by Jenni Regan
He knew if he pressed enough, he would eventually get what he wanted; after all, his mother had always told him he was a charming man.
Alice
9 September 2018, 3 p.m.
I always loved Tuesdays as it was the day that Granny went food shopping. She would come home in a taxi from Tesco’s, her arms full of bags bursting at the seams with all kinds of delights. Granny would always make the taxi driver help with her bags as though he was some kind of doorman and she a lady that lunches. I loved to help put things away, filling the cupboards and freezer with my treats for the week.
Bang on the dot of three, I heard a key in the lock and heard my granny gently berating the driver who was weighed down with at least six bags in each hand. Once all the bags were in, I began my weekly dive into the treasure trove. I heard my gran sigh and settle on her place on the sofa, marked with a deep indentation that fit her little bum perfectly.
‘Bring me my fags through, will you, darling? And a cuppa. I’m gasping!’
I put the kettle on and rooted around in all the bags until she found Granny’s B&H. She took them through with an ashtray and lighter, promising the tea as soon as it was done.
‘Wow, I’m done in after all that today. You wouldn’t believe the queues at the tills.’
I noticed that my gran looked tired and a bit pale. ‘You know you don’t need to go shopping. We could do it all online.’
‘Oh yes, and then we could pay someone to pick out all the bruised fruit or sausages right near their sell-by date,’ said Granny, lighting her cigarette and taking a greedy puff. ‘And besides, I like to go to the supermarket. It's almost a social occasion for me, as I always bump into people I know.’
I left it; I knew my gran would moan if she went and moan if she didn’t. Also, I often felt guilty that my gran didn’t have many friends. She had given up so much to look after me while all her friends were going on world cruises or taking up bridge, and she seemed to have been left behind. I had tried to tell her she should go out and play Bingo or even visit the local pub occasionally, but Granny said she didn’t like leaving me in the evening. I was secretly pleased about this as I found the house even scarier when I was alone at night time.
I heard the kettle click and went back in to make the tea. As I took it through, I noticed my gran’s favourite game show was on: Deal or No Deal. This was one that always got her excited, screaming out advice to the contestants on stage. I was surprised when my gran kept quiet. I sat next to her on the sofa.
‘I bet that stupid man will lose it all! Ah well, serves him right,’ I said, knowing my gran loved it when I had an opinion about the TV. But this time she didn’t bite. Instead, she turned down the volume and lit another cigarette.
‘I’ve got a headache,’ my gran explained, sipping the hot tea and putting it back on its saucer immediately like she always did. I was worried my gran didn’t look well, and I wasn’t sure what to do. It had always been Granny playing the nursemaid, not the other way round. As she always said, she was as tough as old boots and rarely got even a sniffle. I vowed that I would make her as many cups of tea as she wanted today and even cook the meal that evening.
Leaving Granny watching quietly, I went back to the kitchen to put away the shopping. I updated my audience telling them I was ‘All shopped out’, hoping this sounded like I had just been to splurge in the boutiques of Nice rather than the blue and white carrier bags that now littered the kitchen. I was pleased when Stan commented.
‘Wud love to see you try some of them tings on, how about a photo?’
I liked his comment and set my iPhone to wait three minutes.
‘Sorry heading straight out to the gym maybe I will do you a fashion show later?’
Almost immediately I could see that he was messaging me.
‘Hey beautiful girl, how’s about you give me a bit of a private show later?’
‘I’m not really keen on live action but I can send some pictures?’ I told him. I didn’t want to be too dismissive in case he lost interest.
‘That wud be mighty fine don’t suppose you bought yourself some new panties as well?’
I paused to think. There was only so much airbrushing I could do on my photos.
‘Let's see if you get lucky hey?’ I replied, thinking this sounded elusive but also hopeful for him. I figured I had at least a two-hour window to work my magic.
I had been so flattered when I had started getting messages from Stan; after all, he was way out of my league and so different to the boys I remembered from my school days. While not traditionally handsome, I liked his cropped hair and neck tattoo, as it gave him an edge of danger. My favourite part about him was his bright blue eyes, as they softened his look immensely.
Stan was exactly the type of man that people would call ‘my bit of rough’. I wasn’t sure about his job, but I knew he spent a lot of time in his car (his pride and joy, judging by the number of pictures he posted up). I knew he lived in South London, somewhere called Peckham, and I also knew he went out clubbing most weekends with his crew. Everything about him was exciting and edgy, different to the foreign lotharios and airline pilots I was supposedly leaping into bed with every five minutes.
Once all my goodies were in their rightful place, I made another pot of tea and went through to sit with my gran. The TV was by now showing some Real Housewives somewhere in America. I couldn’t quite tell where, just that they all had tumbling blonde locks and bodies hard like Barbie dolls. I passed the time by tweeting my thoughts all about the blonde bimbos in front of me, then sprinkling in a few comments about being in the gym in case any of my Facebook friends also followed me on Twitter. As the credits rolled, I heaved myself out of my chair, taking the tray back in the kitchen and headed up to my room.
I realised early on that I didn’t really have any nice underwear—well, at least none that would excite Stan—and I really wanted to keep him happy. My gran bought my knickers from the supermarket, and the only ones that fit me were the giant belly warmers in a variety of pastel shades. Instead, I Googled pantie shots and was rewarded with pages of knickers being worn of all varieties. Feeling a fraud, I took one shot of my underwear close-up so you couldn’t see much detail, and then copied and pasted a few more into a message. I titled the message ‘fashion show’ and then quickly hit send to Stan before I lost my nerve.
I wanted to check on my gran again, so I lumbered down the stairs. My gran had finished my cup of tea, so I took it away for her.
‘Can I get you anything else? Do you want a painkiller or something?’ I asked.
‘No, I’m fine, darling. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over me. It would take more than a headache to get the better of me!’
‘What’s next up on the box?’
‘I’ve got my Aussie soaps double bill and then Come Dine with Me. You know me, I’m happy as Larry with my little wonder-box here.’
I almost laughed at the description of the TV as ‘little’, as it was so huge it took over most of the wall of the living room, dominating the eyelines and conversations of anyone who sat in there.
I sat next to my gran and kept an eye on my phone. Minutes later, just as the opening credits were starting on Neighbours, my phone pinged with a new message from Stan.
‘Man dem photos were sick, you sure know how to treat a man. You are so beautiful. Can’t wait to see what’s underneath.’
I blushed bright red, closing my phone down quickly in case my myopic gran had looked all the way across the room at the X-rated message. My breathing was returning to normal when my phone lit up with a new text message, also from Stan. At first, I couldn’t make out what it was—it was poorly lit and at a strange angle—but as I looked closer, I gasped in shock when I realised it was a man’s penis. Stan had texted to go with his photo. ‘I’ve shown you mine now you show me yours.’ This was well beyond the realms of my knowledge or experience, so I quickly deleted the message and went to my room.
My room hadn'
t been decorated for many years, and it was as if it was frozen in time, a museum of my life as a thirteen-year-old. Uncle Tom had still been around in my early teens and had indulged my love-bordering-on-obsession of boyband One Direction. This was reflected in the duvet cover, lampshade and posters all featuring the boys smiling out at me. It all looked bedraggled now, much like the boys themselves when I saw them on chat shows, the years of rock and roll now showing on their twenty-something faces and bloated bodies. My curtains had been there even longer; you could probably call them vintage. Lying on my bed half thrilled and half horrified, I messaged Stan back trying to sound casual and breezy. ‘Wow, aren’t I such a lucky girl! You will get your treat soon.’ I hoped this was enough to keep him interested for now.
