Pretending, page 21
I shuffle at the back of the group, feeling new and nervous as I’m steered toward the pub, listening to their conversations.
“How did your presentation go?”
“Did you see Jane at the weekend? Is she OK? Oh my God. A three-bedroom detached? This is why I need to leave London.”
The pub they pick is too busy with Friday. You can hardly get through the door with so many office workers standing outside, seal-laughing and gesticulating. It’s empty inside though, apart from the throng at the bar.
“Shall we just sit in here, rather than stand around outside?” Charlotte asks. “My legs are dying.”
“Yes, let’s.” A woman with long black hair strides forward to claim a tucked-away table in the corner.
Charlotte points at the table. “Wine? White? Two bottles?”
Everyone choruses yes.
“Do you want some money?” I ask, digging for my purse.
“Don’t be daft.”
“Need help carrying anything?”
“Nope. Just save me a seat.”
I’m left with the group and grin at them. The power from the class is fading out here in the real world, without Gwen Stefani and a giant punching bag for company. But the lady with black hair turns to me and saves me from my feelings of social inadequacy. “April, was it?”
“Yes,” I nod. “And you?”
“My name’s Anya.” She holds out her hand and then introduces the others once more, giving me a chance to get their names this time: “And this is Hazel, Steph, and Jenny.” They all wave hello and I wave back self-consciously.
“So, how did you guys all find out about this class?” I ask.
Anya replies first. “My GP recommended it after the NHS couldn’t continue my therapy anymore,” she says. “They keep refusing to acknowledge complex PTSD as a thing.”
Steph nods knowingly. “Oh, yes, we’ve all been there...”
“Complex PTSD?”
“It’s basically the same as PTSD,” Hazel answers, “except it’s caused by long-term exposure to trauma rather than a one-off one.” She rolls her eyes. “In my case, my abusive prick of an ex-boyfriend.”
Charlotte arrives just in time to overhear, brandishing two bottles of wine and multiple glasses wedged on a tray.
“Snap!” she cheers, squatting to unload her spoils. She high-fives Hazel while the table laughs and they start handing out the glasses and tipping wine into them like a production line.
Charlotte sloshes a generous amount of wine into my glass, winking like we’ve known each other forever. “You all right?” she asks.
“I guess I’m a bit surprised by what you just said,” I admit, taking a cool sip, already embracing the inevitable headache it will bring after sweating so much.
“God. Sorry! We’re not very good at stiff-upper-lipping here,” she smiles. “We all feel so safe with each other that it just kind of spills out.”
“No! Don’t be sorry. I’m not upset, just... I dunno... I’ve never heard anyone come out and just say it like that.”
“That’s what’s so great about this group,” the girl called Jenny tells me. “There’s no hiding here, or pretending to be OK when you’re not. The whole point of the class, and of chatting afterward, is about letting it out.”
“Better out than in.” Charlotte holds her wineglass up and everyone repeats it and does a “cheers.” The circle bleeds into groups of different chatter and I listen hard, trying to get the grasp of everyone. Charlotte works for a start-up in East London. Anya with the black hair works in finance. Jenny’s a secondary school science teacher. Hazel has two children and has had to move back home with her parents after leaving her ex. And Steph’s only just graduated from Oxford a month ago and doesn’t know what the hell to do with her life. They update one another on the week’s dramas, compare notes on their punching techniques. Hazel jokes about how she’s finally losing the baby weight even though that’s the last reason on earth she came. There’s an easiness in the air. There’s no whiff of any female competition—just camaraderie. I drink it in as I drink my wine, wondering how any of these women have any trauma at all when they seem so very fine. Until I hear Jenny mention to Hazel, “God, I had the worst flashback on Wednesday. I literally couldn’t get out of bed all the next day. I had to call in sick. Me. A teacher.”
“Shit love. I’m so sorry. What set it off?” Hazel pulls her in for a quick hug.
