The Cows Page 19

  ‘David, my God, you made me jump. This is the ladies, the gents are over there,’ I say, pointing down the corridor.

  ‘I saw your boobs,’ he says, like something from The Walking Dead.

  ‘What? No, David, that was Sophie. You saw Sophie’s boobs.’

  ‘Your boobs. In the shower. January seventeenth, 1998, at eight sixteen a.m.’

  OK, this is creepy. He’s obviously had a dream he thinks is real?

  ‘No, David. You saw Sophie’s boobs, you came upstairs with me and she flashed at you, OK?’

  I try to get past him, but he blocks my way.

  ‘Your boobs. The door was open, you were there. In the shower. Soap.’

  ‘David, did you sneak in on me in the shower?’

  He says nothing and stares at the floor, then looks up at me with strong intentions in his eyes, puts his arms around me, offering the stiffest hug I have ever had, and says, ‘I love you.’ He then turns around and walks, with purpose, back into the function room. I remain motionless by the toilet door. After a few seconds I exhale the huge breath I’ve been holding in, and smile. Normally I’d be freaked out, but honestly, I really needed that.

  Saturday Night

  Stella

  Tinder is so addictive; it’s certainly taken my mind off Facebook for an evening. I’ve been lying on my bed swiping left for the last three hours. Man after man, potential after potential, but I need to stop being so picky, and remember I only need to meet them once.

  With this in mind, I swipe right on James. He’s thirty-four, his bio says he runs an artist’s studio. He likes art and artists and he is looking for someone to ‘get cultural with’ in London. He doesn’t sound too bad. Good genes. Actually, he sounds a bit like Jason. We are a match, apparently. He sends me a message.

  Hey Stella, love your pic, but where is your bio? I can’t date a girl without a bio, you could be anyone ;)

  He’s right, I need a bio. I start to write one.

  My name is Stella. I am an identical twin but my sister died and I …

  No, I can’t lead with that, it’s too depressing. I try again.

  My name is Stella, I’m a PA and that’s it really. I own a flat though, so that’s one bonus. And I’ve got great boobs but not for much longer because I have the BRCA gene and that means if I don’t have my entire reproductive system removed soon I’ll probably die of cancer.

  Oh come on, Stella. Positive!

  Hey, I’m Stella, I own a really nice flat and have a really nice job. I mean, it’s not the kind of job that means anything, more support for a great boss who is achieving loads. I just organise his diary, and boss him around and make him coffee. It’s a nice job in a nice place but it’s hardly going to change the world. I mean my boss might, he’s brilliant, but it’s nothing to do with me. I’m also desperate for a baby before I become infertile, and my twin sister is dead.

  Bloody hell, on paper my life is so shit. Apart from my flat, which I love but don’t feel proud of because I didn’t earn it, I can’t think of a single positive thing to say about myself. All the good things are under threat. Everything happy is dipped in sadness. I’d need to write a bio full of lies to make myself sound dateable.

  Or …

  I log out and set up another account. This time I use Alice’s name, and a nondescript photo where you can’t really see her face. It’s a close-up of her eyes looking to the side and directly into camera. I love it so much. I stare at it for hours sometimes, it’s really useful when I need to cry. OK, let’s see if this feels better.

  Hey, I’m Alice. I currently work in an animal shelter but I am training to be a dog trainer. I did a degree in psychology but realised I find dogs way more interesting than humans so I switched the species that I study. I love my job, and want my own dog-training school one day. I love music festivals, lazy Sundays, my friends and my sister. We are identical twins … I’m the fun one!

  I quickly delete the last line; there is no need for me to be down on myself when I am not even being myself. I’ll keep it simple. I post the bio. It was so much easier to write than my own. She’d probably have her training studio by now, she wanted it so much.