Tom
7 September 2018, 8 p.m.
Tom was bored. Tom was often bored, but even he thought he shouldn’t feel this way in the middle of a gallery opening. It was as though he had been to this show a million times before, despite it opening that day. The room was full of the same people: the art groupies, the stick-thin models and of course the artists themselves. Same arseholes, different shows. When Tom had first moved to New York, it had been so shiny and new, excitement was on every corner. As a small-town boy who had lived in the closet for many years, New York and its liberal gay scene had literally blown him away. He could reinvent himself as a terribly intelligent and stylish Brit, working hard and playing hard in the Big Apple.
Now ten years on, Tom was finding the dream fraying around the edges. What was the point in being part of a power couple (him, the hot young lawyer, and his partner, Will, big in the art dealing world) if you didn’t constantly remind the world of how fab you both were? This meant dinners were always out; in fact, he had only used the oven in his tiny kitchen a handful of times and knew many people who used theirs as extra storage in the tiny New York apartments they all called home.
Amazingly, what Tom now craved was domestic slobbery. He longed for a weekend spent at home with his phone switched off, watching the box sets they always bought each other for Christmas and birthdays and then never got round to watching, eating takeaway and not leaving the apartment. Instead, his and Will’s weekends were fully booked now until well into the next year with parties, lunches and weekends visiting friend’s ‘darling’ little vacation homes dotted around the East coast. Tom felt exhausted thinking about it. It was times like this when Tom found himself strangely homesick, reminiscing about the smell of home cooking (well, microwave cooking in reality) and the well-worn sofa that his mum had moulded a permanent dent into.
Sadly this scene of domestic bliss through heavily tinted rose-coloured spectacles was no longer part of his life, and he had not seen his mother or his beloved niece Alice for many years, although he felt like he had watched Alice grow up through her social media files.
He had thought his mother had known he was gay for many years. There had been a couple of illicit kisses in his younger years, and he was sure she must have come across his rather extreme choice of porn when cleaning his teenage bedroom. To him, he guessed, he must have always seemed gay. He didn’t mind admitting that he was always the more feminine one in his relationships, and this hadn’t come on suddenly. He had even thought his mum might be proud of him when he came out to her officially, but he could still remember the look of absolute horror and disgust in her eyes when he had turned up with his then-boyfriend to stay for a weekend. Before she told him to get out of her house, she informed him she was glad his father had left so he wouldn’t have to see what his sick son had become.
Tom tried to get back to focussing on the art back in the room, but it wasn’t enough to captivate him, and his mind kept drifting back. He avoided getting into a conversation with two old queens who he knew vaguely from the scene, and he tried to catch Will’s eye, but he was deep in conversation with the artist, no doubt stroking his already monstrous ego. Will was the kind of man that Tom had always thought he should end up with. In his late fifties, he was balding and had a paunch because of all those dinners and glasses of wine. Tom was relieved he had finally started using a personal trainer. What he lacked in appearance, he more than made up for in personality and stature. When he walked into a room, people sat up and took notice. It was hard to resist the lure of success either. Will was a well-respected art dealer, and this brought with it many benefits, including an apartment only a couple of blocks away from Central Park with a real-life doorman and the pre-requisite house share in the Hamptons, which they rarely had time to visit but still made them feel as though they had a sanctuary.
Tom finally caught Will’s eye and pointed to his watch, the agreed signal it was time to go. Annoyingly, Will ignored him and grabbed another drink from a passing waiter. Tom guessed the conversation he was having was turning out to be potentially lucrative. Ignoring his two-drink maximum rule on a weekday, Tom also grabbed another drink and walked over to gatecrash the queen’s conversation. At least if he was going to be bored, he may as well be bored by someone else.
Alice
7 Sept 2018, 9 a.m.
My gran always liked to make sure I started the day with a good breakfast. She often told me she had always sent her own kids off to school with a hot meal inside them. Most of the other food of the day travelled between freezer and microwave, so breakfast was the only one that Granny cooked, if you could call putting a load of ingredients into a deep fat fryer actually cooking.