“A school fucking assembly. We had some guy come in to talk to the girls about personal safety, and it just set me off. Shaking. Crying. Reliving it. The worst! And it was only 9:30 in the morning. I had to hold it together the whole day. I just shoved the students in front of Osmosis fucking Jones, even the Year Elevens, and cried at the back of the classroom in the dark.”
“I’m really sorry,” I say, then worry I’ve just butted in.
But Jenny looks up, takes me in. “Thank you,” she smiles.
“I had a really bad flashback the other day.” I’m not sure why I’m blurting this out but I keep going. “They’re the worst. I’ve been signed off from work this week.”
“That’s awful. I’m sorry you had to go through that.” And, even though we don’t know each other, Jenny reaches over to squeeze my hand. “What brought you to the class? If you don’t mind me asking, of course?”
“I don’t mind at all,” I say. “I was in an abusive relationship with this guy for two years. He...he raped me.” Saying it feels like pulling off a pair of pinching shoes at the end of a long day. I’ve hardly told anyone this. Only Megan, Carol, Matt, Katy and the odd badly chosen romantic dalliance. I’ve not even told my mum. I twist my hands in my lap. “He only did it twice though.”
Jenny shakes her head wryly. “Oh yes, only been raped the two times. That’s nothing.”
I giggle at the ridiculousness of what I’ve just said. “You know what I mean.”
“Unfortunately I do. We’re so good at diminishing it, aren’t we? When we really shouldn’t.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Hazel says, as I wipe under my eyes. “You’ve done the right thing, coming to this class. I was raped too...if you haven’t figured that out by now.”
“Essentially we all were, in some way, somehow,” Charlotte says, running a hand through her crop. “It’s what links us.”
“It’s something that links many women,” Hazel adds, picking up her wine and taking a big slurp. “Once I started coming here and talking about it, the more I realized it’s a case of who’s been lucky enough not to have this happen to them rather than the other way around.”
“Hear, hear!” Charlotte cheers the air.
I’ve never felt more understood and less alone than I do in this precise moment. The world’s turned clear, like I’ve finally got the right prescription lenses with which to see it. There’s a happy sharpness to this pub. The colors are brighter, the voices louder, my heart softer.
“Just nipping to the loo,” I say. “Do you mind looking after my bag?” I squeeze around the table and push through into the toilet which doesn’t have any paper left. It doesn’t matter, I don’t need to pee anyway. I lean over and grip the sink with both hands.
There’s a table of women behind that door and they look normal and they sound normal but, like me, they spend every day applying the same veneer of normal over the huge struggle to get over what shouldn’t have happened to them. The endorphins from the exercise still pump through me. They mingle with this newfound feeling of...belonging. I smile as I stand up and look at myself in the mirror. My face is still red from too much exercise but it glows.
I exude Gretel.
I wave and she waves back at me. “We’re going to be late to meet Joshua,” I tell her.
She shrugs through the reflective glass.
The sky belches an angry rumble of thunder as I drag myself away from the pub. “I will so be at the class next week, thank you, thank you.”
I’m scrolling through my phone crammed with new numbers, grinning, when I’m interrupted by the noise. I look up to see the London skyline blanketed in a heavy dark gray mass. The air has the iron tang of rain—I don’t dare hope.
Gretel’s late but she’s told them she’s on her way and she’s sorry. Josh sends her a photo of the menu so they can get her order in.
Joshua: I’ve had half of your beer xxx
It’s a slightly pass-agg message which is appropriate for my lateness. Luckily I’m glowing with so much post-class joy, I reckon I can charm my way out of it. I fling myself out of the clammy Tube, and up the stairs of Kings Cross, taking the secret shortcut only Londoners know about. I skip up to Granary Square. The sky’s even darker now, practically black. Another attention-seeking clap of thunder shakes the sky and people stop and look up, like we’re at the start of an apocalypse movie. There’s a giant queue to get in to the restaurant and I slink past smugly, skipping the line of people all saying “do you think it will rain?” and staring upward.
