True Things About Me

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 feeling 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 some 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 f*cking 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.

We screeched interminably through a housing estate. When we stopped I couldn’t get out of the car; my body was so lax and heavy. We had to fight our way. A crowd of people stood around in the garden smoking and drinking. He carried me through the open door of a house, and laid me on a sofa. Won’t be long, he said, and gave me a full, uncorked bottle of red wine.

As soon as he’d gone I began to feel hyper-awake and excited. I spilled wine down my stupid top as I gulped it. Dim lamps glowed in the lounge, and I could only just make out the shapes of people. The music was so deafening no one was talking. They seemed to be absorbed in touching each other instead. I wasn’t sure if anybody could see me, and that made me happy. Eventually I had to get up to find the loo. I didn’t want to leave my sofa; it felt like a little boat that magically no one could board.

Bodies were propped on every step of the stairs, drinking and smoking. I picked my way between them. I was unsteady on my feet, but no one seemed to mind if I stepped on them. There was a queue for the loo. The woman in front of me turned, and I realised I’d seen her before. I tapped her shoulder, and as she faced me slowly I knew who she was. She coughed the cough I remembered. How’s your dog? I asked her. I told her I was the person who’d given her a note. What note? she said, without the slightest interest. Then she focused on me. Oh yeah, she said, and took a long drag from her cigarette. Are you OK? she asked me through a cloud of smoke, narrowing her eyes. I asked her why I shouldn’t be. It seemed like a weird question to ask a stranger. Just wondered, she answered, and went into the loo.

I crept through the house. There were two guys snogging on the bed in what looked like a child’s room. I stood and watched them. They seemed really sweet; at least they had each other. One of them noticed me. What’s your name? he said, fondling his chest and belly. I told him I didn’t remember. That can happen, he smiled, and patted the bed. Are you on your own? Why don’t you come and lie down with us? The other guy looked as if he’d dozed off. I said I didn’t think I would do that. I was with my partner, and he might not like it if I did. The guy put his head to one side. No problem, babe, he said, and held my hand.

I sat on the edge of the bed, and realised I was totally on my own. The man massaged my fingers. No offence, but I think you need to loosen up a bit, he said softly, you seem really tense. That’s not even one bit true, I answered, and stood up. I couldn’t be more relaxed and happy. God, I sounded like some head-girly heroine in an Enid Blyton school story. The bedroom felt tiny and airless. OK, OK, the man said, and lay back down. Say hello to your partner for me when he surfaces, won’t you?

I negotiated the stairs and made my way to the kitchen. People were gathered round a table with food arranged on it. Even though I wasn’t hungry I struggled to get through. Next to a mug of buttercups there were bottles of wine and cans of lager. In the centre I could see a huge bowl filled with tomatoes and foreign-looking lettuce leaves, a pile of bread rolls, and various cheeses arranged on a wooden board. Sausages and burgers were being handed round. People offered me things and I accepted everything. The wine was warm, perhaps at blood temperature. The cheese was crumbly and sharp, then creamy and mild. The flavours of everything tasted extreme.

I looked around at all the chewing people. Frilly lettuce hung out of their mouths. All these human beings, I thought, but he isn’t among them. Not one of them was lovely him. I looked but couldn’t see his blond curls anywhere. Not one person knew who I was. I spat out the lump of sausage stuck in my mouth, and dropped my plate on the tiled kitchen floor. The room was so noisy it smashed soundlessly. I began to cry, then I was sitting on an easy chair in a quieter room. I fell asleep, and woke up when a girl came round with a huge plate of hash brownies. Everyone cheered. There was coffee, and a liqueur tasting of cough medicine. I had some of that. I knew I had to be careful but the brownies were so tender and moistly chocolatey I ate four.





I go to the pictures





I ENDED UP at the back of the house, and fell over a child’s bike as I stumbled about. Finally I found something to sit on. My leg felt wet so I examined it. A street light cast an electric aura into the garden that made the grass and trees look as if they were coated in mauve suede. Warm tar-black blood ran down my leg. The weird thing was it didn’t hurt at all, even though the cut looked long and deep. I watched it spread. Everything was dead; rinsed of colour, muffled and still. There was total silence, whilst above me the grey trees gyrated about.

I wasn’t sure where I was, or how I’d got here. The house looked as if it might be burning down, but I didn’t care. Every smoky window was lit up, and the figures of people writhed around each other. Actually, no. It was a party, I remembered. Those people were having fun whilst I buggered about in the monochrome garden, bleeding as usual. I could see a rabbit hutch behind some bins so I went to have a look. I had to kneel on the stiff, scorched grass. It was surprisingly beautiful inside that little hutch.

Behind the wire mesh of the cage window vivid moving scenes were playing out. I made myself more comfortable, and peered in: tiny elephants crashed through emerald palm trees. The scenes were soundless, but I could tell the elephants were trumpeting, or whatever they do when they’re stampeding through a forest. Each elephant had a sparkling jewel on its forehead, and sweet painted feet. Then the elephants became bundles of monkeys darting through ruined palaces at unbelievable speeds. In the second window dancing girls in purple saris whirled around, their miniature hands atwitch, their black lips like strange new moons.

As I watched the pictures changed. Ravishing, naked people with perfect, glistening bodies were torturing captives. Blood and entrails wormed their way through the rabbit hutch straw. Things were being done to the pinkest, most perfect-looking babies. I could hear faint screams, and from the little babies the most heart-wrenching sounds. I was unable to unhook my fingers from the wires of the cage. I had to stay and watch, even though I was shuddering with horror. Then the scenes faded, and I got up. Before I left I bent down to have a final look. Two huge, benign-looking rabbits were sleeping inside.


I ran out of the garden, and saw my car. It had a broken mirror, and a dent in the driver’s door, but it was mine. I felt the bonnet; it was warm, as if there were a big, living heart beating inside. The driver’s door was ajar, and the keys were in the ignition, so I climbed in. I loved it inside my car. I decided to go home. I kept checking the speedometer; I wanted to stay around thirty. I was trembling, and icy with sweat. I caught sight of my face in the rear-view mirror, stretched into an immobile grin, and almost crashed. Maybe that wasn’t me, I thought. Maybe a maniac was in the back of my car.

I parked in front of my house. It was a miracle, but there I was. The sky was lightening, but all I yearned to do was get inside, lock the doors, close the curtains, and snuggle down into my bed. I was incapable of lifting my head from the steering wheel. I thought I could hear a siren continuously sounding. There was someone banging on the car window. One of my do-gooder neighbours was gesticulating to me through the glass, only I couldn’t hear a thing with the mad siren wailing away. He was getting redder and redder so I straightened up, and wound the window down. Immediately the siren stopped, and I realised it had been the car horn, activated by my stupid head on the wheel. I climbed out, and pushed past him. I couldn’t tell what he was clucking about.

My parents were in the kitchen, wearing their fleeces, drinking tea at my table. Mum had done some cooking. Before you ask, my father said, we got your spare key from Alison. We came round last night but you weren’t here so we tidied round a bit for you, my mum told me, and tried to hold my hand. Want a nice cuppa? Your father brought his mower, didn’t you, Daddy? He spruced up your lawn. My father took a sip of tea. I stood in the doorway. We came back this morning. We were so worried about you. Well, honestly, she said eventually. The very least you could do is say thank you.

I began to laugh again. I didn’t want to but it was as if the sound emerged from my mouth in an endless squawking hiccup. I think anyone would have done the same; the look on my parents’ faces was enough to make a depressed gibbon guffaw. I could see my poor mother staring at the wound on my leg. I knew she was dying to get at it with Savlon and plasters. I doubled over, and slid down the edge of the door. Get out, both of you, I screamed. I hope you drop dead. Get out of my life and never come back.





I plan my menus





I WATCHED A lot of TV, there was nothing else to do. He liked me to be available, so I didn’t go out much. And I found it freeing, somehow, to know my aged p’s weren’t going to pop up at inconvenient times any more. It gave me more space, more scope. Things seemed simpler. Even so, one day, after about a week of not seeing them, I stood still in the bedroom, and felt my heart flip and right itself as I realised how much I loved the silly old things. I was stricken by knowing it, seared by the picture of them patiently waiting in the kitchen. Pottering around; mowing and baking, trying to be helpful. I nearly broke down and blubbed when I thought how upset and sad they would be about the way things had turned out. But it was no good going there. I had stumbled through some sort of security door that could never be opened from my side. So I briskly made the bed and opened the window. The curtains rippled on a breeze smelling of freshly cut grass, and I felt ready for action.

At the supermarket it was blessed business as usual. Was I a tiny bit unhinged, loving the supermarket? I always found it spiritually uplifting, drifting round amongst the orderly racks and labyrinthine aisles. I loved lobbing nice things into my trolley. Anything you wanted there was a huge sign, guiding you. Today they had Hammond organ arrangements of middle of the road pop songs surging through the store. It was the final, perfect touch. I bought the ingredients to make a chicken curry, and had fun choosing the accompaniments before getting engrossed in the stuff for a beef casserole, then spent some time in the wines and spirits section; I thought I’d better stock up on booze. I tried not to speculate about where he was, or what he had been doing at the party without me.

I was nervous I might bump into my parents. There’s nothing they like better than a good shopping expedition. At every bend I expected to see them, maybe in their Pacamacs, string bags at the ready, peering at the ingredients of something they would never dream of eating, their bifocals at that particular angle needed in order to see. But no, they weren’t shopping today. I felt disappointed, bereft almost. If they had been there I’d have hidden from them, of course.

In the café I wasn’t sure what to eat; there were so many choices. But also I wasn’t hungry. The idea of eating seemed far-fetched. When I tried to recall when I had last eaten I was shocked. Nothing came to mind. I knew I’d spat out a sausage in a crowded kitchen. Then I remembered eating cheese and a bread roll, how delicious they’d tasted. Maybe I was still digesting those brownies. I knew I’d eaten after that, otherwise I would be dead by now. Weirdly I could almost hear Alison telling me to eat, so I settled on a baked potato and some apple juice. When the meal came the potato was crowned with a jagged head of chilled, pale yellow, quasi-cheese fragments. It was as if an alien had tried to simulate a tasty earthling snack. I pushed the bits off, and nibbled forkfuls of cool spud, watching the queue for the café till.

The back of one of the waiting women was familiar. She was surrounded by a milling team of children. A boy of about twelve was touching the doughnuts and licking his hands. Some of the very small ones were actually swinging off her coat. She ignored them all. Finally, as I watched, she seemed to switch on and notice something. With a surprising economy of movement she slapped the twelve-year-old across the side of his head, and pushed the little ones aside. Then she coughed that familiar cough, and I knew she was the woman from the party loo, the same woman I had seen at the scratched door when I tried to find his house. I felt as if I’d been electrocuted. Why was I bumping into this woman? Was I following her without knowing? Or was she following me?

I hid behind my menu, riveted by the woman and her children. I remembered the way she’d taken the note I handed her. How she’d said she couldn’t promise anything. Her total lack of interest. And then, at the party, how she’d asked me if I was OK. The boy she’d struck was sitting at a separate table from the main group, sulking and wiping his eyes. I could see he’d been crying. They all looked dishevelled and not very clean, but his trousers were halfway up his legs and his trainers had no laces.

Then I realised; he was the boy who’d been sat in my lounge, on my sofa, watching football on my TV. The boy with the whispery voice. My scalp began to twitch and stretch; I thought how twilight zoney it all was. Maybe the universe was checking me out. Even trying to warn me, or something. The other children were bolting down bowls of chips with what looked like gravy on top. He wasn’t getting any. I could almost have felt sorry for him, if I hadn’t been so freaked out. Wait, I told myself, calm down; perhaps I was having one of those days when everybody seems familiar. I looked at the other people in the café. No, I didn’t recognise anybody. But still, it couldn’t be the universe or whatever. The universe didn’t give a shit about me. Nobody did. I was terrified though. It was like being in a film where you don’t know you’re being stalked, but the audience does.

I don’t know how I got out of the café. I slung the groceries into the boot of the car, and sat behind the wheel. I couldn’t think straight. My mind was as smooth and flat as the baize of a billiard table; the things I needed to think about kept sliding away like gently nudged billiard balls. What was I doing? Did I imagine a beef casserole would reorder my life? I don’t know how long I sat in the car park before finally deciding to go home and wait for him. Then we could talk things through, come to some understanding. If I didn’t like what he had to say I would finish with him. All this stuff was a sign. I had to sort my life out. It was that simple.






I cook up a storm





FOR TWO WEEKS I thought about how I was going to tell him. I carried on doing things. He was in my house with me. Then he would go out. The days were like a series of black and white snap shots. In, out, black, white. Sometimes I went to town, but I didn’t buy anything. I felt mesmerised by my own life. On the day I’d got home from the supermarket I’d tipped all the food into the freezer. A few times I remembered the chunks of beef and chicken, waiting in the frozen dark for me to do something with them. At last I realised at least I could do some cooking. That would be a start. Finally I got them out of the freezer.

The next afternoon I was alone. I’d been alone for three days. His phone was off, he didn’t call. I had a couple of glasses of red wine, then embarked on making my casserole. The spirit of Delia hovered over me in the kitchen. Yes, yes, she soothed, mmmm, yes. And may I just say what an amazing, shit-hot cook you are? She even commented on the way I browned the meat in small batches. Oh Delia, I told her, of course. We don’t want them to frigging steam, after all. This is all about caramelisation. La la, and thrice la, she sang, swooping and banking up by the fluorescent light strip. It verily is. And no, dear, we frigging do not. Then I heard someone at the front door, so I opened the window wide for her to fly out before I answered it.

In the hallway I felt my heart thumping in my throat. Through the frosted glass panel loomed the shape of a man. I knew it couldn’t be him; he never knocked. But my legs wouldn’t move, so I had to lean forward, and hope they’d catch up with my body. Somehow I plodded to the door and opened it. A goofy-looking youth wanted to read the meter. I cannot say if I hugged him. I hope not, but can’t say definitely that I didn’t. I did insist he show me some ID; anything to keep him from leaving quickly. Unfortunately he didn’t look as if he’d be much use in a crisis; far too weedy and trembly.

Are you new at this? I asked him. He was fumbling for ages in his little shoulder bag. Only you seem a bit scared. It’s not as if you’ve got to construct the thing, you know. Just read the numbers. Excuse me, please, he said, and pushed past. Show me where your meter is, if you wouldn’t mind. Oh dear, I’m sorry, I said, following him along the hall. Have I hurt your feelings? No, madam, you have not, he told me. In comparison to some houses I visit you are quite polite. And whatever you’ve got in that oven smells good. I could have cried, it seemed such a nice thing to say. I didn’t know you worked on a Saturday, I called after him as he walked away, but he didn’t respond. Why should he? It was a stupid comment to make.

After he left I went into the garden. The grass was looking neat, and I noticed a row of begonias my dad must have planted when they came round. The patio chairs had patches of rust on them. I sat down. Out here the sun winked into the small puddles. Under the laurel bushes, in its strong little box, nestled my lovely stash of money. In the oven the casserole gently bubbled. Birds hopped on the table and looked sideways at me, then flew away. I could hear their wings whirr. A breeze rhythmically lifted my hair, and dropped it back against my face. I began to feel I was the only human being left in the world. Empty houses, silent streets, abandoned cars, childless schools, all stretched out from my garden in every direction.

