“No, but, what about the feelings? Wasn’t it exciting to be able to say ‘this is my boyfriend’ and all that?”
I sighed. “Honestly? I don’t know. It took me ages to have it sink in and it still felt weird. I know it sounds really ungrateful, but I’m not actually sure I was that thrilled. I feel like it happened too soon, you know?”
“Yeah, but who cares? Bar the slut thing—which he totally said in anger and will get over once you apologize—he’s great, isn’t he?”
“Yes, I mean he’s smart, attractive and lovely. But Em, I don’t even know how much we have in common. I don’t even know how sad I am. Like, okay, I cried all of yesterday evening. But is it just the rejection? Or do I really miss him for him?”
“I don’t know, babe. But from the sounds of it, you get on really well. Like, you never had any awkward silences on your dates, did you? And I thought you said he’s really funny.”
“He is. And I do love the fact that we get to have sex whenever I see him.”
“Ooh, have you orgasmed with him yet?”
“Nooo.”
“Meh, it will come in time. Honestly, Ellie? I have no idea what you’re doing here in Haggerston. You should be in the Isle of Wight right now begging him to take you back.”
“I’m not going to beg! He was such a dick to me and how was I meant to know we were in a relationship anyway?”
“Look, you know I’m normally the first one to say you should stand up for yourself and not be the needy girl, but you are kind of, technically, in the wrong here.”
“His parents probably know I’m a slut by now and his brother’s girlfriend is a vaper and she hates me and I don’t care about the All Blacks and I never ever will,” I blurted out.
“I, like, have no idea what you just said.”
I groaned. “It’s just that I find the idea of an actual, full-blown relationship kind of terrifying. What if we don’t have enough in common? What if he makes me watch rugby and fetch him beers, and sit in a room with the girls while he does laddy things? That is not what I want from my future, Emma. I don’t want to sacrifice my independence for a relationship.”
“Um, babe? No one said it had to be like that. Serge never made me do any of that.”
“He’s European.”
“So?”
“It’s different.”
“Ellie. It sounds like you’ve just got classic commitment issues.”
“Isn’t that what men are meant to have, not women?”
“Uh, yeah, in romcoms. Nowadays it’s men who are needy, haven’t you noticed? It’s always the guys trying to be all relationshippy, just like Nick was to you, and we’re unbothered ’cos we’re young and hot and know we can have everyone. Especially with stuff like Tinder. There’s always someone within a five-mile radius so you never have to be needy again. You know?”
“Yes, I do know. Hence I don’t want to be in a serious relationship or I’ll never get to go on an online date again and my slutty phase will be actually over. Although, after the stuff Nick said to me about being slutty, maybe that’s a good thing.”
“Oh my God,” said Emma. “We had a pact about the slut thing, remember? You can’t reappropriate a word’s meaning if you keep switching back to the old meaning.”
“Is this not a special exception? I just got dumped by someone who used the word ‘slut’ because he wanted to convey just how, like, loose I am. And don’t give me that look—my mum uses the word ‘loose.’ I picked it up from her.”
“Wasn’t saying anything, babe,” she said, spreading out her hands. “Look, I get that it sucked he said that, but it only hurts because you’re letting it. You could just imagine he was trying to say: ‘You’re someone who has a lot of sex, and your most recent shag was morally dubious, not to mention ill timed.’ Does that hurt as much?”
I laughed. “I guess not. I know you’re right. I just feel like everything’s kind of falling apart, you know? Nick was so brutal yesterday. And my mum thinks I’m some kind of brazen hussy and it’s giving her extra gray hairs. And you and Will hate me for the Ollie thing, so that’s a massive mess. AND I really, really don’t want to go to work tomorrow or ever write another column. I don’t even have anything NSFW to write.”
“Okay,” said Emma. “Let’s fix this one by one. Firstly, I don’t hate you because I never could and you’re an amazing friend even if you did fuck our other friend.” I gave her a wobbly smile. “Will will get over it, although he was screaming about a spoiled spinach and ricotta cannelloni this morning so you may have a bit more apologizing to do. Bar the whole Nick thing, it seems like the next biggest issue is your column, but how do you actually feel about it, El? Like, screw whatever anyone else thinks.”
I sighed. “I don’t know. On one hand, I love writing it and I don’t really care if people know this stuff about me. It’s not like I’m actually describing the sex—I’m just saying I have it. Besides, people find it funny and I love that. But the only problem is that every time I write it, I feel guilty because I know my mum’s going to go crazy and, well, what if I do fuck up my future? I may never get employed again.”
“Babe, we’re the Facebook generation. We’ve grown up with the Internet—public over-sharing is just what we do. So long as you keep it vaguely appropriate and do it well, I doubt any future employer is going to care. Hell, if you stay in the same industry, I bet your next boss will love that you did this. The only potential issue is if you can’t shake the guilt.”
“That’s just it though. I can’t tell if the guilt is because of what I’m doing to my career, or more just part of the religious guilt my mum taught me about never masturbating and all that. You know, like the female shame about using your vagina and daring to talk about it. I bet if a guy did it for GQ or whatever they’d laugh about him being a bit of a player. If I was a boy, I know my mum wouldn’t care as much. This is SEXISM.”
Emma scrunched up her face. “Um, maybe, but I feel like that’s not the real problem here. Am I right in saying that you want to keep doing this?” I shrugged in response. “Exactly—you do. And the only problem is your mum caring. But you have to stop letting that be a problem. Like, you can’t always please your parents. OMG, someone tweeted the best thing the other day about life being a relay race and your parents always giving you the baton—but there comes a point where you’re like, why am I even holding this baton anymore, you know? So you can just drop it and walk away.”
“Um, okay,” I said. “I guess I see your point, but there is also the minor fact that I still don’t actually earn a salary and am exploiting myself for no money.”
“So ask for one.”
“Do you not think I’ve already tried? Maxine is a psycho bitch who refuses to budge. I have tried SO MANY TIMES.”
“Well this time, just make her an offer she can’t refuse,” said Emma, crossing her arms with a grin.
“Do you have a plan? Please tell me you have a plan. I really need money to buy food.”
“Sorry, babe, I just say the motivational things. You’ve got to go and actually do them. Good luck.”
• • •
I was standing outside my office building at eight a.m. Even Maxine wouldn’t be in this early, but I needed the time to prep myself before the big meeting. Well, it wasn’t a meeting per se because Maxine still didn’t know it was happening, but it was going to be big. I was going to finally ask her for some money and it was going to work because I’d come up with a plan. I had something to offer that she couldn’t refuse and it wasn’t unpaid labor.
Emma’s inspirational speech had helped. So had the fact that I’d basically hit rock bottom and had nothing to lose. I was angry and I was ready to fight for my rights.
I poured my flat white down my throat, relishing all £2.10 of it. I could do this. I could go in there, reclaim my life and stand up to that bitch. If Anne Ha
thaway could stand up to Meryl Streep I could totally do it. I’d just have to try to do it in Primark’s finest instead of Valentino—and try not to chuck my phone in a fountain.
“Loitering?”
I whirled around and saw Maxine standing there, arching her eyebrows at me. They put my home-tweezed brows to shame.
“Just on my way in,” I replied brightly, trying to regain my composure. This was not how I wanted her first sight of me to go.
“Come on then,” she said.
I nodded weakly and followed her in. She padded along in her casual flats and I started to regret my heeled boots. I’d worn them to look powerful but they just made me feel clumpy and try-hard next to her.
“So, um, I was hoping to come and see you later,” I said. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Go on then.”
“No,” I cried out. “Um, not now. I wanted to do it, um, properly. In your office.”
She raised her eyebrows again and I felt my cheeks burn up. Why was I so bad at the “you go, girl, reclaim your life” thing? This was not how it would have gone in the movie version of my life.
“Fine. Come by at half-eight.”
I nodded quickly. “Cool. Yep, will do.”
She ignored me and walked out of the lift straight to her office. It was fine; I could totally do this. I just had to be less Ellie Kolstakis and more Anne Hathaway.
• • •
Me: I’m freaking the fuck out.
Emma: Think of the $$$!! You can do it.
Lara: Don’t freak out or you’ll act weird and lose your high ground.
Emma: Yeah, stay strong, babe. You need to have your “go gurl” moment.
Me: What if I bugger it all up?
There was a significant pause in the conversation before Lara replied.
• • •
Lara: Then you leave and get a different job. It’ll be fine!
I sighed and put my phone down by the bathroom sink. It wasn’t going to be easy but I had to do this. I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was looking pretty good, my eyeliner was even and the black chiffon shirt I was wearing looked smart. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought I was someone with a paid job.
In the last few months, a lot had changed. I’d gone from being the girl who’d only been penetrated once, to the girl who fucked her flattie and had people—okay, one person—wanting to be her boyfriend. My adult life was finally starting—it was just a lot messier than I had anticipated. Either way, I needed to ride this wave before it went off without me and I was left wondering where my life went.
I grabbed my phone and walked out of the bathroom. I was done spending my days hiding in the loos. I would go and get my salary—even if it meant breaking my mum’s heart. If she couldn’t deal with her child turning into a sexual adult, then she shouldn’t have had kids.
“Maxine?” I said, as I pushed open her glass door.
She pushed her black Chanel frames down her nose and peered at me over them. “Ellie. Come in.”
I obliged and sat down on the chair in front of her desk. “Thanks.”
“So what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Maxine, I want a salary.” Her face didn’t move so I carried on. “I work nine to ten hours a day, I help everyone with content, I’ve secured really good interviews for the mag, and now my columns are bringing in thousands of readers a month. I can write more and I have ideas of how to expand the business through new content.”
“Ellie, I appreciate all the hard work you do, but budgets are tight here.”
I felt my heart sink, but then I remembered my leverage. I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair. “I have a killer column for you, Maxine. I’m done hiding the details—I want to embrace this and make it my own. I don’t want to write about my life anymore—I want to tackle a new everyday woman’s issue each week. Starting with losing a condom inside you. And slut-shaming.”
“Why would that be more popular than the current one?”
“Um, because confessional journalism is so over. Everyone my age wants to know about the general stuff—we don’t care about making everyone into a celeb anymore. So I can use bits of my life as a jumping-off point, but what I can really give you is an insight into what people my age want to know. Not posh people like Camilla and co., but actual, real, ‘how the fuck is this my life’ twentysomethings. I want to write about issues we all care about. I want to write about feminist issues in an acceptable way. But I’ll only do it for £25,000 a year. No negotiation.”
Maxine took off her glasses. Oh fuck. I’d gone too far—I knew I should have asked for £20,000, although how anyone expected me to live off that I had no idea.
“Okay.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?”
Maxine looked amused. “Let’s do it. You’re right—we’re meant to be an edgy site and we need edgier people to work for us. I’ll get a contract drawn up. You can start your new role now. Oh, and I’m only paying you £23, 000.”
I knew £25,000 was too good to be true. But fuck it—I still had a salary! And Maxine thought I was edgy. I bit my lip to stop a huge grin spreading across my face and instead nodded seriously. “Okay. I’ll accept that. Thanks.”
“Thank you, Ellie. But don’t let me down.”
I wanted to fall at her feet promising I wouldn’t, but I forced myself to stand up tall. “Thanks for the chance,” I said and walked out.
I had done it. I was going to get an actual salary, and I hadn’t even had to use my backup plan and get on my knees and beg. Anne Hathaway had nothing on me, because I HAD A SALARY.
34
NSFW
Ever since I started writing this column, my life has started living up to the title. I guess it proves Oscar Wilde right—life really does imitate art. But people have reacted in different ways to this obvious show of, well, sex.
For some, it’s been the stamp of cool they’ve needed to respect me. For others, it’s embarrassing but they’re intrigued out of good old-fashioned curiosity. Others think it’s awful. Not only am I, a young woman, having casual sex—I’m writing about it. I’ve even been called a slut.
It’s why I want to finally deal with this, the S-word, because I’m sick of girls being slut-shamed. It’s been going on for long enough, and it’s time we took a stand against it.
I thought about what would happen if we banned the word “slut”—but it won’t work. Banning things just makes them more exciting, and there’s that niggling issue called freedom of speech.
So my friends and I tried to reappropriate the word “slut.” We tried to give it a positive meaning, and go back to the basic fact of it just meaning someone who has a lot of sex. We called each other sluts to get rid of the stigma attached to it.
But that didn’t really work either. It got confusing, because not everyone was using it the way we were. When someone called me a slut, I forgot all of this rationale and I just felt sad.
It’s why I’ve finally realized that when it comes to the S-word, all we can do is remember that’s exactly what it is—a word. We’re the ones who give it power and put meanings on it. Some might use it in a positive way—“you’re so slutty I love it”—but others are derogatory—“yeah she shagged him. What a slut.”
That negative use is just part of a wider social problem—as in the world is pretty fucking unfair. But as much as I want to, I can’t change that. All I can change is my personal relationship to the word “slut,” so I’ve decided to finally accept it for what it is—a word.
I’m going to stop being so scared of it, and if someone calls me a slut, I’m not going to care. I have the power to either let that bother me, or to ignore them and realize that’s just their ignorance. I don’t have to let that little syllable get to me.
I want to live my life the w
ay I want. I’m going to be judged for it, because that’s the world we live in and I can’t control it—but what I can control is how I let that affect me. And there’s no way I’m going to let someone else’s stupidity stop me from living my life. So to anyone who wants to slut-shame me, go for it. I’ll be too busy having fun to even notice.
• • •
I stood outside Pizza Express shivering in my thin pleather jacket. I was starving and the girls were typically late even though I’d given them two hours’ notice before calling the emergency dinner.
I grinned to myself. Lara was on the train up from Oxford, assuming that I was still in breakdown ricotta mode. She was going to die when she found out I’d stood up to Maxine—and won. Now that I had a paycheck I was even planning on treating them to the meal. They didn’t need to know I had a twenty-five percent off voucher.
“Babe,” called out Emma, as she tottered down the street towards me. She was wearing black suede leggings with seriously high boots. I hugged her happily, knowing she was finally getting back to her pre-breakup self.
“Sorry about the last-minute plans. I just really felt like seeing you guys.”
“No worries, I just really want to know what happened. God, Maxine is such a BITCH. What did she say to you, hun?”
“Oh, um, just like really bitchy things. I’ll tell you properly when Lara gets here. I love your shoes by the way.”
“Really? I haven’t worn them in ages because I’m trying to tone down a bit and be more adult, you know? But I didn’t have anything else that would go with the outfit.”
“Somehow I can’t believe that, but either way, they look great. And what’s all this about toning down? That’s just your personality.”
She shrugged. “I guess, but my personality has kind of let me down lately.”
“Sergio’s a wanker,” I cried.
“Um, I meant just with getting stressed at you for the Ollie thing,” she said, as people turned to stare at us. “Not Sergio.”
Not That Easy Page 26