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I just cannot believe it.
So much has happened in the last few hours that it’s like a different person wrote the stuff I wrote this morning. I needed this so much. So, I go down to reception and that guy from the travel agency (the hot one) was sitting there on his laptop and there’s no one else around. So I took the plunge and decided to speak to him. I made a joke, like, ‘Can you believe a girl like me has been ditched for the Pope!’ He looked up a bit alarmed so I lied because I didn’t want to come across as a loser. I said my friend had family visiting so I was at a loose end and wanted to go on his tour: can you believe it, at this point I am fully willing to pay for this guy’s time just to have someone to talk to. So fucking pathetic. So, at first he says tours are for groups, but I do a bit of sad eyes and he says, OK then, lemme take down your details. An exception because he thinks I’m a nice girl. And I notice he saves my number straight to his phone.
We leave the hotel and I could tell he was starting to relax and in a few minutes we were chatting like old friends, you know that special feeling – I felt properly comfortable around him, like I’d known him for ages. We get on the metro and we’re sitting together, our knees are touching and stuff. Anyway I end up spilling the beans about Beadle and her funny behaviour. That she’s always wanting to walk around twelve hours a day and never eats anything. I said I suspect she’s surviving on condensed milk miniatures, because the other day I dropped a hairpin in the bathroom bin and found a bunch of empties at the bottom when I went to look for it. That made him laugh. He has a great laugh. It made me feel like I’ve been blowing it all out of proportion. It finally felt like being on holiday.
And anyway the long and the short of it is he’s taking me for dinner tonight. Eat your heart out, Mike. Where is Beadle? Fuck me if I know. Fuck me if I care!
Xoxo Ally
30/06/2006
Diary dearest,
Back I am, with a deplorable little story from the other night. So the hotel guy? Me being me, I slept with him, obviously. It was pretty good sex. Franki was right to say that sex with a grown man is a completely different experience, so I texted her that, straight after. No reply. Probably high. After he went to take a shower, like grown-ups do after sex, you know? So I took out my phone and typed ‘Goodnight, Mikey,’ then I blocked Mike’s number. I was done. He came back in a white towel and I thought he looked pretty hot. I was pretty pleased with myself. I took a shower straight after him, because he had taken one so I felt I should too. When I came out he was nowhere to be seen. I waited for an hour in his room reading through the messages saved on my phone, and when he wasn’t back yet I thought I should leave, so I put on my clothes and went back to our room.
And guess what, Beadle is sitting up in bed, with these black eyes looking bigger than usual. It creeped the fuck out of me. I ask what’s up and she pushes a fucking sugar sachet into my hand, with something written on it. A name and a number.
[NEIL: 07972839547]
He’d gone and given her his fucking number. While I was sitting in his bed, waiting for him to come back. Told her to ring him ‘whenever she needs someone to talk to’.
I’d quite like to go home now.
TEABAGS
Ruth
Now
It’s been over a week since I last spoke to Alanna, and just when I thought I’d imagined it all, the Lolitas ambush me. I am sitting at my desk and my tea has become blacker than I like it, when their signature high-pitched call sears through the hallway. So often, these days, I lose track of time. I squeeze the bag into the cup and toss it in the paper bin. The Lolitas scramble in. ‘Ruth! Rise and shine, honeybee!’
It is too early. I am not prepared to be seen by others. This is why I come in an hour before my shift starts, to allow myself enough time to adjust. They scramble through the Bowl door, jangling and chiming, stretching their limbs, shaking their hair out of their hoods.
‘You!’ One Lolita points her finger at me. There are several diamond bands around it, probably fake but extremely sparkly. They make my eyes water. ‘You’re in charge of the hen-do!’
Am I? I’d hoped I had willed it away by ignoring it. When Alanna said she’d give me a week to decide what I wanted, a week felt like a very long time. And it does feel like she said it a very long time ago. Time is strange. I think I was awaiting direction or for her to change her mind. When she didn’t come to find me after seven days had elapsed, I’d allowed myself to hope it might all be forgotten. Ruth Beadle organizing a party: chronicle of an announced tragedy.
I can count on the fingers of my hands the number of parties I’ve been invited to. With the same ease, I can recall the specific hue of each humiliation. I still have bad dreams.
