Grown Ups

by Emma Jane Unsworth

  He was a gun, I was counterfeit. The expectation up until that point might have been that we’d sleep together that night (we didn’t), but with those two admonitions, we fucked each other good. I don’t think we had ever felt our sex as much as we did in that moment.

  Well, maybe one other time.

  He smiled sweetly again. “Do you think there’s one person for every person?”

  I shook my head. “No. I have never thought that.”

  “I’m scared of not meeting the right person.”

  “I’m scared that not meeting the right person, over and over, might be the point for me.”

  He nodded grimly. “Same time tomorrow?”

  And that’s how it went. We drank mint tea and smoked together every night in the garden after dinner. “Hey, movie star,” he’d say when he saw me. I cringed at that. I ensured that my cringing was visible. Still, I sat there, waiting for him, Movie Star Me.

  On the last day, we swapped e-mail addresses.

  He e-mailed me as we traveled in separate cars to Cairo.

  INBOX

  Subject: YOU

  ARE SOMETHING ELSE.

  That was it.

  I have to admit, it excited me. The boldness. The way he used the subject bar as part of the message. The lot. I read it and I thought—Okayyyyy, maybe we have something here. I had never been e-mailed like that. It was like seeing my own brain pinned wriggling to the page. Delightful! And moreover: undeniable.

  I didn’t reply. (Hahah. Mine to kill. Mine to kill.) I stared at the e-mail. I sat back in my chair. I watched two pale-yellow butterflies twirl around each other. Are you dancing? Are you asking? I’m asking. I’m dancing. I clicked my phone off and then clicked it back to life and stared at the e-mail again. I wanted the feeling to last forever.

  I messaged Kelly:

  What do you make of this then?

  I was milking it, I know. But I felt like I deserved a bit of milking after such a drought. And there had been a drought, certainly on the sexual banter front. I’d been having a lot of sex, but not so many sexy verbal high jinks.

  Kelly replied:

  Sounds like an alpha male. Good luck

  GOOGLE SEARCH

  “how to attract an alpha male”

  “how to seduce an alpha male”

  “is it possible to be truly loved by an alpha male when you are an alpha female”

  “alpha males throughout history”

  I SAID

  You are very sweet.

  Cool. AF.

  I’d waited until I knew his flight had left (he was off to Paris, an hour earlier). I was careful to use a full stop as he had done, and I realized I respected people far more when they punctuated properly. They were to be taken more seriously. He replied, from the air (imagine that!).

  You have blown me away. All the way to Paris.

  I didn’t reply. I boarded my flight. I drank a Grey Goose and Fever-Tree tonic and felt thoroughly international.

  When I landed, I had three more e-mails.

  I just got back to my hotel room and expected you to be in my bed but you weren’t.

  And:

  I was standing on the Metro on the way home and thinking about how people are just bunches of cells, radiating off into smells and sounds.

  And:

  That thing you said to me about guilt really struck a chord. You are the wisest person I have met in forever.

  Kelly said:

  Jesus Christ. He talks in hyperbole—sure sign of a narcissist

  Wait a minute, I talk in hyperbole!

  Wellllll

  I LOVE narcissists. They’re so … covetable

  As soon as you reciprocate he’ll go quiet, trust me

  But it was too late. I was coveting. I thought hard about his “smells and sounds” remark. I tried for irreverent. And when you “try” for irreverent …

  I sent:

  We are all just filthy little beasts underneath

  Immediately after I’d pressed Send, I started to worry. We’d known each other all of five minutes. It felt too early to get away with the suggestion that I was unhygienic. We were still trying to impress each other with our art-house knowledge, and here I was basically saying I stank like shit.

  Argh!

  He didn’t reply for a few minutes. He had gone off me. It was a despicable thing to write. And me, supposedly a professional writer! What must he think of me? Oh God oh God. What if he thought I had some kind of bestial fetish? It was too much. I didn’t know what to do. I was panicking, panicking. It strikes me now how rapidly I changed. From cautious and in control to anxious wreck. How? Why? He’d got to me, this one. Aggggggggggraaaahhhhhhhgggggggggg.

  Kelly wouldn’t help.

  You could ask me how my day is going or how Sonny’s first sleepover went

  I misread her irritation as envy.

  It’s romantic! I protested. But she wouldn’t have that, even.

  It’s not romance. It’s mania

  Well you have basically stalked people, so

  That was ONE TIME, I was at a festival and I was high, so it doesn’t count

  Forgive me for just wanting some basic reassurance from a pal

  Manic

  Romantic

  Romantic mania. You are in ROMANIA mate

  Racist

  Look, don’t shoot the messenger. Of The Truth

  *Hermes has joined the chat*

  Then Art sent back:

  You’re adorable.

  X

  Adorable! Moi!

  I sent Kelly:

  All fine! He replied!

  And I dashed off, to Art:

  Well, if you say so, squire!

  X

  He didn’t reply to that.

  Kelly sent:

  Sweet

  Whatever, Kelly.