“Table for Neil?” I ask at the front desk, checking I’ve got the booking name right on my phone.
“Up the stairs and to the left.” The concierge nods the direction and I turn and glide upward, taking in the Instagramness of the restaurant’s interior. It’s kitted out with sleek checkered floors and mahogany tables. Whirring overhead fans push the flat air around fruitlessly but photogenically. I spot the back of Joshua’s head and my stomach lurches in a swell of unhelpful affection. He’s sitting at a table with three men and two women and hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s talking with his hands, as I’ve learned he does a lot. I put on a friendly smile and hurry over.
“Yeah, she works for this sex and relationships charity called We Are Here, it’s really great, though their CMS system sounds like a nightmare...” He cranes his neck backward, a big grin right there. “And here she is! Gretel, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Gretel.”
I wave at the table widely, trying to make eye contact with each one. “It’s so great to meet you,” I say. “I’m so so sorry I’m late. I was at this boxing thing and it ran over.”
“Boxing thing?” The man sitting to Joshua’s right is clearly the alpha of this group. I can tell by the way he’s sitting—legs astride. He’s tall, arms crossed, typically good-looking. He must be Neil.
“Yes and it was in East London so the Tube was a pain. Anyway, hi, I’m Gretel.”
They stand, one by one, to greet me, with an array of handshakes, cheek kisses, and an awkward hug from a slightly pudgy guy at the end of the table. If I’m guessing correctly, this must be Luke, their roommate from uni who’s never had a girlfriend though none of them are sure why. He seems the friendliest. “It’s lovely to meet you,” he says mid-hug and slightly too loudly into my ear. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I raise both eyebrows at Joshua over his shoulder. “Is that right?”
“All good things, all good things,” Josh reassures me as I sit next to him. He squeezes my hand under the table, and winks, giving me reassurance I don’t need. “You OK?” he whispers.
I can’t pretend I’m not touched by the gesture. “I’m fine.” I kiss the side of his forehead. “Sorry again for being late. Hey, is that my beer?”
He hands it over, looking right into my eyes. I point to the half-empty glass. “Still half-full,” I say.
“I knew you’d be a half-full person.”
I take a knowing sip and brace myself for turning up Gretel’s megawatt charm. I lean over to Alpha Male, knowing he’s the one to impress. The most unlikeable is always the most important to impress. “So, tell me everything I need to know about Josh,” I say. “You guys met on your course, right?”
Neil nods and leans over, all the better to show off his biceps with. “Yes, we met in Freshers’ Week and were in the same halls.”
“So, who here went to Leeds then?”
He points them out. “Me and Lucy and Luke.” The table listens in now their names have been mentioned.
“And the rest of you know each other...?” Gretel asks, so, so interested.
“I’m Lucy’s husband,” says a tall man sitting next to her called George.
“And I’m Julia, Neil’s wife,” the remaining woman says, who is very done up for a curry. She’s wearing false eyelashes and her hair is perfectly curled. She squeezes Neil’s arm and he sort of shrugs her off while also smiling.
“So, what was Joshua like at uni?” I take a poppadom from the pile in the middle and ping it in two to fit onto my side plate.
“Just like I am now,” Joshua replies, taking half of my poppadom. “Intimidatingly cool.”
“Umm, yeah mate,” Neil nods his head. “Very cool... Apart from trying to start a Coding Society that no one turned up to, and let’s not forget the cereal box business cards.”
The table collapses into laughter while Joshua blushes slightly.
“What business cards?” I ask.
Joshua shoots a “thanks mate” glare at Neil before he explains. “So, on my first night of Freshers’ Week, I may have cut up a Kellogg’s Corn Flakes box into small squares, written my name and email address onto them with Biro, and handed them out to all the people I met.”
