Billygean.co.uk

“I got your text,” MindReader says to me on the phone. “What happened?”

I am slightly hysterical. I had it all planned out. All of the numbers were neatly typed into the colour-coded spreadsheet. Pay goes in, rent goes out, take out the remainder and convert it into Euros. This way, I wasnt going to go sailing over my overdraft limit and have no money for Italy.

No.

“Oh, MindReader,” I say. “I bought a lot of silly things. I was almost trance-like. I remember thinking in the changing room that I was going to go over my overdraft and I just blanked it and walked to the till before I could think about it.”

He is almost talking through the humour in his voice. “Go on.”

“A scarf.”

“For Italy?”

“Yes. Its a summer scarf.”

“Oh,” he says. “A summer scarf.”

“And a vest top for twenty five quid. And two more vest tops.”

“How many vest tops do you have?” he says.

“Eleven.”

“Oh, only eleven. So what else?”

“And cut off jeans.”

“And bath stuff?” he says.

I told you he read minds.

“Seventeen pounds worth,” I say.

I am hanging my head in shame.

He smiles down the phone, and I can hear it. “So whatre we going to do about this?” He uses the word we all the time. I think its because hes dating a nutcase who needs moral support.

“I have decided I am going to take the vest tops back.”

“All of them?”

“Yes. No matter how much they beg me. Or how pretty they are. Or how big they make my boobs look. They are going back in the bag with the receipt and coming with me to work. And then Im going to go to Debenhams and demand my money back. Ill say it was a temporary insanity.”

He laughs. And then, “good luck.”

This morning, in another shopping trance, I took the offending vest top out of the Debenhams bag and wore it to work. I felt pretty all day long.

And then I spilt sausage down it. So now I cant even wear it on holiday.

The lights of the dancefloor skim across the otherwise dark room. MindReader’s hair looks near-white in the light, the flowers in his jacket pocket glinting.

“I don’t know,” he says, a frown creasing his serious, high forehead. “I have just never got on with someone like I do with you.”

He looks at me, those piercing eyes shining blue.

I feel relief, at first. But not because he’s told me how he feels – no – I knew all that. I feel relief, as he stands, leads me to the dancefloor, on a greater scale. That it’s finally legitimate. Real. That the shadows that crossed my friends’ eyes when I spoke about him are lifting, that they might discuss me less, and my actions. The past months, the holding back, the guilt I felt coursing through my body as I sat on my bed, trying to revise, trying not to think about him – it was too soon, too soon after a breakup so big in my mind I could barely see past it – talking to him for hours – days – about nothing and everything, Mike’s sad eyes flashing through my brain – seemed to fall away in that simple gesture as he pulled me towards him to the slow music. MindReader – a thing so intrinsically unrelated to the breakup, and yet, inseperable in everybody’s eyes – is mine.

I rest my head on my shoulder and the last few months – whilst never romantic – are finally less tragic.

His hands are around my waist now, and it feels as if they belong there.

Thursday 26th July 2007 at 9:21
From: MindReader
To: Billygean
Subject: Fwd: Flight confirmation

Just in case you needed to know…

GOING OUT
From London Stansted(STN) to Milan Bergamo(BGY)
Sat, 04 Aug 07 Depart STN at 06:40 and arrive BGY at 09:35

COMING BACK
From Milan Bergamo(BGY) to London Stansted(STN)
Fri, 10 Aug 07 Depart BGY at 19:15 and arrive STN at 20:15

Thursday 26th July 2007 at 10:19
From: MindReader
To: Billygean
Subject: Re: Fwd: Flight confirmation

Oh my God!

Does this mean I can buy flip flops?

I miss him.

Of course I do.

Oh, theres contact, dont get me wrong. The odd cursory email, about the gas bill, whether to sell our double bed, the normal correspondence when you divide one life into two. It is not frosty. Perhaps it would be easier if it was. It is empty; he wants to know about the gas bill, the bed, nothing more. I cling onto the formalities; the how are yous, the hope you are wells. He sometimes responds to my questions, but the answers are still guarded, still cloaked in account numbers and metre readings and balance transfers.

And why wouldn’t he be this way? After everything, I should have no need to dare to want to talk to him. Mutual friends, their faces empty, say I should expect no less. Fierce, loyal friends are indignant on my behalf, their eyes flashing as they defend me. Others I have lost entirely, my phone calls and texts ignored.

I used to notice his eyes; the way his eyelashes curled upwards when he smiled. Now I notice the vague assurances that hes fine, the stories heard fourth-hand from acquaintances, the double spaces after his full stops.