  Round I went again, on my spiral.… Squire! Just the thought of the word made me feel nauseated. I hoped he didn’t think I was someone who was into reenactment societies, although he had said in Egypt that he liked antiquing, I reassured myself, so maybe he liked old-fashioned language too.… There was so much to ponder. So much to google. But there’s only so much you can glean from someone’s cousin’s Facebook page. If I could have found more on the dark web, I would have gone there. I would have gone anywhere. Even a Wetherspoons pub.

  Looking at it critically, retrospectively, I was laying some kind of claim, I suppose. I thought I was adoring, but I was actually … well, invading. I was storming into his past and present desires. I’d never taken someone like that. I don’t know what came over me. Some kind of pioneering urge. Obsession seeks possession. Just ask my mother.

  A whole day later, I sent a simple:

  How’s it hanging?

  X

  Friendly! Breezy! Brief!

  It was just a lovely friendly e-mail from one lovely new friend to another.

  And then …

  He didn’t reply.

  And then …

  I started to worry that he would think I was referring to his penis. I was freshly distraught. How could I expect to be a creature of mystique while referring to someone’s penis as “it”? Oh God, that he might think that!

  Then:

  I’ve just bought a cocktail cabinet that’s too big for my flat. Midcentury modern. It means you have to come round for cocktails, Foxface.

  My fingers were typing before my brain could even scream NO WAIT A MINUTE WHY  THIS DETERMINATION  TO PUT YOURSELF BACK INTO TORTUROUS PAIN, WHY NOT SAVOR THE SWEET ABSENCE OF FEELING—

  I can’t wait to see your cock

  Tail cabinet

  Oops sent too soon!

  Well, I thought it was funny.

  Everything.

  In me.

  Tensed.

  Then, the blessed relief of a chime, a name, an I-see-you.

  Hahahahahahahahahahhahaaaaa

  I went all hot and happy inside.

  Then he wrote:

  I am going to
destroy you.

  You try keeping your pants intact when things hit that height. I replied:

  Promises, promises.

  No kisses. Just pure, raw come-and-get-it. Oh yeah, mufux. The cracks. The verbal ping-pong. You’d never heard anything like it! They were publishable, our e-mail exchanges. They were sublime.

  But all that effort. The waiting, the trying, the wanting, the joining-the-dots in between. The pretty pictures out of something and nothing. My brain was—is—too good at spotting patterns. It’s not a million miles away from a certain kind of madness.

  I tried to stay in control. I even sent him an e-mail to Kelly accidentally on purpose one time. Can we meet a bit later tonight? I have to file next week’s column early because of Christmas break XX

  I wanted him to know I had an exciting work life.

  Then I sent: Whoops, sorry, not for you!

  My stage management, my timing, was seamless—or so I thought.

  He sent back: I figured. Good luck with the column x x

  Years later, he told me he’d seen through it. That it was “a bit exposition-y.” That it was “the kind of thing I’d have done, years ago.” I was furious. I was fucked. It was acid. It was tragic. Because I know, deep down, beyond where it hurts, that I will never have that kind of frisson with anyone, ever again. It was like kissing a mirror—when the mirror starts kissing back. It is an invitation to drown.

  For now, back to the salad days. The proses. The roses.

  THE PATATAS BRAVAS

  On our second date we went to a tapas place in Victoria Park. We sat outside and drank too-sharp cherry-red wine out of beakers. We discovered we were both trying to eat less meat, and were both scared of wasps. It was too romantic. I told him I was buying a house. He sat back in his chair and whistled. He said I’d done good, that he should probably buy a house, that his career wouldn’t last forever. I came from nothing, like you. I said: “My mother has money.” I used her like a doubloon in my pocket, then. “She matched me for the deposit. We went fifty-fifty. Literally.”

  “Nice.”

  “She’s done very well, doing what she does.”

  “What does she do?”

  “You and your trishula will soon find out.”

  He’d been taking photos of birds and butterflies. I remember those pictures, hung in his tiny flat, and later in my house. The stained glass of a butterfly’s wing. The hard black crescents of swifts. He photographed bowerbirds and the extravagant nests they made to attract a mate. The males collected colored objects—usually blue—like magpies did, and made little gardens, bowers, to lure in a female. I suppose what surprised me the most was that I found them beautiful, and Art found them beautiful. So humans shared an aesthetic with birds. How odd, for two species to share an idea of beauty. I said as much, there at the restaurant.

  “Are you luring me into your fancy new bower, with these jewels?” he said. I sat back. “Oh, you have a mean face when you turn your smile off! For a pretty girl. Are you going to look at me like that for much longer? Wow. I feel like taking a picture so you can see for yourself!”

  “I’m not trying to lure you anywhere,” I said, insulted. “You can do what you like. I have no desire to mate or marry. I am a busy woman with plans. It is not in my nature to surrender.”

  (Baby me, oh, baby me. I want to fly back in time and tell you you’re wrong and hug you and tell you everything’s not going to be okay.)

  When I went to the loo, he e-mailed me:

  What if I adore you?

  I sat on the loo and typed back:

  What, then?

