Pretending, page 26
“Joshua, are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”
“Well, I mean, I’m not sure what the term is when you’re our age. And I know we’ve not known each other a huge amount of time. But I really like you Gretel.”
I clamp down on his fingers, feeling the pulse from his wrist beat through my hands. “I really like you too.”
“So?”
“So, I guess that means we’re ‘going steady.’”
He digests what I’ve said and then his face splits into a smile, carving through the stubble on his cheeks. “Really?”
“Of course.” My smile matches his. I laugh. He laughs. Happiness spews out of us. Our hands mesh. I feel like a confetti cannon should fire out over us. Joshua leans over to kiss me. He leans over to do it again. He’s a different man—changed, loosened. We’re interrupted by the food arriving, forcing us to release one another’s grip.
“Coming out for ramen was a brilliant idea,” he says, picking up his chopsticks. “The things you make me do, Gretel.”
I pick up my own chopsticks, smiling back. He’s different because he’s relaxed. Because I’ve reassured him. He has pinned Gretel down. We are on the same page after all.
He, quite cutely, checks a few times. “It’s not too soon? I keep counting how many dates we’ve had and thinking maybe it’s too soon.”
“It’s not too soon.”
We kiss again. We slurp our ramen and giggle about how unattractive we both look. We order more drinks. We kiss more over the table, knocking over the nut grinder. We kiss out in the heavy air of Soho, pressed against a wall. We hold hands on the Tube. We stumble into his flat laughing and kissing.
The way he looks at Gretel... If only I could be looked at like that by a man. I pretend I am her, because it’s easier, because it’s nice to pretend for myself sometimes. Pretend I am fun, carefree, that I’m not dragging myself through life with tons of trauma and baggage trailing behind me like chains, pinning me to my sadness. I need a cold shower, I say. He needs one too. We shower together, shrieking at how cold we can make the water go. Kissing with our bodies slick, him looking like a child with his hair wet, teeth clashing with teeth, laughter turning into shivers, wrapping ourselves up in his towels and rubbing one another dry. We inevitably make love, and I not-so-inevitably find myself climaxing again. Clutching onto his hair and turning my head into the pillow.
“Are you OK?” he whispers, between my legs.
“Yes.” It’s the truth.
We lie together afterward like pretzels that weren’t separated properly in the factory. A tangle of limbs. He keeps stroking my face. I can feel so much love coming off him, but it’s not for me. It’s not for the person I am. I want to hide in this moment. Curl up in it. Pretend it’s the truth. Pretend a man is capable of loving me the way Joshua seems to love Gretel. Does any woman get to feel like this? Better women? Ones with less raggedy edges? It seems so unfair that the people who deserve love like this the most, the ones who have gone through the most torture, are the ones who are the least likely to get it. How the legitimate need for it repels it, and increases the odds that you’ll never get it. We reward simple people with love. People without trauma. And we punish those who dare to get scathed by life, even when it’s not their fault, like their pain is a contaminant.
I lie in Joshua’s arms and focus on his touch as he traces my stomach with his thumb. “I’m going to miss you this weekend when you’re away on this hen do,” he says.
“I’ll miss you too,” Gretel says.
I will miss him.
And what that means scares me.
• Gretel’s Guide to Becoming The Girlfriend and Staying The Girlfriend
You’re a girlfriend now. That changes things. Girlfriends have different requirements from girls who are merely dating. You’ve made it past the first round of tests, but the stakes are higher now, and therefore the prizes better.
Girlfriends need to be that bit more nurturing than dating girls. You need to cook him meals and rub his head and ask how his day was and actually give a shit about his response. Don’t nurture too much though, it annoys them. If you overdo it, they will flinch and act like you’re trying to break them. “It’s not a big deal, don’t make it into a big deal,” is a sign of over-scrambling the nurturing eggs. Best not to talk too much when you’re nurturing. Stick to the cooking and the head rubs, the silent nodding, and the occasional bland words of encouragement. Less of the hardcore talking, you annoying bitch.
You can be dirtier in bed now. In fact, it’s good to save the filthier side of you for the Girlfriend Zone. He’ll be worrying slightly that, if you do indeed pass all the invisible tests, he’ll be stuck having sex with just you for the rest of his life. This will concern him, poor thing. I mean, he deserves a life of good, filthy sex. Can’t give that up for just anyone, especially not you. Amp up the whore to counteract all this new commitment. You need to reward him for declining his natural impulses for the compromise of you, and reassure him that, if you do end up getting married, he can still slap your arse or jizz across your chest or do it hanging upside down, or whatever the hell it is he needs to do to feel like he’s not sacrificing any of his sexual self by agreeing to put up with you.
By the way, now that you’re his girlfriend, you have to be totally OK with every single thing he’s doing with his life. Do not expect too much quality time, certainly don’t need it. You’re his girlfriend now, God, isn’t that e-fucking-nough?
The elephant in the room at this point in proceedings is pretending you don’t know that he’s looking at you and thinking “are you Wife Material?” That’s the test. If he can’t see you as Wife Material, you’re out on your ear, sista. Table for one at Spinstersville. By the way, Wife Material is slightly different for every man so have fun figuring that one out. But being a girlfriend = imagining a future, so make sure you’re fitting his version of what his future can be. Paint a masterpiece every day of the life he could share with you.
When it comes to kids, he’s thinking about you and them now. Wondering how you’ll mother up. How much you will fuck up his precious children—without considering whether he’ll bring any fucking-upness into the equation. But he’ll be looking for signs in you. So don’t have any mental health problems, or hereditary diseases if you can possibly help it. Remember though, he may not be ready for children. He certainly doesn’t want you to be ready for them until the exact moment he’s ready for them. So, maternal-wise, walk the tightrope. Sure, yes, you want kids “some day.” I mean, the man has to spawn his replicates and you are the vessel to provide that. Don’t not provide that, you selfish twat. Don’t be one of those weird women who hate children. I mean, there’s just something wrong with women who don’t want children, isn’t there? But don’t be too maternal either, jeez, that will freak him out. He doesn’t just want to be a sperm donor, how hurtful is that to his feelings? “I want children when I’ve lived my life enough,” is a good thing to say. Nice and vague. Say that a lot. When and if he brings it up.
Never, ever, bring it up first.
That goes for lots of things by the way. Do not say “I love you” first. Do not want to move in. Do not want to know “where things are going.” Why are you so needy like that? Don’t put pressure on him. He’s your boyfriend! That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Why is it never enough for you? GOD! So ensure that every single step forward in the relationship is totally his idea. Pretend you’ve never thought about it. Be casual. You can be casual, can’t you? I’ll tell you who can be casual—people made out of fucking Wife Material, that’s who. Wait for him. Just enjoy it. I mean, it’s a huge massive test cluttered with landmines where the rules always change and, if you fuck it up, then you’ll probably die alone or have to freeze your eggs, and you don’t have the money to freeze them, and even if you did, it only has a twenty-six percent success rate, but definitely don’t let him know that you know that, but anyway, yes, it’s really really important that you don’t fuck up this giant test, but ENJOY IT OK? I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU’RE NOT ENJOYING IT.
Also, don’t nag1. Nobody wants a nagging whiny controlling bitch for a girlfriend. How dare you reward his generosity of committing to you with nagging? Back off and show some fucking gratitude.
* * *
1 “To nag” = Express distaste at any legitimately bad behavior and ask politely if this behavior can be changed because it’s making you hugely unhappy.
Punch the bag, punch the bag. Let it out, let it out, let it all out.
I picture Ryan’s face.
I kick and grunt. I sweat. I jab.
Why why why why why? Me me me me me?
Punch punch punch.
Why why why.
Kick kick kick.
Me me me.
