Pretending, page 19
The Top 5 Most Common Lies I’ve Told Men
1) “I’m fine.”
2) “I don’t mind.”
3) “That’s fine.”
4) “Oh, I hadn’t even thought about it.”
5) “Yeah, of course I did.”
Carol has her special voice on. Her soft as a feather dipped in three-minute miracle voice. Her “I’m here for you” voice. Her “you can tell me” voice. It’s quite hard to hear above all the fans whirring around us, fruitlessly combating the heat.
“What was that?”
“I said, how are you feeling today, April?”
I cross my arms. “I think we both know I’m not feeling great. This wasn’t a scheduled supervision, was it?” It’s not like me to be so spiky. But I’m not really sure who me is anymore. Not so very long ago, I used to be hopeful and optimistic, a tad dramatic but in a cute, jolly way. Now I’m apparently a psychopathic compulsive liar who can’t stop crying.
“Do you want to talk to me about what happened yesterday?”
I shrug into the wind of the fans. “I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Take what?”
Seriously, it’s like she’s put her vocal cords into the wash with extra-strength fabric conditioner. It makes me feel as fragile as thin glass. Like I need to be handled with special cotton gloves. “I’m so bored of pretending,” I say. “How are any of us making it through each day without screaming? Do you not think that’s a miracle? Don’t you just want to scream and scream until your voice is gone?”
She makes a note. “It sounds like you are dealing with some very strong emotions right now.”
“Aren’t you?” I stare right at her.
She doesn’t take the bait. “April,” she says, kindly. “In our last session we talked about your mental capacity to handle this role, and I suggested the strain may be too much. After yesterday’s indiscretion, what are your reflections?”
“I know you’re going to take me off shift,” I reply. “Let’s not pretend I have any autonomy.”
She leans forward. “April, I’m not here to decide what happens about your role. That’s between you and your CEO. I’m here to see if you’re all right, because, from the sound of things, you’re not all right.”
I start laughing in a witchy cackle until my throat closes up. Then a rush of sadness crashes over me. It hurts to talk. “I think I’m going crazy,” I get out. “It’s not just work,” I tell her. “I’m dating a man and I’m pretending to be a totally different person. I’m pretending my name is Gretel. It’s totally out of hand and fucking nuts and yet I’m still doing it. I don’t know why.” And, under the breeze of half a dozen fans, all the things I’ve been doing spill out. From the messages with Joshua, to the first date, to the having sex and the giant flashback, to last night and pretending it’s all fine going to the cinema, and even sleeping with him again, despite the fact my whole life has disintegrated. Carol’s nodding and putting on her listening face, but you can tell she’s excited by what I’ve just said.
“I don’t feel like any of my life is mine right now, does that make sense?” I tell her. “So it doesn’t matter that I’m lying to some dude about who I am, or calling out rapists at work. It doesn’t seem real.”
Carol puts her Biro down and looks genuinely sorry for me. Which I wasn’t expecting at all. More a telling-off lecture about why being a psychotic catfishing liar isn’t appropriate. “When you were assaulted,” she says, “part of you was taken from you, totally without your permission.” I sniff and clumsily try to push a tear back with the back of my hand. “Some disassociation is to be expected if you’ve not had much treatment. April, do you really think you’ve properly processed what happened to you?”
“It’s in the past, I can’t change it,” I say. “There’s nothing I can do. I just want to move on and be happy.”
How do you process what happens to you when that happens to you? Is it even possible? I changed the day Ryan did that to me, and I can’t go back to before. I left him, and I wrote about it in my diary, and I got my body working again, and I wouldn’t let him win, and yadda yadda yadda, heal heal heal, fight fight fight, survive survive survive, don’t let it define you, embrace the scar, use it to make you stronger, wank wank fucking wank. I’d just rather not have been fucking raped by my abusive boyfriend in the first place, ta very much.
