Adults

by Emma Jane Unsworth

  Hahahahahah I really do not know what you are talking about, mate

  Okay. Did you start the emailing or did he?

  Him. Why?

  Just asking

  It was a very complimentary email

  It’s still his choice of medium though, isn’t it? You’re in a safe little box. That’s all I’m saying

  You only don’t like him because he makes you feel morally inferior in your food choices and I know that’s true because you’ve started buying RSPCA-approved salmon

  Very surprised you have time to analyse the contents of my fridge these days given how much time you’re devoting to being online

  Do you think I’m quirky enough for him tho? He shot Patti Smith the other day and he knows a LOT about films

  Look, just because he owns a copy of Battleship Potemkin and has a few tattoos doesn’t mean he’s not a mainstream twat

  But then I think she warmed to him.

  SOBER SEXTS

  WHERE

  Are you and what are you doing?

  This was a regular line of questioning from Art in the early days. I relished it. I took my time replying. I cracked my back and waggled my fingers, magician-like. I crafted my responses.

  Kelly told me off for it. I suppose she was getting annoyed at this point by how many emails I was getting her to proofread and suggest better jokes for.

  ‘These are emails, Jenny,’ she said. ‘Not TV comedy scripts.’

  ‘But they matter,’ I argued. ‘There’s no way I’m sending substandard communication.’

  ‘But they’re too laboured. They’re … overwrought. You’re better when you’re fast and unconsidered.’

  ‘Hush. Now – do I use the word “mystery” or “mystique”?’

  I started running drafts of tweets by her, for her approval.

  ‘I’m not doing this,’ she said. ‘I’m not feeding the beast.’

  ‘What beast?’

  ‘The beast of your digital anxiety.’

  ‘As a friend you should give me what I need. I would give it to you.’

  ‘You need help.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘I’m not joking. Do therapists not specialise in this yet? Is there not social media rehab? There should be.’

  ‘It’s called motherhood.’

  Kelly was silent for a moment and then she said, ‘You’re making more and more digs like that, I do hope you realise.’

  Art said:

  Why the changes in font sizes?

  It was because I made notes in my phone and then cut and pasted them to create the perfect work.

  I mailed back:

  I have no idea! Life is full of mystique

  I stared at the message for hours, lamenting the fact I hadn’t used the word ‘mystery’. Mystery was indeed the far superior word. Sometimes the simpler word was the more effective word. Argh! Why was it always necessary to actually fuck up before you saw your gravest fuck-ups?

  The first time he tweeted me, it was his first tweet in two months.

  @thejenniferMcLaine YOU.

  That full stop. That full stop had me in A FURY OF PLEASURE. It was a hard black sun of decisive cocklonging.

  He continued

  Are a goddess. I am a drunk loser on a piano stool.

  I fired off:

  Get a grip, Tom Waits

  I gasped after I’d sent it. I kind of couldn’t believe my own gumption. I’d sort of done it without thinking. Even though I was getting into him, that sort of I’m such a loser shtick pissed me off, you know? It’s like all those people who make out they’re ‘such geeks’ (I’m such a geek!) online, as though they’re wearing braces aged thirty-two and gawking around in striped tights. What they’re really saying is, ‘I’m clever even though I’m stylish. Do not be fooled by my attractiveness!’ And what Art was really saying was, ‘I’m cool even though I’m commercial!’ I still listen to Tom Waits’ music. And all those other sad old men with their self-indulgent songs. Anyway, Art fucking loved my disdain.

  He replied:

  I have so much respect and admiration for you, Jennifer.

  I mean.

  How the mighty fall.

  I started emailing him every day, whether he replied or not. I sent him links to songs and playlists he might like. I sent him my funniest YouTube videos, decades in the gathering. I gave him advice on how to host his first cocktail party, an email that took me six hours and three drafts to write. It was one page long, with pictures and links. The effort!

  He didn’t say he’d made the cocktails. He did say:

  I have been looking at pictures of you online to while away the time.

