Help Me!

by Marianne Power

  I got there first and waited, more nervous than any first date. The place was empty bar a couple of mothers cutting up pizzas for their after-school kids. When she walked in I caught my breath. She looked so pretty. I’d missed her so much.

  ‘You look lovely,’ I said, as she got to the table. ‘Is that a new shirt?’

  ‘I’ve had it a while . . .’ I had stood up and she was still standing. We looked at each other. I didn’t know whether to go in for a kiss and a hug. She wasn’t moving towards me. She was just standing.

  ‘You really do look great,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t think I’ve put on weight?’

  ‘No.’

  She raised her shirt. A hard, round tummy.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘I’m five months gone.’

  ‘Oh my God, you’re having a baby.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I missed it . . .’ I said. I looked at Sarah. I looked at the floor.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked, not even knowing if I had the right to ask that question anymore.

  ‘I’m good, fine . . . tired and waking up twenty times a night to go to the loo but I don’t want to complain in case you think I’m being negative.’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I was being such an idiot. A total cow. I’m so so so sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘No really, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say except that I went under. I stopped being a normal person. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  There was an awkward silence. She still hadn’t sat down.

  ‘Are you OK there, do you want a different table?’ I asked.

  She laughed – ‘No this is fine –’ and sat down by the window.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, Marianne. It’s fine.’

  There was an agonizing silence. She wasn’t going to let me off the hook. Neither should she have.

  ‘Was I awful?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, then felt bad. ‘Don’t give me those big eyes,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not giving you any eyes, I’m just sorry.’ But my eyes were filling up with tears.

  She paused. I could see she was trying to find a way to say what she had to say diplomatically.

  ‘We were just going very different ways – and I can understand that. What you were doing was a big challenge but I hated feeling like I was losing you. I didn’t know what to do. You didn’t seem to like me very much.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You were distant and cold. It was like you were looking down on me.’

  I cringed. She was right – I was looking down at people. After F**k It I had thought I had this life business sussed. I was smug. Arrogant. Taunting everyone with my enlightenment. I had thought I was one of an elite few who had everything figured out and that everybody else was living in blind denial and ignorance.

  I pinched my leg to stop myself from crying. This wasn’t about me. I was not allowed to get upset here.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, after we fell out I had a massive crash and have spent good chunks of the year in bed crying.’

  ‘Yes, that makes me feel better.’ She laughed. ‘Not really. What happened?’

  ‘I disappeared up my own arse, became a self-obsessed nightmare and basically imploded from thinking about myself too much.’

  ‘Sounds fun.’

  ‘I think I was on a mission to be this perfect person and then I got really stressed when it wasn’t happening.’

  ‘Perfect doesn’t exist.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And anyway, even if it did exist who’d want to be perfect? Remember Jane from the office? With her perfect hair and perfect outfits and perfect salads . . .’

  We both made a face.

  ‘Who wants to be a Stepford Person? How boring is that? I don’t really get why you want to change yourself so much. I mean, do all the books and meditating if you want to, but you don’t have to become a totally different person. A lot of people like you the way you are.’

  ‘Even though I’m a self-obsessed cow?’

  ‘You aren’t usually. You’re usually warm and kind and funny. I’d like that person back again, please.’

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘I missed talking to you,’ she said. ‘You just cut me out.’

  ‘I know, I did.’

  ‘I thought we were better friends than that.’

  Another agonizing silence. The kind of silence you could fall into and never find your way out. This was vulnerability. And it was gross. But necessary.

  ‘We can’t even get drunk together now, to make it all OK,’ said Sarah. I smiled. Another pause.

  ‘Bloody hell . . . a baby. I can’t believe it. How do you feel about it? How is Steve?’

  ‘He’s nervous. He keeps dreaming about leaving the baby on buses.’

  ‘He’ll be a great dad.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m so sorry I missed all this.’

  ‘You can make up for it now by helping me with something important.’

  ‘Of course, anything.’

  She reached down into her bag and pulled out her phone.

  ‘What do you think of this? Is this nice or too primary school teacher circa 1978?’

  She was showing me a picture of a floral maxi dress.

  I laughed. ‘It’s a bit Mrs Hindley in Geography.’

  ‘What about this one?’

  It was a low-cut clingy striped jersey dress.

  ‘Yeah, baby – do it. Be proud of the bump!’

  I felt a warm rush of love and relief – this was where happiness lay – not in affirmations or green juices but in conversations with friends about floral frocks.

  ‘Is it a girl?’

  She looked surprised. ‘We’re not telling anyone – but yes. How did you know?’

  ‘I had this vision of you at my funeral and you had a daughter.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was when I was having my meltdown. I had to do this exercise where I imagined what people would say at my funeral and you were there with Steve and your daughter.’

  ‘What? What book tells you to do that?’

