The ABCs of Love Read online

  “It’s not like you and Sally,” he said. “You’re like blokes. You can pick up and drop your friendship when there’s nothing better to do.”

  I tried to talk about this with Sally, but she said that Colin lives in hope of walking in and finding Sally and me in a delicate situation together. It is his deepest fantasy. I’m so grateful John understands friendship for what it is and is not always trying to turn it to his advantage. This is so typical of Colin, and also of Sally not to mind.

  See also Codes; Rude; Voyeur; Women’s Laughter

  letters

  Dear Kate,

  I think you should know that . . .

  Dear Mrs. Hutchinson,

  Your husband and I have been . . .

  To Whom It May Concern,

  John Hutchinson is in love with . . .

  Dear Kate,

  I hope you will forgive me for remaining anonymous, but I am a well-wisher who . . .

  Dear Kate Hutchinson,

  I have thought long and hard before writing this letter but . . .

  Dear Wife of John,

  I . . .

  Dear.

  Oh, dear.

  See also Codes; Endings; Utopia

  liqueur chocolates

  John sometimes finds it difficult to use the L word. We have used up the apricot liquid I won at the sex party, but the other day, he broke open liqueur chocolates on my bare skin and made a joke of it. “I l-l-l-l-l you,” he said, sticking out his tongue and licking the spilled liqueur off instead of saying love. It was fun at the time, but I was disappointed afterward. And sticky.

  Sally says the thing to do is not to nag. They get enough of that at home. “What has he bought you?” she asked. “These men just love buying us presents, don’t they?”

  I couldn’t show her the frying pan, the set of matching cookie tins, or even the tea towel with illustrations of all the different species of fish. Even though John and I chose it together from the local fish-and-chips shop, it doesn’t match Colin’s presents. Not in cash terms, anyhow. I use the tea towel to wrap up the empty chocolate boxes. John says we’ve got a habit.

  See also Glenda G-spot; Tornadoes

  love calculators

  There is a Web page on the Internet that lets you type in your name and the name of the person you love, and it works out whether you are a good match or not. John and I are 67 percent compatible. Dr. Love says that we need to work at our relationship. Sally and Colin have distinct possibilities at 78 percent, but on the other hand, Colin and I are 99 percent right for each other. A match made in heaven.

  When I was at school, we didn’t go on computers so much, so we used pen and paper instead for these little love calculations. We’d cross out all the letters that appeared in both names and then work our way through the remainder chanting out love and hate alternately. When I tried this with John’s name, we only had two letters in common, although the ones we do share spell it, which has to be significant. However, when I do the chant, it comes out hate. I don’t know John’s middle name, though. Maybe if I used our full names, it would come out with a more correct answer.

  See also Mistaken Identity

  lust

  When my father was lying in his hospital bed, I tried hard to concentrate on things he’d like to talk about. It was difficult, though, because what I couldn’t say was that I felt like I was wading through an erotic fever. The sicker he got, the more I wanted to make love to healthy men. My need was shaming. John was the first person I told about how I really felt. The men I knew at the time were too grateful to speak much. When John told me lots of people felt the same, I was so relieved. This is what I like about John—not the fact that being with him is exciting, just the opposite. John makes me feel normal.

  See also Grief; Illness; Teaching; Why?

  M

  magazines

  John thinks it is strange that I have never shared a flat with anyone. I did think about moving in with Sally once, but then Mum got ill, so I just stayed at home until I bought my own flat.

  Besides, having a flatmate is not something I’ve ever fancied. It’s not just all that fridge etiquette; but if I wanted to sum up everything I hate about the flatmate relationship, it’s the way they read each other’s brand-new magazines without asking. There is something so special about opening a glossy magazine and being the first to tear the pages when they get stuck together or try out the perfumes. A used magazine is about as appealing as a half-finished yogurt. At least I know Sally would never leave me with either.

  See also Houses; Routines; Velvet

  marathons

  The first time John and I had sex over the telephone, it was just a joke. Now we do it for hours. He once rang me up from the supermarket car park when he was supposed to be picking up some barbecue meat. He’d gone into the far corner where no one could see him. I felt incredibly sexy and strong, turning him on so much. I felt liberated.

  I told him we’ll have to get each other those special hands-free headsets for Christmas. He said we will get so used to talking about sex that when we finally get together, we will have to have separate phone lines installed in the house so we can carry on doing it this way.

  When we finally get together.

  I didn’t say anything at the time, but I was desperate for him to get off the line so I could phone Sally. When I did, I could tell from her tone that Colin had never said anything like that to her.

  See also Boxing; Endings; Heroines; Jealousy; Ultimatum; Why?; Youth

  mars bars

  Sally and I used to buy Mars bars from the school store. Then we would wrap them in wet flannels and put them on the radiator so they’d get a mottled, almost moldy look. We became experts at writing disappointed complaint letters to the company using different names, and we’d get sent large selection boxes in recompense. It was fine at first, but the trouble was that we got greedy and the company got the school store shut down because they had received so many complaints about its hygiene.

