And I feel his weight on me — that’s the thing. After all this time, I can still feel how it was when he was there and it was starting. He can still ruin my breath.
She was glad of Hector, although aware he was being especially attentive because she seemed, to him, injured. He kept reminding her of the chairs in the waiting room and the crying and all that.
I should look on the bright side — at least I wasn’t handcuffed to anyone while they rummaged about …
Telling me that I went to the left … Why say such a thing? And how far to the left can a person’s vagina go? I am not a mine working, I am not a mysterious warren of tunnels, I can’t be that fucking tricky to navigate.
There were two ways to cure oncoming depression: to be glad of something worse that wasn’t happening and to be amused.
Meg was trying both.
And there was also anger.
Bastard.
Although anger in the absence of its object was unwise, because it turned inward and led you straight back to despair.
Which I do not want. I want Hector. But not quite as constantly as he wants me.
Hector was not allowed into the ladies’, because he was a dog and a boy dog at that and therefore it would be weird to have him loitering.
Joke. Sort of. Being amused. Not angry.
More seriously, people sometimes took showers in here — the cyclists took showers, very serious showers — and the work here could be messy and mean all manner of stuff had to be washed off, and nudity could seem inappropriate in the presence of a dog.
I need a shower.
But I have no excuse for taking one — no excuse I’ll tell anyone.
I do need to, though, and so I will.
Basically, whatever anyone was doing in the bathroom, they’d want privacy, rather than a spaniel peering at them, or licking the soap off their knees, or being ridiculous in other canine ways which didn’t bear thinking about.
Nothing bears thinking about.
My running theme.
I should have it painted on the bathroom mirror, back at home.
I’ll open a wrist and do it this evening in fresh blood.
Joke.
Not a very good joke.
Meanwhile, I am actually thinking — because I have to think about something, I can’t just be empty-headed — I am considering how enchanted a spaniel’s attention can make you feel, especially when he’s been denied. Enchanted and guilty. They have the most beautiful-and-tragic-looking selfishness.
And he intended to keep her from harm, from further harm. He knew about harm, did Hector. And his eyes had never left her as she’d swung the door shut across his attention.
He’d also wanted to drink out of the toilets.
Meg had no idea why dogs always loved drinking from toilets — as if they aspired to something more grandiose than a bowl left on the lino.
Plus, they’re obsessed by the shit of others.
And Hector particularly can’t be in the ladies’ because here’s Laura, rinsing her sinuses, which would upset any animal with a past. Or anyone who’d like a future free from an image like that.
‘It’s very healthy.’ Water poured from Laura’s left nostril in a thin and not entirely clear stream. ‘Washes your cilia.’
‘I don’t have dirty cilia.’ Meg stepped rapidly past the unfolding spectacle which she knew was intended as an advertisement as well as a purging of toxins. At least you could suppose Laura wasn’t on cocaine.
Or else she likes to rinse the slate clean before she takes it.
Of course, she’s not on cocaine. She doesn’t ‘use’ caffeine, even. She brings her own tea bags in a rat-piss-smelling container. She thinks aspirin is a sin.
Then again, she smokes. She lights up and inhales dirty, nasty, addictive, unethical tobacco — not even organic tobacco — and lets its vapours pimp up and down her lungs, calling out new business for tumours.
No use expecting addictions to be sane, naturally.
Meg advanced determinedly towards the emergency-towel cupboard and hooked one out without making any explanation. She then headed for one of the shower stalls as if she did this every day.
‘Of course you have dirty cilia.’ Laura also belonged to the group of people who wouldn’t think to pause a conversation while whoever else was talking pulled a curtain across — I’m not that fond of curtains today — and closed themselves up in a shower stall.
‘Meg, if you live in London your cilia are besieged by toxins.’
Meg felt besieged, but not by toxins. She had wanted to undress quietly and at her own speed and then to make herself clean, very clean, very fucking clean.
‘The levels of some chemicals are illegal in the centre of town. Breathing, Meg. You just shouldn’t breathe in some areas. I don’t go in any more. I haven’t for years.’
She calls people by name. I never do that. That’s because I forget names, which is because I don’t pay attention when I’m introduced. I intend to do better.
The stall was clean and felt recreational rather than medical. Meg had hung all her clothes up on a line of hooks which had been painted mauve at some time in an effort to make them cheery.
Hooks are useful. I take no offence to hooks. Mauve is not cheery — it is insane, but I take no offence at it.
The water rolled along her limbs and was, quite quickly, warm. It was good, clear, gentle. Even Laura outside with her nostrils couldn’t break the moment — the long moment of washing and using the fruit-scented scrub and washing, washing, washing.
‘It’s like showering, Meg. You cleanse outside the body and cleansing is important inside, too. Meg?’
People appreciate it when you know their name. Unless it creates paranoia and makes them feel they’re at a disadvantage. By which I mean, unless they’re like me. I’d rather be anonymous.
Meg gave up and answered through the wreaths of steam — steam scented with watermelon soap — that were an indulgence and costing her employer money, but such things are sometimes necessary. ‘My cilia are not a big concern.’
There’s no point disliking Laura — that will only harm me and leave her completely unscathed. I have to be careful about negativity. So I’m told. I have my instructions and they are detailed and numerous — I am to breathe in faith and breathe out fear and not overthink and … Fuck it — the list’s too long. It’s too long for today. I don’t like today. This has been a rubbish twenty-four hours so far and I would like a new lot.
‘And I don’t really go into town. I mean I will today, sort of. But I don’t need to, not often.’ The water tumbled and purled and was a blessing — this must, in fact, feel like successful blessing: comfort and sweetness and clean warmth.
I’ve been advised that I should be tolerant of others and respect their needs. I also have to be tolerant of myself and respect mine.
‘When you start to understand your own body, Meg …’
Meg knew she shouldn’t snap at someone, just because she found them ridiculous and they seemed determined to press her, niggle, attract loathing. Meg suspected that Laura wanted to make a reason for some kind of fight, in order to then arrange — it wasn’t clear — a workplace mediation, or meditation, or some bonding ceremony: something with levels of manufactured honesty, exposure, unease.