Carol passes me a tissue as I keep sniffing. “I just feel all these emotions all the time,” I tell her, through a tight throat. “I wake up and it’s there, like a giant ball of energy spitting into my face, and I don’t know what to do with it so I just keep pushing it away. It’s not like I’m in denial about what happened. But I can’t cry all day every day, even though I want to. It’s not realistic. I don’t know how to make all these emotions go away...”
There’s a brief interlude because I’m gasping for breath. I panic as stale oxygen gets trapped in my chest. Carol squats down in front of me, repeating, “Breathe, April, come on breathe. In for five, out for seven, in for five...”
This morning, Joshua and Gretel were so cute. They got up and danced around to The Boo Radleys, him twirling Gretel under his arm. What would he think if he saw her now? An irreparable mess. A pile of shattered glass. A ball of ugly emotions. He would not find it as cute as dancing to “Wake Up Boo” let me tell you that for certain.
“Have you considered boxing?” Carol asks me, once my human functioning comes back. She sits back on the chair and crosses her legs.
“Boxing?”
She nods. “There’s this class. In East London, I think. It’s women only and they have special classes for survivors.”
“There’s a pop-up rape-victim aerobics class? Wow. East London literally thinks of everything.”
She ignores my joke which is annoying because I’m pretty pleased I’ve found the energy to be sarcastic at a time like this. “Lots of survivors find it a really good outlet. It may be a way of letting out all these emotions you’ve been talking about.”
Despite my cynicism, I can’t deny that the thought of violence immediately appeals to me. To hit. To destroy. To hurt. I log what she’s suggested, making a mental note to look the class up. Then return to a more pressing concern.
“Is it...normal?” I ask her. “To be pretending to someone that I’m someone called Gretel?”
“You know that ‘normal’ isn’t a useful word in these kinds of sessions.”
“Blink once for yes, twice for no.”
Her smile is tight now. “I guess it’s worth asking yourself what you think this behavior is going to help you achieve?”
The answer tumbles out of my mouth. “Power,” I say.
“Power?”
I nod. The fans lift my hair around my shoulders. “Being Gretel is the first time since I started dating when I was sixteen where I feel like I have any power at all.”
“What do you mean?”
I shrug, my eyes widening. “Just that. I’ve never, ever, felt like I’ve had any power with men. I’ve constantly been on the back foot, because I want the love too much, and they’ve made me feel like wanting love is a weird thing. A wrong thing. A needy thing. Even when I’ve gone for men who I actually, initially, think are a little below my league. Once we’ve got into it, they’ve still all ended up rejecting me. Do you know how powerless it makes you feel? To lower your standards to try and love someone and even then they don’t want your love? But, when I’m Gretel...” I can hear her singing into the breeze of the fans, laughing like she’s never worried about anything in her whole goddamn life. “I feel powerful. Like I’m in control. Like I’m finally the one who is less into it. Like I’m the one who needs convincing. And, most importantly, I’m not the one who is going to get hurt this time. I even feel guilty!” I laugh Gretel’s laugh. “I’ve never felt guilty before. Never in my whole life. Guilt is the luxury of the powerful.”
Carol makes a quick note in her book before she finally looks up. “Do try and get to that boxing class,” she advises. “This feeling of disempowerment may be able to be channeled through...er...well, less destructive ways.”
“I will go.” And I will. When you are at rock bottom with only a pickaxe to dig farther down with, you are willing to try just about anything. “But this feeling of powerlessness pre-dates what Ryan did to me,” I tell her. I reach out and tickle the truth, burning my finger. “I’ve always felt like I’m on the back foot, that I’m chasing a rainbow I don’t deserve, that I’m not worth anything.” My throat’s smaller. Hands shakier. “In fact, when he did it,” I say, hardly able to get the words out, “it wasn’t even a shock.” I pause again. “More a confirmation of the inevitable.”
A huge hunk of silence follows that.
Then, “Go to the class,” she echoes.
I’m signed off for a week, and taken off the schedule indefinitely, even though they definitely can’t spare me. I get sympathetic looks as I leave the office at 11:00 a.m.
“I hope you feel better soon,” Matt says.
“I’m sorry to be leaving you in it.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
I cry the entire journey home.
