Running in Heels (39 page)

We have a six-minute conversation that lasts for hours. I'm still yawning when I get to Pilates. I stare round the studio in dismay.

“I know it
looks
like a torture chamber,” says Robin. “That's because it is!”

I smile, politely. I didn't expect there to be other people wafting about, but there are. A tanned bleach-haired girl with a pierced belly button, sparingly dressed in Nike's finest. A solid horsy woman in a loose T-shirt and baggy leggings. A nondescript man in a tracksuit. They are all stretched on various types of rack, their legs or arms attached to pulleys, and moving slowly back and forth. My instinct tells me to run for my life. As ever, I ignore it. I fill in the form Robin hands me and await his verdict. He beams and his eyes crinkle.

“PR
rrrr
,” he says. “Lots of hunching over a desk, I imagine. I think today we'll work on the upper body; we'll concentrate on opening your chest.”

Grateful as I am to have a man concentrate on my chest, I feel drawn to apologize.

“I know I stoop, I know my posture's not that good. People are always telling me to stand up straight.”

“Are they?” says Robin, arching an eyebrow. “Bossy old farts. Tell them to mind their own business!”

I laugh, and my shoulders unhunch. This is the last time, for a while, that I'm allowed to relax. I never knew that lying on my back could be such punishing work. Actually, I tell a lie. And speaking of Saul, we're meeting up later. On the phone, after plowing through endless civilities—how I'd been, how he'd been, how my mother had been, how my work had been, how his work had been, how our respective cars had been (no inquiries after the health of Chris's car, however)—Saul got to the point. I still had his favorite tie, the Tweetie Pie one, and his signed copy of
Stalingrad
.

If I'm not otherwise engaged (only Saul could reduce me to the level of a public convenience in the course of courtesy), might I consider joining him for a light supper sometime this week? I could return his possessions and we could catch up—kill two birds with one stone. I wanted to reply: How about we do our bit for bird protection and I post your possessions instead?

Then I thought, Be fair. He's a lovely man and you cheated on him. And the truth is, your main gripe against him was his weight. He had a beer tire (it was more than a belly—it went all the way round) and he didn't even drink beer. You've moved on. Anyway it would be fun, no, it would be
kind
to see Saul again. So we're meeting outside the studio at 6:40. I lie on my back—on what looks like a skinny four-poster pinched off a dominatrix—grip the poles behind my head, and lift my legs to what Robin calls “a tabletop position.” He orders me to “Tense your stomach, and drop your legs to one side.”

I misunderstand and flop open my legs like a spaniel wanting its tummy tickled. Or worse.

“Keep your knees jammed together,” says Robin, ignoring this fine
Carry On
moment. I cringe. “Here, squeeze on this cushion. Good, now try and lift your legs using only your stomach
muscles. Slowly, relax the neck. Good. And to the other side. Nice. Don't arch your back…”

Robin is patient, especially when I have trouble with a lower back exercise. (I'm supposed to lie on my stomach, rest on my elbows, contract my “corset muscles” and rise up like a “swan.” My back feels like an old wooden ruler being bent against a desk and my swan emerges as a slug.) “It annoys me,” I pant from my undignified position, “that I can't do it!”

“Natalie,” murmurs Robin, “have you ever met any masters of martial arts?”

“No,” I say crossly.

“They're all about ninety years old.”

When I apologize for being useless because I can't peel up one vertebra at a time, he inquires, “So Natalie, if I came to you for a lesson in PR, would you be furious if I couldn't do it immediately?”

“Probably.”

What I like most about Robin is that he knows how to tell people off. I'm on my back—surprise!—bending and stretching my legs to maneuver myself back and forth along a sprung trolleylike arrangement, and trying to breathe correctly. Like Alex, he places a lot of emphasis on the breathing. I'd assumed the incorrect way was to hold your breath until you suffocate. But no. It's lifting your ribs. “Natalie,” says Robin sweetly, “if you don't stop lifting your rib cage, I'm going to take a picture and put it in a book of how not to do Pilates.”

As a person with the sensitivity of an alarm system in
Mission Impossible
I tend not to cope well with being told off. But Robin tells me off so beautifully, the rebuke bounces. I marvel at this as I dress in the changing room. Is it my imagination or are my clothes starting to pinch? I'd freak except it's hard to panic when your muscles feel like foam. I tug at my jumper and dab on lipstick, to show Saul that I haven't let myself go. Goodness knows what kind of a state that cake fiend
will be in. Oh well. A few hours out of my life. I wish he were Andy.

