What Fresh Hell

by Lucy Vine

  Right, enough now. God, even if a proposal was something I was waiting desperately for, getting engaged this year is completely out of the question. I’ve been to three weddings already in the last couple of months and I’m still reeling from Harriet’s last weekend. Maid of honour Nina and the other bridesmaids did a rap and Will hid in the loo for ninety per cent of the day. And we still have so many others to get through this year. Plus, of course, the ever-increasingly mammoth task of being maid of honour for Lauren. She keeps telling me in a jokey voice that I ‘better’ be there for her and how she needs my ‘absolute commitment’ as her maid of honour. I keep telling her I’m up for it and it’ll be fine, but I’m starting to really shit myself. There’s still so much to do, and Lauren keeps changing her mind about everything.

  But what else can I say? I can’t say no now, just because it’s starting to look like this is going to require the most insane amount of time and effort – not to mention money – in human history. My overdraft is starting to creak and I’ve just applied for a third credit card to keep me going through this Year of a Million Weddings.

  Lauren would also be completely livid if I got engaged ten seconds after her. Like I was copying her or trying to steal her thunder. We’re not at school anymore, with me trailing around behind cool, popular, beautiful Lauren. We’ve finally escaped that friendship dynamic – and I’m not about to start it up again.

  Will knows all this. He knows I’m a total people pleaser and he knows getting engaged right now wouldn’t be allowed. That’s even if we were actually ready for something like that. Which we’re absolutely not.

  The silence has gone on for too long now, but this isn’t some throwaway conversation I can just ignore. I have to say something, respond properly, talk it through. I can’t escape by pretending I’ve fallen asleep or something.

  The silence stretches out.

  I pretend to be asleep.

  Breathing heavily into his neck, I take a moment to enjoy how nice and peaceful – serene, even – this feels, just lying here in the . . .

  OK, yeah, I’m still thinking about the proposal.

  Was it a proposal? There wasn’t a ring. He didn’t go down on one knee. That’s the stuff we’re supposed to expect and want, isn’t it? Honestly, I should be cross he tried to propose in a pool of his own semen. Is that the story I’m meant to tell my family? ‘Oh, Mummy dearest, Will popped the question half asleep while his balls were resting on my leg.’ I wait quietly in the semi darkness, his body heat warming me through.

  Why am I not just saying yes? Will and I get on so well. We have so much fun and so much in common. And he’s sexy in a way. Lots of ways. Very sexy! He’s quite tall – tall enough for me anyway, since I’m only five foot three – with dark features and sweet grey eyes. And, oh, he is so, so nice. Really nice. I know that doesn’t sound particularly exciting, but it’s a big plus point in the together-forever column. And personally, I think nice gets a bad rap. You always see people screwing up their nose disdainfully when they call someone ‘nice’ – like it’s a terrible, lame flaw. I don’t get that. Like, my parents’ relationship – that wasn’t nice. They revelled in torturing each other – they still do. They enjoy the drama of being unhappy and fighting constantly. Hating each other seems to be their ‘thing’. Which I guess is fine, except I wish they wouldn’t drag me into it so much.

  So yeah, nice is nice. It’s easy and straightforward and there’s no fighting.

  OK, look, the only tiny problem with nice is that it’s hard to criticise someone for anything when you know their intentions are so good. I really struggle to tell Will when he’s upset me, because I know he would never mean to hurt me. Telling him off would be like kicking an adorable, innocent puppy, and I couldn’t do that to a puppy. Not that he’s a puppy. My boyfriend is not a puppy. He’s lovely. And even if he were a puppy, puppies are BRILLIANT. But he’s not one. Don’t tell him I called him a puppy.

  The heat of his body is suddenly too much and I roll away from him, my mind drifting into a weird white future. And when I fall asleep, I dream vividly about a screaming woman in a florist, ripping the heads off puppies.

  6

  Rex barrels into the meeting room, sending interns scattering like bowling pins as he goes. Grabbing a chair at the head of the table, he spins it backwards, kicking a researcher in the crotch as he mounts it. The guy howls but Rex takes no notice.

