True Things About Me

I do some double-talking





FOR FIVE DAYS I didn’t go out. I ignored the phone and erased all messages without listening to them. God, that tiny winking eye! Like some creepy uncle at a family party. Anyway it seemed as if I’d reached some place – a precipice or something – where I needed to think. What was this problem I had with men? Why couldn’t I be a regular girl? But mostly the questions were unaskable. Just long, confused rafts of why? And how? And why not? I sat for hours in front of the mirror, gazing. The mirror was on the inside of the wardrobe door, so I had to prop it open and look, perched on the end of the bed.

I was fairly pretty, cute even, and that was the truth. Sometimes I really liked my reflection. Hey gorgeous! I said. Or I asked, affectionately, questions like, What’s your problem, lovely one? And, Who rattled your cage, you bird of paradise, you? Or even, but this was early on, So many people would kill to have your life, you ungrateful girl, go and stand in the corner. I looked at myself from all angles. Everything was groovy. Everything was in its proper place.

I remembered watching some intense woman on a morning TV chat show talking about strategies to aid self-knowledge and subsequently move forward. So I got my hand mirror and looked between my legs. Hello, I said, greetings. The whole enterprise seemed a little heavy, so I tried to be jaunty. Who do you think you’re staring at? I joked. The thing didn’t blink. It certainly didn’t talk back. I opened it up a little, though I felt squeamish. Then I got spooked; it seemed so sad and angry. The whole area looked like a punched eye. I thought I detected a look of reproach. In the end I whispered, Goodbye and good luck. I felt we both needed that. Then, at the last minute, quickly, Have a nice life.

I was feeling hungry all the time. I stocked up on the things I wanted to eat: lots of meat, like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby. Chicken and chops, sausages and burgers. Big slices of ham, each piece hanging out of my mouth like the tongue of a camel. Faggots like lumps of roasted brain. I ate everything in front of the mirror. It was amazing how stupid my face looked when I chomped. I vowed never to eat in public. How could the people I’d eaten with keep a straight face? Or even prevent themselves from sicking up? God! I was glad I’d had this opportunity. I could at least save myself that embarrassment ever again. Drinking wasn’t much better. As I sipped my face looked simultaneously wounded and emotional. And nauseatingly pious, as if I’d been insulted for my faith and might break down. But this was all good, I thought: self-knowledge, and then the moving forward thing.


I decided it would be interesting to conduct an experiment. You know, go over to the dark side. So I stopped combing my hair. This was a big concept for me, and really out there. The stunning thing was that as the days rolled on and my hair got wilder and wilder, it began to look better and better. Why had I ever bothered? My slavish attachment to straighteners suddenly seemed insane. The new look was more grown-up. More don’t-f*ck-with-me-ish. Even a bit rock-chicky. The messiness said something to the world. I felt like maybe I was a dangerous bitch, someone very temperamental. Someone men would fall passionately in love with.

It was a joke, of course. And I told the mirror, So who are you kidding, you loser? I knew I had to get tough. Get out of your bedroom, you adolescent twit, I shouted. You with your bird’s nest hair and your horrible vulva and your stupid, stupid chewing! Nobody likes you! You can’t even stand yourself! (I said everything with an exclamation mark attached.) Take a long, hard, honest look at yourself for once! The portion of my room reflected in the mirror was so impoverished, so drab, so totally full of aloneness, it pierced me to see it.

I gazed at the discarded plate of bones on the bed next to me, the straighteners on the floor, and I cried with complete abandon. Me-in-the-mirror and I cried bitterly together. I felt for her, she felt for me. But even as I blubbed I knew I would have to stop soon. I swear that once, after a sobbing bout in which I cried into my hands like someone in a Victorian painting, I peeped out through my laced fingers and she was greedily watching me with the faintest of smiles on her face. The second she saw me looking she dropped her shaggy head and started bawling into her cupped hands again.

I sat up and hiccuped. Why doesn’t he love me though? I asked her. Why? Why? It felt comforting to indulge in repetition. I sounded like someone in a play. Why? She shook her head slowly and shrugged, miming one of those haven’t-got-a-clue faces, which was surprisingly annoying. Perhaps he does, I suddenly thought. Perhaps he does, and he can’t show it. Perhaps he needs me to help him. She looked sceptical. And also maybe you should get lost? I said. Honestly, what do you know about anything? You miserable, insincere cow! In a flash it occurred to me. Maybe he’d been trying to tell me something. Perhaps he wanted us to move in together, something huge like that, and he found it difficult. That’s why he’d been a little touchy. It made sense. I reluctantly glanced in the mirror. My reflection had her hands over her ears and her mouth open.

