Is This Really Me? by Brian Doswell (best memoirs of all time .TXT) 📖

and pushed up the sleeves in a sudden vain attempt to hide the unravelling strand of wool.
“The best Grunge I’ve seen this week.”
Oh my God, he thinks I’m into grunge and I hate it.
“Sorry, but I think it’s past its best. I’m going to send it back to my sister, although I doubt she’s missed it.”
Jerry wiped a crumb from his chin with a paper napkin and scrunched it up on his plate. “Must be off. See you around maybe.” And then he was gone.
I waited a few minutes. I did not want to seem to be chasing after him. My guess was that he was heading for the library. I’d take my time and stroll in there as if I had nothing better to do. Great plan.
The library was across the quad and up one flight of stairs. I waited and then walked around the gravel path as if I was deep in thought, but actually rehearsing what I would say when we met. I pushed open the heavy oak door and crossed the space to the foot of the stairs. My soft soled shoes made no sound on the worn stone treads and so it was no surprise when I picked up the sounds of voices from the landing above.
“Yes she’s got a great body but have you seen that green cardigan? Who would want to be seen with someone in that old thing?
Male voices erupt into laughter and my blood runs cold. They’re talking about me. Tears fill my eyes and I run every step back to my room sobbing.
A vision of the cardigan in my waste bin, one errant cuff with a lose strand of wool draped over the rim fills my head and the mist returns.

§§§§

When the mist clears I’m sitting at a desk in an open plan office. The desk calendar tells me its mid-July and I’m flicking through the pages of a holiday brochure.
Sally’s voice comes to me from the adjacent desk. “What about that thing on page 21?”
I turn to page 21 and the advert is dominated by a hunk in trunks, emerging from the surf in some unpronounceable place in Croatia. The text says nothing that isn’t echoed on every other page but the hunk looks good to me and two weeks including half-board and airport transfers, is almost affordable.
“Could be a winner.” I respond, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. Two weeks in Croatia has to be better than analysing statistics in London. I hate my job but it pays well. The company does contract statistical analysis projects for all sorts of clients, mostly government departments. The work is really boring and most of the people who work here are equally boring. Boring, boring , boring, except for Sally.
Sally joined the firm about a week after me, so we were novices together. We nearly managed a holiday together last year but something went wrong at the last minute and we both went home to mum instead. We live on opposite sides of town so we don’t see much of each other socially apart from the occasional drink after work. The idea of a holiday together comes and goes on the breeze but this time it looks as though it could be on.
A day later and we’re booked and paid for. Two weeks later and we’re at Gatwick airport giggling like school girls as we wait in the departures lounge.
The hotel is even better than the pictures in the brochure. We are sharing a room, but so what? Neither of us is expecting to do anything truly wild, and if anything does happen, well definitely no statistics to be kept.
The temperature is at least ten degrees up on London and our lily-white bodies are soaking up the sunshine except for where our miniscule bikinis are preserving our modesty. And therein lays the problem. We have been here for four days and no one has even offered to buy us a drink and explore our white bits. The hunk in the trunks appears to have set his sights on another similarly shaped hunk and that doesn’t leave a lot of talent around the pool. Sally and I venture into town for a night out.
The mistiness in my mind seems to be obscuring the details or perhaps they were never there because the next image is of me in bed with a raging headache and a heavy weight resting on my head. The arm is Sally’s and she is snoring in my ear. My left arm is numb and I can’t move it. Our legs are twisted together, and we’re naked.
I try to recall what happened but only shadows come. There was a bar and then disco. Two guys bought us loads of drinks and came on to us, but we escaped through a side door and went on to somewhere else that was full of girls. It was dark in the club and we had several more vodka-splits before it dawned on us that we were in an all-girl club.
Sally’s hand slides down onto my breast and she gives me a friendly squeeze. I freeze, not ready to believe what’s happening. The snoring stops and Sally stirs, her eyes still closed, she whispers hoarsely, “Now that was a good night out.”
I realise that my numb left arm is under Sally’s body and I try to move it but she wriggles up closer so that there is nowhere to pull away. Her body is so soft and yielding, so much more comfortable than any of the men that I have shared my bed with. It’s a new feeling and I think I like it.
There’s a miniature balcony to our room and we have left the window wide open so that now sunlight streams in and lights the fair curls that are tumbling onto my shoulder. I reach out to brush these curls away and find myself pulling her head closer, our lips meet and, out of nowhere, we are kissing. Sally’s hand slides around my back and down to my cheeks. Again, that over friendly, meaningful squeeze.
I summon up the energy and pull myself out of the clinch and out of bed. In seconds I’m in the shower, wondering how and why and when.
The glass panels of the shower steam up as I let the hot water wash away the stickiness of the night. I turn off the water and as I push open the glass door a hand appears with my towel.
“There’s nothing to run away from. We had a good night out – and in. I don’t want to marry you or take you away from all this, etc. etc. I won’t make you pregnant. We’re here for a bit of fun. What does it matter, one way or another?”
I take the towel and wrap it around my dripping body while Sally takes my place in the shower.
She’s right of course. There’s nothing damaged except my pride. I’m an adult, as she is, I can always say no, providing I’m still sober enough to remember when to. Strangely enough I am drawn to the idea of finding out exactly what I missed. As Sally says, what harm can it do?
I remember that we spent most of the next three days naked, either in our room or on our miniscule balcony desperately trying to get our white bits tanned. We talked endlessly about our lives and loves and our experiences crossed over in so many places, we could have been twins. We spent our last few days sightseeing, holding hands as we took buses from place to place and living on snacks as we eked out the last of our holiday money.
Two days after we got back to London, Sally was sent to Newcastle on a project and I’ve never seen her since.

