With My Body by Nikki Gemmell Read Free Book Online Page B

marry him. He says he always likes a woman with narrow shoulders and runs his fingers along your collarbone, to see if you’ll do, appraising you like a horse.
    At his touch, your stomach feels as if it is being steamrollered.
    You catch your breath. You step back.
    He laughs.
    You are not allowed to know, understand, exactly what this man now does; no one will tell you. All you perceive is that you are not like one of those women he employs and never will be; you will always be apart, removed, from that world. He says with a smile that you’re like a little bush filly he had as he was growing up, with some thoroughbred mixed in theresomewhere, wild and sweet and strong and untamed inside that ridiculous school uniform with its skirt too long and its Peter Pan collar and then he looks at you gravely and says he doesn’t want to see the wildness broken, ever, any of it, as he runs his fingers along your collarbone again; as your stomach churns again.
    He makes you vividly aware of your teenage body.
    Ripening.
    The power of it.

Lesson 31
The only way to make people good is to make them happy
    A weekend at home. Your father picks you up from the train station, a legitimate drive that your stepmother has to allow. His fingertips stray absently to your earlobe, the old caress, and you shut your lids and feel the coming wet prickling in your eyes at the tenderness, so rare in your life, so ached for. Kindness will always crack you now, it is the legacy of your emotionally blunted childhood.
    He doesn’t say he loves you. He just gives you his snippet of a touch. It is all you need, it is enough.
    Your father’s philosophy of parenting has become: if you want a child to do well you ignore them, so the child will always be striving for attention. It is the rhythm of your boarding life.
    ‘Look at me. Say something. Notice. Respond! ’
    You have been screaming it to him silently your entire time away; it is why you do so well in your new school, determined, focused, competitive. It’s the only area of your life you can achieve in. Get right. You’ve always been a thinker, have always devoured anything you could get your hands on to read, being starved of words has worked. Your father doesn’t engage in any of it. Doesn’t read, doesn’t write. The few times you have caught him at it—writing a cheque or a shopping list—he takes careful pleasure in the beauty of the letters, each one strikinglyformed, every stroke a pattern, which betrays that he is still a relative beginner; he doesn’t do it much.
    And now, in the car, on the way home, his touch. You lean into it. Then as soon as you arrive with a screech of the handbrake and walk into the house he clamps down, no longer shows you the vivid pulse of this love. Is formal, distant, uninterested; veering into coldness, a different person entirely. What is he afraid to show her? What has she threatened?
    You’re his daughter .
    When you’re at school, in his few, precious phone calls to you—from the mine crib room, never at home—he almost pleads, don’t forget the old man loves ya , and it’s like a momentary weakness, a slip. What bewitchment has she woven around him? What weakness in him lets her? A grown man. So inarticulate, so cowed.
    An earlobe caressed; a moment snatched, in secret, too brief. The only warmth you will ever get in this place now.
    You will find something else.

Lesson 32
We have only to deal with facts—perhaps incapable of remedy, but by no means incapable of amelioration
    It is decided. At fourteen.
    You will be an archivist, a collector. Of love and everything that comes with it. You will learn how it happens, where it comes from, how it’s snared. For good. Your grand and meticulous experiment. You are aching to begin but do not know how. You must go beyond the four houses huddling under their looming trees, beyond the high convent walls; you just long for touch, warmth. A proper, sustained caress.
    You feel so vividly. All your nerve