I got up and slammed her into the wardrobe. There was another mirror on the outside, and things looked much better in it. I showered and dried my hair. Then straightened it to a luxurious shine. I rang Alison and we chatted. Her voice sounded faint, as if she was up on the surface of the ocean and I was down on the seabed in a submarine, but it was lovely to speak to her. She wondered if I would do a favour at short notice and mind the baby. I asked if she really wanted me to be sole carer for another of her children, after the bread incident. That wasn’t your fault, she said. You can take him out for a nice walk in his buggy; he’ll be asleep the whole time. I won’t be long. It seemed like an excellent way to get back into the real world. Though I didn’t say this to Alison.





I indulge in retail therapy





MY HOUSE NEEDED sorting out. The baby probably wouldn’t notice, but it didn’t feel right to have him in a sad, dishevelled place. And who understands what babies see? Maybe everything. Maybe we all start off very wise and far-sighted and end up stupid. Anyway I was worried the invisible, dark mood clouds swirling around might get to him. So I opened the windows and pushed the vacuum around, sucking up more than dust and cobwebs. I picked some rice pudding-coloured dog roses from among the undergrowth at the bottom of my garden. Their open faces looked like gentleness realised. They had the frondiest of leaves, and when I sniffed them they gave me the most honeyed, creamy distillation of rose I have ever known. I put them in a sage-green bowl and they arranged themselves perfectly, the leaves spraying out in perfect collars around each flower.

I had lunch because when the baby came I didn’t want to think about things like that, then I sat in the kitchen near the roses and drank some tea. The warmth in the room and the flowers’ fragrance made me feel drowsy; sort of heavy and thick-tongued. I rested my head on the table and drifted off. The doorbell rang and I leaped up and ran down the hall. There was Alison, a bit breathless, and the lovely baby in his buggy. So, I’ll see you at five, she said. You’ve officially saved my life, and pushed the buggy up over the doorstep whilst handing me a bag of equipment. It’s a good afternoon for a walk, she called back as she got in her car. He loves a walk. Then she was gone and the baby and I were alone in the silent house.

In the kitchen I had a good look at him. Crikey, I told him, you are the most scrumptious baby I have ever seen. He smiled kindly at me, and sighed, looking around calmly, his pudgy hands resting like two pink cakes on his lap. He seemed to be interested in the roses so I picked up the bowl and brought them near him. He laughed and grabbed at them, then let out a sharp and shocking scream. I dropped the vase and it smashed, spraying water over his little brown legs. He stiffened and started bellowing.

His tiny hand was still closed round one of the rose stems and I realised with a razor-sharp slice of fear that all the thorns on the spine were hurting his tender palm. I burst into tears and sat beside him in the spilled water. Somehow I forced him to open his hand and took out the strangled rose. I got cold water and bathed his palm, singing to him through my tears. He quietened and watched without malice as I soothed his hand, shuddering rhythmically.

Everything had gone wrong and I’d only been in charge of the baby for ten minutes. I kissed his head and tried to look at his hand again, but he wasn’t going to allow me. Little boy, I said to him, I’m so, so sorry. His cheeks were shiny with tears and I gently wiped them. I felt as if my heart would break, he was so sweet. I emptied the bag Alison had left and found a cup with baby drink in it. He drank it all. I sat on the kitchen chair and shook. Inside it was as if I had emptied out, like a cloud after a downpour. I wondered how to explain to Alison about his poor hand. Little man, I asked him, would you like to go for a nice walk?

I pushed the sleeping baby in his buggy through town. The wind barrelled round and round the concrete walkways. I went in nearly every shop. They were all playing the same music. The shop assistants were dusting shelves and rearranging things, talking about their weekends:… anyway, he said, then I said, then he said, then I said … lowering their voices when I passed by. Girls, girls, girly girl girls, I wanted to say, as if I give a damn what he said and you said. All the shops were empty; I didn’t see one single, other shopper around. It was as if the real people had been spirited away. I concentrated on keeping the buggy moving, otherwise the baby might wake up.

There were lots of lovely things to buy. I wanted a scarf patterned with blobby circles; a pair of caramel leather sandals; some chicken marinating in olive oil, chillies and garlic; a dusty, plaited loaf of bread; a long Cossack coat with a fur collar, but I didn’t want to disturb the baby. In a department store I decided to stop and sit down; my legs felt decidedly dodgy. The café was empty, and the food looked artificial. I ordered a cup of camomile tea and perched on the edge of the chair, rocking the buggy. As I drank I worked out how much time was left till five o’clock.


