Pretending, page 25
I hate the women whom men find easy to love.
I hate myself for not being like them.
I hate how I have no idea what to do.
Predictably, everyone is weird when I return to work. They all talk slower, like I’ve had a week off for hearing problems or something.
“How are you?” they over-enunciate.
“Fine, I’m fine.”
“Did you have a nice break?” Katy asks, like I’ve just come back from a week in Cephalonia.
“Yes, lovely thanks.”
Mike, at least, is brisk and business-like. “Nice to have you back, April,” is all he has to say on the matter, before summoning me into the meeting room to ask how recruitment for volunteers is going. It’s good to feel professional again.
“Numbers aren’t brilliant, but they’re also normal for this time of year,” I say. “Once we get ourselves in front of eager Freshers in September, I’m sure we’ll hit our targets.” I show him the postcards I designed, encouraging people to become advisors.
“This is great, really great. Good work.” He doesn’t mention the other part of my role, or my absence, or anything else. And I almost feel like hugging him for it.
When we walk out of the meeting room, I feel people’s necks craning in my direction, examining me for signs of madness. At least six people offer to make me coffee. “I’ve already got one, thanks.”
All the fans are whirring, making no dent in everyone’s bombarded basal core temperature. Matt is the only other one who treats me normally. He sends an email, which I don’t see until just before lunch as it takes me all morning to catch up on the deluge of mail I received when I was away—mostly informing people that ice lollies were in the kitchen.
From: Matthew@WeAreHere.com
To: April@WeAreHere.com
Subject: You OK?
I missed you buddy. You feeling any better?
I look up from my screen, just as he happens to look up from his. I smile.
From: April@WeAreHere.com
To: Matthew@WeAreHere.com
Subject: RE: You OK?
I missed you too! Sorry I can’t be your buddy for a while. Feeling a bit better actually. Though guilty that it’s put more work on you and the volunteers we are yet to recruit.
From: Matthew@WeAreHere.com
Don’t be stupid! I’m just happy you’re feeling better. Lunch?
From: April@WeAreHere.com
I’d love to actually! Shall we see if Katy wants in too?
* * *
Katy looks thrilled to be invited, and we plan a park picnic for 1:00 p.m. I’m proud of myself for saying yes, though I know it’s going to take a lot of self-control to not ask him about the inbox and what’s come in. One piece of advice Carol gave me before signing me off was to imagine I carry a container around with me. I can make it any type of container I like—basket, Tupperware—but it has to have a lid. And, whenever I have thoughts about all the abuse that happens and how overwhelming it is, I have to visualize myself putting my thoughts into the container and pushing the lid down.
“That’s not to say you’re never going to think about these things again,” she said. “It’s not about repression. But it’s a way of not having to think about it all, all of the time. Really work on that mental image of storing it away.”
It seems to be working. At eleven, my calendar tells me that my shift is coming up because I forgot to cancel the reminder. Go to the inbox. Even though you’re not supposed to. See what’s in there. I bet it’s bad. I bet so much bad stuff has happened, and you’re not even going to help are you? Because you’re so selfish and weak? I picture a giant Tupperware box and I shove these thoughts into it. I hold the top down with my palm so I can snap the clips into place. There. Thoughts fully contained.
I drink a cup of coffee at my desk and work out the volunteers’ schedules. I have to re-jig a lot as they’re taking on an extra shift each because of me. Because you’re too weak and pathetic and useless and...
Into the container. Push down the top. Snap down those clips again.
It works as a coping strategy until after our lovely team lunch, where we stuff ourselves with strawberries and yogurt and do very well at not bringing up difficult subjects.
Megan calls me as we’re walking back to the office from the park, providing further distraction. “I miss him.”
“No you don’t. You miss the idea of him.”
“Since when did you become Yoda?”
“Throw yourself into your work.”
“I can’t ring celebrity publicists when I am crying in the loos.”
“Give yourself five more minutes of crying, and then promise yourself you’re allowed to cry as much as you want tonight. It hurts now, but it will pass. It always does.”
“I know. I’m just so mad at myself.”
“Don’t be stupid. Right, five more minutes and then back to work. Do you want me to stay on the phone?”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll cry alone and leave you in peace.”
The last five minutes of my lunch hour is stuffed with other electronic communication. Chrissy checks that I know the details of the upcoming hen weekend and prompts me again to send over my deposit. My mum sends a trail of pictures of Bridge Club.
Mum: Came 3rd!
Mum: Would’ve been second but Margaret was cheating.
Mum: She can’t see this message can she?
I go and stand in front of the biggest fan to cool down from being outside. I tell more people who ask that I’m fine. I have a cup of tea. The bad thoughts stay in the Tupperware during my meeting about volunteer retention. Though I look out through the glass wall at Matt, knowing he’s covering my shift and wondering what’s come up and if he’s OK and back it comes—feeling guilty and worried and wondering what’s in the inbox and and...
Oops.
Better Out Than In
April: Any of you ever been told to use the container method? It work for you?
Anya: Ahh, that old chestnut.
Anya: It only works for me in the first two weeks of my period cycle.
