First Date and I stepped into the street as she dashed round the corner. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Water under the bridge,” I said, though it clearly was not.
“I didn’t know that text wasn’t from you.”
“I know.”
“Am I… am I in the way?”
I turned to him, angry at the situation, angry at feeling manipulated, even if he wasn’t the cause. Angry for feeling angry; why get mad at all? Most of all I was angry at his woundedness, his need to be needed by me. His voice had the timbre of…
“Because I love you.”
Yeah, that thing.
I sighed, closed my eyes. We stood on the pavement for a long time in silence. I looked at my shoes, he looked at me. This wasn’t what I wanted and this wasn’t how I wanted to be. A man came by, asked for directions, we sent him off to the next block. The fear was coming over me, a black mist, the feeling of being trapped by well-meaning friends, by fate. “I’m getting a cab home,” I said finally. “Alone. You go meet Angel at the bar or she’ll think we’ve deserted her.” Or gone home together, I thought. jeudi, le 26 fevrier
The next morning I woke to three missed calls and a text.
The first two calls were from numbers I didn’t recognize. No voice mail. Not too unusual, but I smelt a rat. So I rang them back.
“Good morning. Did you by any chance ring my number last night?”
Both were confused, because they were clearly people who didn’t know me-but, if the caller ID was an impartial judge, had tried to call. Turns out Angel had sent more than one text. And they had tried to reach her on my number.
Nice one. I am such an idiot. At least they weren’t international calls.
The third missed call was from First Date, sometime in the wee hours. The text was from him too.
Are you still seeing N? If so, are you aware I didn’t know?
Sigh. I rang him as well; he was already at his desk. “Hello, sorry to disturb you at work.”
“That’s okay.” He sounded surprised.
“I read your text.” He didn’t answer. “I’m not seeing N. I haven’t in ages. Who told you we were?” Still no answer. “That’s okay, I really don’t have to ask, do I?”
“It just seems like you two are still so close, and with you both being single…”
“That automatically means we’re more than just friends?”
“Well, no, it doesn’t.” He paused. “But Angel was very surprised when she found out you and I were a thing, and she said, didn’t I know about you and N?”
“Excuse me… us two… we’re a thing?”
“Um.”
“Okay, that aside-and someone you barely know is a more reliable source of information on my life than I am?”
“Well.”
“This is bullshit.”
“Hey, calm down. I love you. I care about you. I-”
Argh, those stupid words again. “I don’t feel the same way. If you didn’t know that, you do now. I’m not going to belittle your feelings and say you shouldn’t feel them, but you know nothing about me. Either way, the things you feel entitle you to nothing.” Argh, stop it, I know I’m yelling now and this is coming out all wrong. I want to make my point clear without him thinking I’m an arse.
No. Forget that. The sooner he understands this, the sooner he can go looking for someone he really loves. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want this. I’ll be a jerk.
“It’s all just a misunderstanding, I’m sure we can talk about this with her…”
“Oh, just… quiet. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to talk to her. Or you. I’m not really interested in this at all.”
“But I-”
“Goodbye.”
A pause. I could imagine his face, what I would and have done in the same situation. Bargain for time or accept it gracefully? To his credit, he chose the latter. “Goodbye. Good luck to you. I’ll miss seeing you.”
“Thank you.” I hung up. And went to the computer to send that woman a blistering e-mail about the mystery numbers and her conversation with First Date. I felt a coward hiding behind the in-box, but I was not sure I could keep from raising my voice on the phone. Type, revise, send. And then I ate breakfast, and felt a bit sad, and a bit of a twat, and even the thought that none of this matters anyway didn’t really cheer me. vendredi, le 27 fevrier
After a bit of time passes, it can be difficult to remember how, why, when you liked someone, and nice to revisit it from a safe distance. The boy who felt me up in a public swimming pool when I was fifteen. The relationship at school that ended because of his aversion to cunnilingus. A1, whose skill in manipulating my body was as funny as it was frightening. The first time with someone I still think of fondly, someone I fell quickly and hard for, and the thousand or so times we were together after that, and the last time with him too.
The few whom I could not get enough of. The way they smelled, felt, tasted. The number of times I was with the Boy and wished he would just shut up and fuck me already, because I had never come with anyone that way, ever. The times sex felt as much a spiritual calling as a biological need. And how those moments kept me going for weeks afterward, like pearls dotting the cord of our moribund relationship.
These are nice, these little sketches of people I have enjoyed. It passes the time on trains and in taxis. samedi, le 28 fevrier
Am spending some quality time with my family before they go abroad on holiday, catching up with the local gossip and generally causing trouble and getting in the way, as is the eldest daughter’s prerogative.
So, my mother is going to a wedding next month. A commitment ceremony in which the two brides will be dressed in white and will exchange rings and live happily ever after. Old family friends. We couldn’t be more pleased. Except that Mum can’t find a date for the date. Because her usual squeeze, my father, has been deemed Not in the Right Spirit.
It’s not that he disagrees with the notion of lesbians (what man really does, at least in theory?) or has some bizarre hang-ups about the sanctity of marriage (note to world leaders: in an age where the highest-selling female artist worldwide can drunkenly trip down the aisle in jeans and a garter only to have the transaction annulled twenty-four hours later, but committed life partners cannot call each other wife and wife, something is a little rotten in the state of Denmark). No, it’s actually Dad’s overenthusiasm for the blessed event that has led to him being stricken off the guest list.
Because he insists, completely seriously, on hiring strippers to come to the reception. My father is not the sort of man who makes jokes, and worse still, he has social antennae legendary for their insensitivity. We were lingering over bagels and he was relating the story to date. Mother rolled her eyes as if it was a genetically encoded reflex, which I suspect it is. “Male strippers or female strippers?” I asked with just a touch too much interest.
“Oh, honey, no,” Mum groaned.
“Female strippers!” he cried. “Naked ladies everywhere!” Have I mentioned that my father is an embarrassing perv? Runs in the bloodline, I suppose.
“I’m not certain that’s entirely appropriate for the wedding,” I said. Mum nodded sagely, her enameled black bob bouncing.
“You’re right,” she agreed. She turned on Daddy. “You see? You see? NO ONE thinks it’s a good idea-”
“Yes,” I said. “No good at all. Now, a hen night with strippers, that would be cool…”
“Don’t encourage him!” Mum shot me the evils as he gleefully contemplated the possibilities. dimanche, le 29 fevrier
Yesterday Mum and I went shopping. We haven’t been unleashed on a retail palace together in years, but believe me, the shopgirls will be telling the tale to their children and their children’s children. We’re loud, we’re efficient, we’re armed with serious credit and cannot be stopped as we tear a smoking trail from shoes to lingerie.
She’s after the Palm Beach look (well, what matron at her age isn’t?). Lily Pulitzer-esque prints, bright brights, silky, sweaters, white trousers. I’m genetically programmed to want the same, but live in a grimy city and you can’t wear cream-colored wool where there’s any chance of sitting in schmutz.