Hot Mess_Bridget Jones for a new generation

by Lucy Vine

  We’ve been here a couple of hours and, despite my best efforts, the mood is not improving. Sophie’s quiet and snappy, frayed by a lack of sleep and a small child who is always present, even when, like now, she’s out with her dad. We ordered pizza – usually forbidden because of E numbers or something (gluten? I think gluten is the one we don’t like any more, right? E numbers was such an early noughties concern), but even melted cheese couldn’t help relieve the weird tension. My usually immaculate best friend today is wearing a stained blue cashmere jumper, matched in no way with a pair of fetching grey, saggy jogging bottoms. Her usually glossy hair is still technically glossy, but today the shine is more grease than lustre. It’s pulled back into a tight ponytail, with an attractive fat line of dry shampoo zigzagging along her unwashed parting. There’s also the sweet tang of perfume in the air, like a person – let’s say Sophie, specifically – has frantically sprayed an unwanted Christmas present around her living-room, just as guests are arriving, in order to mask a smell. Let’s say a ham sandwich smell.

  Sophie is, today, much more like I would be if I were to have a child.

  Usually, I’d be delighted by the slip in protocol. I would’ve crowed about being allowed to eat gluten (and, what the heck, E numbers too). I would’ve eaten the stale ham sandwich as a pizza chaser, just to prove a point. But not today. Sophie is not in that kind of mood. Not in the mood for fun.

  Thomas and I have carefully made small talk around the tension, which was ready and waiting for us when we arrived, and it’s fine, I understand Sophie is tired, but I do feel a bit hard done by. I’ve had a shitty week too and was hoping I could rant tonight. Rant about dating, rant about my work, rant about Josh and TS. Obviously I don’t want to make everything about me, but I was really secretly hoping we could make everything about me. I was hoping my best friends would tell me I’m awesome a bunch of times and send me home smiling, like they usually do. But I know this is not the day for that. My life and my stupid little problems would seem trivial and unimportant next to the real life difficulties of having a small child.

  I squirm on the sofa, wondering if it’s too early to leave. We were supposed to be watching a film – Sophie and I concocted a plan on Tuesday and rehearsed a whole script for today, one that would result in Thomas thinking he came up with the idea of watching one of the Twilight movies. But my partner in crime hasn’t even properly sat down with us yet. She barely touched the food and now she’s moving – prowling – between the kitchen and the living-room, where we’re sitting, picking things up, tutting at them, and putting them back down again. She’s snapped at Thomas twice now to take his feet off the sofa, which is something she doesn’t usually care about. She has a child so, as we’ve discussed many times, the sofas will obviously need to be thrown away in a couple of years.

  There’s another lull in conversation, and hesitating, Thomas asks again, cautiously, ‘Are you all right, Soph?’

  She ignores him, her only response a loud, weary sigh in the direction of the ham sandwich.

  ‘Come sit down with us?’ I add, trying to be cheerful, even though I feel miserable. She glances over at us now, like she’s forgotten we were here.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she snaps. ‘I can’t sit down, there’s too much to do.’

  ‘Then let us help you?’ I offer, but she shakes her head.

  The TV is playing episode after episode of Come Dine with Me and suddenly a drunk woman, with all of the cleavage you can imagine, shrieks with laughter. Her breasts shaking dangerously on screen. I snort and Sophie follows suit, the tension in the room slightly easing. I breathe out, as she finally sinks down onto a chair behind her, and adds reluctantly, ‘Ciara’s been poorly, so I haven’t really slept in two days. I’m a bit tired, but I’m fine.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I say feebly, unsure what to say.

  ‘That’s awful, poor little mite. What’s wrong with her?’ Thomas adds. He’s better at this than I am.

  ‘An ear infection,’ Sophie says, picking up a cushion and then putting it back down again. ‘She’s got antibiotics, the doctor said not to be concerned, it’s very normal. It’s just . . .’ She pauses and a cloud crosses her face as she continues, ‘Never mind, you two wouldn’t get it.’

  I feel a wave of irritation. Why wouldn’t we get it? We try to get it. I can certainly picture how exhausted I’d be if I’d been awake for two days straight, listening to a person I’d barely known a couple of years screaming in my face at 4 a.m.

