. ‘Well, not in real life, obviously – but I feel that I do. That’s the thing with this programme – it really gets into your head, like EastEnders.’

  ‘Louisa! He’s Thomas, not “Tom”. He’s the most appalling square. And he’s wet. And I hate his big round eyes – I’ll bet he has some kind of overactive thyroid disorder. He looks like he’ll run to fat, too, within a couple of years. At least James would show you a good time. James is quite rakish, quite 007. And lean with it. He’s a lean machine.’

  ‘We’d do it from behind,’ Louisa says matter-of-factly, ‘me and Thomas – so his round eyes wouldn’t come into it. I suppose,’ she adds, draining the last of her glass, ‘I suppose you’d pick Gordon, wouldn’t you, because of his size?’

  ‘Who’s Gordon?’

  ‘There, in green.’

  ‘No way! I would not!’

  ‘Would.’

  ‘Would NOT.’

  ‘Well, at least he’s big. Not to mention hard. Not to mention throbbing.’

  ‘Stop making me laugh, you’ll wake the kids.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’d do it with Gordon,’ Louisa persists. ‘That’s just dirty.’

  ‘I would not do it with Gordon. I can’t believe you’d do it with Thomas, frankly, with his great big round thyroidy eyes staring down at you creepily. You disappoint me, Louisa.’

  We sit in companionable silence, sipping the last dregs of our wine.

  After a while, Louisa says, ‘We are in our thirties. We are in our prime. And we are sitting here discussing possible sexual intercourse with Thomas the Tank Engine and his mates. Do you think, Stella, that possibly, possibly, we ought to get out more?’

  8

  From having no social life at all, I suddenly notice, with delighted amazement, that my diary now has a little string of dates scribbled across its once pristine, virgin pages. Nothing wildly thrilling, mind you, but, as the Americans say, hey – it’s a start. I could even have dinner with William Cooper if I wanted – he’s left a couple of messages with Frank – but I think I’ll pass on old glow-peeny (funny, that. Well, I say funny, but actually, not so very funny at all because I still get armpit-shame – you know, that really sharp prickling – whenever I think of my PARTS rubbing along in conjunction with Cooper’s). Besides, Frank says he found it hard to speak to the glowster without the kind of intense smirkage that is audible even down a phone line (‘I’m sorry, Stell – I just couldn’t help it’), so with any luck old sex-tiger will have been put off, and that will be the end of the good doctor. Rah. Yeurch – it hurts my underpants to think about him.

  So I rush to the phone with a song in my heart and a skip in my step when it rings at about eleven that morning. This singing and skipping are based a) on the thrilling and aforementioned semblance of a social life and b) on the news that Louisa passed on to me yesterday – namely that Yungsta, a. k. a. Adrian, had asked her for my phone number after we met. Oh good, I’d said, to which she replied ‘Quite good’ and asked me, matter-of-factly, whether I wanted to know his age or his surname. I declined, on the basis that any woman who lies in bed at night dreaming about doing it doggy-style with Thomas the Tank Engine is frankly in no position (boom boom) to offer dating advice.

  And anyway, I don’t care how old he is, or what he’s called: he’s quite nice-looking, or would be if he got rid of his facial hair, and he sounds like he’d be a laugh, or at least interesting, what with his deep understanding of youth culture. It’s important to keep up with these things, I’m always telling Frankie (whose reply, inevitably, is a rather disparaging ‘You wish’, usually after I’ve tried to get him to explain why a crusted pair of pants lying on a floor, say, is as culturally and aesthetically important – to say nothing of accomplished – as a Vermeer. I used to have this argument with Dominic, too).

  Still, I may not understand about Young (is forty young?) British Artists, but I’m willing to give Yungsta’s kind of music a go – although I must confess that I didn’t understand much when I listened to his radio show yesterday: he seems to talk in patois, like people in St Bart’s (a favourite holiday destination of my father’s), though it’s entirely possible that I misheard, as I was playing with Honey at the time and not wholly concentrating. Also, I’m at a distinct disadvantage musically, in that I was brought up listening to Johnny Halliday, Claude François and Sylvie Vartan (my beloved Claude, or CloClo, as he was known, electrocuted himself to death in the bath with a plug-in dildo. I think they gave him a state funeral. The other two, now grandparents, are still going strong. Vive le rock!). But he – Yungsta, I mean, not the poor frazzled out-with-a-bang ghost of Claude – could always explain the complexities of contemporary music over lunch at Le Caprice, for instance: there are advantages to being called Adrian. Brring brring, goes the phone: that must be him now.

