Free Perfect Skin by Nick Earls Page B

I’m really not having an interpersonally gifted week. I think I wanted to offer her some social interaction, but with no pressure to go along with it if she didn’t want to, and all of a sudden I was coming across completely sixteen. Pre-competent and caught in a knot of embarrassment. Because she reminded me vaguely of Natalie Imbruglia, and surely that’s only a problem if I tell someone. Or stand there staring at her mouth, in the interest of thorough comparison. As if I’ve got any real idea of what I’m comparing her with. I’ve never paid any attention to Natalie Imbruglia.
    And I sounded cringingly unsure, when all I wanted to do was avoid pushing her into an arrangement she didn’t want. Next I should sing, maybe. Or spit on myself again. That always takes the pressure off.
    Somewhere in the glove box, under the mobile phone and the baby photos and an assortment of small toys and a couple of pens, I find a business card. Which doesn’thave my home number on it, so it’s not exactly as comprehensive as I’d promised. Lucky I found the pens.
    Lots of ways of contacting you,
she says when she looks at it, once I’ve added my home number.
Hey, your mobile isn’t on there either.
    Oh, yeah. It’s not mine, actually. It’s a work one, but it’s no-one’s in particular at the moment. I just seem to have it for now. For baby emergencies, mainly. Except I’m a bit slack about carrying it. I’m not sure if I’ll keep it. But I’ll give you the number anyway.
    So there is a baby,
she says as I’m writing on the card.
    There is a baby. Hey, want to see her? I’ve got photos.
    Sure.
    So I show her the photos of Lily, aged five months and then six. Lying down, sitting up, reaching out, putting together a wobbly smile or two, showing an imprecise hint of tooth. Ash lacks Katie’s baby experience, so she doesn’t make the same noises. She makes the noises of someone a long way shy of nieces, nephews and any ticking clocks, which could mean this is boring her, but she seems okay with it.
    I like this one,
she says.
This confused one in particular. It’s like she’s saying, ‘I can’t believe you’re taking my photo again’.
    I did take a few, didn’t I?
    Yeah, but why not? And, besides, look at her. How could you not want to take a lot of photos?
    My thoughts, exactly. And she feels the same way, really. She’s faking it with that photo. She’s not confused. You should meet her. I think you’d get on.
    Yeah, we probably would. So how about the weekend?
    I’m sorry?
    The weekend. How about the weekend? Coffee, lunch, something? Remember? What you said in the kitchen. Is that still on?
    I’m late for work, having shown Ash the photos. And arranged to have lunch with her on Saturday. As I park the car, that’s the part of the conversation I’m still running through my head. I hadn’t thought it was going there. By then I was thinking I’d made a stupid offer in the kitchen, and I thought that it wasn’t going to go too far at all. I was sure we were having one of those times when you suggest something and the person talks about something else, and you both pretend the suggestion was never made. Obviously I’ve spent too much time lately talking to George about the eighties. I had a lot of conversations back then that went just like that.
    I start work behind, and I manage to stay behind all day. I don’t even get to check my emails till after my last patient’s gone and George and Nigel are leaving for the pool. And the Window Weasel says:
    Listen, my friend. You said you wanted the weasel. And now things wouldn’t be the same without it, would they? So go click YES!! I LOVE MY WEASEL!! and you can register to use Window Weasel for life for only $30! Click LATER to register later.
    I don’t even know what the fucking weasel is, I tell the screen in a tone