True Things About Me Part 2

I was fairly pretty, cute even, and that was the truth. Sometimes I really liked my reflection. Hey gorgeous! I said. Or I asked, affectionately, questions like, What's your problem, lovely one? And, Who rattled your cage, you bird of paradise, you? Or even, but this was early on, So many people would kill to have your life, you ungrateful girl, go and stand in the corner. I looked at myself from all angles. Everything was groovy. Everything was in its proper place.

I remembered watching some intense woman on a morning TV chat show talking about strategies to aid self-knowledge and subsequently move forward. So I got my hand mirror and looked between my legs. h.e.l.lo, I said, greetings. The whole enterprise seemed a little heavy, so I tried to be jaunty. Who do you think you're staring at? I joked. The thing didn't blink. It certainly didn't talk back. I opened it up a little, though I felt squeamish. Then I got spooked; it seemed so sad and angry. The whole area looked like a punched eye. I thought I detected a look of reproach. In the end I whispered, Goodbye and good luck. I felt we both needed that. Then, at the last minute, quickly, Have a nice life.

I was feeling hungry all the time. I stocked up on the things I wanted to eat: lots of meat, like Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby. Chicken and chops, sausages and burgers. Big slices of ham, each piece hanging out of my mouth like the tongue of a camel. f.a.ggots like lumps of roasted brain. I ate everything in front of the mirror. It was amazing how stupid my face looked when I chomped. I vowed never to eat in public. How could the people I'd eaten with keep a straight face? Or even prevent themselves from sicking up? G.o.d! I was glad I'd had this opportunity. I could at least save myself that embarra.s.sment ever again. Drinking wasn't much better. As I sipped my face looked simultaneously wounded and emotional. And nauseatingly pious, as if I'd been insulted for my faith and might break down. But this was all good, I thought: self-knowledge, and then the moving forward thing.

I decided it would be interesting to conduct an experiment. You know, go over to the dark side. So I stopped combing my hair. This was a big concept for me, and really out there. The stunning thing was that as the days rolled on and my hair got wilder and wilder, it began to look better and better. Why had I ever bothered? My slavish attachment to straighteners suddenly seemed insane. The new look was more grown-up. More don't-f.u.c.k-with-me-ish. Even a bit rock-chicky. The messiness said something to the world. I felt like maybe I was a dangerous b.i.t.c.h, someone very temperamental. Someone men would fall pa.s.sionately in love with.

It was a joke, of course. And I told the mirror, So who are you kidding, you loser? I knew I had to get tough. Get out of your bedroom, you adolescent twit, I shouted. You with your bird's nest hair and your horrible v.u.l.v.a and your stupid, stupid chewing! n.o.body likes you! You can't even stand yourself! (I said everything with an exclamation mark attached.) Take a long, hard, honest look at yourself for once! The portion of my room reflected in the mirror was so impoverished, so drab, so totally full of aloneness, it pierced me to see it.

I gazed at the discarded plate of bones on the bed next to me, the straighteners on the floor, and I cried with complete abandon. Me-in-the-mirror and I cried bitterly together. I felt for her, she felt for me. But even as I blubbed I knew I would have to stop soon. I swear that once, after a sobbing bout in which I cried into my hands like someone in a Victorian painting, I peeped out through my laced fingers and she was greedily watching me with the faintest of smiles on her face. The second she saw me looking she dropped her s.h.a.ggy head and started bawling into her cupped hands again.

I sat up and hiccuped. Why doesn't he love me though? I asked her. Why? Why? It felt comforting to indulge in repet.i.tion. I sounded like someone in a play. Why? She shook her head slowly and shrugged, miming one of those haven't-got-a-clue faces, which was surprisingly annoying. Perhaps he does, I suddenly thought. Perhaps he does, and he can't show it. Perhaps he needs me to help him. She looked sceptical. And also maybe you should get lost? I said. Honestly, what do you know about anything? You miserable, insincere cow! In a flash it occurred to me. Maybe he'd been trying to tell me something. Perhaps he wanted us to move in together, something huge like that, and he found it difficult. That's why he'd been a little touchy. It made sense. I reluctantly glanced in the mirror. My reflection had her hands over her ears and her mouth open.

I got up and slammed her into the wardrobe. There was another mirror on the outside, and things looked much better in it. I showered and dried my hair. Then straightened it to a luxurious shine. I rang Alison and we chatted. Her voice sounded faint, as if she was up on the surface of the ocean and I was down on the seabed in a submarine, but it was lovely to speak to her. She wondered if I would do a favour at short notice and mind the baby. I asked if she really wanted me to be sole carer for another of her children, after the bread incident. That wasn't your fault, she said. You can take him out for a nice walk in his buggy; he'll be asleep the whole time. I won't be long. It seemed like an excellent way to get back into the real world. Though I didn't say this to Alison.

I indulge in retail therapy.

MY HOUSE NEEDED sorting out. The baby probably wouldn't notice, but it didn't feel right to have him in a sad, dishevelled place. And who understands what babies see? Maybe everything. Maybe we all start off very wise and far-sighted and end up stupid. Anyway I was worried the invisible, dark mood clouds swirling around might get to him. So I opened the windows and pushed the vacuum around, sucking up more than dust and cobwebs. I picked some rice pudding-coloured dog roses from among the undergrowth at the bottom of my garden. Their open faces looked like gentleness realised. They had the frondiest of leaves, and when I sniffed them they gave me the most honeyed, creamy distillation of rose I have ever known. I put them in a sage-green bowl and they arranged themselves perfectly, the leaves spraying out in perfect collars around each flower.

I had lunch because when the baby came I didn't want to think about things like that, then I sat in the kitchen near the roses and drank some tea. The warmth in the room and the flowers' fragrance made me feel drowsy; sort of heavy and thick-tongued. I rested my head on the table and drifted off. The doorbell rang and I leaped up and ran down the hall. There was Alison, a bit breathless, and the lovely baby in his buggy. So, I'll see you at five, she said. You've officially saved my life, and pushed the buggy up over the doorstep whilst handing me a bag of equipment. It's a good afternoon for a walk, she called back as she got in her car. He loves a walk. Then she was gone and the baby and I were alone in the silent house.

In the kitchen I had a good look at him. Crikey, I told him, you are the most scrumptious baby I have ever seen. He smiled kindly at me, and sighed, looking around calmly, his pudgy hands resting like two pink cakes on his lap. He seemed to be interested in the roses so I picked up the bowl and brought them near him. He laughed and grabbed at them, then let out a sharp and shocking scream. I dropped the vase and it smashed, spraying water over his little brown legs. He stiffened and started bellowing.

