My hair removal regime involves a combination of waxing and shaving, largely because of an aversion to having things ripped out of my armpit. Crotch, though, that’s no problem. Go figure. “I know how she feels,” I joked as N stepped to the side and let a group of hooting students through.
“So how did it go?” he said, looking back out at the street.
“Fine,” I said. “Nice man.”
“Single?”
“Could be divorced.” I shrugged. “Photos of his wife or ex-wife everywhere.”
“Children?”
“Two, both adults.”
“Man, I would never,” he said.
“Liar.” lundi, le 15 decembre
We sat in the car, silent. The light was on inside.
“I thought he was supposed to be out,” I said.
“He was,” the Boyfriend said. “At least, I thought he was.” He looked like he might start crying. “Please, come in. You’re my guest. I want you here and I’m sure he can stand it for a minute if he’s on his way out anyway.”
I knew there was a reason why the Boy always comes up to see me instead of the other way round.
When the Boy last visited, we met his friend S for breakfast. Now, S had been recently dumped by H. What S didn’t know was that H had been sleeping with the Boy’s flatmate for several weeks beforehand, and we agreed not to tell him. S seemed fairly chipper though and is commencing motorbike lessons now that there is no girlfriend around to forbid it. S already planned to christen the bike he will buy “the Crotch Rocket.” I promptly offered to test-drive his giant machine once it’s up and running. Anyway, that same housemate who was sleeping with S’s ex was simultaneously two-timing his own girlfriend, E, who lived in the house, with an average of three girls a week. And while E had no idea, the Boy and I harbored no illusions about what sort of a man his housemate was.
And in such situations, what can you do but hold your tongue?
Taking my bags, we went to the door. The Boy opened it and put his head round the corner carefully. “Why, hello, you’re still in situ?” he cheerily queried of the Housemate. “I just wanted to let you know, I’m here with the lovely-”
“NO,” bellowed the Housemate. “I will not have THAT WOMAN in my house.”
Ostensibly, the Housemate dislikes me because of my job. He hasn’t always hated me. In fact, I have another theory altogether: he is annoyed because I am one of a very few women he could never, ever have. Not even if he paid for it.
For the Housemate is young, attractive, smart, and wealthy. Has no trouble with women at all and knows it. He has come on to me at least ten times in one year with no luck whatsoever. I could never go off in secret with the Boy’s ersatz best friend. And his girlfriend E really does not deserve one more secret affair happening under her nose. Funny how and when morals decide to jump in, eh? A cheater, I can take. But a liar I have no time for.
“Listen, she’s leaving quite early in the morning, and you won’t have to-”
“I said no, didn’t I?”
The Housemate can do this; he owns the house. The conversation continued in this tedious vein for the better part of ten minutes. Less than charmed, I went to the car and waited. When the Boy returned, we nipped to the chip shop for a snack and, certain the Housemate must surely be gone, snuck back after an hour. But my temper and libido suffered from the episode somewhat. Nothing a few cups of chocolate and an hour-long massage couldn’t cure, of course.
“What are we going to do, kitty?” he said, half asleep. “What are we going to do?”
“Come up to London and move in with me,” I blurted. It’s time I moved to a more sociable area of the city anyway, one in which the crack addicts may yet stagger by the door but at least don’t collapse just inside.
“Money’s an issue,” he said.
“You can live off me while you look for a better job up there, then,” I said. “I can afford it easily.” Oh, cringe, shouldn’t have said that, don’t remind him!
“This is all rather out of left field,” he said.
“You would be able to fly to see your family instead of drive,” I said. His family are very close to him in feeling, but not geography. Living in London would put him much closer to the major airports.
“True.”
“And you’d have nicer furniture.” My flat is furnished in the slightly naff flowery vein favored by landlords of the aspirant class. “You don’t have to decide. I won’t take offense if you say no. But it’s an offer, anyway.” Ah, negotiating the terms of modern cohabitation. Who said romance was dead?
It would solve one problem-that of the belligerent Housemate. Though perhaps faced with the day-to-day of my comings and goings, the Boy would soon go off the idea. But I sure could use a friendly face and a foot rub with the beating these stiletto-clad feet take on a daily basis. mardi, le 16 decembre
Most transactions in the business are paid in cash. I find myself at the bank rather often and tend to use the same one every day. Cashiers are naturally curious people who would have to be brain-dead not to wonder why I come in with rolls of notes several times a week and deposit into two accounts, one of which is not mine.
One day I presented the deposit details on the back of a slip the Boy had been sketching on. He studied art, at some long-forgotten time in the past, and still tends to doodle and scratch at odd pieces of paper. The cashier turned it over, looked at the drawing, and looked at me. “This is good. Did you do this?” she asked. “Yes, well, I’m a.. cartoonist,” I lied. The cashier nodded, accepted this. Which is how the people at the bank came to believe that I draw for a living. Whether they took the next logical leap of questioning why any legitimate artist would demand payment in cash is unknown to me.
One advantage of this job is not being limited to the lunch hour for running errands. Therefore, I tend to go shopping in midafternoon. “Live close to here?” the grocer by the tube station asked one day as I picked out apples and kiwifruit.
“Just around the corner,” I said. “I work as a nanny.” Which is blatantly unbelievable, as I never have children visibly in tow and, unless the Boy is staying over, am only buying for one. Still, he now occasionally asks how the kids are doing.
I tend to bump into neighbors very seldom, except in the evening, at which time they see me dolled up in a dress or suit, full makeup, and freshly washed hair, meeting a cab. “Going out?” they ask.
“Best friend’s engagement party,” I say. Or, “Meeting people from work for drinks.” They nod and wish me well. I slip out the door and wonder what story I’m going to tell the taxi driver. mercredi, le 17 decembre
Met the As for lunch today. They don’t always hunt in a pack, but when they do, no eating establishment is safe.
A1, A2, A3, and A4 were already waiting at a Thai restaurant. I was unexpectedly the last to arrive-at least three of them are tardy by nature. We exchanged kisses and settled at a corner table.
I count the time I’ve spent enjoying sex from the first time I slept with A1, a number of years ago. I remember the afternoon clearly. The man’s large frame blocked the light from the single window of his flat. I smiled up at him, we were naked, entwined in each other’s limbs. He reached down, put his hand round one of my ankles, and moved my leg until it crossed my body. He bore down on my doubled body and entered me.
“What are you doing?” I squeaked.
“I want to feel the fullness of your arse against my body,” he said. Though it was not my first time-far from it-it might as well have been. Here was a man, finally, who knew what he wanted and, better still, knew what to do to get it.
A1 and I dated for several years. It was not an easy relationship except for the sex. Once our clothes were off, so were all bets. I knew I could ask him for anything and he could ask the same. For the most part, we always said yes to whatever the other wanted, but took no offense if the suggestion was rejected. He was the first man to tell me I was pretty whom I believed, the first person outside of a gym shower I could walk in front of unclothed. And I adored him physically: A1 is tall but not too tall, muscular, hairy. His dark straight hair and gravelly voice were deliciously anachronistic. He was the sort of man who should have been around in the fifties as a captain of industry.