Like An Animal

She ran up the fire stairs, taking him by surprise, ‘I hate lifts,’ she panted.

He opened his arms, ‘I’ve missed you, Lizzie.’

Simon was wearing the same angora sweater as last time, faded chinos, loafers, no socks.

Pleased that he hadn’t changed, Lizzie stepped up to him, ‘Missed you too, Simon – lots.’

They embraced. He made her feel warm, loved, secure. Made her life worth living. Simon cherished her. She felt his heartbeat against her chest. Happy, warm, content, Lizzie held his hand, letting him take the lead. They left the lift lobby. His pad was the one with owls faces on the doormat, at the far end of the corridor.

‘We shouldn’t be doing this, should we?’ he teased, opening the door for her, ‘After you.’

‘I want to. Rules are there to be broken, aren’t they?’

He didn’t reply, just removed his loafers. Lizzie brushed off her shoes and stepped inside. There was a built-in wardrobe on the left. She let him take off her coat, bent at the knees, took off her shoes. Barefoot. He stood on the parquet floor, beckoning her. His apartment was pristine. Lizzie wandered past a glass partition into a bedroom, which was dimly lit.

For romance?

Other than a giant-sized black bed, the room was unfurnished. Hanging over the bed was an illuminated photo of a neon green frog. It took her breath away. She felt him join her. Felt him put his arm around her waist, loving him, holding her tightly there, she smiled, ‘It’s beautiful. What is it?’

Simon gave her hips an affectionate squeeze.

‘It’s a treefrog. They spend their days sleeping under leaves in the rain forest. If they’re disturbed, they bulge their red eyes at you, flashing their orange-webbed fingers, startling you while they leap to safety. At night, they ambush flies, moths, crickets, with their long sticky tongues. Like to see some more?’

Lizzie was entranced. ‘I’d love to.’

Simon ushered her into a second bedroom with sliding glass partitions, leading outside to a small balcony, and a mirrored fitted wardrobe. There were men’s magazines: GQ, Men’s Health, scattered on the floor beside the bed. Lizzie assumed this was where he slept. Otherwise, the bed was identical to the first: jet black duvet, sheets, pillows. The image on the wall was even stranger, if more familiar, than the frog: a hedgehog with red eyes and lemon-yellow spines. Lizzie was amazed, ‘Why…?’

Simon explained, ‘It’s an albino, they’re extremely rare. Like it?’

‘She’s lovely.’

He laughed, ‘It’s a ‘he’ actually. I cooked us dinner. Hungry?’

Her tummy was rumbling, ‘You cooked dinner? For me?’

‘I wanted to make up for the way I treated you. It was wrong of me to leave you like that, after I led you on.’

She held his hand, ‘Simon, you didn’t lead me on. I loved the way you touched me in the car. This is my fault for living in such a mess.’

He turned to face her. She looked beautiful sad. He would change her life. If she let him.

‘Lizzie, I suffer from OCD.’

She shook her head in surprise, ‘OCD? How strange! That makes us complete opposites!’

‘They say opposites attract.’

‘Yes, they do say that.’

‘Shall we eat?’

‘Can we? I’m starving.’

Simon guided her to the lounge. Lizzie’s jaw dropped: the lounge was in darkness, other than the moonlight shining on its glass door. There were photos scattered around the walls, starlets spotlighted by discreet accent lights.

‘My goodness,’ she gasped, ‘What are they?’

Simon introduced his friends: an albino koala with pink eyes, ears, and a leathery nose, a purple salamander, a mandarin dragonet, a blue, poisonous, dart frog. Lizzie stood still, mesmerized by the creatures’ beauty, their explicit colours. As a child, she hadn’t owned so much as a cat or a guinea pig. Pets were not allowed at the orphanage. She found her voice, ‘You seem to have quite a fascination with strange animals,’

He corrected her, ‘Not strange. Rare, exotic species. I display them as art. At least, I used to.’

Lizzie was shocked, ‘You killed them and put them on display? Simon, how could you?!’

‘I didn’t say they were dead. Have you ever heard of Damien Hirst?’

She rubbed her chin, ‘Vaguely. Didn’t he display a pickled shark in a cage or something?’

Simon gave her hand a squeeze, ‘That’s right. Hirst preserved a dead shark and displayed it in a vitrine. I used the same technique, displaying unusual creatures in glass cases except mine were alive, preserved in warmth and colour, bathed in light.’

‘Isn’t that cruel?’

‘On the contrary, all of my creatures were comfortable, well-fed, cared for and safe, which is more than you can say for most animals. Since we seem hell-bent on destroying their environments: the rain forests, savannah, tundra, grassy lowlands, we leave these species fighting for survival. Unless we change our ways quickly, thousands of animal and plant species will be lost to future generations.’