His tiny hand was still closed round one of the rose stems and I realised with a razor-sharp slice of fear that all the thorns on the spine were hurting his tender palm. I burst into tears and sat beside him in the spilled water. Somehow I forced him to open his hand and took out the strangled rose. I got cold water and bathed his palm, singing to him through my tears. He quietened and watched without malice as I soothed his hand, shuddering rhythmically.

Everything had gone wrong and I'd only been in charge of the baby for ten minutes. I kissed his head and tried to look at his hand again, but he wasn't going to allow me. Little boy, I said to him, I'm so, so sorry. His cheeks were shiny with tears and I gently wiped them. I felt as if my heart would break, he was so sweet. I emptied the bag Alison had left and found a cup with baby drink in it. He drank it all. I sat on the kitchen chair and shook. Inside it was as if I had emptied out, like a cloud after a downpour. I wondered how to explain to Alison about his poor hand. Little man, I asked him, would you like to go for a nice walk?

I pushed the sleeping baby in his buggy through town. The wind barrelled round and round the concrete walkways. I went in nearly every shop. They were all playing the same music. The shop a.s.sistants were dusting shelves and rearranging things, talking about their weekends:... anyway, he said, then I said, then he said, then I said ... lowering their voices when I pa.s.sed by. Girls, girls, girly girl girls, I wanted to say, as if I give a d.a.m.n what he said and you said. All the shops were empty; I didn't see one single, other shopper around. It was as if the real people had been spirited away. I concentrated on keeping the buggy moving, otherwise the baby might wake up.

There were lots of lovely things to buy. I wanted a scarf patterned with blobby circles; a pair of caramel leather sandals; some chicken marinating in olive oil, chillies and garlic; a dusty, plaited loaf of bread; a long Cossack coat with a fur collar, but I didn't want to disturb the baby. In a department store I decided to stop and sit down; my legs felt decidedly dodgy. The cafe was empty, and the food looked artificial. I ordered a cup of camomile tea and perched on the edge of the chair, rocking the buggy. As I drank I worked out how much time was left till five o'clock.

In the home furnishing section they were going for an oriental theme. I wondered why people would want to decorate their homes that way. I touched all the curtains and picked up vases and candlesticks. In the lift going down I detected the faintest of stirrings from the buggy, so I rushed out of the shop and started to run. Only when I reached the underpa.s.s did I slow down. The lights were dim and I could smell wet concrete and maybe urine. People had daubed messages on the walls. One, written using red gloss paint read: Is this f.u.c.kin all? I wanted to get the baby out of there quickly, but it was difficult; I had to manoeuvre round a warped trolley.

As I emerged into the bright light I stopped. There were some things on the cover of the buggy, things I knew I hadn't bought: a candlestick and a little Chinese cushion. Silky, emerald-green ta.s.sels dripped from each of its corners. An embroidered dragon or bird or reptile, I couldn't tell, stared up at me, its eye a sparkling blue gem. The colours glowed in the gloomy mouth of the underpa.s.s and seemed to undulate over the creature; it looked as if it were about to take off, hightail it back to the department store and tell security.

I was so shocked I felt winded. The path ahead was deserted. The wind gushed out of the underpa.s.s and sent my hair upward in a swirling cone, pushing me towards home. I walked as briskly as I could whilst still looking normal. When I got there I rested against the front door for a little while. I left the still-sleeping baby in the hallway and carried the things into the lounge. I arranged them on the coffee table. Then I sat on the sofa and looked at them, waiting for Alison to come back.

I get tied up once in a while.

I WAS SUMMONED to the head of human resources' office. He wasn't someone any of us knew very well. It was the first I'd heard of him. I had been hoping, when I gave it a thought, that no one had noticed my slightly spasmodic work attendance over the past months. Obviously I had been wrong; these people notice every sad little thing. The room was in a part of the building I had never seen before. I walked slowly up this weird corridor, reading all the names on the doors until I found the right one. It occurred to me that he could just be an actor, someone they employed for the day to do interviews with rubbish employees. I knocked and entered. He looked the part anyway. Sit down, he said, and went on shuffling through a file. He read it for so long I thought it must be about me.

I checked everything out. No photos on display, just one of those stupid pens jammed in a holder stuck to the desk like a thrown dart. Yep, it all looked like a stage set. There were shelves and shelves of ring binders full of Health and Safety information. G.o.d, I thought, the poor bloke must be so bored, but then I remembered the day job idea. It was a way of earning some dosh. Finally, because I felt he was overdoing the file-reading sequence, I was forced to ask him if he found the story of my life interesting. He looked up slowly. The story of your life is of no concern to us, he said. Believe me. And this, he held up the file, is not about you. What we are concerned about is your productivity, or lack of it.

He talked a lot a blah, blah, blah a and I sat there blinking. Honestly I could actually hear myself blink. His shoes looked like enormous wholemeal pasties. His socks had little pink pigs on them. And then I realised he was expecting me to say something. So I said I was sorry, that I had been involved in some big family problems. I told him if he read the records properly he would find that I had an excellent attendance record up till now. Well, that's not strictly true, is it? he asked, and smiled mostly with his lower lip. Excellent is not the word we would use if we were being accurate, is it? So I babbled on about everything being resolved. I told him I was now back on track. We all hope so, he said, without emphasis. Because as I said at the beginning of this conversation, this is your first official warning. Then there was more blahhing as I backed out of the office. Thank you very much, I said as I closed the door. Maybe it had been a real interview, I thought.

In the loo Alison told me I should be careful. You don't seem to understand, she said, after I'd explained my idea about the actor/head of department/stage set thing. You may lose your job. Then what? Dunno, I said, but chill. I told her she worried too much. Everything will work out, I said. It always does. Actually, babe, she said, sometimes it doesn't. Has some alien ent.i.ty sucked your tiny brain out of your earhole while you slumbered? She seemed really down. Are you angry with me, Alison? I asked. Have I said something to p.i.s.s you off? You poor, clueless thing, she said, of course not. All I'm saying is, for starters, stop missing work. Just promise me that at least.

Suddenly I felt scared. I felt myself shrivelling. Now don't cry, you silly noodle. She sounded brisk, like a teacher handing out one's pitiful maths test results. Just sort yourself out. She gave me a tissue, then took it from me and wiped my face. Honestly what planet are you on? Planet-I-don't-think-I've-got-a-hope, I said. Well, come back to earth, she said, and gave me a hug. You really are a full-time job at the moment. Am I? I said.

It was lunchtime so we went to a cafe in town. I couldn't find my purse so Alison bought me a bowl of soup and a roll. Now, she said, spooning hers into her mouth, I want to see you eat all that up. You are getting too skinny. I told her I couldn't seem to do stuff any more. Yes, you can, she said, breaking my roll in half and smearing b.u.t.ter on it, you just have to concentrate. And eat. Alison didn't seem her usual self to me. I sense you are being a little unfeeling, I told her. I'm struggling, you know. Yeah, well, life is hard, ducks. We all struggle. This is tough love, she said, dunking her bread. El Tougho Luvvo, baby. That's what I think you need. Everybody does.

I stood up, but kept my voice low. Since when did you have all the answers about what I need? I said. Everybody? Who's everybody? I could hear my voice getting louder. You and Tom and the children-from-h.e.l.l? Those clueless, moustached, pot-bellied, female drones in work? I shouted. G.o.d, I thought, b.l.o.o.d.y Alison. I watched her as she sat there, hoovering soggy blobs of bread into her mouth. I s'pose the baby told you what I need as well? I asked her. Then I wished I hadn't mentioned him. He was ent.i.tled to his opinion.

Whatever, she said, waving her hand languidly, still smugly munching. Alison, I told her, you don't know s.h.i.t. I felt good saying it. Then I walked away. She called after me; there's really no need to explain to me about the baby's injuries, or apologise. I'm sure you didn't mean to, as usual. Oh and thanks for the candlestick and the little cushion thing though; tres, tres chic. I came back to the table. Obviously gifts are wasted on you, I said. But then I had to tell her how sorry I felt about the darling baby. She didn't say it was all right though, just went on slurping her disgusting soup.

I drifted through town thinking how ungrateful Alison was, how she didn't understand me and my situation. Probably because my life was so strange and exciting, and hers was so, well, bland and uneventful. But at the same time I knew I didn't understand either, that recently I'd felt like a punctured balloon darting about at a party I wasn't even invited to, making a slightly embarra.s.sing sound. So really, how could Alison have the answers? I couldn't blame her for losing interest in me. I was boring myself into a coma. It was all so tiring. I knew I had to go back to work, but I held my phone and waited. I was just about to send an abject apology to her when miraculously he sent me a text; just an address and the word NOW after it.

I ran to my car and drove. I felt ultra-alive as I dodged the traffic. Then I was at the entrance to an expensive-looking block of flats. He buzzed me, and I stood in the carpeted lift, silently flying upwards. He was waiting, and I ran into his lovely arms like a girl in a drippy, romantic novel. I started telling him about Alison and the meeting, but he kissed me. Forget that dreary b.i.t.c.h, he said, and the f.u.c.king personnel w.a.n.ker. Both losers. Come in. The flat was elegant, with huge windows. Outside clean-cut seagulls hovered and banked. It's fabulous, I said. Is it yours? I remembered the grotty house with the smashed window. You and your little, tiny, picky questions, he answered, and playfully tapped my nose. What would you like to drink?

I chose Baileys. I wanted something sweet and comforting. I sniffed the creamy liquid. Come on, drink up, he said, wandering around, his bare feet leaving indentations in the thick carpet. OK, so, first, it's way too light in here, he said, and he went to a control panel and fiddled. The curtains closed. I was sorry the seagulls had gone. Now we can relax and get drunk he told me. Do you agree? I said yes, I did.

The Baileys was warm, I could feel it spreading through my bloodstream, travelling along each limb, making my legs heavy and fuzzed up. Unkinking everything. One lamp glowed on a small gla.s.s table. He sat back on the huge suede sofa. Take off those disgusting tights, he said, relax. I propped myself up on the cushions and he took my feet in his lap. He looked all creamy and gold in the lamplight. You have beautiful feet, he said, and kissed them. He ma.s.saged the arches and I lay back and closed my eyes. Keep drinking, he said. The aching, frozen area between my shoulder blades melted. Instead it felt as if something warm and heavy were tumbling down my spine.

After a while he told me to take off my clothes. He told me to stand in front of him and do it. My clothes all slipped off. He gestured for me to give them to him. He held my knickers and buried his face in them. You'd better have a shower, he said. He was drinking whisky. I drank again from the heavy gla.s.s he'd refilled for me. I was entirely in his hands. You can do whatever you want to me, I told him. I know, he said, and led me to the bathroom. He helped me into the shower and turned it on. He adjusted the temperature of the water. Now wash yourself properly, and don't forget your hair.

I splashed all sorts of gorgeous things over myself from the row of bottles on a gla.s.s shelf in the shower area. The hot water, the alcohol, the perfume in the shower mist, being with him, sent me somewhere. As I turned off the water I heard music coming from the lounge. I was drying myself when he came into the bathroom. He peed in the sink, and then told me to get back in the shower. You can wash me now, he said. I poured something from one of the bottles over his shoulders and began to soap his chest and belly. He had a scar, still slightly red, that looked almost like a flower just below his ribs on the left side. A slight altercation, he said. When I touched it he pushed my hand away. The crown of my head came up to the level of his nipples. I sucked them until they stood out. He kept his eyes closed and sipped from his whisky gla.s.s. It was so wonderful. And my c.o.c.k, he said, and smiled.

We dried each other and chose perfumes to put on. He led me into another room off the bathroom and sat me in front of a mirrored dressing table. Then he dried my hair, brushing until it clicked with static. His body was wet and evenly coloured, almost unreal. I'm good at doing this, he said, and wound my hair into a thick coil. He used it like a rope to pull my head backwards. I could feel my neck being stretched taut. Try to swallow, he said. You can't, can you? I watched his reflection in the mirror. He laughed softly and held his erect p.e.n.i.s, moving his hand up and down the shaft. He let my hair go and squeezed my breast until I screamed. That feels f.u.c.king great to me, he whispered. Tell me how you feel. Shall I do it again? He stood behind and held my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Then he twisted them in his fists. I could feel his p.e.n.i.s between my shoulder blades. Tell me when to stop. But I didn't. You b.i.t.c.h, he said. Are you coming already?

I loved watching us in the mirror. We looked like people in a film. Now I want you to wear this, he said, and tied a silky mask over my eyes. Is that OK? I felt peaceful with my eyes covered. He led me back into the lounge and helped me to sit on what felt like a dining chair. He positioned my arms and legs. I'm using your tights to tie you, he said. I could hear him ripping them. I felt him wrapping the flimsy fabric round each ankle, and winding it round the chair legs. He pushed my knees apart. Are you comfortable? Try and move. Now I'm going to tie your hands behind your back. Have another drink. He held the gla.s.s to my lips, and as I drank some dripped onto my raw b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I told him my arms hurt, but he didn't answer. Are you going to f.u.c.k me now? I asked. Questions again, he said and slapped me short and hard on the side of my face. I won't be long.