In the home furnishing section they were going for an oriental theme. I wondered why people would want to decorate their homes that way. I touched all the curtains and picked up vases and candlesticks. In the lift going down I detected the faintest of stirrings from the buggy, so I rushed out of the shop and started to run. Only when I reached the underpass did I slow down. The lights were dim and I could smell wet concrete and maybe urine. People had daubed messages on the walls. One, written using red gloss paint read: Is this f*ckin all? I wanted to get the baby out of there quickly, but it was difficult; I had to manoeuvre round a warped trolley.

As I emerged into the bright light I stopped. There were some things on the cover of the buggy, things I knew I hadn’t bought: a candlestick and a little Chinese cushion. Silky, emerald-green tassels dripped from each of its corners. An embroidered dragon or bird or reptile, I couldn’t tell, stared up at me, its eye a sparkling blue gem. The colours glowed in the gloomy mouth of the underpass and seemed to undulate over the creature; it looked as if it were about to take off, hightail it back to the department store and tell security.

I was so shocked I felt winded. The path ahead was deserted. The wind gushed out of the underpass and sent my hair upward in a swirling cone, pushing me towards home. I walked as briskly as I could whilst still looking normal. When I got there I rested against the front door for a little while. I left the still-sleeping baby in the hallway and carried the things into the lounge. I arranged them on the coffee table. Then I sat on the sofa and looked at them, waiting for Alison to come back.





I get tied up once in a while





I WAS SUMMONED to the head of human resources’ office. He wasn’t someone any of us knew very well. It was the first I’d heard of him. I had been hoping, when I gave it a thought, that no one had noticed my slightly spasmodic work attendance over the past months. Obviously I had been wrong; these people notice every sad little thing. The room was in a part of the building I had never seen before. I walked slowly up this weird corridor, reading all the names on the doors until I found the right one. It occurred to me that he could just be an actor, someone they employed for the day to do interviews with rubbish employees. I knocked and entered. He looked the part anyway. Sit down, he said, and went on shuffling through a file. He read it for so long I thought it must be about me.

I checked everything out. No photos on display, just one of those stupid pens jammed in a holder stuck to the desk like a thrown dart. Yep, it all looked like a stage set. There were shelves and shelves of ring binders full of Health and Safety information. God, I thought, the poor bloke must be so bored, but then I remembered the day job idea. It was a way of earning some dosh. Finally, because I felt he was overdoing the file-reading sequence, I was forced to ask him if he found the story of my life interesting. He looked up slowly. The story of your life is of no concern to us, he said. Believe me. And this, he held up the file, is not about you. What we are concerned about is your productivity, or lack of it.

He talked a lot – blah, blah, blah – and I sat there blinking. Honestly I could actually hear myself blink. His shoes looked like enormous wholemeal pasties. His socks had little pink pigs on them. And then I realised he was expecting me to say something. So I said I was sorry, that I had been involved in some big family problems. I told him if he read the records properly he would find that I had an excellent attendance record up till now. Well, that’s not strictly true, is it? he asked, and smiled mostly with his lower lip. Excellent is not the word we would use if we were being accurate, is it? So I babbled on about everything being resolved. I told him I was now back on track. We all hope so, he said, without emphasis. Because as I said at the beginning of this conversation, this is your first official warning. Then there was more blahhing as I backed out of the office. Thank you very much, I said as I closed the door. Maybe it had been a real interview, I thought.

In the loo Alison told me I should be careful. You don’t seem to understand, she said, after I’d explained my idea about the actor/head of department/stage set thing. You may lose your job. Then what? Dunno, I said, but chill. I told her she worried too much. Everything will work out, I said. It always does. Actually, babe, she said, sometimes it doesn’t. Has some alien entity sucked your tiny brain out of your earhole while you slumbered? She seemed really down. Are you angry with me, Alison? I asked. Have I said something to piss you off? You poor, clueless thing, she said, of course not. All I’m saying is, for starters, stop missing work. Just promise me that at least.

Suddenly I felt scared. I felt myself shrivelling. Now don’t cry, you silly noodle. She sounded brisk, like a teacher handing out one’s pitiful maths test results. Just sort yourself out. She gave me a tissue, then took it from me and wiped my face. Honestly what planet are you on? Planet-I-don’t-think-I’ve-got-a-hope, I said. Well, come back to earth, she said, and gave me a hug. You really are a full-time job at the moment. Am I? I said.

It was lunchtime so we went to a café in town. I couldn’t find my purse so Alison bought me a bowl of soup and a roll. Now, she said, spooning hers into her mouth, I want to see you eat all that up. You are getting too skinny. I told her I couldn’t seem to do stuff any more. Yes, you can, she said, breaking my roll in half and smearing butter on it, you just have to concentrate. And eat. Alison didn’t seem her usual self to me. I sense you are being a little unfeeling, I told her. I’m struggling, you know. Yeah, well, life is hard, ducks. We all struggle. This is tough love, she said, dunking her bread. El Tougho Luvvo, baby. That’s what I think you need. Everybody does.

I stood up, but kept my voice low. Since when did you have all the answers about what I need? I said. Everybody? Who’s everybody? I could hear my voice getting louder. You and Tom and the children-from-hell? Those clueless, moustached, pot-bellied, female drones in work? I shouted. God, I thought, bloody Alison. I watched her as she sat there, hoovering soggy blobs of bread into her mouth. I s’pose the baby told you what I need as well? I asked her. Then I wished I hadn’t mentioned him. He was entitled to his opinion.

Whatever, she said, waving her hand languidly, still smugly munching. Alison, I told her, you don’t know shit. I felt good saying it. Then I walked away. She called after me; there’s really no need to explain to me about the baby’s injuries, or apologise. I’m sure you didn’t mean to, as usual. Oh and thanks for the candlestick and the little cushion thing though; très, très chic. I came back to the table. Obviously gifts are wasted on you, I said. But then I had to tell her how sorry I felt about the darling baby. She didn’t say it was all right though, just went on slurping her disgusting soup.

I drifted through town thinking how ungrateful Alison was, how she didn’t understand me and my situation. Probably because my life was so strange and exciting, and hers was so, well, bland and uneventful. But at the same time I knew I didn’t understand either, that recently I’d felt like a punctured balloon darting about at a party I wasn’t even invited to, making a slightly embarrassing sound. So really, how could Alison have the answers? I couldn’t blame her for losing interest in me. I was boring myself into a coma. It was all so tiring. I knew I had to go back to work, but I held my phone and waited. I was just about to send an abject apology to her when miraculously he sent me a text; just an address and the word NOW after it.


I ran to my car and drove. I felt ultra-alive as I dodged the traffic. Then I was at the entrance to an expensive-looking block of flats. He buzzed me, and I stood in the carpeted lift, silently flying upwards. He was waiting, and I ran into his lovely arms like a girl in a drippy, romantic novel. I started telling him about Alison and the meeting, but he kissed me. Forget that dreary bitch, he said, and the f*cking personnel wanker. Both losers. Come in. The flat was elegant, with huge windows. Outside clean-cut seagulls hovered and banked. It’s fabulous, I said. Is it yours? I remembered the grotty house with the smashed window. You and your little, tiny, picky questions, he answered, and playfully tapped my nose. What would you like to drink?

I chose Baileys. I wanted something sweet and comforting. I sniffed the creamy liquid. Come on, drink up, he said, wandering around, his bare feet leaving indentations in the thick carpet. OK, so, first, it’s way too light in here, he said, and he went to a control panel and fiddled. The curtains closed. I was sorry the seagulls had gone. Now we can relax and get drunk he told me. Do you agree? I said yes, I did.

The Baileys was warm, I could feel it spreading through my bloodstream, travelling along each limb, making my legs heavy and fuzzed up. Unkinking everything. One lamp glowed on a small glass table. He sat back on the huge suede sofa. Take off those disgusting tights, he said, relax. I propped myself up on the cushions and he took my feet in his lap. He looked all creamy and gold in the lamplight. You have beautiful feet, he said, and kissed them. He massaged the arches and I lay back and closed my eyes. Keep drinking, he said. The aching, frozen area between my shoulder blades melted. Instead it felt as if something warm and heavy were tumbling down my spine.

After a while he told me to take off my clothes. He told me to stand in front of him and do it. My clothes all slipped off. He gestured for me to give them to him. He held my knickers and buried his face in them. You’d better have a shower, he said. He was drinking whisky. I drank again from the heavy glass he’d refilled for me. I was entirely in his hands. You can do whatever you want to me, I told him. I know, he said, and led me to the bathroom. He helped me into the shower and turned it on. He adjusted the temperature of the water. Now wash yourself properly, and don’t forget your hair.