Joshua: How’s work going? I can’t stop thinking about last night.
Gretel: Me neither. That air con really was very powerful.
Joshua: You’re hilarious.
Gretel: Just wish we’d had air con in your flat for everything that happened afterward.
Joshua: Messages like these are very hard to receive when I’m stuck in the world’s most boring meeting.
Gretel: Bet that’s not the only thing that’s hard, huh?
Joshua: Stop. Killing. Me.
Joshua: What you up to tonight? I’ve purchased a fan. It would love to meet you.
Gretel: You know how to tempt a girl, Joshua.
Gretel: But alas, I have to work late tonight.
Joshua: Never mind. It was late notice anyway. What about Friday? You around? I’m meeting some friends for a curry.
Gretel: In this heat?
Joshua: Yeah. My friend Neil found this really good deal at Dishoom. Up for it? Me and my uni mates? They’re a nice bunch. Very good at sharing poppadoms.
Two hours later...
Joshua: It’s just a curry. No pressure. We can do it some other time. They just want to meet this girl I can’t stop talking about :) :)
Joshua: Seriously, no dramas.
Gretel: Chill Joshua. I’d LOVE to go for a curry. I was just tied up at work. What time’s the table booked for? xx
Joshua: Eight. That OK?
Gretel: Better than OK.
• So No One Told You Love Was Going To Be This Way—Gretel’s Guide to Meeting The Friends
The meeting of The Friends is a much bigger deal than either of you admit. You casually ask the other to come along to a thing, and they casually reply that yeah that sounds great—neither of you pointing to the giant elephant in the room that’s wearing a painted banner saying BIG DEAL, BIG TEST. Because if they introduce you to their friends, that means they have to explain to their friends who you are, and why you are in their life. And you don’t tend to do that unless you’re hopeful you won’t have to explain at a later date why you’ll never be seeing each other again.
It’s a fucking minefield.
You need to look pretty, but, of course, you cannot look like you’ve tried. You need to resemble an accidentally beautiful eunuch essentially. Because you can’t let out any sexual vibes whatsoever. There is no room for sultry—we don’t trust women like that. The best case scenario is to be a sexy children’s TV presenter. Think Konnie fucking Huq. Everyone would love to introduce Konnie fucking Huq to their mates.
Conversationally, remember that you don’t have to say anything and anything you do say could be held against you. This is a first impression. The approval of friends matters. You will sour before his very eyes if they do not think “jolly good girlfriend choice, well done.” As always, bland is a good starting point. Remember, it’s easier to add than to take away—a bit like doing a smoky eye. Start unremarkable and build from there. Slowly. Whatever you do, do not mention politics or religion or sex or mental illness or past relationships or comedians you like.
Only say nice things about your partner. Do not tease him, or laugh at him. They are not ready to be co-conspirators with you yet. And whatever the hell you do, do not ask them for advice about the relationship. Do not look to them to quash your neediness, to tell you how much nicer/prettier/thinner you are than the previous girl he introduced them to. In fact, part of the “ignore the elephant in the room” game is you all pretending there was no one before you. That they didn’t smile politely and shake hands and say “hello nice to meet you” to girls before you. Maybe they even went on fun minibreaks with her. Maybe some of them are still in touch with her. Maybe some of them are hoping they’ll get back together and you are just a phase.
Ignore it. Push it down. Let’s all play nice and act like you’re the one, the only one, and that they’re not comparing you to the people before.
Do. Not. Flirt. Never flirt. Remember, in this context you’re all asexual with no urges whatsoever. Yes, of course his male friends will wonder briefly what it might be like to have sex with you but no no no, let’s all pretend that’s not true.
Be bubbly.
Be light.
Be a radiator, not a drain.
Smile a lot.
Say please and thank you.
Be interested in their jobs.
Comment on the weather or something but don’t be too boring.
And if his male friends scare you, don’t worry, the female friends are much more terrifying—much harder to get right. They will not like the fact you are now on their territory. Even if they never wanted him, they’ll want him to want them. Compliment them on what they’re wearing. Ask them where they got it from. Reveal a minor insecurity about yourself. Offer it up to them like a sacrifice while remarking on their shoes or hair style.