I waited. Jazz was playing, music I didn't understand. I felt absolutely alone, and aware of everything around me, my body weak and slack. But somewhere inside my ribs, or pelvis, I was intensely clasped and trembling, almost in pain. Then he was back, and his mood had changed, I could sense immediately. His hands were shaking, his breathing quick and shallow. I told him I needed the bathroom. He pulled my hair as he took the mask away. I felt as if it had melded to my face, and he was peeling my skin off. I kept my eyes shut.

Have you taken something? I asked. Not f.u.c.king now, he said. Christ, you're not going to f.u.c.king chat, are you? And pushed my balled-up knickers into my mouth. I stayed perfectly still as he began to do things to me. Tears slipped out of the corners of my eyes. I could hear him grunting. He hurt me, but I didn't make a sound. I didn't look at him at all.

Then I felt him untying me. He was breathing quickly. He made me lie on the floor with a cushion under my hips, and took the little wet bundle out of my mouth. He stood above me, and I forced myself to look at him. His body was shiny with sweat, his ribs standing out, stomach slack. His jaw seemed wrong. In the corners of his mouth were little spots of foam. Only the whites of his eyes were visible, and I was sure he couldn't see me. I said his name but he didn't hear me. He was holding a shiny black d.i.l.d.o in his hand. I could see his erection had disappeared, and he was trying to activate it again, muttering to himself. He kneeled down between my legs. Scream now, and I'll kill you, he said. I swear to G.o.d I will.

There was a hammering sound. Someone banging at the door, but it felt part of what I was feeling. I couldn't tell. He leaped upright as the lights snapped on. There were two men in the room. I lay on the floor with the thing he'd used still inside me. One of the men lunged and punched him, but he hardly swayed. The three of them stood poised, looking at each other. The other man said, I told you not to come here any more, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He stood between them, naked, then he put his arm round the man who'd punched him and pulled him near. He was laughing and dancing on the spot. Don't ever do that again, he whispered into his hair. The two men seemed wary of him. Then one of them nudged me with his foot. What's this, you naughty boy? he asked. Nothing, he answered. Then they started laughing loudly, and went into the kitchen. I heard one of them telling him to get his clothes on. It sounded as if they were starting to cook something. After a while he shouted to me. Get up, he said. Your taxi will be here in five.

I don't talk to the animals.

THE TAXI DROVE away. Then I walked up my garden path. The house was just the same. For a while I couldn't get my key in the lock. I stood outside and checked I was in the right street; perhaps this was not my place. But then the key turned. I let the door swing open. There was a message on the answerphone. That was the first thing I saw; my ridiculous answerphone on the hall table. On-off, on-off, on-off. I watched the red light blinking like a third, faltering eye. Although I knew, it took me a while to work out what the tiny light meant. Red was for danger, surely. Or pain. I didn't have the strength to listen anyway, so I drifted past and stood in the kitchen.

I thought how sweet the kitchen looked. The things I'd bought. It made me laugh. I felt as if all my bones were broken into gravel; my whole skeleton crushed to pieces of shale. How was I standing upright? It wasn't possible. And yet I was. The amazing broken, unbreakable girl! If I'd had the energy to jump up and down I'd have probably sounded like a box of dried peas. Here were my nice things I'd gone out and chosen. It was tragic really. I picked up my kettle and remembered how, after I'd got it, I kept on filling it with water and switching it on. Just to hear that cute whistle. Like the sound a nana's kettle would make in the kitchen of a plump, biscuit-baking nana. My reflection in its shiny surface showed me with a huge, pendulous nose and minuscule squinty eyes. Ravishing.

Something terrible has happened to me, I whispered, standing in the kitchen. It was like a film set. Obviously the kitchen of a nice woman. I could see her darling children arriving home from school waving their A-grade test papers. Hungry for homespun, vitaminy meals. And then her muscly husband. Maybe he'd bend her over the sink and push his huge s.c.h.l.o.n.g up under her pinny. Shove, shove, shove, and kerpow! Her glossy hair would swing softly. All the time she'd be stirring something delicious on the stove, maybe even feeding the hamster. But stop, I thought. Who cares about that stupid woman? I have experienced something very bad and serious. Surely something horrible and wrong. Or maybe it was wonderful. I couldn't tell yet.

Then I began to sense a soft, pink balloon of pure happiness grow in my chest, so I sat down and laughed until it drifted up into my head. This balloon, it was like a barometer, and I knew it showed me things. So I concentrated on the way it moved to fill each hollow and shelf inside my skull, and while that happened I watched the evening lower itself into the garden. Through the kitchen window I could see my wrought-iron table and chairs quietly standing on the patio. A slim, grey cat I'd never seen before leaped up onto the table and surveyed the garden, then turned to look at the house. I wondered if it saw me. I hated that cat sitting on my table, its smug face, but there was nothing I could do about it. Beyond the cat I could make out, at the end of the lawn, my cream roses like miniature lamps amongst the tangled, darkening hedgerow.

On the horizon the hills waited for the evening to reach them. I knew my house was closing in around me, like a slowly shutting, plush-filled sh.e.l.l. And I would be the skinless creature curled up inside. I could be safe in here. Then I felt a cold breeze flowing in from the hall. I ran to the front door, it was yawning open. How had I left it unclosed? How could I have done that? It was a thing I never did.

On the front step the grey cat sat upright staring at me. Shoo! Get lost! I shouted, but it didn't move. Its eyes were the colour of pale green grapes. The cat and the sky over the houses were exactly the same colour. Maybe the cat was the evening, come to bless me, help me rest, I thought. No, that couldn't be right; I had always been afraid of cats. So I pushed it with my foot, not hard, just firmly, but it still sat on, gazing. I slammed the door and locked it. Then I bent down and peeped through the letter box. The cat was walking away up the garden path, its tail twitching. As I crouched, watching, I felt bereft; I'd denied a harmless animal shelter. Didn't that mean I was a really cold person? Now I wished I'd asked it in. Given the poor creature some milk maybe. It would have been lovely to listen to it purring, coiled round my legs on the sofa.

