‘Whuh?’
‘And you’re rocking the bed a bit. Whatever you’re doing.’
Johnny arrives in from work again and looks displeased to see me curled up on the sofa, looking into my phone like it’s The Well of Absolutely Everything.
‘You’re stroking that thing like it’s your full-time job,’ he accuses me. ‘What’s on there that’s so important?’
He moves lightning-fast to take a look at the screen, clearly suspicious. I proffer the phone, looking hurt and indignant.
‘You’ve got a crush on someone,’ he taunts, sing-song.
‘Do I fuck,’ I shoot back.
He does not look like a man appeased.
‘The thing is, I’ve been thinking about, you know, what happened in June,’ I start. Johnny softens immediately. That’s how we refer to it: What Happened In June. I never want to talk about it with him, so he perks up immediately, like a houseplant that’s just been watered. ‘I might want to write something about it. That’s why I’ve been on this thing so much.’
‘Are you thinking… of a book thing?’ he asks, brows knitting together in concern.
‘I don’t know if it’s even something for other people to read or to watch,’ I reassure him. ‘Just a way for me to get my head around it.’
‘Well, that could be a really good thing, yeah.’ His earnestness is a little heart-breaking in the face of my lie. ‘You’ve always wanted to… and maybe, if you want, I could have a look at it.’
For the first time in a long time, I feel some sort of tenderness with Johnny.
‘You know what day it is next Wednesday,’ I tell him. Nine or so months since I pissed on a stick, five months since the bloodied toilet bowl. The tenth of November 2010. It should have been an entirely different day to the one it’s now going to be.
‘Oh, I do know. All too well.’
The silence between us feels no longer awkward, but luxuriant. It’s doing all the heavy lifting for us right now.
‘We could do something together, if you like,’ he says. My eyes must widen at the thought of not being able to keep tabs on Ted for most of the day, because then Johnny reacts. ‘Nothing too full-on, or too fun. Whatever. Might be nice to just mark it out somehow.’
We’ve shared everything, all the time, for years. I want to tell Johnny about Ted Levy and how cool I think he is, and how much having him in my life is somehow helping right now. Does it feel like a betrayal? Not especially. Ted is like a little escape. A diversion, like a funfair ride where the clouds part the higher you go.
7
What starts as a niggle soon becomes an itch, then a rash, then a full-blown compulsion. I crave the pain of a tattooist’s needle.
One lunch break in December, I forgo the Pret sandwich andHeatmagazine and make a break for a tattoo parlour near Spitalfields market. I walk in, feeling self-conscious about my sober trouser suit and silk blouse. I sit in the waiting room and bury my head in the flipbook of tattoo images, aware of the heat of curious stares from some nearby goth kids. I do not look like body art material. I concentrate on the whirr of the tattoo needle as it works on someone else’s ankle, only a few feet away. Only when my name is called does my breathing settle back into its usual rhythm.
I move towards the back of the shop, where pictures of tribal symbols and grandfather-clock tattoos stare down at me from everywhere. The tattoo artist looks up expectantly, waiting for me to produce an image or visual reference.
‘I’m not sure what to get,’ I admit. ‘Something that symbolizes loss, I think.’
His whole demeanour shifts. He stands up. ‘Nup,’ he says, rearranging his needle on the table. ‘I’m gonna needmore than that. Come back when you’ve had more of a think about this.’
‘No, no,’ I tell him, panicking slightly. ‘I mean, I do know. I’ve thought about it. Genuinely.’
He looks at me with disdain, me in my jacket and kitten heels and indecision.
‘A big and a small elephant. One blue, one pink. Like a mother and baby.’
Something about this defrosts him; makes him look me in the eye for a long moment. He pulls out his phone, scrolls for a bit and finds a simple outline of two cartoon elephants, entwined in an embrace.
‘How about a minimalist piece, like that?’ he says, his finger trailing the simple outline. ‘You can add more detail at a later time, if you like.’
As the needle hits my hip bone, I feel something approximating relief, for the first time in a long time.
