Rebound (4 page)

I stop by at home to pick up Wispa and by eight I’m turning off Spaniards Road into the pub’s car park. Michael is waiting for me outside, having a cigarette. Wispa throws herself at
him, overjoyed to see the old friend who always has a dog treat for her in his pocket. It’s a chilly night and we’re lucky to get a table inside, in the smaller of their cosy dining
rooms. Quick look at the menu and I go for the sea bass, chickpeas, chorizo and cuttlefish main paired with Tripel Karmeliet, while Michael chooses gnocchi with quinoa, chestnut mushroom and
truffled cream with Schiehallion Scottish lager. I melt into the relaxed atmosphere of the pub, the nerve-wracking roller coaster at work millions of miles away. Michael is telling me about his
latest date, a guy he met on an Internet dating site, a working-class lad turned mature student and now a teacher at a Tower Hamlets school. ‘My
Educating Rita
guy’ he calls him.
They met at a pub off Brick Lane and the guy spent the whole evening talking about himself, without asking Michael a single question.

‘I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again,’ says Michael and takes a sip of his Schiehallion. ‘There was no chemistry between us, anyway. How are you and James
doing?’

‘We’ve split up.’

‘Really?’ Michael puts his glass down. ‘Though I can’t say I’m surprised. I was more surprised that you stayed with him for such a long time.’

I nod. ‘Nearly three years.’

‘It’s a bit of a record for you, isn’t it? But I always thought he was a little too normal for you. I don’t mean boring, but too domesticated. And you, my dear, are a
free spirit. You love adventure, challenge, you can’t be tied down by cosy domesticity. Here’s to audacious Anna.’

He raises his glass and we both take a sip of our beers.

‘I actually quite liked him,’ he continues. ‘A nice lad, cute, intelligent, kind. Maybe a tad too nice. I’ve always thought he could be gay.’

‘Gay? He was the straightest guy I’ve ever met.’

Michael smiles. ‘Even the straightest guys can have their gay side. Take those dads with lovely wives and a nice brood, who still go to the Heath for their little kicks. Well, not so much
these days with the Internet and everything, but it’s still going on.’

Our food arrives and it is delicious.

‘Kicks on the Heath. I saw a bit of that last weekend.’

‘Really? Where?’

‘Near the West Field Gate to Kenwood.’

‘That’s unusual. It used to be West Heath in my day.’

‘Your day? Don’t tell me you used to do it.’

‘Oh, it was a long time ago, before I met Phil. I was quite a stud then.’

‘I can’t imagine you prowling the Heath like a meerkat with a hard-on.’

Michael laughs. ‘I was young, oversexed and quite lonely, I suppose. Imagine a naive Scottish boy in a big city.’

‘Surely you met some nice fellow students at Saint Martins?’

‘Yes, but I wasn’t looking for a picnic with my friends. I wanted the anonymity, the rush of adrenaline, a certain element of danger.’

‘Were you ever in danger?’

‘No . . .’ Michael hesitates. ‘I don’t think so.’ He looks as if he wants to add something, then he changes his mind. ‘How about some dessert?’

We decide to share a brandy bread and butter pudding with buttermilk ice cream. I’ll burn it off during a quick jog with Wispa tonight and Michael doesn’t have to worry about his
figure.

Saturday morning and I’m wide awake at 7 a.m. There’s no point in trying to sleep longer, it’ll only give me a headache. I get up and put my jogging gear on.
Wispa is overjoyed.

On our way to the Heath we pass by the charity shop and I notice the teddy bear has gone from the window. I hope it’s found a good home. I jog down Fitzroy Park, Wispa following me off the
leash, her pink tongue lolling happily.

We enter the Heath and I’m so overwhelmed by its beauty I have to stop. The morning mist is hanging over the pond, the sun touching the tops of trees, painting everything in warm light.
Wispa is half-heartedly chasing a coot and I shout at her to stop. There is a heron standing on a fallen branch on the side of the Bird Pond, looking regal and still. Everything is perfect.

We trot slowly up the hill and I feel high on endorphins, appreciating the moment, appreciating my life, the closest to being happy I ever get. I turn right at the top of the hill, towards
Kenwood. And there he is, jogging towards me. The Dior Man. His muscular legs move rhythmically, his T-shirt is wet with sweat. He is absolutely gorgeous. His blond hair shines with moisture,
turning into little curls, his lips full and sensuous. The delicate stubble on his face is darker than his hair, giving him a slightly mischievous look. But it’s the gentleness of his
features, the boyish perfection combined with the grown-up strength of masculinity that I find most attractive in him. I falter in my step, slow down and bend over as if caught by a sudden side
stitch.

