Running in Heels (20 page)

THE THING I ADMIRE ABOUT BABS IS, SHE
always finds an excuse to do exactly what she wants to do. The purchase—against her parents' advice—of an unwieldy cappuccino machine that took four hours to dribble out a small weak coffee and seven hours to clean was justified with “One day that'll be a valuable antique.” The ill-fated staking of a week's wages on lottery tickets was waved away with “If I hadn't I'd still be torturing myself wondering if I would have been a millionaire by now.” And the eating of an airport-size Toblerone between lunch and tea was dismissed with “I obviously needed the energy.”

I follow her impressive example and try to legitimize the pizza:

• → It's not what you eat, it's how much. No, don't like that one.
  
• → No food is intrinsically bad. Unless it's cooked by a kitchen terrorist who isn't paid enough to wash his hands between the toilet and the chopping board.
  
• → One enormous honking pig of a meal can't make you fat.
  
• → Andy ate more than me.
  

After lengthy consideration of these thoughts and skipping breakfast, I feel better. I walk to the news agent to avoid seeing Andy before he leaves for work—or whatever it is he does—and buy myself
Vogue
. According to the
Guardian Against Fun,
it's the only women's magazine that doesn't descend to the level of its readers. Also, one of its writers has had a boob job, and I'm keen to see if she can match Babs in defensive flanneling. There is a lot about symbols of womanhood and failing the pencil test but
the words that stick with me are, “It took me a while to accept that nobody could ever describe me as ‘skinny' now; to live with the fact that I'm not an eight any more, I'm a ten…”

The jumbo challenge of living as a size ten occupies my mind and won't budge. To what advanced level of Zen must a woman clamber to “accept” that nobody could ever describe her as skinny? How
can
you accept it? My parents dying—yeah, okay, that has to happen. But ballooning to a size ten! How can you “accept” a tragedy that could have been avoided? I am tense and preoccupied as I walk back from the news agent, ruing the day that meals were invented, fretting over how to atone for the pizza, aware of the globs of dough oozing through my gut, settling stodgily on my hips, and feeling green and bitter to the core, a walking gooseberry of ill will toward those women who can self-whittle without side effect. I walk in the front door, trip over a large brown sausage lying in the hall, and scream. Paws slowly raises his head and looks at me with sad red eyes. Eh? Matt!

“Where's your daddy, then?” I say, hoping to ingratiate myself and avoid being bitten.

Paws yawns and says, “Behind you, dear,” and I squeak and whirl around to see Matt hanging off the kitchen door frame, trying not to smile. “A
very
fanciable blond let me in—it's okay, he's gone out. I presumed he was Chris, which didn't go down at all well. I forget how fast you operate, Natalia, I can't keep up with you. I brought you your check,” he adds.

I blush, run, and hug him, in that order. “The cheek of you! That's Andy, my new lodger. What check?”

“Your severance check, sweetheart. Three months' salary and not a penny more.”

“Oh my gosh! I didn't even think!”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“You're very clever indeed.”

“I must be.”

We grin at each other. “I can't believe you,” I say. “I've caused you all this trouble, I've messed up again and again, I've done the opposite of my job, made the whole of our department look gormless, and yet you come round—hang on, aren't you supposed to be at work?”

“I took the day off. I wanted to make sure you weren't suffering an existential crisis. The first Monday of being between jobs can be a bit of a downer.”

“Oh,
Matt
. On your day off! You're a guardian angel!”

“I prefer fairy godmother.”

“I'm so sorry, Matt,” I say. “And I know I've said it before. This time I mean it. I owe you big. I should have been sacked.”

Matt waves away my thanks. “I'll be calling in the favor when you're rich and famous, I promise. In the meantime, I'll write you a reference. Have you organized yourself any work?” He nods at the copy of
Vogue
. “Or are you settling down to a life of idleness?”

“Er, no, and no. I thought I should get myself into a nine
A.M.
routine of going to the news agent. I'm lost without a routine.”

“Bless. Well, I've got some bits for you.” He digs an envelope out of his rucksack. “If you could get these blurbs into shape in the next few days. And as soon as Stephen's back at work—in a couple of weeks, please God—I'm sure he'll have something for you.”