  I start swiping right on all the guys who I think Alice would go for, and I wait for a match. Within minutes, alerts start coming in. Alice’s eyes are as alluring as they ever were. Everyone always said that, but they never said it to me. I used to think that was odd, considering our eyes were exactly the same. But I guess it’s what is behind them that people are drawn to.

  Hey Alice, I work with animals too. Which shelter are you at?

  Oh God, my heart leaps up my throat. What do I say to that? What if he knew her? I ignore his message; I can’t even go there. London suddenly feels so small. Maybe I should stop this. But I can’t. Another message comes in.

  Hi Alice, I agree, animals are better than people. Fancy a drink?

  I’d forgotten that the point of this is actually to meet someone. My heart is racing, I’m so hot all of a sudden. Blood is rushing through me like I’ve just run a race. I stand up and take off my cardigan, stretch out my arms and shake them, then sit back down and take a deep breath. OK, come on, Stella, be brilliant. Be Alice. I hit reply.

  Hey, I said more interesting, not better ;) A drink might be nice …

  I quickly read his profile, he doesn’t work with animals. It feels safer. His name is Scott, he’s thirty-four. He’s got dark hair, a straight nose, a nice smile. He’s cute looking, and works in the city. Looks and brains, my baby would come from a good place. Maybe this could work.

  It looks like we are within a mile of each other, shall we be spontaneous? I’m free now if you are?

  Oh wow, here come the heart thumps again. Can I do this? Really? A date?

  Sure, 9 p.m.? Jaguar Shoes, Kingsland Road?

  Oh Christ, what am I doing? I take some long, slow breaths and tell myself it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to do anything. I can just come home. If I like him, and he seems like a good guy, then maybe I can try this. I reply before I change my mind.

  Done!

  I open the article about Tara again. ‘A one-night stand’. ‘She never even told the father she was pregnant’.

  Maybe it can be that simple. Is it cruel if he never even knows about the kid?

  I go into the bathroom, wash my face and put on some foundation, a little blusher and draw two long black lines along my eyelids, doing little flicks at the ends, just like Alice has in the photo. I go back into the bedroom and get her bird skirt out of the wardrobe. I wear it with a silky black t-shirt and a little pair of low red heels that Alice used to wear all the time. I’d told Phil I’d given these away, but really they’ve been hidden in a box for the past year. I look nice. I look just like Alice. I wish it was as easy to put on her personality.

  As I leave the flat, I think back to what Camilla Stacey said in her article. Women need to take charge of their own lives, go find what they want, and take it. OK, Camilla Stacey, I’m going to do just that. I’m going to take what I want!

  I see him as soon as I walk into the pub, he looks exactly like he does in his photo. Scott is tall, cute, casually dressed but looks like he might feel more comfortable in a suit. If I was to be critical I’d say he looks pretty boring, but I’m not going to be critical, because his personality isn’t what I am after.

  ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m Ste—’ Shit, I stop myself just in time. ‘I’m sssstarting to think this is a good idea,’ I say, covering my mistake, and cringing at how cheesy that sounded. But he doesn’t seem to care.

  ‘Alice, hi. It’s absolutely a good idea. What would you like to drink?’

  ‘Vodka please,’ I say off the top of my head, trying not to show that being called Alice made me want to fall down and bang my head on the ground.

  ‘OK, anything with it?’

  ‘Just ice.’

  I feel so stupid for just ordering a neat vodka that I pretend it was no mistake. When I get it, I have to work hard
not to scrunch my face up with every sip.

  ‘So, where did you grow up?’ Scott asks me, after twenty or so minutes of discussing the weather, local highlights and how great Tinder is. I told him I’d been on loads of dates but with no success; I have no idea what the right answer to the question, ‘Have you had many Tinder dates?’ is. I imagine most people would rather not be asked.

  ‘London, born and bred. My sister and I went to school and uni here.’

  ‘Oh wow, so you could be on EastEnders?’ he says, laughing at his joke. At least I think it was a joke. I don’t have an East London accent; Jason even calls me posh. Scott sees I don’t find it funny and asks, ‘Is your sister older or younger?’ moving on the conversation.