I shake off the wish. Not even a call to say thanks for the lasagna. Stuff him. I'm doing all right. Look at me, gliding around a Pilates studio while the rest of the world works. I'm living on the edge! This is
my
thing and I'm doing it, for me, without caring what other people think. I bounce back into the studio to write a check and make my next appointment. Now is a moment of triumph and I won't let Andy spoil it. Nothing can spoil it.

“Alex will be along in a minute,” says Robin. “She booked in specially.”

The moment is spoiled, and five seconds later I'm yomping down the stairs three at a time. If Saul's late I'll kill him. I don't want to see Alex, please don't let me see her, be here, Saul, I don't want to see her. I tiptoe the final stair and peek round the corner. The lobby is empty, apart from a sleek young man in a sharp suit and a crew cut, his elegant nose buried in a copy of
Dangerous Sports Monthly
.

No Alex, no Saul. I check my watch. Six-forty. How unlike Saul not to be punctual. I sigh, and the sleek young man looks up. I do a spasm of a double take.

“Blimey,” I croak. “You've changed a bit!”

“Do you think so?” says Saul. “Fancy that!” He smirks, showing born-again cheekbones. Fancy that indeed.

I attempt a breezy smile and reply, “Yes, I've never seen you with your hair short like that. I didn't realize accountants were allowed such short haircuts.” I don't mention his astonishing weight loss—all the blubber melted and replaced by muscle—I don't need to. My impression of a San Francisco aftershock was more than adequate.

“Yes, well,” Saul says, chortling, “I've had a few strange looks in the office, I can tell you!”

I join in the chortle, but I'm furious. How
dare
he do this to
me? I know what this is. The most juvenile trick in the relationship book! Wanting his tie and his
Stalingrad,
indeed! The new model Saul doesn't give two hoots about ties and tomes! He's all into (groovy click of the fingers here) calypso shirts and
Men's Health
. I've walked into a trap! He's here to parade his pecs. To taunt me with his digitally remastered personality. To make me realize what a fool I was to cheat on him. And, may I say, it's half working.

“Well, where shall we go?” I say briskly.

Saul rakes a hand through his shorn hair and my jaw yields to gravity. He's wearing a chunky silver ring on his thumb—his
thumb
—like a garage deejay! Where did he learn that? He's been watching late-night television!

I know that it's normal to swear revenge on a faithless ex. To picture scenes in which the fickle one watches, alone and dejected, as you laugh in the arms of someone better-looking. I know it's normal
ish
to stick pins in the private parts of a Barbie or Ken. But only Saul would see the bluster through to the bitter end.

“I took the liberty of reserving us a table next door,” he replies. “I looked it up in
Time Out
.”

Ah yes, the Bible of the unspontaneous.

“Would you mind terribly if we go somewhere a bit farther away?”

Saul frowns. “But, Natalie, I've
booked
it.” He makes it sound as if he's carved our names on the best table.

“Right, fine, whatever.” Saul hasn't changed a bit. “Let's just g—”

The door flies open. “Natalie! So glad I caught you! Robin said you'd be here till half six.”

“Alex,” I choke, as Saul looks on, bug-eyed. “Hi. This is my, er, friend, Saul.”

“Your friend Saul.” Alex twinkles. “Hello, Saul.”

“Pleased to meet you, Alex.”

They shake hands and I watch with gritted teeth. She doesn't know. Andy hasn't told her. Alex turns to me and I force a smile. So much for our fab new friendship. I
know
they slept together last night. This is awful.

“Sorry I haven't rung to thank you for last night, but I hoped I'd catch you here. Saul”—she beams at him—“let me tell you. You've got a good woman here! Hang on!”

I laugh miserably. So does Saul.

“Natalie,” adds Alex. “Are you off now?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” I simper, at exactly the same time Saul simpers, “But only next door. Not the greasy spoon—the
bar-café
.”

“Excellent. Can I barge in on you for a second when I've done? I won't be interrupting anything?”

“No!” cry Saul and I together.

“
She's
rather attractive,” breathes Saul, scurrying to keep up with me as I sweep into the bar. “Is she, er, on the market?”

“She's not a Texas longhorn, Saul, and no, you're twenty-four hours too late,” I mutter, as the waiter leads us to a showcase table at the window.
We
must be rather attractive.

“I think,” begins Saul with a chuckle, “she presumed we were a cou—”

“Yes, she did.” I soften my voice as a fiendish plan occurs. I squeeze Saul brutally on the arm and say, “You know—if a man is in a relationship it makes him irresistible to other women.”

“Oh, it goes without saying.”

His tone is pleasingly thoughtful. I remove my hand from his arm and spend the next forty-five minutes treading conversational water, while keeping an eye out for Alex. Saul does the same. At 7:35 she puts us out of our misery. Saul makes a big palaver—leaping up, offering his chair, fetching the menu. She orders an orange juice and lets him fuss.

“Ah, Natalie,” she murmurs as Saul gives the waiter detailed instructions as to the precise strength of his Bloody
Mary. “That was so special of you. You know what I'm talking about.”

She touches my arm. I nod. She isn't referring to the lasagna. “I would have called Andy eventually,” she adds, “but the way we left it, the atmosphere between us didn't encourage me to pick up the phone. So thank you.”

“Pleasure,” I bleat.

“He should be here any minute,” she adds, glancing at her watch. “After fourteen months we've got a lot to catch up on.”

I knew it. I excuse myself and walk to the ladies', where I peer into the mirror, reperfect my lipstick and practice narrowing my eyes. Let my heart crust over!

 

W
hen Andy saunters into the bar five minutes later, I'm ready for him.

APART FROM SAUL, THE MEN I'VE KNOWN ARE
not time sensitive. Age nineteen, I invited a guy round for dinner and he only rang to reconfirm two hours before he was due. So, because I liked him and was hurt by his slack attitude, I pretended I'd forgotten our date and was busy. When I told Babs, she was furious and ordered me to ring him back and say I'd made a mistake. She couldn't understand why I would judge a man's behavior by
my
standards. Men simply weren't
up
to being judged by my standards. I keep forgetting this.

“Saul,” I say, playfully ruffling his hair.

“Natalie, please be careful. That style is very hard to maintain!”

“Sorry,” I add, wiping the gel off my hands and on to my trousers. “All I was going to say is, Andy, you have my chair, I'll sit on Saulie's lap. Okay, babe?” On the pretext of stroking the base of Saul's neck, I poke him hard between the shoulder blades.

Saul makes a face like a soldier who's just been shot in the back. Then, mid–death throe, he gets it and croaks, “Certainly, er, darling. Come and perch on your uncle Saul!”

I want to glare at Saul for turning our
Romeo and Juliet
into a farce about incest, but I sense Andy's gaze drilling into my skull. Instead I mutter that I've run out of fags and escape to the cigarette machine. I can tell Andy wants me to make eye contact—he's emitting a beseeching aura—but I refuse to acknowledge him or it. When he greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, I sat as still and cold as a marble statue. If he wanted to communicate he should have picked up the phone. I shove the coins into the slot with venom.

“Natalie,” says a tense voice in my ear, “what's going on?”

I yank my fag packet out of its tray and whirl around. “What's going on?” I splutter, trying not to quake. “You tell
me
!”

Andy looks me up and down like the worst sort of shop assistant. “I
was
going to tell you,” he snarls, “but fuck it, I won't bother.”

We scowl at each other, bristling. I itch to slap his face, but frankly, I don't want to give him the satisfaction.

“Don't then,” I hear myself say. “Like I give a damn.” I stare at him and will myself to speak. I want him to understand me. I want him to know the truth, whatever the consequences. Speak, says my head. How? says my heart. The reason I'm acting so cool, I say silently, is I love you, and I'm petrified that you don't love me. I'm trying to hurt you, because I'm hurt. This situation is my fault. I should have used words; instead I played games. I made you guess. And you misunderstood. I hate you for choosing Alex but, if anything,
I
drove you to her. I was too timid to tell you outright and, by risking nothing, I've risked everything.
I stare at Andy helplessly. Years of not speaking take their toll.

I blurt, “I presume you'll be moving out. Again.”

“Tomorrow morning,” he replies rudely, and stalks off.

When I gather the strength to walk back to our window seat, only Saul remains. He is fiddling dejectedly with his silver thumb ring and staring out into the street. He looks like a mutant mannequin from the Harrods menswear department. He isn't pleased to see me.

“Natalie, wherever did you get to?” he asks. “Andy returned from the lavatory highly perturbed about something or other—what, I can't imagine. He said he had to leave, and Alex said she'd grab a lift. It was all rather abrupt. I thought you said that women were attracted to men who weren't on the market.”

Saul's expression is indignant and—as he does when discomfited—he pulls at his left earlobe, repeatedly. Once this would have irritated me beyond belief, but now it makes me feel protective toward him.

“Yes,” I say. “And I'm sorry to say that Alex is attracted to Andy.”

Saul's shoulders slump. “So what will we do now?” he asks plaintively.

“Well,” I reply—in a kindly, platonic tone so there's no misunderstanding—“you're welcome to come back to mine for a coffee.”