I lay down and covered myself with a blanket that was usually draped over the back of the sofa for decoration. I turned on the TV and switched channels. It was incredible, on every programme they seemed to be talking about me. Some aspect of my stupid life was being examined. The pictures they showed didn't look like me of course, but I knew what was going on. I reckoned they must be desperate for material. Serious, bearded experts were giving their opinions. Mostly they made good points. I felt myself drifting off under the warm blanket. It felt as if the grape-eyed cat was vibrating against me.

Then someone was banging on the lounge window. I thought it might be him. Come to say he loved me. I stood up. Whoever it was had their hands pressed to the window, trying to peer in. But it was dark in the lounge and I was invisible. I crept to the front door and listened. Someone was standing at the door. I could see them through the mottled gla.s.s, talking to the person who was making all the noise. I realised it was my parents, and I let them in.

What's happened to you? my mum asked, but she didn't really seem to want an answer. They were a bit agitated. My dad said that Gran was ill. That they'd come to take me with them to the hospital. I picked up my coat. I think you should go and spruce yourself up a bit first, dear, my mum said. Change your clothes, sort your hair out. We don't want you scaring the horses.

As I trailed up the stairs I could hear my mum asking where the kettle was. I wanted to rush back down and shout at them to leave my kettle alone. To get out of my house, and take their stupid string bags, f.u.c.king bifocals and dreary matching fleeces with them. I felt beyond all that s.h.i.t now. Soon I was going to leave them far behind. No real rush, darling, my mum shouted up to me. I'm sure Gran will be all right, don't you worry. She usually is. I'll bring you a cup of tea, and maybe a little sandwich? She was opening and closing cupboards as she called to me. Or a biccy? Bang went a cupboard door. I know, I'll make you a nice boiled egg and soldiers. You always like that. I dropped onto the top stair and started to cry quietly. I loved the sounds coming up from the kitchen; cups rattling, drawers opening, my kettle's whistle. Yes please, Mummy, I called to her.

My timing is dead on.

I SAT IN the back of the car and listened to my parents. They were deciding on the best route to the hospital. I had a fierce headache, and their soft conversation was like a light rain falling on the hot roof of my head. I held onto the door handle and made sure my seat belt was on. The fabric of the seat was coa.r.s.e and warm. I ran my hands over as much as I could reach. I wanted to feel really there. Really with my parents in their neat car with the tin of icing-sugar-covered fruit sweets in its special place on the dashboard. I wanted to laugh out loud at the idea of that tin of sweets.

What's going on there? my mum asked. Just checking your car out, I said, and settled back, trying to think about my grandmother dying. Maybe she'd already fallen off her perch. It was funny. There was a time when I would have been hysterical at the idea of her death. Now it felt like an item of news I'd heard on the TV. Something that was happening to someone I didn't know in a foreign country I would never go to. I nearly got out of the car when we stopped at some traffic lights; I had so much to sort out.

It felt wrong though, not to care at all. I tried to whip some feelings up but the inside of my chest was as hollow as an empty rubbish bin; totally, absolutely dried up, with my poor, tiny heart lying at the bottom like a crushed c.o.ke can. The more I thought about it the more desolate the scene became. No, not a bin, more like a vast sheer-sided sinkhole. Halfway down I could make out seagulls twirling. Their demented screams spiralled on the uprushing air. I started to sob. My dad looked at me in the rear-view mirror. Poor sausage, he said, I know you loved your gran, but she's more than ready to go. It's time. My mother craned her head back at me and nodded, scrunching up her eyes. Oh, so that's all right then, I said. And you two psychic ones would know. I suppose you decide when to pull the plug as well? There now, he said, you're very upset, it's understandable. I saw them glance at each other.

As soon as we got inside the hospital I started to feel sick. The f.a.g-smoking, hard faces of the nurses, who'd never fooled me; the sick people in their hundreds of rooms, breathing and oozing stuff onto their sheets; the warm air heavy with dead skin cells. I thought about the lines of trolleys full of sickening luke-warm food trundling up and down. And the sluices clogged with all kinds of gross lumps. I had to force myself to follow my parents down the endless corridors to Gran's ward.

I counted six beds, all occupied. Everybody looked dead as far as I could tell. One bed had the curtains pulled round. I could see a group of people through a gap sitting silently. It took ages for Mum and Dad to get chairs, and then we gathered round Gran. Her body barely made a shape under the blankets. I asked my mum if we were at the right bed. Don't be so silly, she said, holding Gran's hand. I wasn't sure. It didn't look like her. This one's nose was far too big. And her mouth looked unfamiliar. She was wearing Gran's rings though.

There was a small, elegant-looking man sitting in a winged chair opposite us. He had thick, startlingly white hair, brushed back into a mane. I couldn't help looking at him. One leg was crossed over the other and his arms were lightly resting in his lap. He smiled and nodded at me. Stop looking around, my mum hissed. Honestly, we're here for Gran. I tried to pay attention, but nothing was happening. I wasn't sure whether to breathe through my mouth or my nose. Neither felt safe.

There was a flurry from the group behind the flowery curtain. And a strange, guttural, obscene sound, accompanied by sobs and murmuring. Someone rang a bell, and two nurses came running. They looked as if they'd been eating chocolates, I thought. Don't look, mum said. The curtains heaved and bulged as if someone were having a fight inside. Then there was a huge, impossibly long burp, then silence. The nurses reappeared, and tidied their rucked-up uniforms. He's gone, they said to the ward in general. The elegant old bloke nodded and smiled as they went out. It's a mad house in here, I said. The whole situation is doing my head in. I've got to get some fresh air. Stay right where you are, my dad said. He pointed his finger at me. Not everything is about you. I didn't say a word, but I felt that was a touch harsh.

Hours went by. We drank tea. Gran was moving her lips and plucking at the bedclothes. My mum tried to listen. I asked what she was saying. Just the usual chicken sounds, I'm afraid, Mum said. She always loved chooks of course. I remember her telling me. She stroked Gran's cheek, nodding and smiling exaggeratedly at her like people do to babies. Kept them as a child, didn't you, Mum? she bellowed. My dad put his arm round her, and they both peered at Gran. Poor old duck, he said. Which I thought could have confused her, when she was so into chickens.

The old man still sat in his chair, looking n.o.ble. I couldn't help watching him. He didn't seem at all ill. He began to get restless, moving around in his chair, and laughing quietly to himself. He saw me looking, and gestured for me to come over. At first I thought I would ignore him, but he looked so sweet and smiley I stood up and walked across the ward.