  ‘Weeeeelll,’ says a voice I don’t recognize. ‘Mrs Midhurst.’

  ‘Is that you, Dominic?’ I doubt it: my non-husband is in Tokyo, as far as I know, but no one else calls me that, except for what Mummy likes to call ‘the men’.

  ‘Nooo,’ says the voice – rich, oily, drawly. ‘Guess again.’

  ‘I don’t know who you are,’ I say genuinely. Must be one of ‘the men’, though unusually well spoken. ‘British Gas? The electricity? The phone people? Salesman, in which case, sorry but no thanks?’

  ‘Wrong,’ says the voice, sounding very slightly less confident.

  ‘Give me a clue,’ I sigh. I hate these phone games, and besides, for all I know, my interlocutor could perfectly well be an obscene caller.

  ‘Mmm,’ the man says, sounding hoarse. ‘Grrrr.’

  Oh, no. No. It’s Cooper. I can’t stand it. Shall I just hang up? No. I can’t. The poor man gave me what I wanted, after all: he can’t help being slightly revolting or having a penis that is so palely loitering. How did he get my number? Isabella, I expect. Oh, God.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, forcing the rictus of horror off my face and a smile into my voice. ‘Well, hello there.’

  ‘You had me going there, with the who-are-you business,’ Cooper says, all confidence again, as if he might suffix the sentence with a fruity ‘you little tease’. He lowers his voice a little, and makes it croakier. ‘Come to think of it, you had me going the other night too. Hot filly.’

  I expect Cooper must have thought he was actually on the phone to a real live pig at this point, because I let out the most massive, hideous, unmistakable snort – an obscene-sounding noise that was exactly like the oral version of a really ripe fart. ‘Snorrrrt,’ I went, and then – just for added sex appeal – started choking on my own laughter.

  Silence. Then: ‘I say, are you all right?’

  ‘Haaaaaah,’ I whimpered, not quite able to breathe.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Cooper.

  I really was choking, so I put the phone down on to the coffee table and my head between my legs. I stayed there for about half a minute, breathing heavily through my mouth in the manner of a badly handicapped person who’s just discovered they’re rubbish at swimming, or an emphysemic, until I was able to draw more or less regular breaths.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, sounding
very raw about the throat, when I picked up the phone again. ‘Don’t know what happened there.’

  ‘I do,’ said Cooper.

  Oh dear, how extraordinarily embarrassing. I may have no intention of ever seeing Cooper again, but I don’t necessarily want him to think I spend my mornings being sow-like, either.

  ‘Don’t let’s talk about it,’ I tell him, clearing my throat, which still feels all funny. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Thinking about the other night,’ he replies smoothly.

  ‘Hmm,’ I say noncommittally.

  ‘I know what happened just then,’ Cooper says, a knowing, randy note creeping back into his voice.

  ‘Hmm?’ I say again, because I can’t trust myself to actually speak.

  ‘That noise you made …’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I quickly interrupt. ‘I’m ill. Very ill. Throat bug. Sometimes I can’t breathe.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he laughs wetly. ‘I’ve heard that noise before. Can you guess where?’

  ‘No,’ I say, nearly whispering with dread: whatever he’s got to say is likely to set me off again.

  ‘When you came,’ Cooper growls.

  I nearly drop the phone with shock.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I hiss, doing a passable impression of Miss Jean Brodie in her prime. ‘What did you say?’

  Cooper laughs his comfortable, complacent laugh.

  ‘When you came the other night,’ he repeats. ‘When you had an orgasm.’

  ‘I bloody did not!’ I shout. My God, is the man mad?

  ‘You did, I assure you.’

