through the passenger side door slowly resolved into the shambolic shape of Calim.
‘Jaysus. Are you okay?’
‘I’m having a pulmonary embolism, but apart from that …’
‘What’s goin’ on?’
‘Oh, nothing much. I’ve lost my job and … and my sister just told me that I have the erotic appeal of a dental-floss dispenser.’
He grinned coyly, rummaging through his pockets for a crumpled tissue. ‘J’know what men really find excitin’ in bed? A woman who’s confident enough to enjoy sex … and you’re a confident woman, Lizzie.’
I blew my nose. ‘You’ve been to say-the-right-thing school, haven’t you, Cal?’
‘But it is true, Lizzie. Bein’ sexy is more to do with bein’ at ease with your body than anythin’ else. I don’t know any woman with a perfect body … but I know loads of sexy ones. A woman who’s really juiced up, whatever her shape, is more erotic than a woman who walks backwards out of bedrooms.’
Like airbags in a car, sensitivity in a man is an optional extra. And Cal was clearly top of the range. I squeezed his arm. ‘Are you sure you’re not gay?’
‘Hey, I’m so in touch with my feminine side I’m startin’ to complain about me wobbly thighs. Lemme help you out of there.’
Since the driver’s door was wedged up against the post-box, I had to slide across the console. It was then, to add insult to injury, that I got impaled on the gear lever. The symbolism proved too much for me. ‘Hugo … was … unfaithful.’ I started sobbing again.
Cal reeled. ‘No! Who with?’
‘Britney … I can’t even put her name in my mouth, I mean you never know where it’s
been
. The Artist Formerly Known as Slut.’
‘Amore? Britney Amore? Christ almighty.’
‘Yes. The actress from
Genital Hospital
. I walked in on them. He said it was just a kiss, but his hand was between her legs. She was naked. And I’m pretty sure his fly was at half-mast. I couldn’t tell if he was zipping it down, or – or zipping it up.’
My mobile phone shrieked. It was Jamie’s teacher, Ms Savage, reminding me that I’d promised to go on the afternoon excursion to the British Museum. ‘You signed the return slip and tore along the dotted line at the bottom,’ she reminded me sternly.
‘School,’ I said, staggering out of the car. ‘Excursion. I forgot.’
‘Tell her you can’t go. Tell her you’re a meningitis carrier.’
‘Only a certificate of death – a recent one – would be an acceptable excuse for Ms Savage. Could you drive me?’
Hampstead is built on one of the few high hills in London. The sunshine had vapourized and the city below us had become so grey it looked veiled in gauze – a perfect meteorological match for my mood. In minutes the sky darkened and a passing storm shattered on to the streets. Puddles hissed beneath car tyres. Cal pulled me into his battered Volkswagen with the the bumper bar sticker ‘Who cares who’s on board?’ On the dashboard was a hand-scribbled note declaring, ‘No radio. Already stolen.’
‘I’m going to stick a sign on
Hugo
,’ I said, ‘reading, “This is
not
an abandoned husband”.’
‘Obviously,’ Cal said, trying to concertina his six-foot frame behind the wheel, ‘I’m only drivin’ this wee car to prove that I have an enormous cock. You do understand that, right?’
As he contorted into the driver’s seat, I lectured myself quite sternly. It was no good looking for my self-esteem in Lost Property. I could compete with that Slutcicle. I had a vivid, quirky imagination. Whereas Britney was a No-brow. She was ninety-eight per cent personality free. She was Bimbo-lite. One week and he’d be sick of the bland taste of her. Whereas
I
was a complex carbo of a woman. A nourishing, filling, well-balanced meal. I could make Wildean epigrams. Do cryptic crosswords. I knew the square root of the hypotenuse.
She
, on the other hand, was nothing more than a mattress with breasts – something to lie down on
‘Jaysus. Are you okay?’
‘I’m having a pulmonary embolism, but apart from that …’
‘What’s goin’ on?’
‘Oh, nothing much. I’ve lost my job and … and my sister just told me that I have the erotic appeal of a dental-floss dispenser.’
He grinned coyly, rummaging through his pockets for a crumpled tissue. ‘J’know what men really find excitin’ in bed? A woman who’s confident enough to enjoy sex … and you’re a confident woman, Lizzie.’
I blew my nose. ‘You’ve been to say-the-right-thing school, haven’t you, Cal?’
‘But it is true, Lizzie. Bein’ sexy is more to do with bein’ at ease with your body than anythin’ else. I don’t know any woman with a perfect body … but I know loads of sexy ones. A woman who’s really juiced up, whatever her shape, is more erotic than a woman who walks backwards out of bedrooms.’
Like airbags in a car, sensitivity in a man is an optional extra. And Cal was clearly top of the range. I squeezed his arm. ‘Are you sure you’re not gay?’
‘Hey, I’m so in touch with my feminine side I’m startin’ to complain about me wobbly thighs. Lemme help you out of there.’
Since the driver’s door was wedged up against the post-box, I had to slide across the console. It was then, to add insult to injury, that I got impaled on the gear lever. The symbolism proved too much for me. ‘Hugo … was … unfaithful.’ I started sobbing again.
Cal reeled. ‘No! Who with?’
‘Britney … I can’t even put her name in my mouth, I mean you never know where it’s
been
. The Artist Formerly Known as Slut.’
‘Amore? Britney Amore? Christ almighty.’
‘Yes. The actress from
Genital Hospital
. I walked in on them. He said it was just a kiss, but his hand was between her legs. She was naked. And I’m pretty sure his fly was at half-mast. I couldn’t tell if he was zipping it down, or – or zipping it up.’
My mobile phone shrieked. It was Jamie’s teacher, Ms Savage, reminding me that I’d promised to go on the afternoon excursion to the British Museum. ‘You signed the return slip and tore along the dotted line at the bottom,’ she reminded me sternly.
‘School,’ I said, staggering out of the car. ‘Excursion. I forgot.’
‘Tell her you can’t go. Tell her you’re a meningitis carrier.’
‘Only a certificate of death – a recent one – would be an acceptable excuse for Ms Savage. Could you drive me?’
Hampstead is built on one of the few high hills in London. The sunshine had vapourized and the city below us had become so grey it looked veiled in gauze – a perfect meteorological match for my mood. In minutes the sky darkened and a passing storm shattered on to the streets. Puddles hissed beneath car tyres. Cal pulled me into his battered Volkswagen with the the bumper bar sticker ‘Who cares who’s on board?’ On the dashboard was a hand-scribbled note declaring, ‘No radio. Already stolen.’
‘I’m going to stick a sign on
Hugo
,’ I said, ‘reading, “This is
not
an abandoned husband”.’
‘Obviously,’ Cal said, trying to concertina his six-foot frame behind the wheel, ‘I’m only drivin’ this wee car to prove that I have an enormous cock. You do understand that, right?’
As he contorted into the driver’s seat, I lectured myself quite sternly. It was no good looking for my self-esteem in Lost Property. I could compete with that Slutcicle. I had a vivid, quirky imagination. Whereas Britney was a No-brow. She was ninety-eight per cent personality free. She was Bimbo-lite. One week and he’d be sick of the bland taste of her. Whereas
I
was a complex carbo of a woman. A nourishing, filling, well-balanced meal. I could make Wildean epigrams. Do cryptic crosswords. I knew the square root of the hypotenuse.
She
, on the other hand, was nothing more than a mattress with breasts – something to lie down on
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