I was speechless, and embarrassed, and wanted to change the subject, so I asked him where he lived. It turned out he lived on a barge with his girlfriend; a long boat with a fireplace and a bedroom, narrow enough to fit through the canals in Oxford. I’d never even heard of a barge before.
It sounded a hell of a lot nicer than the backpackers, that was for sure. I wasn’t looking forward to going back there. Even if they did have private rooms, I couldn’t have afforded one. From now on, I’d be sharing my bedroom with ten other girls. Ten strangers—I was dreading it. So, I stayed at the club late that night, watching the other acts perform, feeling too shy to speak to anyone but sensing for the first time in a long time that here in this room, with these songs, I was in a place that felt like home.
I didn’t sleep well that night, or for many nights to come.
My roommates—girls from all around the world, with no parents and no rules to stick to—came and went at all hours, turning on and off the lights, slamming the doors, tripping, giggling, snoring like drunken sailors.
I lay there in the dark with my Walkman, listening to the joyful music of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, just loud enough to block out the sounds in the room, drifting in and out of sleep.
In the morning, I hired a bicycle, and, without any map to speak of, just rode it around the streets, eventually finding myself at an entrance to the university. Wheeling my bicycle down its laneways, walking past places with history, colleges that were grand and old, I once again felt less like a stranger.
Ever since the incident with Phil, I had felt … different. For a start, my hands still trembled constantly. Even more curiously I had, for the first time in my life, lost my appetite. Sometimes at night I’d have something hot to eat, like a meal at the pub but, mostly, I just drank coffee.
I registered my name with a few employment agencies that day, and was immediately offered some work in aged care. It paid five pounds an hour, which was better than nothing, and I could start the following week.
I don’t know why I stopped at the chemist to weigh myself. I knew it wasn’t a good idea. But for some reason, I did it anyway. To my disappointment, I’d put on a pound. A whole pound. I’d been feeling so happy before and now I just felt gutted. More than that, I felt like an idiot for even caring. I tried to talk myself around. Stop making a big deal out of it! But the feeling of failure came upon me strongly and, with it, my missing hunger. I binged that day, going from shop to shop buying food I couldn’t afford and shoving it in my mouth with little regard for pleasure or manners or anything really. I ate so much food, I wanted to throw up.
On the ride home, the bad feeling got stuck in me. The old voice in my head. You absolute fuck-up. Pathetic. No wonder he dumped you. I let it roll for a bit, that voice. I think I believed it might do me some good, might help me pull myself together. But I noticed somewhere on the bike ride back to the hostel that the voice had gotten crueller than usual, harsh.
I felt the very strong urge to write a list. I wasn’t far from the hostel, but I didn’t care—I stopped the bike by the kerb, pulled out my diary and began writing anything I could think of that might make me feel better about myself.
THINGS THAT ARE GOOD ABOUT THIS SITUATION:
1. If this was a famine situation, I would be WINNING!
2. Despite the way I trash my body, I am SO healthy and SO strong.
3. I have fair and balanced judgement for almost everything (except myself).
4. Um … I possess moderate intelligence (?).
5. Apparently, I have a pretty face. (I’m not trying to be up myself, this is what people tell me. Whatevs!)
6. My family love me.
7. I am a privileged woman born in a lucky country.
8. My friends love me too.
9. I have a voice that sings.
10. I have enough money to live for at least another two weeks without needing to get a job.
11. I can write.
A list like this would normally make me feel better straight away, but that day it just didn’t work. The bad feeling, the old story, came back again and again, as dictated by the voice in my head, which was making a full-time job of reminding me: You are a loser. You are pathetic. You can’t even stick to a fucking diet. What the fuck is wrong with you? Fat fuck. You’re a big fat fuck. You’re an embarrassment. What are you even doing?
Three nights later, still desperately tired, I was sitting in the common room on my own listening to my Walkman and writing in my diary when a tall skinny greasy-blond-haired stranger walked over and waved something in front of my face. I thought he was asking for a light, so I offered him one. He shook his head and motioned for me to take off my headphones. ‘Hey! How can I help?’ I said, just as I would have at Martin Dawes Telecommunications, which now felt many worlds away.
With a thick accent that might have been Polish he said, ‘Hey, would you like to come back to my room?’
I was genuinely confused. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, you don’t know?’ he said, and smiled, raised his eyebrows, as if I did know. But I didn’t, and I felt scared then, and his face changed too—a combination of anger and embarrassment—and he said, ‘Ah … sorry, I thought you knew.’
Knew what? Something was clearly getting lost in translation here. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘What is