Everyone chortles, sprays of poppadom crumbs falling from their mouths onto the tablecloth, while I play the part of surprised-but-delighted-at-the-cuteness-of-it girl. “I don’t know where to even begin with that one,” I say. “I mean, why business cards? Why out of Kellogg’s? Why your email address? Why did you not just make friends the regular way?”
Luke points to the air. “These are all very valid questions Joshua.”
Joshua gets redder and nuzzles into my shoulder for support. I smell the sweet tang of too much beer on him. “In my head, having business cards would make me seem really suave,” he says. “But, no. Not made out of cornflakes boxes anyway. I promise you I’m really, really cool now,” he protests.
“I mean, cool people always tell you how cool they are,” Lucy quips while we laugh at Joshua again.
“Well I think that’s adorable,” I declare, patting him on the head while they all laugh harder.
“Great. Adorable. Men just love being called adorable.” Joshua puts his head face-first onto the table.
“But it is adorable!” I pull him up and give him a quick peck on the cheek. He squeezes my knee again, his reddened face curled up into such a smile. Gretel is doing well. I’m fitting in perfectly. Of course I am.
“You’re adorable,” he whispers, pulling me in for another quick kiss.
And I wonder if he’d still think that if he’d been sitting at the pub earlier and hearing me share what I shared.
* * *
The poppadoms are demolished. Loaded with chutneys, sprinkled with sliced onions, chomped down into, crumbs flailing onto the white tablecloth.
“Oh my God, do you remember that time in the third year, Josh? When you were so determined to make us go to Alton Towers before we graduated. But it came the night after the Otley Run?”
“Vomit. So much vomit.”
“It was Air that did it.”
“Hahahahahahaha,” says Gretel.
The mains arrive. Naans are torn apart and added to our tiny silver plates. We ask one another if they would like to try a bit of ours.
“So, what are your plans this summer?”
“Oh, George and I are going to stay in this villa in Crete with a bunch of his friends.”
“Oooh, nice.”
“Yes. I just can’t wait to have the time off work. How about you two?”
“We’re diving in Indonesia. Trying to get our PADIs, aren’t we love?”
“How about you, Josh?”
“Working, I’m afraid. Used up all my annual leave climbing the mountain.”
“I can’t believe you climbed a mountain, you’ve never mentioned that before.”
“Shut up.”
“Hahahahahahaha,” says Gretel.
“Don’t let him fool you, Gretel. He might act like an Iron Man but he has literally only climbed one mountain, and he hasn’t even walked up the left side of the Tube escalator since.”
“Hahahahahahaha,” says Gretel.
“And you Gretel? What are you up to this summer?”
“I want to go to Africa,” Gretel says.
They all nod. They all say, “Amazing. Isn’t Africa just amazing?”
Another round of drinks. The men point to their beer glasses and nod. The girls pluck out the cocktail menu, pore over it as a means of bonding, discussing which one they are going to go for.
“Mother’s Ruin sounds great,” Gretel tells Lucy, “I’ll get one too.”
“Why is gin so delicious?”
“Oh, I know. And, can I just say? I’ve been obsessing over your shoes all night.”
“Oh, thank you! I was just thinking how nice your bag is.”
“Oh, thank you!”
Nobody orders pudding because nobody ever orders pudding at an Indian restaurant. We have another round instead. Josh is slippery with drink, his hand constantly reaching for mine under the table, sweaty, squeezing my fingers too tight. His craving for physical affection overwhelmingly constant. I listen a lot more than I talk. Neil speaks the most, the loudest, interrupting, but no one seems to mind. Reminiscing about university is clearly the group’s conversational safety blanket. They remember old lecturers, and pubs they used to love going to that aren’t there anymore, and compare living in the north with living in the south.
“A taxi home was only four quid, can you imagine now?”
“Snakebite. A pound.”
“We could sell our one-bed and buy a castle up there. Well, not quite a castle, but you know. Four-bed detached. A garden.”