When I got quite close he grabbed my arm and pulled me down to his eye level, uncrossed his legs and pointed to his crotch. Big brown stains were growing. Something liquid but heavier than pee plopped onto the lino near my sandal. The stench was stupefying. Almost visible. Billowing over me. My eyes watered, and I began to gag. I tried to call to Mum and Dad but they were both leaning in over Gran. The old man laughed as I wrenched my arm free and ran into the corridor. I threw up my boiled egg and soldiers as I dashed to the toilets.

I stayed in there as long as I could, splashing cold water over my face and neck, then washing and rewashing my hands. I took my sandals off and dry retched as I dunked my feet in the sink; the old man's s.h.i.t was splattered on my big toe. I crunched and swallowed some mints I found in my bag. I had a long sit-down on the loo. I really needed to wee but somehow I couldn't. It was burning and painful down there. I knew I needed to sit in a cool bath and attend to myself properly. I wondered if I was bleeding. My b.o.o.bs were tender. Eventually I walked back to the ward. Someone had cleared up the sick in the corridor. The curtains were drawn round Gran's bed. I went inside. Where have you been? my father asked. She's dead.

I pour cold water on events.

I GOT COMPa.s.sIONATE leave, so that was a bonus. Though the idea of the bloke with the pig socks and pasties being compa.s.sionate made me want to scream with mirth. The funeral was OK. Lots of people I didn't recognise milling around at my parents' house. Plenty of alcohol and sausage rolls; what's not to like? But I couldn't concentrate on the buffet. I caught glimpses of Alison and Tom, which was nice, though somehow I couldn't get near them. I began to feel people were deliberately keeping us apart.

The best thing, I found, was to walk slowly in circles amongst the crowd with a full gla.s.s and a heaped plate. That way no one bothered you much. Lots of people still hugged and kissed me, even so. The usual suspects; old male friends my parents probably kept under the stairs, and wheeled out for special occasions grabbed the chance for a grope. I couldn't blame them really. They told me my gran had really loved me. That she'd been proud of me. One grotesque individual, as he cradled my b.u.t.tock in his gnarly old hand, actually told me I was Gran's ray of sunshine. I couldn't help laughing. Mostly I didn't know how to arrange my face, so I just pretended to cry. That sent them scarpering.

Finally I b.u.mped into Alison, and we sat on a bench in the rose arbour, perfectly bosky and cave-like. The roses had grown up and over the top. Pale pink blooms drooped down on us. The smell was intoxicating. It was cool and secret. Your parents' garden is so fab, Alison said, and linked her arm through mine. Pity one can't say the same about their ghoulish friends, I said. Some of them are nice, actually, she said. I told her that inside these funny old hedges it was as if nothing bad could ever happen. Even as I said it I knew it wasn't true. Well, yes, but unfortunately, not true, Alison said. It ought to be true, but it's not. That's one of the things I love about Alison. The way she says things I'm thinking. There hadn't been very much of that recently. Alison, I said, you are so wise and lovely. I know, she said. Can we be friends again now? I asked her. We always are, you nit, she said. Then she asked me how I was. I'm not your mum, she said. It's just that I worry about you. Nag, nag, nag, I said.

I was horribly restless. Who are you looking for? Alison asked. Only you keep craning your head round. Really? I said. That was surprising and scary; why was I doing that? What else was I doing that I didn't know about? I looked at Alison with her sweet funeral dress, and her shiny hair in its usual ponytail. There was so much to say, but also nothing at all. Anyway, given it was my grandmother's funeral, I couldn't really tell her anything. It didn't seem the right time. I started playing the game we'd played since for ever. I knew she wouldn't be able to resist, and sure enough soon we were sn.i.g.g.e.ring, quoting snippets of cheesy songs to each other. Perhaps we should stop giggling, Alison said. Behave, young miss. This is a funeral.

We decided to walk round the garden. I wanted to check out the runner bean wigwams. We agreed that vegetables were nice and grounding. I remembered the last time I'd visited. I could almost hear the ice tinkling in my mum's gin and tonic. I had fallen asleep on the bench near the bronze fennel. There was that moment with the mint, when I'd felt as if I had been pulled back from something. There you go again, Alison said, pointing at me. You're doing it now. I don't know what you mean, honestly I don't, I said. You seem weird to me, she said. All strung up. Who are you expecting? Mr n.o.body maybe, I said. Alison decided to go and find Tom. She said she would see how my parents were.

Some people started to leave. I went up to my old bedroom and lay down on the bed. In the top drawer of the side table were my diaries. I pulled them out and began to read. I seemed to have been meticulous in recording all the school dinners I'd ever eaten. There were lists of birthday and Christmas presents, lists of the books I'd read, and the interminable walks I'd gone on. So boring and sort-of sweet. And lots of pages in code. I knew what they were about. Not sweet at all. Very boring though, and a bit pathetic, as those things usually are. I put the diaries back. Had I always been stupid? I fell asleep.

When I woke it was evening. I could still hear murmuring outside. I tottered down to the garden where some more people I a.s.sumed were close friends of my parents were sitting round a table. Alison and Tom were there. A parasol blossomed, its frilly edges fluttering. It all looked quite jolly. They had obviously been drinking for some time. The soft sunlight glowed in each pink gla.s.s. Having fun? I asked my mum. Someone found me a chair and I joined them. They were talking about summer holidays. Everyone was chipping in with lovely memories of happy times. Even the most boring remark sent them all into fits. I watched a tiny, dishevelled bird pecking at a crisp. Its wiry claws made a whispery sound on the metal table. I could feel tears blooming in my eyes; the little bird was so happy there with his meal. I was glad the bird didn't care about us. It put things in proportion. So I chilled out and drifted, drinking cold wine. I began to feel blissful.

There was a commotion near the back gate. Someone was shouting. It sounded like my father, which was unusual. Tom and two other men from the table got up, and went towards the noise. Mum strained to see what was going on as I poured myself another drink, then she looked at me, gesturing with her gla.s.s. Are you going to tell me who that might be? she asked me. Then she turned to Alison, and let out a loud gulping sound. We don't know what to do, she said into Alison's shoulder, her daddy and I are out of our depth. I think she was crying. Alison put one arm round her and gave me a look. Slop went her wine over the pin-tucked bodice of Mum's M& S blouse. Is all this something to do with you? she asked me. Maybe, I said, and gulped some wine, turning towards the struggling men. He broke through the little cartoony cl.u.s.ter, and ran headlong across the lawn, falling at my feet. One of his flip-flops flew off. My dad walked slowly towards us, trailing a jumpy, spouting, garden hose.

