My resolve is much stronger now. By the next morning I was sure that I had done the right thing – better to be on my own than compromise with someone I wasn’t entirely convinced about. I spent the weekend at Mum’s in case Phil came over again and I let him talk me back into the relationship, but there’s been no sign of him since last week… I told Mum a little about what had happened, about him splitting up with Lynn – the censored version, of course, although it made it very difficult to explain to her why I don’t want to get back with him, without telling her that he’s got a willy like a cocktail sausage and has no idea what to do with it. Mum always had a soft spot for Phil. I think she was more upset when we split up than I was.
She’s constantly telling me how worried she is about me, regardless of how often I reassure her that there’s nothing wrong: I’m just single, that’s all. It’s not a disease. Sometimes I feel like telling her I am ill, just so that she’s got something concrete to fixate on instead of this nebulous and misguided concern over nothing. Having said that, I suppose I do like knowing somebody cares about me enough to worry so much. And she’s my mum; it’s her job to worry.
It’s nice to be home again, although I’m not getting much work done today. I’ve been on a huge cleaning jag, running the duster all round the skirting boards, rolling up the rugs and washing the floors, chasing out the tumbleweeds of dust from behind the sofa. These Victorian houses are so hard to keep clean. No matter what I do, I can still feel decades of grime pressing down on me. I’d like to rip up all this woodblock flooring and replace it with laminate, but the original floors do look so much nicer. Plus, the thought of all the dust and crap that would be disturbed in the process makes my skin crawl.
While I was dusting the books, I caught sight of TLA on the shelf. It’s funny, I haven’t looked at it for months and months. I suppose I’m so used to it sitting there that I just don’t see it anymore – it’s as much a fixture of my flat as the velvet cushions and the Paul Klee print above the fireplace. I don’t get that shiver of pride at tracing my fingers over the letters on the spine; don’t pick it out and flip through the pages, unable to believe that I personally came up with all those words. (Although I do still wonder how on earth I did it. When did I have the time?)
But today I looked at it in a different light. Its appearance in class last week has made me feel aware of it as somehow an extension of myself, that old vulnerable feeling that I had when it was first published. I feel particularly concerned about Alex, for some reason – probably because of the review he wrote. What if he thinks that Tara is me? Worse – what if he thinks that what Tara does in bed is what I would do? At least there isn’t a lot of sex; I’d be mortified to put my name to a bonkbuster. There are only two real sex scenes in TLA and I’d say they’re both artistically appropriate, and necessary for insight into the characters… I wish I did have that sort of sex!
10pm
Well, guess what? Phil’s just been round again. I’d thought after what I told him on Monday that he’d have got the message. But it seems that he hasn’t.
‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ he said. ‘That sex was so mind-blowing last week.’
I was practically biting my knuckle at this point. But he really did seem upset. If he’s that upset, why did he dump me in the first place? It seems churlish to ask him, though.
‘Did you call me, by the way, after you left that night?’
He looked surprised. ‘No. Did someone call? Bit late, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s what I thought. There was no-one there when I picked up.’
‘Probably just a wrong number then.’
I nodded, although I couldn’t help thinking about the dark shape I saw moving behind the car. ‘I’m sorry you’re feeling low, Phil,’ I said.
He bent down to kiss me but I moved my head away, and his lips connected with my ear. I felt a faint twinge of lust, but told myself to get a grip. I tried to be nice, to say again that I’d moved on – I even trotted out his own excuse and told him that we both wanted different things (a decent shag being top of my list). But he didn’t seem to be hearing me. Eventually I had to put it to him straight.
‘Phil. You’re a lovely guy and a great friend, but I really feel that we aren’t sexually compatible.’
His jaw dropped and he blinked at me in amazement.
‘You never complained before,’ he said suspiciously.
I made some excuse about not realising it until last week – I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings that much – but Phil does have extraordinarily thin skin. He jerked away from me, grabbed his coat, and headed out the door. I followed him into the street.
‘Don’t go like this, Phil, please,’ I said, trying to keep my voice low so as not to give the neighbours a free show. This wasn’t Sex and the bloody City, after all. ‘I’m really sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. I just don’t want to go back to where we were before. Please let’s stay friends. I don’t want to spoil that.’
He looked at me, and I could see humiliation in his eyes. ‘I’ll see you around then,’ he said, without a trace of his habitual smugness.
Men and their pride! Especially where it concerns their sexual prowess.
Still, I don’t suppose I’d be overly happy if some ex announced that I was rubbish in the sack. Poor Phil. But I guess he’s really got the message now. And I really do feel OK about it.
Wednesday
Something very weird happened this morning. I’ve had this card, and it’s anonymous. It’s – well, it’s weird. I don’t know what to make of it.
The post came, just as I was leaving to meet Dennis Tennis. I scooped it all up off the mat and stuck it in my tennis bag. I got to the courts on time, but Dennis was late, as usual. I tried to warm up by practicing my serve, but I’d only brought four balls with me, and after a few goes I got tired of having to run down the other end of the court to retrieve the balls and try again.
Nobody else was around except a lone jogger doing circuits of the park, and a man in bright green dungarees digging up a flowerbed about a hundred feet away. He was listening to REM ‘Losing My Religion’, which was coming out of a flatbed truck parked next to him. I was quite glad Dennis wasn’t there – I was enjoying the feeling of being almost alone in a wide open space, the trees around me starting to change colour, squirrels bouncing along branches over my head, fresh air in my lungs.
I went and sat down on the court, leaning against the net post, and pulled out the mail. Two bills, a postcard from Paula in Phuket, and this interesting-looking letter with my name and address typed on the front. A good, thick envelope.
There was a postcard inside it, of a Gustav Klimt painting: Water Snakes I (Girlfriends). It’s one of his beautiful golden erotic ones, a woman on her back with that frowny, closed-eyed expression which is more likely to be orgasm than sleep. One naked breast is showing, and her arm is around another woman, who looks as though she’s sucking the other breast. The two look like one. It’s weird how he so often painted his women with their heads at ninety degree angles to their bodies.
When I turned it over it had a few lines printed on it, by hand. It said:
… I don’t think I can even write it. I’m not a prude