  ‘The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. It’s supposed to help you focus your mind on what you want from your life.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  ‘No. I basically imagined being at my funeral and everyone hating me.’

  ‘Sounds like a right laugh.’

  ‘People were so annoyed at me they wouldn’t even get drunk and tell great stories about me. You told me that I’d had it all and I’d thrown it away.’

  ‘I apologize on behalf of fictional me at your fictional funeral.’

  ‘Nah, you were saying the truth.’

  ‘Come on then. How did the others go? Did you do a dating book?’

  ‘Yes! I stood up in front of a business breakfast and asked if anyone would take me out for a date.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘I did! I got taken out for a coffee by a guy who pretty much proposed halfway through our lattes. He told me that he’d decided he was ready to get married and offered me the job.’

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We ran off to Vegas.’

  ‘I missed a Vegas wedding!’

  ‘You did . . .’

  ‘So there wasn’t anyone you liked?’

  ‘Not really. There was one guy but I messed it up. I ran away from him when he tried to kiss me and he didn’t want to meet up again.’

  ‘If he was that easily put off he wasn’t your guy.’

  Sarah always knew exactly what to say.

  ‘Anyone else?’

  I told her about The Greek.

  ‘He sounds nice.’

  ‘He is, but we’re in different countries and . . . I don’t know . . . I’m not sure I felt anythin
g romantic for him.’

  ‘You must have felt something for him if you went up to him.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess, but then I didn’t really feel the spark.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘How have you even had time to find out? I didn’t fancy Steve until at least our third or fourth date.’

  ‘I just don’t think it was there.’

  She shook her head. ‘Are you sure you’re not just running away? When I met Steve I was scared shitless. Falling in love with him felt like throwing myself off a cliff. I made up all these reasons why he wasn’t right for me . . . he was too short, too skinny, his voice was too high . . .’

  ‘It’s not that high.’

  ‘You know what I mean. But I was just scared. I could see that he was real and he liked me and I was trying to find a way out. But he kept calling. He wouldn’t let me run away.’

  ‘The Greek keeps calling me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, for a while I didn’t pick up because I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea but then that felt rude and so now we just chat.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I don’t know – just stuff. His dad, my self-help. I guess it’s all the psychology he’s studied but he seems to get what I’ve done and he’s just easy to talk to.’

  ‘Easy to talk to is good. How often do you speak to each other?’

  ‘Most weeks.’

  ‘And do you find yourself thinking about him?’

  ‘Yes, I guess so.’

  ‘And how does he feel about you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You haven’t ever asked him?’

  ‘No. But anyway, I don’t think he’s the love of my life. We had a kiss and I didn’t really feel anything.’

  ‘Were you ready to feel anything?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know . . . I suppose not . . .’

  ‘Were you ready for love?’ her voice was urgent now and her face serious.

  I was stunned. We did not usually talk like this.

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Do you even know what love is?’ she asked, and as soon as she did tears poured out of my eyes like a tap had been turned on.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  She took my hand and squeezed it. ‘I just think you need to give things more of a chance. Love doesn’t have to be forever. It can just be meeting someone and having a connection and learning from each other. It can be for a day, a week, a year – it doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you give something a chance. Just let it be what it’s going to be. It doesn’t have to be anything more than it is.’

  ‘When did you get so wise?’

  ‘I think it’s the hormones, I’m all mother Earth now.’ She smiled. ‘Or giving up the booze has given me back some brain cells.’

  I found a tissue in my bag and blew my nose. She was right. I was scared to death of love, but the one thing that all the self-help books say is that love is why we are on the planet. Not necessarily married-buy-a-house love but love in all its forms. Human connection.

  When we’d paid the bill we walked back towards the station.

  ‘This is a first – going home sober,’ I said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I love you and I’m sorry for being such a bitch.’

  ‘I love you too.’ We had a hug. It was dark and we were under a street light. It was as romantic as any date. Love is love. Whether it’s between friends or lovers or family. I had spent my life trying to pretend that I didn’t need people but it was a lie. On the Tube home I found that I was crying yet again. But this time it was with joy.

  When I got home I messaged The Greek. It was 11pm UK time, so 1am in Athens.

  ‘Are you up?’

  ‘Yes. ☺’

  ‘Why are you up so late?’

  ‘Can’t sleep. Wanna chat?’

  He Skyped me. Usually I switched off the video when I talked to him, because I worried I looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy on the Skype screen, but this time I let my face pop up.

  ‘Oh, I can see you! Let me put my video on too.’

  And his face appeared too. Pale, smiling, twinkling eyes.

  ‘It’s so nice to see you,’ he said. ‘You look great.’

  ‘I don’t, I’m knackered . . . You look good.’ And he did – my heart flipped when I saw him and I found it hard to look him in the eye.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So what’s happening?’

  ‘I just made up with a friend I’d fallen out with.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Yeah, it really is. How’s your dad?’

  ‘Oh, the same – not good . . . but tell me something else. What’s happening in London? What book are you reading this month?’

  I sent him the link to Brené Brown’s TED talk. We watched it together. Him in Athens, as his sick father slept next door, me in a dark bedroom in London. This man I’d walked up to in a coffee shop nearly a year ago.

  ‘I like her,’ he said.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘This is how I try to live my life anyway,’ he said.

  And he did. From the first time we met he had been nothing but open and honest. He’d kept in touch with me even when I tried to shake him off. He didn’t hide that he liked me or pretend that his life was perfect. He’d shown me his real self all along. I had been the one who had been playing games.

  My heart was beating and I was sitting on the carpeted floor by the door – where the wi-fi reception was best.

  ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, that we’ve stayed in touch all this time,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘I was just wondering . . . er, what do you think of me?’

  He paused. I could feel the black night sky between us. The oceans. He kept looking at me. He smiled. ‘When I met you I could not believe it . . . the day before I was talking to my friend about my ideal woman and then you came up to me, this beautiful woman, and you were everything on my list. And that was just your appearance. Then we started talking and it got even better. I could not believe my luck,’ he said.

  I had to really fight the urge to say, ‘It must have been a short list,’ but I did still ruin the moment by asking how many times he’d used that line before.

  ‘Never. When you meet my friend you can ask her,’ he said.

  ‘You really thought that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Another pause.

  ‘And what did you think of me?’ he asked, looking straight at me.

  ‘Um . . .’ I looked at the carpet and started picking at a bit of fluff.

  More silence.

  ‘That you were nice and clever and easy to talk to,’ I said, talking to my bookshelf.

  I looked back at him once I’d said it. He was smiling.

  ‘And what do you think of me now?’

  I looked away again. ‘Er . . . that you’re nice and clever and easy to talk to.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Stop looking at me like that,’ I said.

  ‘Like what?’ he asked.

  ‘I dunno. Sorry, I’m not very good at this stuff.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘I don’t know. We’re friends, I guess,’ I said, looking at him.

  ‘OK.’ He had this really sweet way of saying OK, like anything you said to him would be OK.

  ‘I mean, I don’t know. I like you and I think about you.’

  Silence. This was it. Again. Vulnerability. Being so scared and open that it felt like I was going to vomit out of my heart.

  ‘I’m getting embarrassed,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed.’ He laughed. ‘I think about you too. How did your dating go? Did you meet anyone?’

  ‘Not really. What about you – are you seeing anybody? What’s happening with the girl at the bar?’

  ‘Nothing. She was nice but it was just a flirtation.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’ I was surprised by how happy I was at the news that the man I
’d had one date with ten months earlier was not going out with the girl in the bar, whom I’d pictured as young and skinny with tattoos.

  There was another silence and it felt as if the silence between two people can be more intimate and honest than anything we say with words. My heart hurt. I felt I could not catch my breath. I wanted it to stop. It was too much.

  And so I used words again.

  ‘Where do you stand on the flat white versus cappuccino debate?’

  ‘Flat white,’ he replied. Like this was the most normal question on earth.

  ‘Me too.’

  Daisy was back from three months in India. She appeared at the door wearing a long white shirt and beads around her neck, which irritated me, but when she leaned in and gave me a kiss, she seemed calm. No jumping up and down or namastes.

  ‘I brought you something,’ she said, handing me over a duty-free bag. I opened it – it was a bottle of whiskey.

  ‘You don’t even drink,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, but you do.’

  ‘Thank you! Actually I’m trying to cut down – but I’ll keep this for medicinal purposes.’

  ‘Did you have a lovely time?’ I said over tea. Her camomile, me builder’s.

  ‘It was challenging but exactly what I needed.’

  ‘So were you doing twenty hours of yoga a day?’

  ‘No, actually. I wanted to but Dr Ali told me I had to stop completely. Do nothing.’

  ‘Who is Dr Ali?’

  ‘The Ayurvedic doctor I was seeing.’

  ‘Oh!’ I couldn’t picture Daisy doing nothing – she had more energy than a Duracell bunny.

  ‘On the second week, during one of the massages I felt something go in my hips and then I spent the rest of the week in bed crying.’

  ‘Did he injure you?’

  ‘No, he said I was holding grief in my body and this was letting it out.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He said I never really grieved for my mother and that I had to stop running and just feel it.’

  ‘Right. I’m sorry, I knew your mum died, but you never really talked about it –’

  ‘It’s OK, it happened a couple of years ago. Cancer. I quit work to look after her.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You must miss her.’

  ‘Yeah. I do.’

  ‘Did it help? Just stopping?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I waited for her to fill the silence with some more therapy-speak or talk of energy and ‘clearing’. But she didn’t.