Page 16 of What It's Like in Words
Not me, obviously.
(the “cool” piece)
He rolled his eyes, but I could see that he was fighting a smile. A feeling of warmth rose in me like when I saw a baby otter.
The doorbell went.
It’s Ruth!
She’s late.
RUTH ARRIVED IN ANeighties’ waistcoat, high-waisted jeans, and a selection of gold necklaces. I was wearing a black dungaree dress and a white shirt. She looked like she was in a fashion campaign and I looked like a Victorian ghost.
I went to the kitchen to make her a cocktail and watched them: him on the sofa arm, holding his beer, arm muscles flexed; her, gesticulating, bracelets sliding down her arm. Ruth didn’t curate pieces of herself. I remembered my therapist at school telling me to separate my emotions from myself. Ruth had always been able to do that; her core was fixed.
I joined them and handed her a passion fruit martini. I’m sorry, I used too much syrup!
He raised his eyebrows, and Ruth nudged my arm. Where’s my beer? he asked. Ruth told him to get it himself. I loved how comfortable they were with each other already. He asked if he could change the music. Ruth, have you noticed how crap Enola’s taste in music is considering otherwise she pretends to be cool? And she can’t cook for herself, he said, and laughed. How do you survive, honey? You’re like a baby deer in the wild.
She’s fine, said Ruth. And it’s cooler to like the music you like as opposed to the music that everyone else likes.
He made a face at me. I made a face back. Ruth sipped her martini and told me that it was delicious. He said that it wasn’t kind to lie. I laughed and he laughed.
I wanted him more every day. I was addicted to the details: what his skin smelled like, how big his cock was, the songs he hummed in the shower. I even loved the smell of his cigarettes. Sometimes, when he smoked, I asked for a drag. I never inhaled, but I held the smoke in my mouth and blew it out, imagining a smoke ring.
I pressed my head to his, and it was perfect. He was perfect.
HANG ON—
I can hear my phone ringing. Fuck. I’m expecting a knock at the door, but what if it’s a phone call? Could it be Ruth calling to tell mehow the team-building exercises are going?They asked me for an interesting fact about myself and I told them about the guy I killed in Vegas.
I slide shut the balcony doors and return to the warmth. In the bedroom, my T-shirt is a bad joke by the wardrobe and my phone is still smashed but sentient. It’s not Ruth, but I’m relieved when I see the name on the screen.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Ruth’s mum’s voice is deep and warm.
“Hi, Catherine.” I’m surprised to find that mine is trembling—I realize this is the first time I’ve spoken today.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, “how are you doing?”
“Oh yes, I’m fine, I just… I just have a sore throat,” I lie, coughing. “That’s better!” My voice comes out stronger. “How are you?”
“Can’t complain… Have you heard from Ruth yet?”
Catherine doesn’t know that we’re fighting. I answer that I haven’t, and she pauses, then: “I just hope she gives this job a real chance.”
“She went to Bath for the training day, which is a good sign!”
She tells me that I know her daughter better than she does. “And listen, I wanted to check in with you about Christmas. Are you going to be coming to us? It’ll be a quieter one this year, as Emily and the girls are at Samson’s.”
Will Ruth want me there this Christmas?
“I’ll let you know in the next couple of days, if that’s okay?”
I sit on the edge of the bed, and the photo that Catherine gave me last Christmas stares at me from the wardrobe mirror. Dad’s sloping nose, weak jawline, and protruding ears are mine now. But my eyes still belong to Mum. Pale brown, almost amber, with a dark ring framing the iris. They are reptilian. Mum’s beauty is the first thing people comment on if they meet her, with a note of surprise, like they weren’t expecting her to be. My mum was an actress before she met my dad. She made people admire her for a living. I am not my mother’s daughter.
“Oh, of course. There’s no rush. You know me, I’m just getting organized,” Catherine says.
“Thank you.”