Saul perks up. “That's very kind of you, Natalie.” He fiddles some more with the silver ring, then adds—teasing me for past sins—“As long as it isn't Nescafé.” The next morning, I wake to find my head has turned to dough. I've slept but not rested. I slouch into the kitchen and, to my displeasure, see two coffee cups unwashed and abandoned on the table. I lurch toward them—
Exterminate!
—then stop. Can't you leave the washing up? I drop two slices of bread in the toaster, dot them with Marmite—I'm still not reconciled to butter—and mechanically chew it all down. I also pour a small glass of orange juice and a
monster coffee. I forbid lunatic thought. Yes, yes, of course I'm twitching to eat the whole loaf but why should I. I didn't speak but neither did he. And that makes him a shmuck.

I take a leaf of paper out of my printer, write out this sentence in big bold black capitals, and stick it to the wall above my desk. Then I scan the press release I wrote yesterday, and refine it. Now for the second press release, about the GLB's forthcoming
Alice in Wonderland
. I read through Matt's notes and realize that Mel hasn't returned my call and I actually need to speak to her, as she's one of the principals cast as Alice. I could put words into her mouth, as I know what she'll say (“I want to ecthpreth my inner life on thtage”) but it seems like betrayal, so I won't. I call her mobile again. No answer. I'd like to get this done today. I consider calling Tony to gain access to his girlfriend. I'm scared of him, I'm angry with him. He's just angry with me. I want to call him and be friends. I miss his approval. I need him to like me. My hand creeps toward the phone. Why am
I
always the peace broker? Why can't
he
make the first move? I know he expects me to give in, I always have. I grit my teeth and place the phone in the farthest corner of my desk. (As it's still in easy reach, this is a symbolic gesture.) I'm not giving in this time. This time I'm going to tough it out.

The doorbell shrills, a long bone-jangling blast. The noise is almost a trademark and for a moment I believe it
is
Tony. Until I remember who I'm expecting. I breathe deep—my rib cage lifts about a meter—set my face to neutral, and open the door. My social instincts urge me to say hello, but I crush them. Andy strides in without looking at me. A tube of mascara wasted. I shut the door quietly and try to rally strength. Come on, you spoke to Mum. You confronted her. After all those passive years. You
can
do it. And it made a difference. Yes, perhaps, but that particular memory makes me feel sick. The fear—it drained me. I can't repeat it. You can. Speak, Natalie, tell him. You could still have a chance.

“Can you please ensure the room is left tidy?” I say coldly. “Last time you left it in a state.”

Andy gives no indication that he's heard me. He drags a scuffed leather carry-all into the middle of the floor, roughly yanks drawers from their slots, and shakes their entire contents into the case.
I
wouldn't mind being manhandled by him, I think. Instantly, I think of my mother, who said something once that shocked me rigid. (I was a prim nine years old. She was listening to Barry Manilow sing “I wanna do it with you,” and she suddenly blurted, “
I
wouldn't mind doing it with him!”) I gaze at Andy and try to think cool thoughts, but each one sizzles.

I slyly check his neck for love bites. If I could, I'd rip off his shirt to check his back for scratch marks. And take a DNA sample from under his fingernails, to be thorough. Andy isn't what you'd call a hunk but he has a beautiful solidity about him. He isn't plaster-cast handsome either, but to me—I realize gloomily—his looks are perfect. The trust fund is now a lust fund. I retreat to the kitchen. It strikes me that there is no one in the world I want to tell this to but Babs.

Moments later he walks in. “Where's the dustpan and brush?”

“Behind the door,” I retort, my face as poker as I can get it.

I swivel in my seat, as my desk faces the window. Andy gives me the sort of nod that Marie Antoinette might have given a peasant. Then he drones, “And that makes him a shmuck.” For one horrific second I think he's read my mind. That's the least of it, pal! I'm almost relieved to realize he's read the big bold black capitals on the sheet of paper. I snatch it off the wall.

“I bet you think this song is about you,” I say.

“And you're telling me it's not?”

The blood roars in my head—eek, it's a fight-or-flight situation!

Slowly I turn my whole self round to face him (not because I want to—I have a crick in my neck). The truth is I would quite
happily argue with him till doomsday, just so long as he remains in my kitchen. I raise my eyes to his and I'm shocked to see the anger there. It's not a game. I grope for a searing phrase to shrivel his arrogance, but he's not even looking at me. I trace his gaze to the coffee cups and…Oh. A chunky silver ring placed neatly equidistant—possibly with a ruler—between them.