  ‘I may have come, William, but I most certainly did not snort as I did so. Good grief! The idea! Like in jabberwocky! Burble burble! No! No! God!’

  ‘And you came again just now, didn’t you?’ he continues, completely ignoring my outburst.

  ‘NO!’ I yell, as exasperated as I am indignant. ‘No, no and NO again. Fucking bloody hell. I did not come. I just, er, snorted by mistake. And I can assure you that I have never, ever snorted at the point of orgasm. What a grotesque suggestion! How dare you, actually, hatefully ring me up and tell me I squeal like a sow when I come? How dare you, William? I mean, Jesus.’

  ‘Steady on,’ Cooper replies. T was simply pointing out the truth as I found it to be.’

  I’ve been pacing up and down the room in an absolutely frenzied state of agitation. Now I sit down, dazed with horror.

  ‘William.’

  ‘Mrs Midhurst.’

  ‘Do call me Stella – we did fuck, after all.’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Cooper. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Are you being serious? I mean, is there a gram, an ounce, a speck of truth in what you’ve just said?’ I quite want to cry, actually.

  ‘That you snorted uncontrollably at the point of, shall we say, no return?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper. Uncontrollably? Uncontrollably?

  ‘ ’Fraid so,’ Cooper says cheerily.

  The phone actually falls from my hands, like in a film.

  ‘Stella?’ Cooper’s voice says from the floor. ‘Hello?’

  I pick up again.

  ‘Swear on your life. Swear on your dick.’

  ‘I swear,’ he says. ‘But I wouldn’t worry about it, my dear. Some women pee slightly, and a mutual friend of ours brays, rather like an donkey. I’ve known more than one girl – they’re often from Clapham – who called out “Daddy”.’

  ‘I think,’ I say, as a last-ditch attempt to claw back some dignity, ‘that I’d know. I mean, it’s my body, and my, you know, sound.’

  ‘Quite. I was actually ringing to ask you to dinner.’

  ‘What do you mean by “uncontrollably”? That I snorted and snorted again?’

  ‘Just the once, as I recall. There’s rather a marvellous local Italian …’

  ‘I’ll have to call you back. I have to go now,’ I say. My stomach is swirling with shock and bells are ringing in my head.

  Oh, my God. I snort when I come. There is no hope.

  I don’t think I have actually ever been so ashamed. I once peed in my pants in kindergarten – a horribly vivid recollection, actually, thirty-five years later: I can still recall the exact, dazzlingly golden shade of yellow, trickling weirdly sonorously on to the lino tiles – and that was shameful enough. And sometimes I haven’t been as kind, or as tactful, towards my fellow human beings as I might have been, granted – but I’ve had the grace to feel bad afterwards. I have, um, mixed feelings towards both my parents, but good heavens, who doesn’t? Nothing that I have ever done could merit this grotesque punishment. Has the Lord taken leave of his senses?

  I take to my bed, because that’s all I can think of to do, and pop a Xanax to calm me down. At first, I decide I am going to ring every man I have ever slept with and ask them outright, while I am mildly sedated and the shock might be cushioned. But I don’t have current numbers for any of them, only Dominic and Rupert, and Dominic’s sleeping in Tokyo and Rupert’s coming here tomorrow. I could always ask him then.

  It can’t be true. Someone, surely, would have mentioned it.

  They just have.

  Oh, God.

  I have to emerge from my lair to give Honey her lunch when Mary brings her back from playgroup (I couldn’t face Marjorie today). She is at the kitchen table, trying to make coils (‘Oi snail’) out of Plasticine while I stand at the cooker, warming up some of the delicious chicken curry Frank made a batch of yesterday. There’s still a weird throbbing feeling in my stomach and talk about prickly armpits: mine feel like they’re on fire. I could weep. No, really. Because as if the shame weren’t bad enough, I clearly can’t have sex with anybody ever again.

  Actually, that’s not true. There are options. I could learn to sign and find myself some deaf people. Or some mutes (with no hands: can’t have them writing anything down). Where are the amputee mutes around here when you need them? As I say, I could weep.

  ‘Hey,’ says Frank, coming in through the garden. ‘What’s up? Why the long face? Hello, love,’ he tells Honey, nipping her fat little cheek.

