The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets (20 page)

Eventually I got out of bed and began to fold clean, dry clothes into piles: me, John, Matt, Em. Through the open curtains, I saw Celia Devine playing in the garden. She sat cross-legged on the grass. She kept trying to bend the nursery bear in the middle so that it would sit up. It was missing its yellow Moorlands T-shirt, I noticed. Today it was wearing some sort of sleepsuit – blue with little white sheep on it. Anya appeared behind Celia, holding a large, maroon school bag, and leaned against the back wall of the house for a few minutes, watching her sister, not saying anything.

I closed my eyes, pinched the back of my hand hard and looked again. Yes, the scene was exactly as it had been. Still, who could say how long a delusion might last? A ghostly tremor passed through me as I wondered if I had misjudged my own underlying essence all these years. Had I looked at myself in the mirror every morning and seen a rational, sane woman who did not exist?

I was about to retreat when Anya suddenly ran on to the lawn and snatched the bear out of Celia's hands. Celia called out ‘Mummy! Mummy!' Anya laid the bear down flat on the grass. I saw its single eye, the black scar on its arm: two things I hadn't imagined. Anya took her school bag and pressed it down on the bear's face, holding it there. I could see the energy vibrating through her body as she pushed and pushed the bag, as if trying to drive it, and the bear underneath it, into the ground.

‘Mummy!' Celia wailed. A few seconds later, Kay came outside. She stopped when she saw what Anya was doing. I knew what was going to happen. I actually saw it in my mind, plain as day. This time I knew I
was
hallucinating; I was seeing the very near future, the events that would take place only a few seconds from now, maybe sooner, less than a second. And it unfolded precisely as I had foreseen. Kay
didn't hurry over to rescue the bear from Anya, as Celia had clearly expected and hoped that she would. Instead, her first reaction was to turn and stare at my house. I saw her eyes, nervous and sharp behind the lenses of her glasses, dart from window to window until, finally, they landed upon the small one at the top, and met mine.

I
AM STANDING IN A ROOM THAT HAS A LOW CEILING AND SMELLS
faintly of stale cigarette smoke and the cage of a rabbit or some other small animal – a guinea pig or a hamster, perhaps, though no such creature is visible in the surrounding greyness. I am standing in the lounge of Edwin Toseland's parents. They don't know I'm here. They are fast asleep in their bed, or so I'm told. When I first walked into the lounge, I trod on something soft that turned out to be a pair of tartan slippers, each one with a thin, crumpled sock inside. It is half past midnight. I am about to spend the night with Edwin Toseland, a man whom I have heard described, diplomatically, as ‘not universally liked'.

Sleeping with Edwin will no doubt turn out to be a mistake. Not because he is Edwin (although that feature of the
situation
is bound not to be without its drawbacks) so much as because he is – to me, at any rate – a symbol. He is almost more a symbol than a person. One should never copulate with one's symbols. It invariably disrupts their imagery; often they come to signify something far less welcome.

So, a mistake, then. Still, if I know that in advance, perhaps I am armed. And it isn't as if I've never made a mistake before.
Mistakes are survivable. Mostly. And it might be comforting to do the wrong thing deliberately, rather than to try to do the right thing, only to have your attempts end in catastrophic failure. In any case, there's no point ruminating on the matter, because the tiny, shadowy, calculating part of me that makes all the decisions without ever consulting my brain is dead set on the plan. Tonight, it tells me, I will sleep with Edwin Toseland.

The hall light illuminates drifting motes of dust in the doorway. The lounge is dark, apart from the computer screen's square of radiant blue, with a column of icons, smaller squares of different colours, arranged down each of its sides. I stick my head round the door. ‘Can I check my emails?' I call out as quietly as possible. Edwin is in the kitchen making coffee.

‘Sure,' he shouts back. I wonder why he isn't worried about his parents waking up and finding us together. Of course, he's a grown man, and only staying here tonight because his parents are going on holiday tomorrow and he's cat-sitting, but still… for them to discover us would be embarrassing, I would have thought, especially for Edwin. But then he has never given a toss what anybody thinks of him. That is one of the reasons why he is not universally liked.

My mind is not really on my emails, but I need an activity. I don't want Edwin to return and find me standing here, unoccupied. I feel that would give him the advantage, somehow. I do not know him particularly well.

He comes in holding two cups of coffee and puts mine down on the table in front of me. Then he rests his head on my shoulder, not as a gesture of affection but in order to read the message on the screen. It is from my mum, asking if I would like anything special for lunch on Sunday. ‘Fascinating!' says Edwin. ‘Your mum's obviously a scintillating woman.' I sign out of my Hotmail account and turn to face him, smiling.