Apart from the snaking pipe and the hiss of the water there was silence in the garden. Everything else was motionless. I looked at Alison but somehow I couldn't hold her gaze. What's going on? she said quietly, reaching across the table to gently shake my arm. I couldn't answer because there he was, sprawled on the gra.s.s looking perfectly at home. I've come to get you, he said, grinning. His T-shirt was wet. I shrugged Alison off, and turned to face him. He sprang up and executed a perfect handstand. I couldn't help clapping.

Surely my dad didn't spray you, I said, as he lightly turned himself upright again. I could hardly speak I was so limp with laughter. My father coiled up the hose and shouted, Yes, I b.l.o.o.d.y well did, then held the nozzle up like a gun. I felt sorry for my poor old pa, with his forehead red and sweaty, his spa.r.s.e hair tufty. At the same time it was all hilarious and exhilarating. Why did you do that, Dad? I asked. I did it because this person is not welcome here, he said, more quietly this time, and pointed the hose again. And now I want you to tell him to leave. It would be for the best, I think.

My mother made a wheezy, sobbing sound. She was still at it. Soaking Alison's best dress. Chill out, Mum, I said. Why can't you ever be happy for me? It's not as if anyone's died. She jerked upright in her chair. How could you? she said, in an odd, strangled voice. You poor, selfish, stupid girl. But I was already touching his beautiful damp hair, connecting with him again. It seemed to me the garden was suddenly filled with birds and b.u.t.terflies, petals and flashing rainbows. And rooted to the ground all these stiff strangers dressed in black. G.o.d, what a crowd of absolute zeroes, I thought. How did you know where I was? I asked him. Sssh, he whispered, holding his finger up to his lips, I have my ways. Are you coming?

I provide bed and breakfast.

I COULDN'T SLEEP. But that was nothing new. It seemed to me I hadn't slept since the late nineties. So I lay on my side, hugging the little n.o.bbly pillow I'd brought back from my parents' house, and watched the dawn slowly bleach the curtains. I was paralysed by this creepy new mood, some new feeling that at its top end felt like utter exhaustion. For hours my brain had refused to move out of a circle of linked ideas I didn't want to think about. I saw a series of pictures clicking around like scenes from a shaky, antique film someone had projected on a grainy wall.

I could hear him breathing. One beautiful leg was hooked over me, both arms were flung above his head. I inched round and studied his armpits; the tiny coils of golden hair were almost like sh.e.l.ls. I sniffed him. Then my scalp stretched, my stomach contracted, and I finally understood all the pictures I'd refused to look at in the night: I was terrified. That was it. The thought of him waking up made me pant like a cornered dog. I must have looked unhinged, craning round, dribbling, my hair electrified.

I don't know; maybe I fainted. When I opened my eyes again the curtains were a solid block of light. He was leaning over me. I need a slash, he said. Then a nice s.h.a.g. When he got back into bed his p.e.n.i.s felt wet against my leg. He asked me if I liked s.e.x in the morning. It was a question I couldn't answer. One, because I didn't know, and two, because I was too afraid to speak. What's the matter, baby? he asked, and kissed me gently on the lips. I began to feel better. I hoped he hadn't noticed my eyes bulging out of my skull like a mad witch's.

You feel so stiff, he said. Relax. He ma.s.saged my back and legs until I spread out on the mattress. Soon I began to loosen up. That's better, let's be gentle, he said into my neck. You'd like that, baby, wouldn't you? I turned over, curled my arms round his shoulders and squeezed him tight. I told him I liked things to be gentle. Me too, sometimes, he said, and buried his face in my pubic hair. Don't, I said, but he wasn't listening. He pushed his tongue inside me. I love these little folds, he said. I wanted to knock his curly head away, but I didn't like to. f.u.c.k, that's tangy, he said, and kissed me again. I didn't like his lips on mine; it felt wrong to be tasting myself. You've got to learn to love it all, he said, and laughed so cutely I had to join in.

It was surprising how much I wanted him to stick his thing in me. I grabbed his p.e.n.i.s in the end, and guided it. We rolled around and I loved how we felt together. How everything mingled. At one point I saw myself in the dreaded wardrobe mirror, looking soft-cheeked and wobbly mouthed, my eyelids shiny. What an idiot, I thought. One minute ready to run away from the big, bad wolfy, the next romping with him in the freaking forest. Even I could see how mixed-up it was. Sick, even. I don't know anything, I told him jerkily, as he rotated his hips between my legs. Nor me, he shouted. Now stop talking, for f.u.c.k's sake.

When I woke again it felt like afternoon. He could have been a slumbering angel; forehead completely smooth, feet quiet, lovely fingers curled. I kissed him all over his face and mouth. His p.e.n.i.s was a floppy pink mushroom, nestling amongst the undergrowth. I flicked it one way, then the other. He didn't stir. I climbed out of bed, and had a shower. I felt optimistic in the bathroom. But that may have been down to my mint and rosemary shower gel. I read the label; it promised to lift the spirits. Still, there's something symbolic about a shower, I've always thought, and part of that is watching the used-up water schlooping down the plughole. From my shower cubicle I looked through the small window I'd opened to let the steam out. I could see blue sky with the prettiest white clouds imaginable, and vivid birds looping the loop, like something from a Disney film.

I decided to make breakfast for us. I left my hair wet; the dryer was so noisy. When I tiptoed back into the bedroom to get my robe he was lying in the same position, and I covered him with the quilt. Then I tiptoed out. The atmosphere in the bedroom was different. I remembered my rock-chick-and-mirror period. How desperate I'd been then. What was all that about? I couldn't remember now, though at the time it had seemed the end of the world.

On the landing I noticed two supermarket carrier bags he'd thrown into the spare bedroom. I went in and shut the door. Then I emptied the bags onto the bed. I was scared he'd come in so I quickly went through the whole lot. There was nothing of any interest; just jeans, tops and pants, cheap toiletries. I fingered everything, looking at the labels, going through the pockets, and realised I was looking for something that wasn't there. Something that would give me a clue about who he was. I shoved everything back into the bags, and went downstairs to make breakfast.

As I cooked bacon and made the coffee the thought of him lying asleep upstairs felt good. This was what people did, surely? Had a lazy morning making love, taking a shower, having breakfast in bed. The rest of the day was a puzzle though. What else did people do with their lives? The smell of cooking, the sizzling and bubbling, felt so everyday I decided not to worry. I looked out at the table and chairs on the patio. No one had ever sat out there, except that cat, that one time. Maybe things would change now. We could have barbecues, with friends coming over. Alison and Tom and the kids might come. I even imagined him with a pinny on, cooking burgers.