‘You OK?’ I hear his voice, but he doesn’t slow down.

‘Yeah,’ I say hoarsely, unable to say anything else.

He jogs on and disappears. My legs feel weak. I have to sit down, right there, on the ground. I take deep breaths and slowly regain composure. What the hell was it? Have I suffered a stroke? Am
I getting an early menopause? I ask myself these silly questions, although I know the answer perfectly well. I’ve been knocked off my feet by the sight of a complete stranger, who
didn’t even break his stride to look on me. This is the second time I’ve seen him at exactly the same spot. Is it coincidence? I get up and start walking. I don’t feel like
jogging any more. Wispa follows me closely, as if sensing my confusion. Of course it was a coincidence. People are creatures of habit. Just as I choose to do the same loop on the Heath over and
over again, so does he, obviously. It’s a public park, joggers come here every day. I probably bump into the same people all the time without even realizing it. I’ve noticed him because
he is extraordinarily handsome; he probably hasn’t noticed me. He just saw some cranky jogger with a stitch in her side. End of story.

But it’s not the end of the story, because I can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop thinking about him, his wet T-shirt snug against his pecs. This is insane. It’s only
been a week since I broke off with James, far too early to start going man-crazy. I stumble home, unable to move any faster. Wispa keeps running forward, then coming back, checking on me, worried
by my slow pace. Yes, I know, it’s unlike me. I can’t understand it myself. What’s going on?

The rest of Saturday disappears in a hazy fog of inertia and red wine. Bell wants to see me and I make up some silly excuses, a stomach bug and a migraine. You should never
give more than one excuse if you don’t want to be caught out lying. I know she knows I’m lying, but I don’t care. I just want to be left alone.

And then it’s Sunday morning and I’m wide awake at 7 a.m., bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, not a sign of a hangover, despite all the wine I drank last night. I throw on my jogging gear
and bounce out of the door, Wispa nipping at my heels. I storm down Fitzroy Park, Wispa barely keeping up with me.

The Heath looks different to yesterday. It’s foggy and overcast; dark clouds hang over Parliament Hill, threatening rain. The colours, so vibrant yesterday, are muted and pale. Even the
birds look miserable. I steam up along the grey meadow, Wispa panting beside me. We stop at the top to catch our breath and then we enter the woods. My eyes have to adjust to the semi-darkness,
only then I realize I’m wearing sunglasses, ridiculous in this weather. I take them off and hook them on the V-neck of my T-shirt. I trot further into the woods. There’s no one here
today. I pick up the pace again, determined to burn that anxious feeling that drives me forward, the thump-thump-thump of my heart in my ears. Faster, faster.

And suddenly there he is, right in front of me, the same chiselled features, blue eyes, a wet T-shirt tight on his chest. We bump into each other and he catches me before I fall. Wispa barks at
him, I shout at her and she runs off with her tail between her legs. I push him against a tree and look into his eyes. There’s something in them, a question or a need, which I choose to
interpret as lust, because I want to. I slide my hand into his shorts and grab him, swollen and heavy. I squeeze and pump, my breath catching in my throat, my face against his wet T-shirt, the
smell of washing powder and sweat overwhelming me. I feel my own excitement, barely controllable, and I tug at him harder. His breath quickens and he puts his hands on my shoulders, an unexpected
gesture of tenderness. His grip begins to tighten and then he suddenly pushes me away. I stumble backwards like a drunk, trip on a broken tree branch, nearly fall, find myself suddenly alone. No,
not alone. An elderly couple in matching green anoraks are staring at me, bewildered.

‘You all right, dear?’ asks the woman, worry in her eyes.

‘Yes,’ I nod, trying to smile sheepishly. ‘I just slipped . . . I’m fine.’

They stare at me a bit longer, then shuffle off, two identical, dwarf-like figures disappearing in the mist. Wispa comes back to me, her head low, watching me suspiciously. When I reach out to
touch her, she jumps away.

‘It’s OK, baby, come here.’ She approaches me cautiously and I pat her head. ‘Good girl.’

