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cuban heels chapter one Maggie Dear Mark, I put a copy of the letter inside the cover of my new diary, reading it again, as I do so, to check that the tone is right. It's too late now; I sent it this morning. I always keep copies of letters. I photocopy them at the corner shop before I send them. That way I can fill a few minutes from time to time, looking back at the entire correspondence, not just the half of it I didn't write. My half is normally the better component. I must admit, the correspondence with Mark has been one-sided lately. In fact, without my side of it preserved, there wouldn't be anything at all. But I know I'll hear from him one of these days. I am pleased with this letter. I think one sole exclamtion mark conveys the appropriate degree of nonchalance, the coolness that might lead him to respond. I have not said that I will love him for ever, that I want to marry him, that if he has ever felt anything for me, he must catch the next train to Brighton and take me away from this laughable excuse for a life. It does not beg. It does not ooze desperation. It is a masterwork of under-stated poise. I put the diary back into the desk drawer, and wander into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I have four hours until I go to work, and in that time I will think only of Mark. I will not think about the evening's work ahead of me. Only Mark. I never felt like this about him when we were living together. It was only after we split up that I realised that in welding my life to his, I had lost myself entirely. We were together so long that all our friends were joint friends, and no one was loyal to me. When I saw that I had to leave Edinburgh, I left them all behind. It seemed that these people all belonged to him. Mark is the charismatic one, and I was his appendage. No one would bother to stay in touch with me, on my own. I have no friends left from school. I don't want anyone who knows me from that far back. If they saw me now, those Edinburgh people I thought of as my friends might laugh. My school friends might do the same. They might be horrified. They'd all feel sorry for me. The kettle blows steam towards my face, and I search for a peppermint tea bag. I don't drink normal tea any more, because I can't be bothered to keep milk in the fridge. The smallest carton goes rancid before I finish it, and I don't feel that foul globs glistening on the surface of perfectly good drinks are an essential component of my diet. Peppermint suffices. Even though it's unseasonably warm, I shiver, and go to fetch a cardigan, leaving the tea to infuse. One of my many spinsterish habits, acquired since my ex;ile began, is a tendency to walk around my life agreeing with myselfjn my head. I'll put on the black cardy, I tell myself, because it's baggy and cosy. That's a good idea. Well done. I find it crumpled on my bedroom chair, and snuggle into it. Mmmm. That's better. Now you'll be nice and warm. I miss Mark. I miss Ivan, my first serious boyfriend, stolen by my best friend when I was eighteen. I miss that best friend. I miss someone to whom I could say: 'Hmm, I'm a bit chilly. Aren't you?' I never offer anyone a cup of tea. I never share my food, never check whether the other person wants a bath before I run my own, and never huddle over the TV page conferring about what to watch that evening. I watch what I like, when I like. I never argue with anyone. Nobody cares what I do for a living. When I go out, I fight my way along the seafront through a gale, and watch the pebbles being washed up on the esplanade. I do not comment. Once, a fish was stranded, large and dead, over the back of a bench. It had been a wild night. I looked at the fish, with its bared teeth, and wanted to tell someone. I live in an inhospitable basement, in a big old house that is inhabited by three couples, a baby or two, and me. I don't know any of the neighbours. I wouldn't recognise them if I passed them on the street, except for a man with a ginger beard. My flat is deceptive. When I first saw it I thought it was lovely. The ceilings are vaulted, as befits a cellar. The doorways are arched. There are funny nooks and crannies allover the place. It had, I thought, character and quirkiness. In my desperation for a home, I overlooked the fact that cellars are traditionally cold and damp, and have no light. I have a large bedroom, an open-plan living-dining room and kitchen, and a small bathroom. My floors are wood-effect laminate, and I have no need for curtains. This flat graciously receives natural daylight between ten and eleven on mornings when climatic conditions oblige. The bathroom has no windows whatsoever -all the better to avoid looking at the avocado suite -and the windows in the other rooms are close to the ceilings. They look mainly at blank walls. I ache for my old life. I wish I had fought harder to keep it. Now I struggle to get it back, but in my heart I know that the battle is futile. Mark and I lived in a first-floor flat in Edinburgh. It was everything this place is not. The living-room windows stretched from floor to ceiling. Everything was bathed in natural light. We had a spare bedroom, and a roof terrace. The bathroom was white and blue, and was flooded with sunlight through frosted glass. We had friends, and we had each other. The rent was less than it is on this place. I loved Mark, and I love him even more now I haven't got him. All the same, I knew all along that the relationship was doomed. I felt it physically, from time to time, and I could never imagine what I would do without him. I never admitted it to myself, let alone to him or to anyone else, but I knew I needed him desperately, whereas he only quite liked me. I knew that one day he was going to walk away. I put my hands to my waist. This has become something of a compulsion
lately. I feel my jutting hip bones and smile. Your waist is tiny, girl.
Why, thank you. Mark was an enthusiastic eater, and we used to go to restaurants
more often than not. When we did eat in, it was usually a takeaway. The
fridge was always stocked with full-fat milk, and there was often a tub
of ice cream in the freezer. As a result I was too curvaceous for my height,
and bordered on the dumpy. Mark constantly told me not to be so stupid. |
| Copyright © 2003 Emily Barr |