Can't Let Go by Jane Hill Read Free Book Online Page B

seemed pleased to hear from me. She
sounded friendly. We agreed to meet the next day, for
coffee and shopping and maybe some lunch. Sunday in
Camden with a friend: what could have been more
normal? It all seemed perfectly pleasant. Maybe I had
misread her tone of voice on the voicemail. Maybe she
wasn't good at leaving messages. But still I had a nagging
fear: why did she want to see me again? Why did she want
to spend time with me? Did she have a secret agenda?

Seven
    Most people – most casual, unobservant
acquaintances – would probably have described
me as 'nice' or 'pleasant'. I was always
neat and tidy and inoffensive to look at, and the same was
true of my conversation. I was good at polite, conventional
responses. I was known as a good listener. Of course I was,
because usually that was pretty much all I did – listen.
'Goodness.' 'Really.' 'How interesting.' 'Tell me more.' 'I
don't know. What do you think?' Those were the kinds of
remarks I made to punctuate conversations, carefully
steering away from any chance of being asked questions.
Acquaintances who were a little more observant, or
who spent more time with me, sometimes seemed puzzled
at my persistent refusal to talk about myself, the way I
deflected questions about anything from relationships to
reminiscences. My polite but consistent rejection of most
social invitations was also cause for comment. But only
those who tried to get really close – Danny with his kiss
and his dance moves; Zoey with her shoulder-touching –
got to experience the full Beth Stephens brush-off. I hadn't
mastered the polite way to do that. There probably was no
polite way to do that. And, as it turned out, that was what
Zoey wanted to talk to me about.
    'Here's what I was afraid of,' she said. 'I was afraid that
you thought I was coming on to you, and that's what
freaked you. And I thought I should clear the air and
make sure you realised that I wasn't. Coming on to you.
Because I'm not gay. Not that there's anything wrong
with being gay. God knows, it's virtually the default
setting amongst female stand-ups. Not that that's a bad
thing. Anyway, I get it a lot, the lesbian thing. It's the vibe
I give off, I guess. I sit too close to people, apparently. I
look too engaged and interested. It's all part of this
American-in-London thing. I haven't learned the correct
body-space dimensions yet. And you're shaking your
head at me, which means I'm wrong. So therefore I'm
forced to consider something else entirely, and I'm not too
happy about it.'
    'What?'
    'Well, the only other explanation for your boorish
behaviour on Friday night is that you are extremely,
offensively rude.'
    It was nearly midday and it was already mercilessly
hot. We were drinking overpriced bottles of water and we
were sitting by the canal at Camden Lock, people watching.
The smell of dope and falafels hung in the air.
Zoey, bold and bright in a turquoise vest top, was waiting
for an answer.
    'Sorry,' I said eventually, limply. 'I'm really sorry.
You're right, it was rude of me.'
    'So, was there a reason for your rudeness?' She pulled
her hair back into a ponytail and I noticed a faint fuzz of
unshaved hair in her armpits. She seemed to be the kind of
woman who wore her imperfections with pride. I wouldn't
have dreamed of leaving the house with armpits like that.
    I could have told her to piss off. I could have walked
away and never seen her again. Or I could say something,
and risk it, and possibly make a friend. And that's when
Danny's words came back to me: 'Friends are a good
thing.'
    'I get scared.' The words came out suddenly, and I
wasn't sure that I meant to say them.
    'Scared of what?'
    'I don't know.' I paused, and then retreated into a white
lie. 'Maybe that you'll realise that I'm just not that
interesting?'
    She took a long slurp from her bottle of water and
frowned at me. 'That is not even close to being true.'
    I was about to protest, or to say something else to
change the subject, but Zoey held her