  Actually, that reminds me of a couple of nights out after our GCSEs.

  But Sophie knew this would happen when she had a baby. It’s the one thing they’re actually honest about when it comes to parenting – you will never sleep again. She knew that’s what she was choosing. That’s what she wanted. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but she chose this life over our old life – how can she act like we’re the ones who’ve rejected her?

  Sophie is speaking again. ‘She just . . . Ciara never stops crying and crying and crying. And I can’t do anything to help her, it’s impossible. But it’s just a phase, it’s just because she’s ill and she hates taking the medicine. Don’t worry about it; I know you two find this stuff boring.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ I say, aiming for reassuring, and just sounding angry. I try a softer tone, ‘We love Ciara and we love you.’

  Sophie’s head snaps in my direction. ‘Well you never want to talk about her, you pretend she doesn’t exist.’

  I blink, shocked into silence. Thomas shifts uncomfortably on the sofa next to me. That is completely unfair. We do not pretend Ciara doesn’t exist. We hang out with her, we buy her things and we play with her. And when she’s not here, I try to talk about her with Soph, we both do. Sophie is the one who usually brushes us off – saying she wants to hear about the ‘real world’ – what’s happening outside her four walls.

  We all fall silent and Sophie picks up the TV remote, fiddling with the brightness controls. The drunk cleavage lady gets brighter and brighter, sitting in her taxi saying she’s had the best night of her life and holding up an upside down ten.

  I can’t remember the last time it felt awkward like this between us. It’s never awkward. I mean, apart from maybe that time in Year Eleven when Thomas got a girlfriend called Kelly who told him to spend less time with the trio, so we took her round the back of the science block and told her we would put chlamydia in her drinking water if she didn’t back off. And then when he asked us about that a few days later, of course we said she was a lying bitch. I remember that as being pretty awkward too. Especially after he dumped her in front of everyone.

  But not really since then.

  It’s true, we’ve seen Sophie do this occasionally – get in her moods. She’ll get really tired and passive aggressive. I always feel bad for New Ryan when she’s turned on him like this. But that’s what couples do; they pass-agg each other, right? Like a couple of months ago, when we watched this conversation happen after dinner, when New Ryan abandoned crockery in the sink:

  Sophie: ‘Are you going to leave that plate there?’

  New Ryan: ‘Oh. No, sorry, where should I put it?’

  Sophie: ‘No, no, please feel free to leave the plate exactly where is easiest for you. The most important thing here in this house – where you help me sooo much – is that everything is convenient for you.’

  New Ryan: ‘Sophie, I’m sorry, please tell me where to put it?’

  Sophie: ‘I don’t care, I really don’t care.’

  New Ryan: ‘You do care.’

  Sophie: [pass-agg snort] ‘I might care, but you don’t care, and obviously that’s more important, so who cares whether I care or not? Because you do not.’

  New Ryan: ‘I do care.’

  Sophie: ‘You don’t care.’

  New Ryan: ‘I do care!’

  Sophie: ‘It’s interesting that you’re pretending you care about what I care about.’

  New Ryan: ‘Of course I care about what you care about.’r />
  Sophie: ‘It’s totally fine, Ryan. I don’t care that you don’t care what I care about. Nobody cares about me. I have to do everything. I’m the only one who cares about anything round here.’

  And so on.

  It was pretty entertaining. But I have to admit, it’s far less entertaining being on the receiving end of it. I wish New Ryan were here to take the brunt of it (sorry, New Ryan), but he’s at his mum’s for the night with Ciara. He went over there, in theory, to give Sophie a break, but I think being a mum means never switching off. The worry and the pressure and the guilt never go away.

  Thomas clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Sophie. We’ll try to talk more about your family.’ Sophie looks at me pointedly but I stay silent, feeling resentful.

  ‘Ellie’s not sorry,’ she says, putting the remote down and glaring at me. Daring me to react.

  I look back at her, trying to swallow my anger down. I know she doesn’t mean this. ‘I am sorry,’ I say carefully. I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to have this conversation. I’m on edge, she’s on edge – this is all sleep related. I’m the same when I miss a meal. This is just the exhausted version of being hangry. She’s just tirate? That’s probably a thing.