Lizzie thought of her humdrum existence, the room, exercising to stay trim, her dull job, feeling helpless, inconspicuous in the grand scheme known as Life on Earth. She never seemed to find time to consider other people’s feelings let alone the future of wildlife, her planet. She resolved to do more. Separating her recyclable plastic, cardboard, paper, and food waste might be a good start. Meanwhile, her mind filled with images of the animals, lit up in glass cases, presumably for the pleasure of richer human beings, until they died.

‘You said ‘were’, Simon,’ she ventured, ‘What happened to them?’

‘I had to close the art gallery when the lockdown hit us. Don’t worry, all of my creatures were donated to a private zoo. They’re well looked-after. Unlike us. We forget sometimes, we’re only animals. We need caring for too. Shall we eat?’

He seated her at a black glass-topped dining table set for two lit by a single candle. A dish of queen olives, an open bottle of organic Fiano on ice. No fuss or flowers, quite simply, romance. She loved that. He wore his heart on his sleeve, treating her like a woman, with surprising respect.

What did he want of her?

Before Lizzie could ask, he pulled down her napkin, filled her glass, pushed the olives in her direction, and started to question her.

‘Tell me about yourself.’

Lizzie spiked an olive and sucked it off its stick, ‘There’s not a lot to tell. I was abandoned at a food bank, soon as I was born, grew up in an orphanage. I have no idea who my mother is.’

He sipped his wine appreciatively, ‘I’m sorry. That must’ve been extremely hard for you.’

‘It was hard. I was bullied by the other girls. They hated me for the way I looked.’

‘How did you look?’

‘Like a big fat dumpling? Soft, doughy, round?’

Lizzie stared sorrowfully into her glass, her eyes aflame with candlelight. Simon reached across the table and gripped her wrist, impaling olives with his free hand, easing them off with his teeth, swallowing them whole.

‘I find that hard to believe, you’re beautiful and slim.’

She blushed, ‘I met a man who changed my life.’

He found her intriguing.

What was it she said? There’s not a lot to tell.

We all find a story inside ourselves if we probe deeply enough,

‘Are you still seeing him?’

‘Of course, I’m not.’

‘How did you cope with the girls bullying you?’

‘What is this, Simon? An interrogation?’

He shook his head, ‘I need to know.’

‘Why?’

He didn’t answer. She gestured with her hand, accidentally slopping wine over the table.

‘I learned to live with it. Hid myself from them, when I could, with my invisible friend.’

‘You had an invisible friend?’

She finished off her wine, mopping up the spillage with her napkin. He refilled her glass.

‘What was her name?’

‘Her name is Lizzie Two.’

‘Is Lizzie, too?’

‘Yes, is,’ she giggled like the little girl she once was, spouting proudly ‘I’m Lizzie One.’

‘Why do you remind me of Thunderbirds? 5-4-3-2-1! Lizzie-birds are Go!’

She put on her happy face and burst out laughing. Simon sagged with relief. He preferred this childish Lizzie to the sad, dull, adult version, couldn’t wait to find out more, but first.

‘I think the salmon’s ready. Would you excuse me?’

He stood up abruptly and ambled over to the oven, part of the open plan kitchen that sat in a corner of the lounge. Lizzie blinked as the lights phased on, absorbing her environment, his chic, minimalist, unadulterated luxury: white modular sofa, state-of-the-art immersive home theatre and audio system, contemporary shaker kitchen, all modern, all new, and meticulously arranged on the spotless polished wooden floor. Lying, incongruously, in the centre of the living space was a soft touch, shaggy, dense pile, teal blue rug. She wondered who that belonged to. Not him, surely?

‘Can I help?’ she called.

‘No, you’re my guest tonight.’

Only tonight?

He was wearing mitts to remove the baked salmon steaks from the oven. The night was young. Lizzie helped herself to a third glass of wine while he served the meal.

She let the salmon melt in her mouth: moist, tender, succulent, cooked to perfection, no less than she expected of Simon. Everything about him, his home, his looks, lifestyle, was perfect. Except for the gallery. That wasn’t perfect. That was a closed crab shell waiting to be occupied.

With what?

‘This is delicious, Simon,’ she said, masticating, ‘What’s in the glaze?’

‘Oh, just honey and mustard. Do you cook?’

He cast his mind back to the snack wagon. Lizzie, freezing on the damp bench. The dried up, half-digested pizza in her room. No, she didn’t cook, from fresh. How did she stay so slim? And her skin. Her skin was blemish free. He might have expected a few fat spots on her chin, the amount of junk food she poisoned her body with. He watched her wrestle with her asparagus. If anything, it was slightly under-cooked by his standards. Tough. She would have to manage. Lizzie raised her head and studied his face, his earnest face.

