by Hannah Doyle
Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I try to calm down as I slip my phone back into my pocket, Violet’s bedroom coming back into focus. With permission, I rifle through her ‘summer spares’ wardrobe (true story) and pull out a replacement t-shirt, hoping that my own isn’t ruined forever. Crunched up in my left hand is a plastic bag containing a t-shirt now covered in you-know-what. The dulcet tones of my boss, shouting up the stairs to passive-aggressively ask when I’ll be available to get on with the picnic edit fill the room. And yet suddenly, an afternoon spent staring at pictures of Violet popping a cream scone into her smug gob doesn’t look so bad after all.
The sensible, grown-up, adult thing to do would be to own up. Come right out with it. Just rip that plaster off. Hey Mila I accidentally bonked Hot Tom twice please don’t be cross! But just when I feel like I’m plucking up the courage, Mila returns with our drinks and a bombshell.
‘Mike and I are moving in together,’ she grins as she sits down.
‘WHAT? That’s amazing news! You’re moving in? Together?’
‘Yes! Me and Mike, moving in together! Shall I say those words a few more times before it sinks in?’
She’s chuckling at my reaction.
‘Bloody hell Mila. This is HUGE. I’m so pleased for you guys!’ I jump out of my seat
and bound round to her side of the table, engulfing her in a hug. She’s so cute and petite that her head nestles on top of my boobs. ‘This calls for prosecco.’
‘Yes it does! It all feels very grown up.’
‘It is very grown up Mils. Moving in with a boy. Well, not a boy. The boy. You two are proper loved up. I’m in awe at how sussed and sorted you are.’
Mila bunches up her beautiful face for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but I am really happy about it. Mike and I have been together for almost two years now and it definitely seems like the right time. Anyway, tell me more about the Vomit thing.’
‘What? No! I need to hear how Mike asked you to move in. Did he give you a key? Was it wrapped up in a box? Did the box have a balloon on it? Were there doves involved?’
Mila snorts. ‘I love that you assume my life is like a rom com. There were no boxes, balloons or doves because I’m not actually living in a Disney movie. We were in the supermarket trying to remember what ingredients you need for a moussaka when Mike handed me some minced lamb and said, “Shall we move in together?”’
Huh. Mila’s right, it’s not quite the romantic scene I’d pictured. Though cooking a moussaka with the love of your life sounds pretty dreamy, too.
‘Now tell me about Violet!’
I can’t shake the feeling that she doesn’t really want to dwell on her exciting news but I’m also too scared to argue back.
‘Mils, that’s amazing. Congratulations,’ I give her hand a squeeze. ‘As for Violet, she was being quite nice and helpful for a good few minutes this morning and she gave me a bag full of her rejected gifts which are actually decent.’ I motion at my new top and the gold moon charm necklace as evidence.
‘What she said was inexcusable.’
‘Do you think?’ I ask, examining my necklace.
Mila slams her prosecco down on the table.
‘Jazzy, she was so rude!’
‘And maybe kind of right? I’ve been thinking about it. I am a bit disastrous.’
‘What Vomit said was COMPLETE WANK,’ Mila’s outraged. ‘She was jealous of your date with Alessandro, that’s all. Besides, you’re not disastrous. It’s not like you haven’t met guys with potential in the past. I think you’re too scared to let a good guy get close to you, so you go hunting for some ridiculous reason why he’s not right.’
‘Really?’
‘And the men you did date were jerks,’ adds Mila. ‘It’s like you were deliberately sabotaging your love life.’
I fiddle with the necklace. ‘Surely my brain doesn’t make me lust after fuck boys?’
‘I think that after what happened with your mum, you’ve been hell bent on choosing the right guy. I know you can’t face the idea that you’d have to go through what she went through. Because of that you’ve spent so much time and energy trying to find the perfect guy that you failed to notice you’re going for the exact wrong type. It’s like you’re subconsciously willing history to repeat itself.’
We stare at each other for a bit.
‘Mate, did you read some brainy books while you were away?’
‘Ha,’ she laughs. ‘It doesn’t matter because all of that is in the past now we’re hunting for your new type on paper. Any news to report? Have you lined up date number four yet?’
Shit.
Now’s the perfect time to tell her about my Hot Tom regression.
Now.
Maybe. . . now?
Or maybe. . . ‘Look at this on the drinks menu, a sriracha margarita! Have you tried one of those before? Will it be too spicy? Shall we get one?’
‘OF COURSE we should get one, now stop trying to distract me. What are you hiding? Wait a minute. . . you’ve had sex!’ Mila booms. BOOMS. So far tonight she has bellowed the phrases complete wank and you’ve had sex into this busy restaurant. Oblivious to the stares, Mila is now loudly wondering who it could be that I’ve hooked up with.
‘DID YOU HAVE SEX WITH THE KING OF ITALY?’
A woman nearby gives me a look as if to say, ‘Get it, gurl.’
Nope. Never been more embarrassed.
‘Can you stop shouting please?’ I say, shrugging my shoulders up around my ears.
‘But did you?’
I’m going to have to come clean.
‘No, I did not.’
‘So who was it?’
‘How can you even tell? You’re so clever and intuitive, Mila. And pretty.’
‘Who. Was. It?’
There’s nowhere left to hide.
‘Hot Tom,’ I mumble.
‘I’m sorry, for a minute there I thought you said Hot Tom. But that can’t be right, can it? Because Hot Tom is no longer on your to do list. Pretty sure I drew a red cross through his name and told you to move the eff on.’
I’d like to argue that my best friend is not the boss of me but, let’s face it, I need all the help I can get. If she wants to take charge, she can. I’ve nothing to lose. I reach over to pat my best friend on the head, grateful for her support.
‘Stop that,’ she barks, swatting away my hand with her own. It hurts a bit and I give it a rub. ‘I am so mad at you. Are you saying that you hooked up with Tom this week?’
‘Yes,’ I say meekly, draining the last of my drink. ‘In my defence, I was about to give up on the mission full stop. Then your flowers arrived and I got this renewed sense of purpose, so off I went to ditch Hot Tom, but then he was all naked and. . . You know I make bad decisions when you’re not around.’
She looks almost as disappointed in me as I am in myself. ‘Did you feel good about it? And I don’t mean what he did with his aubergine emoji. I mean EMOTIONALLY.’
I shake my head. ‘I did not. But I did see sense in the end and he’s officially out of my life now, so I’m looking at it as a blip in the plan. Besides, he definitely got the message. I haven’t had a dick pic in days.’
Mum’s all in a dither. She’s fanning herself with a brochure and faffing with the broach on her dress. She thinks she’s spotted that gardening guru all mums fancy walking our way and from what I can gather, that’s the equivalent of me seeing Cillian Murphy on the approach.
(He’s hot, no? Guys?!)
‘Quick, say something clever about flowers,’ she whispers.
‘You’re really asking the wrong person here,’ I madly look around for inspiration. My eyes land on a display of pink and yellow petunias. ‘Don’t these petunias look particularly full of. . . petal?’ I announce loudly as a billowy haired man walks past.
‘Panic over, it wasn’t him,’ says Mum, letting her breathing return to normal. ‘And darling, that’s not a petunia.’
‘
Oh soz,’ I reply, crestfallen.
‘Thank you for trying, though,’ she adds kindly, linking my arm as we shuffle our way through the crowds during our annual flower show visit. We first came here the year after Dad did what Dad did and it’s become a mother–daughter tradition ever since. I buy the tickets and then have a little weep for my bank balance, but we always have the best time. Mum has never given up on the dedicated pursuit of trying to educate me about horticulture and sings out the Latin names of each plant/herb/tree as we pass. Then she attempts to test me over a picnic lunch and we’ll fall about laughing as it transpires that I’ve remembered chuff all and make up my own names instead. Though I do think Perky McPetalPants should be a real name for a flower.
It sounds like a middle-aged day out but I love it. There’s actually some seriously cool stuff here. . . designs by incredible architects and ideas to get you thinking. I always bring my camera. Somehow, even though we’re still in London and surrounded by people, it feels like an escape. And seeing that smile on my mum’s face will be something I never, ever tire of.
‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Mum suddenly stops and spins round to face me, her purple dress whipping around her legs. Mum’s got the figure of a model, btw. Even before the yoga, she was like a tall, wispy wisp. I got the height genes but am a little bit more. . . blessed?. . . in the butt and hips department.
‘Ooh. What is it?’
‘I thought I’d treat us so I’ve booked a table at that seafood place.’
‘The one with oysters and caviar?’
‘The very same,’ says Mum. ‘Shall we?’
I’m not the chicest when shelling prawns, but neither me or Mum has prawn shell in our hair yet so I’m counting it as a win. Plus Mum’s even ordered us a glass of champagne and we clink our flutes together.
‘So when does the grilling begin?’ I ask, tearing off a chunk of bread and dipping it into garlic mayo. ‘I’ve been really trying to remember everything you said this year. That big tree? You know, the one with the leaves? Ace. . . oh, what was the rest of it? Ace Plantynips?
‘Acer platanoides. Close! I’m impressed.’
Bless Mum. Always there with the praise when her 26-year-old daughter can’t remember shit.
‘Actually I thought we could try a different topic of conversation.’
I keep my fingers crossed that she doesn’t want to talk about naked Tiger, naked yoga or indeed anything naked.
‘Mila came to my yoga class the other day and we went for coffee afterwards. Naturally I invited her to join my new naked hot yoga class, and she said she’d think about it.’ Pretty sure Mila will not be signing up for that. ‘Anyway, we got talking about you. How is your mission going?’ Hells bells. I really hadn’t planned on discussing my love life with Mum today. But I am supposed to be giving romance my attention.
‘It’s okay,’ I say after a long sip of champagne. ‘Date one was with a guy I’ve called Too Much Thierry, a Frenchman who started out cross, then was really sweet, and then became a sex pest. Pie with The IT Guy came next, a raging hipster called Arnie and though we didn’t spark he’s been really helpful with website stuff. Then date three was with Alessandro Al Fresco, an absolutely beautiful boy who was such a gentleman but, long story short, he now hates my guts.’
‘What about that fuckbuddy of yours? Have you chucked him yet?’
I spit out my bite of sourdough in shock.
‘MUM!’
‘What?’
‘You aren’t meant to know about that!’
‘For heavens’ sake, Jazzy. This is the modern age! I’m pretty sure I’d have enjoyed a fuckbuddy if I hadn’t met your father so young.’
Well there’s a sentence I really, really wish I hadn’t had to hear with my ears. To make matters worse, the girls next to us overheard and are trying very hard not to laugh. I’m practically puce right now.
‘MOTHER!’ Mum’s eyes are sparkling. She’s bloody loving this! Next she’ll be telling me all about her sex life with Tiger. ‘To answer your question, Tom and I recently enjoyed our last, um, evening together.’
‘Sounds positive. You should probably delete him from your phone, too. Just to make sure you stick to Mila’s plan and don’t get tempted to go back to him.’
I can’t say I love that Mum and Mila are in cahoots over my love life, even though she’s right. I also didn’t picture today’s horticultural trip with my mother ending up with a conversation about my no strings relationship with Hot Tom, but I’m starting to learn that weird shit happens when you least expect it. I rifle around in my bag and pull out my phone, opening my conversations with Tom for old time’s sake. There are the all-too-familiar aubergine emojis. The late night calls. The drunken messages. The multiple pics of his peen.
‘Why are you looking wistful?’ asks Mum.
Is it odd that I’m staring wistfully at my hook-up’s penis pics at a flower show? I think the answer to that is yes. I’m about to say something poignant about moving on from old relationships when Mum grabs the phone from my hands.
‘Oh my!’
Then she starts scrolling through the pictures.
‘Gosh, look at that one! There really are so many of these photos! I’m impressed that he’s managed to find such a variety of angles, too. Very enterprising!’
Ladies opposite are openly laughing now.
Mum has got her glasses out to examine Hot Tom’s particulars in more detail.
I think I might have died inside.
Draining the last of my champagne, I attempt to muster my last remaining shred of dignity. ‘Can you give me that back, please?’
I’m ignored.
After six painful more minutes of scrolling, she finally hands the mobile over. It takes me less than ten seconds to delete Hot Tom’s number and stop following him on social media. I thought I’d feel sad to finally close that door. But mostly, I just feel relieved.
‘Done. Now, can we talk about flowers please? I was very much enjoying those. . . herby things earlier.’
But the glimmer in Mum’s eyes is brighter than ever.
‘Darling, we can talk about flowers when you’re my age. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to steer this ship back to safer ground. And it is just wonderful that you take an interest in the things I like. Recently, however, I’ve been feeling guilty. We spend so much time talking about my passions these days.’
‘Why would that make you feel guilty, Mum?’
‘Because you’ve been so wonderful, particularly after your father left us.’
Unlike me, Mum has no qualms in talking openly about what happened with Dad. I hate to even think about it. It’s like we’re in Harry Potter and she’s the ballsy, brilliant Harry to my Neville Whatshisname. Dad is totally He Who Shall Not Be Named in my world. I flinch.
‘I just wanted you to be happy again,’ I reply quietly.
‘And I am. I am truly, honestly, happy. And that is all thanks to you, Jazzy. You’ve given so much of your time to picking up the pieces in our world. Now it’s my turn to look out for you again. Are you happy?’ she asks softly.
‘Yes! Work’s alright. Mila and Ben are amazing–’
‘It’s not a resounding yes, is it?’
‘Life’s fine, Mum. I might not be swinging from the rooftops but I’m not sad. I’m just fine.’
‘Well, the good news is that I have got the perfect boy in mind for you and your dating mission!’ Mum reaches out and squeezes my hand. Her enthusiasm is very sweet, but also NO THANK YOU. ‘He name is Charlie. He’s Tiger’s nephew. Can I set you up?’
Son of Zeus. Any nephew of Tiger’s is bound to be kind of crusty and possibly a fan of knitting his own hemp sweaters.
‘Absolutely,’ I say, too shrill. ‘Though I’m super, SUPER busy at the moment Mum. Violet. Working on my website. And there’s hopefully a job interview coming up too. Shall we leave it for a little bit until things calm down? And then. . . absolutely!’
Mum gives me
a look. She can tell I’m trying to fob her off and Mum is like a dog with a bone when she wants to get her own way.
‘Of course. We’ll revisit soon. Now, here’s my napkin in case you want to rub that prawn juice off your top.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Incoming,’ announces a man’s body with a box of popcorn for a head. The most precarious kernels wobble and fall, revealing Ben’s eyebrows and eyes behind. He hands me the box and flops down in the armchair opposite. ‘I can’t believe you’re making me watch this shit.’
We’ve come to the cinema and now that we’re in our (whisper it) middle-ish twenties, that no longer involves a trip down the local Odeon. Nope. We’re in one of those independent cinemas most commonly frequented by people in turtlenecks. At the bar, in place of the cheesy nachos of old, are things like organic flapjacks. There’s absolutely no chewing gum stuck to the carpet and Jade’s eternal love for Shane isn’t Sharpeed inside a heart doodle in the bogs. I’d feel sad for the passing of my teens if it wasn’t for the beauts interiors in here. Now that my website’s up and running I really need to put some time into my own Instagram as well as Violet’s, so I switch my phone to camera and get snapping.
‘Just because it’s set in the past doesn’t mean it’s going to be shit,’ I explain while Ben works his way through a packet of hand-crafted crisps. ‘It’s an epic tale of love in a lost century.’
‘Sounds like hell,’ he yawns.
‘You didn’t have to come. I did give you plenty of warning about what I wanted to see tonight.’
‘And leave you looking like Norma No Mates on a Saturday night? Couldn’t do it to you, kiddo.’ Ben’s polished off the crisps and produced a packet of nuts from his jeans pocket.
‘Norma No Mates,’ I scoff. ‘Though actually, thanks. It’s nice to see you, especially when Saturday nights are usually off-limits what with all the lady killing.’ Ben only has to smile at someone he has the hots for before they start making eyes at him. I get it, he’s a good-looking lad. Not that I want to think about that especially after whatever it was that happened the other night. Thankfully we seem to be back to norm now and him sacking off a night of you-know-what to watch a period drama with me is heart-warming.