Running in Heels (23 page)

WE WERE THIRTEEN AND BABS AND I WERE
having tea in her kichen. White bread dripping with chocolate spread, the dark syrupy sort you can't get anymore. It must have been the weekend because her father was sitting with us. Anyway, Babs's mother was reading a book on the sofa (my mother wouldn't dream of having “lounge furniture” in the kitchen) and she
farted
. Our horror knew no bounds. Farting in front of your husband! The ultimate no-no! Didn't she know
men went off you if you did that?
My
mother would rather combust than parp in front of my father. Imagine our surprise when my dad left and Mr. Edwards stayed.

When I say good-bye to Babs at half-past one (no sign of Simon) I am in shock. You think you know and you don't. I've done three hours of counseling and in the same time scale, months of purgatory. I realize I want her to be happy, and I'd do anything to repair her marriage. I know she'd do the same for me. I've told Babs that the first year is the hardest (according to
The Mirror
) and that honeymoons are a nightmare and should be banned, as they can never live up to your expectations. I've told her that Simon adores her, but signing on the dotted line has given him the jitters. I've advised her not to fart freely, to be on the safe side.

I've not told her that two out of three marriages fail (
The Guardian Against Fun
). And I've struggled with pertinent advice for Simon. You have to be careful when criticizing a friend's partner because the second they kiss and make up,
you
are the baddie who slagged off the love of her life.

I am snug in bed before I even think of Andy. Babs doesn't want him to know. (“He's useless at hiding his emotions, Nat, he'd go and punch Si's lights out, which I don't think, at this point, would be helpful.”) She won't confide in her parents either (“They gave me twelve grand to help with our new flat, how can I do it to them?”). I feel useless. I am the Liz Taylor of marriage guidance, my grasp of man management extends to hiding the remote control. Who could I ask for help? Tony, Mel, Chris, a trinity of clowns. But there is someone else. Could I?

Frannie?

Admittedly, if I had to name the person most likely to become an Angel of Mercy, it wouldn't be her. I've always felt she was destined for a less saintly career. Let's compare. Jeffrey Dahmer, for instance, was a cute baby. Blond, dimpled, the whole works. Nice parents, too. When Frannie was born, she looked like Christopher Walken. Her mother has the get up and
go of a matzo ball, and her father once advised her that attending college was pointless as “You'll only come out and start having babies.” Talk about a training camp for psychosis!

That said, she has been trying. (Very trying.) In her own, profoundly irritating way, she wants to help. Despite receiving no encouragement, she persists in her attempts to better me. Frannie has a good heart, even though I suspect part of it is cooked through. And she worships Babs. I have no doubt that if she knew of Simon's behavior, she'd bite off his balls. Which is why I have no intention of telling her about Simon. None. I'm going to pretend
my
relationship is in trouble, and ask her to advise
me
. She'd love that. The chance to patronize and educate will be irresistible. For once I will put Babs before my own selfish considerations. I am a genius.

 

T
he next day, I do a forty-minute run at the gym to psyche myself up, return home, and page Frannie. No sign of Andy. When the phone rings, I fall on it.

“Hello?”

“Chris.”

“
Chris!
Oh hi, hi, um, how is everything, look, I haven't had a chance to speak to Tony yet but I—”

“I spoke to Piers.”

“Oh that's great! So I don't have to—”

“He's nicked the band.”

“Pardon?”

“He wants to be their agent, and he wants one of the guys on the management side of his company to manage them. I didn't fucking know there
was
a management side to his company.” Chris's voice lifts to a whine.

“Oh no!” I gasp. “That's outrageous, what—what happened?”

“Last week, yeah, he wants to know all this shit, what's the story, how committed are they, have they got more than one song, what the buzz is, what do they look like, and I answer all his shite questions, yeah, and he acts really keen, hears the
demo, drops round the studio, and, yeah, he's gonna take them on and then—nothing, man! I call him ten times. Nothing. And then the boys go quiet on me, and today, Piers gets on the blower, says, ‘I'm sorry, but it's not working out with the band. Blue Fiend have decided they want a different manager and we've agreed to give it a shot.' Not working out? First I've fucking heard of it!”