Don’t discuss the future in any way. If you fuck this up, there won’t be a future, remember? So don’t start suggesting group holidays, or even meeting up next weekend. It will only make everyone uncomfortable, you desperate pathetic bitch.
Before I’m thrown to the lions of Joshua’s university clique, I have to wear jogging bottoms for their actual purpose for the first time in years. I’ve booked myself into Carol’s trendy trauma boxing club beforehand, hoping it will dislodge the guilt I’m harvesting about spreading my Gretel lie to a wider net of people.
I forgot that jogging bottoms are for exercise, rather than changing into the moment you get home. I’m going to boil to death, I’m sure, but I can’t commit to buying shorts until I’ve seen if this class is as useful as Carol claims. I dig out my sports bra that still has the tag on. I’ve tied a novelty T-shirt into a knot. When I look in the mirror before I leave, I could definitely pass for someone who understands how exercise works.
The sky above me is a light gray, gurgling in pre-thunderstorms that none of us believe will actually come. The country’s collectively given up on the idea of rain. On TV they tell us to only flush the toilet after pooing. That baths are the enemy. That hoses are a banned substance.
I’ve packed my overnight stuff as I have to meet his friends straight after the class. I’ve managed to successfully dodge him all week with lies about working late and cocktails with friends I didn’t see. Gretel’s been so busy while April’s been so preoccupied with lying in bed, sweating into my sheets, and staring at the old faithful crack in the ceiling.
It takes an age to get from the red brick and leafy squares of West London to the chaotic concrete and smell of bins of East London. It’s a side of the city where I’ve never felt I belong. Where the air of hip is so intoxicating you feel the need to pull everyone you pass to one side to convince them you drink cold brew coffee and really dig it. I clutch my phone in one hand, using maps to steer me past Banksy-decorated walls and homeless people with no teeth begging outside flats that cost eight hundred thousand pounds. The pollution pouring off the clogged roads makes it feel even hotter. I cough and turn left, before realizing I’ve turned too early and have to retrace my steps past a queue of people waiting to get into a café where you can drink bubble tea surrounded by cats.
I find the class five minutes before it’s due to start. It’s in a dilapidated little hall in a tiny piece of green you’d easily walk past if you were on your way to trendier things. The noticeboard outside advertises a cornucopia of different activities. There’s a Legs, Bums, and Mums class, a Bitch ’n’ Stitch knitting circle, a self-help group for victims of narcissism, and, every Sunday, a religion-free church ceremony.
“This might help,” I say out loud, crossing my fingers like a child wishing for a pony. “This might help, this might help, this might help.”
I push through the doors into an empty entrance hall that smells of cheesy feet and old sweat. School pegs adorn the wall, clogged with bags. I hang my stuff on one with a sticker of a smiling giraffe on it and listen to the chatter of the main hall through the glass door.
“This might help,” I whisper again before I make myself push through into the hall to the squeak of trainers.
“Hello, are you here for the class?” A woman clad all in canary-yellow Lycra beams at me. “You look new.”
I nod nervously.
“Welcome! We’re just stretching, then we’ll start in a few minutes.”
There’re about twenty or so women clotted into groups around me, all with ponytails and in an array of limbering-up poses. Two dozen pendulum boxing-bags hang from the low ceiling, and two giant fans whirr at full pace in each corner. When I researched this class beforehand, it advertised itself as a female-only martial arts class. Only in the small print at the bottom, it read “this class is for survivors of trauma.” As I look around me, I feel like there must be some kind of mistake. All the women here look confident and functioning and...trauma-free. They’re laughing with their friends, or holding their calves back against their buttocks and remaining perfectly balanced as they do so. Most of them are smiling. I mean, the instructor is wearing all yellow. I find a space in the corner near the fan and pretend to stretch too. As I lunge forward I wonder if, from the outside, I also look as untraumatised as these women do.