  ‘She’s my twin,’ I say, finishing my first vodka and ordering another one, this time with a splash of soda. ‘My identical twin.’

  I wasn’t going to mention that, but I don’t seem to be able to avoid it. It’s the only thing that makes me sound interesting.

  ‘Oh wow! I’ve always found identical twins fascinating. Did you do terrible things when you were younger, and date each other’s boyfriends? I dated a girl once whose mood swings were so dramatic I used to joke she was an identical twin and that the nice version of her was my girlfriend and the moody one was her evil twin sister who hijacked her life because she hated her own.’ He laughs so hard at how ridiculous that would be, and I honestly don’t know where to look.

  ‘That would be crazy,’ I say, smiling reassuringly. ‘No, we never did anything like that.’

  ‘So what is her name?’

  ‘Stella.’

  ‘And does she work with animals too?’

  ‘No, she’s a PA. She doesn’t really know what she wants to do.’

  ‘Funny isn’t it, how you can be identical but so different?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s really funny.’

  ‘So, are you completely identical?’

  Why do people always ask that? Is there some confusion about what the word ‘identical’ actually means? I need to move this along.

  ‘I have to be up early,’ I say, squinting my eyes a little. I think it’s suggestive, but he seems to think I’m dissing him.

  ‘Oh, OK. Cool. Sure. Sorry. Fair enough, I suppose. I guess it’s hit and miss with the Internet isn’t it.’

  ‘No, I mean. We should probably go back to yours quite soon?’ I say, surprised by my own forwardness. But he ticks all the boxes for a prospective father of my child, so I think we should just get on with it.

  ‘Oh. Oh wow, I thought you were trying to get away from me. You want to come back to my place?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘shall we go?’ I step off my stool, and start to walk to the door. ‘Come on, then,’ I say, calling him to follow me. Like a well-trained puppy, he does.

  Back at his place, he pours us two glasses of wine and we sit on the sofa. ‘You live alone?’ I ask, wanting to know before I attempt to have sex with him in the living room.

  ‘Yup, I haven’t lived with anyone since college.’

  I look around his flat. It’s modern and organised. The decor isn’t particularly interesting, although he’s obviously got money. It always amazes me how some people mistake expense for style. But I try not to judge; it doesn’t matter, I won’t be back here after tonight. I put my glass down on the coffee table, and move towards him. Putting my hand on his upper thigh, I start to kiss him.

  ‘You’re so forward,’ he says, my tongue in his mouth.

  ‘I just really fancy you,’ I say, keeping him focused.

  I feel that he’s hard, so I crawl on top of him and grind. My head tells me to go quickly, but my body has its own thoughts. My hips slow down as the pleasure controls them. I loop my hands behind his neck and push myself down and around on his cock. He pulls my t-shirt out from the skirt and pulls it over my head. I undo my bra and let my boobs fall towards his face. I feel him buckle as he looks at them. ‘Fucking gorgeous tits,’ he says, before filling his mouth with my right nipple. He sucks hard and I want it harder. Phil couldn’t treat my body this way since I got the results. This is how it was before my sexuality was threatened with death.

  I lean back, putting my hands on his knees to give him the best view of my breasts that I can. I want him to see them, to feel them, to smother them with his mouth, his hands.

  ‘Suck them,’ I tell him, and he pushes them together and glides his mouth over each, back and forth and back and forth, until my nipples are rock hard. I feel a tear roll down my face when I imagine them gone. I wipe it away.

  ‘I have to fuck you,’ he says, pulling my face back to his.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, as I step onto the floor, undoing my skirt and pulling down my knickers, letting them both drop to the floor. He pulls his trousers to his ankles, and reaches to the back pocket for his wallet, then gets out a condom.

  Shit.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, getting back on top of him and guiding him in. ‘I’m on the pill.’