  Thomas clears his throat again and turns to me. ‘Ellie, how are the dates going?’ he says, attempting to change the subject.

  Sophie tuts loudly, adding a sarcastic ‘HA!’ She knows how the dates are going.

  ‘Um, fine,’ I say lamely, looking at the floor.

  ‘She’s not giving anyone a chance,’ Sophie snaps.

  ‘I am!’ I protest, weakly.

  Thomas looks uncomfortable. ‘That’s a shame. Never mind, hey? I’m sure the next guy . . . ’

  I interrupt him, suddenly sick of the whole thing and desperate to be honest. I’m not even sure there will be a next guy. ‘I hate it; I just want to stop doing it. I want to come off Tinder,’ I say.

  There’s a long echo-y pause that reverberates round the room.

  ‘Why?’ Sophie says, tersely, frozen in the action of reaching once again for the remote. The other Come Dine with Me participants are discussing how Drunk Cleavage Lady ruined their night.

  ‘Have you met someone?’ she adds, knowing I haven’t.

  ‘No!’ I say, angry. ‘I don’t have to meet anyone; I’m fine on my own. Finding a boyfriend is not the most important thing in the world, Soph.’

  I can’t deal with this any more. I’ve had a bad week and I’m so sick of all of this, so sick of being patronised and spoken to like I’m an idiot.

  Sophie stares at me. ‘So quit then, Ellie,’ she says slowly. ‘Like you do with everything. This is just the latest white flag of surrender in a long line of half-hearted attempts at changing your life. You’re so afraid to try anything, so scared to try. I had to force you into speaking to that woman from Windsor at The Hales’ party. I had to force you on Tinder. I had to force you to actually go on dates. You wouldn’t even enter that art competition at work, even though everyone told you to. That could’ve been an amazing opportunity. And now the deadline’s gone and you’ve missed your shot. All because you’re too afraid to try something and maybe fail.’

  I bite my lip, she doesn’t understand.

  She goes on. ‘You won’t change your easy, boring life for anything, will you? Not even if it means something better might actually come along and challenge you.’

  I stand up. It’s a reflex move when I’m angry, I need to be on my feet, but it’s also a confrontational move. We are now both standing up, eyeball to eyeball.

  ‘You think my life is so easy?’ I demand, suddenly furious. ‘So what if it is? Yours could’ve been too. You chose to do this. You chose to trap yourself with a baby. Trap yourself in this perfect life, with your perfect suburban beige house with your perfect suburban beige husband. And you’re trying to force me to do the same, forcing your choices on me, forcing me on Tinder. Even if it’s not something I want. But that has never occurred to you, has it? Not once? It hasn’t occurred to you that maybe I don’t want the same life as you, Sophie. Maybe I don’t want all this fucking beigeness everywhere. You’ve never stopped to think that maybe I want my life to be different? To be actually fun.’

  I can feel the heat pulsing from my face and I can feel Thomas’ horrified discomfort from his position on the sofa behind me.

  Sophie’s face is blank. She takes a step towards me. ‘You’re afraid of it all,’ she says quietly. ‘It’s pathetic. You complain about your life, you make joke after joke about it, but you won’t do anything about it. And when there’s a chance to actually change things, to do something exciting and try something new, you close your eyes, put your fingers in your ears, sing la-la-la, and run in the opposite direction. You’re always running away from anything that could be real. You pretend you’re so happy and carefree but you’re a fucking mess, Ellie. You don’t seem to understand that you’re getting left behind. You’re using your mum as an excuse to stay in one place forever. You’re getting left behind and it’s your own fault because you push everyone away. Just look at what you did to Tim.’

  I feel like I’ve been slapped. My ears are roaring and I’m peripherally aware of Thomas standing up, picking up his bag, and silently leaving the room.

  Sophie points a finger at the door closing behind him.

  ‘And what about him?’ she hisses. ‘You won’t give him a chance either, even though you know he could make you happy. That he does already make you happy. Why are you so afraid of actually falling in love? What is so broken in you that you don’t want to even try it?’

  I throw my hands in the air and laugh, nastily. ‘I’m not afraid of it, Sophie. I just don’t want to settle for the first guy to come along, and then spend the rest of my life pretending my life is perfect all the time.’ I’m shouting now. ‘And better to be afraid than never being able to admit things aren’t the fairytale you expected. You think I’m a mess? Look at you.’ I gesture at her jogging bottoms and she winces. ‘Look how broken you are. But will you actually come out and say how hard all of this is? That you’re struggling? That you can’t cope? Of course you won’t. You can never admit this isn’t living up to what you wanted and that it isn’t the perfect dream you thought it would be. Instead of asking for help, you’ll just throw your life in our faces until you’re sure we feel inadequate. Until we agree to follow you blindly into the boring beige oblivion of suburbia. God forbid anyone should notice you’re not blissfully happy.’

  We stare at each other furiously, the toxic words filling the air between us. I’m panting, out of breath, my brain roaring with adrenaline and venom.

  I turn around, grab my coat, and leave, slamming the front door behind me as I go.

  Thomas is waiting outside, smoking. I haven’t seen him smoke since our sixth form leavers’ ball when he was trying to persuade cool girl Louise Venditti to lose her virginity to him. I smile at him tightly, but don’t stop, striding off in the direction of the train station.

  I hear him following, falling into step a few paces behind me.

  ‘Come on then if you’re coming,’ I say fake brightly. Like everything is fine. Like I’m not going to scream and cry at any moment.

  He catches up and for a couple of minutes, we walk in silence.

  ‘I . . . ’ I start

  ‘I don’t want to take sides,’ he interrupts.

  Fuck him.

  This is something I hate about Thomas, he’s always such a good guy. Sitting on the fence, refusing to get stuck in the middle. Even when someone has clearly been a prick.

  I just don’t know yet whether it’s me or Sophie who’s the prick.

  ‘Et tu, Brute?’ I mutter instead.

  ‘Who’s Brute?’ he asks, amused.

  ‘You are,’ I say impatiently.

  ‘I’m Thomas White.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Read a book, dude.’

  ‘OK, I will’ He still sounds amused. ‘Just tell me what book t
hat quote is from.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘I’ll go read it this very minute if you can tell me what you just quoted. Come on, Ellie, tell me about this Brute character, what does he do exactly?’

  ‘It’s from . . . Charles Dickens.’

  ‘You don’t fucking know!’ he laughs.

  ‘Oh shut up!’ I say, tears prickling in my eyes. ‘Why are you being mean to me?’

  He stops me and we look at each other. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me and then he looks away, and starts talking quietly.

  ‘I’m not trying to be mean to you, Ellie. I wanted to make you laugh.’ There’s a pause and he takes a long drag on his cigarette. ‘I will say this though. Whatever else crazy, tired nonsense was going on in there, Sophie has a point about you taking control of your life. When you talk about your work – about dealing with Ursula and Derek – you sound so in charge of everything. Even, maybe, too in charge when it comes to poor Derek.’ He snorts. ‘I know you’re unhappy there but you still do a good job and you’re clearly respected. You know what you want and the people around you listen to you and follow your instructions. It’s because you know your work is good, you believe in yourself, and you don’t take any shit.’ He pauses. ‘Outside of that though? It’s like you’re scared to make a decision for yourself. Scared of your personal life changing or evolving. You have all this bravado, but there’s a gulf between what you say and what you actually do.’

  I half nod, but tough love isn’t what I need right now. I need sympathy and a hug. I need to hear that Sophie was being unfair but she didn’t mean it. I need to hear that she was just tired (tirate). And that what I said wasn’t as awful as I know it was.

  He puts his hand on my arm. ‘Elle,’ he says softly. ‘It’s awful seeing you like this. I’m only saying this so you can see part of where Sophie was coming from. And honestly, I hate seeing it happen. You let people push you around without telling them how you feel. Your sister and Sophie especially. You didn’t have to go on Tinder, you didn’t have to do all this. Even with your dad, you speak to him so much but you couldn’t tell him how you really felt about his dating again. I’m not saying you should’ve told him not to do it, but you could’ve been open with him about how it made you feel. I know you’ve found it hard seeing him move on from your mum. And you won’t talk to him about losing her. Or talk to any of us about her.’