Pretending, page 17
“Oi, Joshua, you’re a wee bit sexy, aren’t ya?”
He laughs while also beaming at the compliment. “I like this game,” he declares. “Can you do anyone else famous apart from Morgan?”
“I do a great Ronan Keating actually.”
“Niche, but let’s hear it.”
I sing a line and Joshua cracks up again.
We open the windows to let in the non-existent breeze. I ask him about the print of Paris in his bedroom. “Oh, that? I bought it when I was traveling around Europe the summer I graduated.” The topic drifts to backpacking, an activity I’ve always considered exists solely for boring middle-class people to feel better about themselves and give them something to talk about at boring middle-class parties. No personality? No worries—just talk about IndYA! But Gretel’s riveted—she just loves traveling—and so I have to sit through some of the same stories he’s already told me about Mount Kilimanjaro.
We start kissing again. The kissing escalates and we end up having sex on his sofa. It’s better than last time. When Joshua has finished removing the second used condom of the evening and collapses in a sweaty mess into me, I try to make sure I get my Madonna/Whore blend just right. “That was amazing,” I say, even though it wasn’t. It was only OK.
He grins and kisses my fingers. I can smell myself on his breath.
“I never usually sleep with someone this fast,” Gretel admits.
Joshua props himself up on his elbows. “Seriously?”
She nods, shyly.
“I thought... I mean, you’re so confident. I assumed...”
“What?”
He’s clever enough to back away from the loaded question. “Never mind.”
Gretel lets it go, like any normal girl would ever be able to let an “I assumed” go ever in the history of life. “Well I don’t normally do this.”
Joshua’s still for a moment, clearly thinking. Then he suddenly hugs me, really tightly, making me so suffocated it’s a miracle I don’t hit him.
After a moment, I tap his back. “Can we sleep now?”
He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear and looks like he’s falling in love with me. “Let’s sleep.”
* * *
I lie awake and stare at his ceiling, only catching an hour or so when dawn sneaks around the curtains and birds who wish they lived somewhere nicer than London chirp their morning announcements and wake me up. I want to scratch my skin off. I want to cry for a thousand years. I want to take a man, any man, and make him feel true, pure, fear. I want violence. I want to watch him bleed. I want the whites of his eyes to grow bigger with terror. I want him to freeze as a survival mechanism and then torture himself for the rest of his life for not fighting back. I want him to blame himself for it. I want him to scream and...
Joshua rolls over in the bed. His eyes are open. He’s smiling.
“Good morning!” I chirp.
“It’s a good morning indeed if I’m waking up next to you.”
“Oh, that is cheesy Joshua.”
He pulls me into him (all the better to let me poke my morning erection into your thigh, my dear) and we roll into the inevitability of morning sex with morning breath and both of us pretending I’m not a bit too dry for it, what with it being the morning and all, and Joshua doing absolutely no foreplay beforehand. Even Gretel can’t fake wetness. But Joshua doesn’t seem to mind, or notice. When he is done, he falls off me headfirst into the pillow, patting my back and muttering compliments.
“I need the bathroom.” I get up, pee, shower, and start tugging my clothes on. My skin’s itchier. That last bout of sex was too much. I’m running out of time. The trauma’s closing in. My ribs are tightening on my lungs.
The white wall.
The.
white.
wall.
He appears in the kitchen just as the kettle boils, shrugging into a casual white T-shirt.
“Tea? Coffee?” I ask, in an air hostess voice.
“Coffee, but let me make it. You’re the guest.” He steps behind me, squeezing my sides to move me and it takes everything I have left not to flinch.
I sit at the table and watch him make proper coffee with his gadgets. He’s finicky about it. Scientific. He uses the measuring spoon to make sure he’s scooped up just the right amount. He takes the kettle off just before it hits boil so it doesn’t burn the grains. He even squats down when he pours the water in to make sure he’s measured it right. It’s like watching an enthusiastic student in a secondary school chemistry class, and it’s bordering on adorable. When he passes the cup of coffee over, it tastes brilliant too.