My forehead has its own tap of sweat. I look uglier than I’ve ever looked in my whole life but I don’t care. I thrust my body into the sack. It never gives. Ever. It can take every punch I throw at it.
Why me why me why me?
It isn’t fair it isn’t fair it isn’t fair.
I’m a good person and I don’t deserve any of what happened, but happened it did and it’s NOT FAIR.
Punch punch punch.
“Whoa, April, it’s OK.” Charlotte takes the bag. Stopping it swinging. Stopping me. She hugs me. “I know,” she says, this woman I’ve only met twice. “I know, I know.”
“It’s not fair,” I whisper into the moisture of her sweaty shoulder.
“It isn’t. It really isn’t. It’s OK,” she says rubbing my back, my hair. “It’s going to be OK.”
Joshua: Hello girlfriend of mine. How was boxing? x
Gretel: Yeah, it was great! Such a laugh x
From: ChrissyHartley123@gmail.com
To: AprilS1987@gmail.com
Subject: This weekend
OH MY GOD APRIL I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S TOMORROW. What is HAPPENING to my life? Anyway, thanks for sending the money. Can’t wait to see you babe. Xxx
* * *
Megan: I can’t believe you’re leaving me here in my bed of pain to go on a hen do of all things.
Megan: Who am I going to judge Dawson with?
Megan: HE IS SO EASY TO JUDGE.
Megan: Do you think Malcolm has a new girlfriend?
Megan: WHY AREN’T YOU HERE TAKING MY PHONE AWAY SO I STOP STALKING HIM?
April: Sorry, train was in a tunnel. Don’t. Stalk. Him. You are NOT that person.
Megan: Well I just stalked him so I totally am that person.
Megan: No signs of a new gf tho so it’s all good.
Megan: Though he did go to Sushi Samba without me when I thought that was OUR place.
Megan: I meant nothing to him at all, did I?
April: Oh hon xxx
Brighton’s a teeming cesspit of holiday makers, day-trippers, sun seekers, and hen-and-stag-do goers. In fact, I feel like I’m stepping onto a bachelor party conveyor belt when I emerge in the stinking heat onto the platform. Clumps of women clutching almost-finished bottles of prosecco spill out of the crammed train carriages, the different groups only identifiable by their choice of sash. Some pink, some black, some decorated with cartoon penises. The brides-to-be hold court in their cheap veils, clopping along in inappropriate shoes, feeling the most special, marked out to ensure surrounding voyeurs know they are the most special too. Look at this cheap veil I’m wearing off Hendoswag.com. It means someone deemed me acceptable enough to marry. Someone in this world approves of me that much. Take it in, bitches. Take it all in. It’s all been leading up to this.
I dodge past them and their “Team Bride” temporary tattoo–adorned bodies, feeling vaguely nostalgic for four years ago, and the many, many, nights I had the same tattoo emblazoned across my cheek. Those summers of back-to-back weddings are long behind me now, and funnily enough, I didn’t actually find them that hard back then. There was still so much time to assume “it would happen for me.” Which is exactly what was whispered at me during those hen dos, by swaying brides grabbing me by the shoulders, telling me how amazing and kind and beautiful and smart I was: “It definitely will, I have no doubt.”
I use my phone to navigate my way to the restaurant where Chrissy’s sophisticated hen do is located, bumping my way past the sunburned and flip-flopped people clogging the pavements. I’ve deliberately arrived late to make tonight as short and painless as possible. Chrissy’s an “anomaly” friend, in that we’ve always been close but have literally no other friends in common. We met temping one summer as students and we just clicked and have stayed close since then. We convened several times a year throughout the rest of our uni years, the confuzzled mess of our early twenties, the quarter life crises of our mid-twenties, and the panic-stricken years of our late twenties. Chrissy’s always been super smart and is now a tip-top lawyer specializing in copyright. Yet she’s also always been a perpetual singleton—that is, until, she met Mark two years ago at a wedding. Anyway, suffice to say, I know nobody as I climb the steps to the top floor of the Greek restaurant and step into a room full of thirty-something hens.