Funnily enough, Granny and I were obsessed with cooking programmes, well before The Great British Bake Off came along and everyone became an armchair foodie. We loved sitting enchanted as chefs with varying degrees of cheer beat and cajoled the ordinary ingredients into something that looked enticing. It was unlikely we would ever try it ourselves.
I could hear the TV on loud in the living room and recognised the noises of the morning chat show Gran watched religiously. She watched most programmes religiously, as there wasn't much gatekeeping involved. It was an unwritten rule, but the kitchen was my domain during the day, while Granny usually stayed in the living room plugged into her TV at all hours. Sometimes there was a crossover, like when Granny was cooking or if she wanted me to watch a show with her, but most of the time the two of us lived a happy existence side by side, both enclosed in our own little worlds.
Although my gran definitely looked like a granny should with a blue rinse and hair put in rollers every night, she was actually the only mother I had ever known. This wasn't really talked about in our house, but then nothing important ever really was. It was only when Granny had one too many sherries that she might talk about her role as the saviour. She had single-handedly rescued me from the care system where a life awaited me of resentful foster parents and faceless institutions. I was incredibly grateful for the rescue, but Granny wasn't to know it had been an out-of-the-frying-pan-into-the-fire situation for me. She never knew what she exposed me to by bringing me back here. It wasn’t her fault, and I repaid her by being the best granddaughter I could ever be.
Unlike most of the girls I had known at school, my only vice was food. I loved everything about food: the smell, the texture and the comforting feeling I felt after I had eaten everything on my plate. It was as though I was filling a gap, or more like a deep hole. Whenever I was feeling low, food would appear and magically take the misery away, for a while at least. It didn’t matter if it was savoury or sweet. I would dream of sugary doughnuts and big creamy pasta shapes. Granny always said that I was a growing girl and should eat well, and over the years, I had indeed grown.
I sometimes saw Granny watching programmes about fat people as a form of entertainment and would feel a little uncomfortable. Gran would laugh and point along with the voiceover, and I would feel as though she was actually poking fun at me. I tried to laugh along too, like I had done at school.
None of this really mattered, because I was a different person where it counted: online. Online Alice was beautiful and slim because of the incredible apps you could us
e these days on your phone. Online Alice had an interesting job as an air hostess and would fly all over the world. Online Alice liked to drink wine with her friends in the latest bars and go on dates with handsome young doctors. Online Alice lived in Bournemouth in her very own flat. Online Alice had an air of mystery.
The intrigue hadn’t been intentional in the beginning. I guess to some people, I must have disappeared from the world the day I decided that the outside world was no longer something I wanted to experience, with my body punishing me with panic and living nightmares.
I hadn’t returned to sixth form as had been expected of me, and then I found out that there were hilarious rumours circulating that I had run off to London amid some kind of scandal involving a teacher. I had always been an awkward, lonesome student, and so I was surprised when I suddenly started receiving friend requests from some of the most popular girls at school. The mystery had given me a chance to reinvent myself.
As Online Alice, I could lead the kind of fantasy life I would have chosen had my life been different. I could choose a career, a home, even a dress size. No one had any idea of the reality, which was me sitting in my kitchen in my pyjamas, thighs splaying across the chairs, never having been kissed and never having worked an honest day in my life.
I made elevenses, one of Granny's favourite rituals, and carried the tray into the living room. She didn’t take her eyes off Jeremy Kyle on the screen as she grabbed a biscuit and I poured milk in her flowery cup.
‘He accused her of shagging his best mate, but it turns out it was him doing the dirty,’ she said, pointing at the pimply skinhead on screen.
I made all the right noises. I knew how much Granny loved this show and revered Saint Jeremy who, in her eyes, was the saviour to a nation of council-house-dwelling scroungers (I never pointed out the fact that neither of us had ever worked either).