  But he pulls his hips back, and rips open the condom.

  ‘I never have sex without one,’ he says. Trust me to get a good boy.

  He rolls it on. I pull away. What is the point now?

  ‘What’s the matter, Alice?’ he asks. And everything goes into slow motion. I look at his face, just a guy, a normal guy. And who am I? A fake, a liar, a broken idiot. I could split on this plan. Make my excuses and leave. But what Cam Stacey said is going over and over in my head. Go out there, and take it. Take it. Take it. So I think of a Plan B, and I lower myself onto the condom, and I roll on him, and I whisper in his ear, and I push my breasts into his face, and I work hard until he fills it with my future. And when I know that it’s done, I step onto the floor. I roll it off gently with my fingers. I say, ‘I’ll take care of this,’ and I pick up my clothes and go to the bathroom, where I flush an empty toilet, just for effect, and tie a knot in the condom before slipping it into the pocket of the skirt. And when I come out, I remind him I have to be up early. I give him a fake number. And I leave.

  While in an Uber heading home, I delete Tinder. At home I lock myself in the bathroom, despite being the only one home. I take the condom out of my pocket like it’s a little shrew that I found in the garden, and I prod it with my finger so the creamy fluid slops around in its little bag. Then, cutting just below the knot with a pair of nail scissors, I hold it steady as I take my knickers off with my left hand. I lower myself to the ground and roll back onto my shoulders. I let my knees fall towards my face, my vagina is facing up, my lips are spread and I pour the sperm into the gap. When the condom is empty, I wait.

  How long does it take?

  I should have read more. I have no idea. Is there a right way and a wrong way to do this? After a few minutes, I gently roll myself back down, squeezing my pelvic floor as if to hold it all in. But as I stand, the sperm flops onto the bathroom floor. I put my foot in it and slip, crashing to the ground, banging my head on the corner of the bath. I quickly scramble back up to my shoulders, now there is sperm in my hair, on the side of my face. Is there anything inside me at all? I stand up. If I put my knickers on, will they catch it?

  And then I jump. I swear I see Alice standing behind me. But no, it was my own reflection. I stare at it, the sorry state that it is. A stranger’s sperm running down my leg, onto my sister’s skirt that is crumpled on the floor. What would she say if she knew?

  I get into the shower, take the head off the hook and push it inside of me and hold it there for as long as I can stand it, until the water runs clear. Until I am sure every last sperm has gone. Then I put the shower head back, and watch the water run down my chest and over my breasts. I can’t imagine them not being there, being replaced by aggressive scars that would terrify men rather than turn them on. No matter what happens to me over the next year, the reality is that I will lose my breasts and my ovaries before I’m forty. It isn’t a case of if, but when. I turn the shower off and rest my forehead on the wall, then clench my fist and draw it i
nto my stomach. I grind my knuckles against myself until it hurts, then I pull my hand away and thump myself again. Grabbing my skin with my fingers, I twist and pinch and hope the physical pain will take the mental pain away, even just for a second. It doesn’t.

  I get out, stepping over the sperm on the bathroom floor, and throw my wet body onto the bed. What does it matter; I’ll just sleep on the other side, now that I am alone.

  I cry myself to sleep.

  8

  Camilla Stacey – www.HowItIs.com – Why Childlessness Could Save Feminism

  The only thing that really ever separated men and women was that women got lumbered with the wombs, right? The fact that the babies grew in the women’s tummies, then got pushed out of their vaginas and fed from their breasts gave men a right to delegate women to be the primary carers of children. I am sure it made perfect sense to everyone at one time for the females of the species to abandon all other ambition and commit to a life of motherhood. But what if the woman didn’t have a child? Then, other than what we have been indoctrinated to believe — as in, that a woman’s function is to have children and if she doesn’t she is somehow incomplete — what really separates a man and a woman in terms of what they can achieve? What they should be paid? Whose boss they could be?