I was putting things on the tray when he appeared at the kitchen door. I made you breakfast, I said, obviously. He drank the coffee in one go. Then scratched his head and yawned. I could see he hadn't showered. Never eat it, he said, makes me heave. He held out his hand, and said, Car keys? I heard myself tell him where they were. I need a vehicle sharpish, he said, and picked them up as he opened the front door. I ran after him.

Something told me to be quiet a I even clamped my hand over my mouth a but I ignored it. Where are you going? I squeaked. Something drove me on, even when I saw his face darken. When will you be back? I'm going to ignore all that, he said. Seeing as you've been so nice about the car and breakfast and all. And there I was, standing on the doorstep, holding a spatula, listening again to the sound of him going away.

I'm at home to Mr Truthful.

I SPENT A few hours sorting the house out. I changed the bed and washed the sheets. It was nice to see them dancing around on the line, just like they did in other people's back gardens. In the kitchen I tried not to look directly at things. I hid the bacon and eggs. The coffee grounds clogged the sink, and that worried me. I dressed with care, and put plenty of slap on; as my mum always said, You've got to keep your end up, because no one else will do it for you. Outside I was dazed to see my car was missing. For a split second I even thought I should call the police. Then I went to the supermarket on the bus and bought stuff. It was quiet there in the evening. Lots of traumatised-looking women drifting around. Perhaps that's what we do: food shopping.

I ended up in the cafe, drinking thin hot chocolate. I read a magazine. There was lots of s.h.i.t about relationships, and how to do great s.e.x, great homes, great food, great children, and really great holidays. G.o.d, I could feel my own wonky ideas about how to live seeping out of every pore as I read. It was as if they were talking about life on some other almost-identical-but-not-quite planet. Not the one I was existing on anyway. There was nothing about what to do when you were afraid to go home. Nothing about that particular problem anywhere.

I waited for thirty-five minutes before the bus came. It was late when I got back, and the house was in darkness. No messages on my phone. I had to force myself to turn on the lights. Everything was in its place. I locked all the doors and shut the windows. Then I ran a bath. I poured in something that made the water a sludgy shade and slid into it. The steam in the bathroom smelled like vanilla, like delicious ice cream. I could feel the water softening me. I sang a song to myself and the taps plinked in time. The water quivered, and I realised it was because I was trembling. I was listening so hard I was actually trembling. I went to bed with some pills.

The next day I remembered to go to work. I threw my clothes on, called for a taxi, and practically ran out of the house. Miraculously I knew what to do at my desk. It was as if I'd switched to auto mode. Alison ignored me all day, which was fine by me. I felt as if everyone was ignoring me. By mid-afternoon I realised it was probably because I was invisible. Or only visible in a certain light, like those pale brown moths that fly out of a favourite jumper. Eventually it began to get to me, and I went to the loo to cry. Someone came up to my cubicle as I was silently howling and knocked on the door. It was Alison of course. I recognised her sensible shoes. I could have kneeled down in the lav and kissed them. Come out, she said. I need to say some things to you.

I washed my hands, and told her to get on with it. Come here, you, she answered sweetly, and put her arms round me. I rested my head on her shoulder. I told her I wished she was my mum. No thanks, she answered, and held me away from her. You are a nightmare child. I feel sorry for your parents. I didn't care what she said, just so long as she was talking to me. She folded her arms. Do you know how upset they are? she asked. How Tom and I feel? Do you have any idea how horrible it was when you flitted off after the funeral fiasco with that vile man? So many squealy, spiky questions. I didn't have any answers. Your mother is ill with worry. She'll cope, I said. She always does.

She was silent for a while, just sort of staring at me and shaking her head. So are you just going to stand there and tell me what a bad person I am? I said. Don't you think I know that? Lovey, you're not a bad person, she smiled, just a mixed-up, self-absorbed one. You always have been, admit it. s.h.i.t, Alison, I had to say, you're such a disgusting head girl. I'm actually feeling as if I might throw up just listening to you chant on. I felt something break loose inside me. If we were into home truths, why not? I thought. I began to see how it was, how it had always been. Alison was one of those types who loved to sit on the sidelines of someone else's fascinating life, and shout advice at them. She fed off me, and I let her. It made people like that feel even more smug about themselves when they could observe another human being struggling. Unravelling, if they were lucky.

I must have said all that out loud, because Alison took a sharp breath and said tearfully, If that's how you feel then there's nothing else to say. She sounded like a second-rate actress in a daytime soap. I almost laughed. You know where I am if you need me, she said. Then she walked out sniffing. I rummaged in my bag for a comb, but my vision was blurry. I splashed some water on my face, and blotted it carefully. When I looked in the mirror I seemed to have grown younger. I could have been my own little sister, only I didn't have one, thank G.o.d.

Alison's not my friend any more, I said out loud to the echoey loo. It's official, I now have no friends. Even my parents hate me. I watched my silly smile fade in the mirror. As I combed my hair I thought maybe it was all part of the scheme of things. I had to grow up sometime. No one really understood. They all thought they knew what was best for me. I had started a new chapter. I was living with a man, for holy Saint Ikea's sake. I was moving on. I was cooking stuff in my kitchen at last. Someone was occupying the empty side of my double bed. I felt equal to it all. But round the back of my little heart I could hear a lonely breeze whistling away everything I cared about.

I have red letter days.

HE DIDN'T COME back and he didn't come back and he didn't come back. For the last couple of weeks I had been spending loads of money on taxis. I missed my car a lot. I fooled everybody at work. It was amazing. On the outside I looked like myself, and I sounded like her. I ate what she ate. I wore her clothes, although some of them I didn't like. I even put her make-up on. But inside I was just sloshing about. It made it awkward to use my computer and answer the phone, but I managed. I didn't know how much longer I could keep things going.

I felt as if some wet substance filled my cavities. It could have been water, it might have been blood; some sort of disgusting broth anyway. I was surprised my colleagues couldn't hear it lapping around as I stalked up and down the corridors. For all I knew I was leaving liquid splodges on the office floors. My vital organs had been sucked out. Inside my skull sat a microchip and some circuits. Inside my chest nothing at all. Not even an empty c.o.ke can.

Alison was nowhere to be seen. I asked the dolphin necklace woman I'd always made a point of ignoring. She smirked, and told me how surprised she was I didn't know Alison was on leave. Gone abroad somewhere. But Alison doesn't like abroad, I said. She hates paninis. She likes Skegness and buckets of tea. Whatever, she answered, brushing dandruff off her acrylic jumper. That's all I can tell you. I could have slapped her stupid face. Well, I'm unimpressed, I said lamely; you haven't a clue, have you? and sloshed away.