‘How’s your homework going?’ he asks. Because what else would I have been doing on my laptop in my room all morning?
‘Yeah, good – just been doing some stuff for English,’ I mumble into my soup.
‘Are you still reading Tess of the d’Urbervilles?’ Mum says.
My heart drops as I notice she’s eating some kind of clear broth. No bread.
‘Alas, yes,’ I reply.
‘It’s such a shame that so many books you girls are made to read are about the punishment of women, or keeping women down,’ she says. ‘I suppose that’s the problem with insisting on you reading “classics” at school – they’re all morality tales where the moral is that women should stay virtuous. Whatever that means.’
‘Wow, yes,’ I say. ‘I completely agree.’
‘So do I, Helen. You would think they’d be more committed to teaching texts that rouse the girls a bit more,’ Dad says, looking thoughtful.
‘Or at the very least were written by women,’ Mum adds. ‘Even if their so-called moral message left something to be desired.’
I feel warm inside. I know I can be hard on my mum, with all her judgements of my outfits, with all her hare-brained diets and exercise fads. But every so often, I remember why she’s great – and she’s great because she cares. She thinks; she has a spark; she has something to say. I just wish she didn’t get dragged down by all the body anxiety.
‘What . . . What would you recommend I read, then?’ I ask, seizing an opportunity to bond with her for once.
‘Well, for starters, I heard you saying the other day you’ve never read The Color Purple. And I think you’d enjoy The Handmaid’s Tale,’ she says, putting down her spoon and twisting her bracelets, clearly deep in thought. ‘I also think Patti Smith’s memoir about her life before she was famous is very striking.’
There’s more to Mum, it seems, than meets the eye. I guess there’s more to all of us.
I thought it was a super-smart decision to take a bath so I’d feel my best for Ella’s party, but I ran the bath too hot, and now I look and feel like a boiled lobster. Even though I know I’ll cool down eventually, it feels like I’m going to be overheating forever. Sweaty, fat and pink: exactly how I want to turn up to Ella’s later. But after a bit of beautifying, it turns out I actually look pretty good, and my black jersey jumpsuit and trainers combo makes me feel sleek. Maybe not such a disaster after all.
A message illuminates my screen. It’s Ella telling me to go to hers early so we can hang out. I email her a link to my playlist and head on over.
‘Hiya!’ Ella’s beaming face greets me as she opens her front door. ‘Come in!’
‘All right, mate,’ I say, hugging her. She’s so tiny, like a little sparrow, like I could absorb her into my body with a cuddle.
‘I think we’re pretty much all ready! Sophia! Emily’s here!’ she calls up the stairs as we head for the living room.
Sophia descends, scrunching her curls to make the most of them, but she already looks perfect. Dressed in a rough approximation of a skinny black suit with trainers, she’s the epitome of cool androgyny, Janelle Monaé style. I don’t let my size hold me back in terms of what I wear most of the time, but this is one look that I feel kind of cut off from. But hey, I look and, more importantly, feel great this evening. Ready to see Joe again.
‘You look amazing, Sophia,’ I say.
‘Doesn’t she?!’ squeals an excitable Ella as she squeezes her girlfriend from behind.
‘Thanks, bud,’ Sophia replies, blushing deeply, like she’s still getting to grips with her own coolness. ‘You’re not so bad yourself. I just looked at your music choices for later, and I think you’ve crushed it.’
Great relief.
‘Oh my God, yes! Thank you so much for doing it,’ says Ella. ‘It means I have one less thing to think about during the party. Plus, takes it out of the boys’ hands for once, doesn’t it?’
‘Speaking of boys, please tell me you invited him,’ Sophia says with a nudge.
‘I did! Don’t worry, I didn’t chicken out. He said he would come, so . . .’
‘Great stuff!’ says Ella, pouring us all a cup of cheap white wine. ‘Cheers! So, Emily, are you excited about seeing Joe tonight?’ She’s like a Labrador puppy with her earnest enthusiasm.
‘Honestly, I really don’t think he’s interested, guys . . .’ I say, staring into my plastic cup, wishing I could feel as excited as my friends do.
