Page 43 of Statistically Speaking
There is still a small corner of me that resents this. Fears it, even. If I start to depend on them, does that mean I can depend on myself less? Does it even matter?
I’ve depended on myself for my whole adult life, and I can’t say that it’s brought me a lot of joy. Contentment, yes; a quiet life and security. But joy? No. Definitely not, as my previous boyfriends can testify.
My past default settings have been to back away when anyone gets too close, like some strangely choreographed dance of shifting emotions. They take a step toward me, I take two steps back. Eventually, I am always dancing alone.
Changing that will take time, I know, but I am at least willing to try.
Just after 6:00 p.m., I make my way downstairs, carefully carrying the pan of pasta in front of me. Margie has left the door unlocked, and Bill is waiting for me right inside the hallway. I have food, so he is on high alert. If I were to trip over now, or lose my grip, he would turn into a slavering wolf and gulp down the lot, then belch in our hungry faces. The love of a dog only goes so far. I walk round him and put the pan on the stove to warm up. The garlic bread is out and laid on a tray, so I pop that in the oven as well.
I walk through the flat, which is pretty much the opposite of mine, despite having the same layout. Margie’s place isfifty shades of stuff—books, DVDs, family photos, magazines, plants, candles in wine bottles, cuddly toys, crossword-puzzle compendiums, a collection of wooden elephants. No surface is left uncovered, no corner left empty.
I find her outside, where she has set up the table beneath the pullout awning she uses for shelter. She is struggling to move chairs so I take over, and she sighs a breath of relief.
“Thanks, love,” she says, rubbing her fingers. “It’s raining sideways, isn’t it? Can you move everything back a bit?”
I do as I am asked, and notice that she is wearing makeup—that bright red lipstick she said she used to love—and has swept her hair up and tied it with a gold scarf.
“You look nice,” I say, examining her. She gives me a very slow twirl, making her skirt puff out, and replies, “Well, this is Italian night—thought I’d make a bit of an effort.”
She goes inside, puts a disc into her CD player, and I hear the sounds of opera waft out toward us. She’s usually more of a Fleetwood Mac kind of girl, so she really is making an effort. I feel shabby in my leggings and trainers, and run my hands over my hair in an attempt at looking a bit better.
When the food is ready, we settle down to eat, to drink, to chat. It is pleasant, and it is good for me. She doesn’t ask if I’ve heard anything, and I don’t raise it. The whole point is to switch off, I think, to let myself go along with this distraction.
We are tucking into our tiramisu when Bill starts barking. It’s not his full-alert bark, not his terrifying deep growl that tells us a stranger is lurking. It is a woof of anticipation that means someone he knows is here. He gallops through the flat and I follow.
I open the door and find Erin outside. She has clearly been ringing my doorbell, which I didn’t hear due to not being at home. She looks glum and is holding a carrier bag.
“Hi!” I say brightly. “Come in—you’re just in time for cake.”
Her eyes widen slightly in pleasure, the universal response to the mention of dessert. She follows me through, Bill dancing around her legs in excitement. I lead her out to the terrace, grabbing an extra glass on the way.
She takes off her raincoat and slouches down on the chair I give her, brandishing the plastic bag at Margie.
“I came to get my Wonky Cushion back,” she says simply. “And I accidentally fell into the liquor store on the way round.”
“That used to happen to me all the time,” answers Margie, taking the wine and placing it on the table. She pours us all a fresh glass from the bottle we have open, and Erin glugs hers down like it’s lemonade before pulling a face.
“This is nice,” she says, glancing around at the fairy lights and the heater and the pots of now-fading flowers. “And the music too. It’d feel quite exotic, if it wasn’t for the rain. Sorry to turn up unannounced. I didn’t really plan it. I wasn’t thinking quite right. I just didn’t want to be in on my own. Katie’s gone totown.”
She says the last word as though she really means that Katie has gone on a swingers’ holiday to Sodom and Gomorrah.
“Thanks for the card and the cash you dropped off, Gemma,” she adds. “She’ll probably use it to buy drugs on a shady street corner, and then she’ll get bundled into a kidnap van and I’ll never see her again.”
Margie and I share a look, and I say, “Probably not. Do you want me to go and get your Wonky Cushion from upstairs?”
“No, any old cushion will do,” she replies sadly. Immediately I grab one of Margie’s many cushions from the living room, and Erin hugs it to her tummy.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, pouring her some more wine. It feels like a night that calls for more wine. “When I called past earlier, everything seemed great.”
“It was! It is... everything’s great. Katie’s had a brilliant day, and she’s so excited about going out with her friends, having her first legal drink, going clubbing... Honestly, it was a joy to see. She looked so beautiful and so happy, and so carefree. It was perfect. Then she left, and I felt... God, just so sad, you know? He should have been here to see this. He should have been with us, singing ‘Happy Birthday.’ He’s missing so much—and I’m missing him so much too.”
Margie reaches out and pats her hand. “It’s bloody horrible, love, what you’re going through. It’s not the same, but when I got divorced, the nights were the hardest—getting used to being on my own after all those years together. Have you thought about getting a dog?”
Erin gazes at Bill, who is curled in a snakelike ball at her feet, and says: “Maybe, one day. I had a border terrier when I was little, but he hated me and used to bite my toes—but maybe. And thank you, both of you. For listening, and for putting up with a misery-moo when you’re trying to have a nice night. Oh, I love this one!”
The music has changed, and “Nessun Dorma” begins in all its showy glory.
“This could be us, if we sing along,” she adds. “The Three Tenors, live in Liverpool!”