  ‘Are these trousers too tight?’ he barks, and the whole room’s eye level drops to the bulge on display, straddling the open back of his chair.

  Aslan, sitting across from me, is the first to recover.

  ‘Absolutely not, Rex,’ he says authoritatively. ‘In fact, I’ve been meaning to tell you all morning how bloody fantastic your silhouette looks today.’ He makes deliberate eye contact with me and I have to turn away, pretending to look for a notebook. He will not make me laugh in a meeting again. Not this time.

  Rex looks suspicious. ‘Are you sure? Do you think maybe I should go even tighter then?’

  Aslan pretends to think about this hard. ‘Look, Rex, I’m going to level with you.’ He leans in across the table. ‘Yes, I think you should go tighter.’

  Rex nods very seriously and my boss, the series producer, clears his throat.

  ‘Maybe we could chat about this in wardrobe after today’s meeting, Rex?’ he says firmly. ‘We have a lot to go through.’

  Rex looks bored, but listens as we talk through the latest batch of questions and go through any updates on the live celeb special. That’s my area, and I list off who we’ve got tentative yesses from so far. Then I tell them about the ex-Hollyoaks actor and his rider request. Everyone laughs except Rex.

  ‘Can we do that then? Can we request hookers? Why didn’t I know about that?’ he says to me, completely straight-faced.

  I swallow my feminist outrage at the word ‘hookers’ and pretend to think about it, hoping my producer will save me. He’s meant to be my manager; surely this is inappropriate work conduct? Have we learned nothing from Harvey Weinstein?

  After an awkward silence, Aslan clears his throat and dives in. ‘Actually, Rex, rumour on the A-list grapevine has it that sex workers are totally passé these days.’ He gives Rex a jovial bro (brovial) slap on the back and laughingly adds, ‘And you can’t fool us, Rex! We know you don’t need to pay someone to take care of your needs – you have hordes of women clamouring to date you! Especially in those trousers, I bet. Look, you can’t walk into a room without people falling at your feet.’ He gestures at the researcher on the ground, still holding his kicked penis. ‘You’re just trying to make us all feel better about having to be close to someone so attractive and intimidating, aren’t you, Rex?’ He finishes his speech with a wink.

  Rex takes the bait and nods self-importantly. ‘You got me, Aslan. Never mind, Lilah.’

  The producer clears his throat and returns to the agenda.

  Aslan grins at me across the table. I smile gratefully.

  I’m so jealous of Aslan. He’s got the Rex-pandering absolutely nailed – he always knows exactly what to say to get the host to do exactly what he wants. Obviously, I’m a massive suck-up too, but in a wimpy, passive way. Aslan knows how to manipulate people with his sycophancy. I just cower and let them take what they need.

  I suppress a yawn, wishing the room was cooler. The meeting rooms are always so hot, it’s infuriating. The company policy is that it’s not worth installing air conditioning given we usually have exactly one day of summer in Manchester per year. But these rooms somehow magnify the sun’s rays, so that it feels like a sauna, night and day. And with most of the production team all crammed in together – and Rex’s crotch stretched out and bulging across the back of that chair, giving off waves of heat (I swear there’s practically steam wafting off his groin) – there’s no escaping it.

  But it’s not just the temperature making me sl
eepy. I was out at Lauren’s again until fairly late last night. This week’s obsession is with her wedding Instagram account @BestWeddingEverCharlieLovesLauren. She’s put me in charge of it (password: AllOtherWeddingsSuck) and says I need to get everyone to follow the account now, before the wedding, so we can keep everyone updated on plans and new developments. She also asked me if I could get everyone I work with to follow the account – to ‘get the numbers up’. So far, only Aslan has obliged.