  We never told anyone it was us. Especially when everyone got so annoyed about not being able to buy snacks anymore. They might have forgiven Sally, but never me.

  See also Blackbirds, Robins, and Nightingales; Outcast; Vendetta

  memory

  Will you love me forever?

  I will.

  Will you ever forget me?

  Never.

  Will you remember me in one week’s time?

  Of course.

  Will you remember me in one year’s time?

  Definitely.

  Will you remember me in ten years’ time?

  I will.

  Knock, knock.

  Who’s there?

  See, you’ve forgotten me already.

  Jesus, woman, just let me read the paper, can’t you? This is worse than being with the kids.

  Verity?

  Verity, oh, Verity, darling. Stop crying. I didn’t mean it. I’ll remember you forever. I promise. I’ll love you forever.

  See also Endings

  mirrors

  A funny thing happened when I looked in the mirror this morning.

  I saw I had tilted my head slightly to the left without thinking, and for a minute, it was my mother looking back at me. I was even making that half smile she made every time she looked in the mirror, as if she were greeting someone she hadn’t seen for a long time.

  This might be a sign of age. I have noticed that the older women at work always put their heads to one side when they look in the mirror. It’s as if they’re afraid of what they’ll see if they face themselves straight on.

  See also Daisies; Horror Movies; Mistaken Identity; Old; Voyeur; Zzzz

  mistaken identity

  I once pretended to be my mother on the telephone. I didn’t mean to do it. It was just that the person on the other end automatically assumed I was Mrs. Bell. It felt wonderful, just like when I used to take my father’s car keys and walk up and down swinging them in my hand, hoping that people would think I was o
ld enough to own a car. I started to feel that if only I really could take my mother’s place, everything would be all right. I would have somewhere to go where I could be me.

  Maybe this is what we always feel about mothers. Their very presence stops us being us. Maybe this is why I hate Kate so much.

  From what John says, she has always put being a mother first. She has been too busy with the kids to spend any time with him for a long time. She has no idea of how much he needed her, and now they have nothing in common but the children. I can’t help thinking this is the wrong thing for her to do when mothers are so easily replaced.

  See also Daisies; Engagement Ring; Illness; The Queen II; Stepmothers; Underwear

  money

  Not many people know that if you put a two-pound coin in the freezer and wait until it is completely frozen, you can then press the middle bit out with your thumbs.

  Mind you, this makes it difficult to use, so you can do this only if you have money to spare.

  John has started talking about money a lot. It makes me feel uncomfortable because we have such different ideas about it. He thinks if he ever had any spare cash, it would be his duty to spend as much of it as he could. Not just on himself, but on making other people happy. I told him that when I was young, I always used to be very helpful to old people on buses because I thought they might then leave all their money to the little girl who was so kind to them. Every time I heard the doorbell ring, I would wonder whether this was my reward coming. Now John says that he wants money so he can leave it to a complete stranger when he dies. Maybe someone whose name he pulls out of a phone book at random and who will always be perplexed by why he or she was chosen.

  See also Love Calculators; Surnames; Utopia

  money—even more of it

  Of course, when my parents died and left me an inheritance, I knew why they chose me. I just didn’t expect it to be so much. Money wasn’t something we ever talked about at home. Even the solicitor was surprised. He kept going on about the Responsibility. About how I was almost an “heiress” now. It made me think of Joan Crawford somehow. All hard and glittery but with ample shoulder pads to bear all that Responsibility.

  Everyone was so kind to me after my father passed away. Sally took me home, and I slept in her family’s spare bedroom for a week. Her mother made me cups of tea, and her father teased me, and every time I cried, they thought it was because I was sad about my parents. They didn’t realize it was because I was so comfortable there. This is what I wanted for the rest of my life. And I couldn’t bear the guilt of that.

  This is why I don’t want the money. It changes everything. Sally’s parents would have expected me to check into a hotel, not taken me under their wing like they did. So I worked it out with my solicitor that no one need know anything about it. We’ve let out my parents’ house through a letting agency, and what with that and the income from my stocks and shares, I don’t need to worry about anything anymore. He even gives me pocket money as if he’s my father. He insists I go to his office every month to go through things, although I trust him absolutely and only pretend to check the figures.

  The trouble is, you can’t go to bed with money. It can’t hug you and stroke you and tell you that everything is going to be all right. As soon as you have it, it covers you up, so everyone expects you to take charge. To be the one to tell everyone else that everything is going to be all right. To take the Responsibility.

  In fact, my solicitor is the only person who knows about the legacy. Sometimes if I try very hard, I can forget about it myself. I can even enjoy dreaming with John about how we would spend our imaginary millions. This has become one of our favorite topics of conversation. Sometimes I wonder if it is what holds us together. We have such plans that would all come true if only we had the money.

