The Other Me by Saskia Sarginson Read Free Book Online Page B

shapes inside it with my teaspoon. My mind is blank. ‘So,’ I struggle. ‘You’re going to teach history?’
    ‘It’s not my dream. But it’s keeping my parents happy.’
    ‘Where do they live?’
    ‘South London. It’s where I’m from. You?’
    I fiddle with a packet of sugar, crunching it between my fingers. ‘Wiltshire.’
    ‘Ah, yes,’ he smiles. ‘I remember. The family home with wisteria over the porch.’
    ‘God!’ I grip the sugar packet. ‘I really did talk a lot last night, didn’t I?’
    He smiles. ‘Didn’t understand all of it. But yes. You are a chatty drunk.’ He takes a sip of his drink. ‘You probably don’t get to London much. But if you do, you should check out my friend’s burlesque club in Brixton. It occurred to me that you’d like it.’
    ‘Really?’ I can’t tell if he’s joking. ‘I thought burlesque was another word for stripping?’
    ‘That’s what I thought, until Josh educated me. It’s a skill, apparently. It’s about anticipation – the performer weaving a spell on stage, making everyone hold their breaths… that’s what you did…’ He breaks off, and laughs. ‘Listen to me! I don’t know what I’m talking about.’ He clears his throat. ‘You’re the dancer.’
    My face stiffens, remembering the spotlight hitting me, and my body refusing to move. I reach across the table and push up the crumpled cuff of his shirt so that I can read the time. He puts his hand over my fingers. I notice that there are flecks of colour on his skin. Red. Blue. White. Paint splatters.
    Outside, I reach up to kiss his cheek and we bump noses. Our lips slide across and meet; I taste coffee. We hesitate and pull away.
    ‘Well, that was awkward.’ He takes hold of my hand. ‘Do you want to try again?’
    I begin to reply, but he’s already put his mouth over mine. The sounds of the day slow and fade. There’s a roaring in my ears: waves rushing inside a shell. His arms are tight around my waist. My hands have linked around the back of his neck. I feel the tickle of his hair, catch the faint scent of his skin. My tongue grazes the edge of his teeth. It is a kiss to fall into. And I let myself fall. My stomach rises and drops. My fingers move to his shoulders and grip.
    When we pull apart, his face is open. Surprised. He touches his lips with his fingertips. ‘Eliza,’ he says. It sounds like a question.

ERNST
    1931, Germany
    Beneath the cow’s belly my thumb and fingers are busy squeezing and pulling. I lean against her warm flank. This is work I’ve done since I can remember. The rhythm is comforting. Streams of hissing liquid hit the side of the bucket, each spurt sounding slightly different. The cow, standing with lowered head, blows patient air from wet nostrils. I butt my head into her warmth, squeeze and pull. Nearly done. Otto crouches on his stool in the next stall. Meyer is at the end. The sweet smell makes my stomach rumble. I’m looking forward to breakfast.
    Otto appears at the opening of the stall behind me, two pails of milk balanced from the yoke across his shoulders. His bare knees look too big, the bony surface of them rough with scars. He sniffs. His nose is always sticky with snot. ‘First again,’ he grins and walks carefully on, the pails swinging beside him.
    I finish, slapping the cow on her backside, dried mud and matted hair beneath my fingers. I don’t want Otto to take my slice of bread. I balance my pails and walk with small, steady steps out of the dim barn into the brightening morning. The sky is streaked with pink, the sun coming up over the thatched roof of the house.
    Agnes and Bettina are in the yard, wrapped up against the cold, hats pulled down over their heads. They are going to collect the eggs, baskets hanging from their arms. I watch Bettina stop in front of Otto. She says something, covering her quick grin with mittened fingers. Otto’s head jerks forward and he shoots out a hand to push her. She shrieks and jumps back. I