Hot Mess_Bridget Jones for a new generation

by Lucy Vine

  ‘I have actually,’ I mutter again to nobody in particular but Dad is already talking animatedly to Liza the barmaid and introducing us. She’s grinning as she takes us in. ‘I’m Alan,’ says Dad. ‘It’s my birthday today! I am sixty years young! And this is my daughter, Eleanor! You can call her Ellie, or Elle, or Lenny. Lenny is what I call her, have done since she was a baby. We’re absolutely thrilled to be here. Very excited, very excited. Thank you for having us.’ He’s shouting over the music.

  ‘I’m not excited,’ I say petulantly. This is not what I was expecting.

  The giant bouncer elbows me as he casually leans on the bar between us, forcing me further out of the newly formed fun group. He booms at Dad, ‘Your name’s Alan? That’s my name too, Alan, mate!’ He offers an enormous hand for my dad to shake and they laugh, marvelling at the extraordinary coincidence, while I roll my eyes. Of course the giant is called Alan. Every bouncer is called Alan. If you’re called Alan, you either have to work in security or be born immediately into your fifties with a grey moustache. My dad was the latter, but if he’d ever managed to grow over five foot five, I’m sure he would’ve worked in security as well.

  Liza carefully places the much-discussed Cosmos in front of Dad and me, and excitedly sings ‘Happy Birthday’. I sip mine a bit forlornly, feeling left out of the buzz around my dad. He said he wanted to come out with me but he seems much more interested in Liza and the giant called Alan.

  I shake myself out of my sulk. For God’s sake, Ellie, every time you’re around your dad you turn back into a stroppy teenager. It’s pathetic. This is his birthday, pull yourself together and act happy. Give him an evening of fun for once.

  I look at him now as he takes his first sip of cocktail with everyone watching carefully. ‘Oh my goodness!’ he splutters, smiling. ‘It’s delicious, Liza! Thank you so much!’

  She smiles, laughing, turning to me. ‘Do you like it too?’ she says.

  OH MY GOD I’VE HAD ONE BEFORE I’VE HAD LOADS BEFORE I’VE EVEN SICKED UP A BUNCH OF COSMOS BEFORE.

  I don’t say that. I smile and nod, offering a thumbs up and taking a longer sip.

  Liza gives me a thumbs up back, and returns her attention to my dad, who is trying to guess ingredients. Liza is lovely, but can’t be more than eleven years old. I look around the busy bar. Apart from giant Alan, Dad and me, everyone here is eleven. Liza is laughing again – she seems totally delighted to have met her very first old people – and I include myself in that. She brings us two more cocktails, these ones are dark and rich looking. Might as well follow Josh’s advice and get really drunk.

  ‘Free drinks for you two all night!’ Liza declares happily.

  OK, maybe hanging out with Dad won’t be so bad actually.

  Two hours later and a couple more people have joined our gang at the bar. Alan never went back outside, because he says the other bouncer – ‘Oh, Alan, mate, him outside is also called Alan, mate! That’s three of us! We should form a band, mate!’ – will be fine without him. Apparently the place was already at ‘one in one out’ capacity by five thirty, so the third Alan just needs to stand there, glaring at people.

  As well as me, Dad, Alan the Giant and Liza, a lovely couple called Zoe and Lois are sitting with us, sharing a tube of Original Pringles that Lois smuggled in. Alan the giant says that’s OK, and he won’t confiscate them as long as Lois shares them. So that’s where we are now, sipping cocktails and passing round a tube of Pringles. It gets to Dad again, who’s never before experienced Pringles, and is close to tears with the excitement of it all.

  ‘They’re in a TUBE,’ he tells me again, picking up the Pringles and waving them next to my face for inspection. ‘Could you ever have imagined such clever packaging, Lenny?’

  ‘Have you never had Pringles before either?’ says Liza to me, who is apparently actually nineteen, not eleven.

  I sigh. ‘Yes, I’ve had Pringles.’

  She looks sympathetic. She doesn’t believe me.

  Alan the Giant leans over me again towards my dad. ‘Keep going, Alan, mate, you’d got us as far as your thirties.’

  Dad is telling his life story and we just got to the eighties, when Mum gave birth to me, and Jen came to the hospital to visit her new sister and said I was ‘gross’.

  ‘I am not ashamed to tell you, Liza, Alan, Lois, Zoe, I cried a lot,’ he says, wiping a tear away now.

  ‘Wait,’ Lois interrupts. ‘Are you two not a couple then?’ she points accusingly at me and Dad.

  ‘Oh, that is disgusting,’ I shout, standing up with the horror of it all. And then sitting back down again because I’m trapped inside the circle by a BFG.

  Dad chuckles and pats me kindly. ‘No, this is Lenny, my youngest daughter,’ he explains to Lois, looking at me misty eyed.

  Dad is the only person who calls me Lenny. He’s been doing it since as long as I can remember – he said he liked the simple loveliness of having a Jenny and a Lenny. I like it too.

  Lois shrugs, ‘Soz,’ she says, not seeming all that soz.

  Dad looks at me a little sadly. ‘It was a difficult period for your mum though, Lenny,’ he adds. ‘She had postnatal depression for quite a long time after you were born. She loved you so much, but everything was very dark. It took a long time to diagnose and even once she was sorted, she used to cry a lot, asking me if she was doing enough to show you how much she loved you. She felt like she had to make it up to you.’

  I never knew this. I certainly never felt a lack of love in my house. Too much, if anything. Dad and I look at each other and there’s silence at the table. I can’t say anything because there’s a lump in my throat, so I take a long sip of the sweet cocktail in front of me. I have no idea what we’re drinking at this point but apparently we’ve been working our way through every elaborate item on the menu.

  ‘And where’s your wife now?’ Alan the Giant asks, gently.

  Dad looks down and I clear my throat.

  ‘She died, Alan,’ I tell him, as smoothly as I can. ‘She had cancer and we lost her about fifteen months ago, after Christmas. My dad’s been on his own since.’

  ‘Fucking cancer,’ Lois says quietly, as Alan the Giant pats my hand.

  ‘He’s not on his own, love. He’s got you, hasn’t he?’

  Another hour passes and Lois is shouting that she wants to get married. Zoe is slightly less drunk, and therefore, less into it.

  ‘Look at this AMAZING MAN,’ Lois is shouting, pointing into Dad’s face. ‘HE HAS SEEN REAL LOVE. Marriage means something and I fucking love you, Zo.’

  Zoe nods, looking amused. She doesn’t say much.

  ‘I know we’ve never really believed in straight conventions,’ says Lois, with conviction. ‘But I’ve seen the light this evening. This man has helped me realise what marriage means. Marry me, Zoe?’

  We all applaud but Zoe looks annoyed.

  Dad looks thrilled. His first Cosmos, his first Pringles and his first lesbians, all in one night. What a sixtieth.

  ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ Zoe hisses. But Lois isn’t listening.

  Lois turns to Dad, taking his hands. ‘You must come, Alan. You can give me away! Will you give me away?’

  Dad nods. They hug. They’re both crying.

  ‘What about your actual dad?’ Alan the Giant asks.

  ‘Fuck him!’ says Lois, angrily, and then makes an awkward face. ‘Oh, actually, my dad is pretty lovely. He’s the reason I’ve always accepted who I am and he was so proud when I came out. I should probably let him give me away. Sorry, Alan.’

  Dad wipes his eyes and tells Lois not to worry. She says maybe Dad can be a bridesmaid of sorts and Alan the Giant can officiate, because apparently that has been a life-long dream of his. Dad wants to know if there will be Cosmos and Pringles available at the wedding. ‘You two should get married,’ he’s saying, eyes shining again.

  God he’s cried a lot tonight.

  Zoe sighs, annoyed. ‘Lois, stop it, for fuck’s sake. I’
m not getting engaged in an All Bar One. Stop being such an attention seeker.’

  Alan the Giant looks a bit huffy. ‘And what’s wrong with an All Bar One, young lady? We’ve had plenty of proposals in here, haven’t we, Liza?’

  She’s nodding emphatically as Dad turns, a little more sober-faced, to the group.

  ‘I’m very proud of you all,’ he starts. ‘I was hoping to talk to you all about something.’

  Oh fuck, it’s that fucking speech again.

  I interrupt, hastily. ‘My dad’s hoping to start dating again,’ I explain.

  He looks embarrassed. ‘I am very lonely,’ he tells the already emotional group, who lose it yet again at this statement. Even Alan the Giant is fisting his eye.

  ‘We’ll find you someone!’ Liza says triumphantly, pulling out her phone and opening Facebook. Good idea, because obviously all her eleven-year-old friends will be gagging for a date with my tiny, sixty-year-old dad.

  ‘Have you tried Tinder yet, Alan?’ Lois asks.

  Zoe looks excited.

  ‘Yeah, let’s get Alan on Tinder!’ Liza joins in.

  Dad is nodding enthusiastically but definitely doesn’t know what Tinder is.

  Oh God, this is the worst.

  ‘Erm, is this a good idea . . . ?’ I try but Lois interrupts me.

  ‘Have you got a smartphone, Alan?’ she says. Dad hands it over and she starts fiddling. I realise with a start that this whole situation is horribly familiar. It’s like a parallel reality version of my night at Sophie’s house a few weeks ago. A Kafkaesque version of my life, and I’m trapped inside it.

  Alan the Giant is leaning over. ‘Gosh, Alan, mate, you’ve got a lot of photos on Facebook, haven’t you, mate?’

  Dad nods excitedly. ‘You must add me!’

  They pick a photo of him and start searching for matches in the vicinity. I watch in total horror as the first woman’s face pops up.

  Me.

  I’m the first suggestion.

  Of course.

  Of. Fucking. Course.

  I take the phone as Lois gives the group an I-told-you-so face.

  ‘Let’s definitely not, shall we?’

  It’s close to 1 a.m. and Dad is telling the group about his recent retiree project; investigating the family tree.

  ‘. . . of course, the war criminals were only on Lenny’s mum’s side of the family,’ he explains blithely. ‘My side were just in prison for thieving and raping the locals.’

  I yawn loudly and Liza leans across.

  ‘So, Ellie, tell me about you,’ she starts. We haven’t really spoken much yet tonight, and I smile, wondering if I could tell her about my painting and the gallery, and my newfound ambition and –

  She interrupts my thought process. ‘You’re single, right? Why are you single? High standards?’

  Cool. Straight in there.

  Liza’s already told us all about her own love life – in graphic detail – and asked for advice on what to do about her boyfriend of four months, who, she says, just doesn’t seem ready to commit yet. We suggested she be patient, but she says she doesn’t want to be an ‘old mum’.

  OK, I’m ready for this.

  I take a deep breath and explain, ‘Actually, honestly, Liza, I have really low standards, so I don’t think it’s that. I don’t know what the answer is. I can only tell you that I like being single. I like my freedom, I like being selfish. My life isn’t exactly how I pictured it, but being on my own has never been an issue. I love my own space and I worry what a relationship would do to that. Even the best boyfriends in the world are difficult and need shouting at occasionally. I haven’t had to shout at anyone at all since I broke up with my ex, Tim. Or been shouted at. I can just be who I want to be. So yeah, I just like being single.’

  The group has turned to face me during my speech, and the Alan the Giant is nodding encouragingly.

  Hurray! Maybe I got through to these people. I’m so bored of the pity.

  ‘Don’t worry, love, you’ll meet someone soon,’ he offers reassuringly.

  Trying not to roll my eyes, I try one final time. ‘Thanks, but I’m happy on my own.’

  Liza looks thoughtful. ‘Have you considered therapy?’

  ‘For what?’ I am perplexed.

  ‘To fix that,’ she adds helpfully.

  ‘Fix . . . happiness?’ I say carefully, and she’s nodding.

  ‘You shouldn’t be happy being single, that’s just weird and wrong.’

  This is pointless. ‘Oh hey, Lois,’ I grin, changing the subject. ‘If I were gay, would you fancy m—’

  She cuts me off. ‘Oh my God, if you ask me if I would date you if you were gay, I am going to punch you in the vagina.’

  Oh.

  ‘I wasn’t going to ask that!’ I say, fake laughing.

  I was.

  ‘That’s not even anatomically possible anyway,’ I add, muttering. ‘You’re probably thinking of the vulva.’

  She rolls her eyes but smiles and ruffles my hair.

  Dad watches us, half smiling.

  ‘You know, Ellie, I want you to know you can tell me absolutely anything,’ he says, haltingly.

  ‘Er, sure?’ I reply, cautiously.

  ‘I know you’ve been on your own since Timothy, and I’d want you to feel like you could speak to me if you decided that he – or, er, any other man – wasn’t the right life path for you. You could talk to me about that if you wanted.’

  Interesting.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, curious.

  He shifts in his seat. ‘Well, I just mean, I see you here, getting on so well with lovely Zoe and Lois, and they’re very happy together, and I thought maybe . . . ’

  ‘Dad.’ I narrow my eyes. ‘Are you asking me if I’m gay?’

  ‘Oh my goodness, no I wouldn’t!’ he looks alarmed, adding. ‘There is no pressure for you to tell me that. Not now. I would never make you tell me anything like that until you were totally ready. Whenever. You must do it at your own pace. I just wanted you to know that whenever you feel comfortable, I’m here for you.’

  ‘And you’d be all right with it, if I were gay?’ I ask, genuinely curious.

  ‘Oh my darling, of course I would.’ He hugs me and I think how lucky I am to have such a warm, loving dad. My family might be dysfunctional as fuck, but there’s a lot of kindness here. Even if I had to lose one of my parents, I know I’m still streets ahead of a lot of other people.

  ‘Dad, that is so nice,’ I tell him. ‘But I’m not gay.’

  He looks disappointed.

  ‘But you’ve been single for so long. Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s not that long,’ I say exasperated. ‘And yes, I’m totally sure.’

  I consider telling him about a girl I kissed in my second year of university and how little it did for me. And then I remember that this is my father, and it would be the worst conversation we could ever have – and that includes the one where he told me Mum was dying.

  ‘You’re very sweet, Dad, but being single doesn’t mean I’m a lesbian. Although hey . . .’ I turn, laughing towards Lois, ‘. . . I think sometimes it would be easier if I w—’

  She rolls her eyes again and cuts me off. ‘Don’t say that either. God, be a cliché some more, why don’t you, Ellie?

  Oh. My bad.

  Dad finishes his cocktail and slowly chews on the Jammy Dodger that came with the drink.

  ‘OK,’ he says slowly. ‘Well, whoever you are and whatever you do, I am so proud of you, Lenny.’

  ‘I know, Dad, I’m proud of you too. Shall we get an Uber?’

  He looks suspicious. ‘Is that number seven on the menu? You know I’m not a big fan of rum.’

  I laugh. ‘Happy birthday, Dad.’

  8

  6.20 p.m. Friday, 15 March

  Location: My cramped, mould-ridden shower, which is dribbling alternately hot and cold water from a shower head coated in immoveable limescale. There’s hair blocking the drain, and several
almost-empty Radox bottles lining the floor. All belonging to Josh. But he says he ‘needs them’ so no I can’t throw them away. I will viciously knock each and every one of them over before I get out.

  For God’s sake. I’m nearly thirty and have still not worked out what to do about my body hair. I’m in the shower having an actual out-loud argument with myself about it. Of course, objectively I know it is nonsense that I should consider it a problem. It’s hair, it’s fucking hair – WHY DOES IT MATTER? – but I’m not immune to society telling me everything below my neck is disgusting. I have a date tonight with a guy who actually seems genuinely promising, and I know I should do something about it, just in case, but I’m paralysed. I always leave it too late for a wax (mostly deliberately because it’s awful and mortifying and painful, and when exactly are you supposed to go? Three days before? The day before? Seven days after? I have no idea). I could shave, and I usually persuade myself to do that, but that’s awful too. If I shave now, it’ll be fine for exactly an hour and a half, and then I will be covered in red spots, unable to wear jeans for at least a week, and trying not to scratch myself in public too much. I should just leave my bush alone. But I also don’t want him to think I’m disgusting if we do end up having sex.

  Sigh. It’s not like it matters; everyone knows the rule – if you shave, nothing will happen, and if you don’t, you’ll somehow end up shooting a porno and it will have to be in the ‘fetish’ category because you’ve got hair down there. Right, I am a feminist who does not have to do anything I’m not comfortable with, so decision made. I will leave my poor vulva alone. Free the bush. I climb out of the shower, feeling proud, like a naked Germaine Greer.

  Tonight’s date is with thirty-four-year-old Nathan. He’s a politics teacher and we’ve already had some really smart WhatsApp conversations about the latest happenings with this government, and the situation across the Atlantic at the White House. I think I came across as really intelligent and well-informed, thanks to the comments I copy and pasted directly from the Guardian. As I stare in the mirror, trying to find my one long chin hair and wondering if I should’ve shaved my face, I feel a tiny bit of excitement unfurling in my stomach. I’m not getting carried away or anything, but Nathan actually seems funny and interesting. And he wanted to know about me and my life. There’s the smallest possibility that he could actually – shock horror – be a decent guy. Hey, it’s a small chance, but it’s definitely there. Which is why I feel so worried about making a good impression with the presentation of my vagina. Oh, come on, I shake myself, if he’s really a decent person, he won’t care either way.