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.
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?”
