Honeybee, page 15
What is happening? Flo seems to have detached from her body. She’s dumbstruck. Ben is cool as a cucumber offering me this, and I feel like I just got handed my future on a silver platter. Both Flo and Ben head back to their desks and I sit staring at my computer, like it’s going to answer the burning question of: what the actual fuck just happened?
Within minutes, an email from Flo pops up. ‘Explain yourself, please.’ And then almost immediately one from Ben. ‘I’m glad you can come, Renée, will be fun.’
Oh my God Oh my God OH MY GOD.
I reply to Flo: ‘London babes, the dream ;)’
I open a Word doc. It’s time to be as proactive in my writing career as I am in my love life. I turn Ben on physically, but I want him to think I’m smart too. I can do this; I can come up with the best cheese slogan of all time. But before I do that, there’s one more thing on my mind that I need to get straight. I peer into the main office at Flo, my heart picking up. I open the internet browser.
Can you be an alcoholic at twenty-two?
Flo
After work, I stand outside a beauty salon for twenty minutes just staring at the menu in the window.
Brazilian – £20
Hollywood – £30
I don’t know what any of it means. Also, how does it work? Do I have to take my knickers off? How many people are in the room? I chicken out in the end and head to Sainsbury’s; I’ll do it myself with Immac. I’ve used that on my legs before, it worked pretty well. Getting things like bikini waxes on Guernsey feels risky. If I walk into a pub and the person who waxed me is sitting there with her friends, how can I trust she won’t tell them about my flaps?
On the shelf next to the hair removal cream, I also see hair removal strips. I can wax myself? I buy it all and head home.
‘I’ve done sausages for dinner!’ shouts Renée up the stairs as I go into the bathroom.
‘Yummy,’ I shout back. ‘Just going to have a shower.’
I take the wax strips out of the box. It says to warm them in my hands before applying so I take off my knickers and do that. I look at my vagina in the mirror. I’ve never done a thing to it. If I pull the hair, it stretches to about an inch and a half, and the triangle spreads to the top of my thighs. The women in porn have nothing, or a single strip. I don’t like either of those, but I do want to tidy it up.
I pull apart the two strips and press one into each of the creases at the top of my thighs. 1, 2 … I can’t. Oh God, I can’t pull it off. I have to, I have no choice. OK. 1, 2 … NOOOO … I just can’t do it. OK, I’ll just give myself a minute. I’ll trim first. I sit on the toilet with a pair of nail scissors in one hand. I pinch a clump of hair between my fingers and pull it straight. I snip through the hair and it comes off in my fingers. Wow, it’s so satisfying. I chop another clump, and then another. I reach underneath and stretch out another clump. I snip, and—
‘AHGAHGAHGAHGAHGAHGAG.’ Oh shit, I’ve cut my lip. I keep screaming, the pain is horrific.
‘Flo, what happened?’ says Renée, banging on the door.
‘I cut myself,’ I say, wedging an entire roll of toilet paper between my thighs.
‘Where?’ asks Renée, concerned. ‘Do you need help? Open the door.’
What have I done?
‘I’ve broken my fanny.’
‘Flo, open the door,’ Renée demands. I really don’t want to, but I’m scared. Blood is pouring out of me, the wax strips still need to come off. I shuffle towards the door and pull it open.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she says, looking at my vagina. A sodden red loo roll underneath it, a wax strip on either side.
‘I wanted to tidy it up,’ I say, swapping the loo roll for a new one. The second roll at least indicates that the blood flow is slowing down.
‘You have to pull those off to get the hair out, you know?’ she says, stating the obvious.
‘I can’t. I’ll soak them off.’
‘You can’t. The wax is like glue, you have to pull them. I’ll do it.’
‘No you won’t,’ I say, stepping back. She comes at me until I’m cornered between the shower and the sink.
‘Flo, they need to come off, and quickly. Come here.’
I don’t know how I get myself into these messes. I shut my eyes.