‘First, there’s no reason why not,’ says Sophia. ‘You’re awesome. Second, it’s just FUN that you’re into someone. You need to stop worrying about this so much! It’s a fun and nice thing.’ She strokes her girlfriend’s short, shaggy hair absent-mindedly.
‘It’s hard, man. It really is. This whole crush thing has freaked me out,’ I say, shaking my head.
But then the doorbell rings, and I don’t get a chance to say any more. To be honest, I didn’t really know what I wanted to say anyway. I guess I want to know why everyone thinks having a crush is so fun, when really it feels so bleak and embarrassing.
‘We get it,’ says Ella. ‘It’s hard. It’s stressful. But it’s a new thing for you, so of course it’s weird, and of course it feels difficult.’
Huh – I’m not usually on the receiving end of other people’s wisdom. It feels nice. I see why it’s a thing people like getting from me.
Ella smiles. ‘We want this to work out for you. Like, that is specifically what we want.’
I look up as Camila walks in and hands over a bottle of supermarket own-brand gin to our hostess.
‘Hey ladies!’ she coos, fluttering her eyelashes.
She looks incredible, wearing a figure-hugging black dress that, yet again, she would never have worn before . . . before.
‘Hello, angel,’ I say, rising to greet her. She feels sort of stiff as I hug her, and I notice a hint of tension in her smile as I pull away. It runs through me like a shudder. Maybe I imagined it.
We sit around, sipping our bargain-bin alcohol and chatting until the advertised start time of Ella’s soiree. People start to trickle in, then loads arrive all at once, including Ryan, but not including Joe. Camila spends the rest of the evening no more than three feet away from Ryan, who has gone out of his way to avoid me, as if I’m going to attempt to kiss him again in the middle of the living room.
I’m glad I’ve at least made such an excellent playlist for the night because it means more people are dancing than I’ve ever seen dance at any other house party. And I need a distraction. I need to not keep glancing at the door every time the bell goes or someone knocks. I need to stop looking around the various huddles of people gathered in groups around the house. I need to stop taking trips to the kitchen for more wine, when really I’m just scanning for Joe’s face. Just on the wild, improbable off-chance I missed him coming in. How could I have missed him when my eyes have barely left the door? OK, if I can’t actually distract myself, I need to at least look like I’m distracted. It’s not good for my image to be pining.
‘No Joe?’ asks Abi, later in the night when we’re all gently twisting and swaying to ‘Regulate’ by Warren G and Nate Dogg.
I wish my friends didn’t already know he was meant to be here. I wish I hadn’t told them at all. I wonder if the hot humiliation is actually radiating off me, or if it just feels like you can tell I’m deeply embarrassed just by looking at me.
‘No, I guess he couldn’t make it,’ I say, smiling weakly, although my cheeks are burning. I knock back another gulp of wine.
‘Aaaah, mate, I’m sorry,’ she says, slipping her long, toned arms around me, letting her braids fall over my shoulder like a comforting veil.
‘Thanks, pal. Is everything good with you and Oliver?’ I ask, keen to change the subject, to brush it off and leave no trace that it meant anything to me at all.
‘Uh, yeah, sure – everything’s fine. We really like each other,’ she says, looking around, apparently distracted.
‘H
i, Abi!’ an over-sugary voice crows from behind us.
It’s Holly, dressed in a black playsuit and heels. I guess Ella couldn’t not invite her when she invited basically everyone else in Croydon.
‘Oh, and hi, Emily . . .’ she says, curling her lip.
‘Hi, Holly – how’s it going?’ Abi says, resigned to the fact she’s definitely going to have to talk to her.
‘Oh, all right – you know how it is. Always busy keeping my grades up and keeping the netball team in check, and I assume you saw I got the lead in the pre-Christmas play?’ Holly says, with an air of faux-nonchalance so clearly faux that I say a silent prayer that her acting in the play is even slightly better than this.
‘I sure did,’ says Abi, all too enthusiastically.
‘And I got a Saturday job at Rock, that cool new salon,’ she says, taking a sip from her cup of rosé.
To anyone else, I would say cool! Live your dream! Increase your earning potential! Tell me about your work goals and aspirations! But with Holly, I just can’t muster the enthusiasm.
