Free True Things About Me A Novel (Deborah Kay Davies) by Deborah Kay Davies

The sunset made his skin glow and his hair paler. He still looked like his other, good, gentle self. The one I didn’t know. What have you found? he said. I held up the squashed sweet in its ragged paper wrapping, and he took it from me. These used to be called Opal Fruits when I was kid, he said, do you remember? Then he put it in his mouth. We stood on the bridge together and he held me tightly. Here, he said, kissing me, open up, and pushed the warm gooey sweet into my mouth with his tongue. Strawberry! I said, but really I felt as if it was a little chunk of him, and I could eat it. He hugged me to him. I wanted to stay on the bridge, out there, suspended, but I knew that was stupid. It was dark now, and the river beneath us held onto the last glow of the sky.
    Gradually I realised I was gripping him so tightly my arms were trembling. I told myself to chill out, it was obvious themoment had passed. He wasn’t responding to me any more. I let my arms drop. I wasn’t surprised when his phone shrilled, the little screen shining bluely. Yeh, he said, yeh, yeh, OK. Then he listened for a moment. Nothing important, he said, looking at me without recognition, concentrating on his conversation. Yeh, mate, you fuck yourself, he said, and laughed. Pick me up in, say, ten minutes at the usual place. No probs. The blue light died. Without it the evening felt pitch black, the trees along the sides of the river bent over.
    Gotta go, babe, he said. But it’s dark, I said, and a long way to the car. So? he said. You’re a big girl. He was already walking away from me. I started to cry. Don’t leave me, haven’t we been having a nice time? I called. I couldn’t help myself, even though I knew it would make him angry. He strode back towards me and grabbed my shoulders. Nice, he said. Nice? Shut the fuck up about nice, and pushed me away from him so hard I collided with the railings of the bridge. Suddenly it seemed essential I make him stay. Like some sort of test I had to pass. I’m sorry, I could hear myself shrieking, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad. Please don’t go.
    He came back towards me, his footsteps resonating on the wooden bridge. I thought he was going to do something, hit me perhaps. Instead he wrapped his arms round me and kissed my forehead. Don’t cry, he whispered. I didn’t mean it. You’ll have to get used to the fact that I’m a cruel bastard.He wiped my tears away with his warm hands. No, you’re not, I said, and kissed his cheek. Then he was gone. I stood with my hands glued to the metal railings and strained to hear him running away until I couldn’t hear him any more.

I do some double-talking
    FOR FIVE DAYS I didn’t go out. I ignored the phone and erased all messages without listening to them. God, that tiny winking eye! Like some creepy uncle at a family party. Anyway it seemed as if I’d reached some place – a precipice or something – where I needed to think. What was this problem I had with men? Why couldn’t I be a regular girl? But mostly the questions were unaskable. Just long, confused rafts of why? And how? And why not? I sat for hours in front of the mirror, gazing. The mirror was on the inside of the wardrobe door, so I had to prop it open and look, perched on the end of the bed.
    I was fairly pretty, cute even, and that was the truth. Sometimes I really liked my reflection. Hey gorgeous! I said. Or I asked, affectionately, questions like, What’s your problem, lovely one? And, Who rattled your cage, you bird of paradise, you? Or even, but this was early on, So many people would kill to have your life, you ungrateful girl, go and standin the corner. I looked at myself from all angles. Everything was groovy. Everything was in its proper place.
    I remembered watching some intense woman on a morning TV chat show talking about strategies to aid self-knowledge and subsequently move forward. So I got my hand mirror and looked between my legs. Hello, I said,