My Legendary Girlfriend Read online

Her: Why do you want me to call again?

  Me: Because.

  Her: Because what?

  Me: Because.

  I considered returning to the entertainment of The Barbara White Show, but the early morning rise to work – still something of a shock to a body that preferred to run on dole time – was beginning to take its toll. It took roughly an hour, door-to-door, to get to school in the mornings. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could have strolled in at the same time as the kids, but it was frowned upon by Mr Tucker if members of staff weren’t on site by 8.15. So unless I wanted his miserable, wart-ridden, beardy face chastising me on a daily basis, I had to leave the flat at 7.15 – requiring me to get up at 6.45! It was a killer. I tried a variety of methods to cut my getting-ready-to-go-to-work time down and thus lengthen the time spent in bed. I stopped brushing my teeth and instead squirted the toothpaste directly into my mouth; I showered in the evening instead of morning; and wore my trainers on the journey to work in case I had to sprint at any point. Somehow, no matter what I did, I always ended up leaving a half-eaten bowl of Honey Nut Loops in the kitchen sink and chewing a piece of toast while jogging up Holloway Road.

  Off went my shirt and socks as I got back into bed. They landed in a crumpled pile next to my trousers. These clothes, my School Clothes, were completely alien to the real me. Until I started on my teacher training course, I’d managed to avoid going into branches of Burton’s, Next or Top Man for over a decade. There was something about High Street men’s shops that I despised more than fascism, landlords and neighbours who parked their cars outside my house. The combination of half-wit YTS trainees, terrible decor and the clientele – adolescent boys with clothing allowances, engineering students, and girlfriends with Zero Taste looking for a ‘nice’ jumper for their boyfriends – was all too much for me. All my clothes were second-hand, purchased from Imperial Cancer Research shops and the like. I had two wardrobes full of what Simon and I referred to as ‘Dead Men’s Clothes’ – the sort of items only widows and bitter divorcees throw away. My whole wardrobe – consisting of literally dozens of items – had cost less than fifty quid in total, but it wasn’t the money that mattered, what really counted was that it added to my sense of individuality. The look I was working towards was a cross between Clint Eastwood in Magnum Force and Richard Rowntree in Shaft. While I freely admit I wasn’t exactly there, I was close enough to feel different from the rest of the crowd. Teaching, unfortunately, was about conformity, and even I could see that a complete fashion rethink was in order if I was ever going to get a job.

  The trousers were from Burton’s. They were black and had turn-ups. Looking down at them from the bed, I noticed that the seat was going shiny. The shirt was from Top Man (urrgh!) and was one of five purchased one size too small. As I handed over my money, the youth at the till had asked me if I was sure they were the right size. I said yes, because he was a seventeen-year-old with acne and I was a graduate in English Literature and Film Studies which, I considered, made me infinitely more qualified in the intricacies of shirt sizes than he was.

  I got out of bed and turned off the light. Light from the street lamps in Friar Avenue, which ran along the end of the garden, made the curtains glow spookily, casting shadows around the room. As I put my head down I lifted it back up immediately and picked up the clothes off the floor to put underneath my head. One of the items I’d forgotten to pack was a pillow, and as I wasn’t entirely sure which sort of shops sold pillows I’d managed without. I made a mental note to ask Kate about it if she ever phoned again.

  Kate is definitely an interesting girl, I thought, hoping I might dream about her. She sounds like she’d be fun to be with. She seems different from other girls. Not like . . .

  The phone rang.

  ‘Hi, Will, it’s me,’ said a voice I knew only too well belonged to Martina. All things considered she sounded reasonably chirpy.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me phoning so late,’ she said meekly. ‘It’s just that . . . well . . . you haven’t returned any of my calls this week. I thought perhaps it might be your phone playing up but I got the operator to check that the line was working properly.’

  It was time for some quick thinking:

  a) Amnesia?

  b) Too busy?

  c) Answering machine not working?

  d) The truth?

  e) All of the above?