As a child, you could’ve described me as shy, though I never quite got the hang of it. Other shy children were discounted from feeling bad about themselves. It was always the very pretty ones, whose cheeks glowed pink when they were asked a question in class. Alanna and I didn’t cross paths until later, but it isn’t hard to imagine her as one of those children. Unable to speak, they emitted eagerness from the tops of their cutely bowed heads. They wore soft woollen jumpers and tentatively offered their hands to the outgoing kids in the playground.
I was never that kind of shy. My shyness was impervious, with electric edges, like a ball of yarned nerves: sharp, throbbing, veined with inadequacy and unwillingness. Other children steered clear of me like I was a lame animal. In turn I began to feel like an animal myself: a feral, shaky thing that could make even adults uneasy. On my eleventh birthday I insisted I wanted to hold a party – a ‘gathering’, my mother called it. I collected recipes from old magazines and took the free paper home from the bus so that I could pore over the ‘dinner-in-ten’ section. I made my own canapés, decorated with pine nuts and olive segments. The kids didn’t like them; olives and nuts were grown-up food. They lamented the lack of a face-painter. It was the first and last birthday I ever celebrated. I would never hold a gathering again.
Growing up, I might have found a way to turn my inwardness outward had I been willing to stick with the humiliation. Push myself. But I didn’t want to – certainly not without any encouragement, and none was being offered. With time, people lose patience with shyness. They want to be rewarded for their time, turning callous when they see no improvement. The parties got worse. I would sit in a corner and refuse to play Spin the Bottle or whatever sticky game they were playing. But I would go because it felt worse not to. When I began to receive fewer and fewer invitations, I knew deep down that I had only myself to blame. Unable to disentangle my resentment from my awkwardness, I let my predicament conflate into a general feeling of malaise until I was unable to tell if I was right in hating them or they were right in hating me. I was too busy, at that point, hating myself for not trying harder. Finally, I made a resolution to tell people I hated my birthday. I wasn’t the only teenager to say so, but I thought I was the only one whose wishes were never contravened. Nobody ever organized a surprise party for me.
Adulthood offered a chance to crystallize my adolescent resolve: I simply became a person who doesn’t enjoy parties. That’s Ruth Beadle. Everyone knows I’ll be the first to leave the staff Christmas party, and the last one was no exception. I go because Call-Me-Melissa won’t take no for an answer. She keeps an eye on me like you’d keep an eye on a child at dinner. I wash down her cardboard canapés with water and I stay sober until she is drunk enough that I can finally leave. I don’t want Melissa to think I’m ungrateful.
I’ll go to the staff Christmas parties because I have to, but for all other purposes I have developed a set of curt stock responses that I yield when I’m hard-pressed. ‘I don’t like the crowds.’ ‘I don’t like the drinking.’ ‘I don’t like the stink of smoke on my clothes the morning after.’ Adults can sense when you’re holding back from explaining a painful childhood memory; mostly they won’t bother making it into an uncomfortable conversation. ‘I was a bit of a
n outsider in school, I guess.’ I leave a suggestive pause. Does she abseil at weekends and doesn’t want to spoil her balance? they might think. Or is she into another kind of party – kink parties, perhaps, it’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it! – and doesn’t want to waste a minute on a lesser occasion?
I don’t know what people think I do in my spare time; most adults ask very few personal questions. So I guess my technique works well if you’re the kind of person who is happy with letting others decide what you’re all about. I am a private person, that much is known. It has its upsides in that mostly I am left alone. Or maybe I have been left alone for so long that I’ve become a private person. Neil said I was simply unwilling to make the effort. His workmates thought I was stuck-up. It reflected badly on him, although the fact that he’s fucking a little girl will look even worse. I don’t imagine he expects her to entertain Rory and Ian. Although, I wonder, would she fare better?
Now Alanna wants me to organize her hen-do. It’s a surprise party apparently, although Alanna suggested it herself and will probably provide a list of potential dates. I don’t like the word ‘hen-do’. We are women, not chickens; but I can’t come up with a better suggestion so I refer to it simply as ‘the Party’. If it wasn’t Alanna who’d asked me, I’d think this was all a cruel joke. But Alanna doesn’t do cruel any more. Since finding out she’s a born nurse, Alanna says she’s resolved never to be mean to people for no reason. So it can’t be a joke, can it? We are women after all, and not children.
