My Legendary Girlfriend by Mike Gayle

know. If my parents were trying to give me a head start on the advancement of my social skills then they should have asked me and I could have told them that I got along with everyone.
    That morning I’d kissed mum good-bye but as I lay there that wintry afternoon, I began to think about where she was. I couldn’t explain it, but I suddenly wondered if she was real. I’d sometimes dreamt things that felt so real that they couldn’t possibly have been dreams. I once dreamt I could fly and, even now, can still remember what the city looked like from up in the sky and how the wind felt in my hair and against my skin. But when I woke up I couldn’t fly.
    Lying on the bed thinking these thoughts, I concluded that my mother was just a really nice dream. I could remember the softness of her cheek that I’d kissed that morning and how smooth the tissue that wiped away her lipstick felt. I could remember her smell, which was warm and summery in contrast to the bleak day it really was. I remembered it all, just like I remembered that I could fly. Right there and then, I convinced myself that my mum didn’t exist, that both she and my dad, my bedroom and toys – all that I loved didn’t exist. Nothing existed except me and what I could see.
    I opened my eyes, looked out of the window, saw the branches of the trees blowing in the wind and started to cry. Not loudly for attention, but softly, very softly. My eyes filled up and warm tears ran across my cheek onto the hand resting beneath my head. Within minutes I was in full flow. I felt sad and empty. I was an orphan. The teacher, Mrs Greene, a lovely lady who smelt of Pears soap, gave me a hug and stroked my hair, but I was inconsolable. ‘My mum’s not there! My mum’s not there!’ I shouted through my tears, but it wasn’t actually what I meant. What I wanted to say was, ‘My mum’s not real!’ In the end I cried so much that she had to call my mum at work from the telephone in the school office. When she explained to my mum what the problem was, she passed the telephone down to my outstretched hands to let me speak to her. As soon as I heard her voice, the tears stopped. My mum was real. It wasn’t a dream. Everything was all right.
    1.05 A.M.
    I’m in my flat, only it’s not my flat. It’s a better one but not too flash – let’s keep it within the realms of reality. And for argument’s sake let’s say that I’m still in London and I’m still teaching – although why I don’t know. The flat’s tidy and the cold water tap on the kitchen sink works. My records and CDs are in alphabetical order and I’ve got a state-of-the-art flat screen digital TV with cable.
    Right. I’m busy in the kitchen. I’m chopping parsley and sprinkling it over a dish which I return to the oven for twenty minutes to crispen – well that’s what it says in my Delia Smith cookbook, anyway. Playing in the background is Elvis – Live From Madison Square Garden – it just fits the mood I’m in tonight – triumphant, jubilant, ready to please the faithful. There’s a knock at the door. I brush parsley from my hands and slip on my jacket which has been sitting on the back of a kitchen chair. As I enter the hallway I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Looking good. I’m wearing a dark blue suit from Paul Smith. It looks expensive but not obscene, chic and ‘with it’. No, scrub that. The suit’s too formal – where am I going? A funeral? No. I’m in something casual that could only have been bought on a shopping trip to New York. Let’s see. A checked Calvin Klein shirt and a pair of Chinos from Bloomingdales. No, no, no, no, no. It’s just not me – only models in GQ wear that sort of stuff. Okay, I’ve got it. I’m in a plain white T-shirt and a pair of old Levis and – here’s the best bit – I’m not wearing any socks! Nice touch, she used to like my feet .
    I open the door and there is Aggi.
    For a millionth of a second neither of us moves, frozen in