sitting here, trying to act out the scene that mirrors this perfect time before anything stupid was done.
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Africa. I actually got David to put some of my money aside, a bit each check, into a savings account, and that’s the big thing I was planning. Fly down into Egypt, go into Côte d’Ivoire, then go by land the rest of the way into West Africa. Do you go back there a lot?’
‘Sometimes. I go at Christmas sometimes, to see them. Christmas, there’s parties, things to do. Our house, where I was born, is very big, very old. You would like it. It was the magistrate’s, when it was still a colony. Tall ceilings, and so much wood. My whole family lives there. Maybe you could visit. We could have a good time there. I want to go to America someday.’
‘No, you don’t.’
Fionna fell asleep on the futon, halfway through an Alec Guinness flick on BBC 2. Awake, I stared at her, petrified that if I fell asleep I would succumb to flatulence, or wake up with a viscous pool of my warm drool coating us both. So I just kept looking, scared she would wake up and catch me and then it would really be over. This wasn’t like with Alex; it could not be as simple as reaching out to another sibling of solitude. Fionna was of another caste, the one stories were told about and pictures were taken of, so far above my own I was surprised she found me visible. I kept looking at her closed lids as the balls swam joyously beneath them. My ear resting on the mattress edge, listening to her breath.
Saturday, a lack of blinds combined with an eastern exposure meant that, as usual, I woke up at dawn blinded and sweating. Scared that she would awake and then leave me, I got dressed and went down to the supermarket to get some food, cook a breakfast so big that she couldn’t move.
At Sainsbury’s I resisted the urge to stand gawking at the incomprehensibly large selection of baked beans and pork products by jogging through the aisles, grabbing at staples. Back at my front door, I became sure Fionna had already vanished, that inside was a goodbye note with a smiley face but no phone number, but upstairs she was still lying there, pulling on her top sheet with the blind gluttony of the sleeping. Back down in the kitchen, I cooked in careful silence: shoes off, movements slow and studied, I even turned down the heat on the potatoes when the grease started popping too loud. When I finished, I could hear her above me. A repetitive, scratching sound. Probably clawing her way out the living room window. But when I climbed the steps, the sound was coming from the bathroom. Fionna was in the tub. Crouched down on her knees, working on something. Her back to me, I saw her bare legs. The right ankle was so bloated it seemed to belong to another, much larger person.
‘You don’t clean the bath very often, do you? How can you take a bath in this?’ Pushing all her weight into the brush in her hand, scratching at the stain I had confused for permanent.
‘I take showers,’ I offered, pointing at the hose that she’d disconnected from the nozzle.
‘Well, I prefer baths,’ Fionna said, and kept scrubbing. Taking away not just the dirt but the discoloration that hung beneath it. Elbow jerking frantically, purposeful, as if she never wanted to see it again.
Saturday night turned out to be Fionna’s club night. Iceni, below Piccadilly: all jungle, free cocktails for the best dancers, ladies free before eleven, men a tenner at the door. I’d managed to keep her around all day (you want some lunch, a nap, have you seen this video, wow it’s time for dinner) so I wasn’t about to lose her to my hatred of nightclubs. Once her ankle was wrapped, I carried her on my back down to the mini-cab, and then, in the West End, through the streets and into the club to a table full of waving, pointedly attractive women the same size as herself. ‘My American’ was how I was introduced, to which the response was ‘Oh, right!’
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Africa. I actually got David to put some of my money aside, a bit each check, into a savings account, and that’s the big thing I was planning. Fly down into Egypt, go into Côte d’Ivoire, then go by land the rest of the way into West Africa. Do you go back there a lot?’
‘Sometimes. I go at Christmas sometimes, to see them. Christmas, there’s parties, things to do. Our house, where I was born, is very big, very old. You would like it. It was the magistrate’s, when it was still a colony. Tall ceilings, and so much wood. My whole family lives there. Maybe you could visit. We could have a good time there. I want to go to America someday.’
‘No, you don’t.’
Fionna fell asleep on the futon, halfway through an Alec Guinness flick on BBC 2. Awake, I stared at her, petrified that if I fell asleep I would succumb to flatulence, or wake up with a viscous pool of my warm drool coating us both. So I just kept looking, scared she would wake up and catch me and then it would really be over. This wasn’t like with Alex; it could not be as simple as reaching out to another sibling of solitude. Fionna was of another caste, the one stories were told about and pictures were taken of, so far above my own I was surprised she found me visible. I kept looking at her closed lids as the balls swam joyously beneath them. My ear resting on the mattress edge, listening to her breath.
Saturday, a lack of blinds combined with an eastern exposure meant that, as usual, I woke up at dawn blinded and sweating. Scared that she would awake and then leave me, I got dressed and went down to the supermarket to get some food, cook a breakfast so big that she couldn’t move.
At Sainsbury’s I resisted the urge to stand gawking at the incomprehensibly large selection of baked beans and pork products by jogging through the aisles, grabbing at staples. Back at my front door, I became sure Fionna had already vanished, that inside was a goodbye note with a smiley face but no phone number, but upstairs she was still lying there, pulling on her top sheet with the blind gluttony of the sleeping. Back down in the kitchen, I cooked in careful silence: shoes off, movements slow and studied, I even turned down the heat on the potatoes when the grease started popping too loud. When I finished, I could hear her above me. A repetitive, scratching sound. Probably clawing her way out the living room window. But when I climbed the steps, the sound was coming from the bathroom. Fionna was in the tub. Crouched down on her knees, working on something. Her back to me, I saw her bare legs. The right ankle was so bloated it seemed to belong to another, much larger person.
‘You don’t clean the bath very often, do you? How can you take a bath in this?’ Pushing all her weight into the brush in her hand, scratching at the stain I had confused for permanent.
‘I take showers,’ I offered, pointing at the hose that she’d disconnected from the nozzle.
‘Well, I prefer baths,’ Fionna said, and kept scrubbing. Taking away not just the dirt but the discoloration that hung beneath it. Elbow jerking frantically, purposeful, as if she never wanted to see it again.
Saturday night turned out to be Fionna’s club night. Iceni, below Piccadilly: all jungle, free cocktails for the best dancers, ladies free before eleven, men a tenner at the door. I’d managed to keep her around all day (you want some lunch, a nap, have you seen this video, wow it’s time for dinner) so I wasn’t about to lose her to my hatred of nightclubs. Once her ankle was wrapped, I carried her on my back down to the mini-cab, and then, in the West End, through the streets and into the club to a table full of waving, pointedly attractive women the same size as herself. ‘My American’ was how I was introduced, to which the response was ‘Oh, right!’
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