  On the bright side, though, it’s been pretty nice spending so much time with her and Joely on a regular basis. I realised the other day that’s been the thing I like least about being a grown-up: how life and work gets in the way of sitting around, all day and all night, with your best friends. It feels like we’ve been able to recapture a little bit of that, seeing each other so much. Simone’s been too busy with her latest career strategy to come to the meetings or help much with anything else. She bought a timeshare a couple of weeks ago, which will definitely work out just fine I am saying nothing it’s none of my business. But a bit of distance is probably a good thing since she was clearly so frightened of us. Joely says we’re better off without her helping because it would be like having a ‘moron on work experience’ around. She says Simone is a ‘walking ellipses’, and when I asked her what that means, she told me that Simone’s whole personality is ‘an unfinished sentence trailing off’. And I know that’s mean, but you have to admit it’s also fairly poetic.

  By the time I get out of the meeting and over to the canteen, Franny is already halfway through her egg sandwich. She has a little bit of dried yolk on her cheek and I smile to myself, watching her eat for a long moment before I sit down. A rush of warm affection fills me for my messy grandma.

  I’m going to tell her what happened with Will. I don’t know why I haven’t already. I usually tell her everything, but a long week has gone by and every time I opened my mouth to explain, the words wouldn’t come. I think I just wanted to pretend it wasn’t real. Because it probably wasn’t! I still don’t even know if it was a genuine proposal. He hasn’t said anything else about it since.

  ‘Um, Franny? Will sort of, kind of, semi . . . asked me to marry him,’ I say and I sit down heavily.

  She swallows and looks me dead in the eye. ‘I hope you said no?’

  I feel a pang in my stomach.

  ‘I thought you liked Will?’ I say, a bit worried. Franny’s always said the right things about my boyfriend – I thought they got on well – and it really matters to me. If Franny didn’t like the Significant Someone in my life, that would be a deal-breaker. Not only is she super smart (Mensa, don’t forget!) and a good judge of character, but she’s the most important human in my life.

  She’s already waving her weathered hands dismissively, before the words are out of my mouth, bits of her egg sandwich hitting the table next to us. Three assistants on their lunch break stare over.

  ‘I do like him, I do,’ she says impatiently. ‘Especially when he brings me sherry. He’s a sweet boy. Very sweet. Like a puppy.’

  I glance over my shoulder guiltily, like he might hear. He’s not a puppy, I promise he’s not.

  She goes on. ‘But, my darling, sweet, wonderful girl, you’re not ready to get married.’

  I study the crumbs on the table and say casually, ‘Everyone else is doing it.’

  ‘If everyone else jumped off a cliff,’ she twinkles at me, ‘you should be climbing up the rock face instead.’

  I give over to the cheesy moment and smile broadly at her. Franny’s always been a fan of doing the very opposite of whatever you’re meant to.

  She pauses and looks hard at me again. ‘Do you want to get married, Delilah?’

  I open my mouth to reply, and instead I feel myself start to well up.

  Oh God. Tears? Now? Really? I glance over at the nearby assistants but they’re caught up in their own conversation.

  I shake my head, trying to dismiss the sudden emotions, feeling annoyed at my unnecessary reaction. I don’t even know why I’m crying.

  Shit, I wish I had more control over myself! I’m such a stupid, stupid, stupid dickhead. I don’t cry like a normal person, I never have. The moments when crying would be a perfectly reasonable, acceptable reaction – that’s when I clam up and get all dead inside. But any level of unnecessary kindness and I lose it entirely. Last week I went to the GP to get a repeat prescription for the pill and the nurse asked me if there was anything else I wanted to talk about. I fully burst into tears. I didn’t have anything to talk about, I just couldn’t help it. It’s like a trained response. Especially when I’m hormonal and tired. I will cry over kindness, unkindness, margarine adverts, Jennifer Aniston never reuniting with Brad Pitt, the abstract concept of death, a really nice door. Anything.

  Except I’m not even hormonal, so that’s not it.

  ‘Oh, my darling girl, what is it?’ Franny says, reaching for me and pulling me in for a cuddle. I sag into her and let the tears roll down my face for a minute.

  ‘I don’t know, actually. I’m sorry,’ I say a little weakly, trying to get myself together. ‘I think I’m just really tired. I was out again last night with Lauren and I’ve been working too hard lately. I have such a huge to-do list. I have so much to think about with all these weddings and hen dos – plus it’s costing me a fortune – and I’m worried I haven’t been spending enough time with Will. I keep cancelling our date plans – twice in the last couple of weeks – and he’s been so nice about it, but he wouldn’t tell me if he was annoyed anyway. And I’m scared things are weird between us because of this non-proposal. Oh, and, of course, I’ve been running about after Lauren so much . . .’

