Assembly(7)

But here it is, now, and here I am, too. And this train – very real, very concrete and travelling fast – is tearing us together.

Close your eyes.

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I remember hospitals as large, confusing, dirty places. Rows of sick beds, separated only by thin track curtains and a charade of privacy. A miserably small shared sink beneath a dim window that looked on to the ward corridor. Trios of bolted-together plastic chairs. Evening visiting hours; seeing her there, laying not-quite comfortably. Drips and buttons and tubes. A kitchen-towel-lined tub of grapes on the bedside cabinet. The smell of disinfectant couldn’t convince, didn’t erase.

But now, for me, it’s private rooms. Fresh-cut flowers and espresso.

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Serious, the doctor labours the word. Tells me I need to take this seriously.

Her blouse is caramel. Her blouse is satin. Its satin swoops out, then in, to the waist of her slacks. My eye is drawn to the bumps and outlines of a lace trim beneath, a cursive M crowning her chest.

Are you listening? she says.

Syrupy light fills her small consultation room. Suspends us both like fossilized insects in amber. She extends a hand towards me, then stops. My own are arranged one over the other, on my lap.

I shake my head, attempt a smile.

Sorry, I say. I’m listening.

I am not sure why I do anything, sometimes. Why do I inhale? Why do I apologize? Or say I’m fine, thanks. And you? Why do I stand back from the platform edge?

These aren’t sophisticated or clever questions. But still, sometimes, I can’t answer. I can’t remember the right answer.

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Waiting for the Central Line at Liverpool Street, I once saw a man’s Blackberry slip up out of his hands, then drop down, comically, on to the tracks. He stood for a moment. Blank. A toddler before the tantrum. Then the eruption – a hot stream of profanity. His face reddened. His satchel flap flopped about and his suit jacket billowed as he thrashed his arms around like a flightless bird. He peered over the platform edge. Leaning, looking, out on to the tracks. Contemplating climbing down? Fuck, he said again. Then ran both hands back through his hair and left the platform.

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I feel. Of course I do.

I have emotions.

But I try to consider events as if they’re happening to someone else. Some other entity. There’s the thinking, rationalizing I (me). And the doing, the experiencing, her. I look at her kindly. From a distance. To protect myself, I detach.

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Recorded delivery? Yes; seven pounds extra; please. Alright, the assistant said from across the Snappy Snaps counter. He grabbed a printed slip and pressed it between his lips as he dropped my passport into a little plastic envelope and sealed it. Then he looked down at the sealed envelope and swore. The forgotten paper parachuted from his mouth, drifting back-andforth, down to his feet. Buoyed by that small gust of irritation. He tore open the envelope with an exaggerated two-handed motion that stretched the thin, grey plastic to breaking. Out popped a flash of maroon; it met the table with a limp slap.

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Love. It’s a sip of Coke, not that pleasant, sharp on the tongue, but fizzes delightfully from can to mouth to dampening throat. She was speaking, slightly chorused, from the periodically placed televisions around the office floor. Wearing a red suit overexposed to pussy pink, her red lips over-stated her place in women’s history. They played it again: The country I love. Her face crumpled like an empty can on love, stamped down. She turned away from the podium – so quick. I wanted to hear it again; but she was turning, heading back up to that black door; love, again! And the door opened, then closed up around her. Cut, back to the studio.

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I love you, he said, a timid voice, that first time. After four pints of deniability. Now it’s with an everyday, pragmatic brusqueness. Love you! When I leave for work. Love you! Before we hang up. And sometimes also, tongue in cheek, je t’aime!

I say it, too, of course. Perhaps that’s all it is? The saying of it, and then the acting it out.

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Unstructured time is unusual for me. Too much thinking. I don’t know what to make of myself. I have my phone, I should catch up on emails. There’s always more emails. Merrick’s probably firing things over right now. But the train reception is patchy.

And I’d rather sip wine.

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Back when I bought the flat, the solicitor said I needed a will. After exchange, her colleague in Estates Planning leafed through my binder: statements of assets, accounts, insurance policies – home, health, life. Expressions of wishes. My net worth, at least an attestation to it, lay open on his desk.

Well, he said, sitting back. Aren’t you a clever girl?

I suppose I can understand his bemusement. Why would he expect me to have such a well-presented stack of printouts and photocopies?

In his playful moods, my boyfriend tells me I’ve got lots of money. Much more than him. He says I’m the one per cent.

Well, money is one thing. He has wealth. Tied up in assets in trusts and holding companies with complicated ownership arrangements. Things he pretends to refuse to understand. Compounded over generations. What’s the difference? he asks. I tell him. One of us goes to work at six a.m. each morning. The other sits browsing the papers at the café down the road.

This lawyer, now, my lawyer, in planning my estate, has his colleague, some sort of analyst, produce a cashflow model – future earnings and returns, projected under speculative scenarios. This is a complementary service, included in the estate-planning service, intended as a taster for another service which, the lawyer explains, is quite suitable for a young lady on my financial trajectory.