Time of My Life Read Free

life summons people to meet with it ,’ I emphasised, ‘are people usually familiar with the procedure?’
    ‘Well,’ the longest sing-song that sounded like way-eell, ‘some are and some aren’t, I suppose, but that’s what I’m here for. How’s about I make it easier for you by arranging for him to come to you? He’d do that if I asked.’
    I thought about that, then suddenly, ‘Him?’
    She chuckled. ‘That catches people out too.’
    ‘Are they always hims ?’
    ‘No, not always, sometimes they’re hers .’
    ‘Under what circumstances are they men?’
    ‘Oh, it’s just hit or miss, sweetheart, there ain’t no reason for it. Just like you and me being born what we are. Will that be a problem for you?’
    I thought about it. Couldn’t see why it would. ‘No.’
    ‘So what time would you like him to visit you?’ She tapped some more.
    ‘Visit me? No!’ I shouted down the phone. Mr Pan jumped, opened his eyes, looked around and closed them again. ‘Sorry for shouting,’ I composed myself. ‘He can’t come here.’
    ‘But I thought you said that wouldn’t be a problem for you.’
    ‘I meant it’s not a problem that he’s a man. I thought you were asking if that would be a problem.’
    She laughed. ‘But why would I ask you that?’
    ‘I don’t know. Sometimes health spas ask that too, you know, in case you don’t want a male masseuse …’
    She chuckled. ‘Well, I can guarantee he won’t be massaging any part of your anatomy.’
    She made anatomy sound dirty. I shuddered.
    ‘Well, tell him I’m very sorry but he can’t come here.’ I looked around at my dismal studio flat that I always felt quite cosy in. It was a place for me, my own personal hovel; it was not for entertaining guests, lovers, neighbours, family members or even emergency services when the rug caught fire, it was just for me. And Mr Pan.
    I was huddled up by the arm of the couch and a few steps behind me was the end of my double bed. To my right was a kitchen countertop, to my left the windows and beside the bed was a bathroom. That was about the size of it. Not that the size bothered me, or embarrassed me. It was more the state of it. My floor had become the wardrobe. I liked to think of my scattered belongings as stepping stones, my yellow brick road … that kind of thing. The contents of my previous top-dollar penthouse wardrobe were bigger than the new studio apartment itself and so my too many pairs of shoes had found their home along the windowsill, my long coats and full-length dresses hung on hangers at the right- and left-hand ends of the curtain pole and I slid them open and closed as the sun and moon requested just like regular curtains. The carpet was as I have already described, the couch monopolised the small living area reaching from windowsill to kitchen counter, which meant you couldn’t walk around it but had to climb over the back to sit on it. My life could not visit me in this mess. I was aware of the irony.
    ‘My carpets are being cleaned,’ I said, then I sighed as if it was just such a nuisance that I couldn’t bear to think about it. It wasn’t a lie. My carpets very much needed to be cleaned.
    ‘Well, can I recommend Magic Carpet Cleaners,’ she said brightly, as though suddenly jumping to commercial hour. ‘My husband,’ ma husbaand, ‘is a devil for shining his boots in the living room and Magic Carpet Cleaners get that black polish right out, you wouldn’t believe. He snores too. Unless I fall asleep before him I get none the rest of the night so I watch those infomercials and one night I saw a man shining his shoes on a white carpet, just like my husband and that’s what caught my attention. Was like the company was made just for me. They took the stain right out, so I had to go out and get me some. Magic Carpet Cleaners, write it down.’
    She was so intense I found myself wanting to invest in black shoe polish in order to test these magical cleaning infomercial people and