It's Not You, It's Them

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘Well, that’s because we stopped going out; we just stayed in and had sex all the time.’

  ‘Unlike now?’ I ask as a cheeky smile creeps across my face.

  ‘Well, now we just do both – sometimes at the same time,’ he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

  The first time I slept with Mark, it was so good, I thought I’d died and gone to sex heaven. Seriously. We went out a lot when we first started dating, but as soon as we realised how explosive things were in the bedroom for us (not that we’ve ever thought it necessary to limit ourselves to that one room), that was it; we would just stay in and have sex all the time, breaking only to go to work (give or take a few ‘sick days’) and eat Frosties (and one time, we didn’t even bother taking a break from having sex to eat cereal – we’re still finding Frosties in our bedroom to this day).

  ‘Roxie,’ he continues, as his hand finally emerges from his pocket with a small black box in it. ‘Will you marry me?’

  Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wondered about how my future husband would pop the question to me. I’ve thought about the location, the words he would use, what the ring would be like. What I never gave much consideration to was how I would react – but what’s important is for me to be cool, calm and ladylike, right?

  ‘Fuck off,’ I blurt out, my London accent having never sounded stronger.

  Mark laughs.

  ‘I’m going to assume you’re saying that in disbelief and not as a firm “no”,’ he says with a nervous laugh.

  I don’t know why, but I crouch down on the floor in front of him, so we’re at eye level again.

  ‘Of course it’s not a “no”, it’s a “yes” – it’s a “fuck yes”,’ I babble.

  ‘You haven’t even looked at your ring,’ he tells me.

  I take the box from him and place it to one side.

  ‘Whatever it is will be perfect, I’m sure. But all I want is you,’ I tell him sincerely. Sure, it would be nice to have a pretty rock on my finger, but if there’s one thing I am always telling people, it’s that Mark is way too good for me, and I don’t mean that because I don’t think much of myself. I just cannot believe my luck. How did I wind up with a man this perfect?

  ‘The plan was to wait until Christmas Day and ask you then, but I’ve been carrying this ring around for two days and the thought of waiting a few more weeks seemed liked torture. I did have this big romantic thing planned out, but… sorry,’ he laughs awkwardly.

  Tears of happiness fall from my eyes, ruining the perfectly applied make-up I spent a chunk of the morning on.

  ‘No, don’t cry, how will you take a selfie?’ he teases.

  I wipe my eyes with my hands.

  ‘We’ll just have to take one later and pretend we took it now,’ I half joke.

  Mark jumps to his feet and offers me a hand.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more gorgeous,’ he tells me, despite the sniffling noises I’m making. ‘Now, sorry to ruin the moment, but sex was briefly mentioned about five minutes ago and I’ve been desperate to get my hands on you since.’

  I laugh as Mark lifts me up from the floor before pinning me down on the sofa.

  ‘Ooh,’ I squeak. ‘Something is going in my butt.’

  ‘Well, if you insist,’ Mark replies as he kisses his way down from my neck to my stomach, tugging at my dress with urgency until I’m down to my underwear.

  ‘That wasn’t a demand,’ I laugh. ‘There’s something under me on the sofa.’

  An explosion booms through the surround sound, causing us both to jump in fright.

  ‘Oh, shit, you must be on the controller. You’ve started a new game,’ he laughs.

  ‘Oops,’ I giggle. ‘Quick, turn it off, you’ve still got your headset on.’

  Mark grabs me by the thighs and pulls my body closer to his, laying me flat on my back.

  ‘Let the nerds listen.’

  I gasp as he presses down on top of me.

  ‘You are a bad boy,’ I whisper into his ear.

  ‘I’m just trying to change your opinion of Sundays,’ he tells me. ‘And while I’m around, I promise you, all of your Sundays are going to be this amazing.’

  Another explosion booms through the living-room speakers.

  I close my eyes and bite my lip in sheer pleasure.

  ‘Don’t you want to pause your game?’ I ask him.

  ‘Why?’

  I glance at the screen.

  ‘Someone keeps blowing you up,’ I half say, half moan.

  ‘Roxie, I could be on fire in real life and I wouldn’t stop having sex with you,’ he laughs. ‘We’ll just have to drown out their explosions with a few of our own.’

  ‘My kind of video game,’ I reply breathlessly.

  ‘There’s only one thing left to do now,’ he begins, struggling to form sentences as he gets ready to focus on the mission at hand. ‘You need to finally meet my parents.’

  Chapter Two

  Being in a relationship with a lifestyle writer must be absolute hell, because everything we do is for an article – and even if it isn’t, we’ll most often realise we can get an article out of it anyway.

  I am as guilty of this as the next writer, plagiarising my real life for my work. From the very first time I picked up a pen (or a Macbook, as I started taking my career more seriously), I was dipping into my real life for my work, and I found that’s when I wrote my best material. If you’ve ever tried to do anything creative, whether it’s writing a story or painting a picture, you’ll often find people drawing upon what they already know, because what better way to create something genuine than to inspire yourself with genuine experience?

  I like to think Mark is used to this now, but it’s not something he’d ever considered before he met me and it took him a little getting used to. It’s not so bad when I’m writing about places we visit or things we do for fun, but I will often write about things I’ve experienced in my personal life and what I learned from it all. I can justify this, of course, because if sharing my relationship mistakes can prevent someone else from making the same error, then I’m making a difference. The same cannot be said for my other avenue of inspiration, where I do things in real life just so I can write about them. That’s actually what I’m writing about today.

  Sitting at my desk at work, I crack open a packet of chocolate buttons, stretch out my fingers and get ready to write.

  ‘You look like you mean business,’ my friend Polly, who sits at the desk opposite me, says. ‘What are you writing about today?’

  I met Polly when I started working here; we were both hired by the news website we write for in the same week, so we were newbies together. Well, I say news website, but don’t think you’re getting the hard-hitting journalism of the Guardian. We write for one of those contemporary online news sources that present news, lifestyle advice and other miscellaneous content in a humorous and relevant format. My focus, here at Viralist, is on all things dating, romance, relationships and love. I told Mark what my job was on our first date, but I don’t think he realised when he started dating me just how honest I was in my articles, and just how heavily he would feature in them.

  ‘“10 things I did to see if my boyfriend noticed”,’ I tell her.

  ‘Ooh, tell me more,’ Polly demands, leaning over to grab a handful of chocolate. She drops them into her mouth all at once before sitting comfortably, ready for all the details.

  ‘Well,’ I start, laughing to myself as I consider everything I’ve done over the past couple of weeks in the name of journalism. ‘I just made a few subtle changes to our day-to-day life to see how he’d react – or if he’d even notice. First up, I didn’t wear make-up for a day.’

  My original idea was to do it for a week, but then I realised I desperately need make-up to look like a living human female. If I’d gone without any slap for an entire week, people might’ve worried I was seriously ill.

  ‘And did he notice?’ Polly asks, completely int
o the idea.

  ‘Well, he didn’t say anything at the time, but the day after, when I was winging my eyeliner in the bathroom mirror, he hovered behind me. I could tell he was thinking about saying something; the anguish on his face was impossible for him to hide. Eventually he blurted out: “You know, you look better when you don’t put all that… stuff on your eyes.” I asked him if he meant eyeliner and he nodded.’

  Polly pulls a thoughtful face.

  ‘Well, that’s almost a compliment,’ she reasons. ‘What next?’

  ‘I bought a skirt that was not me at all – it was floor-length,’ I say, stressing the last three words for emphasis. I’m what you might call a follower of fashion, always keeping on top of the latest trends and wearing whatever is cool at the time, even if others might find it questionable. My mum, however, would tease that my wardrobe is far too revealing. Today I’m wearing a short black skirt, with one of Mark’s white shirts, tied in a Daisy Duke-style knot at the stomach – low down enough to ensure full coverage for work. ‘Well, he told me he liked it – he rarely comments on my clothes. But he still didn’t really twig that much was different.’

