Read Online Trigger Warning: Short Fictions and Disturbances by Neil Gaiman - Free Book Online
Authors: Neil Gaiman
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with a woman?”
“I’m not gay,” I protested. “I have girlfriends.”
“I know,” she said. “When was the last one?”
I tried to remember. Was it Brigitte? Or the stylist the ad agency had sent me to Iceland with? I was not certain. “Two years,” I said. “Perhaps three. I just haven’t met the right person yet.”
“You did once,” she said. She opened her handbag then, a big floppy purple thing, pulled out a cardboard folder, opened it, removed a piece of paper, tape-browned at the corners. “See?”
I remembered it. How could I not? It had hung above my bed for years. She was looking around, as if talking to someone beyond the curtain. Cassandra, it said, February 19th, 1985. And it was signed, Stuart Innes . There is something at the same time both embarrassing and heartwarming about seeing your handwriting from when you were fifteen.
“I came back from Canada in ’89,” she said. “My parents’ marriage fell apart out there, and Mum wanted to come home. I wondered about you, what you were doing, so I went to your old address. The house was empty. Windows were broken. It was obvious nobody lived there anymore. They’d knocked down the riding stables already—that made me so sad, I’d loved horses as a girl, obviously, but I walked through the house until I found your bedroom. It was obviously your bedroom, although all the furniture was gone. It still smelled like you. And this was still pinned to the wall. I didn’t think anyone would miss it.”
She smiled.
“Who are you?”
“Cassandra Carlisle. Aged thirty-four. Former actress. Failed playwright. Now running a community theater in Norwood. Drama therapy. Hall for rent. Four plays a year, plus workshops, and a local panto. Who are you, Stuart?”
“You know who I am.” Then, “You know I’ve never met you before, don’t you?”
She nodded. She said, “Poor Stuart. You live just above here, don’t you?”
“Yes. It’s a bit loud sometimes. But it’s handy for the tube. And the rent isn’t painful.”
“Let’s pay the bill, and go upstairs.”
I reached out to touch the back of her hand. “Not yet,” she said, moving her hand away before I could touch her. “We should talk first.”
So we went upstairs.
“I like your flat,” she said. “It looks exactly like the kind of place I imagine you being.”
“It’s probably time to start thinking about getting something a bit bigger,” I told her. “But it does me fine. There’s good light out the back for my studio—you can’t get the effect now, at night. But it’s great for painting.”
It’s strange, bringing someone home. It makes you see the place you live as if you’ve not been there before. There are two oil paintings of me in the lounge, from my short-lived career as an artists’ model (I did not have the patience to stand and pose for very long, a failing I know), blown-up advertising photos of me in the little kitchen and the loo, book covers with me on—romance covers, mostly—over the stairs.
I showed her the studio, and then the bedroom. She examined the Edwardian barbers’ chair I had rescued from an ancient place thatclosed down in Shoreditch. She sat down on the chair, pulled off her shoes.
“Who was the first grown-up you liked?” she asked.
“Odd question. My mother, I suspect. Don’t know. Why?”
“I was three, perhaps four. He was a postman called Mister Postie. He’d come in his little post van and bring me lovely things. Not every day. Just sometimes. Brown paper packages with my name on, and inside would be toys or sweets or something. He had a funny, friendly face with a knobby nose.”
“And he was real? He sounds like somebody a kid would make up.”
“He drove a post van inside the house. It wasn’t very big.”
She began to unbutton her blouse. It was cream-colored, still flecked with splatters of ink. “What’s the first thing you actually remember? Not something you were told you did. That you really
“I’m not gay,” I protested. “I have girlfriends.”
“I know,” she said. “When was the last one?”
I tried to remember. Was it Brigitte? Or the stylist the ad agency had sent me to Iceland with? I was not certain. “Two years,” I said. “Perhaps three. I just haven’t met the right person yet.”
“You did once,” she said. She opened her handbag then, a big floppy purple thing, pulled out a cardboard folder, opened it, removed a piece of paper, tape-browned at the corners. “See?”
I remembered it. How could I not? It had hung above my bed for years. She was looking around, as if talking to someone beyond the curtain. Cassandra, it said, February 19th, 1985. And it was signed, Stuart Innes . There is something at the same time both embarrassing and heartwarming about seeing your handwriting from when you were fifteen.
“I came back from Canada in ’89,” she said. “My parents’ marriage fell apart out there, and Mum wanted to come home. I wondered about you, what you were doing, so I went to your old address. The house was empty. Windows were broken. It was obvious nobody lived there anymore. They’d knocked down the riding stables already—that made me so sad, I’d loved horses as a girl, obviously, but I walked through the house until I found your bedroom. It was obviously your bedroom, although all the furniture was gone. It still smelled like you. And this was still pinned to the wall. I didn’t think anyone would miss it.”
She smiled.
“Who are you?”
“Cassandra Carlisle. Aged thirty-four. Former actress. Failed playwright. Now running a community theater in Norwood. Drama therapy. Hall for rent. Four plays a year, plus workshops, and a local panto. Who are you, Stuart?”
“You know who I am.” Then, “You know I’ve never met you before, don’t you?”
She nodded. She said, “Poor Stuart. You live just above here, don’t you?”
“Yes. It’s a bit loud sometimes. But it’s handy for the tube. And the rent isn’t painful.”
“Let’s pay the bill, and go upstairs.”
I reached out to touch the back of her hand. “Not yet,” she said, moving her hand away before I could touch her. “We should talk first.”
So we went upstairs.
“I like your flat,” she said. “It looks exactly like the kind of place I imagine you being.”
“It’s probably time to start thinking about getting something a bit bigger,” I told her. “But it does me fine. There’s good light out the back for my studio—you can’t get the effect now, at night. But it’s great for painting.”
It’s strange, bringing someone home. It makes you see the place you live as if you’ve not been there before. There are two oil paintings of me in the lounge, from my short-lived career as an artists’ model (I did not have the patience to stand and pose for very long, a failing I know), blown-up advertising photos of me in the little kitchen and the loo, book covers with me on—romance covers, mostly—over the stairs.
I showed her the studio, and then the bedroom. She examined the Edwardian barbers’ chair I had rescued from an ancient place thatclosed down in Shoreditch. She sat down on the chair, pulled off her shoes.
“Who was the first grown-up you liked?” she asked.
“Odd question. My mother, I suspect. Don’t know. Why?”
“I was three, perhaps four. He was a postman called Mister Postie. He’d come in his little post van and bring me lovely things. Not every day. Just sometimes. Brown paper packages with my name on, and inside would be toys or sweets or something. He had a funny, friendly face with a knobby nose.”
“And he was real? He sounds like somebody a kid would make up.”
“He drove a post van inside the house. It wasn’t very big.”
She began to unbutton her blouse. It was cream-colored, still flecked with splatters of ink. “What’s the first thing you actually remember? Not something you were told you did. That you really
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