‘OK, bloody do it,’ I say, bracing myself. I feel her fingers take hold of each strip at the same time. As I squeeze my thighs together to hold the loo roll in place, Renée says, ‘One, two, three …’ and yanks off the wax strips.
‘Oh my God oh my God!’ I repeat, until the burning stops.
‘There you go,’ Renée says, standing back and taking a look. ‘It looks nice. A bit raw, but nice.’
I waddle to the middle of the bathroom, managing not to drop the loo roll. I look in the mirror. It does look nice, she’s right. It’s much better.
‘Can I help with anything else? Need me to shave your armpits?’
‘Go away.’
‘OK, but you should put honey on the sides to calm them down. Aunty Jo says local honey is the world’s original antiseptic. Spread a bit of that bee juice on ya puss puss and you’ll be ready for whatever it is you’re planning to do with it after this wax?’
‘I’ve got a date with Phil.’
‘Oh my days, Florence is getting laid. Wow, I never saw you as the “preparations” type. I thought you were too pessimistic for that,’ she says.
‘Yeah, well, we’ve obviously already done something, so I guess something else could happen after our date, couldn’t it?’
‘And what happened to not having relationships with colleagues outside of work?’
‘Oh Renée, will you just shut up and go and get me Aunty Jo’s honey!’
14
Renée
The next day, I take my lunch at 12 p.m. I do this so the phones are covered while the others are out. But it also makes me very happy because I’m starving by 12. I don’t know how anyone makes it through to 1 p.m. without passing out. Georgina manages with constant snacking. Chloe drinks green tea all morning. She sometimes brings lunch back and eats in reception while she reads the papers. It’s usually soup and a few slices of bread, or measly crackers. I brought lunch with me for two days last week but both times I had eaten it all by 10.30. I’m not allowed to eat at my desk, so I literally ducked down underneath it to take mouthfuls of sandwich, which I swallowed with barely any chewing. Today, I went to the market and got a chic little tray of sushi. I’ve developed a real taste for it, I just wish it didn’t come at such a cost.
Later in the afternoon, I watch Georgina as she lays out what looks like a picnic for five people at her desk. She’s seen I’m here and emails to offer me some food. Happy to share, pull up a chair! She’s by far the nicest person in the office, a real woman’s woman. I’m not sure she’s ever walked past me without saying hi, and even Chloe softens around her. She has this lovely energy about her that’s so caring. I felt quite sorry for Georgina when I first met her, making all sorts of horrible judgements because of the way she looked. I assumed she would hate me because I’m pretty and she’s not, but she’s so kind to me. It makes me hate myself to know that I thought that. Terrified that someone can hear my thoughts, I try to think about something else.
The phone rings, it’s an internal call from Ben’s number.
‘Go ahead caller, you’re on the air,’ I say, trying to be funny so he fancies me even more.
‘Renée, I thought we could talk.’ Oh God, he’s going to fire me. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m OK,’ I say, lying. I’m not OK. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I am, but I shouldn’t be. I meant what I said on Saturday night, I’m crazy about you. I hope you know that I’m not taking this lightly. I realise the position I’ve put you in, but I …’ I’m so scared he’s going to tell me that this – whatever this is – is over. I just can’t hear the words. ‘It’s so hard, but I …’
I have to turn this around; he can’t dump me on the phone. He can’t. I’ll do what I do best: I’ll make it sexy.
‘Oh, I see. It’s … hard, is it?’
He laughs a little, as if he wasn’t going to say something awful after all. And then I hear his breath deepen on the other end of the phone; maybe he’s going with it? ‘Yeah, it’s … it’s really hard. Can you help?’ I’ve still got him, he’s not dumping me.
‘I can certainly try. Let me kneel down under your desk. I’ll get really close, so my lips tap on the tip. I’ll have my tongue lick it gently, maybe that will work?’
‘It’s not working, it’s just getting harder and harder.’
I honestly don’t think I have ever felt this horny in my life. My fanny is galloping. I press gently down on my clitoris, knowing someone could walk in any minute but wanting to give this everything I’ve got for both of us. I slide down my chair, so my hand and crotch are hidden.
