Adults

by Emma Jane Unsworth

  ‘It will symbolise my detachment from the situation.’

  ‘UNFOLLOW HER IN YOUR HEART, JENNY,’ says Nicolette. ‘That should be enough.’

  ‘It’s all too raw,’ says my mother. ‘You need to trust yourself.’

  ‘I don’t know who to trust because I don’t know who I am. At thirty-five years old, at halfway, I am still waiting for my life to start.’

  ‘Do you think you’re halfway? Are the mid-thirties halfway? Do you think you’re only going to live to seventy? My dad is seventy!’

  My mother says, ‘Thirty-five is just the beginning. You’re not even remotely menopausal.’

  Nicolette and I share a look.

  NEWS ITEM

  It has recently been discovered that killer whales, one of three types of mammal, including humans, to have a menopause, have this menopause due to a complicated relationship between mothers and daughters. Beyond their fertile years, older females play a crucial role in the life of the group. Grandmothers help improve survival in larger matriarchal groups because they often find and share food resources communally. A pod of killer whales is made up of multiple family units, known as matrilines, which travel together. During the prolonged post-reproductive life of humans and toothed whales, a wish to avoid conflict has pushed them to abandon fertility.

  NICOLETTE SAYS

  ‘Apparently, social media is worse for women.’

  ‘Is that right?’ my mother says.

  ‘Yep.’ Nicolette taps her head. ‘The amygdala in your brain processes emotional learning, fear and memory. They tested a bunch of men and women and found that the women became depressed when they were presented with the same negative stimuli over and over. Men could blank the familiar stuff out and only responded to the new stuff – terrorist attacks, stuff like that. But the women reacted to the familiar stuff. It chipped away. They got anxious and depressed. And yet here we are, partaking. Perpetuating.’

  ‘Why?’ I say. ‘Let’s stop and ask that.’

  ‘I keep telling you to!’ says my mother.

  ‘Well it’s part of my process, I think. Going round and round. I can allow myself a few more months. My therapist told me,’ Nicolette says.

  ‘What process?’

  ‘Our process. You know. Our thing. I told my therapist all about you.’

  ‘Right.’ Sometimes I think about how many therapists in the world know about me and I feel sick with fame. ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘That we are similar. That we are … playmates.’

  I wait for more, but Nicolette just looks at me blankly.

  ‘Playmates?’

  ‘We know how to distract ourselves while we process what we’re processing.’

  ‘You mean like the world and meaning and … stuff like that?’

  Nicolette looks at me. Her lip curls in a way that doesn’t look particularly controlled. ‘Yeah, but the underlying thing too. We’re comforting ourselves, aren’t we, you and I. We’re living in repeats and circles because they’re reassuring. That there’ll be no surprises. No more hurt.’

  My mother has her head at an uncomfortable-looking angle and is hanging on Nicolette’s every word. She looks at me when Nicolette stops talking.

  ‘Mother,’ I say, shaking my empty glass, ‘I think we need a refill, if you don’t mind.’

  She reluctantly takes our glasses and leaves the room.

  I look at Nicolette. She turns her body towards me and tilts her head to one side.

  ‘That’s why we started talking to each other, wasn’t it?’ she says. ‘We were both grieving.’

  ‘What?’ I shake my head.

  ‘I didn’t need the details; I just got that vibe from you. Our sad bits attracted and joined up. You seemed so agitated. Like you were on high alert.’

  All this time I suppose I felt superior somehow, when in fact she was the one who knew my true heart.

  ‘Really? You didn’t just think I was … fun? I was in a Garfield suit.’

  ‘You seemed to me like a person in a lot of pain. Did I not seem like that to you?’

  ‘No, you just seemed … wry.’

  ‘Oh. I thought that was how we bonded. Over our horribly unspoken heartbreak.’

  I pause. Swallow.

  ‘And … what is your heartbreak, Nicolette?’

  I am dreading the answer, and also I know that this layer has always existed between us: the vast salt flats of the post-corporeal mind. Grey, cold and dissolving in fine mizzle. Nicolette and I meet there nightly, and we dance a slow dance.

  Nicolette hunches over. There is musty silence. She raises her eyes to meet mine, and then cringes like she is about to receive a blow. ‘My sister killed herself,’ she says. ‘Last January. She drank three bottles of wine and hanged herself. I can’t stop wondering whether it was the wine or whether she’d have done it anyway.’

  ‘Oh god, Nicolette.’

  ‘It’s okay. I don’t believe in closure so I’m just … assimilating. And I do believe she’s still out there in the universe somewhere, doing something. I do.’

  She weeps, effortlessly. I put my hand on her hand and I squeeze. Her hand is warmer than mine, I can feel it. ‘I had no idea,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry, Nicolette.’

  ‘So funny, I thought you could see right through me. I thought I didn’t even have to say it, because you just always knew. It was implied in a thousand unspoken things, I was sure. I think maybe you did have an idea.’

  My mother comes in with our gins. She doesn’t ask what has happened and I think she has probably listened or guessed or tuned in or who knows and who cares. For the next ten or twenty minutes, we are just three women sitting together, looking out from our faces, doing our best. Life goes on. That’s the great insult of it, I suppose.

  When Nicolette has gone, my mother goes down to make dinner.

  I lie in bed, staring at my phone and into the bowl of flies that has taken the place of my heart. With my other hand, I tweak my nipple hard. Nothing. I press the button of myself. Nope. I miss my body. I do. I miss it. Deeply and hard. The exchange between neuron and sensor. The inner interaction. I want to think with my body again. I miss that innocence. I am so sick of thinking with my brain. I tweak my nipple harder. Nothing.

  I draft an email. And then I do a strange thing.

  I send it.

  SENT ITEMS

  Dear Art,

  Good to see you at the exhibition. I just wanted to say that I know my mother has been texting you and I’m terribly sorry that you have been subjected to that kind of onslaught. I had no idea that she had a problem, and I do think it is a problem that she has (one of many) and I hope it won’t affect our friendship or your opinion of me. I trust that we can move forward and you will not judge me on this. I don’t even know why I feel the need to apologise on her behalf because we are such drastically separate and different people, but I suppose I just wanted to acknowledge it like the adult I am. Lots of love to you and Suzy and her very real child.

  Bests,

  Jenny

  I wait for him to reply. I flick through my apps and channels. Flick flick flick flick. I become increasingly irritated when junk emails come through. I didn’t sign up for any of this shit. Tooth-whitening. Budget-airline flight sales. Then one from a pizza company I ordered from once a few weeks ago in a fit of nocturnal starvation. Their winter offers.

  I reply, incandescent.

  SENT ITEMS

  Dear Pizza the Action,

  IT WAS ONE NIGHT. ONE NIGHT!!! THIS IS HARASSMENT. NEVER EMAIL ME AGAIN.

  Regards,

  Jenny McLaine BA Hons.

  HALF AN HOUR LATER

  Art replies.

  Jenny – please don’t worry. I took it for what it was, an upset and lonely old lady not knowing where else to vent her frustrations. I also took your outburst at the exhibition for what it was – an upset and unstable person venting her frustrations the only place she could. Hope you are well and that you are getting the help you
need x x

  I stare at the message for a few minutes and try and work out all the ways in which it enrages me. When I think I have them all in my mind, I reply.

  Hi Art,

  Firstly, she’s not that old. And she has plenty to occupy her; she’s working hard and making a success of herself. Also, what do you mean by frustrations? Because if you’re thinking she’s somehow unfulfilled either in herself or in her opinion of me and my life, then you’re wrong. Secondly, I was upset and unstable but at least I’m trying to be better. I might not be a premium kind of person just yet but I am slowly coming in to land.

  Jenny

  ASS FIZZ

  I get into the Foof office and there is a balloon tied to my chair. The balloon is in the shape of a huge fist.

  ‘This is to celebrate the number of hits you’re getting!’ says Mia. ‘Your column is the top read on the site, you little fuckwit!’

  ‘I chose the fist,’ says Vivienne.

  Mia merrily whacks me about the head a few times with the balloon.

  ‘Ow.’

  ‘Excuse me but I am JUST SO GRATEFUL AND PLEASED FOR YOU.’

  ‘I appreciate it but please could you stop that now.’

  ‘Here,’ says Mia, pulling up her phone on the cord around her neck. ‘A photo. For the Foof feed. This is a celebration.’

  There is a collective gasp. No one ever gets put on the Foof feed unless they are an extremely attractive intern or a celebrity.

  ‘Come on,’ hustles Mia. Vivienne and a few others shuffle into the shot.

  ‘I’m not going at the front,’ says Vivienne.

  ‘I’m not going at the front,’ I say, ‘especially if you’re going to tag me.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ says Mia. ‘Rita-Kathleen, get the clutch drone!’

  Mia’s assistant runs off to her office and seconds later, the clutch drone buzzes in. it circles us, taking pictures as we all pose. Vivienne is a sharp poser. I get elbowed and kneed out of position by her several times. For the last shot, she has her leg up on the desk.

  ‘Amazing,’ says Mia, looking at the pictures on her phone. ‘Well done, Jenny.’

  ‘Thank you. This is … very unexpected.’

  ‘In fact, your success is so epic,’ Mia says, ‘you have inspired me to take a sabbatical and write a memoir.’

  ‘Spare us,’ says Vivienne.

  ‘So I might need you to deputise under Vivienne for a while. Which will mean a pay rise.’

  ‘Don’t count on it,’ says Vivienne. ‘Bitch needs diamonds.’

  ‘A memoir about what?’ I ask Mia.

  ‘Well, about … me.’

  ‘Is that … enough?’

  Mia comes close and puts a hand on my shoulder. She stares deeply into my eyes. ‘You are enough, ginge, and the sooner you start believing that, the better. Your friend Kelly obviously thinks you’re worth something. She came to see me and Vivienne and read us the riot act. Said we’re not looking after you and should give you compassionate leave.’

  ‘Compassionate leave? For what?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I said. I mean, you’ve got your mother living with you. You couldn’t be more spoilt. But Kelly said your mother and her were in cahoots about it. That they were working together to get you offline.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And then she said,’ Mia looks at Vivienne, whose mouth is a volcano, ‘and we are still reeling from this – she said: Female stories are not a genre. Feminism is not a lifestyle choice. And that is not “a story”; it’s a fucking jumpsuit.’

  I burst out laughing.

  ‘The arrogance,’ says Vivienne. ‘The ignorance.’ She adjusts the top of her jumpsuit. ‘If I was bi I would definitely ask her out.’

  I go back to my desk, sit and try and imagine Kelly coming in and sitting opposite Mia and Vivienne, giving them pure hell. I wonder if she wore her white suit (her only suit)? I don’t like being discussed. Even more unlikely: Kelly and my mother sitting in my lounge, planning an intervention. But there’s something about it all that makes me feel fizzy down low, like the first plunge of a rollercoaster. I’m feeling a subterranean buzz.

  I text my mother:

  What are you and Kelly plotting?

  Did she tell you?

  No my boss did. So that was a hoot

  We are worried about you. Kelly came round to see me while you were out. She thinks you need us to step in as no one else will stand up to you.

  What else did she say?

  That Art never truly challenged you and that was why he wasn’t right for you. But as a friend the greatest act of love is to challenge you. You are not okay. She said that.

  I put down my phone. I have never felt so happy putting the phone down after an interaction with my mother.

  After work I go to Kelly’s flat with the portable speakers from my desk and a microphone from Gemma’s product cupboard. I set up on the pavement, next to a sapling ringed with metal. I hop about keeping warm while I dock my phone. I press play. The backing track to ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ starts up. I crank the volume to max. When the verse kicks in I start to sing. I see the blind go up in Sonny’s room. His head appears, silhouetted – I’d know his ears anywhere. I continue singing. By the chorus, Kelly is there – her smooth hair giving her the outline of a Russian doll.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ someone shouts from across the street. I ignore them and carry on. A few people have stopped. Someone takes a picture. Kelly disappears from the window and then appears at the front door.

  Sonny stays at his window, holding his phone up and occasionally shaking his head.

  When I’ve finished, I give Kelly a perfunctory nod and dismantle my equipment.

  Kelly shouts: ‘I reckon a lot of scornful reviews of you just went viral.’

  I give her a thumbs up.

  I walk off. She shouts after me: ‘Makes it all worthwhile, you know, freezing my tits off in your shadow.’

  On the way home, I email her, and I send it:

  Dear Kelly,

  I appreciate you going to speak to Mia – I know how much you hate her and the Foof office, so that must have been a genuine endeavour. I see that I have been in an oubliette of self-regard. I thought boundaries were a bad thing, but now I see that knowing where I begin and end tells me what I can forgive of people, and what I can ask for forgiveness for. Because you’re mine I walk the line and all that. I have also Googled friendship therapy to see if it exists and it actually does so if you think we need to go for that to fully repair the damage, then I am game.

  Love,

  Jenny x

  THAT NIGHT

  I sleep the whole night through for the first time in a year.

  The next morning, Kelly has replied.

  INBOX

  Dear Jenny,

  Thank you for the special gift of your music last night and for your thoughtful email. Do you have time today to meet for a coffee – this morning maybe? I can get out at 11ish for 55 minutes or so.

  Let me know,

  Kelly x

  Fifty-five minutes.

  Whatever, Kelly.

  Still, I do find the ‘let me know’ sort of thrilling. I am clearly so needy that even someone demanding a response from me is joyous.

  I feel like she’s chasing me a bit, and I like that.

  It feels like a beginning.

  IT HAPPENED TO HAPPEN

  I go in the café and quickly buy two coffees and two croissants and sit down at a table by the window to make our meeting as light and optimistic as possible. Kelly arrives on time. She comes to the table and I show her the coffee and croissants. ‘I got you a cappuccino – that’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. Thank you.’

  I point to the croissants. ‘And some pastry-based fuel.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  She takes off her coat and sits. I sip my coffee and watch her tear into a croissant. I pick up the other croissant and take a bite. It could have sat under a heat-lamp fo
r a week and I wouldn’t give a shit. I think of the microbes in my gut, receiving the white fluff and debating what to do with it. Billions of little voices, desires and commands and orders and opinions. Shut it, I tell them. Shut the fuck up, you and the rest of the world. I’m concentrating.

  Kelly looks at me and smiles. ‘Only you could send an email that contained the phrase “oubliette of self-regard”,’ she says. ‘Dickhead.’

  I smile, uncertainly. ‘You still love me, though.’

  ‘I do. And this is a problem. Because you’re such a dick.’

  I eat more croissant, encouraged. ‘How’s Sonny?’

  ‘He’s okay.’

  ‘What’s happening with the flat? Is Esther definitely selling?’

  I am aware of being careful, considerate, gentle, selfless. Like an addict who has been burned, I am reapproaching this with the caution of a novice. And maybe that’s what I am where Kelly is concerned. A new friend. And this is our year dot.

  ‘Yes, afraid so. Her kids are really pressuring her. Fucking kids.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Dunno. Still figuring it out.’

  I nod and sip my coffee.

  ‘How are you?’ says Kelly, and it isn’t a normal version of the question. It’s a proper How Are You.

  ‘There’s something I want to tell you.’

  She nods.

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you when I was asking you to forgive me because I didn’t want it to be like … the dog ate my homework.’ Kelly nods again. She eyes me with the deep, patient curiosity of a friend. ‘I had a miscarriage. With Art.’

  ‘You were pregnant?’

  ‘I was. And then I wasn’t.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me? ME?’

  ‘Art and I agreed to do the twelve-week silence thing. And then I was so ashamed.’

  ‘How many weeks were you?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘Ah shit, Jenny, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. It was just like an abortable bunch of cells.’