  ‘Another compliment,’ Polly laughs. ‘Next?’

  ‘I started deep-cleaning the flat every day. The kitchen was spotless, there was never a dirty dish, I would clean the bathroom each day without fail.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Of course he didn’t notice,’ I laugh. ‘Next up: I didn’t shave my legs for, like, two weeks – not a word from him on the matter.’

  ‘So did he actually notice anything?’ Polly enquires.

  ‘I stopped wearing knickers.’

  ‘And he noticed that?’ she asks sarcastically, faking shock.

  I wiggle my eyebrows.

  ‘You better believe he did,’ I giggle. ‘The first time he was like: “You’ve no knickers on!” and it made him pounce on me even quicker than he usually does. On the third day I came in from work and I was getting changed, and he just let out a casual observation: “You don’t wear knickers any more.”’

  Polly grabs more chocolate, eagerly listening to my story with the level of attention and volume of snacking you’d usually reserve for the cinema.

  ‘Should’ve known he’d notice that one – you guys are like horny teenagers.’

  Still sitting at my desk chair, I attempt to take a bow. It’s only as I wave my hand theatrically in front of my face that my friend finally notices the engagement ring on my finger. Getting Polly to notice my ring without me telling her has taken three hours of constantly reaching for things from her desk, gesticulating wildly when I speak and hammering the keys on my computer as hard as possible to try and draw attention to my hands. I thought that letting Polly notice my ring on her own would be a much cooler way for her to find out, rather than me just telling her, but as the hours have ticked away, my patience has been growing thin. It’s almost a relief she’s finally spotted it. I thought I was going to have to give in and just tell her.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she squeaks. ‘Is that an engagement ring? Are you and Mark getting married?’

  I nod my head, unable to contain my smile for a second longer.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she squeaks again, climbing on her desk chair. ‘Everyone, listen up: Roxie is engaged!’

  Applause fills the Viralist office.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say with an awkward wave. My relationship with self-confidence is a strange one because, while completely happy with who I am, I am uncomfortable being the centre of attention and will do anything to avoid the spotlight. That’s why I like being a writer; I can get my message to people while still hiding behind my words. Writing about lifestyle and relationships isn’t so bad, but when I was reporting on celebrity stuff, and I would dare to say something that wasn’t entirely complimentary about Justin Bieber’s hair, that would be it: war would be declared in the comments on my posts, death threats would be issued – the works. One time I jokily referred to Liam Payne as the fifth sexiest member of One Direction, and one girl threatened to hit me in the face with a sledgehammer. So, yeah, hiding behind a computer is not only preferable when it comes to dealing with, shall we say, constructive criticism, but it also protects me from the crazies.

  Kath, our editor, pokes her head out from her office door.

  ‘You’re engaged, Roxie?’

  ‘I am,’ I reply, my smile stretching from one side of the office to the other.

  ‘That’s great, there’s got to be an article in that.’ She pauses thoughtfully. ‘We’ll figure it out.’

  ‘OK,’ I laugh. That’s Kath for you; everything is an article. She’s probably already working out what GIFs I should use to accompany my words.

  As the buzz from Polly’s announcement dies down, and everyone gets back to their work, we resume our conversation.

  ‘God, that’s not an engagement ring, that’s a deposit on a house,’ she jokes, admiring my bling. ‘Hey, maybe Mark will finally introduce you to his parents,’ she adds cheekily.

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ I say, nervously. ‘I was on top of the world when he asked me; then, as soon as he mentioned me meeting them, I freaked out.’

  ‘Just be on your best behaviour,’ Polly reminds me. ‘If you have a “best behaviour”,’ she adds with a giggle.

  I widen my eyes with horror. My friend doesn’t take this as her cue to go easy on me; instead she persists with her teasing.

  ‘Maybe he hasn’t let you meet them because he’s worried they won’t like you. So it’s just safer to keep you from them. Except, now he’s popped the question, it’s forced his hand.’

