The A to Z of You and Me

G

Gut

‘I’M GETTING A GUT,’ I say, looking sadly into your bedroom mirror. ‘I never thought I’d get a gut.’

‘You haven’t got a gut.’

‘I have. Look, it’s there.’

‘Where?’

‘There.’

‘That’s a stomach.’

‘It’s a gut.’

‘Look, I’m a nurse. I’m practically qualified. It’s a stomach. You’re as neurotic as your sister, do you know that?’

‘No I’m not.’

You hold up the iron and blow a dismissive cloud of steam at me, before dumping it back down on the ironing board and continuing to nose around the buttons of your uniform.

I turn and indulge myself in another look at my ugliness. I was always proud when I was a teenager to be able to hitch up my T-shirt, and see — well, never quite a six-pack, but at least a pure, taut line from belt buckle to breastbone. I could suck it in and make a cave. See myself as a skeleton. Is vanity so bad? I just want to look my best, and stay that way for ever.

You finish with the iron, and hang your uniform over the wardrobe door before taking your familiar position before the mirror.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I hate getting older.’

‘Well, twenty-eight,’ you tut. ‘Ten years past your prime.’

‘I hate being diabetic. It makes me feel old.’

‘Old’s got nothing to do with it. And you’re not fat.’

‘It’s not like I wanted to have diabetes,’ I say, jiggling my love handles, and then smoothing them with flat palms, as if that’s going to get rid of them. ‘But then part of me used to think it was quite nice to have a thing. Is that bad?’

You do a kind of Gallic shrug with your mouth. ‘Everyone wants a bit of attention once in a while.’

‘Yeah, but I used to play up to it really badly. I mean, really badly. I wouldn’t eat properly, and I’d miss out on shots, even if I was feeling ropey.’

You say nothing, draw your fingernails through your hair, and glance up at me in the mirror.

‘It started to feel like, the more tired I felt, the happier I was. And the thinner the better. You can get to enjoy that stuff.’

‘But you’re not doing that now though, are you?’ you say, turning and looking directly at me. ‘You’re not missing shots now.’

‘No.’ Mostly no.

‘Because I’ve already watched my dad destroy his life, and I don’t intend to watch my boyfriend do it too.’

‘Look,’ I say, grabbing my gut and tugging it at you. ‘Does it look like it?’

‘You’re not fat! You’re man-shaped.’ You come over and lay your hands under my shirt. ‘I love your tummy. I love you.’

‘Yeah, well.’ I’m unconvinced.

‘Anyway,’ you say, slapping my bum and sitting down to pull on a pair of tights, ‘stop being so down on yourself.’ You shimmy your thumbs upwards to distribute the denier, and snap the elastic at the waistband. ‘If you’re getting fat anywhere, it’s in your head. Why don’t you go out tonight? Go and do something. You haven’t been out with your mates for ages.’

I dump myself down on the bed and wrinkle my nose.

‘I don’t fancy it.’

‘Give Mal a ring. He’ll be glad to see you. He thinks I’m the queen bitch from hell, so he’ll be pleased I’ve let you off the leash for five minutes.’

‘No he doesn’t.’

‘He does, because you haven’t been in touch with him, and he thinks that’s because I won’t let you.’

‘I don’t know, it’d be nice if it was just pubbing and chatting, or going to a gig or whatever, but there’s always the clubbing afterwards. I can’t be bothered, you know?’

You take your uniform off its hanger, and begin buttoning it on.

‘Oh, that reminds me, Do you want me to pick up a zimmer frame for you while I’m at work, Grandpa?’

‘I am getting old. And fat.’

‘Right, that’s it. You’re going out. I don’t want you hanging around, just waiting for me to get home. That’s not what we’re about.’ You pick up my phone and scroll through it. ‘There we go,’ you say, pressing the screen.

Mal Sampson. Calling …