Grown Ups

by Emma Jane Unsworth

  Are a goddess. I am a drunk loser on a piano stool.

  I fired off:

  Get a grip, Tom Waits

  I gasped after I’d sent it. I kind of couldn’t believe my own gumption. I’d sort of done it without thinking. Even though I was getting into him, that sort of I’m such a loser shtick pissed me off, you know? It’s like all those people who make out they’re “such geeks” (I’m such a geek!) online, as though they’re wearing suspenders aged thirty-two and gawking around in striped tights. What they’re really saying is, I’m clever even though I’m stylish. Do not be fooled by my attractiveness! And what Art was really saying was, I’m cool even though I’m commercial! I still listen to Tom Waits’s music. And all those other sad old men with their self-indulgent songs. Anyway, Art fucking loved my disdain.

  He replied:

  I have so much respect and admiration for you, Jennifer.

  I mean.

  How the mighty fall.

  I started e-mailing him every day, whether he replied or not. I sent him links to songs and playlists he might like. I sent him my funniest YouTube videos, decades in the gathering. I gave him advice on how to host his first cocktail party, an e-mail that took me six hours and three drafts to write. It was one page long, with pictures and links. The effort!

  He didn’t say he’d made the cocktails. He did say:

  I have been looking at pictures of you online to while away the time.

  X

  A

  I replied quickly—not because I had to, you understand, but because it got it out of the way and then it wouldn’t disturb my sleep for the rest of the night thinking about what to reply.

  I have been looking at pictures of you too.

  Jx

  Which was a falsehood. I had been looking at pictures of his ex.

  I texted Kelly:

  I’ve found her online. Art’s ex. She’s a shoemaker called Eliza. Now I can no longer enjoy shoes or the BBC Pride and Prejudice box set. Great. Two major pleasures banished from my life.

  A shoemaker?

  See, even seeing the word shoe is making me feel sick

  So what? She’s his ex.

  Do two big kisses mean the same as three small ones? Emotionally I mean. I want to look like I’m not too obviously reciprocating by being utterly repetitive, but I also don’t want to diminish the feeling

  I think you’re overthinking it

  WELL DEAR GOD FUCK YES QUITE INDEED. But do they?

  Jenny, there is no way he will be paying such close attention to all this

  Lucky him

  It’s not luck

  It’s unlucky to have my brain right now, I know that

  You can conquer this. You can. I believe in you.

  Can I send you a photo of his ex?

  Negative

  Just WhatsApped a screenshot. DISCUSS.

  HOW MANY TIMES

  Can I send you our last few e-mails to analyze the vibe?

  This friendship is barely passing the Bechdel test rn

  He hasn’t replied to my last one!

  When did you e-mail him

  Seven minutes ago!

  COOL YOUR JETS, MCLAINE

  Help me, Obi-Wan, you’re my only hope

  [ …]

  Jenny?

  Jenny?

  I’ve been thinking about our bodies and the way they fit together.

  A.

  He has just replied! A MOST EXCELLENT REPLY. All good xxx

  Mate, you are so deep in Romania you can’t see the Romanian wood for the Romanian trees

  Yeah xxxxx

  Okay, well, see you next time some chump ignores you for 8 minutes I guess

  They were a pretty good fit from what I can remember.

  J.

  What are you thinking about?

  I am thinking about my cock in your mouth.

  Shit—sorry, I mean your cock in my mouth!

  I don’t have a cock, obvs

  Okay I really don’t want you thinking about the fact I might have a cock

  Unless that is your thing? But I don’t think it is!

  RRRAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHWWWWAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH

  What now?

  WHEN SEXTS GO BAD

  Do I want to know?

  Kelly, please, please, please, please, please can I send a few e-mails to you?

  No no no no NO. It’s unethical

  UNETHICAL? YOU TOOK COKE IN THE CRYPT OF ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL

  You bitch—we said we’d never speak of that again

  QUID PRO QUO, CLARICE

  SEND ME THE MAILS THEN YOU DICK

  Thank you!