Edwin is a small, skinny man with bad posture. His blonde hair is greasy enough to be mistaken for mid-brown. He has
high cheekbones, a sharp nose with a bumpy bridge that brings to mind the word ‘corrugated', and full, pouting lips. He looks like a cross between a pretty girl and a ferret. The sight of him, dressed in a suit that's made of some sort of furry maroon material, reminds me that I prefer tall, big men. This leads to an area of thought into which I am determined not to stray, and solidifies my resolve to have sex with Edwin. I need a night off from all that. And Edwin is the opposite – physically, symbolically, in every possible respect. He can help me to fend off the feelings that would lay into me if I were alone.

I smile when he insults my mother. I cannot afford for this night to end badly, and it won't, as long as I decide right now that I will accept whatever Edwin says or does. More than that, I will welcome it. I will make a success of this venture, so that when I look back on tonight it will be as a fond memory.

‘I've got something to show you,' says Edwin, taking the mouse from my hand and jabbing me with his elbow. ‘Shift!' I allow him to push me off the chair. As he clicks, I stand behind him, sipping my coffee. It's too strong and the rim of the cup is slimy. I rub my lips together and it is as if I am suddenly wearing lip balm. I turn away, pull a tissue out of my handbag and wipe my mouth until it hurts.

Why does Edwin want to sleep with me? I cannot possibly be a symbol for him in the way that he is for me. Nobody's mind works in the same strange way that mine does. When I figured this out, I stopped explaining my behaviour to people. Nobody's understanding is enhanced by an explanation, I realised, unless it is one they themselves might give.

My eyes are beginning to adjust to the darkness. I notice that there are three walking sticks in one corner of the room, leaning against the wall behind the sofa. Two have smooth sides. The other has a rough, gnarled look, rather like an enlarged pretzel.

‘Here we are!' says Edwin proudly. The computer screen fills with a picture of a sweaty, naked couple having sex.

‘What about it?' I ask, not understanding, wondering if I'm supposed to recognise one of the people.

Edwin tuts. ‘It's meant to make you feel horny. Doesn't it?'

‘No.'

‘Oh. Well, it does me.'

‘That's probably because you can see everything the woman has to offer and very little of the man. As with most pornography.' I fall silent, cringing at my own words. I sound like a prig, or a feminist.

‘Right. Close your eyes,' says Edwin. ‘Avert thy gaze.' I have heard him do this before, call people ‘thee' and ‘thou', so I don't worry unduly or take it personally. I think he does it so that everybody remembers he works in a library. ‘Okay, you can look now. This'll be more up your street.'

I turn to face the computer screen. The big picture of the copulating couple has gone, and in its place are six smaller photographs, laid out neatly in three rows of two. I inspect them carefully, one by one. The first is of an erect penis poking out of a pair of blue checked boxer shorts. The penis itself is orangey-brown, the colour of fake tan. I raise my eyebrows; time to move on, I think. The next photo is much the same, except this time the penis is paler and has one or two pimples around its base. Beside me, Edwin rocks back and forth in his chair, impatient for me to show signs of enthusiasm. ‘Well?' he says.

‘Er…yeah!' I try to sound appreciative. All the pictures belong to, shall we say, the same genre, though the details vary. One phallus has a peculiarly jaunty-looking head. Another nestles in an absurdly large, purple scrotum. In one photograph, the pubic hair looks tired and colourless, like grass around the central reservation of a motorway.

‘What do you reckon?' says Edwin.

‘Well…they're a bit gross.' I laugh, to soften my criticism.

‘There's no pleasing some people,' he mutters. ‘You're not into porn?'

‘Er… no, not really. But… I mean, I've got nothing against it.'

‘Look, I thought some dirty pictures might help us get in the mood, that's all. Forget it.' He sounds irritated. He switches off the computer with a sudden poke of his finger. The room is even darker now, and I am relieved. Edwin takes his coffee over to the sofa and sits down. ‘So. You're not into porn,' he repeats.

‘Are you?'

‘Yeah. Course. I'm a pervert,' he announces cheerfully. I note his quick recovery from disappointment, his ability to switch back to a good mood as if the bad one never happened, and am pleased, once again, by his oppositeness, his symbolic value. ‘All men are.'

‘Oh.'

‘Why not, anyway?'

‘Why aren't I into porn?'

‘Yeah. Do you think it's sordid, or something?'

‘Erm…' I do, but I don't want to say so in case it damages my credibility. I couldn't stand it if Edwin laughed at me or thought I was silly. I am also aware that it is absurd for me to be worrying about this. After all, Edwin has just, out of the blue, presented to me six photographs of hard, veiny erections, so strictly speaking, and by any objective assessment, I am by far the least ridiculous person in the room. ‘I think men tend to be more into pictures than women,' I say. Women prefer to know and, ideally, like the man whose pimply prick they're looking at, I don't add.