“Thank you
so
much! He's going back to work so soon? That's great! He's got a good recovery rate. Is he still in the wheelchair?”

“No. Although if it were his choice, he'd have sat in that hideous chair flicking through glossy magazines till he dropped dead, the big queen. The physio had to practically tip him out of it.”

I bite my lip. I'm not sure if you're allowed to laugh at these things. I say instead, “Hang on—I've got a present for Stephen.” I run into the lounge, snatch up
100 Luxury Interiors
, and hand it to Matt.

“Oh dear.” He sighs. “This will only encourage him.” I beam.

Matt says, “Darling, Belly and I want to take you out—any excuse for a piss-up, obviously—so we'll have to arrange something.”

“Definitely! But I, I will be seeing you anyway, won't I? As a, um, friend?”

“Paws and I intend to dog you all our lives,” says Matt gravely.

I hug him again. “Matt, I will make it up to you, I will. I know it's too late for you, for the department, I mean, but I kind of know what's been, well, wrong with me, and I'm working to make it better. So I won't embarrass you if you do give me a reference.”

Matt flaps his hands, as if batting a fly, and says, “Oh stop.” He pauses. “What
has
been wrong with you?”

I feel awkward. I respect this man. I want him to respect me. I don't wish to be classed in the same bracket as Mel. She's up to her neck in it. I'm just paddling. So after hesitation, I say, “Women's problems.”

“I won't pry,” says Matt regretfully.

 

I
work on Matt's press releases for the rest of the day, and I'm grateful for every minute. I am disturbed from labor three times. Once by Chris, who calls to report that Piers Allen is meeting the band tonight, so “yeah, man, it's looking cool.” He doesn't ask when we are next seeing each other, and it occurs to me that he has a pathological aversion to making plans. It also occurs to me that I have a pathological aversion to
not
making plans.

My second caller of the day is Mel. I hear her lisp and presume her ears are on the waggle for intrigue. But she actually sounds upset. “Natalie, I am
distraught
! What will I do without you? You're the best publicist in the world!”

What! After I outed her as an anorexic and prompted the company to pay for her to see a nutritionist? I'd presumed that was why she was offish when I popped in on her dressing room last week.

“Really? You don't mind about the…
Sun
piece and the, um, nutritionist?”

“Natalie, you made me famous! Who cares what that silly doctor says? And as for the food woman, I don't have to listen to her! If they want to weigh me, I just drink a ton of water! But how are you, you poor thing, how are you feeling? It must be awful, losing your job. Is it?” she adds, hopefully.

“It's quite awful,” I say, unwilling to disappoint her. “But I've got some work.”

“Oh goody,” she replies unconvincingly. “Guess what, though—I saw Tony at the weekend, and he's such a sweetie [
thweetie
] and I haven't seen you properly for ages, and I thought it would be so nice if you and me and Tony all went out together and had a nice chat, and I'm not dancing tomorrow night so then would be perfect, we could do something fun like go and feed the ducks in Hyde Park!”

I check my wasteland of a diary, then, for lack of anything more interesting to do, agree.

I'm touched at her concern, and warmed by Matt's generosity. The only spoilsport kicking over my sandcastle is Babs. You would have
thought
she would call to see how it was going with Andy. She hasn't, and I can't help feeling used. She fussed and cooed until I bought the dress. Now the sale's gone through the smile's wiped and she's back to filing her nails. I'm stewing over this when the phone rings.

“Hello?” I say, hoping.

“Natalie?”

“Yes.”

“It's Andy.”

Three minutes later I click off and scowl inwardly. All the men I know and love—Tony, Dad, Chris even—have no emotional attachment to food. That is how I like it. They eat what's there. They don't own recipe books, preferring tomes where the name of every character is preceded by rank. They have no interest in menus, are more concerned in appearing at the right
restaurants. So why is Andy such a
girl
? He's rung from work like a new wife, asking me to join him and a friend for “supper” in my own home! He's not been here twenty-four hours and already he's hosting dinners! I can't be rude so I'm forced to attend. I feel like a foie gras goose. My mother couldn't have planned it better. I go for a preemptive run around the park. I return to chaos.

