An Unremarkable Body Read online

  ‘Great. How about Wednesday or Thursday next week?’

  ‘Thursday’s good.’

  ‘Thursday, then. Meet in The Goat for 1 p.m.?’

  ‘Perfect. See you then.’

  I put my phone down and walked into the kitchen. With nothing to do, I opened the fridge and noticed a yogurt, untouched, on the top shelf at the back. I tiptoed to reach it, feeling pleased it was still in date, but as I peeled the lid off I looked down at the bin. I’d taken the rubbish out that morning and hadn’t replaced the bin bag. I put my yogurt down and searched in the cupboard under the sink, and that’s when I remembered why I hadn’t replaced the bin bag. I’d run out. I threw the yogurt lid in the uncovered bin, knowing not only that I’d have to fish it out later, but that I couldn’t go on, holed up and grieving, in a dirty flat indefinitely. Life, with all its humdrum self-importance, was beckoning.

  Andy gave me my first job in journalism, writing for the lifestyle section of a free London newspaper – the kind handed out aggressively at tube stations – in December 2006. I came to his attention because of Lost Angel, a blog I began in May 2005. I lived in Angel, Islington at the time, renting a room in a large house. Every week I identified a small historical fact about the area that I extrapolated, however tenuously, to my own life as a twenty-something professional trying to make my way in the bewildering metropolis. Angel was a very exciting place to live in 2005 – its transformation well under way; the bars and coffee shops continued to proliferate, and as more and more young people flocked to the area and its environs, I began to see that I’d hit upon something. My blog became a kind of imperfect diary composed of sporadic reflections, peppered by my own frustrations and insecurities. I began receiving emails from a small number of readers and they helped me to see that there was an appetite for modern reflections on an old path – that however contemporary we might feel, it is comforting to know we are treading lightly on walkways already laid down for us.

  My most successful post was a parody of Dante’s Divina Commedia set in Angel tube station. The twisted sculpture of Kevin Boys’s angel in the ticket hall, poised to run down to the trains, gave me the idea to write of my own long descent, down an escalator of record-breaking length, to the hellish pit below, where the scurrying commuters are forced to choose between Morden or High Barnet. I described myself being held in purgatorial sway on the platforms, watching the dark hole that yawned for all of us, and the enduring torment even after boarding a tube – of trying to remain stable as bodies, weaker than your own, jostled and jolted; the search for meaning in the advertisements above the heads of the fortunate few to be seated. It was overwritten but well received; people shared it, and my readership continued to grow.

  When I’d exhausted Angel, I moved on to other parts of London, working late into the evening and getting up early in the morning to complete my research. I began receiving enquiries from editors of various London publications interested in serialising my posts, and in 2006, Lost in London was commissioned to appear weekly in a newspaper with a readership of just under two million. I began by reprising some of my more popular posts, edited to appeal to Londoners in general and summarised to just five hundred words. Readers were invited to email comments or suggestions, and I spun their ideas into my own fabricated travails.

  My mother was proud of me. She used to walk up to Surbiton station every Friday morning to get her copy of the newspaper, handed out at the station entrance. When my column first appeared, she even took her copy and boarded a commuter train heading towards Waterloo. I laughed when she told me and asked her why. She saw nothing strange in it, simply remarking that she wanted to read my column like everybody else. On a busy train. And because she had no reason to be in London, she simply remained on the train and waited for the driver to walk to the other end and take her back to Surbiton.

  She never expressed surprise at my ambition to write, but when my work was finally printed for all to see, her pride was indomitable and personal. My achievement became her own. One she could share, happily, with Surbiton’s commuters.

  I began writing as a journalist in November 2008, just as the term ‘credit crunch’ firmly embedded itself in the nation’s vernacular. The business editor of the newspaper had emailed Andy to ask if he knew anyone who would be interested in covering some of the human stories behind the rising numbers of evictions in the capital. Lost in London was still very much my bread and butter, but I was keen to broaden my horizons, so I went to talk to tenants who were on the brink of eviction and what I found surprised me. There were a handful of landlords who, despite their tenants being several months in arrears, had opted not to evict. I managed to interview four – three of whom cited the vulnerability of their tenants as their most compelling reason for declining to evict. The fourth landlord simply didn’t have the time or money to commence legal proceedings, but I had enough to shape a story and offer up a positive – albeit minor – rejoinder to the bleak and implacable headlines at the time. I tentatively offered my copy on the rise of the philanthropic landlord in some of London’s poorest boroughs to Andy, who passed it to the paper’s business editor. It was printed, and so began my career as a London-centric journalist.

  The following Thursday I took the tube to Marble Arch, leaving myself enough time to walk across Hyde Park before my lunch with Andy. It was mid-March, and the trees had begun to bud with timid green leaves. I felt just as tight and nervous. It was a beautifully sunny day, not particularly warm, but bright enough to make me regret wearing a jacket. I wanted to take it off and spread it on the short, soft grass. To sit among and away from other people; but I knew that if I did, I wouldn’t want to get up again. Andy and my old life were waiting for me, so I walked across the park to see about rejoining it.