‘I’m a terrible cook, I’m afraid. I survive on pizzas, burgers, fish and chips, takeaways…’

He interrupted her, forking new potatoes as he spoke, ‘I can’t understand how you manage to stay so slim. You have such a lovely complexion.’

She dreaded this moment, saw it coming, the moment she brought up food.

Brought up food: bad choice of words, Lizzie.

I know, do you think I should tell him?

I think you have to be honest, don’t you? He cares about you. Can’t you see it in his face?

Simon stopped eating, resting his knife and fork, waiting for her answer, real concern written in his eyes. The candle flickered between them. The air felt thick, sluggish, gloom-in-the-room, stifling her. For the first time that night, she needed to be sick. Instead, Lizzie took a mouthful of wine, refreshing her palate, gulped it down, and told him the truth.

‘I purge myself.’

His face creased, ‘Purge yourself? What’s that supposed to mean?’

Lizzie stared at a blank space somewhere above the man’s head, ‘I throw up the bad food I eat, all the fat and muck, cleansing myself. I cleanse my body. Gastric detox. Keep myself looking young. For everyone to admire. For you, maybe.’

She fell quiet. The silence sat on them like a heavy beef meal stuffing full a vegan’s gut.

‘You binge eat to cope with being lonely?’

‘Yes,’ Lizzie lowered her head to face his.

He pitied her: the sight of those glistening tears, welling in the corners of her eyes, shining in the candlelight as they rolled down her cheeks, breaking his heart.

‘You’re bulimic?’

‘Yes’, she was crying freely.

‘I can help you. Will you let me help you, Lizzie?’

‘Yes, please help me,’ she implored, ‘I can’t live like this any longer.’

They ate the rest of the meal in silence.

Fresh strawberries, fage, Sauternes, cheese, Port. Other than a moderate excess of alcohol, which left Lizzie feeling merry, the meal was healthy. For the first time in days, there was no queasy tickle at the back of her throat, no heaving stomach. She felt happy, loved, and well. Wondering how much out-of-season strawberries cost, Lizzie decided to visit the market early on Monday and begin a new regime of healthy eating: five fruits a day. Her mind strayed into unchartered territory: his bold invitation, Simon’s unusual request. She wanted to ask him what it meant, but he hadn’t finished with her yet. He leaned forward and blew out the candle. Lizzie caught the faint smell in her nostrils. Black smoke. Rising.

He pressed her, ‘You were telling me about your life.’

Eager to move on, she related a few highlights of her life as Simon listened, attentively. Lizzie told him she was adopted at the age of ten by the loving Clements family, growing up in their thatched cottage, attending the village school, making new friends. Her teenage years: her shame at being fat, the fruitless weight loss diets, punishing exercise routines. College: training to be a receptionist. Her thankless search for love. The job at the dentist. What it felt like to be lonely and unloved – the endless drudgery of it all.

Her face lit up, ‘I won the lottery.’

He was stunned, ‘The Lottery? How much did you win?’

‘The Postcode Lottery,’ she grinned like the proverbial cat with the cream, ‘I won £5,000! Not a lot. Still, it was enough to treat myself to a holiday.’

‘Where did you go?’

Lizzie perked up, ‘I went to Vietnam on a guided tour. Have you been there?’

‘No, I never travel to the Far East.’

‘You should. I had the time of my life. Everyone is so different. So friendly. Proud. I met our tour guide on our first night in Saigon. He took me to an all-night bar for a beer. We sat and talked into the early hours about the struggles of the Vietnamese People, The War, napalm bombs, the hideous deformities the children still suffer to this day. He taught me to have pride in myself, never to give up the fight, however hard life might be. Taught me to purge myself, cleanse my body of all the fat, oil, and grease. Cleanse my inner soul. I sat behind him on the coach to Cu Chi, followed him into the tunnels where his family hid from the enemy until they emerged, victorious. The tunnels stretch for miles, Simon. There were hospitals built underground.

We went out to a different restaurant every night. One day, we paddled in boats along the Mekong until we reached a floating restaurant. They served us fish baked in river mud. Can you imagine?! In Ho Chi Minh City they cooked us street food in the gutter. In Hue I drank an iced coffee. Never eat the ice cubes if you go there, Simon. They’re made of dirty water. I was so ill, weak with the trots. In the end, Kim brought a huge bowl of rice stodge up to my bedroom and made me eat it all up. It tasted like cement, but he clogged me up inside.’

Simon raised an eyebrow, ‘He did, Kim?’

‘Yes, he was my guide.’

‘Did you…?’

‘What kind of woman do you take me for?’ she licked her lips, teasing him unashamedly.