‘I know lots of women who are into porn,' says Edwin.

‘Not me. Sorry.' Things mustn't go wrong. ‘But…I don't need anything to get me in the mood, so don't worry. If I wasn't in the mood, I wouldn't be here, would I?'

‘Fair enough.' He grins and slurps his coffee.

The truth is, my head is in the mood, and on this occasion I am allowing it to ride roughshod over my body, which is lagging behind by some considerable distance. When I bumped into Edwin in the pub this evening, I was filled not with desire but with a different sort of urgent need.

I was with my two best friends, both of whom are called Susan. Edwin was alone. Drinking on his own on a Friday night. I began to wonder if his unpopularity went further than I'd suspected. Perhaps he wasn't even locally or narrowly liked. I introduced him to Susan and Susan, and, with great energy, he set about ridiculing them for having the same name. When I told him the three of us had just been out for a Chinese meal to celebrate Susan's birthday, he put on a stupid mock-oriental accent and said, ‘Sucky fucky Yankee dollar.' He kept saying it.

In the ladies' toilets, where we went at one point to get away from him, I told Susan and Susan that Edwin wasn't racist, but that he did like to annoy people. As the evening progressed, Edwin began to flirt with me more and more, probably because I was the only person at the table who wasn't staring at him as if he were a seeping boil. At one point he said to me, ‘I bet you taste nice. I can tell from your colouring. I could go into more detail, but I don't want to embarrass Sue One and Sue Two.' He guffawed at his own joke. ‘You know, as in
The Cat in the
Hat
– Thing One and Thing Two.'

Edwin invited me back to his parents' house for coffee. Only me, not Susan and Susan. Not that they would have wanted to go. ‘I won't bother inviting you two,' he said. ‘We aren't exactly hitting it off, are we? And me and Joanna have got a lot of catching up to do, haven't we, Jo? We go back a long way. We have a shared past.' He mimed inverted commas as he said these last two words.

Susan and Susan looked at me as if I too were a pustule. A shared history, their eyes said, with this specimen? I shrugged at them apologetically and went home with Edwin.

I don't know what I'm going to say to them tomorrow. I would have no objection, in theory, to telling the truth, but I know that they would find it implausible. Then, once I had persuaded them to believe me (for why would I pretend to be as reckless and unhinged as I, in fact, am?), I would have to devote almost as much time to comforting them, like children after a night terror, because they would surely be unsettled by their brief foray into my thought process, which, I freely admit, is a strange land by any ordinary person's standards.

Susan and Susan are nice, normal people. I fear that they are friends with me because they believe I am too. I'm very convincing, most of the time. I am usually smart, fragrant and articulate. I am frequently funny. They are entertained by me, which is gratifying. I enjoy their company, and only occasionally come away from our evenings together feeling like a sociopath who has successfully deceived her host group, whom she needs for camouflage purposes.

‘Your friends are prudes. Dullards!' Edwin said, on the way back to his parents' house. I smiled and said nothing. He was rude – deliberately, in a premeditated way – and I made a point of not taking offence. I relished the
opportunity
to embrace his unappealing qualities. It was all symbolic, all meant to be, all totally the opposite of the other business, the one I wasn't thinking about because it was my night off suffering.

And even if I weren't determined to like Edwin, however unlikable he is, I would be forced to acknowledge that his impoliteness is intended at least partly, at least some of the time, to make others laugh. He is one of those people who confuses rudeness with a sense of humour. You hear men in pubs doing it all the time. One says, ‘You fucking cunt', and the other laughs uproariously and replies, ‘Suck my dick, shithead', and then they both laugh until they cry. I think that is the sort of thing Edwin is aiming for, except he makes two fatal mistakes: he chooses the wrong audience (middle class
women instead of working class men) and he sometimes inserts a little too much erudition into his foul-mouthed-thug
behaviour
. In doing so, he reminds listeners that he is a chartered librarian with several degrees and not at all the sort of man people have in mind when they talk about ‘widening
participation
'. Therefore, everyone imagines, he should know better.

‘So, if you aren't into porn, what are you into?' he says now.

I am standing in the middle of the room, sipping my drink like a mayor at a civic function. Edwin hasn't asked me to sit down. It dawns on me that that isn't all he hasn't done. Oh no, I cry inside my head. Things are terribly amiss. Things are going wrong already. He hasn't even kissed me. We are on opposite sides of the room, and he is chairing a panel
discussion
on my sexual preferences. That's how it feels to me, at any rate. ‘What do you mean?' I ask.

He sighs. ‘You must be into something.'

‘Well…like what?' I have no idea what he expects me to say. Does he want me to name my favourite position, or my preferred type of man? Or would either do?

‘I don't know. Oral, anal, girl-on-girl?' he suggests. ‘Whips and leather? Something must turn you on!'