I don’t remember getting back home. I take a hot shower, wrap myself in a thick towelling robe and sit down in the kitchen with a mug of steaming coffee in my hands. What have I done? From
snippets of feelings and flashes of images, a coherent thought begins to emerge. I’ve sexually assaulted a man. I almost laugh. Is there even a precedent for such a thing? I’m sure
there is – the mythical images of harpies drawing men into their grasp come to my head. Wow, no need to be so dramatic. OK, I pounced on him, but he wanted it, too. I had the hard evidence in
my hand. A wave of embarrassment runs over me, making me hot and sweaty. What if he called the police? Would I get arrested? What would be my excuse? That I fancied him and it somehow gave me the
right to assault him? Does it make it OK because I’m a woman? I feel I’m entering a minefield of double standards. I grab my Mac and google ‘sexual assault’. Wikipedia
provides an instant definition: ‘
Sexual assault is any involuntary sexual act in which a person is threatened, coerced, or forced to engage against their will, or any sexual touching of a
person who has not consented. This includes rape, groping, forced kissing . . .
’ I close the Mac and sit motionless for a long time. The definition I’ve just read did not specify
the gender of the assailant and the assaulted. Whichever way I look at it, it appears I have committed a statutory sexual offence. But somehow, deep down, I don’t feel guilty. And this is
bothering me even more than my transgression.

I’m woken up by the urgent ringing of the alarm clock. It’s Monday morning. I swing my legs out of bed, ready to face the day, then I remember yesterday. The memory
makes me squirm. I need to think it through rationally before I’m able to function properly, not to mention dealing with the upheaval at work. This is a supremely bad moment to take time off,
but I can’t even bear the thought of going into the office right now, unhinged, my nerves and weaknesses exposed. I need a day, no, at least a few hours to collect myself, get ready, before I
become the harbinger of the corporate cull. I leave a message for Claire, asking her to cancel my morning appointments and let everyone know I’ll be in after lunch. Wispa, who’s
forgiven me for giving her a fright yesterday, has guessed I’m staying home and brings me her chewy toy to show appreciation. I go through our routine of taking it from her and then giving it
back. Her tail is doing circles like a helicopter’s rotor. I hug her and kiss her brown ear. ‘Mummy will be fine,’ I whisper to her, ‘she just needs to sort something out in
her head.’

But . . . the place I always go to whenever I have a problem to think through or a decision to make is the Heath. Do I dare to go there now? Yes, I decide. It’s like going back to the
scene of the crime, getting back on your bike once you’ve fallen off and hurt your knee. I need to go back there. Except I’m not the victim here, I’m the perpetrator. Why do I
feel so fragile then? I throw on my jogging pants and a T-shirt and grab Wispa’s leash.

The Heath welcomes us like an old friend, patient and forgiving, perhaps not having all the answers but asking the right questions. I follow my usual route, forcing myself to go back to the
crime scene, as I now think of the place. It’s quiet but there are people around, joggers mostly, a haggard-looking dog walker with six unruly dogs on separate leads, all pulling in different
directions, and a man pushing a wheelchair with an old woman in it wearing Uggs on her swollen legs.

As I turn off the main path into the woods I’m struck by how quiet my footsteps become, from the noisy crunching of pebbles to the barely audible pat-pat-pat of my feet on the soft dirt
path. My heart begins to pound faster and I know it’s not because I’ve exerted myself too much. I’m approaching The Spot. I glance at my feet and see a used condom, trodden into
the dirt by walkers’ boots. How ironic, I think, forensic evidence, but not of my crime. I slow down and look around. There’s no one here. I recognize the tree I pushed the man against,
approach it, put my hand on the coarse bark. Why did I do it? Is this what midlife crisis is about? Indulging your every spontaneous whim? Wanting to live dangerously, experience every extreme
emotion before I’m dead? I do recognize the urgency, the anxiety I’ve carried within me since my mum died. We have so little time. I’ll be the age when she died soon. What if the
same gene sits dormant inside me, ready to pounce, the BRCA1/2 mutation that makes the bravest of women rush into surgery, mutilate their bodies in the hope that nothing will be left for the gene
to attack? But does it give me the right to drag strangers into my private battle with time?

And what about him? Was he shocked or had he anticipated it? Did he want me? Perhaps he’s gay and doesn’t want sexual advances from a woman? I remember the moment he put his hands on
my shoulders. I interpreted it as affection. But maybe he wanted to push me down onto my knees, expecting a blowjob? Another wave of embarrassment washes over me. I spot my sunglasses, lying in the
dirt by the tree. Must have lost them yesterday and didn’t even notice. I pick them up. One temple hangs down pathetically off its hinge, the lenses are scratched and dirty. No big deal, I
didn’t like them anyway. No big deal, I repeat to myself. It would be great if it was the answer to all my questions. But it isn’t.