Anya: But then again, that’s the case with every positive thing in my life.
Charlotte: OMG! The same! I feel like such a kick-ass trauma-annihilating warrior, then I get PMS and suddenly it’s like I’ve never had any therapy at all.
Hazel: Yep. Me too! All my emotional spirals come in the days leading up to my period. Why do they never tell you this in therapy?
Charlotte: Recovery tip no.1: Never judge your recovery on days 26-28.
Hazel: I’m so jealous your cycle is only 28 days long.
Hazel: Since having Jack, I’ve literally never had a regular period. It’s so hard to tell if I’m legitimately going mad or not.
Anya: In short, April, the container method is OK. But nothing works as well as coming to class and kicking the shit out of a punch bag.
Charlotte: Seconded.
Anya: You coming this week?
April: Hell yes.
When five thirty eventually comes around, I’m feeling much better. After a day of standard behavior, no one’s acting like I could spontaneously combust anymore. I’ve dragged myself out of email backlog hell. I’ve organized the rest of my workload for this week, and I have messages pinging in from my new boxing friends. Even Megan seems improved. She emails to let me know she’s managed to send two whole emails.
Gretel: I’ve got a hankering for some ramen. Fancy changing plan to suit my urges?
Joshua: You want soup?! It’s 90 degrees!
I’m applying my not-there makeup in the bathroom when I get his reply. “Yes, in this heat,” I say to my reflection, before blotting my just-bitten lip stain. “Gretel is just random like that. She’ll be eating ice cream in winter next, crazy cat. Doesn’t shit like that just make you feel aliiiiiiiive?”
Gretel: Eating hot food cools you down. Science.
Gretel: Carpe diem, Joshy. YOLO. #BeARebel
Joshua: OK OK, O Captain, my Captain! Let’s go for spicy soup.
He’s there before me when I bluster my way into the empty noodle house, sweat pouring down my body from the long bus journey. He’s sitting nursing a beer under the ceiling of fans, and he stands when I get in, looking slightly unimpressed.
“Gretel, hi.” He kisses my cheek formally. “They wouldn’t seat me until you arrived.” Pass-agg laces the sentence and I raise an eyebrow, looking around the deserted restaurant.
“Well, it’s totally empty so I wouldn’t panic,” I say.
“Hmm.” He turns his back to me, alerts the waiter. “She’s here now,” he says conspiratorially and I raise my eyebrows again as we’re led past long tables with high stools to a little set up in the corner.
“Right under a fan, perfect.” I smile over, but Josh just picks up the menu. “What are you drinking?” he asks it.
“Um, a white wine maybe?” I eyebrow him once more but he’s too engrossed micro-reading the descriptions of extras. Something is up and I panic for a moment that he’s found out somehow—my stomach turning itself into cinnamon rolls laced with anxiety.
“Your housemate any better?” he asks the menu.
“A little better. It will take a while.”
“Yeah.”
The waiter reappears with a notepad. She hasn’t left us very long but it’s not like there are any other customers to wait upon. “You guys know what you want to drink?” she asks, pen poised.
I smile with all of Gretel’s charm. “A white wine please.” I gesture toward Joshua, who is forced to look up.
“Another of these please.” He points to his pint.
“Great. Coming up.”
Before I have a chance to make eye contact, Joshua’s vanished behind the menu again. I scratch my neck, wondering what Gretel’s done wrong. If he did know, I reckon he’d be less passive aggressive than this and more aggressive aggressive. My stomach loosens slightly.
“You know what you’re going to get?” I offer one last olive branch for whatever crime I’ve committed.
“Well, ramen, clearly.”
That’s enough now. Time to take the power back. I shake my head then jump off my stool, and, without saying a word, I walk out of the restaurant. I’m enveloped by the steam of heat wave Soho as I walk away slowly, waiting for him to inevitably follow. It feels deliciously overdramatic, but also fitting considering his behavior. I wish I’d thought to do this all the moments in the past when I’ve been cold-shouldered. I’ve just reached the corner when I hear him.
“Gretel? Wait! What the hell?”
I keep walking a few more steps. One...two...three.
“Gretel!” There’s urgency to his voice. The squeak of surrender as the power floats through the city’s mugginess and lands back into my hands. I turn around, looking bored.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“I don’t do passive aggression,” I say. “Don’t meet me for dinner and then not speak to me. I won’t stand for that sort of crap, Joshua.” I put my hand on my hip. “We’re not twelve. If I’ve pissed you off, tell me.”
He glows red with guilt. “I’m sorry.” He offers up the apology instantly. “I’m, well, can we just go back inside?”
“I don’t know. Are you going to make eye contact?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to explain to me what’s going on, like the grown adult man that you are?”
He stares at his feet, looking nothing like a grown adult man. “Yes.”
“All right then. Let’s go back in.”
The waiter’s holding our drinks patiently when we return—nonplussed, unbothered—this city rendering her unshockable. I take my wine, thank her, and drink a giant glug as I clamber back up onto my stool. Joshua’s still blushing as he sits. He takes a sip of his pint and places it down, before squeezing his hands together like he’s trying to juice them.