‘That’s great,’ says Abi, picking up the slack yet again.
‘You still babysitting, Emily?’ Holly asks.
She wouldn’t be Holly if she couldn’t only see her own achievements in the context of ‘beating’ someone else’s.
‘Yep – they’re great kids. Really easy to look after, and the money’s fine . . .’ I say. Gross – why am I justifying myself to her?
Holly smiles back, wolfish. ‘By the way, Emily. I love your jumpsuit,’ she says, looking me up and down.
‘Um, thanks?’ I say, confused at the rare compliment.
‘Yeah, it’s like a –’ she thinks for a moment – ‘sensible version of mine, isn’t it?’
I roll my eyes, and she stalks off to the kitchen.
All of a sudden, I hate myself. I hate the music; I hate my clothes; I hate the party. I hate my mistaken belief that it would all add up to something. What if he was here? What if he had come? What difference would it make? I would still be the pathetic fat girl chasing him at work, stalking him online, inviting him to stuff he doesn’t want to go to. I can’t believe I ever thought this fantasy might play out like it does for the Camilas or the Abis of the world. People who fit in, or make themselves fit in. Maybe I should try to fit in?
And I wish I could tell you that just at that moment, just when I was most desperate for him to turn up, he walked through the door. I wish I could say that I turned around, and he was there. But I can’t.
So, I vow to put him out of my mind. I decide another trip to the kitchen for more wine is in order, even though I’m feeling a bit unsteady on my feet. As I attempt to slink across the makeshift dance floor in the centre of the living room, a hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. It’s Camila.
‘Ryan told me what you did,’ she says, emboldened by an evening of drinking.
Whatever this is about, I’m so not up for it right now.
‘What? What have I done?’ I ask, in no mood to appease. Is this because I knocked him off his ‘Party-Music King’ throne? Male pride?
‘Are you really gonna stand there and pretend you didn’t try to kiss him at Ben’s party? That you didn’t throw yourself at him?’ she sneers.
‘Well, I didn’t. I don’t know how he’s spun it, but it was kind of mutual, and nothing happened anyway. To be honest, I don’t even know why he bothered bringing it up with you,’ I say. ‘It seems kind of unnecessary.’ All this is true, so why does it sound like a lie when I’m saying it to her? The mere fact that I’m having to justify myself makes it sound untrue.
‘He says you pretended you were just having a friendly chat, and then you pounced on him,’ she says, her eyes flashing.
‘Well, that’s not true. I don’t know what else to tell you,’ I say, as calmly as I can. It’s hard to make your voice sound chilled when you’re literally having to shout because the music is so loud.
‘I knew there was a reason you didn’t seem happy for me when I told you we were seeing each other,’ she says. ‘I knew you were jealous of me.’
Jealous! This is too much. But I know if I say anything, I’ll cry. What does she want from me? Does she want me to say You’re right – I wasn’t happy for you because I’m jealous that you’re going out with Ryan? Or would she rather just hear the truth? No, I wasn’t happy for you because I’m scared you’re living proof that I have to lose weight if I want to get a guy. I wasn’t happy that a guy who couldn’t even bring himself to kiss me once is finding it so easy to have a proper relationship with you. I’m not happy that I’m getting absolutely nowhere with Joe, and it feels like I’ve been left behind . . .
I shake my wrist free of her grasp, but am spared having to come up with an answer because Ryan’s appeared from the garden, looking stressed and shifty at the sight of us in tense conversation.
‘Oh, sorry to interrupt,’ he says awkwardly.
‘Not at all – I was just going to the kitchen,’ I say, not willing to spend another second in their company.
I stumble towards more wine. My head is throbbing, but I don’t care. More wine will help. Unfortunately, Ryan catches up with me before I can get there.
‘God, was she having a go at you about . . . the thing?’ Ryan says, grimacing.
‘Yeah. That’s what was happening. So, thanks for telling her, I guess.’
‘I’m really sorry! I didn’t think it was going to be such a big deal to her, which was stupid of me. It just came up—’
‘How? How did it come up? Were you having a conversation about humiliating anecdotes?’