I was already completely over the idea of the casserole, but I checked it anyway, and peeled potatoes. I laid the table, and put out some candles. It was almost evening when he came back. He seemed subdued. Something smells good, he said. I gave him a glass of wine, and he sprawled on a chair in the kitchen. I asked him if he was okay. He said he had the bitch of all hangovers. He drank his wine quickly, and poured another. Hair of the mangy dog, he said, and raised his glass. I strained the potatoes, and added butter and warm milk to them. He asked me what I was doing. I’m making creamed spuds, I said. He told me he didn’t know how you did that, so I showed him. He stood beside me, and listened as I explained. Then I gave him a taste. Shit, he said, that’s amazing.

I lit the candles, and opened another bottle of wine. Everything was peaceful. We sat together in the warm kitchen eating the casserole and potatoes. He had seconds. I looked at him as he sat drinking his wine. He was beautiful; his broad shoulders, his strong, brown neck. The perfect shape of his lips. Your hair is getting long, I said, and got up to stand behind him. I asked if I could comb it for him. If you like, he said sleepily. As I combed his blond curls I tried to frame the questions I’d rehearsed. It was impossible. He dropped his head back onto my chest, and I bent and kissed his forehead.

He said he felt like chilling on the sofa. I went to the bathroom, and locked the door. I looked at myself in the mirror above the sink, and slapped my laughably rosy cheeks. What was I doing? A person couldn’t just come and go like this. Couldn’t invade someone’s life without an invitation. Abandon someone at a party. Gatecrash a family funeral. I sat on the loo, and rubbed my eyes until all I could see were crimson blobs. I thought about other things he’d done to me. Things I had let him do. They weren’t good things. He wasn’t good for me.

Apart from the fact that I probably had some sort of gross STI, all my friends had gone, and my parents were sobbing, their blood pressure zooming out of control at this very moment because I had been so horrible to them. The thought of him spread out on the sofa made my forehead prickle and itch. I wanted to rush about, and collect all the crap belongings he always dropped here and there, and throw them to hell. His underwear entwined with mine in the washing basket made me heave. I couldn’t have him in my house any more. Everything became brilliantly shiny and smooth, like the surface of a pool as it recovers from a stone’s throw. I had to get rid of him. It wasn’t too late to put my life back on some sort of track, even salvage my job if I tried hard enough.

I crept downstairs, impatient to get it over with. I shook him until he stirred. Finally he awoke. What the f*ck is going on? he said. What’s happened? He stood up, and looked quickly around. Then he squinted his eyes at me. Have you flipped? he said. You’d better have a good reason for waking me up. I heard my voice saying I wanted him out of my house, out of my life. I told him I didn’t even like him. My voice piped away like a mechanical bird’s. Get out now, I shrilled. And never come back. You don’t love me, you don’t even know me. He started to laugh. I beat his chest with my fists. He thought it was funny. So I slapped his face.

His expression changed immediately. His mouth grew ugly. With stiff fingers he patted my cheek firmly three times, not very hard, but I lost my balance and fell over, hitting my head on the coffee table. No one had ever done anything like that to me before. He might as well have smashed in my skull with a baseball bat. I knew the blood in my veins and arteries was stalling. I could sense things coagulate as I lay on the carpet. I felt so stupid.

We’ll pretend this hasn’t happened, he said, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. Then he bent over, and inspected me as I lay on the floor. You’re going to tick me off once too often, he said in a confidential way, and helped me up, straightening my clothes. Then we’ll all be very sorry. I swayed a little as he lay down on the sofa again, adjusting the pillows behind his head. Bummer really, he said, grunting as he got comfortable. We were having such a great time. Now get lost for a bit. I feel like watching the telly.