“Thank you. Wow, you know how to make coffee.”
He pulls his chair over and uses his legs to clamp one of mine. “It’s both my greatest superpower and my greatest weakness,” he says. “I’m such a dick about people making coffee for me. It causes me actual stress.” He leans over and tucks my hair behind my ear again. “You look lovely without any makeup on,” he comments.
I’m wearing under-eye concealer, mascara, a touch of blusher, and a lip stain.
“Thank you.” I keep sipping my coffee and can’t bring myself to look at him. The urgent need to leave pulses through my body. And, before I can see the bottom of my mug, I’m done. I stand, using everything I have to keep smiling.
“Hey, where you off to?”
“I’ve got to go I’m afraid.”
The disappointment on his face is palpable. “What?”
“Yeah, I’ve got this thing.”
“A thing?”
Smile smile smile. Breeze breeze breeze. Lie lie lie.
“Yeah, I’m working an extra shift this morning, and then I’m at a barbecue with some friends.”
“Oh, right.” He looks at his coffee.
I’ve never been with a man so openly needy before, and can’t figure out if it’s the Gretel effect or just Joshua. “I had such a great time though.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you wanted us to spend the day together too.” It’s so weird to be on this side of the next-day conversation. I’m usually the one assuming we’ll be spending the weekend together, turning down other plans just in case, and then acting all meek and “I don’t mind” when the other person reveals they’d not considered a whole weekend together an option at all.
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you didn’t have other things to do.”
I reach over and squeeze his hand to let him know not to worry. “I really did have a great time though.”
His eyes meet mine. “You did?”
I nod. “We should do it again.”
He waggles his eyebrows. “Now? I’m quite sure you’ve exhausted me.”
I fake a laugh. “Not that. Well, that. But also, you know, meeting up. Conversing. Sharing the same oxygen. We should do it again.”
“Monday?”
Wow. Right in there, Joshua. “Monday works for me.”
Get my bag. Collect up my things. Resist the urge to flinch again when Joshua kisses my neck. Make dinner plans. Say thank you for such a great evening. Kiss goodbye at the door. Sigh with relief when door closes behind me. Act happily surprised when Joshua comes and stops the lift to kiss me again. Wave and keep smiling. Get outside. Wonder how I’m going to make it through a day so hot when feeling like this. Get on stuffy but mostly empty Tube. Look down at hands. See they are shaking. Remember the white wall. Tell myself not now. Soon, but you have to get home first. Make it to Tube stop. Get off. Get through ticket barrier. Have message on phone from Joshua when I get signal. Don’t read it. Can’t. Not now. Slog through London streets, unable to cope with other humans who dare to be on the pavement with me. Steam rising from concrete. Can’t get his face out of my head. His face afterward. Not Joshua’s face. Ryan’s. How he slept soundly and I watched him sleep and couldn’t understand how he could sleep after doing that to me. Could it have really happened if he slept that soundly afterward? How much it hurt. Sore. Burning. He slept all night through. By morning I’d told myself I’d imagined it. But my body didn’t forget. Couldn’t. It closed up. Clamped shut. Get to the end of my road. I’m almost there. I want to peel my skin off it itches so bad. Breathing is hard. Lungs are smaller. I gasp more than I inhale. Keys won’t go into the lock. Try again. No. Please go into the lock, why is this so hard? There. There we go. Push into the flat. Empty. Mine. Alone. Finally all alone. I can let it out now. The hiccup I’ve been holding in since I heard Ryan’s voice in my head. I’m ready to cry. I lie on the sofa. I want to let it out. But now I’m here, now I can, the tears won’t come. I feel nothing. Empty. Numb. I lie on my side with my knees up. I stare at the wall. This wall is pale pink. Megan’s mum picked it. The other wall was white at the time. With embossed wallpaper.
Can’t breathe.
He’s here. It’s hurting. I don’t know how to say stop. Why is he doing this? The tears are here. Pouring. The numbness has gone, but I want it back because now it hurts too much. Too many feelings. Too strong. How am I going to live my life with these feelings that won’t ever dull, no matter how much time passes?