“April! Hello! You’re here!” Chrissy clatters over in shoes she most definitely can’t walk in and envelops me in a tight hug. “Everyone, this is my friend, April,” she announces, holding me out on her arm.
I wave at everyone, and get passed around the room; names are exchanged that we won’t remember, but will be too embarrassed to ask for again. The tables have been arranged into a giant circle for maximum group coherency with funny photos of Chrissy littered here and there to act as conversational prompts. But there’s no penis confetti, or novelty sashes. Chrissy’s bedecked in a tasteful veil, but Team Bride transfers are nowhere to be found. There’s a projector screen set up at the far end, and a sound system plays a carefully curated playlist of Chrissy’s favorite songs—mostly Jack Johnson.
“Hi, I’m April,” I repeat over and over. I shake hands, ask people how they know Chrissy. There’s the other-lawyers-from-work clump, the uni-circle clump, the home-friends clump, and the awkward-friends-and-family-of-her-and-Mark clump.
“Oh, so you’re Mark’s little sister? Mark’s great, isn’t he? Just great.”
“You’re a lawyer too? Oh right, OK. In London? Of course. Yes, the train down wasn’t too bad actually, was it? Whereabouts in London do you live?”
“So you grew up with Chrissy? Oh that’s funny, that you all call her Tina. No, she’s always been Chrissy to me. So what do you do? Oh, two kids you say? Yes, I’d love to see a picture. Oh, they are so cute. Congratulations.”
“Oh me? No. Not married. No, no kids. Just me.”
“Is that bottle of prosecco finished? No? Great. Yes, if you could pass it down.”
“Shall we order another bottle?”
I’ve never really liked prosecco, it’s always tasted like piss put through a soda stream, but it’s included in the deposit we put down for the meal so down the hatch it goes. I knock back a glass, then another. My teeth start to hurt from the sugar and I go for a wee I don’t need, just to collect myself.
Megan: Is it bad?
April: Sitting on the loo, weeing a wee I don’t need
Megan: So it is bad
April: Everyone is friendly. They’re just all...so grown-up
Megan: Fuck them
Megan: Fuck them all
Megan: Burn the fucking place down
April: Are you OK?
Megan: Quite clearly no
Megan: But I’m also fine. Go have fun now Xx
April: Doubtful
Just as I’m wiping, I get a message from Josh.
Joshua: Has the butler in the buff turned up yet? Hope you’re having a nice time x
Gretel: A great time, thanks! No nudity yet, but it’s only seven thirty. Have a good night with Neil x
The useful thing about sitting around mothers is that you only have to ask them a few choice questions and then you don’t have to talk or think anymore for a good hour or so. I’m settled by the home-friends lot, all of whom have at least two kids that I’m shown on their phones.
“So, do they sleep through the night?” I ask, and low and behold, we have conversation filler right up until the starter arrives, and even a little after that too. We are all handed out three stuffed vine leaves arranged on a limp plate of lettuce scattered with shaved red onion. We pick up our knives and forks and pretend this is an adequate starter for the forty-quid-a-head price, while I hear all about the power of white-noise machines.
“Wow, I’ve never heard of them before. Amazing. I’ll keep that in mind.” I bite into the sour, soggy mush of my vine leaf, and listen to Chrissy’s friends talk about nursery places and how hard it’s been to have small children in this heat.
“How’s it going over here?” Chrissy’s doing the rounds between starter and main. Eyes frantic, talking in caps lock, checking to make sure we’re all having fun so determinedly that she doesn’t seem to be having much fun herself. She slots in beside me and I pour her a glass of prosecco.
“Don’t! I’m already way too drunk.”
“Yes. It’s your hen do.” I top up my own glass. I must be on my fourth by now. I feel warm and like all my weird problems aren’t so bad and weird after all.
