Chapter Six
I never told you this, did I? Or maybe I did, one of my earlier ‘letters’ might have it in but, to be honest, I can’t be arsed to go back through and look. Anyway. Yeah. Point is — women like me. And I like them back, but that’s as far as it goes, liking. Intellectually I know there’s this one step further that I’d need to take to make it anything real, one more level of engagement, one last barrier dropped, and that’s where it all gets complicated. Messy. And I can’t quite do it, can’t quite let them in that last inch. And, you know what? None of them even fucking notice. They think they’ve got me because there I am, in their beds night after night, drinking their wine and sitting on their couches discussing the state of the economy, and they think that’s me. They really don’t understand that it might as well be a robot lounging around their carefully interior-designed rooms, some kind of gigolo in their beds, because it’s not who I am. Not inside. Because really I’m . . .
Stupid. Yeah, just stupid, whistling in the dark . . . Did I say whistling? More like pissing, pouring it all out into nothingness to help me feel better for a while. Anyway, fact is, I keep mobile where the girls are concerned. Give them a look, give them a taste of the ‘me’ they all think I am. The me they think they’re getting to know. And then, when they’re in deep and falling hard — that’s it, I’m out, not what I signed up for. And I don’t go clean, you know that. No ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ for this guy, oh no. When I go I leave a bad taste that will keep them from trusting for a long time.
There’s not been anyone since Imogen. Think I wrote to you about her too, didn’t I? When it all went shit-shaped and hit the fan like a hurricane in a slurry tank, when she found out what lies underneath the jacket and jewellery image. Yes, the real me turned up to the party eventually . . . Yeah. Not proud of it. Another one of those things about myself that I’m not proud of, along with my upbringing and my mistakes.
And yeah, so. Reason I’m writing this? I’ve seen the look on another girl. Sizing me up, checking it out, the leather, the earring. Measuring me up with her eyes to see if I come up to whatever expectations it is that she has for a man, raising one eyebrow at me like she’s asking some question I’m supposed to have heard in some hormone-to-hormone communication that’s gone on underneath all the polite chat. She’s hot. That dark red hair that looks like the sun shining through a copper beech at evening, fine, pale skin. And single too, I’ve checked her out with her brother — in a purely conversational way, I mean, hey, I’ve got finesse, I’ve got class. Although . . . their relationship, it’s not right. She’s more like . . . I was going to say ‘like his mother’ but I’m no expert on that one now, am I? But Nicholas — nice guy, all kinds of shit kicking off in his head and some kind of issue with his sister — he reckons she prefers being single. Doesn’t fall in love, doesn’t get attached.
My kind of woman.