know whether it will hurt more to try and push the door open, or tear your leg back out!’ Tristan folds and unfolds the cuffs on his polo-neck jumper.
‘Well …’ He takes a deep breath and finally looks away from the mirror,
‘I need to think about this one some more. The only thing I can offer, from my twisted perspective, love, is that whatmakes a woman of forty more attractive than a girl of eighteen is not her body but her confidence. Don’t fold, Make-up. Don’t dither. Toughen up. Let’s have some fun.’
‘I’m thirty-one. I’m not forty,’ I say, as I feel stupid tears rush to my eyes.
‘I didn’t say that you were, Make-up. Now, how do you feel about nudity?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Nudity, how do you feel about it, and in particular cast session nudity?’
‘Uncomfortable pretty much sums it up.’
‘But what if it were just me? You see, I’ve been body-brushing with a toothbrush recently, rather than following any traditional bathing ritual, and I wonder if it doesn’t give me a shine that I’d like to share. I’ve been reading a lot about Major General Charles Orde Wingate, heard of him?’
‘Well, Tristan, I can’t say that I have …’ The tears recede and I can’t help but smile.
‘Churchill described him as a man of genius, who might have become a man of destiny. But he died, in a burning crash of a plane, in Burma. 1944.’
‘Okay … and he used to conduct sessions in the nude?’
‘Hmm? Yes, yes, he did. Of course his were with soldiers, but I think there might be something in it. Strip away our pretensions, make us real, cut to the chase. Beauty is truth after all. If we were all a little nude, once a day, the world would be a much less violent place. I know it’s a fucking cliché but I believe it. Of course there is always the danger that somebody is going to become unspeakably aroused, but that doesn’t really affect me … Do you know he inflicted some terrible defeats on his enemies, on the invincible Japanese! And he believed the best way to survive tropical heat was a diet of raw onions.’
‘Have you tried that as well?’
‘Yes, I tried. It gets tropical in Streatham in August. But it gave me terrible flatulence. I was like a human wind machine, and the stench! It is impossible to function when you are terrified to be in small spaces, afraid of what your own body might inflict upon those around you … I couldn’t be in here, right now, with you, if I were still doing it. Of course sometimes it was wonderfully amusing, it depended on the company. In lifts, hilarious! Inevitably it was my mother that made me stop. She’s a wonderful woman but with little tolerance for anything other than her own peculiar rituals. It’s nothing to do with her legs, she’s just that way.’
‘Her legs?’ I ask.
‘They barely work any more,’ he replies, nodding.
I remember reading in the Standard that he lives with his mother in Streatham, and that she is disabled, but I can’t remember how it happened.
‘Why don’t they work?’ I ask, trying my best to seem sincere and not just nosey.
‘She has a tumour, Make-up, that is pressing down on her spinal cord, and is hard for them to reach without risking complete paralysis. She says that she is lucky, of course, that it has only affected the lower half of her body, but that’s bullshit. She’s a religious woman, and I thank God that she is, even though of course I don’t believe in it at all.’
I want to say, ‘But you’ve just thanked God’, but decide that now isn’t the time.
‘So she fell over one day and never got up. Dad’s dead, so that’s that. She’s going nowhere, and she cooks a wonderful lamb curry, and …’ He nods his head quietly, and squeezes his eyes shut.
I don’t know what else to say, so I change the subject. ‘Do you think Dolly might be here soon, Tristan?’
He presses the balls of his palms into the sockets of his eyes. ‘I fucking hope so, love, otherwise we’ll
‘Well …’ He takes a deep breath and finally looks away from the mirror,
‘I need to think about this one some more. The only thing I can offer, from my twisted perspective, love, is that whatmakes a woman of forty more attractive than a girl of eighteen is not her body but her confidence. Don’t fold, Make-up. Don’t dither. Toughen up. Let’s have some fun.’
‘I’m thirty-one. I’m not forty,’ I say, as I feel stupid tears rush to my eyes.
‘I didn’t say that you were, Make-up. Now, how do you feel about nudity?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Nudity, how do you feel about it, and in particular cast session nudity?’
‘Uncomfortable pretty much sums it up.’
‘But what if it were just me? You see, I’ve been body-brushing with a toothbrush recently, rather than following any traditional bathing ritual, and I wonder if it doesn’t give me a shine that I’d like to share. I’ve been reading a lot about Major General Charles Orde Wingate, heard of him?’
‘Well, Tristan, I can’t say that I have …’ The tears recede and I can’t help but smile.
‘Churchill described him as a man of genius, who might have become a man of destiny. But he died, in a burning crash of a plane, in Burma. 1944.’
‘Okay … and he used to conduct sessions in the nude?’
‘Hmm? Yes, yes, he did. Of course his were with soldiers, but I think there might be something in it. Strip away our pretensions, make us real, cut to the chase. Beauty is truth after all. If we were all a little nude, once a day, the world would be a much less violent place. I know it’s a fucking cliché but I believe it. Of course there is always the danger that somebody is going to become unspeakably aroused, but that doesn’t really affect me … Do you know he inflicted some terrible defeats on his enemies, on the invincible Japanese! And he believed the best way to survive tropical heat was a diet of raw onions.’
‘Have you tried that as well?’
‘Yes, I tried. It gets tropical in Streatham in August. But it gave me terrible flatulence. I was like a human wind machine, and the stench! It is impossible to function when you are terrified to be in small spaces, afraid of what your own body might inflict upon those around you … I couldn’t be in here, right now, with you, if I were still doing it. Of course sometimes it was wonderfully amusing, it depended on the company. In lifts, hilarious! Inevitably it was my mother that made me stop. She’s a wonderful woman but with little tolerance for anything other than her own peculiar rituals. It’s nothing to do with her legs, she’s just that way.’
‘Her legs?’ I ask.
‘They barely work any more,’ he replies, nodding.
I remember reading in the Standard that he lives with his mother in Streatham, and that she is disabled, but I can’t remember how it happened.
‘Why don’t they work?’ I ask, trying my best to seem sincere and not just nosey.
‘She has a tumour, Make-up, that is pressing down on her spinal cord, and is hard for them to reach without risking complete paralysis. She says that she is lucky, of course, that it has only affected the lower half of her body, but that’s bullshit. She’s a religious woman, and I thank God that she is, even though of course I don’t believe in it at all.’
I want to say, ‘But you’ve just thanked God’, but decide that now isn’t the time.
‘So she fell over one day and never got up. Dad’s dead, so that’s that. She’s going nowhere, and she cooks a wonderful lamb curry, and …’ He nods his head quietly, and squeezes his eyes shut.
I don’t know what else to say, so I change the subject. ‘Do you think Dolly might be here soon, Tristan?’
He presses the balls of his palms into the sockets of his eyes. ‘I fucking hope so, love, otherwise we’ll
Similar Books