He held up his hands as if under arrest, her arrest, ‘Sorry, Lizzie, I didn’t mean to imply…’

‘A nun?’ she went on, ‘Of course we did. Every night. On my bed.’

‘Sounds like you had an incredible holiday.’

‘I did, I’ll never forget Vietnam,’ she said, sounding wistful.

He returned to his first love, ‘Did you see any wildlife: monkeys, water buffalo, snakes, lizards while you were out there?’

Lizzie cast her mind back to the creature that ran in front of the coach as they entered the grounds of a Buddhist temple, ‘I think I might have seen a gibbon. I can’t be sure.’

‘A gibbon?’

‘Yes,’ her eyes sparkled, ‘And Kim hung a live snake around my neck for a photo in the jungle. He told me it was a python?’

Simon perched on the edge of his seat, ‘A python? Good grief, what did you do?’

‘Would you believe, I stood very still?’ she laughed at herself, ‘Now I work for Sparkler’s Dentists. That’s me, I guess.’

There was nothing left for her to say. He was about to make coffee, stack dirties in the dishwasher, drive her home, kiss her goodnight, say goodbye, she suspected, – except that.

‘You haven’t told me why you asked me to wear this basque?’

Lizzie walked to the teal rug, untied her lemon waist sash, slowly unbuttoned each amber stud, and slipped out of her dress. She threw it on the floor, her gauntlet, turning to face him. He was shocked by her transformation. She looked sensational. He wiped sweat out of his eyes. The basque clung to her body like a comfortable sheath, begging the question.

‘What do you want me to do?’

He sat on the modular sofa, brandishing a Galaxy S21, ‘Pose for me while I video you.’

Lizzie felt her pulse hurtling round her bloodstream, ‘How would you like me to pose?’

‘Lie on the rug. Imagine you’re cramped inside a box,’ the artist said.

She lay on the rug, held her knees, and drew her legs up to her breasts, in a human ball.

What must I look like? He must be able to see my…

‘Like this you mean?’

The artist stood over her, circling her like a mongoose about to bite a snake, videoing her, capturing her head, limbs, her torso, from every conceivable angle, aroused by her shape.

‘Yes, like that,’ he sank back into the sofa, ‘Bend your arm at an angle. Push your hand through your hair. Splay your fingers. Pretend you’re pressing them against a wall.’

She interpreted his instructions, ‘How does that look?’

‘Great. Hold your left arm up straight, spread your fingers. Imagine you’re touching the ceiling.’

As if I’m trapped inside a coffin trying to push off the lid.

This was easy; she performed stretches every day. Her heart pumped love into her mind.

‘You’ve caught the sun,’ he told her, ‘Your limbs are tanned. You have a beautiful body.’

‘Thanks, I try my hardest.’

Try my hardest for you, Simon.

‘Look the other way. I don’t want to see your face.’

‘Why not? What’s the matter with my face?’

‘Nothing’s the matter. I just don’t want to see it, that’s all. Now, do as your told.’

Loving this, aren’t you?

She smiled, looking away. Simon pulled his angora sweater off over his head, shed his chinos, sitting on the sofa in his boxer shorts. Seeing her, posing for him, felt as if all his birthdays had all come at once.

‘Push your body up with your left leg. Arch your body. Balance on your toes. Imagine you’re in a cage. Press your knee against the side of the cage.’

The instructions flowed thick and fast as the artist became more excited. Lizzie thrilled.

I’m in his cage.

‘Bend your knee. Rest your foot on your thigh. Knee to the ceiling. Toes to the wall.’

I’m his caged animal. I want him to set me free.

The artist stopped filming. He set the Galaxy to mute, left it on the sofa. He set her free.

‘I love you, Lizzie. Lie on your front. Stretch your legs.’

She hyperventilated with excitement, obeying his commands, waiting to be released. He straddled her thighs and unlatched the five silver clasps that held her bodice together. She felt his lips brushing the nape of her neck. Felt his lips kissing their way down her spine, plucking at each vertebra until he reached her L12.

She murmured through her clenched fingers, ‘How will you help me?’

He unfurled her basque, peeling it off her back, pressing the furls neatly into the curve of her breasts, her slender waist.

‘I’ll care for you.’

He ran his hand over the fine black down on the small of her back.

‘I’ll create an environment for you to live in that’s warm, comfortable, safe and secure, ensuring that you’re well-fed. I’ll make you happy. Make your wildest dreams come true.’

Warm? Comfortable? Secure? Well-fed?

‘You make me sound like one of your animals.’

She wanted him.

Natural instinct took over.

They prepared to mate.

He pulled down his shorts.

She unfurled her basque as far as her hips, freeing her breasts, then got up on all fours.

Like an animal.

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