I looked over. Sure enough, a long drink of water was unfurling his limbs under a table, holding a paperback copy of Requiem for a Dream.
“Not bad,” I mused. Oh wait-no. “Eep, smoker, forget it.”
“You’re going to reject someone based on that? But you’ve dated smokers before.”
“So over that,” I said. “If someone’s going to have an expensive, pointless hobby, I’d rather it was skiing. Or better still, buying me expensive, pointless things.”
“If you carry on like this, you’ll die alone.”
This from the person who once told me, aged twenty-three, that he hadn’t had sex in six months and was therefore taking himself permanently off the market. This from the person who perennially lusts after his first lover, whom he hasn’t seen since they were both seventeen. With friends like this, who needs relatives?
I scoffed. “What, at this wizened old age I’m already past it? Besides, my talc-coated friend, we all die alone anyway.” samedi, le 21 fevrier
There is a client, I’ve seen him twice now. Hard face, high cheekbones, water-clear eyes, and eyelashes to envy. A cool person, handsome in a harsh way, gentle. Smart. We talk about books, he’s an engineer of some sort and hates his job, and we talk about plays and films. I enthuse about Ben Kingsley in this or that role, about Anthony Sher. He half-smiles. No idea why he’s single. Perhaps he just wants to be alone?
I walked out of a block of flats toward the river to find a taxi. On the way to the taxi-stand I passed the entrance of a tube station, where a legless man was soliciting donations. “Help the disabled, please help the disabled,” he chanted.
A drop of sweat ran down the inside of my thigh, perhaps the only part of me that felt truly warm. When it reached the top of my stocking, I felt it soak in, dissipate. A moment later, the legless man’s voice again. “Help the disabled, please help the disabled.” His cadence was flat but sing-songy, in time with the beat of footsteps from people streaming around him. “Help the disabled, please help the disabled.”
I stood in queue but there were no taxis for a few minutes. A short, round man with overflowing plastic bags came up to me. “Have you accepted Jesus as your Lord?” he asked. It sounded like reflex, devoid of meaning, as automatic as a “hello.”
“Afraid not, Jewish,” I said. Stock answer. More a cultural than a religious thing for me, but usually sufficient to drive the crazies off.
He nodded in sympathy, his eyes never rising above the level of my shoulder. “The Jews wanted a king, and God gave them a king, but he was manic-depressive, you see, and would go out and hide in bushes screaming at people.”
“Not a very effective king, you might say,” I said.
“I’m going to freeze standing on the bridge,” he said, and gathered his shopping bags and walked away. dimanche, le 22 fevrier
Today, I have been given: a pound coin change (from a two-pound coin; took bus) a pair of white socks (from gym; left them) a personal alarm (from friend; just… because) a silver and amber bracelet (from a client) five of those weirdly Day-Glo daisies (from a nonpaying admirer) the bill from the builders (er, wasn’t the owner supposed to handle this?) strange looks from a taxi driver (he so knew) a cold (see first item on the list)
So Ken Livingstone’s much-vaunted improved public transport proves itself quite capable in the “public” criterion, if not so much the “transport.” Ah well, good time to tuck up with some good books and demand pancakes from my nearest and dearest. lundi, le 23 fevrier
The mystery car is back; I don’t want to look but can’t look away; I’m not convinced it’s not just paranoia; must remember to lock all the locks; the builders are giving me strange looks; am thinking of investing in a bubble wig and giant pair of Jackie O sunglasses and not just for the sake of rocking the vintage look.
Otherwise, a bit better today, thank you for asking. mardi, le 24 fevrier he: “Um, you have a… I’m not sure…” me: (looking over shoulder at man kneeling behind me) “Is everything okay, sweetie?”
“There’s a… I don’t quite know how to tell you this…”
I was suddenly quite worried-what? Razor bump? Spare thicket of missed hair? Week-old tampon? The stub of a tail? “Yes?”
“You have bruises on the backs of your thighs.”
“Oh, that. Just means you’re not the first to tread this road vigorously, dear. Is it okay? We can do it another way.”
“Well, actually,” he said, growing harder and somewhat more forceful. “You could tell me how they happened.” mercredi, le 25 fevrier
A1 hit a milestone birthday. His partner made the arrangements and booked a table at an overrated Indian restaurant in Clerkenwell, which was acceptable, being as she has no taste.
I was looking forward to getting out in a large group. Work can be intense. It’s like having a series of blind dates over and over again, struggling to keep your end of the arrangement effortless and light, all whilst knowing very little is going to come of it. Draining. The current spate of real first dates hasn’t helped either. And while I enjoy hanging in cafes and coffee bars with a small group of friends, there is always the danger that by knowing too much about each other, all useful conversational skills will be lost. Only with people who’ve known you since puberty can you be entertained by
“Remember the…” (vague hand gesture)
“Yes, just like in the movie.”
“Oh God! And the arm thing B used to do!”
(random Star Wars quote)
(reference to mid-nineties politics)
(satisfied silence, or fits of inexplicable giggles for half an hour).
It’s not a fortress that admits new champions easily, and girlfriends of N and the As usually find themselves on the outside regardless of their charms and abilities. There was the one who was raised on a commune in South Africa, built her last house from the ground up, and had never been to a McDonald’s (actually, a rather admirable trait). But she couldn’t quote freely from The Princess Bride, and thus found herself in a constant state of puzzlement, especially when A2 tried-and failed-to propose to her by explaining that Life Is Pain.
We need to get out more. With other people. Normal people.
I arrived late, looking swish in a black silk shirt and tailored trousers. Hair pulled up, subtle pearl earrings. Okay, so I looked like a Goth personal assistant. No matter. The table was lively; the drinks were flowing; the conversation was achingly, happily, beautifully normal. I sat across from N, who’d brought his friend Angel, the other working girl whom I’d had a run-in with last month. But she’d seemingly come to her senses and appeared lovely and chipper.
Halfway through the meal, Angel begged use of my phone-her battery had gone-to send a text. And yes, I’m a trusting soul, and was busily flirting with the blue-eyed Adonis on my right, so didn’t check to see what she’d sent or to whom.
So I was surprised when First Date turned up as the gifts were being opened. He smiled at me. I smiled back. He looked round the table and sat next to Angel. Interesting. I should have known they knew each other, but never would have figured them for a potential couple.
The Adonis smiled, introduced himself across the table. First Date shook his hand. “And you’re here with… f?” Adonis inquired.
“Her,” he said, nodding at me.
I laughed nervously. “Are you?”
“Didn’t you just invite me?”
I glared at Angel, hard. “I suppose it might look like I had done,” I said. “I’m not responsible for this-sorry for the confusion.”
The tail end of the supper I spent lavishing my attention on the pale, shy girl next to me while Adonis and First Date-who, it turns out, had mutual acquaintances-chattered about university days. N begged off quickly, the Adonis made his excuses, everyone at the other end of the table was going to some random’s house to continue drinking, and I was left with Angel and First Date. She went to collect her car, suggesting the three of us move on to a late bar she knew.