  X

  A

  I replied quickly – not because I had to, you understand, but because it got it out of the way and then it wouldn’t disturb my sleep for the rest of the night thinking about what to reply.

  I have been looking at pictures of you too.

  Jx

  Which was a falsehood. I had been looking at pictures of his ex.

  I texted Kelly:

  I’ve found her online. Art’s ex. She’s a shoemaker called Eliza. Now I can no longer enjoy shoes or the BBC Pride and Prejudice box set. Great. Two major pleasures banished from my life.

  A shoemaker?

  See even seeing the word shoe is making me feel sick

  So what? She’s his ex.

  Do two big kisses mean the same as three small ones? Emotionally I mean. I want to look like I’m not too obviously reciprocating by being utterly repetitive, but I also don’t want to diminish the feeling

  I think you’re overthinking it

  WELL DEAR GOD FUCK YES QUITE INDEED. But do they?

  Jenny, there is no way he will be paying such close attention to all this

  Lucky him

  It’s not luck

  It’s unlucky to have my brain right now, I know that

  You can conquer this. You can. I believe in you.

  Can I send you a photo of his ex?

  Negative

  Just WhatsApped a screenshot. DISCUSS.

  HOW MANY TIMES

  Can I send you our last few emails to analyse the vibe?

  This friendship is barely passing the Bechdel Test rn

  He hasn’t replied to my last one!

  When did you email him

  Seven minutes ago!

  COOL YOUR JETS, MCLAINE

  Help me Obi-Wan, you’re my only hope

  […]

  Jenny?

  Jenny?

  I’ve been thinking about our bodies and the way they fit together.

  A.

  He has just replied! A MOST EXCELLENT REPLY. All good xxx

  Mate, you are so deep in Romania you can’t see the Romanian wood for the Romanian trees

  Yeah xxxxx

  Okay, well see you next time some chump ignores you for 8 minutes I guess

  They were a pretty good fit from what I can remember.

  J.

  What are you thinking about?

  I am thinking about my cock in your mouth.

  Shit – sorry, I mean your cock in my mouth!

  I don’t have a cock, obvs

  Okay I really don’t want you thinking about the fact I might have a cock

  Unless that is your thing? But I don’t think it is!

  RRRAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHWWWW AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH

  What now

  WHEN SEXTS GO BAD

  Do I want to know?

  Kelly, please, please, please, please, please can I send a few emails to you?

  No no no no NO

  It’s unethical

  UNETHICAL? YOU TOOK COKE IN THE CRYPT OF ST PAUL’S CATHEDRAL

  You bitch – we said we’d never speak of that again

  QUID PRO QUO, CLARICE

  SEND ME THE MAILS THEN YOU DICK

  Thank you!

  ABSOLUTE CHODE

  Just sent them. Also why won’t he give me his phone number, do you th
ink? All he has given me is his email address and he doesn’t have wifi in his home!

  What kind of weirdo doesn’t have wifi? I hate him already. It’s like those twats who don’t have TVs. Sad bastards, trying to make a stupid fucking point. I would never date someone without a TV. I find it positively offensive. People without TVs are pseudo-intellectuals who are too fucking stupid to realise that shit looks better when you watch it on a TV

  I think he has a TV

  As for those without wifi? They are addicts in remission

  ABLUTIONS

  The first time he stayed at my place he turned up with a paper bag. He shuffled in with it and hid it behind the umbrella stand as he slid his shoes off.

  ‘Been shopping?’ I said.

  ‘Just grabbed a quick shirt in the sale.’

  I caught a hint of it, then: his anxiety. I’d spotted the pills in his bathroom: Diazepam. A little something-something. Why not? My mother had her gin, and I had my work ethic.

  He stood in the hall, looking around, reading my life but also girding his confidence, I knew. ‘I have wondered so much about the details of this place,’ he said. ‘You’re going to have to give me a moment to savour it.’

  ‘Okay.’ I thought of how, a few hours earlier, I’d been in the shower washing my body in preparation for him, and while I was doing so I thought of him washing his body in preparation for me, soaping his penis while I sponged my vulva, there we both were, separately preparing. I’d giggled at the absurdity of it – the futility of it, too, perhaps. It’s one of love’s greatest losses, every time, I think, that kind of fastidiousness.

  Later, we kissed beautifully, awkwardly, our heads turning like sunflowers by teensy degrees, in front of the ten o’clock news. The best new love makes you feel fifteen again: clumsy, electric, conscientious.

  I said: ‘Where are you working tomorrow?’

  ‘West.’

  ‘You could stay. If you like.’ It was Sunday. Teatime. I didn’t want to be alone at Sunday teatime. Suddenly.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay!’

  We kissed some more. Then I said: ‘That’s why you bought the shirt, isn’t it?’

  He went pink. ‘Well I didn’t want to turn up with a … So I bought a shirt, just in case. But then it was also just a new shirt – so, no pressure!’

  ‘It’s okay, I don’t want you to worry. Shall we both just agree to try and not worry?’

  He grinned awkwardly. ‘That sounds good.’

  ‘I know it’s probably not possible, but it feels like a good thing to try and do, don’t you think?’

  ‘You are my dream girl.’

  ‘You are my dream boy. Let’s enjoy our youth while we can.’

  I looked in his eyes. It was as though we had shown each other a card – our most secret card – and as we did so, simultaneously (3-2-1, go!) we realised it was the same card. Hey presto. And like that, the fear was gone. It was nothing short of (much as I like to avoid the word) … magic.

  He went to use the bathroom. I imagined him seeing my things laid out in there and making conclusions. I’d arranged a few things, like a stage set. Left a few labels angled in a certain way. I’m sure he saw through them all, but knowing that was almost as delightful as the possibility of deceiving him.

  MY BATHROOM SAID

  Bathroom of a woman who is busy but takes care of herself

  Bathroom you can have a bath in with her someday maybe

  Look at that big shower. You could have sex in that shower

  The shower is very clean which also probably means her vulva is clean

  Smell her products. You know you want to

  STOP SMELLING HER BATHROOM PRODUCTS I’M CALLING THE POLICE

  TIPPING POINT

  The next time we were in a hotel it was in a spa town where he was shooting bathroom suites. The sex was rough and fast and he was more dominant. I guess he felt as though he had some ground to regain, and that makes me sad, now. (Did he know I’d seen his benzos?)

  At the end he pulled out and came on my chest.

  I was just about to tell him what to do when he got up and shot around the corner in the direction of the bathroom – I presumed to fetch a towel. Towel scrubs are a real feature of modern hotel-based sexual encounters. We should make more of them. It’s so impossibly romantic, having your abdomen scoured with a hotel towel, don’t you think?

  Art returned, towel in hand. I felt like a stain on something. The moment had more than passed. The moment had got on a flight to Rio.

  ‘Did you come?’ he said, suddenly realising.

  ‘No, but it’s okay.’

  I looked down at my tits, at the spunk sliding down the sides, off my nipples.

  ‘Did you come?’ I said. Which I thought was pretty fucking hilarious.

  Later, we took valiums and lay on the bed watching Stargazing Live.

  Modern love.

  MY MOTHER SAID

  ‘A boyfriend? Who on earth has managed to tie you down?’

  ‘No one. We’re just dating.’

  I didn’t particularly want to introduce them. It never went well, when my mother came down. Lingering ignominies included a book launch (with the Pope scholar) where Mother necked so much free wine that she read all the bookshop staff’s palms, unasked, and toppled head first down a spiral staircase. I was beyond mortified. (A psychic, Art howled, when I told him, who can’t see a staircase coming! I said: It was obscured in the floor! God knows why I defended her.) When Kelly’s mother came down, she made her pies and cleaned her house. She was the same woman every time you saw her. She had her feet on the ground and her grandson on speed-dial.

  But Art begged to meet my mother, and my mother begged back – out of curiosity too, I think.

  We met in an Italian place. She and Art hit it off with Campari spritzers and talk of Italy. Wasn’t pappardelle the true pasta lover’s choice? Weren’t people who used the phrase ‘a mean spag bog’ the perfect morons? I sat on the other side of the table, marvelling. I’d thought I’d have to smooth things, you see, like I did with my old friend and her father, whom she hated. That was a tough gig. (When he died she unfriended me, so my purpose had been clear.)

  Anyway. Art. My mother. I thought I’d spend the night passing the metaphorical salt. But no, my mother and Art were off. So much so that I found it hard to get a word in. They shared a sharing platter. They matched each other drink for drink. They liked the same music, the same flowers, the same shitty reality-TV shows. It was like watching twins reunited. A part of me thought – still thinks, age-gap notwithstanding – they’d make a better couple.

  At the end of the meal, Art said: ‘Tell me a story about Jenny when she was younger.’

  ‘She was possessed, one time, in Reading.’

  Art spat out his drink. ‘Were you?’

  I said: ‘There was fuck all else to do in Reading.’

  (I actually did think I had a demon, years later, but it was after I’d watched Paranormal Activity and I think directly related.)

  My mother said: ‘Jenny’s never respected my gift.’

  Art said: ‘What else do you do? Tea leaves? Crystal ball?’

  My mother laughed. ‘You can find out everything about my services on my new website, Medium at Large.’

  I said: ‘Never knowingly under-advertised.’

  ‘But really it’s whatever people want, dead or alive,’ my mother continued. ‘I just get messages. Things like cards can help build a clearer picture. A story, if you like.’

  ‘Human beings do so fall for a narrative,’ I said, pouring myself more wine.

  My mother said: ‘I’ll tell you about the time she won first prize at the swimming gala. A red ribbon for front crawl. She dived in and tore down the pool, light years ahead of the rest. You should have seen her go! Like a jigsaw through a sheet of metal. Dukdukdukdukduk!’

  Art smiled.

  My mother continued: ‘But the reason she won was because she didn’t breathe! T
he whole length she just stayed under and held her breath and went like the clappers!’

  ‘She’s saying I didn’t do it properly,’ I said. ‘That I didn’t deserve it.’

  ‘No,’ my mother said, ‘that’s not what I’m saying at all.’

  Art went to the toilet.

  My mother said: ‘I have a very good feeling about him. A very good vibe.’

  ‘It’s early days.’

  ‘But you must discuss why, for him, the fear is often greater than the love. You must discuss that, because that might become … problematic for you down the line. He lost someone recently, didn’t he?’

  ‘Just … please. Stop it.’

  ‘Do you want my opinion?’

  ‘Do I want some hackneyed psycho-babble instead of what I know? No thanks.’

  ‘I thought you wanted my opinion. I thought that’s why you invited me.’

  Her question terrorised me then. Why had I invited her? To please Art? Or was there some old lizard part of me still seeking my mother’s approval? Either way, it was primitive.

  Art came back. She and I paid the bill. When Art tried to leave a tip, my mother leaned forward, brandy in hand, and said: ‘You’re going to hurt my daughter.’

  ‘Right-oh,’ I said, ‘we’re off.’

  Art stared at her. He didn’t try and move. ‘I love your daughter,’ he said.

  ‘Who passed recently in your family?’ my mother said.

  ‘Mother,’ I said.

  ‘My uncle,’ Art said. ‘Last year, just before I met Jenny. My mother’s brother.’

  ‘Your mother, Deborah, who Jenny tells me is quite a woman. Quite the cultured Londoner.’

  ‘She is,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Art. ‘My uncle and I were very close. I’m named after him.’

  I looked at him. ‘You never mentioned an uncle.’

  ‘Love does not advance by weddings; love advances by funerals,’ my mother said, and took a long, satisfied sip of her brandy.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Art said.

  ‘She always says that,’ I said. ‘It means precisely nothing.’

  ‘It means that fear drives love,’ my mother said.

  ‘Do you believe that?’ Art said, to me.