  He was at the bar when I walked in, sweating in my too-many layers, all of which had felt essential that morning as I’d shivered in my underwear. The pub was warm and close, surrounding its drinkers with a forced affection. I took my jacket off and folded it over my handbag as I walked towards the bar.

  ‘Hello stranger,’ I said, tapping him gently on the arm.

  ‘Laura!’ he said, putting his arm across my shoulders and waving a twenty-pound note like a flag at the retreating barmaid. ‘I’m just ordering. What can I get you?’

  ‘Oh … to eat? What do they have?’

  ‘No, just drinks. We can look at the menu in a minute. If you’re hungry, that is.’

  ‘I’ll have an orange juice, please.’

  ‘Orange juice. I’m at that table over there in the corner. Go and grab a seat. I’ll bring the drinks over.’

  I did as I was told and sat down opposite Andy’s chair, claimed by his jumper folded over the back of it. And as I sat there, pulling the layers of clothing from myself, I felt a kind of weary awe for the motions that had delivered me to a pub in Kensington. The tube I’d taken; the barmaid pouring my drink; the editor who wanted me to work again. They were all part of a wider and insensible existence. One I could rejoin or withdraw from at a moment’s notice.

  Andy returned to the table with a pint of lager and my orange juice. He had two menus tucked under his right arm. He sat down and passed me my drink, offering his own up in salutation: ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’ I smiled.

  Andy studied my face for a few seconds as he sipped his lager. When he put it down again, his expression had changed to one of sympathetic understanding.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Laura. If it’s any consolation, my dad died five years ago. Parkinson’s. So I know what it’s like to lose a parent.’

  I stared down at my orange juice. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t be. I’m just trying to say that I know how shit it can be.’

  ‘It was very … unexpected. As I think you know.’

  ‘Yeah. I sometimes catch myself thinking, would that be easier?’

  ‘Would what be easier?’

  ‘You know, someone important in yo
ur life dying suddenly rather than a long-drawn-out performance in a hospice.’

  I took a sip of my drink. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How was the funeral?’

  ‘Sad. Really sad.’

  He reached across the table and grabbed the fingers of my left hand. I could tell he didn’t know how long or tightly he should hold them.

  ‘Did you bury her?’ he asked, pulling his hand away. As though I might still have some of the dirt under my fingernails.

  ‘No, cremated.’

  ‘Are you going to scatter her somewhere?’

  ‘Not sure,’ I answered, sipping more of my drink. ‘She’s currently on my kitchen windowsill. I need to find her a more permanent resting place,’ I said, smiling.

  Andy was relieved by the banter. ‘Listen, the way to get through something like this is to keep yourself busy. From my own experience, it’s the only thing that works.’

  I nodded my head and looked behind him to the bar, where the barmaid was holding a glass to one of the spirit optics on the wall, scrutinising herself in the mirrored glass. She looked bored.

  ‘And I’ve got something just perfect for you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ I said, refocusing on him.

  ‘We’re looking to do a series of articles on what the Olympics will mean for east London,’ he continued. ‘You know – in real terms, not just the landlords and homeowners but minority groups, elderly residents, disadvantaged kids. That sort of thing.’

  I heard his words, numbered the community groups, pre-empted the ‘issues’ and felt suddenly exhausted. I looked down at my orange juice, the ice cubes smaller than they had been. Less willing to clink. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What are you not sure about?’

  ‘That I can take something that big on at the moment. And do it justice.’

  ‘OK. Look. Forget the series. Just try one article. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you were the right person.’

  ‘Can I have a think about it?’

  ‘Of course. And listen, like I said on the phone, we all miss having you around. Have a think and let me know by Monday. OK?’

  ‘OK. Will do,’ I said, swallowing. ‘So, how are you? And how are the kids?’

  ‘Really good,’ he said with a smile. ‘Freya’s getting on well in Reception, and Jacob loves Year Three.’ He picked up his phone and began searching for a recent picture. It took a few seconds but eventually he found one: a young boy with front teeth that were too big for his smile. Beside him was a pretty, diffident little girl.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ I said.

  He drank his pint quickly and opened one of the menus. ‘Did you want to eat something?’

  ‘No, not if you don’t.’

  ‘I can grab a sandwich on the way back to the office if you don’t feel like it.’

  I pulled one of the menus across to me and glanced at the mains. They were all heavy with calories and written conspicuously to appeal.

  ‘I’m OK. I’ll get something later on.’

  He finished the last of his pint and began pulling his jumper from the back of the chair. ‘I’ve got to get back. Listen, Laura, it was great to see you.’

  We stood for an awkward hug across the table. All arms and faces. I waited for ten minutes before following him out of the door in search of a bench and fresh air. I didn’t want to risk running into him again.

  It felt easy to be outside, neither too hot nor too cold. I knew I’d have to return to work eventually. And the articles Andy had offered me were a gift for anyone in my position. But my mind returned, as it always did, to my mother’s post-mortem report and the stark account I’d written of her torn earlobe.

  I couldn’t go home and face all the things that needed doing there, so I took my phone out of my bag and stared at the screen, willing a reason not to go home to appear. When nothing materialised, I decided to phone Andrea. She answered quickly. And apparently out of breath.