  ABSOLUTE CHODE

  Just sent them. Also why won’t he give me his phone number, do you think? All he has given me is his e-mail address and he doesn’t have wifi in his home!

  What kind of weirdo doesn’t have wifi? I hate him already. It’s like those twats who don’t have TVs. Sad bastards, trying to make a stupid fucking point. I would never date someone without a TV. I find it positively offensive. People without TVs are pseudo-intellectuals who are too fucking stupid to realize that shit looks better when you watch it on a TV

  I think he has a TV

  As for those without wifi? They are addicts in remission

  ABLUTIONS

  The first time he stayed at my place he turned up with a paper bag. He shuffled in with it and hid it behind the umbrella stand as he slid his shoes off.

  “Been shopping?” I said.

  “Just grabbed a quick shirt in the sale.”

  I caught a hint of it then: his anxiety. I’d spotted the pills in his bathroom: diazepam. A little something-something. Why not? My mother had her gin, and I had my work ethic.

  He stood in the hall, looking around, reading my life but also girding his confidence, I knew. “I have wondered so much about the details of this place,” he said. “You’re going to have to give me a moment to savor it.”

  “Okay.” I thought of how, a few hours earlier, I’d been in the shower washing my body in preparation for him, and while I was doing so I thought of him washing his body in preparation for me, soaping his penis while I sponged my vulva, there we both were, separately preparing. I’d giggled at the absurdity of it—the futility of it too, perhaps. It’s one of love’s greatest losses, every time, I think, that kind of fastidiousness.

  Later we kissed beautifully, awkwardly, our heads turning like sunflowers by teensy degrees, in front of the ten o’clock news. The best new love makes you feel fifteen again: clumsy, electric, conscientious.

  I said: “Where are you working tomorrow?”

  “West.”

  “You could stay. If you like.” It was Sunday. Teatime. I didn’t want to be alone at Sunday teatime. Suddenly.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay!”

  We kissed some more. Then I said: “That’s why you bought the shirt, isn’t it?”

  He went pink. “Well, I didn’t want to turn up with a … so I bought a shirt, just in case. But then it was also just a new shirt—so, no pressure!”

  “It’s okay, I don’t want you to worry. Shall we both just agree to try to not worry?”

  He grinned awkwardly. “That sounds good.”

  “I know it’s probably not possible, but it feels like a good thing to try to do, don’t you think?”

  “You are my dream girl.”

  “You are my dream boy. Let’s enjoy our youth while we can.”

  I looked in his eyes. It was as though we had shown each other a card—our most secret card—and as we did so, simultaneously (3-2-1, go!), we realized it was the same card. Hey presto. And like that, the fear was gone. It was nothing short of (much as I like to avoid the word) … magic.

  He went to use the bathroom. I imagined him seeing my things laid out in there and making conclusions. I’d arranged a few things, like a stage set. Left a few labels angled in a certain way. I’m sure he saw through them all, but knowing that was almost as delightful
as the possibility of deceiving him.

  MY BATHROOM SAID

  Bathroom of a woman who is busy but takes care of herself.

  Bathroom you can have a bath in with her someday maybe.

  Look at that big shower. You could have sex in that shower.

  The shower is very clean which also probably means her vulva is clean.

  Smell her products. You know you want to.

  STOP SMELLING HER BATHROOM PRODUCTS I’M CALLING THE POLICE.

  TIPPING POINT

  The next time, we were in a hotel; it was in a spa town where he was shooting bathroom suites. The sex was rough and fast and he was more dominant. I guess he felt as though he had some ground to regain, and that makes me sad now. (Did he know I’d seen his benzos?)

  At the end he pulled out and came on my chest.

  I was just about to tell him what to do when he got up and shot around the corner in the direction of the bathroom—I presumed to fetch a towel. Towel scrubs are a real feature of modern hotel-based sexual encounters. We should make more of them. It’s so impossibly romantic, having your abdomen scoured with a hotel towel, don’t you think?

  Art returned, towel in hand. I felt like a stain on something. The moment had more than passed. The moment had got on a flight to Rio.