I open my eyes to a feeling of warmth and the knowledge that it is very cold outside. Of course, I am still asleep and this is a dream. At first, in my dream, I cannot see clearly: all around me is a grainy, compressed darkness. It is a comforting feeling. When my eyes finally focus, I see that a woman is asleep in front of me. I am stood at the foot of her bed. She sleeps uncoiled, stretched out sloppily across the mattress. Thin light spills from the slatted window, slicing across her body like the spine of a striped animal. Her mouth is open and I want to push two fingers through her lips. I feel confident I could do so without waking her. I wait for the dream to kick into motion, but it doesn’t: it stays as still as a picture. I look down at my hands and realize I am holding a tall glass of water, which suddenly feels very cold and impossibly heavy. ‘Drink it!’ I yell, and then I wake up.
When Alanna told them I was to be maid of honour, it took the Lolitas a couple of days to recover from not being chosen. Then their enthusiasm got the better of them: round they came, wagging their tails, begging to be involved with little yelps and leaps. So it seems that I’m not only in charge of a party, but also in charge of interns. The Lolitas have collated a list of possible guests from Alanna’s Facebook friends. It includes female family members, friends from school and women who regularly feature on her timeline. This approach seems intrusive to me, but the Lolitas assure me that it was suggested by Alanna. Certainly, she seems concerned with her presence on social media: she has over a thousand friends on Facebook and has meticulously completed her profile information. It took the Lolitas a whole weekend to get the list ready. Like I say, there are many activities a person can choose to do in their spare time. Alanna can ask the Lolitas to do anything, and they’ll promptly execute her request, like it’s just the thing they’ve been waiting for. The wedding isn’t even until June.
Still, she can’t make them like me. They leave the list on my desk in a bright yellow plastic folder and scamper towards the laundry room. There is a sticker on the folder that says a tick equals ‘compulsory’ and a heart is a ‘very close friend’. The folder looks thick. How many people can one woman form an emotional bond with? And, out of all of them, how is it possible that I have been chosen for this job?
The Lolitas reconvene at my chair. One of them perches on the armrest.
‘So?’ she says. ‘What do you think?’
The Lolitas are in shock when the realization finally hits that, no, Alanna and I are not even friends on Facebook.
AFTERSHAVE
Three Months Earlier
kittenwithasledgehammer
Sent: 18/11/2015 – 03:11
dear claude (seems less creepy tho a bit like im talking to some old french dude but who knows, maybe you are one, anythings possible)
what can i say seems ridiculous i’m even getting back to your message in many ways. i didn’t mention it to any of the boys at work even tho they set up the Kindred Spirit account for me and cant wait to marry me off to a good man. found it open in the tabs when i went to do the weekly paperwork on the work computer didnt i. they used this awful photo from the school yearbook, p sure they left it on deliberately, can u believe? i manage this shit! but often they forget. they wouldnt last two days in another establishment, goddammit i’m way too chill. imagine if i told them the only guy i finally decide to talk to is a total weirdo. they wouldn’t drop it. you should leave a large tip for those boys next time, my creepy dear secret admirer. cuz i didnt delete the profile, simply changed the password and details. cuz you know i guess i am DESPERATE enough to meet someone nice to put up with the amount of weirdos on this piece of crap website. staggering. like you say. i mean it is funny bc in theory what is different about you, except your message is by far the craziest of the bunch? i mean you sound REALLY desperate for someone nice. maybe i like that. it makes me feel like i have nothing to lose lol. you’re not gonna follow me around soho are you? actually if you wanted to stalk me full stop it makes no difference if i get back to your messages or not, you could just follow me when i come home from work. im not saying you should do that. pls don’t do that.
all right, hamlet, the thing is I agree with you. something is rotten in london. i can relate. i often get lonely. at work, i am sad and distracted, and thats why i dont notice nice boys like you. assuming youre a boy, which i dont know. i dont know who you are so i cant say that i like you. im sorry. but i dont dislike you. let’s keep talking.
cumulonimbus
Sent: 19/11/2015 – 00:54
Dear Lili,
Wow. Just wow. I’m about to sound incredibly silly since I obviously wrote expecting some kind of reply, otherwise I wouldn’t have written at all, but now it has come I feel completely unprepared for it. It’s just so great to hear from you, even beyond my own expectations. In the few days it took you to get back to me I have been thinking about the message I sent almost constantly, making myself sick with excitement and discouragement in turns. You know what’s crazy? This rollercoaster of feelings (which started even before your reply came, if I’m honest) is the most I have felt in the last few years. Which has reinforced my belief that I have finally done the right thing in writing to you. Lili, I feel so alive right now. Thank you.
You spoke in your message about how hard it is to navigate dating and about feeling pressured by the expectations of others. I can really relate to what you are saying. Dating websites have long perplexed me and I only caved into them after long thought. I still have mixed feelings – though I accept that they have quickly become a pervasive tool for seeking new relationships (of many kinds, also). In no way do I mean to condemn any means that a human being might choose to employ to connect with other humans. But I am uneasy. It doesn’t seem like a very holistic approach and I cannot cope with the predatory aspects. Much like yourself. I have an annoying junior partner who loves to corner me in the office kitchen to discuss our dating lives. I am sure that he – like your workmates – means well. Camaraderie: the process of bonding among males via sharing the edited, grandiose details of one’s sexual endeavours. (Simple creatures, us men, aren’t we? Well, some of us are.) He is young, inexperienced and new to the firm. Sharp, well dressed, always freshly shaven. He probably looks up to me as someone who might pass on some knowledge about the facts of life. I know I used to feel that way about my superiors and I can tell that not knowing half as much about me as I do about him frustrates him, puts him on edge. Still, he tries. He gets out his phone and shows me his Tinder matches: ‘Fit bir
d, yeah?’ he says. Something like that. Normally I would try to give him something back: I know he, too, just wants to be liked. But I find his manner unnerving – his persistence, also. I can’t help but feel that he is using me to validate his own compulsion. And all these girls look the same to me, caked in tanning lotion, paralysed in their bikinis on tropical beaches. I used to work for a travel agency in my twenties and I hated it. That’s what the photos make me think of. It’s all very business-like: not unlike sourcing clients’ profiles, like I do, or serving customers, like you. This isn’t about that, is it? You and me, right? We’ve had enough of that.
Claudius (look him up, fascinating)
kittenwithasledgehammer
Sent: 19/11/2015 – 02:40
Dear Clay Who Began the Conquest of Britain (did my homework, happy?)
maybe we’ll settle for clay what do you think? by far least creepy nickname so far.
my dear clay how is it that you are both totally mad and also make complete sense to me? dangerous man to get involved with obviously. youre lucky i dont know better arent you? i think i did myself in by getting back to that first message so i guess worth keeping at it. thats a lie, im writing back cuz i want to. well done. youve successfully intrigued me. i wonder if ive even spoken to you in person this week. ive been trying to pay attention, but theres no telling is there? you really are good at blending in despite being a complete weirdo. once i had a stalker who kept coming into my work and it was creepy bc he wasnt v good at stalking at all. i mean if youre stalking someone pretty sure theyre not supposed to know. well this guy came in every day and bought the same thing each time – you know that teeny garlic bread basket we do? btw dont order that we bake it from frozen. literally no better than supermarket bread. you know the one tho? just because it was the cheapest item on the menu and clearly it wasnt his lunch because who the fuck is going to be full with one teeny garlic roll, and clearly it wasnt a snack or a side to something else he bought elsewhere, like idk a side salad, because he sat in store to eat it, a full hour between one and two, when we are at our busiest. taking up a whole table and just fucking *staring* you know? nibbling on that bread crust to make it last until the whole thing looked like a lump of baby food. *really* fucking creepy let me tell you. so in so far as regular customers go you cant be that creepy or i wouldve already called security on you like i eventually did on that guy. but creepy enough to tell me all this stuff in your messages, maybe i sold you your £9 lunch deal today and i don’t even know it? why the cautionary tale? i dont know i guess i am wondering, why would you say you want to change your life and not take action? why dont you start by talking to me at work in person? talk to me, do something. maybe i do like you, you know, its just how can i be sure.
Shelf Life Page 10