Fiction

In her early fifties, Martha began keeping a signed photo of David Sedaris on her bedside locker. She made this confession to me while we were sitting around the campfire at Uncle Ron’s eightieth birthday party. I asked her if any of her boyfriends ever complained about this outsider in the bedroom.

Pick England and zoom in on an estuary. Follow it as it narrows. Ah, a city. Legend: BRISTOL. Zoom in further. A deep gorge, a suspension bridge, the legend CLIFTON. Now pan due east to ST WERBURGH’S. Close-packed row houses. Zoom in on one till the focus blurs.

The snow fell in late summer, settling on the roofs and the pavements and the grass. By the time Tom got to Rory’s house, the snow was halfway up his boots. Rory’s hat had big flaps that covered his ears. He looked like one of those droopy dogs.

He threw his arm around her, pulling her in for a kiss. His face cold against hers, his breathing quick. She could feel the heat as it rose from inside the collar of his hooded jumper, bringing with it the labouring smell of him: a thick mixture of beautiful grimness.

Here I am, a 54-year-old woman from Horsforth in West Yorkshire, in a basement, below a grubby Chinese restaurant, in New York, giving a massage, to Harvey Weinstein.

In the time I had been watching other people going to work, the individual components of my muesli were no longer floating in the milk. They had absorbed it. The oats, seeds and sultanas were now engorged and too disgusting to eat.