§§§§§

I try to bring back the details of her face, what colour were her eyes? I’ve no idea. I look towards her desk but the office has changed. I’m in a closed room, I recognise it now, it’s my own office, the phone is ringing and I desperately want it to be my new boss Alec. Alec arrived a month ago, from New Zealand. He’s fun and clever, full of good ideas that seem likely to break the mould around here. I can’t wait for him to bang a few heads together.
He has been house-hunting and I have been roped in, willingly of course, to show him around the area. We went to see a couple of real duds last evening and ended up in a country pup, for beer, sausage and mash, which he paid for. He was so sweet and I was so tempted to invite him back to my place for coffee end whatever took our fancy. It was just a bit tricky because we were in my car, so either we go to his place and I drive home later or stay the night, or he stays the night and I drive him home in the morning. Agh! All too difficult.
The phone is still ringing and I pick it up. “Good morning Alec, what can I do for you today?”
“The sales meeting this afternoon has been cancelled, could you run me out to Wendover to see a house that has just come on the market? We can discuss the sales figures on the way and call it work time.”
“If that’s what you want, Boss. Let me know what time you want to leave.”
I snuggle into my swivel chair, little shivers of anticipation coursing through my body. The idea of an afternoon out of the office on the Boss’s orders sounds like fun. The idea of an afternoon alone with Alec sounds like even more fun. I start to work on my strategy for the evening, his place or mine? Did I tidy up this morning before I left? Have I still got knickers drying on the heated towel-rail in the bathroom? Have I got any decent wine in the kitchen? Do I have time to go home at lunch time? If we end up at his place, what time do I need to leave in the morning so I can get changed and in to work without rousing too many comments from my team? Have I got my pills in my handbag?
My secretary dumps the post in my in-tray and I bury my head in the morning’s paperwork.
Alec rings at ten to three. I’ve been ready since two but who’s counting. I check my hair and lippy in my compact mirror and leave closing the office door behind me. My secretary looks up and I tell her not to expect me back today.
Alec is waiting in reception and we walk to my car together, close together.
I have rehearsed the sales figures in case he really does want to talk about them. All the questions and all the answers are on the tip of my tongue. Tongues, interesting thought, let’s wait and see.
Alec asks me about Wendover. I tell him what I know, which isn’t much. I ask him why the meeting was cancelled. He says it