‘No! Not at all! Jesus, Emily. It’s just . . . kind of embarrassing.’
‘I know you find me embarrassing – you don’t need to rub it in.’
‘No, I don’t! That’s not what I mean. OK, I’m explaining really badly. It’s embarrassing to have to retell the conversation. We were talking about people we think are like . . . attractive. Apart from each other. And I said I always thought you were really cute, and how you and I nearly kissed once, but at the last minute I realized it would make things complicated because I knew I really wanted to ask Camila out when she got home from Sweden.’
I stare at him, open-mouthed. My face flushes red. That’s . . . not how I thought it happened. At all. ‘OK . . . I guess that makes sense,’ I say, swallowing hard.
‘Yeah, and now she’s got a massive bee in her bonnet about it, like you’re some major threat to our relationship. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. I’m just sorry that I did.’
‘It’s OK, Ryan. It’s OK. Don’t worry about it,’ I say, feeling my eyes go fuzzy with the alcohol as I lazily clap him on the shoulder and send him on his way, back to Camila.
In the kitchen, under the harsh strip lights, I lean against the counter and wallow in my own confusion. Just because Ryan didn’t reject me because I’m fat, does it actually change anything? Does one person thinking I’m cute mean that things are actually going to be any easier with Joe? Joe. Where is he, anyway? Maybe I should message him? As I take out my phone, I wonder if I’m about to vomit. Instead of more wine, I do the right thing for once and pour myself a glass of water. I won’t message Joe until I’ve drunk the water. That’s a good compromise.
‘You all right, Em?’ says Oliver, limping in on a crutch, his ankle bandaged from a rugby injury. He’s the only person who gets away with calling me Em. I guess the fact he doesn’t speak much means that I let him say what he wants when he does.
‘Yeah, sure, I’m fine,’ I slur unconvincingly as he rummages around in the fridge for a can.
He looks me over as if to assess whether I’m drunk enough to need caretaking.
I’m not.
‘Whatever you do, mate, don’t drink and dial,’ he says, nodding at my phone in my hand. He cracks a broad, white smile and hops off, the can tucked safely under his arm.
He’s right. That’s some damn good advice.
It’s Sunday morning, and I’m squin
ting up at my phone, trying not to drop it on my face. I’m tucked up in my bed, and I’m relieved to report I only have a slight headache. I type a message out to Abi.
I hit send and let sleep take me over again.
I wake up what feels like minutes later, roused by the insistent buzz of my phone receiving a message. Most unlike Abi to be awake at this time on a Sunday. But it’s not from Abi.
My heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest. Any message from Joe would make me feel like that, let alone one where he says it would be ‘cool to hang out’. I’m snoozing no longer. I am officially wide awake. I regret opening the message so quickly because now he’ll see that I’ve read it. Damn. No chance to play it cool. He’s online, so I can’t mark it unread. If I leave it ages to reply, he’ll know I’m attempting to play it cool, which is the least cool thing of all. What do I want to say, though? He didn’t actually suggest when to hang out, or what ‘hang out’ means, or why he thinks it would be ‘cool’. I’m overthinking it. It clearly wasn’t the worst message to receive.
My message to Abi feels one hundred per cent truer now – would I have received this kind of reply from Joe if I’d drunkenly demanded to know where he was and why he hadn’t shown up? Nope. I cringe just thinking about it, and I didn’t even do it.
Thank God for Oliver.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Are “Friends” Electric?’ – Gary Numan and Tubeway Army
I barely take two steps into the common room at the beginning of our Monday free period when I hear Ella call to me from our usual loitering corner.
‘Emily, we need you over here! Georgie needs some advice.’
I make my way over to where the usual gang is assembled, but with a new addition of Georgie. Because Georgie is very tall and serious-looking, we were basically too scared to talk to her between years 7 and 11, at which point Abi was in a school production of My Fair Lady in which Georgie played Henry Higgins and Abi learned Georgie was even cooler than we feared, but also extremely kind. Camila and I are avoiding eye contact, and the others have clearly noticed the tension but don’t want to take sides, so this Georgie thing provides a welcome distraction for the group.
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