that, I can feel a connection forming. He talks with confidence and intelligence. He holds himself comfortably and he has a warm smile, with a laugh that could start to tingle my stomach if he does it enough.
‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I can’t stand it. I drank it because my ex liked it. When I got up to the counter I thought, actually, I hate this stuff. I’m drinking it out of habit. I’ll have a chamomile tea instead.’
‘Oh. Right,’ I say. I’m going to have to work at this, and I like that. Actually, I LOVE that. I love the thrill of this particular type of chase.
Tami
I wonder if other people feel like this? If they feel completely removed from the world they are living in.
It’s Monday morning and I am sitting on a bench on the seafront. If I were to turn my head to the right, I would see two large buildings, then the line of beach huts, with their brightly-coloured doors, leading like a string of rainbow beads towards Brighton. I would also see Brighton Pier, and the sweep of beach that makes this part of the UK look like a Mediterranean Riviera. I would see the people who come and go almost like a slow-moving tide on the land. If I were to turn my head to the left, I would see the building that has been rescued from ruin and restored by developers, the back of the public swimming baths, the café that sells homemade ice-cream that people queue around the block for. I would see the little shelter with its smeared windows and peeling paint that looks like something from a movie set in the 1950s. I would see the evenly spaced groynes reaching out into the sea like fingers of the land, and the short platform with its orange and white lifebelt, and I would see the sea in its peaceful, blown-glass state.
I look neither left nor right. I sit on the bench with my legs pulled up to my chest, my eyes fixed on the expanse of water in front of me. There are people in the sea. Even on days when it’s too cold to go out without a few layers, a scarf, and gloves, people seem to brave the icy waters. People only avoid the sea, it seems, when there is snow on the ground.
Do other people feel like I feel? As if they’ve landed in an alien life. As if they are a paper cut-out in the world that is real andwhole and three-dimensional. Or is that the other way around? Is the world made of paper since it is so easily re-ordered to not make sense, and I am the three-dimensional dolly that needs to be moulded over time to fit in?
I’ve come here after the school run to escape the atmosphere in the house. I cannot think in the house, I cannot think with Scott around. And he is around. After a weekend where we’ve not talked about The Big Thing That Happened, and instead have focused on the girls and making sure they are OK, Scott has decided to work at home this week. I was hanging on for today, desperate to have some time alone so I could think without feeling guilty or feeling as if I was betraying him. I can’t do that now. Every time I turn around he is there. Even if he isn’t in the same room, there are pictures of him – smiling with the girls, with me – under magnets on the fridge, there are framed photos of him on the surfaces. And even if it’s not his pictures, it’s his mug, his slippers, his newspaper, his phone charger, his letters, his unread books, his socks, his clothes, his imprint in a chair. He is everywhere because it is his home. And I can’t think surrounded by him.
I don’t know what to think.
I can admit that to myself out here.
I believe him when he says he didn’t do it.
I believe every woman when she says she’s been attacked.
This is what is frying my brain. I believe them both – when one of them
must
be lying.
And I can’t see either of them lying about this.
Fifteen months ago
‘Come jogging with me,’ she said to me. We’d been meeting up for chats and coffee for months and I could not get over how similar we were. How we clicked on almost every level. We understood
‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I can’t stand it. I drank it because my ex liked it. When I got up to the counter I thought, actually, I hate this stuff. I’m drinking it out of habit. I’ll have a chamomile tea instead.’
‘Oh. Right,’ I say. I’m going to have to work at this, and I like that. Actually, I LOVE that. I love the thrill of this particular type of chase.
Tami
I wonder if other people feel like this? If they feel completely removed from the world they are living in.
It’s Monday morning and I am sitting on a bench on the seafront. If I were to turn my head to the right, I would see two large buildings, then the line of beach huts, with their brightly-coloured doors, leading like a string of rainbow beads towards Brighton. I would also see Brighton Pier, and the sweep of beach that makes this part of the UK look like a Mediterranean Riviera. I would see the people who come and go almost like a slow-moving tide on the land. If I were to turn my head to the left, I would see the building that has been rescued from ruin and restored by developers, the back of the public swimming baths, the café that sells homemade ice-cream that people queue around the block for. I would see the little shelter with its smeared windows and peeling paint that looks like something from a movie set in the 1950s. I would see the evenly spaced groynes reaching out into the sea like fingers of the land, and the short platform with its orange and white lifebelt, and I would see the sea in its peaceful, blown-glass state.
I look neither left nor right. I sit on the bench with my legs pulled up to my chest, my eyes fixed on the expanse of water in front of me. There are people in the sea. Even on days when it’s too cold to go out without a few layers, a scarf, and gloves, people seem to brave the icy waters. People only avoid the sea, it seems, when there is snow on the ground.
Do other people feel like I feel? As if they’ve landed in an alien life. As if they are a paper cut-out in the world that is real andwhole and three-dimensional. Or is that the other way around? Is the world made of paper since it is so easily re-ordered to not make sense, and I am the three-dimensional dolly that needs to be moulded over time to fit in?
I’ve come here after the school run to escape the atmosphere in the house. I cannot think in the house, I cannot think with Scott around. And he is around. After a weekend where we’ve not talked about The Big Thing That Happened, and instead have focused on the girls and making sure they are OK, Scott has decided to work at home this week. I was hanging on for today, desperate to have some time alone so I could think without feeling guilty or feeling as if I was betraying him. I can’t do that now. Every time I turn around he is there. Even if he isn’t in the same room, there are pictures of him – smiling with the girls, with me – under magnets on the fridge, there are framed photos of him on the surfaces. And even if it’s not his pictures, it’s his mug, his slippers, his newspaper, his phone charger, his letters, his unread books, his socks, his clothes, his imprint in a chair. He is everywhere because it is his home. And I can’t think surrounded by him.
I don’t know what to think.
I can admit that to myself out here.
I believe him when he says he didn’t do it.
I believe every woman when she says she’s been attacked.
This is what is frying my brain. I believe them both – when one of them
must
be lying.
And I can’t see either of them lying about this.
Fifteen months ago
‘Come jogging with me,’ she said to me. We’d been meeting up for chats and coffee for months and I could not get over how similar we were. How we clicked on almost every level. We understood
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