I hate you.
I hate you.
I HATE YOU.
I FUCKING HATE YOU RYAN SO FUCKING MUCH YOU FUCKING PRICK. YOU RUINED MY FUCKING LIFE AND NOTHING BAD HAPPENED TO YOU IN RETURN. MY LIFE IS RUINED AND I WILL NEVER BE ME AGAIN AND YET YOU GET TO CARRY ON LIVING THAT FUCKING LIFE OF YOURS YOU FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING WANKING SHITTING FUCKING WANKER MADE OF SHIT I HATE YOU. GOD I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU SO MUCH IF I COULD KILL YOU I WOULD KILL YOU. I’D MAKE IT HURT SO BAD. LIKE YOU HURT ME. FUCK YOU.
FUCK
YOU
FUCK YOU
HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ANYTHING WITH ANY PART OF MY LIFE?
Crying so hard now. I can’t see for the tears. This anger. This anger is too much. It’s always too much. I have a scatter cushion in my hands. I’m pounding it against the sofa. I’m screaming. I’m screaming “I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU.” I can’t stop screaming it. I hate you I hate you. Smash smash smash goes the pillow. Why can’t it be your face? Why can’t it be your fucking face? I don’t think I can stop. “I hate you I hate you I hate you. I HATE YOUUUUUU.”
Smash against the sofa. Crash. I don’t care if the neighbors hear. Nobody will do anything anyway. Nobody ever fucking does anything. Thud thud thud. I see your face thudding into the sofa. I imagine it’s concrete. Your nose breaking. Blood everywhere. Why did you do this to me? Why did you take what wasn’t yours? You were supposed to love me. I let out the largest scream of my life. It’s not even a scream, more a primal grunt of pain. My vocal cords tear in my throat at the effort of it. I don’t know how to stop making this noise. Then the cushion has exploded. Feathers are everywhere. Falling like snow. I keep hitting it until every last feather is out. Still yelling “I hate you.” Then there’s just an empty skin where there used to be a cushion. A bit like how I am just an empty bit of skin where I used to be a person. A person who trusted in love and didn’t think she would be one of those unlucky people whom bad things happen to and who thought the best in people and didn’t ever think love could hurt as hard as it hurts now. Irrevocable hurt.
The skin of cushion drops to the floor.
Small hiccups of scared sobs.
I collapse onto my side.
I curl up my legs into a ball.
The tears fall so heavy and strong. I let out a small mew of pain.
I wish my life wasn’t this.
I cry until my body runs out of water. That’s the only way to make it stop when this happens.
Then I sleep.
I sleep like I have the flu.
• Lovesick—Gretel’s Guide to Dating Self-Care
It’s so easy to lose sight of yourself in the initial exciting hormone flurry of early dating.
Don’t.
Remember you need to keep your independence and high-value worth and all the other things he’s fallen for. Yes, your body basically feels like you’re snorting twelve lines of cocaine every twelve minutes, but override all those natural human impulses. I do.
While it’s easy to get carried away, make sure you spend some time looking out for yourself. Dating can be exhausting, even if it’s going well, so get well-rehearsed in the empowering act of self-care. Run yourself a bubble bath; put on a face mask; light a candle; treat yourself to some cashmere-covered stationery and write lists of everything you feel grateful for. You deserve it. I mean, there’s no significant trauma with resulting long-lasting mental-health issues that can’t be fixed with a sheet mask and writing you’re glad it was sunny today in calligraphy.
I sleep till eleven on Sunday morning, and even then I’m only woken up by the stifling heat. I need to pee, and to drink all the world’s water, but the thought of getting up is unbearable. I lie on my side in yesterday’s clothes and whisper “get up get up get up” to myself for at least five minutes before I do. I force myself to take a shower. I smell Joshua all over my body and I exfoliate and loofah him off my skin, wondering if there is ever going to be a part of my life where I don’t find existing so very hard.
Joshua: How was your shift this morning? I’ve been out jogging. In this heat! Are you impressed?