What. Andy thinks I…With Saul? Oh
really
!

I forget that—in my attempts to drill for jealousy—this is precisely the myth I've been promoting.

We snarl—unfortunately in chorus—“You're pathetic.”

Andy trumps me by adding, “Clean your own sodding room, you little cow!” In fight-or-flight terms, I'm airborne and halfway to Jamaica, but this remark brings me skidding back to land with clenched fists. “You've got a nerve,” I shriek, “pulling a strop on
me
. After what you've done, you…you…you cheap tart!”

“Tart?” bellows Andy. “Takes one to know one!” His face is taut with rage as he hurtles out of the kitchen. “And I tell you what”—he roars, thundering down the hall—“that Saul bloke looks even more of a prick than Chris!”—thundering back up the hall, lugging the suitcase—“And you bloody deserve each other!”—wrenching open the front door so wide and fast it bounces on its hinges—“You're even more of a psycho than your nut of a brother!”

Boom.

No way. I heave the door open and scream at the top of my lungs, “I wanted to get you out of a rut, I didn't mean you to shag her!”

Andy pauses by his wreck of an Astra and tilts his head as if he's heard a small bird tweeting. He waves a hand irritably, as you would to swat a fly—a bored dismissive gesture. Then he hurls the suitcase into the trunk (the car sags) and speeds toward the dead end. The army of parked Land Rovers make turning tight and I gasp as he hurtles toward them. To my annoyance, and relief, he performs a sharp, screechy handbrake
turn—the Astra spins on its haunches—and roars off, in a cloud of dirty gray smoke.

“
The Dukes of Hazzard
come to Primrose Hill,” I say, wasting my wit on next door's cat.

Then I shut the door quietly, run to my room, fling myself on the bed, and burst into tears. Brilliant, Nat, you really told him how you felt. Your eloquence is breathtaking. You really cleared up all misunderstandings, you, you, you—
mute!
I wail for three full minutes, decide I'm too distraught to be lying down, and stand up. I hobble into the bathroom and wipe the dirty rivulets of mascara off my face. My eyelids are already puffy. My cheeks look puffy too. Can crying make your cheeks go puffy? I pinch my cheek. Then I lift up my jumper and pinch my waist.

If you can pinch more than an inch
. I suppose women are lucky “millimeter” doesn't rhyme with “pinch.” I take off my shoes and step on the scales. I peer down at the verdict and whimper weakly. I've piled on another two pounds! I'm the tabloid cliché of a sad old cow! I must go for a run. Cut back. Yesterday. At that stupid café. I ate chips. Me, chips! This is tantamount to the chief rabbi eating a cheese and ham sandwich. With pork scratchings on the side. Off Claudia Schiffer's stomach. On Yom Kippur. While driving. On the wrong side of the road.

I don't know how it happened. (I'm sure the chief rabbi would say the same.) Maybe it was Andy's inadvertent look of pity. Or something Babs said sank in at last. Maybe it was talking to my mother and what she said. Or watching Alex eat mousse. Or doing Pilates. Being away from Mel. Maybe I realized that there was no
need
to be bone-thin. Not anymore. It's as if someone gave me permission to eat, and I can't stop. Everything I ever denied myself, I'm eating. The guilt is not enough to stop me. Even the self-loathing is half-arsed. I'm bored of using my body to speak my pain. If only I could learn to use my voice instead.

I lift up my jumper again, and stand back from the mirror. I
prod my stomach. Fatter. Softer? And my bosom (I can't bring myself to say “breasts” or “tits”—too sensual, too raunchy, I prefer the safe Victorian alternative). I press my arms inward to squeeze a cleavage. Wow. I look almost, almost
womanly
. I step closer to the mirror, and lift a lock of fringe to inspect for damage. Tiny wisps of new hair, growing underneath. I pull on a few. They feel hardy. Rooted. I graze a hand across my collarbone. It's still knobbly but not so…distressing. I straighten my jumper, tear my gaze from the mirror, and return to my desk.

“Oh, well,” I say, sighing, “back to work.” I try to put all thought of Andy and food out of my head. The only way I can do this is by putting Tina Turner on the CD at top volume. My other bright idea is to light a scented candle. I've never particularly liked scented candles, they remind me of my mother's obsession with air fresheners—the need to choke nature from the room and replace it with stifling artificiality. But this is a posh candle, purporting to smell of “rain forest.” I lit it on my first day of liberty from the GL Ballet. Babs bought it for me, as a thank-you for sending her to a Kensington spa for a Thai yoga massage. It was her twenty-sixth-birthday present, and she loved it.