by Abigail Mann
‘Yeah, well … nice to know he was mouthing off about ditching me with all his hockey mates. I bet they’re all gutted to lose a completely average hockey player from South London’s division-five team.’
I’m quite conscious that I sound bitter. Tom was obsessed with that hockey team, despite the fact they were terrible and never won anything.
‘Ready for the hilarious part?’ She points at the screen again.
‘More hilarious than me fronting a dating app?’ I zoom in on the picture to try and read the presentation slide, but there’s a couple of figures blocking out part of the screen, who look vaguely familiar …
‘Holy fuck! No! This can’t be real!’
Suki erupts into laughter, quickly fiddling with the settings of the picture to brighten the photograph’s contrast.
‘Oh. My. God. No! My eyes. They’re burning!’ My jaw aches from holding it open in shock. ‘How? Rhea? I mean, I can see why she’s in Lycra all the time – that position looks like it needs … flexibility.’ I’d been so distracted by the picture of myself in the background that I’d completely ignored the fleshy frames of Mitchell and Rhea, who look like they’re wrestling except for the fact that Rhea’s dress is hitched up around her waist and Mitchell’s wrinkly bum is slapped pink and tense, the outline of a brown ball sack dangling between his legs.
‘I full-on freaked out when Adam came in,’ Suki says. ‘They definitely heard and, well, let’s just say Mitchell didn’t get a chance to finish in a way that anyone would class as dignified.’
‘I’m in shock.’
‘About your boss shagging the PR girl or the fact he clearly wants you to front some sort of rebranding campaign?’ She tries to keep a straight face but almost chokes through stifled laughter.
‘Good question. This is too much to process.’ I look at the picture again, which looks filthier and filthier the more Mitchell’s gross climax face bores into the back of my brain. ‘Rhea, though?’
‘I know! She’s fit! What is she doing getting stuffed by him? What a waste.’
‘This is mad.’
‘Right! Did you know I got off with her once? Last year. Christmas party.’
‘Not that! I mean me! My pitch! It wasn’t even a proper idea, more of a … saddo ramble. The only thing I deserve to be the face of is eating too many biscuits.’
‘Well, looks like that decision’s been made for you, babe. I’ll see if I can find out anything else tomorrow. Good thing about having remote access to the work files, you know? I’ve got to get going. Jazz has a burlesque performance at an open cabaret night and I’ve got to wrap her up in bandages before she goes. She’s doing a reverse Egyptian mummy routine.’ I must look confused, because Suki elaborates. ‘It’s a sexy comedy thing.’
‘Right. Of course.’ It does sound like a laugh actually, but before I ask if it’s the sort of thing anyone can come to, she puts her phone in her pocket and says goodbye, waving me off with a three-fingered salute.
Chapter 16
‘One more time, love. I still don’t get it …’ Annie pauses as we walk over a cobbled driveway. A car turns to pull in and beeps us. Annie puts her hand up and quickens her short steps to meet me on the pavement.
I’ve been trying to explain my current work predicament to Annie as we walk to the shop, but apart from her surprisingly brilliant advice last week, it’s proving more difficult to explain what it is I actually do at Lovr. So far, I’ve had to peel back the whole idea of what a social media campaign is, to the concept of an app, to why people my age won’t just ask someone out if they like the look of them. I actually laugh aloud at that last one. If someone asked for my number in a bar (when I accidentally end up in one) I’d assume they were a serial killer.
‘Do you remember that show that was on TV ages ago, Blind Date?’
‘Oh yeah, that were good Friday-night viewing,’ Annie says, hooking her hand through the crook of my elbow.
‘Well, it’s like that, except rather than three guys to pick from you have hundreds. Maybe thousands.’
‘Bloody hell, really? That’s too many to choose from! Why would you ever pick one when you might meet Johnny Bedeale round the corner?’
I have no idea who Johnny Bedeale is, but it’s probably best not to bring him up again in case he’s a pop star pervert from the Seventies. ‘Well, yeah, that’s the main problem really. People aren’t given a chance. They swipe someone—’
‘Eh?’
‘They pick someone. Someone they like, but it’s usually based on pictures, not personality. If they don’t hit it off instantly, that’s it. They try someone else. And it’s exhausting. Everyone is so busy they don’t have time to go on rubbish dates. It’s pretty cutthroat.’
‘And you use this swipey phone thing, do you?’
‘Well, er, actually, I don’t. I haven’t thought about it. I don’t know if it would be appropriate. I’m only just single so …’
‘Can we sit down?’
‘Oh, sure. Are you okay? Have we done a bit much?’ I say, feeling a strange sense of pride as Annie’s hand tightens around my elbow for support.
We reach a shelter at the bottom of the road with a wooden bench nestled inside, the slats worn smooth with wear. Annie grips the arm rest with white knuckles as she lowers herself, emitting a wheezy breath as she tips backwards against its frame. Maybe I should have called a taxi, or gone myself. Once I’d convinced her that we could watch Nazi Hunters on catch-up, I felt compelled to follow through on my idea to ‘nip to the supermarket together’, even though she’d taken an age to find the right shoes and even longer to get them on, since she wouldn’t let me help. What ensued was a tussle with the shoehorn that ended in Annie stubbornly sitting on the stairs until I’d promised to put it away.
‘I’m fine,’ she says, unzipping her bodywarmer. ‘I’m a smidge concerned, that’s all.’
‘About what?’
‘About you. And this bloke. What you said just now … mull it over for a second. I’m not being funny or owt, but it seems like you and your fella have been apart for longer than two weeks. You haven’t mentioned him once, and, well, you don’t seem too bothered by it, love.’
‘I am. But it’s not as simple as that.’
‘Isn’t it?’
I sigh and scuff the ground with the toe of my boot.
‘Are you thinking about getting back with him, love?’
‘Fuck no. Sorry, Annie,’ I quickly add.
‘’S all right. I’m getting used to your effin’ and jeffin’,’ she says, nudging me with a sharp elbow.
I pull a loose ringlet straight, letting it bounce back once, twice, three times. ‘It sounds really stupid, but … I guess I don’t know how to move on. I don’t feel compelled to work my way through a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and watch romcoms. I’m angry, and embarrassed, but not really with him.’
I push my hands deep into my pockets and roll a ball of lint between my fingers. ‘It’s like, what’s wrong with me? I convinced myself that we were a “normal” couple for ages. I think I wanted to feel like I was special to someone.’ My throat feels tight but I’m not upset – more frustrated that I’m articulating myself so badly. ‘It felt real at the time. But the way he’s left without looking back? I feel like a kid who had a playground boyfriend. It felt adult, but it was play-acting.’
‘And have you tried talking to him? It might help. Give you a bit of closure.’
‘No. I’m not sure what there is to say.’
Annie tuts and glances over her shoulder, as though she’s looking out for the bus. ‘It sounds to me like you’re waiting for permission.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say, crossing my ankles.
‘Well – and I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of turn – but I don’t know what you’re waiting for.’
‘Nothing,’ I snap back in a tone I know sounds whiny. ‘I know he’s gone off to have this “big adventure” and it’s all exciting for him, but I’m hardly liv
ing the best version of my life. No offence,’ I quickly add. ‘But when he left, I was so bloody confused about how I felt – if I felt anything – that I let him go. And now … I don’t know. I wanted to be doing something really cool before I properly cut him out, so his memory isn’t of some pathetic saddo who trundled after him for the best part of two years. I want him to realise.’
Annie’s face has softened. She twists one of her rings up over a knuckle, her skin pale and silken in the gap left behind. ‘Realise?’
‘Yeah. That I was enough. And if I wasn’t, then he should have told me a bit fucking sooner.’ I’m past feeling sad. I’m angry now, at how stupid my own words sound coming out of my mouth.
‘Can I tell you something?’ Annie says. I nod.
‘You owe it to yourself to take some ownership of this relationship of yours. Because it won’t just happen. I promise you. If he made you feel … less than, that ain’t right. The more you sit with the idea that someone else has the ultimate say-so over your identity, well, it’ll get to you in the end. If it hasn’t already.’
I get up and pull my scarf tighter. ‘Shall we keep walking?’