“Oh Chris, you poor th—”

“And! And the fucker goes, ‘But if you've got anything else you want me to hear, bring it in!' Not a sniff of guilt, it was like, ‘scuse me, mate, but can you lift your arm so I can twist the knife better?' Jesus, man! And then, two seconds later, Tarqy's on the line, the fucking Judas! After all I've done for him! He'd still be an alarms and installations engineer if it weren't for me! Going on about how I was managing them all wrong! Says, ‘Piers has put an end to the toilet tour because it takes all the glamour and quality out of our act.' I mean, when I got the Blue Fiends a gig at the Berwick-on-Tweed university bar, Tarqy was delirious, man!”

“Oh Chris.” I sigh. “You poor th—”

“It's like, it's like, what is this, ma—”

As Chris launches into a whinge as long as Route 66, there is a beep-beep on the line. I
know
it's Frannie.

“Chris, I'm sorry to interrupt. Look, I've got to be quick, it's dreadful about Piers, what a total git, but what—what can I do? I…I don't think Tony can help you with this.”

“You gotta call him, princess, he can recommend a brief, or maybe have a word with Piers, I—”

“I can't ask him to do that,” I blurt, jiggling both legs.

“Ah come on, man, I'm not asking much, I—”

It's the “man” that does it.

“I can't,” I say coldly. And, imperious in a blaze of courage, I press line two.

“Really really sorry to keep you waiting,” I bleat.

“I should hope so,” says Frannie. “What is it?”

It takes a short explanation—during which I swallow enough humble pie to double my weight—to reel her in. Frannie's shift ends at 10:15 tonight. We can meet near the hospital, in Lambeth, or somewhere along her route home. A bar near Bank tube, where she changes for Bethnal Green, would be acceptable. I'm too uncool to know anywhere in Lambeth or Bethnal Green, so I say, “That sounds great, Frannie. I know, why don't we meet at the Pitcher & Piano in Cornhill? It's bang in the City, just round the corner from Bank tube.”

There is a cough, as if Frannie is choking on my bad taste.

“Natalie,” she says, sighing, “you're so petit bourgeois. I've never been to the Pitcher & Piano. But I suppose it will be an education. And as for your problem with Chris, I'm sorry to hear it, but it doesn't surprise me. Don't you see that by willfully resisting an appearance of physical maturity, you pander to the male vested interest in promoting and overvaluing thinness? You help Chris to repress you! It's far easier to subjugate a woman who looks fragile and prepubescent like yourself, rather than a hardy Amazon like Barbara, or a voluptuous earth mother, like
my
self”—that's certainly one way of describing seventeen stone, I think. Has Frannie ever thought of PR?—“Of course he'll treat you like a toy if you don't have the courage to challenge and confront his primal fears by presenting a mature, powerful image of womanhood. By starving yourself to a husk and never speaking up for yourself, you encourage his persecutory conviction that the powerful woman emasculates. Do you understand, Natalie? You, the compliant child, are permitting his fantasies of potency and authority—thanks to you, these fantasies become
factasies
. If you don't pudge up, of course he'll shag around! By remaining size eight you allow his physical and mental superiority—you are a nonperson! Now do me a favor and think about that. I'll see you in the Pitcher & Piano, ten-forty. Au revoir!”

Two seconds into Frannie's monologue, I realize that ideas devised at 2
A.M.
are rarely as brilliant as they appear at their time of conception. But it's too late. The phone lies dead in my
hand and I've roped in the biggest meanest troll outside of “The Three Billy Goats Gruff” to help solve Babs's marriage problems. Repressed indeed! And I
am
eating more. (I discovered last week that lack of protein can make your hair fall out. What next? Lack of yellow in your wallpaper? Lack of good TV programs on a Tuesday at 4
A.M.
?)

But I don't dare ring Frannie back, so I spend the rest of the day in a state of creeping dread. At 9:30
P.M.
, I can bear it no longer and leave the flat. Incidentally and not that I care,
where
is Andy? Out with a girl? I drag my feet to Chalk Farm tube. At least I can count on London Transport to delay me. Every journey takes an hour in this city—there's always a station closed because an escalator is broken or it's the ticketmaster's birthday. I dream of moving to Bangladesh for a taste of efficiency. The Circle & District Line speeds me to Bank in seven minutes flat.