  What if I do, though?

  Well, this IS a conundrum.…

  Someone knocked. I hitched up my pants.

  “Are we … categorized, then?” Art said, when I was back at the table.

  “Is this,” I said, “a hoary little question about exclusivity?”

  He laughed at that. He told me I could call the shots. Ha! I laughed then. I was a twenty-eight-year-old woman. I was taking the shot-calling for granted. I looked at him in a way that told him so. I revealed … an amused scowl.

  “What are you going to do about them, then?”

  “Who?”

  “The other three? Your three amigos. The curly-haired one in particular needs to go.”

  Ah, so he’d looked and found them. He had made deductions. Course he had.

  “Is this an ultimatum? I don’t respond well to ultimatums, I should warn you.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “I am completely honest with all of you. I have everything I need. If you want to come along for the ride, be my guest, but I’m driving.”

  “And what about the teatimes?”

  “What about the teatimes?”

  “Are they not lonely? The endings of the days? Do you not long for that nightly family feeling? Decompressing at the dining table.”

  I couldn’t answer for a long time. He’d hit a nerve, all right. He was wily, this one.

  “There are other ways of getting that.”

  “You might not need the other ways forever.”

  You know what it is? The light does it. Every time. You’ll buy anything—a house, a situation, a feeling—if the light is right. That night, the light was right.

  “Just know I’ll do everything in my own time.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Of course. But—in the interests of transparency …”

  “In the interests of transparency, I suggest you take off your shirt and your trousers.”

  Ha! What a sailor. I was epic. Randy Crawford’s “Almaz” comes to mind. It’s strange how a lot of people hear that as a tragic song.

  KELLY HAD SAID

  You’re like a deranged Victorian

  I just want my missives to be as good as they can be! Help me be the best me I can be, friend

  These are E-MAILS, not missives. Wake up and smell the technology. Also why aren’t you texting each other? E-mail is a bizarre choice of medium

  It’s romantic. It’s the closest we’ve got to letters

  Apart from actual … letters

  Too slow

  I think the slowness would do you good

  There’s a lot to be said for spontaneity

  No there isn’t. Spontaneity ruins lives

  At least in the olde days they understood the true power of the written word

  That was all they had! It was fucking years between dances! They might be dead before they saw each other again! It’s not like that now. You’re going to Nando’s next week so chill the fuck out

  I AM CHILLED, I EMBODY CHILLED

  I’m going to ask you this once, just once: What are you scared of? It’s like I’ve never seen this side of you. Where has it come from?

  Hahahahahah I really do not know what you are talking about, mate

  Okay. Did you start the e-mailing or did he?

  Him. Why?

  Just asking

  It was a very complimentary e-mail

  It’s still his choice of medium though, isn’t it? You’re in a safe little box. That’s all I’m saying

  You only don’t like him because he makes you feel morally inferior in your food choices and I know that’s true because you’ve started buying RSPCA-approved salmon

  Very surprised you have time to analyze the contents of my fridge these days given how much time you’re devoting to being online

  Do you think I’m quirky enough for him tho? He shot Patti Smith the other day and he knows a LOT about films

  Look, just because he owns a copy of Battleship Potemkin and has a few tattoos doesn’t mean he’s not a mainstream twat

  But then I think she warmed to him.

  SOBER SEXTS

  WHERE

  Are you and what are you doing?

  This was a regular line of questioning from Art in the early days. I relished it. I took my time replying. I cracked my back and waggled my fingers, magician-like. I crafted my responses.

  K
elly told me off for it. I suppose she was getting annoyed at this point by how many e-mails I was asking her to proofread and suggest better jokes for.

  “These are e-mails, Jenny,” she said. “Not TV comedy scripts.”

  “But they matter,” I argued. “There’s no way I’m sending substandard communication.”

  “But they’re too labored. They’re … overwrought. You’re better when you’re fast and unconsidered.”

  “Hush. Now—do I use the word mystery or mystique?”

  I started running drafts of tweets by her, for her approval.

  “I’m not doing this,” she said. “I’m not feeding the beast.”

  “What beast?”

  “The beast of your digital anxiety.”

  “As a friend you should give me what I need. I would give it to you.”

  “You need help.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not joking. Do therapists not specialize in this yet? Is there not social media rehab? There should be.”

  “It’s called motherhood.”

  Kelly was silent for a moment, and then she said, “You’re making more and more digs like that, I do hope you realize.”

  Art said:

  Why the changes in font sizes?

  It was because I made notes in my phone and then cut and pasted them to create the perfect work.

  I mailed back:

  I have no idea! Life is full of mystique

  I stared at the message for hours, lamenting the fact I hadn’t used the word mystery Mystery was indeed the far superior word. Sometimes the simpler word was the more effective word. Argh! Why was it always necessary to actually fuck up before you saw your gravest fuckups?

  The first time he tweeted me, it was his first tweet in two months.

  @thejenniferMcLaine YOU.

  That full stop. That full stop had me in A FURY OF PLEASURE. It was a hard black sun of decisive cocklonging.

  He continued: