Are We Nearly There Yet

by Lucy Vine

  As Eva and I take a seat on the boat, tired but happy, Clara and Jan reappear, looking shagged, in all the different senses.

  ‘Morning you two,’ I say loudly, grinning. ‘Nice night?’ The family from the day before – still wearing their matching waterproof anoraks – glance over anxiously, aware of the direction the conversation is likely going.

  Clara takes a seat beside us, not smiling, and Jan sits beside her. They don’t answer my teasing question and the cloud of anger hovering over them is opaque. They are very clearly mid-fight.

  Well, that honeymoon didn’t last very long.

  Eva and I exchange an awkward grimace. A frosty silence falls across our group and I clear my throat, staring off into the middle distance. Anorak Family look uncomfortable.

  The boat pulls away from the dock and my internal organs make a protesting groan. I can actually feel my liver pickling inside me. I think I’m done with the binge drinking for a while. I’ve put in my time, I’ve committed to it, I think I’ve earned a few weeks off.

  Eva shifts in the plastic seat next to me. No one knows what to say. Clara coughs aggressively, like she didn’t need to cough but she wanted to make the point that she was there and she was angry.

  Jan gets up abruptly. ‘Does anyone want a drink?’ he snarls and stomps off before we can answer.

  I mean, he stomps as much as anyone who weighs, like, seven stone can.

  It’s actually really elegant.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I murmur to Clara.

  She shrugs, clearly not. ‘We had such a lovely night together,’ she says unhappily. ‘We stayed up most of the night and he kept saying how much he liked me and that he could not believe I wasn’t Spanish. I know he is a few years younger than me, but he seemed so mature and sweet, didn’t he?’

  I make a non-committal noise that I hope both conveys support for Clara and also distances myself from the idea of finding him attractive. This being the kid who yesterday spoke at length about shitting himself. Each to their very own.

  She sighs. ‘We finally fell asleep wrapped up in each other’s arms. It was magical. Until I woke up and he was on his phone. I glanced up and he was on Tinder speaking to someone else. He was sexting some other random woman while I was asleep next to him, post-coitus.’

  ‘They have Tinder here?’ I say, startled. She shoots me a murderous look because of course that is not really the point.

  Eva chips in, ‘Or maybe he’s just got his distance settings really wide? Like, to cover the entire world?’

  She has missed the point, too.

  I quickly put my arm around Clara. ‘I’m so sorry, lovely. What a prick! What did you say? Did you have a fight?’

  She nods, looking a bit tearful. ‘Yes, I went mad at him, and he didn’t even say sorry. He just got really defensive, saying he can do what he likes. He shouted at me that he doesn’t need anyone and is better off alone. That he didn’t owe me anything and I was just a one-night stand. But that’s not what he’d said at all the night before – he had practically been telling me he loved me! And then he shouted that I was just being a “bunny boiler”. I don’t really know what that means but I am a vegetarian, so then I got really cross.’

  ‘Ugh,’ I say. ‘Bunny boiler is a disgusting, sexist thing that gaslighting men say just to hurt and dismiss women. Men should know better than to use that term any more.’

  She looks even more confused. ‘Gaslighting? Because of his problem with the bowels? He only went to the toilet three or four times last night, it was not an issue. It didn’t ruin any of the sex.’

  I shake my head, feeling sick again. ‘No, gaslighting is a thing people – narcissists – do, where they make you feel crazy when you are having legitimate human feelings. Like, when someone is cheating on you and they make you feel like you’re going mad to cover up their lies, instead of being honest. It’s like a levelled-up type of negging.’

  ‘TD used to do that to you a lot,’ Eva says confidently, beside me.

  ‘He did?’ I say, surprised, turning to her.

  Did he?

  She looks at me, shocked. ‘Of course he did!’ she says. ‘You know that, don’t you, Alice? Didn’t you? He did it constantly. Since day one. He would tell you you were being silly – he would laugh at you – when you were upset over yet another horrible thing he’d done. Then you’d feel like you were overreacting and forgive him. It was really hard to watch.’

  She looks contemplative for a minute. ‘I think it was to keep you confused and vulnerable so you’d keep coming back, no matter what he did to you.’ She pauses and we look at each other before she adds in a low voice, ‘He isn’t a very nice person.’

  I let her words sink through my skin.

  She’s right. He did do that. All the time. And it worked every time. I would constantly question myself and feel stupid for getting upset over ‘nothing’. He’d make me feel like I was nuts for asking about our relationship status after a year. Or made out like I was the biggest weirdo ever for being upset when he didn’t text me back for three days.

  But even if I was overreacting – and finding another woman’s toothbrush in your boyfriend’s bathroom is surely not something you can ever underreact to – if someone loves you, they should still listen to how you’re feeling, shouldn’t they? They shouldn’t mock you or make you feel stupid for having emotions. Wherever the feelings are coming from, they’re still your feelings – you’re still sad – and a real, emotionally kind partner should hear you and try to empathise. Not make you feel stupid.

  Actually, my first boyfriend, Kit, used to do that, too.

  Fuck, I had no idea just how stupid I’d been.

  I have always thought of myself as such a strong feminist. I read so much about these things and never thought I would fall for an idiotic narcissist’s tricks. I suddenly feel very foolish and very relieved I didn’t send that text to TD a couple of weeks ago.

  I prod myself. Is there anything left in me that still wants him?

  Nothing.

  The relief is palpable. Absolutely nothing. I don’t even hate him any more. I just feel sad for him. He’s a miserable person who is going to spend his life trying to make women feel insecure because he thinks that’s the way to ensure they stay. Isn’t that sad? And isn’t it sad that I let it happen to me for so long?

  But I can’t punish myself for what’s done. Because that’s another vicious circle. You hate yourself for being so weak, and the hatred makes you feel unworthy of real love – so you go back. But not any more. I take a deep, slow breath in.

  ‘Clara,’ I say, my head swimming. ‘Lovely Clara, try not to be sad. Jan is very young and stupid. Of course he doesn’t mean any of it, he’s just a fucking moron. And if he spends his whole life pushing people away, being cruel and unkind, pretending he doesn’t need anyone else, he’s going to end up so completely alone, with no one . . .’

  I trail off, my own words smacking me in the face.

  That’s what I’ve been doing. Shit. That’s what I’ve been doing for years.

  Jan’s furious voice interrupts my realisation.

  ‘All right, Erin Brocker-bitch, have you finished trying me in your feminist court?’ he shouts, and the Anorak Family fully stand up, ushering their children away from us.

  Oh crap, he heard me calling him a fucking moron even though he definitely is one and many other words.

  ‘Listen, Jan,’ I begin in a conciliatory tone. I should try to smooth things over. We are, after all, going to be trapped on a boat together for another few hours.

  ‘Get fucked, shit for brains,’ he interjects. ‘Why would I listen to anyone else? I’m doing fine on my own, I don’t need some goth chubster—’

  Wait, is that me?

  ‘—telling me what’s good for me. Other people just hold me back. I’m going to be a body builder, living it up i
n Spain. I am on this road to success all on my own . . .’

  His loud rant continues, more like a speech. Everyone on the boat is his audience. It briefly occurs to me that this is a performance piece arranged by the organisers, and Jan is an actor hired to entertain the guests.

  But I guess sleeping with Clara would be quite a long game in terms of entertainment.

  Clara jumps up shouting, and the pair of them perform their set, yelling for the cheap seats at the back.

  I turn to Eva, ignoring them. ‘LeFou, I’m afraid I’ve been thinking . . .’ I say, and she adds automatically, ‘A dangerous pastime . . .’

  ‘I know,’ I nod. ‘Really though, I’ve thought a lot about it, and I’ve decided it’s time for my third adventure. Enough now, I’m ready.’

  She cocks her head at me, but she is smiling because she knows what is coming. ‘I’m going to Australia,’ I say, grinning back at her. ‘I think it’s probably time, don’t you?’

  She nods, and leans across giving me a long hug.

  Australia

  28

  AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog

  5 July – 9.07 a.m.

  Hey everyone,

  After staying in Thailand much longer than I intended, I’ve finally moved on. This next bit of my journey is going to be tough, but – I hope – pretty special and important.

  Anyway, I just popped on here to say thank you so much to Eva and Clara for being incredible people. I had a truly great time with you both and I can’t wait to see you again soon.

  But that’s not to say it was all good. There’s good and bad in everything, always. Just wanted to add that point.

  That’s it for now.

  Axx

  3 Comments · 149 AWOLs · 157 Super Likes

  COMMENTS:

  Jeremy Stail

  | Thank you for everything, Alice. Good luck with where you’re going. x

  Eva Slate

  Replying to Jeremy Stail

  | Miss you, Alice. Thank you so much for this past week, you know what it meant to me.

  Hannah Edwards

  | where r u now?!!!!!!!!

  I am standing outside an unfamiliar door, with all too familiar people inside. But I cannot knock. I’ve been standing here for twenty-five minutes and I can’t do it. I can’t remember the last time I was this afraid. It seems silly to say I am afraid to be unafraid, but that’s all it is. Being a coward is safe, I want to stay there. I don’t want to be brave. But my heart cannot take much more of this. I can feel it thumping loudly in my chest every time I reach for the door. Panic seizes me again and I step back.

  OK, I can’t stand here forever. This is it now. I can do this.

  I reach again for the door, but as I do, I hear movement inside – and I bolt. I run away, away, away, away, and I don’t slow down until I am out of breath, red-faced and sweating.

  Which, to be fair, only took about forty seconds but still, it is long enough to be out of sight of my mum’s house.

  Jesus, what’s wrong with me?

  I came all this way, am I really not strong enough to see this through? To see her? To say sorry? Am I that pathetic?

  I glance around and spot a coffee shop across the road. I will have a coffee. That will help calm me. Calm me in a much twitchier, pug-eyed, too-much-caffeine kind of way.

  Opening the door, I stop short at the sight of a young woman at the nearest table. She is on her laptop and for a second I think we must’ve gone to school together. She is familiar, but unfamiliar. Someone I know very well, but also not at all.

  OH MY GOD. I know who it is! It’s Constance. Constance Beaumont. THE BLOGGER. Ohmygod, she is amazing, I love her so much.

  Except, she is a bit greyer than in her pictures. She’s in a thin tracksuit and glasses. Not exactly her usual floaty Coachella-type style. I mean, I’m not a total idiot, I knew there would be filters and quality control on the shots, but – wait – her eyes aren’t even green. How did she do that?

  She’s still beautiful and cool though, still glowing. Do I dare speak to her? I want to tell her how much she’s inspired me. I want to tell her about my recent travels. I want to impress her.

  ‘Um, excuse me?’ I say timidly, aware she must get this all the time and probably hates it. She turns and looks at me blankly.

  Definitely not green eyes.

  What filter or app is that, because I want it.

  ‘I’m so sorry to bother you, it’s just . . .’ I am lost for words. ‘I can’t believe it’s you. I love your travel blog so much. I’ve basically been copying your trip, I’m obsessed, I love you. Me and my friend Eva love everything you do.’

  She sighs. ‘Well it’s all a load of shit, you shouldn’t,’ she says, but it is not said unkindly. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Er, Alice. What do you mean it’s a load of shit? It’s not . . . it’s not shit! It’s wonderful, you’re wonderful!’

  ‘Hi Alice,’ she says wearily. ‘It’s really nice to meet you and I’m sorry to shatter your illusion. I’m just having a bad day and you caught me in a moment where I’m really totally sick of it all. Sick of pretending. My life is shit, and my travel stories are mostly bullshit. I haven’t been out of Australia in three years, it’s all old stuff from my twenties.’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ I am lost. She’s not in her twenties? I thought she was about twenty-three.

  She goes on, not seemingly able to stop. ‘I’m sorry but I’m sick of it, I’m sick of having to be this slick, glistening thing all the time. Nobody cares about the real me. They don’t care that I have neck acne and a bad back from years of hostel beds. They don’t care about my irritable bowel syndrome from all the food I’ve eaten that wasn’t cooked properly from faraway places. Nobody cares that I really want to be a science fiction author, writing novels about zombies. My management says I can’t do it because it doesn’t fit with my brand. They say my sponsors will pull out if I don’t stay on message, and then how will I live? I’m too old to do anything else now, and I have a five-year gap on my CV.’

  She pauses to take a long drink from her takeaway cup of coffee. The smell wafts towards me and I realise it is decidedly not coffee. I gape at her like a dumb fish.

  ‘I’m just miserable, y’know?’ she continues. ‘But I’m not allowed to be sad, because that’s not cool. Actually, no, that’s not true. It is actually cool to be sad for, like, five minutes. It’s cool to write a really poignant, “honest” post about feeling low, and how everyone gets sad. That will get you praise and maybe a feature with, like, the Guardian. But then you are meant to get better and stop moaning because everyone is bored of hearing about it. The internet – my followers – don’t want to know how I really feel every day. They follow me for escapism. They want to believe their life can one day be perfect – like mine. But fuck it, fuck them, fuck everything. That isn’t real life.’

  She stops to wobble on her coffee-shop stool, pulling at her joggers, like she cannot get comfortable.

  I don’t know what to say but I suddenly feel for her so intensely. I am one of those people she’s describing. I didn’t want Constance Beaumont to have flaws. I wanted her to be a 2D shimmering Mary Poppins. Practically perfect in every way. She is meant to represent what we all could’ve won if we’d been so beautiful, so rich, and so privileged – like her.

  ‘Oh, Constance, I’m . . .’

  She interrupts me. ‘You know Constance Beaumont isn’t even my real name? It’s a made-up name my management chose for me because they thought it sounded cool. Do you want to know what my real name is? Janet Morris. Do you want to know what my middle name is?’

  ‘I mean . . .’ I hedge but she is on a roll.

  ‘It’s Janet,’ she spits. ‘My name is Janet Janet Morris. My parents called me Janet Janet Morris.’

  ‘Well that’s, er,
nice . . .’ I try.

  ‘No, it’s not!’ she exclaims. ‘It’s fucking unimaginative and ridiculous. But the stupid thing is that I want to be bland. I dream of being bland. I want to be Janet Janet Morris again. I liked bland Janet Janet Morris!’

  There is silence and I put my hand gently on her arm.

  She looks at it like she doesn’t understand the gesture. After a moment she continues. ‘Sorry Alice, you seem really nice, and I’m sure you didn’t want to hear all this. You caught me at a bad moment, is all. I was debating whether to post a picture of my cat. I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes, trying to work out if I can post a picture of my sodding cat. It’s not a beach or a chic, previously undiscovered B&B, so I don’t know if I’m allowed. I don’t want to ask my management because they always say no. But I want to post a picture of my cat! It shouldn’t take me half an hour to work this out. That isn’t a life, is it?’

  I shake my head.

  She sighs. ‘I just want to sit at home, eating Toblerones – PLURAL – and not sharing pictures of FUCKING BEACHES. I don’t even like beaches! I hate sand! It gets everywhere. In your bag, in your clothes, in your knickers, in your butthole. I hate it.’

  ‘Um, well, I know this is easy for me to say,’ I start slowly. ‘But . . . screw it, Janet—’ That is so weird to call her ‘—I think you can take a chance and post a picture of your cat. And maybe even a Toblerone. Maybe a cat lying down near a Toblerone? And I don’t want to freak you out, but maybe you could even . . .’ I pause dramatically, ‘. . . not post anything at all.’

  She looks at me and for a moment I think she might start crying. Instead, she bursts out laughing. I start laughing too, and we laugh together.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ she says at last, wiping her eyes. ‘The truth is, I do have a lovely life, and I do know how lucky I am. And I mostly quite like travelling! But I think people see it as this magic answer to all their problems. They will travel to Phuket, discover their true self, have some kind of spiritual awakening and everything will be perfect in their sad little lives at long last.’