  “Did you come?” he said, suddenly realizing.

  “No, but it’s okay.”

  I looked down at my tits, at the spunk sliding down the sides, off my nipples.

  “Did you come?” I said. Which I thought was pretty fucking hilarious.

  Later, we took Valiums and lay on the bed watching Stargazing Live.

  Modern love.

  MY MOTHER SAID

  “A boyfriend? Who on earth has managed to tie you down?”

  “No one. We’re just dating.”

  I didn’t particularly want to introduce them. It never went well, when my mother came down. Lingering ignominies included a book launch (with the Pope scholar) where Mother necked so much free wine that she read all the bookshop staff’s palms, unasked, and toppled headfirst down a spiral staircase. I was beyond mortified. (“A psychic,” Art howled when I told him, “who can’t see a staircase coming!” I said: “It was obscured in the floor!” God knows why I defended her.) When Kelly’s mother came down, she made her pies and cleaned her house. She was the same woman every time you saw her. She had her feet on the ground and her grandson on speed dial.

  But Art begged to meet my mother, and my mother begged back—out of curiosity too, I think.

  We met at an Italian place. She and Art hit it off with Campari spritzers and talk of Italy. Wasn’t pappardelle the true pasta lover’s choice? Weren’t people who used the phrase “a mean spag bog” the perfect morons? I sat on the other side of the table, marveling. I’d thought I’d have to smooth things, you see, like I did with my old friend and her father, whom she hated. That was a tough gig. (When he died she unfriended me, so my purpose had been clear.)

  Anyway. Art. My mother. I thought I’d spend the night passing the metaphorical salt. But no, my mother and Art were off. So much so that I found it hard to get a word in. They shared a sharing platter. They matched each other drink for drink. They liked the same music, the same flowers, the same shitty reality TV shows. It was like watching twins reunited. A part of me thought—still thinks, age gap notwithstanding—they’d make a better couple.

  At the end of the meal, Art said: “Tell me a story about Jenny when she was younger.”

  “She was possessed, one time, in Reading.”

  Art spat out his drink. “Were you?”

  I said: “There was fuck-all else to do in Reading.”

  (I actually did think I had a demon, years later, but it was after I’d watched Paranormal Activity and I think directly related.)

  My mother said: “Jenny’s never respected my gift.”

  Art said: “What else do you do? Tea leaves? Crystal ball?”

  My mother laughed. “You can find out everything about my services on my new website, Medium at Large.”

  I said: “Never knowingly underadvertised.”

  “But really it’s whatever people want, dead or alive,” my mother continued. “I just get messages. Things like cards can help build a clearer picture. A story, if you like.”

  “Human beings do so fall for a narrative,” I said, pouring myself more wine.

  My mother said: “I’ll tell you about the time she won first prize at the swimming gala. A red ribbon for front crawl. She dived in and tore down the pool, light-years ahead of the rest. You should have seen her go! Like a jigsaw through a sheet of metal. Dukdukdukdukduk! ”

  Art smiled.

  My mother continued: “But the reason she won was because she didn’t breathe! The whole length she just stayed under and held her breath and went like the clappers!”

  “She’s saying I didn’t do it properly,” I said. “That I didn’t deserve it.”

  “No,” my mother said, “that’s not what I’m saying at all.”

  Art went to the toilet.

  My mother said: “I have a very good feeling about him. A very good vibe.”

  “It’s early days.”

  “But you must discuss why, for him, the fear is often greater than the love. You must discuss that, because that might become … problematic for you down the line. He lost someone recently, didn’t he?”

  “Just … please. Stop it.”

  “Do you want my opinion?”

  “Do I want some hackneyed psychobabble instead of what I know? No thanks.”

  “I thought you wanted my opinion. I thought that’s why you invited me.”

  Her question terrorized me then. Why had I invited her? To please Art? Or was there some old lizard part of me still seeking my mother’s approval? Either way, it was primitive.