‘Let me take it deep into my mouth. Suck it nice and hard. And then I’ll slip my knickers off and straddle you at your desk. I’ll let my wet …’
‘I got you a Crunchie.’
‘… dishes! Wet dishes are terrible.’ Oh my God, it’s Matt, pulling me back to reality like I’m a dead animal being dragged out of a bush. ‘I saw you eating one once, so I know you like them,’ he says, proudly. I scrabble back to upright and try to ignore him. Hopefully he’ll go away.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Ben. ‘Now, I’d love to help you get this one over the line.’ I put my hand over the receiver to look like I’m being professional. ‘Was there something else, MATT?’ I say, to make it clear to Ben what’s happening.
‘I can wait,’ Matt says, settling in, not getting any hints. Thinking a Crunchie is the access code to my knickers. I exhale and move my hand from the receiver. ‘I’m sorry, sir, it must be very frustrating. Leave this with me and I will get back to you as soon as I can.’ I hang up and take the Crunchie. To be fair, the only thing better than the orgasm I was about to have is chocolate. Matt lingers for a while; my vag shrivels back inside itself.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Too kind.’
‘Anything for my honey. I like your shirt – let me know if you ever want to hop off with me after work.’ He’s referring to the frog print. How he managed to turn it into an innuendo is actually really impressive. He heads back to his desk, proud of his advancement, no idea of the devastation he just inflicted upon my libido. Ben hurries past me to the toilets. When he comes out again, a sheen on his skin, a wide smile that looks painted on, I see Flo standing at reception. She has brought me a Blue Boost. I eat that too. If I can’t get to climax, I might as well overdose on Cadbury’s.
Aunty Jo has cooked us baked salmon fillets with vegetables and potatoes for tea. She’s not herself again tonight. James and I have sat opposite her and listened while she’s talked us through the eating schedules of every single one of her animals. All of which James and I already know, because we help her with it.
‘And of course, the goats never act like they’ve had enough. They’ve cleared the lawn and I’ve run out of hay, again. I’ll go straight down with the van in the morning to get some more from the garden centre because I’m on the morning shift tomorrow. Would anyone like to come?’
James and I both shake our heads silently.
‘No, of course not. So boring, sorry. God, I’m sure I used to talk about other things. How is work, Renée. All well?’
‘Yes, I’ve been asked to come up with a slogan for cheese. Isn’t that cool?’
‘That is cool,’ James says, relieved for something else to talk about. ‘What’s the brief?’
‘Apparently teenagers are snacking on rubbish, so it’s my job to make them choose cheese over Wotsits.’
‘“Choose Cheese”. There you go, you can have that for free.’ James chuckles to himself, Aunty Jo pretends to find it hilarious and does a maniacal laugh as she clears the plate that she hasn’t finished. James and I watch her and make eyes at each other. She’s being very odd.
‘Should I leave you two?’ I whisper to James.
‘No, no, I’ve actually got some papers to mark, so I’d better crack on.’ Without clearing his plate, he says thank you to Aunty Jo then makes his way upstairs to the spare room that he uses as an office. Aunty Jo puts both hands on the sink and bursts out crying.
‘Oh no, what happened?’ I ask, rushing over to her. ‘What’s wrong, are you and James OK?’
‘Oh Renée, I don’t know what’s the matter with me, I’m an absolute blob of emotion. Poor James.’
‘No, Aunty Jo, not poor James, poor you. What’s going on? Come on, let’s go sit by the bees and talk.’
I lead her down the garden with my arm linked through hers like she’s an old lady that needs help crossing the road. I sometimes have visuals of Aunty Jo being very old or very unwell and me taking care of her. Sometimes, when my mind drifts, I think of all the awful things that could happen to her. A car crash, cancer, heartache, and I am her hero. I sweep her up and make her better. Getting her everything she needs to be comfortable. I have a terrible mix of feelings after my mind has taken me deep into one of those fantasies. I know that ultimately my brain does this because I want to return the favour. I want to look after her, like she has looked after me. But then I worry that by imagining awful things happening to her, they might actually happen. So right here, in this moment where she is sad, in a relatively undramatic situation, I am happy to be her support.
‘What is it?’ I ask, as we sit down on the bench. The bees are mostly in their hive for the night, just the odd one making the most of the last rays of sunshine. Not wasting a single second of their day.
‘James and I have always been so close, but we didn’t have children together. Because of me. We tried for a while but eventually I had tests and we discovered I had more chance of giving birth to a baby goat than a human baby. We grieved together but it was only me who felt the guilt. He promised he was OK with it, he always said that being a teacher meant there were enough kids in his life.’
‘And what, he’s changed his mind?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Well, I don’t know. But I’m realising something – that maybe by never having children we missed out on an intimacy that other couples have. I don’t know how to explain it, but surely if you’ve experienced birth together, then you break through boundaries of conversation that you never imagined. The man has to become more aware of the woman, because she is going through something so physical. But what if all there ever was between you was emotional support? And now, with this menopause nonsense, and it all being so physical, what if he can’t understand it? I tried to open up a bit last night. And I’m sorry, Renée, this is a lot of information from your aunty, but I am so dry. Sex is painful, I just can’t do it. I tried to explain this to him last night and he didn’t know what to do. I thought we were close, but he panicked or something. Acted like what I was talking about was totally unbearable and he got in such a state he went and slept in the spare room. I just lay there feeling like a disregarded bucket of sand.’
‘Well, that wasn’t cool. He shouldn’t have made you feel that way,’ I say, holding back so many questions about her vagina. Do they really dry up? I can’t imagine that. Mine is like a swamp, ready for Ben at any given time.
‘No, I know he shouldn’t but it’s hardly a surprise, is it? This thing that happens to us women is a mystery to us, let alone men. I mean, before I spoke to you about it, did you even know what the menopause was?’
‘Not really. I mean, I’d seen the word in magazines but I wouldn’t bother reading about it.’
Aunty Jo bursts out crying. Loud, ridiculous tears.
‘Exactly, “wouldn’t be bothered”. Who would be bothered with this? It’s not sexy, it’s not pretty. It’s not any of the things women are supposed to be, so why would anyone bother with a woman like me?’
I put my arm around her. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It just seems like something so few people deal with so …’
‘Renée, ALL woman deal with it, we just don’t talk about it. So when it comes, it’s like jumping off a damn cliff. And everyone around you gives you a wide berth because it’s so awkward, and you act all weird and get all hot and bothered. James hasn’t said it, but I know he’s just hoping it passes soon and that I’ll go back to normal. I don’t even know what normal is for me any more. I don’t know what the future me will be like.’
‘Well have you explained it all to him? I mean, if the problem is that no one talks about it, why don’t you talk about it? And not just the dry sex stuff? It’s all very well saying men don’t understand us, but if we’re not telling them what’s going on, then how the hell are they supposed to know?’
Aunty Jo raises her eyebrows and stares at the beehive.
‘Well would you look at that!’ she says, her tears drying up like her vagina, a smile forming on her beautiful face. ‘My little Renée is a true grown-up.’ She laughs, less maniacal this time. More like she’s had a realisation. ‘You’re right, of course you’re right. If men don’t understand us, why don’t we tell them? It’s as simple as that. He’s a good man, he can take it.’
She puts her hand on mine, and we watch as the activity around the hive completely dies down.
Flo
The London trip is coming up and I’m scanning through my emails, worrying that Katrina is planning something. She once emailed me saying that there needed to be ‘an intervention’. An intervention? I had no idea what she was talking about. What if I get to London and she’s there, at the flat? Planning whatever the hell she meant. But also, why would she do that; she hates me and most likely never wants to see me again. No, it will be OK. Being in London will be nice for a few days. I can get all my things and close that chapter once and for all. And even though I’m mad she’s wheedled her way on to the trip, it will be fun to show Renée the city, it’s so crazy that she’s never been. I must stop worrying. Katrina will be gone, we will have fun, and all will be well. Please God.