Joshua: Happy Sunday. What do you want to do tomorrow, O Gretel, Gretel, wherefore art thou Gretel?
I stare at my phone and the post-sex-reassurance messages I didn’t even have to worry into existence. In fact, I’m the jerk who hasn’t replied. I shove my toothbrush in my mouth and reply while I dozily shove it around my teeth.
Gretel: Battery died! How are you not dead after that run? I am impressed, but also scared you are doping. Are you doping, Joshua?
He replies before I’ve even spat out my toothpaste.
Joshua: Sometimes I ask for two shots in my coffee? Does that count?
Gretel: Most IT worker version of doping ever.
Gretel: Also, movie tomorrow instead of dinner? I need air con in my life right now.
We are to meet at seven in Leicester Square. We are to watch that summer blockbuster with all the special effects. We are to go back to Joshua’s afterward for yet more sex. Though that bit’s assumed rather than verbally added to the agenda. With that all organized, Gretel leaves my body and I slump onto the sofa and stay there until Megan comes home.
“It stinks in here,” is how she announces her arrival. “And why are there fucking feathers everywhere?” She stops and looks at me, lying sideways and staring glassily at Dawson’s Creek with the sound off. She knows instantly. “Oh my God, hon.”
“I’m fine,” I tell Dawson’s big fat forehead. “Sorry about the cushion. I’ll clear it up. I’ll buy you a new one.”
She dumps her giant bag of overnight gear onto the floor and sits by my head, reaching out to put her hand on me. The kindness of it makes me start weeping.
“Sorry,” I keep saying. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry! Don’t worry about the cushion. What’s going on? Oh hon.” She lifts me up from under my shoulders and kind of drapes me into hugging her. I cry onto her shoulder, tears flowing, my muscles too heavy to move myself. I’m like one of Taylor Swift’s highly malleable cats. Megan strokes my hair. “Oh honey,” she whispers into my hair. “There, there, it’s going to be OK. It’s in the past, remember? It can’t hurt you now.”
“I’m being stupid,” I manage to get out. “It will pass. Sorry. I think Dawson pushed me over the edge.”
She laughs. “He has that impact on most people. Right, come on. Sugar. You need sugar.” She strokes my hair one last time, then gets up and goes into our kitchen, returning with the Dairy Milk she’s smart enough to keep in the fridge. She breaks off a block of eight fat squares. “Eat,” she commands, pushing the chocolate into my mouth. It’s hard to bite into without chipping a tooth, but I chew and obey. It starts to melt and turn to thick, creamy sludge, squelching in between my teeth. It tastes nice. I swallow and open my mouth like a baby bird. Megan laughs, cracks another line and feeds it to me, before having some herself. Within minutes, the sugar has done what it’s supposed to do and I feel slightly lifted, slightly more able to hold up my own muscles again. I wiggle so I’m sitting upright.
“Sorry,” I say again.
“Stop saying sorry.”
“Sorry.”
“I will hit you.”
“Why is Dawson so annoying?”
“He is actually the worst. What episode you on?” She sits next to me and we press Play and watch the rest of it. It’s the one where Dawson and Joey finally kiss and Megan lets out a sigh when they do.
“I can’t believe they’ve not noticed it’s raining,” I say. It’s what I always say when we watch this one.
“I know. Even Andie fucking MacDowell noticed the rain when she was kissing Hugh Grant. And Hugh Grant is way more distracting to kiss than Dawson.”
We watch the two teenagers swap saliva and return to our predictable arguments about why Pacey is so much better. When the credits kick in, and Dawson has gone on to patronize another day, Megan and I turn to one another.
“What set it off?” she asks.
“I love you, but I really don’t want to talk about it. Please, can we talk about something else?”
“I love you too.” She switches off Dawson and the screen goes black. “I’m a bit too worried to leave it though. I mean, you’ve gutted a Laura Ashley cushion.”
“I told you I’d clear it up!”
“OK, OK, that’s not why I was saying it. I just hate seeing you like this.”
“Honestly, it was just a wobbly moment. I’m probably just hungover. Sorry.”