I splashed all sorts of gorgeous things over myself from the row of bottles on a glass shelf in the shower area. The hot water, the alcohol, the perfume in the shower mist, being with him, sent me somewhere. As I turned off the water I heard music coming from the lounge. I was drying myself when he came into the bathroom. He peed in the sink, and then told me to get back in the shower. You can wash me now, he said. I poured something from one of the bottles over his shoulders and began to soap his chest and belly. He had a scar, still slightly red, that looked almost like a flower just below his ribs on the left side. A slight altercation, he said. When I touched it he pushed my hand away. The crown of my head came up to the level of his nipples. I sucked them until they stood out. He kept his eyes closed and sipped from his whisky glass. It was so wonderful. And my cock, he said, and smiled.

We dried each other and chose perfumes to put on. He led me into another room off the bathroom and sat me in front of a mirrored dressing table. Then he dried my hair, brushing until it clicked with static. His body was wet and evenly coloured, almost unreal. I’m good at doing this, he said, and wound my hair into a thick coil. He used it like a rope to pull my head backwards. I could feel my neck being stretched taut. Try to swallow, he said. You can’t, can you? I watched his reflection in the mirror. He laughed softly and held his erect penis, moving his hand up and down the shaft. He let my hair go and squeezed my breast until I screamed. That feels f*cking great to me, he whispered. Tell me how you feel. Shall I do it again? He stood behind and held my breasts. Then he twisted them in his fists. I could feel his penis between my shoulder blades. Tell me when to stop. But I didn’t. You bitch, he said. Are you coming already?

I loved watching us in the mirror. We looked like people in a film. Now I want you to wear this, he said, and tied a silky mask over my eyes. Is that OK? I felt peaceful with my eyes covered. He led me back into the lounge and helped me to sit on what felt like a dining chair. He positioned my arms and legs. I’m using your tights to tie you, he said. I could hear him ripping them. I felt him wrapping the flimsy fabric round each ankle, and winding it round the chair legs. He pushed my knees apart. Are you comfortable? Try and move. Now I’m going to tie your hands behind your back. Have another drink. He held the glass to my lips, and as I drank some dripped onto my raw breasts. I told him my arms hurt, but he didn’t answer. Are you going to f*ck me now? I asked. Questions again, he said and slapped me short and hard on the side of my face. I won’t be long.

I waited. Jazz was playing, music I didn’t understand. I felt absolutely alone, and aware of everything around me, my body weak and slack. But somewhere inside my ribs, or pelvis, I was intensely clasped and trembling, almost in pain. Then he was back, and his mood had changed, I could sense immediately. His hands were shaking, his breathing quick and shallow. I told him I needed the bathroom. He pulled my hair as he took the mask away. I felt as if it had melded to my face, and he was peeling my skin off. I kept my eyes shut.

Have you taken something? I asked. Not f*cking now, he said. Christ, you’re not going to f*cking chat, are you? And pushed my balled-up knickers into my mouth. I stayed perfectly still as he began to do things to me. Tears slipped out of the corners of my eyes. I could hear him grunting. He hurt me, but I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t look at him at all.

Then I felt him untying me. He was breathing quickly. He made me lie on the floor with a cushion under my hips, and took the little wet bundle out of my mouth. He stood above me, and I forced myself to look at him. His body was shiny with sweat, his ribs standing out, stomach slack. His jaw seemed wrong. In the corners of his mouth were little spots of foam. Only the whites of his eyes were visible, and I was sure he couldn’t see me. I said his name but he didn’t hear me. He was holding a shiny black dildo in his hand. I could see his erection had disappeared, and he was trying to activate it again, muttering to himself. He kneeled down between my legs. Scream now, and I’ll kill you, he said. I swear to God I will.

There was a hammering sound. Someone banging at the door, but it felt part of what I was feeling. I couldn’t tell. He leaped upright as the lights snapped on. There were two men in the room. I lay on the floor with the thing he’d used still inside me. One of the men lunged and punched him, but he hardly swayed. The three of them stood poised, looking at each other. The other man said, I told you not to come here any more, you bastard. He stood between them, naked, then he put his arm round the man who’d punched him and pulled him near. He was laughing and dancing on the spot. Don’t ever do that again, he whispered into his hair. The two men seemed wary of him. Then one of them nudged me with his foot. What’s this, you naughty boy? he asked. Nothing, he answered. Then they started laughing loudly, and went into the kitchen. I heard one of them telling him to get his clothes on. It sounded as if they were starting to cook something. After a while he shouted to me. Get up, he said. Your taxi will be here in five.