“Did he actually say that second bit?” N looked puzzled.
“No, I’m paraphrasing.” It is probably too great a leap of faith to believe a man would be so guileless as to say that he was too busy with work and for that to actually be the case.
A1 shrugged. “Well, here’s hoping he realizes what he’s missing.”
“Doubtful. We never got past snogging.” Three dates, lots of conversation, a torrent of e-mail. Resulting in nothing more than a couple of awkward hugs and a bit of tongue-tying before Cinderella had to drive home. Wary of what happened the last few times, I didn’t think it right to push him too fast. But whatever his buttons were, I clearly was not pressing them.
“Really?” spluttered N. “I would have at least slept with you first.”
“Cheers, darling,” I said, blowing him an ironic kiss.
“I have a friend,” A1 ventured. “A bit on the short side, though..”
“Is that a euphemism? I’ve already seen your little friend, thanks,” I said, glancing at the crotch of his jeans.
“Ouch,” A1 said, and turned to N. “She’s getting angry,” he said. “She’s never this sharp when she has a regular shag.” mercredi, le 21 avril
I know a girl. A nice girl, a well-brought-up girl, whose vowels are all very round and correct and whose manners are exquisite.
This girl, I’ve known her a few years, since we both were students. Like me, her degree was mostly useless; like me, she’d moved to London to find her way. And found it mostly a drain on finances. Moving from temp job to temp job, or stringing two or three part-time and freelance projects together at a time to make enough money to keep the tiny, not-terribly-expensive flat she lives in.
And this girl doesn’t really know what she wants. She might fancy the academic life, but really more as retreat from the rest of the world than a genuine love for the world of letters. When I see her in pubs with friends, every few weeks or so, she always looks like a slightly shabby librarian, but I’ve noticed the way she moves and she could be so much sexier than that. Her legs are fantastic. I also know she’s been struggling with depression for some time, with-literally-the scars to prove it. And the men in her life are either abusive or doormats.
I buy her a pint, knowing it’s too late in the evening for her to get the next round, but that’s fine because she really couldn’t afford it. The money she does spend freely goes on books. She loves reading, this one, and get her on the right subject and her milk-white arms will be flying about, lit fag in one hand, expounding this or that theory or proclaiming this or that writer an unsung genius.
More often, however, she’ll mumble through a conversation and I will try twice as hard as I would with anyone else to keep it going. Because no matter what her better instincts, she always answers the question “So how are you keeping these days?” honestly. And it’s always something depressing.
What might make her life better? Who knows. Chronic money shortage is one problem. Feeling intimidated by every woman who comes within a quarter-mile radius of her current boyfriend doesn’t help. (Oh, yes, she’s probably pulled that accidental pregnancy scheme once or twice. Not faking it, of course, but conveniently forgetting a pill or three here and there, when the leash had to be tugged on a bit.)
So maybe it occurs to me, well, it’s no cure-all, but a few months in prostitution might do her the world of good. Have to primp and smile for once. Put the overdraft back in the black. Get her mind off herself every now and again.
But I can’t say anything. She’s waiting to hear on Ph. D. funding for this autumn. In a mostly useless subject. jeudi,
RESULT
Etymology: from Latin resultare (to rebound)
Function: noun, intransitive verb
1: to proceed or arise as a consequence, effect, or conclusion
2: beneficial or tangible effect
3: something obtained by calculation or investigation
4: what I will say when I make N look like the fool he is. Because it’s not about the money, it’s about the principle.
N and I went out to a club he worked at a few years ago. They were playing the usual pop trash, but the doormen knew us and waved us through.
It was packed with the usual bodies. A few on the floor, shaking their moneymakers, more at the bar looking everyone over. A meat market but not unfriendly for it. I leaned on a white leather sofa and looked round. A familiar face in a small clutch of men. Ten-Pence Bet. I elbowed N and gestured at him.
“Told you,” he said. Or would have said, but I couldn’t hear him over the music. Mouthed. I knew what he meant. I shrugged. Being with other men is not ipso facto gay. And the bet stood, regardless.
I saw l0-Pence Bet detach from his group and spin out in the direction of the bar. Alone. Good, because I didn’t think a confrontation would work in front of a crowd. I followed him.
Tapped him on the shoulder. “Yes?” He turned around, saw me, smiled.
“This is going to sound odd,” I said apologetically. “But I win a 10-pence bet if you’re not gay.”
“Pardon?” The music in the club was loud; he bent his head very close to mine.
“I said I win a 10-pence bet if you’re not gay.”
“Who’s the bet with?” he asked.
“I really mustn’t say. Does it matter?”
He smiled. Thought a bit. Leaned forward and kissed me. His lips were soft, slightly moist, lingered a moment. “You win,” he said. I smiled. We walked away in opposite directions.
I found N, leaned heavily on his arm. “I win,” I shouted in his ear. “Do you hate me?”
“I’ll prove you wrong,” he said, digging through his pockets.
“Yes, well.” I smirked. “Until then, hand over the coin.”
ESCAPE HATCHES-A BRIEF CONSIDERATION
• Kyle of Tongue. Pros: favored by child molesters and lovers of cold weather. They clearly go for the fantastic scenery. Cons: bleak isn’t the word. What can you say about a place where the incoming tide swallows up the main road?
• Home Counties. Pros: so soul-destroying, so boring, so obviously bad, that no one would think their new neighbor is me. Cons: so soul-destroying, so boring, so obviously bad, that no one would think their new neighbor is me.
• West Country. Pros: dairy products, moors, beaches. Pasties. Ponies. Dreamily gazing at bronzed surfers in summertime. Cons: while the trains go there, am not certain they come back.
• North America. Pros: charming accent might attract general goodwill, free drinks. Cons: am frightened by the concept of Texas.
• South America. Pros: sunshine, interesting food, mountains. Cons: rumored expatriate contingent of Nazis in hiding may prove constricting to social life.
• Australia and Environs. Pros: a few acquaintances, rumored good weather, decent confectionery. Cons: rumored expatriate contingent of Brits in hiding may prove constricting to social life.
• The Med. Pros: excellent weather, superlative food, inexpensive housing, reasonable entertainment possibilities, and not terribly far from home. Cons: Costa del Croydon is not quite the vibe I’m after.
• Fulham, South London. Pros: the transport links are decent. Cons: what does it say about a place if the ease of escaping is its highest selling point?
• Israel. Umm, no. Just… no. Not yet.
• East Anglia. Pros: good beer. Oh, I don’t half fancy a pint of IPA on a sunny afternoon. Cons: aesthetically displeasing “bump” bit of map.
• Africa. Pros: no idea. Cons: once I had a client from Zimbabwe. It doesn’t sound like a terribly nice place at the moment.
• New York. Pros: extremely menschy. Cons: if television is to be believed, pressure to meet and mate is all-consuming. I am the alpha stiletto-wearing, lingerie-obsessed, Pulitzer-reading female here and competition could be disheartening. Particularly if the quarry is an unemployed finance graduate still living at home in the Bronx.
Lately it feels I am spending more time out of town than in it. The current good weather in London is pleasant and welcome, but an unfortunate case of too little, too late. I am packing again-knickers (all varieties), books (Dodsworth, My Name Is Asher Lev, some silly crime thrillers, and the ever reliable Princess Bride), and sunblock.