‘You know what I mean though, don’t you, love? I’m all right, I can manage,’ she adds as I reach over to offer my arm for support. Annie shuffles forward a few small steps, reacquainting herself with balance after the unapologetically hard bench.
‘I think so. It just feels quite … “meh”. I thought I’d get a chance to rage a bit, but I think the whole relationship has more to do with me than I thought. Does that make sense? I haven’t got an ex-boyfriend to compare Tom to. The only long-term relationship I’ve seen up close is my parents, and, well, Dad always taught us to cope with stuff on our own. I don’t think I learnt how to deal with problems properly. I just ignored them instead. With Tom, the bar was so low from the offset, anything supportive he did beyond existing beside me was a reward. He could buy me a packet of Monster Munch and I’d be thrilled for a week.’
Annie breaks into a wheezy laugh and immediately, the mood around us lifts.
‘Better than when I was young. You lot have trial runs. We never got that chance. I’m not saying Arthur was the worst husband in the world, but he never saw me. Not in the way that … someone could. I did my best as his wife. But marriage is bloody long, especially when you’ve had a taste of something good, and pure. When I fell short of whatever “idea” he had in his head, my punishment was silence. Years of it.’
‘Here it is. Have you ever been here before, Annie?’ Thank God. That’s about as much geriatric therapy as I can handle for one day.
I’d like to say my reason for coming here was entirely selfless, but to be honest I’m not sure I can last another weekend of long days with nothing to snack on. This morning, I thought an alien was about to burst through my stomach going by the grumbles it made every few minutes. Over the week, I’ve realised that there isn’t much to Annie beneath the big scarves and padded waistcoats. She’s tiny. I’ve never been skinny, exactly, mainly because you’d have to prise my Gregg’s loyalty card out of my cold dead fingers, but in the past week I’ve felt like a naughty kid who’s been sent to bed without supper. On Wednesday I ate the dry end-slice from a loaf of bread that I’m ashamed to say I found in the top of the compost bin.
After a couple of hours of my heavy hinting that we could go to the shops together, and Annie’s strong opposition to this (they’ll all be closed on a Sunday, they won’t have the fruit juice I like, it doesn’t feel right food shopping at the weekend), she finally admits that she struggles to walk with groceries because holding the bags makes her wrists seize up. She said it like I was a detective forcing a murder confession. I can see why carers have a reputation for being pushy and patronising when they talk to older people; it’s easy to think they’re being difficult on purpose when, at least in Annie’s case, it’s a matter of pride.
It’s still a sticking point for us, this whole ‘companion’ role. Apparently, ElderCare took requests from those in the community who thought they’d benefit from a companion, but from the sound of it, Annie didn’t want one. Eventually, ElderCare must have worn her down, probably because a companion is a lot cheaper than sending a proper warden round. Either that or she just wanted to get rid of creepy Craig, which I don’t blame her for either.
‘I’m just saying,’ continues Annie, squeezing past me as I hold open the door to Osman’s, ‘things are different now, for you lot. You’ve got choices. Too many, going by what you’ve said about your app, but you know what I’m getting at? It’s what we were brought up thinking. You followed your man. Got on with it. But it only works for so long.’ Annie hasn’t looked at the shelves yet, but absentmindedly runs her hand over the puckered skin of a swollen orange. ‘Second chances, Elissa. Don’t take ’em for granted. Ooh, courgettes, let’s have one of those.’
Chapter 17
Deciding that I absolutely cannot leave it any longer, I tackle a job I’ve put off for weeks and go through the unpacked bin liners that I shoved under the bed as soon as I moved in. The jumble sale hoard that has followed me from one rented room to another hasn’t truly been sorted through in years, yet I’m reluctant to chuck anything out, such is my sentimental nature. I’d save a crisp packet if the sell-by date fell on my birthday.
Tom and I had our first proper argument about the amount I’d brought down to London when we’d moved. He couldn’t understand how you could have so many similar types of clothing, and to be honest, he has a point. I once got told I dressed like ‘an Amish person forced out clubbing’, which, after googling the Amish, may have been in reference to the amount of long-sleeved tops and ankle-length dresses I own.