 

“
Y
ou look cross,” says Andy, waving a wooden spoon in the air.

“Are you annoyed about the kitchen?”

I survey the bomb site.

“No,” I lie, deftly stepping aside to avoid a splat of gloop off the spoon. It's all very well taking in lodgers to pay the mortgage, but the downside is, they think they're entitled to
live
with you.

“You are,” replies Andy, wiping his hand on his jeans. “I'll clear up. But don't worry. I'm not a full-time wok-wielding maniac. This is a one-off, to say thanks for having me. Robbie's also going to stop by—not that I'm slaving over a hot stove for that little sod. You don't mind, do you?” he adds, as my eyes flicker.

“Of course not,” I croak, wondering if it can get any worse. Will my mother jump from a cake, then make me eat it?

“What are you making?” I ask, to disguise my ill grace.

Andy whirls the spoon again. Splat, splat. “I forgot to ask if you were vegetarian, so I thought I'd make tomato bread soup. It's a bit of a bastard, because you have to de-pip and peel the tomatoes, but it's gorgeous. And there's something irresistible about primary-colored food. Do you want a drink?”

Why be a hero? “Yes,” I say, “okay, whoa! thanks. Great. Well, I'll just go and, um, have a shower.”

I plod down the hall, carrying my wineglass and feeling suburban. I half expect him to shout after me, “Hey, I looked up from
Sally Jessy
earlier and that hussy next door was hanging out her washing in a slip!”

The first thing I notice on entering the bathroom is that
Andy has placed his shampoo, razor, and shaving cream on Babs's old shelf. And Clinique moisturizer, bless. I keep
my
box of tricks in the bathroom cabinet as I feel the more beauty products you have on display, the less excuse you have to be ugly. The first thing I notice on leaving the bathroom is that Robbie has arrived. This is because I tiptoe out in a towel and run smack-bang into him. For the second time today, I scream.

“My darleenk, eet's been too long!” he cries, arms flung wide. I repeat the scream and rush into my bedroom.

“Pervert!” I shout, slamming the door. I hear him laugh, and I laugh too. I'd forgotten how much I like Robbie. He gets better-looking as you get to know him. And he's not a sulker. Although maybe he just wasn't “mega-keen” on me. I think it'll be okay tonight.

I dawdle over what to wear and twenty minutes later emerge transformed, in an orange wool jumper, black trousers, brown boots (I know I should wear brown trousers to match the boots but there's something about the concept of brown trousers I can't get along with), and meticulous makeup. I'm not like some women, such diehard professionals that their smooth foundation and flawless lipstick are not so much applied as created. But neither am I a total disgrace. I sidle into the kitchen like a crab.

“You look nice,” says Robbie, coughing. Andy, fussing over the saucepan, doesn't comment.

“Do you need any help?” I say.

“No, it's all done,” he sings, “although you could put some plates on the table. Actually, no, why don't you sit down. Rob!” he adds. “Pull your finger out, you lazy git, get out the bowls and spoons and grate the Parmesan.”

“Yes, all right, Jamie,” replies Robbie, pretending to bustle. He rolls his eyes at me and mouths, “Twat.”

“I heard that,” says Andy, without turning his head. I sip my wine to stifle a giggle. “Okaaaay! Here it is.”

He dollops a steaming red glob into my bowl and rips up a
leaf of basil, which he places prettily on top. He starts to do the same for Robbie, who pipes up, “I can rip me own basil, ta very much.”

“Then rip it,” says Andy, affecting huffiness. “See if I care!”

“It smells fantastic,” I say, scarcely believing my own ears. Tomato, bread, basil, these are ingredients I can deal with. I breathe in the rich scent and my stomach rumbles. A bold statement, for me. God, I…I…I actually want to eat this. My fingers creep toward my spoon, and I catch Andy frowning at me.

“We will of course say grace,” he says sternly. My spoon clatters on the table and I blush as red as the soup. “I jest,” he adds.