  See also Danger; Jealousy; Teaching; Velvet; Yields

  mustache

  I had the idea to make a giant heart out of chicken wire and fill it with white fairy lights as a surprise for John. I went to the hardware shop to get the stuff but wasn’t sure what wire cutters to buy. When I asked someone, I suddenly found myself surrounded by four men offering me different advice. They were all very interested in what I was doing, and two of them even offered to come round and help me if I hit problems.

  On my way home, it struck me that I had stumbled onto something important. Women spend all this time and money on finding Mr. Right. What they don’t realize is that men are there all the time, lurking in the aisles of DIY shops. All you have to do is buy wire cutters.

  I think I am finally coming to understand the secrets between men and women. John was feeling around my face with his fingertips the other night. He traced the outline of my nose, pressing the end with his thumb. He told me that his mother used to do this when he was a little boy so he would have a round nose like hers and not his father’s beak.

  He then rested all his fingertips over my upper lip. “I love your mustache,” he said. I felt myself go tense, especially when he leaned forward and dolloped out little butterfly kisses all over my face. Was he joking?

  I pushed him away. “What’s wrong?” he asked. He really couldn’t understand.

  “I haven’t got a mustache,” I said. “Men have mustaches, not women.”

  “But you’ve got such a wonderful one,” John said. “It’s beautiful. You’ve no idea how it turns me on. I wish you wouldn’t pluck out the hairs like you always do.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I have spent so many years trying to hide the fact that I have facial hair, and here was someone telling me it was sexy. My stomach turned over with love for John. If only men would realize that this is all women need. To be desired without boundaries, to be loved for all the things we have got wrong with us, not for what we would like to be.

  See also Hair; Vacuuming; Women’s Laughter

  mystery tours

  My father was brought up in a cathedral city, and when he used to take Mum off for their little holidays, I would stay with my grandparents there. In the cathedral, there was an effigy of a dead body that had been carved after the body was buried and dug up. It had worms coming out from its skull. My grandmother would always take me to see it and then leave me there while she went shopping.

  As another special treat, we would go to the department store where there was a cage of stuffed birds. If you put a penny in, they would come to life and sing to you. I got told off once for hitting a small boy who just stood by, watching the birds sing, while I used up all my pocket money. Maybe, my grandmother said afterward, he didn’t have any money and that was his only chance of happiness. “Don’t you feel guilty because you have so much?” she asked me.

  I thought about this a lot, and even though I didn’t have any dessert that day, I was still glad I hit him.

  Once she took me on a mystery tour. We had to get on a coach in the town center first thing in the morning, and we didn’t have a clue where we were going. The coach was full of old people, and my grandmother kept telling me how exciting it was. We went down so many bumpy roads, I started to feel sick, but we drove and drove and drove until we came to a pub and the coach driver got out and had a drink. My grandmother bought me a warm lemonade and some crisps, and then when I went to the loo, a wasp drowned in my lemonade. I couldn’t have another because it was time to drive back home. When I called my parents that evening, my grandmother shouted to me that I should tell them what fun we had. So I did.

  For years afterward, everyone kept telling me how much I enjoyed mystery tours until I nearly believed them.

  See also Dreams; Jealousy; Kisses; Underwear

  N

  names

  My father told me that when he was growing up, there was a family on his road who called their sons by the days of the week and their daughters by the months of the year. They only reached June with the girls, but the boys went right through the week. My father’s particular friend was called Saturday Smith.

  We used to talk about names a lot in our
family. That’s what made me realize how much they matter. Once my father hit the dining-room table with the flat of his hand because he’d got into a blind rage about why someone would call their child James James. That’s what got me thinking that maybe your name becomes more important than something you just have dangling down from your body, like a scarf or a handbag. Your name gets into your lifeblood, so a Jane is always going to be different from a Mercedes. A Daisy from a Violet. A Kate from a Verity.

  In which case, it worries me even more how many Conservative politicians are named Norman.

  “How many people do you know called Norman?” I asked John one night. He said he knew no one personally.

  “Now think how many Conservatives you can name,” I said. “They even marry Normas. Is this something that happens at birth, or do you turn Conservative from years of being bullied at school?”

  John told me that he was at school with someone who wanted to be a spy. This boy would never let himself be photographed in case it could be used against him later. John couldn’t remember his name, even when I told him I was at school with a girl called Jackie Gotobed.

  See also Codes; Surnames; Words

  new men

  Sally and I agree that we could never love a new man. It’s not just the sandals either. It’s the lack of juice. You want to feed them raw steak. John says that what he loves most about me is the way I desire him. He says it makes him feel real. I can’t talk about this with Sally. She’d think I was just a sex object for John.

  See also Marathons; Phone Calls; Rude; Sex

  noddy

  John was once sitting down watching television with his wife when he remembered a joke someone had told him. He laughed so much that his wife prodded him to shut up, but John was so helpless with laughter, he rolled off the sofa and onto the carpet. He sobered up then and got back up. Neither of them referred to the incident at all. They just carried on watching the program. This has worried John for a long time, which is why I try to laugh with him at the joke; but if I’m honest, I find it sad rather than funny. This is how it goes: