by Lucy Vine
She got cut off at that point as an indignant Tim insisted he’s never been a wet blanket, that he’s just a nice person and—
That was the point he too got an elbow in the stomach.
Jen started again through the door. ‘You don’t want to be alone, do you, Ellie? That would be depressing for everyone around you – oh, and for you. Hold on, I’m going to get Andrew, he’ll want to hear about his. GET OUT OF THE WAY, EVERYONE, YOU KNOW MY MUM IS DEAD, RIGHT?’
I heard her stomp off and continue to shriek in the living-room for her husband, who – I found out that night – was hiding outside in the garden with my dad the whole time. Dad told me later they almost bonded.
Psychic Sharon then started shouting that she needed the loo and I heard another voice – Sophie maybe – telling her to use the one upstairs, and that she’d find some Nurofen for the elbow-inflicted injury in the bathroom cabinet up there too. She told Sharon that Jen didn’t mean to hurt her, and I heard Jen shriek from the other room; ‘I BLOODY DID MEAN IT.’
The crowd had thinned a little then and Tim came back to the door crack, his voice soft and kind. A voice you’d use with a tantrum-prone child who’s tuckered herself out after fifteen minutes of screaming. ‘Ellie, I know this is a shitty, shitty time for you – especially today – but please don’t do this,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t be making any decisions while you’re upset about your mum. We don’t have to talk about this now. We’ll talk some more later, shall we? I’m sorry if I’ve got this wrong. I’ll do better, I promise. We can fix this, I love you. I want to make this work. We can make this work. Fuck, Ellie, we’ve just bought a house!’
But I couldn’t do it any more, I needed to be selfish. I moved out a week later, into Dad’s.
12
10.30 p.m. Friday, 29 March
Location: The local Londis by my flat, which caters for all of my food and alcohol needs. They’ve recently expanded into the shop next door, and don’t know what to do with all their new shelf space. For example, there is now a whole row for tartare sauce, which is great as far as I’m concerned. Can’t have enough tartare sauce for fishfinger sandwich-related emergencies.
I’m here to buy alcohol. Exclusively alcohol. After my fight with Sophie, and then those quieter, but just as upsetting, words with Thomas, all I want is to get raging drunk and pass out. Ideally, to the point where I wake up with absolutely no memory of today. Potentially no memory at all, so I can start a brand new life somewhere, as a pitied amnesia victim. Thinking about everything with Mum and Tim hasn’t blocked out the argument – the shitty things Sophie said, and the shitty things I said, too. I didn’t even mean it, I don’t think Sophie’s pretending to be perfect, I think she’s just doing her best and doing really, really well. In fact, she’s doing a fantastic job, Ciara is totally amazing. Sophie might have started the fight, but everything she said was right, I am a loser, and I am afraid. And because I’m a loser and because I’m afraid, I lashed out at her. I had no right to say those things to her. This is all my fault. It’s all me. I am broken and useless, Sophie was right.
‘You’re a stupid fucking bitch,’ I mutter to myself as I throw two bottles of white wine into my basket.
‘You’re a fat, stupid, ugly bitch and nobody likes you,’ I say again, a bit louder this time. A man at the other end of the aisle looks over at me, grinning, and I look down, avoiding his questioning eyes. Staring at the ground, I mutter again, ‘God, look at that, even your shadow is fat. You are the worst, the absolute worst.’
The man looks over again and shouts down the aisle, ‘Cheer up, love, it might never happen. Givvus a smile!’
My self-hatred briefly flickers outward. Lasers of red hot fury zoom in on him. Even when I haven’t just had the worst night ever, I cannot stand being told to smile by strangers. I snarl in his direction, and he snorts.
‘Just being friendly, love,’ he says and happily meanders off in the direction of the vegetable aisle. I debate storming after him with a lecture on how women feel about this constant demand for them to appear polite and happy. If telling women to smile is so ‘friendly’ and well-intentioned, why don’t men tell other men to smile? Sometimes, when a man tells me to smile, I want to point at other men – big, burly other men – and ask if he should be forced to smile too. I want to ask who made him the smile police. But I know I’ll get called a bitch, so mostly I stay silent and just, well, smile. It is hot garbage and I’m sick of it.
It feels nice not to hate myself for two minutes.
Is two bottles of wine enough? I look at my phone, it’s pretty late, two should be plenty. I throw three tubs of Häagen Dazs into the basket, too, and then look round for sanitary towels. I’m not on my period, but I need my basket to seem sympathetic. I know the lovely elderly couple who run the shop worry about me and my apparent diet of black coffee and sugar. Mrs Shannon recently brought up the fact that I only seem to buy Digestive biscuits and how maybe I should be varying my diet a little bit because I might get scurvy. I thought that was really sweet but pointed out that I do get variation in my diet. For example, sometimes I will buy dark chocolate Digestives, and other times I will get milk chocolate Digestives. And just so she would stop worrying, I’ve also started buying the newer caramel Digestives from time to time. See, variation. She didn’t look totally convinced by this argument, but English isn’t her first language, so maybe she just didn’t understand.
I regard my basket. Two bottles of wine, three tubs of ice cream, and some sanitary towels.
Hmm. Maybe that’s a little bit too pathetic.
I add in a bag of iceberg lettuce. It looks good with the rest of my shopping, and Mrs Shannon will approve of that addition. The colour will complement my fridge too, until it goes brown and I have to throw it away. Like all the rest.
Satisfied with my distraction items, I head determinedly for the till and barrel straight into Josh.
Shit.
He smirks as he realises it’s me, and then his smile droops a little when he sees my face. Damn. I cried a lot on the train here and I know the effect isn’t exactly attractive. I don’t need a mirror to know my eyes are red and puffy, along with the rest of my stupid, fat, ugly face, smudged with lipstick and smeared with mascara. My self-hatred surges back in, worse than before.
‘Jesus. Are you OK, Knight?’ Josh says, sounding genuinely concerned.
‘Yes,’ I say, looking away, staring intently at the crisps aisle.
Hmm. Actually, maybe I do want some pickled onion Monster Munch. Would I have to also buy some courgettes to balance that out?
‘What’s happened, is everything all right? Tell me,’ he tries again.
I shake my head, not trusting myself to say anything. Why is it always when someone is being nice to you that you get most upset? I really don’t want to start crying again in the middle of Londis.
‘Ellie,’ he says again, gently. ‘Can I do anything?’
I can’t help it, and a small welp-sob escapes. Josh takes my basket from me gently and puts it on the ground. Then he pulls me in for a hug. And it’s not until I’m wrapped up in his arms that I realise how much I needed this. Some human warmth. This is all I wanted from Thomas earlier. It was all I wanted from Sophie when I arrived at her house tonight. I start to quietly cry and we just stand there for a couple of minutes, surrounded by the comforting rows and rows of crisps. I hear Mrs Shannon come over and ask if everything’s OK and I hear Josh quietly dismissing her, politely and nicely by name.
Eventually I let go of him, and laughing, embarrassed, I wipe my face with my sleeve. There’s a wet patch on the shoulder of his grey jumper. I hope it’s from my tears and not snot.
‘Let’s get you home,’ he says, picking my basket up again and casually glancing at the contents. We look at each other and I wonder if he’s ever been this close to the words WINGS and NIGHT TOWELS before. He doesn’t seem the type to hang around girls long enough to encounter periods.
‘Sanitary towels,
eh?’ I say for no reason. He better not think I’m crying because I’m on my period. I think about explaining to him about distraction purchases but realise that would make me seem even more unstable.
With one arm round me, holding me up, Josh quietly pays Mrs Shannon for my ‘groceries’ and marches me across the road, squeezing me close, like we’re doing a three-legged race, home to The Shithole.
