True Things About Me A Novel (Deborah Kay Davies) by Deborah Kay Davies Read Free Book Online Page B

fridge. It felt very quiet after Alison’s.
    My mother had left a few messages on the phone, but I couldn’t be bothered to talk to her. I thought about sending a postcard, then realised that probably wasn’t a good idea. I had to go into work for a meeting with the head of department about my mad sick leave. It went OK. I blubbed and told him some story.
    In the evenings I did things people do when they’re in their own home, like changing the bed and opening all the windows. I put the radio on, and bustled about, cleaning the kitchen cupboards and watering my gasping plants. I even made a big pot of soup so I could smell it cooking. I managed to eat some, but I wasn’t at all hungry. It felt as if I was killing time, waiting for the real owner of the house to return so I could hand over the keys and leave for my other life.
    I went back to the office and just kept going. Each day became a little easier, as if I were learning a new job. By the end of the week things felt fairly OK again. On Friday Alison and I were having a break at our desks when she said she had this suggestion to make. And that I wasn’t to freak out or say no before considering what she had to say. God, I said, I promise, get on with it.
    She said she’d met this bloke, a business friend of Tom’s, and he was new to the area, really nice. Also good-looking. She and Tom thought he would be great for me. I didn’t say anything; I just carried on sipping my coffee. So, she said, shall I set you two up on a date? I allowed a silence to develop. I hoped it would express how I felt. Well? Alison said, still smiling like some chat show host with a reluctant celeb – if there was such a thing – What d’you think? Hmmm? Are you completely mad? I said. Since when were you a matchmaker? I told her the very idea of being set up on a date made me feel yukky. I knew you’d say that, she said calmly, but just think about it. I already know he’s nice, it doesn’thave to be a big deal. Just a drink, and then you could go on from there, if you want to. Or not.
    Somehow I agreed. I remembered how kind Tom had been. How Alison wanted me to be happy, and I couldn’t say no. Alison did the organising. The guy’s name was Rob, which somehow didn’t seem auspicious to me. I began to think about the term blind date . Why blind? It sounded horribly vulnerable-making and ordealish. Not at all fun and frivolous. I’d never been on one before. I began to regret saying yes almost immediately. I decided to check the guy out, get there early, and if he looked even remotely off I would run away. Tom and Alison could stick it up their bums, thank you very much.

I feel sick of visitors
    BEFORE I EMBARKED on the potential fiasco of my date with wots-his-face I decided I had to do what the magazines call build bridges . As my parents and I lived on different planets, rather than opposite banks of a river, it felt like a tall order. So instead I went to do some shopping. There was no food in the house and I was tired of munching Ryvitas with Marmite. I’d even developed a small mouth ulcer, they were so salty and shardlike. And drifting through the aisles was always inspirational.
    At the supermarket I realised it was simple; I would invite my parents for a meal. So I rang them immediately. I had to have something substantial and competent to offer. A proper roast dinner would convince them I was fine, and that they were fine and we were fine. I bought a big chunk of beef and all the usual trimmings. When I got my bags home the meat had bled all over the carrots and even soaked into a loaf of bread, which had gone pink and spongy.
    It took me most of Saturday afternoon to get the meal ready. While I cooked I managed to drink nearly a whole bottle of red wine and at least one G and T. By the time they arrived I felt blurry and loose. When they came in I told my mother she ought to know straight away that the Yorkshire puds were shop-bought. Are you disappointed in me,