  ‘Lo,’ she says.

  ‘No long face,’ I tell him, grinning fixedly to show that I am as happy as the lark, chirrup chirrup. ‘Nice morning at work, darling?’

  ‘Fotherington in Accounts is rather a bother,’ he says (see? Frank always gets the joke).

  ‘Is there enough for me, or shall I have a butty?’ he asks, peering into the fridge. ‘Juice?’

  ‘Please, for Honey. There’s tons. And anyway, it’s yours – you made it.’

  ‘Cool,’ says Frank, getting the plates and clicking Honey’s plastic bib around her neck. ‘Looking forward to tomorrow night?’

  ‘What’s tomorrow night?’

  ‘Friday night, Stella. We’re going out.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I say, remembering how excited I was when Frank offered to take me out and teach me how to pull. That seems like aeons ago now, a lifetime ago, before my entire sex life was ruined.

  ‘There’s a do in Shoreditch, then a party in Soho, and then, if you still fancy it, another party just off Old Street.’

  ‘There’s also Papa arriving, and Rupert. I feel rather bad leaving them.’

  ‘Stella!’ Frank says sternly. ‘You told them you were going out – I heard you.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I shrug. ‘This is exquisite. Is there cardamom in it?’

  ‘Yes, and cinnamon.’

  ‘You’re such a good cook,’ I say, reaching for more rice. ‘Why don’t you feed any of your dates?’

  ‘Because they’re not interested in dinner. Don’t change the subject.’

  ‘OK. About tomorrow: I don’t know if I can come, Frankie.’

  ‘Why? And why are you all red?’

  ‘In homage to you.’

  Frank rolls his eyes.

  ‘No. Because, literally. I don’t know if I can come.’

  ‘You’ve lost me, love.’

  ‘I can only date the deaf,’ I whisper, hanging m
y head. ‘Or the armless mute. And I know that’s OK – do you know any deaf people, Frankie? Please, it’s important – but, you know, it leaves out quite a lot of people.’

  ‘Are you on drugs?’ asks Frank. ‘You’re not making sense.’

  I glance at Honey, who is trying to get the rice in with one hand and stroking her ‘snail’ with the other.

  ‘I …’

  ‘What, Stella? Are you ill? What are you talking about, woman?’

  ‘I make …’ I can’t tell him, actually. I am burning with embarrassment: I can feel the tips of my ears and they’re roasting.

  ‘What do you make, Stella? Love? War? Bubbles? Come on, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I don’t think I can tell you. Well, I could, but as the joke goes, I’d have to kill you afterwards.’

  ‘What do you make?’ Frank demands, sounding annoyed now, and coming over all forceful.

  ‘I make horrible, horrible sounds when I come,’ I blurt out, half-sobbing.

  Frank puts his apple juice down and stares at me, his mouth half-open.

  ‘Don’t laugh, Frankie, I beg you,’ I whimper melodramatically.

  ‘I’m not laughing,’ he says, but a smile is curling around his lips, causing me to throw a clod of rice at him.

  ‘What sounds?’

  ‘I … I … I snort.’

  ‘Oh, my Christ,’ Frank says. ‘Oh, my fucking Christ.’ He is trying to look solemn and sympathetic, but it isn’t working: I know he wants to laugh.

  ‘My life may as well be over,’ I tell Frank sadly. ‘Do at least try to be sympathetic.’

  ‘Snort, like what? Like this?’ Frank oinks richly.

  ‘Yes, I expect so.’

  ‘What, you go …’ He oinks three times, each snort louder than the last, and then gawps at me in disbelief.

  ‘Piggy,’ says Honey, through a mouthful of chicken. She snorts too, which causes her to splutter all over the table and to collapse into giggles.

  ‘You said it, Honey,’ says Frank, by now openly sniggering. Oink, he goes, oink oink OINK, with Honey gleefully joining in, until the kitchen sounds like a sty, its walls echoing with pig-noise. ‘Well,’ says Frank, when he’s calmed down, which takes a few minutes. ‘Wow. Sophisticated lady. Miss Parisian charm.’