It was kind of boring waiting for her to wake up, so I had this idea that I should go and buy her a towelling robe for when she came round. She’d be wanting a bath, I reasoned, and you can’t step out of a nice hot bath and immediately Goth yourself up, can you? It’s quite mad what you think of when you’re out of your comfort zone, and someone being in my flat was way out of my comfort zone.
I could have gone to Primark which is right by the Payless on the Kilburn High Road, but I’m quite tight by nature, and what the fuck was I doing buying a complete stranger a bathrobe anyway? So I headed to the British Heart Foundation shop by Argos.
I’ll tell you the most annoying thing about being fat – the weight! No, I mean the actual weight: carrying it around. Walking anywhere does me in. If you’re not heavy, you cannot imagine what it feels like for your limbs to pull you down with every step. Imagine lifting pillars of concrete each time you place a step. Imagine gravity being such a force in your life that you’re pulling against it with every movement. That’s what it’s like being me. I’m lugging myself places. Before I’d even crossed the road outside Poundland, I was out of puff.
I got this bathrobe – pink, a bit scratchy but serviceable – in the British Heart Foundation shop. I know she would have liked a black one, being a Goth, but how many black towelling bathrobes do you see in the shops? I like looking in charity shops, browsing, but I can never find anything to fit – everything’s tiny. I see it as evidence that everyone else is expanding, too. I am not alone, if the charity shops are anything to go by – full of size 8s and 10s, but no lovely roomy upper sizes. No one’s shedding the size 20s as far as I can see, because taking weight off? It’s easier to broker peace in Syria or get to grips with quantitative easing.
Once I got into the flat, I was surprised to see the sofa empty and I looked at Tony, as if to say, ‘What’ve you done with her?’ I thought I was stuck with a size 10 towelling robe which I wouldn’t even be able to get one arm into, but then she appeared, her face seeming bruised from sleep, her hair matted to one side of her head.
‘How are you feeling?’ I said.
‘Better,’ she said, but she was walking gingerly, a hand to her side.
‘I think you should see a doctor,’ I said.
‘No.’
I could see she was in pain because of the way she was holding herself. Movement was causing her to wince. Perhaps she’s broken something, I thought. How could a car hit you and not cause a fair bit of damage? I’d want a doctor to look me over. I’m at an age where death is more a distinct possibility than a distant dream.
She sat slowly, lowering herself by increments down onto the sofa.
‘I’m Birdie, by the way,’ I said. ‘Bernadette, but everyone calls me Birdie.’ I don’t know why I said ‘everyone’ – not as if I’ve got an entourage.
‘Angel,’ she said, but I didn’t believe that was her name. I mean, who is called that in real life? Also, it was as if she was saying it for the first time.
‘Cup of tea?’ I said. ‘Or would you like a bath? I bought you a bathrobe.’ And I held out my charity shop plastic bag.
‘That was kind of you,’ said Angel, peering into the bag reluctantly, and I wished I hadn’t bothered.
Her black hair hung in wet rats’ tails. She was back on the sofa, with her feet up. The bathrobe, now I could see it in a better light, was more peach than pink and had an unfortunate Care Bear on the pocket.
I could examine her face, too, without all that black muck around her eyes. She was a corker – I mean, not mildly attractive. I mean a proper looker, top class. Pale skin without a single blemish, and gas-blue eyes that you couldn’t help doing a double take over. Black was definitely not her hair colour, not with eyes like that. I’d say she’d be auburn or maybe even redhead. Her peach-coloured lips were what the term ‘bee-stung’ was invented for – they gave her a slightly teary look. She was maybe not supermodel beautiful, but she could definitely get paid to do a catalogue or the Marks & Sparks website.
Another thing I knew for sure at that moment: she wasn’t a proper Goth. No offence to Goths, but they’re quite often minging.
She was looking around my living room – the velveteen sofa on which she was curled, tobacco-coloured with ruffled seams; the two recliners, facing the telly; the nets, which were not grey because I’d soaked them in Vanish only the day before; the swirly carpets, gas fire, knobbly Anaglypta on the walls. I’d not noticed before that my decor was rocking an elderly vibe, though I’m only in my fifties myself, which I had probably inhaled from Nanny Fielding. I love my lounge: it’s the perfect place to sit in front of the television and pop things in your gob.
‘Why’ve you got a picture of Tony Blair on your wall?’ Angel asked.
‘Because I love him,’ I said. ‘I’m the last person on earth who still thinks he’s marvellous.’
Oh he has his faults, it’s not that I don’t realise that. For example, although he’s even more handsome than he used to be, now that he’s grey and perma-tanned from the Middle East, he’s always travelling and that’d get me down, him being away all the time.
So I’m not blind, I know he’s not perfect. The God thing, that makes me uneasy, and towards the end he let it be known how irritated he was by the general public and that was probably a mistake. And he’s partial to making a bob or two, but which of us isn’t? The whole B-Liar thing, though: the epic righteousness of it would be enough to send anyone postal.
And in his heyday, my goodness! He united everyone. He didn’t make you hang your head in shame. All those years the Labour Party suffered with the bad comb-overs, the stumbling on the beach and then Tony came along, our shiny straight-talking saviour. We almost couldn’t believe he was left wing. He made me feel safe: I could sleep well knowing his hand was on the tiller. Three terms he gave us and now it’s as if that was a crime.
I got up and kissed my two fingers, then planted them on Tony’s lips. His cross/stern eyebrows seemed to raise at this and he appeared to smile, in that way that said, ‘Let’s not let this go too far.’ A bit Presbyterian, a bit hair shirt.
We sat in amiable silence, then I said, ‘I’m not being funny, but have you ever thought of modelling?’
She pushed some wet hair over her face and sucked on a strand. Perhaps she was embarrassed. ‘Yeah, I have. Ages ago. It’s not a good business for girls. Makes them vulnerable. You can get caught up in things.’
‘What things?’
‘Dodgy stuff. There are blokes who hang around models like, well, like hyenas round meat.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ I said. ‘The modelling scouts appear to have passed me by.’ The self-deprecating joke – safe haven to fatties everywhere.
‘Actually, plus size is a growing area,’ she said and I flushed. I wasn’t prepared for her to acknowledge the elephant in the room quite so readily. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean … You’re not big.’
‘Thanks,’ I said but the atmosphere had darkened and she got up off the sofa.
‘Better get dressed,’ she said.
‘Shouldn’t