  Art came back. She and I paid the bill. When Art tried to leave a tip, my mother leaned forward, brandy in hand, and said: “You’re going to hurt my daughter.”

  “Right-oh,” I said, “we’re off.”

  Art stared at her. He didn’t try to move. “I love your daughter,” he said.

  “Who passed recently in your family?” my mother said.

  “Mother,” I said.

  “My uncle,” Art said. “Last year, just before I met Jenny. My mother’s brother.”

  “Your mother, Deborah, who Jenny tells me is quite a woman. Quite the cultured Glaswegian.”

  “She is,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Art. “My uncle and I were very close. I’m named after him.”

  I looked at him. “You never mentioned an uncle.”

  “Love does not advance by weddings; love advances by funerals,” my mother said, and took a long, satisfied sip of her brandy.

  “What does that mean?” Art said.

  “She always says that,” I said. “It means precisely nothing.”

  “It means that fear drives love,” my mother said.

  “Do you believe that?” Art said to me.

  “No,” I said to my mother, who was looking at Art.

  Art smiled. “I’m sure you taught Jenny a lot about love.”

  “She did,” I said. “She taught me you should never go to bed on an argument. You should STAY UP ALL NIGHT ARGUING.”

  Art laughed.

  “Pisces?” my mother said.

  “Oh, dear sweet Jesus,” I said.

  Art nodded, amazed.

  “Mm,” said my mother. “Indecisive. Slippery. I knew one of those.”

  “Home time!” I said.

  * * *

  “Well, she seems lovely,” Art said in the cab.

  I looked at him. “For real?”

  “Yes. She’s a bit extrovert, but I found her wacky ways endearing. Reassuring, almost. It’s like she’s plugged in to a deeper plane, you know?”

  I stared at him. “Oh God,” I said, “you’re a believer.”

  “I’m open-minded.”

  “You’re just another millennial looki
ng for meaning in all the wrong places. You know she does all that shit by micro-eye-movements? She only decided to become a psychic when she failed as an actress. She’s a mutant. She preys on grief and fear.”

  Art shook his head. “There’s just no way she could have known. I have never, and will never, talk about my uncle.”

  I retreated from him then, ashamed almost. “Maybe she planted the suggestion.”

  “She’s not that devious.”

  “Want to bet? My childhood was ripped through with her ambivalence. She alternately smothered me and wounded me. She was all over the place. She was crazy.”

  I realized I was describing her in the same way most men described their exes. The way Art had described his.

  I WAS EIGHTEEN

  the day I left home and I’d made her drive me to the station. The car was new. The cars were always new. Rentals or benevolent benefactors. This one was a blue Jag. I remember the way her leather jacket creaked as she turned the corners. At the station, people stared as we pulled up. I went for the door lever.

  “So you’re leaving? Just like this?”

  “Daughters leave,” I said. “It’s normal. This breakup was inevitable.”

  I got out and slammed the door. The slam of it. I could have done it harder.

  “Is this about my choice of vocation?” she said through the open window. It was a normal question, but I felt her anger and violence too. That layer of red under her looks.

  “It’s about all your choices. It’s about your fucking chaos.”

  I didn’t look back as I walked into the station, but I did hear the Jag vrrrrooooomm away.

  What was it really about? So much, so many things, over the years. A granular resentment that grew into a plaque around my heart.

  ART SAID

  I would like to take some photos of you, if you don’t mind

  What kind of photos?

  Nothing pervy

  I’ll be the judge of that

  I would like you to be naked

  Fuck off

  They will be photos that define romance and womanhood

  I was thrilled. Deeply, problematically thrilled. I pressed him for more details. It would be tasteful, of course. Politically right-on. And a week later, I was on my back on the kitchen floor, holding some roses over my bush and staring up at the black circle of Art’s lens as he stood on two kitchen chairs over me, balanced like a bridge. Part of me billowed at being his subject. I wanted scrutinizing, I did. I wanted someone to look and look and look at me and not stop looking. The roses were meant to symbolize menstruation—that’s what Art said in interviews. Hahaha! Who WAS this guy?