Don't Get Me Wrong (25 page)

Kim, who had been staring at Damaris openmouthed during the whole long tirade, found her voice.

“Can you tell me all that again, please?” she said. “From the very beginning?”

•  •  •

The club, in Soho, was in the cellar of a pub. It smelt of beer, cold brickwork, and damp. From time to time you could hear the distant rumble of trains on the Northern Line way down below. There weren't enough chairs, so people were standing against the walls all the way round, like a decorative Greek frieze. It was dark except for the spotlights. Billy Swan's “I Can Help” was playing.

Kim took a mouthful of bitter. It was weak and sweet.

These days she was two people. There was the Kim that everybody saw—walking around, going to work in Vauxhall, planning a trip to the Cardiff office, admonishing Eva for not eating properly, criticizing Harry for making Eva so tired. And then there was the other Kim, a clear, gelatinous jellyfish that floated about to no apparent purpose. Jellyfish Kim—drifting about in a trailing, dangling sort of way—seemed to be waiting for something.

You turn into a jellyfish, thought Kim, when your brain isn't working properly anymore. You become colorless from confusion. It's like sucking all the sugar and additives from an ice lolly and being left with nothing but water. Seeing Eva bald, plump from steroids, her skin dotted blue from repeated injections, was shocking enough. But there was also the effort of maintaining that this was all perfectly normal. Positive, even. You had to pretend, week after week, that seeing the person you love turn into someone completely unrecognizable was good news.

You can do anything for five minutes. It's doing it for weeks and months that turns you insane.

Luckily, if you're a round, rubbery jellyfish, you're insulated from shock. You float about in the cold, dark void, and nothing's going to affect you. Eva's last scan was good. But the consultant wasn't happy. Something not quite right. What, exactly? We're not sure. We'll have to wait and see.
Of course she has the most aggressive kind. The kind that affects young women.
But she'll be fine. Of course she will. Eva will beat it. She's having the best treatment. Newest drugs. Top London teaching hospital.

Kim took another sip of her warm, sweet beer.

The warm-up comic ambled onstage like someone's younger brother gatecrashing a girls' night in—not sure of his welcome but determined to stay. His clothes were all a bit too small. Seeing a bony wrist stick out from a frayed sleeve, Kim felt almost sorry for him. She wasn't sure he should be up this late.

The comic may have looked like a little boy lost. But he got people talking. He picked on the cocky ones, the loud ones, the ones who looked too conventional for an underground comedy club. Before they knew what was happening, they were spilling out their guilty secrets—old lies, dirty habits, hidden crimes. The audience had turned itself into one huge joke. By the time it was asked to give it up for the first act, it had been warmed up, ridiculed, and cut down to size.

Izzie was third in the lineup. She came onstage wearing a high-necked white blouse with a lace front, baggy black trousers, red braces, and Doc Martens. Her cloud of frizzy hair was piled on top of her head. As usual, before she started to speak, there was an uneasy silence. No one was quite sure what to make of her. She looked like an old-fashioned schoolmistress ready for a night out in Camden. Or perhaps Emmeline Pankhurst at Glastonbury. Part of you wanted to put her back into a grainy black-and-white photograph with bloomers, a bicycle, and a poster saying
VOTES FOR WOMEN
. Part of you wondered if she socialized with Agyness Deyn.

But as soon as she started talking, the whole room relaxed. Because she knew what she was doing. And for a moment you saw the world through her eyes, in all its mad, ridiculous glory.

Izzie stepped into imaginary conversations. She had Barclays CEO Bob Diamond talking to Wikileaks founder Julian
Assange about learning to love yourself. She had the Queen and Prince Philip standing on the Thames Jubilee barge, discussing the appeal of One Direction. She had the dean of St. Paul's addressing a flock of pigeons about their illegal occupation of Trafalgar Square. She made the absurd seem normal. She made fiction more comfortable than fact. And that's what public figures do, she said. They tell us the stories we want to hear.

“Because you don't want to think about climate change or the credit crunch or chlamydia, do you? It's just going to make you depressed. That's why David Cameron said he'd bought a hot pasty from a shop in Leeds that didn't exist. Because it was a nice story. Nicer than the truth. Which is that he'd never eaten a pasty. And this was the first time he'd heard of Leeds.”

And once you've made it up, you hold on. Defend it to the death. Right to the bitter end. Lance Armstrong. Bill Clinton. Chris Huhne. Like a toddler with chocolate round her mouth. The evidence is there for everyone to see, but still she denies it.

All around Kim in the darkness, people were laughing.

“You can end up with an elephant so big it's filling the whole room. And still you say it's not there.”

Don't, Izzie. Don't.

“Dropping great piles of dung. Flattening the carpet. Knocking the ornaments off the mantelpiece. But what do you do?”

Kim couldn't see Izzie anymore. Everything was distorted—just a shifting, shimmering blur of tears.

“You ignore it. That's what you do with the truth. Close your eyes tight. Pretend it's not happening.”

•  •  •

London, in terms of area, takes up less than 1 percent of the UK. But it's home to 13 percent of the people. It's something you're aware of all the time if you live here, thought Harry. You can feel the crush of bodies all around you—hot breath on your neck, feet clipping your heels.

The way to cope, as all Londoners know, is to pretend other people don't exist. Own your space. Never make eye contact. Sometimes people take this too far. A total stranger will walk straight at you as if expecting to meet no resistance—as if expecting to dissolve through you, in a slither of liquid metal, like the T-1000 in
Terminator 2.

But generally, if you convince yourself that the heaving mass of humanity isn't there (despite the elbow in your ribs, the cough in your face, the briefcase in your shins), you can enjoy all the advantages the city has to offer.

And one of the advantages is the likelihood of bumping into an old friend when you least expect it.

Harry was walking next to the river—past the concrete underbelly of the Southbank arts complex, which rang with the skid and clatter of skateboards—when he saw her ahead of him in the crowds. It was a perfect July day, with bright sunshine and a pale blue sky, and tourists were out in force—loitering by the jugglers and jazz musicians, dawdling by stalls of Brazilian street food and Peruvian handicrafts, leaning right over the black iron railings staring at the muddy shallows of the Thames. But even though he could catch only glimpses of her through the throng—just enough to see her long blond hair and beautifully straight back—he knew who it was by the way she walked. As always, she strode purposefully, as if she had somewhere important to go.

It was only when she slowed right down in front of a troop of Gambian drummers that Harry caught up with her. He put his hand on her shoulder and she spun round, catching her breath. Her magnificent chest rose in delight.

“Harry!”

He grinned. It was so good to see her. Titania looked just the same—clear skin with a hint of a blush, pearl earrings, pale pink lipstick. Her skirt, which was ankle-length, seemed almost transparent against the light, making her appear both completely covered up and wantonly seductive.

“But what are you doing here?”

“I live here. On the river.” Harry gestured vaguely towards London Bridge.

She raised her eyebrows. “Well,” she said, “so we're doing quite well for ourselves, are we?”

Harry smiled. “Still in Kent?”

“Well remembered. I think it would take quite a lot to winkle me out of Sevenoaks these days. There's something so incredibly calming about well-heeled suburbia.”

“Coffee?”

“I would have loved to. But I'm just on my way to meet Giles. By Tate Modern. And I'm already late.” She smiled. “Come with me. He'd love to say hello, if you've got the time.”

They fell into step together, moving slowly through the milling mass of people. Titania said, “So go on, then. Still in banking?”

“Of course. What about you?”

“I'm taking a break.”

Harry looked at her, trying to work out from her expression what she meant.

“I went back after maternity leave,” said Titania, “but we were all miserable. Me, Emma, and Giles. I could have looked for a bank that had a better commitment to retaining its staff, I suppose. Or one that didn't bully new mothers to the point of exhaustion. But at the time, I just needed to get out. Which I think was the right decision.”

“I'm sorry.”

“The biggest problem, which I hadn't expected, is that I'm not sure who I am anymore. Emma's mother, obviously. But I never expected to define myself through my family. I miss my job. I was good at it. I still have no idea what to say when someone asks me what I do.”

They stood watching as a small boy edged forward to drop a coin at the feet of a street performer with chalk-white skin who stood completely motionless, impersonating a stone statue.

“I think men are very lucky,” said Titania. “They don't have to face this. You are who you are. You never have to worry about losing your identity.”

“Are you happy with Giles?”

She looked at him, her eyes amused. “That's a very un-Harry-like question.”

“Is it?”

“You know it is. The Harry I knew would rather have died than ask a question that mattered.”

“Maybe I've changed.”

“Maybe you have.”

The little boy, right at the statue's feet, put down his coin. The statue burst into life, bowing down with a huge theatrical flourish. The little boy jumped out of his skin.

She said, “The answer is that we suit each other very well. He's what politicians call transparent. Honest. Straightforward. You know where you are.”

“Titania—”

“That wasn't a criticism. It was just an explanation.”

He felt ashamed. They turned away from the statue and started walking towards the Millennium Bridge—strings of steel across the Thames so that people could walk to St. Paul's. The wobbly bridge, thought Harry, as it was for a while, swaying to the rhythm of footsteps.

“So what about you?”

“What about me?”

“There was always someone very special in your life that you never talked about. Are you still pining for her?”

For a moment, the world felt empty—no people, no noise, nothing but blue sky. Titania disappeared, too. There was nothing inside Harry's head but silence.

He felt Titania's hand on his arm. She was staring up into his face, pulling him close. “Harry, what is it?”

He shook his head.

“Let's find somewhere to sit down. I just meant it as a joke. I'm sorry.”

Harry said, “Eva is dying of cancer. And I don't know what to do.”

There was a small mechanized truck with a flapping multicolored banner making its way through the crowd. People were standing back, laughing, skipping out of the way. Harry allowed himself to be pulled to the side, and the truck trundled through, taking its time, and now there was a clearing where once there
had been people, and the sun was beating down so hard that Harry felt too hot to breathe.

“Harry!”

Harry heard the voice before he recognized its owner. A tall, red-faced man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, his paunch so huge he appeared to be pregnant, was waving at them from the other side of the sudden space. One hand was holding on to a navy-blue buggy with a great spotted sunshade. In the buggy, clutching on to a glittering pink windmill, was a little blond-haired girl.

Harry turned to Titania with a huge grin. Apart from the fact that his eyes held no expression, like the blackness at the bottom of a well, you wouldn't have guessed there was anything wrong. “Is that Emma? She's beautiful.”

“Harry—”

But he ignored her. “Giles!” Harry walked forward, hand outstretched. “Just bumped into Titania and she said she was coming to meet you.”

“Look at you!” said Giles. “Same old Harry. Hasn't changed a bit, has he, darling?”

•  •  •

“You can't see it,” said Kim.

Sticking out from Eva's chest, somewhere below the collarbone, was a white silicon tube. It emerged, man-made, from soft tissue, like a drainpipe bursting out of sand. At the end hung two brightly colored bungs, red and blue, like beads in braided hair. A Hickman line. No more needles, thought Kim. No more punctured veins. Now, whatever she needs, whenever she needs
it, they pump it straight in. It's a plumbing issue, that's all. Bodies don't have the necessary infrastructure, so you have to add a bit extra. A black mark against evolution. All these veins and arteries rushing around like scribble inside, but not one of them poking out of the skin.

You have no right. You have no right to do this to her.

“I'll have to buy some new clothes,” said Eva, “to cover it up. Something with a high neck.”

A pussycat bow. A frilled ruff. Kim could see the headline in a women's magazine: “How to disguise your Hickman line.” She said, “I could come with you.”

Eva nodded. She looked tired.

Outside, London was baking in August sunshine. But Harry's flat, complete with air-conditioning, was hermetically sealed. It was like being zipped up in a freezer bag. You wouldn't know it was summer. And you definitely wouldn't know a five-year-old lived here. All the toys had been tidied away. Harry had a cleaner who came in twice a week to polish the floor and dust behind the fridge.