rapist is medium height. The Dior Man is taller. But how can I be so sure he’s innocent?
I know nothing about him.
It can’t be him because he’s not a rapist. We had rough sex in a public place, but it wasn’t rape. It was instigated by me, after all. Could I have flicked some unknown,
violent switch inside his psyche? I feel I’m going round in circles, asking myself the same questions, again and again. And always arriving at the same conclusion: it’s not him. It
can’t be him. I don’t want it to be him.
There is nowhere left to park in my street, the usual Friday-night car-owner nightmare. I drive round the block looking for a space. Nothing. I make another loop, poised like a panther to pounce
on a freshly freed parking space. Still nothing. I have a choice of either driving out further, towards Highgate Hill, or doing another kerb-crawling circle. Perhaps when people start leaving the
pubs something will become free. I stop in the middle of the street, undecided.
A sudden knock on my window makes me jump. I see a man leaning in, smiling. He’s saying something I don’t understand. My heart is pounding and my foot moves instinctively towards the
accelerator. Then I look at the man again and recognize him. It’s the guy who found Wispa. Tim Something. I buzz down the window.
‘Hi, I’m so sorry I startled you,’ he says with a sheepish grin. ‘It’s Tom, I found your dog the other night.’
‘Of course! Hi, Tom, sorry, I was miles away . . .’ I feel silly for overreacting.
‘No, it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have knocked on your window like that.’ He actually looks cute in his embarrassment.
‘Let’s forget about it,’ I laugh. ‘No harm done.’
‘I was just doing my late-night Tesco run.’ He raises his hand with a pint of milk in it. ‘We always seem to run out of milk in the middle of the night.’
‘I know the feeling.’ I nod with understanding although I don’t. I never run out of milk because I never have it.
‘Actually, we’re having a bit of a get-together tomorrow night, just a few friends from the neighbourhood, nothing fancy . . . would you like to join us? I know it’s last
minute . . .’
Why not, I think. It’s not like I have a better offer for the Saturday night.
‘I’d love to. But . . . can I bring Wispa with me?’
‘Wispa?’ He seems confused.
‘My dog.’
‘Oh yes, of course, do bring her, the kids will be thrilled. Seven thirtyish? We’re just round the corner.’
He gives me the address, we exchange goodnights and he walks off carrying the milk like a trophy. Funny man. I wonder what his wife is like. Miraculously, a car right in front of me pulls out,
leaving a prime parking space just waiting for me. Good karma, I think, I must have done something right today. The good karma feeling continues as I take off my make-up later on and notice the
scab on my face has faded considerably. Healing like a dog, my grandma used to say.
Fourteen Days Earlier
It’s true, their house is literally round the corner from mine. Wispa seems to know the way and she’s first by their front door, her tail wagging. I ring the bell
and Tom opens the door. He looks more handsome than I remember, his curly black hair pushed back with some gel, a dark shadow of stubble on his chin. He seems genuinely pleased to see me as I push
a bottle of Blanquette de Limoux into his hands. Wispa’s already inside – I can hear kids’ voices cooing over her. He leads me to the sitting room, a huge space with French
windows overlooking the garden. There are a few people already there: an older couple I’ve seen around in the High Street, a slim young man with long hair and the lost look of someone
who’s done too many drugs, a tall woman with strikingly red lips and a couple of kids, a boy and a girl, fussing over Wispa, who’s gladly soaking up all the attention. Tom introduces
everybody and it turns out we are all neighbours. The conversation is about
I know nothing about him.
It can’t be him because he’s not a rapist. We had rough sex in a public place, but it wasn’t rape. It was instigated by me, after all. Could I have flicked some unknown,
violent switch inside his psyche? I feel I’m going round in circles, asking myself the same questions, again and again. And always arriving at the same conclusion: it’s not him. It
can’t be him. I don’t want it to be him.
There is nowhere left to park in my street, the usual Friday-night car-owner nightmare. I drive round the block looking for a space. Nothing. I make another loop, poised like a panther to pounce
on a freshly freed parking space. Still nothing. I have a choice of either driving out further, towards Highgate Hill, or doing another kerb-crawling circle. Perhaps when people start leaving the
pubs something will become free. I stop in the middle of the street, undecided.
A sudden knock on my window makes me jump. I see a man leaning in, smiling. He’s saying something I don’t understand. My heart is pounding and my foot moves instinctively towards the
accelerator. Then I look at the man again and recognize him. It’s the guy who found Wispa. Tim Something. I buzz down the window.
‘Hi, I’m so sorry I startled you,’ he says with a sheepish grin. ‘It’s Tom, I found your dog the other night.’
‘Of course! Hi, Tom, sorry, I was miles away . . .’ I feel silly for overreacting.
‘No, it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have knocked on your window like that.’ He actually looks cute in his embarrassment.
‘Let’s forget about it,’ I laugh. ‘No harm done.’
‘I was just doing my late-night Tesco run.’ He raises his hand with a pint of milk in it. ‘We always seem to run out of milk in the middle of the night.’
‘I know the feeling.’ I nod with understanding although I don’t. I never run out of milk because I never have it.
‘Actually, we’re having a bit of a get-together tomorrow night, just a few friends from the neighbourhood, nothing fancy . . . would you like to join us? I know it’s last
minute . . .’
Why not, I think. It’s not like I have a better offer for the Saturday night.
‘I’d love to. But . . . can I bring Wispa with me?’
‘Wispa?’ He seems confused.
‘My dog.’
‘Oh yes, of course, do bring her, the kids will be thrilled. Seven thirtyish? We’re just round the corner.’
He gives me the address, we exchange goodnights and he walks off carrying the milk like a trophy. Funny man. I wonder what his wife is like. Miraculously, a car right in front of me pulls out,
leaving a prime parking space just waiting for me. Good karma, I think, I must have done something right today. The good karma feeling continues as I take off my make-up later on and notice the
scab on my face has faded considerably. Healing like a dog, my grandma used to say.
Fourteen Days Earlier
It’s true, their house is literally round the corner from mine. Wispa seems to know the way and she’s first by their front door, her tail wagging. I ring the bell
and Tom opens the door. He looks more handsome than I remember, his curly black hair pushed back with some gel, a dark shadow of stubble on his chin. He seems genuinely pleased to see me as I push
a bottle of Blanquette de Limoux into his hands. Wispa’s already inside – I can hear kids’ voices cooing over her. He leads me to the sitting room, a huge space with French
windows overlooking the garden. There are a few people already there: an older couple I’ve seen around in the High Street, a slim young man with long hair and the lost look of someone
who’s done too many drugs, a tall woman with strikingly red lips and a couple of kids, a boy and a girl, fussing over Wispa, who’s gladly soaking up all the attention. Tom introduces
everybody and it turns out we are all neighbours. The conversation is about
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