I emerge from the wrong exit on purpose and pigeon-toe along Threadneedle Street, thinking, it's so gray and smart, oh yeah, doesn't Simon work round here?

I'm so blond. Of course Simon works round here! How else would I know about a git-magnet like the Pitcher & Piano? In peacetime, Babs forced me along for the rat's birthday drinks! “It's like his second office,” she'd said fondly.

As I (unfondly) reminisce, a timid thought presents itself. What if he's there? I bet he is. Would I confront him? Yes. Compliant child, my arse! Although there's no need for language, as my mother would say…I sweep toward the Pitcher & Piano like a vengeful god. Pausing only to apply lipstick.

My legs are jelly as I join the braying fray, as a thousand well-paid eyes sweep over me, assessing and dismissing in one disdainful move. I drop my gaze, knowing that I look cheap. (As in the lower tax bracket.) I feel like the oik at the ball. There's no point trying to buy a drink, as bar staff ignore me in roughly the same way that polite company ignore a dog's erection. What am I doing here? My idea was mad. I can't go through with it. I wrench my mobile from my bag, page Frannie with the instruction:
“Sorry to mess you around but it's okay now.” Right. To the loo, then home, no harm done.

I start slinking through the yattering crowds—“scuse me, scuse me”—gently touching my palms to the walls of gray tailored backs to stop them from crushing me like a grape in a winepress, ducking under trays of sloshing pints—“sorry, sorry”—although it's
their
fault—

“Natalie,” barks a crisp voice only slightly blurred at the edges. “Woulden have thought this was your kind of hangout, won't you come and say hello?” I spin round as Simon claps a heavy hand on my shoulder and twiddles me toward him.

“Hello, hello,” I stutter, hearing my voice, weak and squeaky, and thinking,
Now
what? I note his slack features and unfocused eyes and attempt a frosty smile.

“Come and meet the gang,” he slurs, his hand slipping downward. “Gentlemen,” he booms—a loud huddle of posh suits part and stare—“may I introdush you to a fren of mine?”

“Fren”?! Since when are we
frens
? It took him four months to remember my name! I am propelled forward, a reluctant object of curiosity like Tank Girl at an Action Man convention, and various stubbled faces nod and grin and look me up and down. I'd be floored by the alcohol fumes, except that Simon hasn't removed his hand from my back—I think he's forgotten he left it there. I bleat a greeting but fail to perform further.

He drawls, “We should get you a bevvy, mm, what'll you have? I suggest a pink drink for a lady, a vodka and cranberry or a kir royale?”

The assembled chimps seem to think this is funny, so I invoke the spirit of Frannie and say, “That sounds pretty but what I'd really like is a pint of Carlsberg Elephant.” (All I know is, I once saw a tramp drink it.) Simon's cronies bend over laughing, spraying one another's expensive ties in lager.

“Where's Babs?” I ask tightly, turning away. “Will she be joining us?”

Simon—his hand may actually be welded to my back—steers
me to the bar and within seconds summons a pink drink from the air.

“My wife,” he titters, “maaaaai waayyyyf is out saving lives, she's a lifesaver, doncha know.”

He rolls his eyes in sarcastic wonder. His hair is a little askew. Simon is as sozzled as a worm in tequila. Go on, tell him. My heart bops in anticipation. I turn around and block his path to the rest of the pack. He smiles and teeters.

I swallow my fear and stare down at his black Chelsea boots. Then I look up and say sternly, if unnecessarily, “You are drunk.”

Simon's grin spreads slowly across his face like treacle and he says, “Natalie—you don't mind if I call you Natalie, do you?”

What else was he planning to call me? John Thomas? I light a cigarette and don't offer him one. “You
do
call me Natalie,” I remind him curtly.

“I do call you Nadalie! Nadalie, thish is a lovely surprise seeing you here, did I tell you that? Thish is my stomping ground, did I tell you, I woulden expect to see you round here, the girlies round here are all seccies and ball-breakers!” Simon chugs a half pint of lager down his elegant throat.