  Franny tuts. ‘How is that bridezilla of yours?’

  I try not to smile. ‘Don’t be mean, Franny. Lauren’s not that bad.’

  Franny narrows her eyes and mutters, ‘Yet.’

  I ignore her, sitting back up and dabbing my eyes before continuing. ‘And it’s normal that she wants everything to be so completely perfect. You only get one wedding, after all.’

  Franny cackles. ‘You can have as many weddings as you bloody well want,’ she says. Franny has been divorced three times and outlived her last husband, Geoffrey. He was a farmer she met online – the one who looked like Danny Devito – and they had a long-distance relationship because he lived in Somerset. Franny said it was ‘mostly just about sex, anyway’.

  I know, I know, try not to think about it too much.

  When Geoffrey died two years ago, Franny and I started spending even more time together. As well as seeing her here all the time, we also have our Fuddy-Duddies United club every Thursday evening, over at the local youth club. It’s us and around fourteen hot mess old women just like my granny. Franny and I started the club a few years ago as a place to practise our pub trivia and talk about the latest sudoku app updates. We knew it was essentially a bad rip-off of the WI, and I did suggest we join the actual WI, but Franny said they’re ‘too cool’ now, because ‘the jam-making isn’t the priority it once was’. So we asked the council if we could use the space every Thursday night. They said yes, and we’ve converted it for our needs. Since then, we’ve expanded a bit and turned into something more than just a trivia club. We started being more proactive in the community. We do fundraisers and charity walks for the homeless, and visit local schools to life coach kids who hate us. It’s great fun!

  It keeps everyone active, and I don’t want to sound like one of those people, but it makes me feel good on the inside. We, like, help people. And for a while, loads of new people wanted to join. We had women of all ages coming along on a Thursday night – even Lauren and Joely turned up to one meeting. But one of the original old-lady members – Molly – hated that. She said she didn’t want all these ‘young people’ and their ‘modern world ways’ intruding on her club. So she used her old lady powers to drive them away by being racist and – even wor
se – judgy. And the younger members did not like it. Old people being weird about the Chinese is one thing, but when they won’t stop calling your new unicorn jumper ‘hideous, cheap polyester shit’, that will drive anyone away. So now it’s just the old ladies and me again.

  Actually, it’s probably my favourite night of the week. It’s hard to explain how awesome it is speaking to these incredibly clever women about their lives. And plus, they always have the BEST gossip about the woman who lives across the road, above the souvenir shop. The latest is that she’s apparently having an affair with the dog walker! He’s only 22!

  Franny is still speaking. ‘But that’s another reason I assume you’ll say no to Will – your best friend would never forgive you if you got engaged while she’s engaged. Not that I think Lauren’s diva tantrums should stop you if you actually wanted to do it.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ I say hastily. ‘I wouldn’t do that to her. I wouldn’t want to steal her limelight. Trust me, I’m more than happy for Lauren to have her moment. And it’s irrelevant because I really think Will was only joking anyway. It was just a joke. He is such a joker.’ I laugh but it’s hollow, and Franny cocks an arched, quizzical eyebrow at me. It conveys so much, that left eyebrow of hers. Arching one brow is a skill I have always wanted to master. I practised for months when I was little, but these face-slugs I have won’t do anything but sit there looking cross. They’re very straight and dark, like a child has taken a whiteboard pen to my face. And I specifically say child, because they’re also entirely unsymmetrical. It is very sad. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the right one has a big bald patch in the centre, from when Lauren gave me a ‘makeover’ aged fourteen. I ended up with green hair, purple sparkly eyeshadow and extremely over-enthusiastically tweezed brows. A bit of one never grew back properly so I have to colour the patch in every day.

  ‘I said no to him, so I’m not sure why I’m even still talking about it. It’s not a big deal.’