  ‘Laura. Finally. Where have you been?’

  ‘Hi Andrea. I know, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I must have phoned you ten times in the last three weeks.’

  ‘I know. It’s been tough.’ I swallowed heavily. ‘I’m sorry. What about you? Are you OK? You sound like you’ve been running.’

  ‘I was. Ran back to my desk from the photocopier when I heard my phone ring.’

  ‘Jesus, Andrea. That’s about three yards away.’

  ‘I know, but I didn’t want to miss your call. Where are you?’

  ‘Hyde Park, actually. Just had a meeting with my editor. Do you fancy joining me for a drink?’

  ‘You’re drinking in Hyde Park? It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.’

  ‘No, you div. I’m not drinking in Hyde Park. But I would like to go for a drink. With you.’

  ‘I’ve already had lunch, but it’s pretty quiet here. Can you come to Clerkenwell?’

  ‘Yes, definitely. I’ll start walking and text you when I’m outside.’

  We met in The Betsey Trotwood on Farringdon Road. It was our go-to pub of choice when we worked together. Andrea and I became friends when I got a job as a personal assistant to the Head of Marketing at a small internet service provider based in Clerkenwell in December 2003. She was personal assistant to the CEO, and though the people we assisted were several organisational levels apart, our desks were side by side.

  Her face lit up when she saw me sitting at a table in the corner. She put her arms out to embrace me too many metres away. I stood up, awkwardly awaiting her affection. She pulled me to her, crushing my shoulders against her chest.

  ‘I’m so pleased to see you. Let me get a drink, though,’ she said, looking at my glass of wine.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted a drink drink. Sorry.’

  ‘You’re grieving, Laura. Not insane. Of course I want a drink.’

  She returned to her seat full of admiration for her large glass of white wine and my face behind it.

  ‘So, bloody hell. Tell me everything. I didn’t feel I could ask you at the funeral, what with everything going on, but … did you shag him?’ She was referring to the night before my mother died. I’d met up with an ex-boyfriend and, rather predictably, we’d ended up in bed together.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what? We had full penetrative sex and then he went home to his wife.’

  Her shoulders slumped with theatrical commiseration. She sipped her wine, gleefully. ‘Shit. Were you careful?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call sleeping with a married man particularly careful, but we used a condom and I’m definitely not pregnant.’

  ‘And what now? Have you told him about your mum?’

  ‘No. There’s no point. It won’t change anything.’

  ‘Do you want things to change?’

  ‘Not really. They’ve got a little girl together. The whole thing is fucked up.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She watched me as the seconds passed, waiting for something – a sneak peek at my grief. I felt momentary relief as I said, quickly and quietly, ‘She was all alone, Andrea. I was too late to help her.’ I swallowed the painful dryness that always presaged tears.

  ‘Oh, Laura.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m OK.’

  ‘I don’t think you are.’

  I put my hands up to my face and began to cry. Andrea reached across the table and pulled my left hand away. As though she wanted me to confront the thing I was looking away from. She gripped my reluctant fingers and pulled them towards her chest.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled as I tried to take my hand back. But she wouldn’t let go.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ she said fiercely. ‘You don’t have to be sorry with me. Let me help you.’

  ‘I know. And thank you. It’s just all up here in my head. I can’t stop seeing her like that. The way I found her. It’s the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. If I sleep.’

  ‘OK, listen to me. Work through what you need to,
take all the time you need, but let’s arrange to meet again – a fixed date in the diary. You know, a sort of deadline.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Eric’s always on at me to set targets and agree deadlines. I’ve got to get his presentation notes typed up this afternoon, actually,’ she said, inexplicably turning round and looking at the door, as if he might march in and order her back to her desk. ‘So what I’m saying is, we need a plan. It’s your birthday next month. Let me come over and cook you dinner. How does that sound?’

  ‘That sounds nice. Thank you. And thanks for project-managing my grief.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  There was lividity on the back of the body. The limbs were still rigid.

  My mother was a relatively tall woman. At five feet seven inches, she had long, strong legs that were often prickly. She shaved them in the summer months and allowed the hair to grow, dark and wiry, from September until the first warm day of April or May. Around the time of my birthday, more of my mother’s body would start to appear, smooth and white.

  In 1987, my sixth birthday fell on Easter Monday. Christopher was just seven months old. My mother baked a cake, covered it in pink icing and arranged for three of my school friends to come over for a birthday tea party. Jenny was there too, alternating between holding Christopher and washing up, while my mother fussed around me and my guests, pouring cups of orange squash and handing out small triangular sandwiches. It was the first bright, sunny day of the year and after tea we were allowed to go and play in the garden. My mother, wearing shorts and a yellow T-shirt, took Christopher silently from Jenny and, tucking a folded picnic blanket under her arm, followed us out. She put Christopher down on the grass, and with her long back to the house, she shook the blanket open to the skies. I watched as she sat down and folded her shiny, shaved legs under her and pulled Christopher into the crook of her lap. He was sucking his fists contentedly, his small round head bobbing backwards against her breasts. My mother smiled, first at me and then up at the sky.

  ‘Are you having a nice time, Laura?’ she asked the clouds.