MadFather is leaning down next to my TV. There are wires everywhere. Three TVs, none of which have any reception, are lined up along the skirting board.

“Please please sort it,” I say. “I am going mental. What did people do before TV and internet?”

He looks at me, fiddling with the aerial uselessly. “It cant get reception here. And the aerial in the wall doesnt work either.”

“So…”

“So… unless you find me the remote control so I can tune it, I cant do anything.”

I sink onto the sofa as another week stretches in front of me. Mergers and Acquisitions in the day. Reading quietly or taking baths by night. Nothing to watch, no Facebook to check. No music.

He looks at my face, his white hair all in tufts coming out of the side of his head. “There are these point things here,” he says, indicating the strange sockets in the wall.

“And they are…”

“Well they look like Sky points. Do you have a dish?”

“A dish?”

He rolls his eyes. “A satellite dish.”

“Dont know,” I say, shrugging and sipping my tea.

He opens the door letting in the after-rain smell. “Nope,” he says, coming back in.

“Can I plug something into those points to get the internet?” I say, desperate, really.

“No,” he says. “Do you know what they are?”

“No.”

“They go to the dish on the roof, if you had one. Which points straight at the satellite. Thats how you would get satellite TV.”

“Oh,” I say. “Thats what they do?”

“Physics A-level. Two degrees,” he mutters, and I think he must wonder how I turned out like this. “How did you think it worked?”

“I thought the dishes were just there to show youve got cable TV. You know – so the other houses knew?”

“The other houses…” he says faintly, shaking his head and walking out of the room.

MindReader is slouched on my bed, his very long body propped up against my wall of pillows. It is late evening, but still warm, and the windows are wide open.

He picks up a copy of Cosmopolitan that is lying on my bed. Hey dont judge me, I have no television and internet.

He flicks it open. ‘Womens parts, the A-spot,’ he reads out.

My head snaps up. I go bright red. ‘Dont read that,’ I say, snatching it.

He dodges my hand, still reading. ‘The A-spot is located just above -’

‘Shh,’ I hiss. ‘What will my housemates think we’re doing?’ I say, reaching over to take my pill, and stop my phone beeping at me about it.

He laughs. ‘I dont commentate,’ he says, raising an eyebrow and looking directly at me. ‘Now touching breasts,’ he says loudly, his hand casually in his blond hair.

I sink forward onto the bed, my head in my hands, the pill still rattling around in my mouth.

I sit up again and grimace.

‘I swallowed it,’ I say.

He just looks at me.

“I hate the subway,” I say to MindReader down the phone. It is very early morning and I am on my way to my New Scary Job Which I Must Not Blog About.

“It is a bit nasty,” he says.

“It stinks of piss; I am going to bring an air freshener.”

“You’re taking on fifty years of piss there,” he says, laughing. I like his laugh, it is always louder than I expect.

“50, how do you know?”

“The bouquet mostly,” he says, and I can hear him smiling. “Steely overtones.”

“Ah, very oakey,” I say.

He laughs again, that deep, throaty laugh. “Anyway I have to go, now you’re up,” he says.

“Thanks for the wake up call.”

I smile a bit, into the sunlight.

“Right,” Housemate says distractedly, scrabbling for his phone and wallet. “I have to go to this interview, please make sure the builders don’t steal anything.”

I assure him i won’t, and sit on my bed for a minute. The house is pretty lovely, and the location is great. Unfortunately we have no phone, tv, internet, hot water for the upstairs sinks or bath, no non-leaking downstairs sink, and, most recently, no shower because it’s leaking.

I therefore have nothing to do. I have decorated my room with photos, read about 40 books, and stared into space a lot.

“Oh, and,” he says, poking his head back upstairs. “The landlord told me to make sure he actually does the work, don’t let him get distracted.”

I pad downstairs where the builder is.

50 minutes later Housemate returns. I am holding both of the builder’s hands over tea whilst he tells me about his divorce.

We are on Housemate’s balcony. Yes, he got the balcony room and I am fine with that.

I sip my wine. The evenings are suddenly warm, which may make up for the total lack of amenities my house has.

“Him?” he says, indicating the tall figure walking across the tarmac below.

He is obsessed with my life love, terminally single himself.

I wrinkle my nose. “Not bothered,” I say,

“Because he is not MindReader?” Housemate says, poking my side.

I smile.

I do not deny it.

I stare at the hexagon tiles lining the bottom of the toilet floor.

Everyone else in my year is graduating.

I have food poisoning.