In the living-room, sprawled across the sofa, I swig from the bottle directly. I spot an ingrown hair on my leg and pick at it, but even the satisfaction of pulling it out can’t cheer me up. I feel so sad and alone. But Josh is here. I hand the bottle to him, beside me on the sofa. He’s watching me a bit too intently and keeps asking me if I’m OK and what’s happened. I’ve told him to mind his own business several times, but now the warmth of the booze is taking hold in my stomach, and I’m starting to feel like I want to tell him. I need an ally; I want someone who is on my side. It’s the first time in a year I’ve felt like maybe a boyfriend would be really handy – someone to complain about my best friends to. I take another gulp of the wine and, swallowing the bitter liquid hard, I start to tell him about my dates, about the pressure I feel to meet someone, and how depressing I’ve found the whole experience. I tell him everything, about the judgemental heavy breather on the train, about the date who never asked questions, about Rich trying to set me up with a fifty-year-old divorcee. I tell him how my life and recent choices have caused this weird tension between Sophie and me – and how it erupted so horribly tonight at her house. I even tell him about Thomas and the strangeness between us that followed it, during our walk to the station.
Josh is silent for a minute and then he says, surprisingly perceptive, ‘Thomas is in love with you?’
I sigh, drinking more. ‘Yes. But shouldn’t that mean he takes my side in all this? Isn’t that what love is? Always being on your side?’
Josh smiles. ‘I’m on your side, babe. I think Sophie’s behaving like a crazy bitch.’
‘No, she’s not!’ I say, instantly defensive of my best friend – if she’s even still my best friend – despite the fact that I’ve just been complaining about her myself. I’m a hypocrite, too. We’ll just add that to the list of things to hate about myself.
‘Women be crazy,’ he says again. I know he is deliberately trying to provoke me and I know I shouldn’t let it wind me up, but I can’t help it.
‘Women be NOT crazy,’ I say crossly.
‘OK, but you have to admit, they can be pretty bitchy and mean to each other, can’t they?’ he says, his eyes dancing.
‘That is total horseshit,’ I say, taking the bait again. ‘Like, what about groups of drunk people? Put a group of drunk girls who don’t know each other in a room together, and they will inevitably all end up in the toilet together, sharing lipsticks and stories about their sex-pest bosses, and holding each other’s hair back as they puke. Compare that to groups of drunk men, who call me a whore in the street – I know which of those I think are “bitchier”.’
He laughs, ‘Good point!’
I scowl. Why do I always let Josh get to me? He gets under my skin so much, winds me up more than anyone else. I know he only said those things to irritate me, and it still feels like he’s winning.
He laughs again at my anger. ‘I was only joking,’ he says, taking the wine from me again and swigging from it, sloppily. ‘I don’t really think women are mad. Certainly no more so than men. We’re all mad, right? People be crazy.’ He hands me the bottle. ‘Let’s not talk about this,’ he says suddenly standing up. ‘You’ve had a bad few weeks, you need cheering up. So let’s eat some of your full-fat ice cream and then just focus all our attention on getting really, really drunk.’
I feel his words wash over me like a soothing balm. I like this caring side of Josh. I needed someone to be kind.
An hour later and Josh and I are doing karaoke through an old PS3 he’s found under the stairs. For once, I’m glad Gemma isn’t around because we’re being way too loud for someone sleeping to be cool about. We’re actually – and I can’t believe I’m saying this – having the best time. Josh is being really nice to me, he’s totally cheered me up. I am hardly thinking about the seventeen-year friendships I’ve left in tatters. Hardly at all.
Oh, look at Josh, dancing. He’s so good-looking and nice. Why did I think he was a cunt? I mean, apart from the fact that he is a cunt, there is totally no reason to think he’s a cunt. Poor, misjudged Cunt Josh. And he can really sing! He’s slurring a bit, but he’s only just about missing the tune! And some of the words are wrong too, but he’s really talented! If only he were hitting the notes at all, he could totally win The X Factor. He starts singing ‘Your Song’ by Elton John and I open my mouth to tell him about Simon Cowell, but instead I say:
‘God, I fancy you.’
He laughs, and then pauses the telly, dropping his mic. He takes a step towards me.
‘No, you don’t,’ he says, his voice low and deliberately husky. I’ve heard him use this seduction tone before.
It’s nice though.
‘Yes, I do,’ I say nodding my fuzzy, fuzzy head.
‘No, you don’t,’ he says again, shaking his head. ‘You hate me, I know you do. It would be obvious, even if you didn’t also tell me that all the time.’
‘No, no!’ I say, giggling. ‘I don’t hate you. I just don’t like the way you treat women. I don’t want to be yet another girl you shag and then discard the next morning.’
‘You know, a lot of them discard me, actually,’ he says, contemplatively. ‘And honestly, Ellie, you would never be like those girls.’
He pauses and I wonder if I’m annoyed on behalf of the women he’s just dismissed so easily. He continues, his words rolling off his tongue. ‘You know, we’re both drunk, Ellie. You’re feeling sad, I could make you feel better. Sex would make you feel better. It’s my duty as your mate to make you feel better.’ He smiles like a fox and I laugh. For a second, he looks vulnerable. ‘You drive me crazy,’ he says suddenly, hotly. ‘I want you so much, I always have. Right from the day you turned up here, looking disapprovingly at me and the wallpaper. I fancy you so much. You know, sometimes I think I love you. I try and get your attention all the time and you ignore me. It drives me nuts. I know I act like a dick, and I know it winds you up, but that’s why I do it. It’s the only time you pay me any attention. I just want you to notice me.’
He touches my face and my stomach flips over.
We’re really drunk, and I know what he’s saying is total nonsense. Total bullshit nonsense – lines he no doubt uses with every girl who doesn’t seem interested in him – but, fuck, it’s such lovely nonsense. It’s so nice to hear.
He draws the lines around the edges of my face with his fingers and everything tingles. I study his beautiful features, illuminated in the dim glow of the paused Elton John lyrics, and feel lightheaded. I know that I either need to have sex with him right now, or I’m going to pass out. It’s hard to know which one.
He kisses me.
Yep, it’s sex.
Half kissing, half falling over, we head to his room, removing our clothes as we go.
Shit. I think about this bra I’m wearing, that I’ve been wearing day in day out for at least two weeks (OK, three). In one deft move, I remove it over my head, along with my T-shirt, and he looks delighted.
I should remember that – pretending to be a sex kitten when you’re really trying to avoid the man about to put his penis in you seeing an old bra that is probably full of stale crumbs and whole sets of keys. Winner.
He trips over his trousers a bit and I drunkenly throw myself onto his bed, trying not to inhale too deeply. I know how often he washes his sheets. Which is not often.
He stops, standing over me with his T-shirt in hand, looking at me intensely again. His pupils are so dilated.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he says again and I pull him down on top of me.
It’s 4 a.m. and I’m staring at
the ceiling, my head pounding from the booze and the humiliation. I had sex with Josh. I’m in bed with Josh. I promised myself I would never do this. What’s wrong with me?
Don’t get me wrong, sex with Josh was lovely. Really, really, really. I mean, it was very drunken and lasted longer than I would’ve ideally liked because we’d both had so much to drink. But it was hot and sweaty and loud, just the way I like it. There was some awkward nipple moments, where he kept tweaking them and I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just said ‘Ooh,’ and then he seemed encouraged and did it harder and then I had to say ‘Ow’ so he would stop. But apart from that, it was pretty great. I even nearly came. After we’d got his orgasm out of the way, we worked on mine for a reasonably solid few minutes. There were a few seconds where I thought it might even happen. Generally, I know if I concentrate really, really hard, and the guy keeps doing that one exact thing, without otherwise moving or breathing or speaking, and if I keep picturing Zack and A. C. Slater from Saved By the Bell having sex, sometimes I can come.
It’s not Josh’s fault he doesn’t know that rule, and he only gave it a few seconds before he changed things around. But hey, the almost-possibility of an orgasm is better than I get with most men. At least he tried, got to give him points for that.
But it’s Cunt Josh.
What was I thinking? I’m so ashamed of myself.
And on an important side note, I really need to fart. I tried to go to the loo a few minutes ago – ideally never to return – but he reached over in his sleep and pinned me down. Now I’m worried about moving too much in case he wakes up properly and starts pawing at me again. We did it twice, but even now, I can feel his erection poking my leg. Poor men, testosterone seems like such an exhausting burden.