  Mark is not purposefully keeping me from his family, but it is true that I haven’t met any of them yet. His family all live in the middle of nowhere, in the Yorkshire Dales. He’s been to visit them a few times while I’ve known him but at first it was too early in our relationship, and then, when he did start inviting me, I wasn’t able to get the time off work. He hasn’t been to visit them since, but they do know I exist, so that’s encouraging.

  ‘Oh, my God, stop, have mercy. I’m already freaking out as it is,’ I remind her.

  ‘Do you know much about them?’ Polly enquires.

  ‘Erm, not really,’ I tell her, honestly. ‘I know that they live kind of out of the way of civilisation – and from what Mark has told me about their house, it sounds amazing. It’s just his mum and dad living there now, but he has two sisters, one older and one younger. I know their names and stuff, but not really much about them. I’ve seen the occasional photo of his siblings on Facebook, but his parents don’t use it.’

  ‘That’s weird, I think,’ Polly says, pondering the issue.

  ‘It is and it isn’t,’ I laugh. ‘I suppose almost everyone is on there now, so it seems weird when people don’t use it, but it’s probably not that weird…’

  ‘Well, I think it’s weird,’ she laughs. ‘Like they’re dinosaurs who haven’t embraced modern technology.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I laugh.

  I am of the generation where we rely too heavily on being able to cyber-stalk people we’ve just met, or are yet to meet, to try and figure out what kind of personality they have. It sure would make my life easier if I knew what his parents were like – what kind of people they were, how they dressed, what their interests were. You can tell a lot about a person from stuff like that.

  I am what my mum sometimes describes as an ‘acquired taste’. I am the very definition of a millennial – although that might have a lot to do with my job, too. Sometimes my parents think I’m speaking a second language – because they don’t know their YOLO from their FOMO – and my passion for fashion often leaves them scratching their heads. But I think it’s important to be current, and move with the times. Take my hair, for example. In the summer I had it longer and lighter, but now that we’re in December, in the midst of winter, I’ve opted for a honey-coloured lob – because that’s what is in fashion right now. I don’t think there’s anything wrong wit
h wanting to be cool, even if people don’t really get it, but it would be nice to get a heads-up on whether or not his parents are more on the conservative side of the spectrum, because even though I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not, I do really want to impress them. I care what they think, but only because I love Mark so much, and I want his family to see that and want me to be a part of their family because they like me, not just because I’m marrying into it. You hear all these stories and watch all these movies about evil in-laws, but that’s not the reality, is it? Mums who think no woman is good enough for their son – that’s just a clichéd character.

  Still, it’s not like I have to worry about that right now, is it? I only got engaged yesterday. As fast as we’ve been flying through the motions so far, I’m just taking this engagement a day at a time.

  I think to myself for a moment. That’s it! The idea for my next article: ‘10 Things to Consider Before You Meet Your Boyfriend’s Parents for the First Time’.

  Chapter Three

  What is the quickest way to get back in a man’s good books? I know the fastest way to a man’s heart is via his stomach, but I’ll bet the quickest way to his good books is via his pants. To make sure I have all bases covered, my plan of attack involves both. You see, my article went live this afternoon, and judging by the number of times it’s been shared already, and the number of comments it’s had on Facebook, it’s only a matter of time before Mark sees it. You know what they say: it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission – that’s my strategy with Mark because, if I told him what I was planning on writing, I don’t think he’d be down for it, but once I’ve finished the article and it’s live, he always tells me what a great job I did.

  Mark has never once been mad at me for writing about our relationship, and yet I always have this little mini panic between hitting the ‘publish’ button and him reading it and telling me that he still loves me, even though I share our most personal relationship details (arguments, sexual malfunctions, etc.) with everyone who has an internet connection. This article is a little different, though, because I’ve been messing with him for weeks, testing him, and that does sometimes feel just a little dishonest, even if it is all in the name of journalism. That’s why I stopped at Ann Summers on my way home and bought myself the most alarmingly intimidating set of underwear I could find, in an attempt to disarm and confuse him, so that by the time I’m done with him, and I tell him what my latest article is about, he’ll be too happy and tired to care.