  ‘I didn’t know you’d phoned earlier,’ I lied, trying with all my strength to sound surprised. ‘I don’t think the answering machine is working. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said hushing my apologies, ‘it’s not your fault, I’m sure you’ll have been too busy making new friends to call me back until the weekend. It must be so exciting, Will. More exciting than anything I could offer you.’

  Martina had got into the habit of speaking to me like that – putting herself down in order, I think, to elevate me even higher in her esteem – from the moment I’d kissed her. It was a manipulative trick which pathetic people, myself included, used to make the object of their affections say something nice about them. Martina wasn’t fishing for compliments – her earnestness was such that I just knew she was one of those people who meant every word they said and never said anything they didn’t mean.

  I ignored her bowing and scraping. ‘So, how have you been doing?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ she sighed, making the ‘oooo’ in ‘too’ sound like an asthmatic owl. ‘I still haven’t found any work yet. I’ve signed on with some teaching agencies though – they think I might be able to get something quite soon. But as for a staff job, I don’t think there’ll be any of those going until after Christmas.’

  I hated to admit it, but she did sound genuinely sad, lost and very lonely.

  ‘How’s it going at your parents’ house?’ I asked.

  ‘I hate it, Will,’ she said bitterly. ‘I really hate it. I wish I was in London with you. Wouldn’t that be brilliant? I could get a flat downstairs from you and I could make you dinner and we could watch that TV series you’re always telling me about.’

  ‘Blackadder,’ I prompted.

  ‘Yes, Blackadder,’ she said wistfully. ‘That would be my dream come true, Will. It really would.’

  This wasn’t some off-the-cuff remark, like ‘Oh, wouldn’t it be nice if . . .’ She was serious. She’d probably transported herself to this scene in her head thousands of times as she sat in her bedroom filling out application forms. I knew this, of course, because I’d spent a lot of my own spare time imagining similar scenarios with Aggi.

  ‘It won’t be forever,’ I reassured her. From my position on the bed, I craned my head trying to see the night sky through the bits of window that were visible because the curtains didn’t meet in the middle. ‘You’ll get a job. You’ve got very good references. You’ll . . .’

  ‘I miss you, Will,’ interrupted Martina.

  There was no time for thought. The tone of her voice demanded an immediate reaction. Here was my chance. I could break her heart without saying a single word or I could make her day. I had this power – this all-consuming power – and I didn’t want it. I didn’t want it more than I’d ever not wanted anything because, metaphorically speaking, I was going to have to look down at this human manifestation of a seal pup, all big eyes and cuteness, and bludgeon its brains out.

  ‘I miss you too, Martina,’ I whispered quietly, hoping that neither her nor my conscience would hear me.

  She sighed heavily with relief.

  This couldn’t carry on; I knew this of course. I’d made another huge mistake. She didn’t want my pity – she wanted my affections. And I had none to give. I had to tell her the Truth.

  ‘Martina?’ This time the tone of my voice must have given the game away because she didn’t reply. I could feel her tensing down the phone line, bracing herself for the blow, waiting for her world to end. I’d seen the family dog, Beveridge, do a similar thing when he thought I was going to tell him off. He refused to come w
hen I called him, but waited, savouring the last few moments of Life as it Was before it turned into Life as it Is.

  What was I going to say?

  Martina, I’m sorry, but this just isn’t working out.

  Too harsh.

  Martina, it’s not you, it’s me. It’s all my fault.

  Too soft. She’d just think I was having a bad day.

  Martina, I don’t know how to say this so I’ll come straight out with it, this isn’t working out.

  Straight to the point. Firm but fair. Nice one.

  ‘Martina,’ I began, ‘I don’t know how to say this . . .’

  ‘Don’t say it, Will,’ said Martina. ‘I know exactly what you’re going to say and I feel the same way too.’

  ‘What?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘I feel the same way, Will,’ she continued, spilling her confusion down the line. ‘I know we’ve only been together since last weekend but what does time matter? Will, I love you too.’

  I was well aware how large my active vocabulary was, and yet not a single word or phrase sprang to my lips in my own defence. I was speechless, although I’m sure she took the length of time I took to respond as a sign that I was inwardly returning the sentiment, too overcome with emotion to vocalise my affection. I just couldn’t work out why she was telling me she loved me when all that we’d shared was the briefest of brief encounters over a week ago.

  ‘Look, Martina . . .’ I began, but stopped mid-sentence. Even fired by anger I couldn’t allow myself to get straight to the point. ‘Martina, it’s late. I’m tired. It’s been a really long week. I’d like to go to sleep now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘Dream of me,’ she whispered sweetly.

  ‘Yeah, all right. Whatever,’ I said, shaking my head as I put the phone down.

  Martina was bad news of the worst variety. She was a terrible idea that was even worse now it was running loose in reality. She was Satan in Gossard underwear. How had I ended up like this?

  Nikki and Cathy, two girls from my teacher training course, were good friends with Martina. On a night out during the second week of our year-long course they’d told me about a number of complimentary comments Martina had made about me during lectures, which all added up to the fact that she fancied me rotten. At first I was flattered because Martina was far from ugly; she was tall, naturally blonde and had a manner about her so elegant that she almost seemed to float. That evening I’d tried talking to her a few times but it was obvious, even then, that though she was keen we had nothing in common.

  I didn’t say another word to her until the weekend before I came to London. I’d been discussing with Alice how soul-destroying it was looking for LOVE in the Nineties, when she suggested that the reason I hadn’t found it had nothing to do with demographics, and everything to do with the fact that I was TOO UPTIGHT FOR MY OWN GOOD. I had to admit, she had a point. While, all around, my peers indulged in one-night stands, two-timing antics and three-in-a-bed-scandals, I was too busy to join in because I was searching for the Other One, to take the place of Aggi (the One). It was easy to see what Alice was getting at. I was practically walking around with a sign around my neck saying: ‘Wife wanted.’ I was looking for a replacement Aggi with a lifetime guarantee and nothing else would do.

  So Martina was it. She was my experiment. The Frankenstein monster of my own creation. My one attempt at a casual relationship, and now I was paying for it dearly. One phone call was all it took. In the back of the taxi after an evening dining at Los Locos, she’d made it clear to me as I frantically stuffed my hand up her top and ran my fingertips along the edges of her bra, that she wanted a relationship. I’d mumbled something along the lines of, ‘Yeah, me too,’ before she swamped me in deep, passionate kisses. Now, because of that, my regret threatened to overwhelm me – which wasn’t all that hard to do. On a good day, I felt guilty for things that most people didn’t give a second thought – not giving to the homeless, not buying a Lifeboat sticker, killing moths trapped in net curtains: guilt had always been a key feature of my life. And now, thanks to Martina, I felt completely and utterly guilty for things I knew for a fact had nothing to do with me. Hiroshima. That was my fault. The sinking of the Titanic. That was me too. Han Solo getting stuck in carbonite in The Empire Strikes Back. Blame me for that one, Princess Leia.

  Already my conscience was suggesting that I should go out with Martina as an act of penance. After all, Catholics had it sussed – erase all guilt by turning the pain of the guilt in on yourself, because at the end of the day, dealing with your own anguish is easy enough when compared to dealing with the pain you’ve caused. It was a nice theory, but it wasn’t the answer. The situation would only get worse. This was my problem: I had to get rid of her, but I didn’t have it in me to dump her. I’d never dumped a girl in my life. Yes, I’d behaved so badly that they’d had no option but to get rid of me, but I’d never done the deed myself. I just couldn’t tell another human being that I didn’t like them the way they liked me. Thanks to Aggi, sometimes I felt like I was the only person in the world who could say, ‘This is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you,’ and really mean it.

  12.50 A.M.

  Martina, or more accurately, thoughts of Martina were denying me the right to sleep, as they raced around my head as if the inside of my skull were a miniature Silverstone. Inevitably, they slowed down, converging at one point – Aggi. How long had she wondered – just as I was doing with Martina – how to break it to me gently? She must have known that whatever she said, and however she said it, I’d be totally torn apart.

  Weeks afterwards, when I could actually get my head around the concept of her not being there any more – about as easy as coming to terms with waking up a paraplegic – it occurred to me that she might have been trying to tell me how she felt for weeks, maybe even months, and I’d been too stupid to notice. It hurt to think that all that time I’d been under the illusion, thinking she felt the same about me as I did about her – and now I didn’t know what to believe in. The questions I should have asked at the time never got asked, and by the time I’d got around to feeling I could ask them without falling to pieces, she’d cut off all contact.

  Maybe she’d decided that very morning, or when I met her outside Shoe Express, or as the milk in our coffee began to separate in the café, or as she drove through the barriers of the car park, or as she pulled into Rilstone Road, or as she leaned over and kissed me to say . . .

  That’s enough. I closed my eyes tightly, hoping that sleep would come soon. That’s enough thinking for now. I was never going to get to sleep at this rate. I looked through the gaps in the curtain, the night sky appeared to be fading into morning – I wondered if I’d fallen asleep without knowing it, and checked my watch. Night-time was still a very long way from being over. I lay back on the bed and stared at the Artexed ceiling, hoping to drop off out of boredom. I could barely see the ceiling without my glasses, the world was a blur and for this I would always be grateful.

  I was twelve years old before I realised people were supposed to see the world clearly. My vision had been in a state of deterioration for at least two years. As a twelve-year-old that was a sixth of my life, or if I only counted the important bits when I could talk and at least do a portion of thinking for myself – at least a fifth. It wasn’t like I was on the road to Damascus or anything, it just sort of sneaked up on me. I thought it was the way things were.

  My first pair of glasses were a hideous affair that I bucked, railed and tantrumed against when informed of their impending entry into my life. I took one look in the mirror at the optician’s and burst out crying. There were only two good role models for four-eyed youngsters back then: Brains from Thunderbirds or Joe 90, and even then, everyone assumed you were clever.

  My peers, without any need for provocation, took it upon themselves to abuse both me and my spectacles at every opportunity. Even Sandra Law, who had a pink plastic pair, felt able to join in. I had to take the ‘bras
sings’, as we used to call it, for over a week until, thankfully, they found another child to torture. Craig Harrison’s younger brother had shown his tackle to a group of girls in the gully that ran along the back of the school. Admittedly, they had goaded him into it, but that was no excuse. That boy had no shame.

  During that dreadful week Simon had stood by me. This didn’t exactly mean that he defended my honour – that would’ve only attracted abuse in his direction – but I always had someone to play with and knew that there was at least one person in the world who would never call me ‘speccy-four-eyes’. It was during a lunch-time break, while playing Galactic Head with Simon, our personal vision of future space travel, that it dawned on me to incorporate my spectacles into the game.

  I Sellotaped a Bic biro to the right arm of my specs and thus my glasses became an intergalactic communicator. It was an immediate success. I started off the biggest playground craze seen in years – bigger than the Slinky Spring, Return of the Jedi trading cards and fastening the top toggle of a duffel coat around your neck to make it look like Batman’s cape. That afternoon my glasses were practically passed around the whole of the school. By the end of the following week people were bringing sunglasses into school for me to customise. The craze, and my popularity as a whole, took a nose-dive when Gareth ‘Stiggy’ Evans brought in his dad’s bifocals for me to transform. His dad later told the headmaster that Gareth had 20/20 vision, so it was ‘no bloody wonder’ he tripped over and smashed them while playing keep-it-ups with Arthur Tapp.

  Four years after that my own glasses shared a similar fate during a Scout camping weekend in the Derbyshire hills. There were five of us to a tent and before we’d gone to sleep Craig Butler – who was sleeping in the middle – had convinced us that a man would try and sneak in during the night, and steal our body parts using a sharpened butter knife. By the time he’d finished winding us up only the unceasing clenching of buttock muscle kept the contents of my bowels from exploding. I was at the zip end of the tent, so there was no way I was going to take off my specs. When I woke up in the morning my glasses had disappeared but I didn’t have to look far to find them. They were lying on the floor, crushed under the quivering buttocks of Fat Nigel.