The waiter holds up her pen again. “You guys ready to order?”
I shake my head. “Not quite yet. Maybe give us a few minutes?”
She nods and exits stage left. We’re left alone and I lift my face to the ceiling fan, letting it whip my fringe off my forehead.
“I didn’t mean to be weird,” Joshua starts. I don’t say it’s OK because it isn’t.
“I just, well, I’m a little bit upset to be honest.” He looks up earnestly, still attacking his hands.
“Upset about what?”
“It’s just... I know we’ve not talked about it, but, well, I mean, you met my friends the other day. And I don’t just, like, let them meet anyone. I thought that went without saying. I thought we were on the same page.”
I catch an inkling of where this is going, and, when I realize I’m right, a mist of surreal descends down on me. I’m in the middle of a “what are we?” conversation and it’s the first time in my life I’ve not started it. I am never, ever, on the receiving end of these kinds of desperate-but-pretending-they’re-not chats. I take another sip of wine while my stomach tries to figure out what emotion it’s feeling. Excitement that I’m winning? Or guilt? Or, maybe even excitement that he likes me this much?
Not me, I remind myself. Gretel.
Joshua stumbles in to fill the silence. “Anyway, when your housemate turned up on Saturday, I know she was upset and everything but, well... Gretel, it was clear she’d never even heard of me.” He makes eye contact and it hurts to look back at him, confirming the emotion I’m feeling as “guilt.” Guilt mixed with admiration that he’s brave enough to say all this. “She hasn’t, has she? You live with her. You’re clearly very close friends. Have you ever mentioned me at all?”
I shake my head and tell him the truth. “No, I guess I haven’t.”
His face collapses. “Right.” He says it again. “Right.” Another sip of beer as he faces the bittersweet relief of knowing you’re not being paranoid after all.
“I mean, I’ve mentioned you now.”
“Because you had to.”
“It’s not like that. Why are you being weird about it?”
Joshua flinches and the guilt intensifies, the surreal mist getting thicker. I’ve had that hurtful collection of words chucked at me so many times and now I’m the one saying them. I panic. I do not like to hurt people. I start backpedaling. “Sorry.” I reach over my hand and take his. “I didn’t mean that.”
“No, it’s fine,” he says, when it isn’t.
“I don’t know why I didn’t tell her. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
His chest inflates as he tries to puff it out. “You didn’t.”
“Right.”
The waiter reappears and jolts us back to societal appropriateness. “Ready to order?”
We both want ramen—Josh orders the beef, me the chicken. “Want a side of edamame beans?” I ask as we hand over the menus.
“Yeah, sure.”
With no laminated A4 to use as conversational shields, we both start plucking ramen accessories out of the tray as a distraction while I wait for Joshua to explain. I snap chopsticks in two, rubbing them together to get rid of any splinters. Joshua grates peanut dust into his hand. The childlikeness of it throbs something in my gut.
I am hurting this man.
This is the first time I can see the hurt from my lies firsthand. He swipes the peanut dust into a napkin and smiles as he looks up at me, and the guilt sinks into my bones. This power doesn’t feel liberating like I thought it would. It feels confusing, like a dull ache, like I’ve let myself down. End this, I think to myself, smiling back. Now is the time to end this.
All I need to do is say it’s not working. Say it’s not me it’s you. Say we’ve just met at the wrong time. Say I’m not over my ex. Say I need to focus on work. Say there just isn’t a spark. Say it say it say it. His heart will be mildly bruised. He may not want to frequent this particular ramen place for a while. It will hurt for a day or two but his heart will receive minimal damage. Say it can’t go on. Say you’ve met someone else. Say you’re emotionally unavailable. Say it say it say it.
But I don’t say anything.
And, once more, Joshua flings himself into the silence. “Gretel, I’m not seeing anyone else,” he says plainly. The man returned. Sitting up in his stool. “I know we’ve not had this conversation. I thought it was kind of implied, but now I’m not sure. So we need to talk about it, I think. Are you seeing anyone else?”
I have a split second to grasp Gretel’s answer. “No.”
He takes a breath of relief which he tries not to show. “Cool. OK. I mean, it would be cool if you were. As I said, we’ve never spoken about it.”
“I don’t sleep around.”
“I know, I wasn’t suggesting you do. Sorry, I mean, even if you do, that’s fine. Gah. OK, look...” Josh picks up my hand and inhales courage from the air around him. “What are we, Gretel?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” Though I know what he means, of course I know.
“I mean, are we together? Not together? Seeing each other?” He laughs. “I’ve been out of the game a long time. I’m not really sure how any of this works.”
End it end it end it my conscious screams, as I watch his hope and his heart being offered out, flecked in peanut dust. This is the line I can’t cross. This is where staying makes me a bad person. Makes this social experiment something with serious collateral damage. Joshua and Gretel can’t be together because she doesn’t exist. The poor guy just asked a phantom to be his girlfriend. He doesn’t know this, however. He’s just thinks Gretel is Gretel. Why wouldn’t he? I must stop this, stop hurting him. But I can’t. And not because I just want revenge. I hate to admit it, but part of me can’t stand the thought of not seeing him again.