I shove the lot into an IKEA bag for the charity shop. Wow, this feels great! I’m going to clothe the poor and care for the old. I am Mother Teresa. Or Angelina Jolie. Where’s my Nobel Peace Prize?
I pull out a drawstring bag containing a gym kit I’d carefully folded, packed, and subsequently never used. I had intentions of joining in with the office ‘Fun’ Run, led by Rhea and Adam on Tuesday lunchtimes, but they took it too seriously and tracked times on a leader board, which put me right off.
Since then, I’d half-heartedly thought about jogging in the evenings, but as it got darker, the chance of being attacked in the park increased, so I settled for a speed-walk to the tube as my primary form of exercise. I think I’ve actually jogged once, involuntarily. Tom forced me to go with him, and despite his largely sedentary lifestyle, he barely broke a sweat whilst I heaved myself along behind him. In the end, I sat down on a bench halfway round Clapham Common in a sulk because he said my form was embarrassing. Well, he can stuff his comments, because today is the day I’m going to bloody well run 5 km.
I wriggle into my Lycra leggings, roll a pair of patterned socks down to the ankle, and twist my mass of hair into something resembling a bun with an elastic band. I stretch in the corridor (I’m not quite ready to perform a lunge in public) and bolt out of the door with one earphone in (just like the internet told me to do) so I can listen for the footsteps of a potential attacker.
I feel great. My boobs are strapped down in a very tight sports bra and I can’t quite expand my rib cage, but generally, I feel good. When I get to the entrance of the Heath, a middle-aged man wearing a singlet and sweatbands gives me a nod as he passes. I’m in the club! The club for fit people who find running fun! I speed up a little, dance round a yappy Pomeranian, and sprint past a group of men playing touch rugby in a kaleidoscope of coloured jerseys. I try to pick up the pace but my lungs feel spiky and small. That’s okay. I’ve just set off too quickly. Come on, Elissa, think of ‘the tortoise and the hare’ and all that stuff you hear at primary school about ‘it’s the taking part that counts’. I look at my watch. I must have been running for half an hour by now. Nine? Nine minutes? How?! I’ve got a stitch. Or it might be my appendix bursting, I have no idea. It definitely feels like something is very wrong. I bend over, put my hands on my kne
es, and try to take in breaths that are shallow enough to reach my lungs without slicing at the sides.
‘Are you okay?’ A man with soft, almond-shaped eyes pats me on the shoulder. He taps his watch twice and his timer pauses, flashing persistently.
‘Um, yeah, I think so,’ I say, squeezing out the words in between gasps.
‘Have you got any water with you?’ he asks, looking me up and down. Despite my brain fog, I hover my hands over my crotch so he doesn’t notice the offensive camel toe I’ve somehow developed between my bedroom and here. There’s Lycra so far up my bum I’ll need tweezers to pull it down again.
‘No. Er, it must be the distance, this is my, er … fifth lap.’
He guides me to a bench and sweeps a scattering of mushy blossom to the floor before lowering me down. ‘Hold on, I’ll be back in a second.’ He sprints off into the distance and I use the time to flex my spongy hands and feet. Surely this is my body rebelling against the unreasonable demands I’ve made of it. A minute or so later, a bottle is thrust beneath my head, which I’ve put between my legs. I blink up at the outline of his broad shoulders. He moves to sit at the other end of the bench and unscrews the cap, handing me the bottle. ‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, inelegantly draining it in one go. Those years spent downing cider at the SU bar have come into good use.
‘Oi, I was saving some of that.’ He grins at me. Oh. He’s got an angular jawline, like an edgy model who gets booked because their prison mugshot was so good. I guess he’s a bit rough around the edges, except for those eyes that crinkle with kindness. My vision becomes sharper and I see that my skin has gone clammy, not unlike corned beef. Nice. I must have forgotten to reply, because Mystery Running Man jumps in again.
‘I’m joking, obviously!’ he says.
‘Ha, I know. I mean you could have some, but you’d have to lick it off my face. Hahaha!’ I reply, wiping a dribble off my chin with the back of my arm. We’re inviting strangers to lick our face now, are we, Elissa? Cool, cool.