It's Not You, It's Them

by Portia MacIntosh

  For a moment, we all just sit, staring at him, trying to absorb what we’ve just heard. It’s not that his story wasn’t clear; it’s just that it’s hard for us to wrap our heads around the fact that he stealth-treated his girlfriend for chlamydia. I’m not a doctor, but even I know that was fucking stupid.

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ Bea tells him.

  Ste seems confused by the fact that no one is impressed by his story, but he isn’t going to let it ruin his fun.

  ‘OK, Miss Perfect,’ he says to her. ‘Truth or dare?’

  ‘Dare,’ she replies quickly, not prepared to get caught out by the truth trap.

  ‘I dare you… to get off with Roxie.’

  ‘Fuck off, Ste,’ I blurt.

  ‘Oh, charming,’ Bea laughs. ‘Don’t you want to kiss me?’

  ‘He’s just being a pervert,’ I reply.

  ‘Don’t be so hard on him,’ Bea replies. ‘He’s just having fun.’

  I don’t care if he’s suggesting this because it’s ‘fun’ or because he’s a pervert, but I’m not going to kiss my fiancé’s ex-girlfriend while he watches. No effing way.

  ‘You’re a dirty little bastard, Ste,’ Kerry says angrily. ‘Piss off, you’re not playing any more.’

  ‘Fine,’ he snaps. ‘You’re all boring anyway.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, we’re all boring because we’re not indulging his dirty little fantasies,’ Kerry says once he’s gone. ‘Bea, you might as well take a turn.’

  ‘Roxie,’ she says quickly. ‘Truth or dare?’

  ‘You can’t ask to French her,’ Kerry chimes in. ‘You seemed really into it when Ste suggested it…’

  ‘I might pick truth just in case,’ I laugh awkwardly.

  Bea pulls her legs up onto the sofa as she thinks about what to ask me.

  ‘Hmm…’ she says, as though deep in thought. ‘OK, Roxie Pratt, how many people have you slept with?’

  ‘I can’t answer that,’ I tell her.

  ‘Well, that’s not a good sign at all, is it?’ she replies with one raised eyebrow.

  ‘Not because I don’t know how many, but because Mark and I decided not to tell each other our number. I wrote an article, long before I met Mark, about things you should and shouldn’t do in a new relationship, and one of those things was discuss your number.’

  ‘Why not?’ she asks. ‘Because it’s too high?’

  ‘Because it’s always going to be both too high and too low,’ I tell her. ‘If you think your partner has slept with loads of people, you’re going to think: “wow, that is high!” Similarly, if it’s a really low number, that can be off-putting, too. It’s best not to talk about it.’

  Bea thinks about this for a moment.

  ‘Well, you said that’s in the early stages of a relationship,’ Bea replies. ‘You guys are way past that now, so surely it’s OK to say it?’

  ‘I stand by my words,’ I reply firmly.

  ‘Why?’ Mark asks. ‘I don’t mind if you say it.’

  ‘I don’t want to say it. What would you say if I asked you?’

  ‘Two,’ he replies.

  I pause for a second.

  ‘Wait, so, if you’ve only slept with two people…’ Kerry starts, before reaching the screamingly obvious conclusion. As she looks between Bea and me, it’s obvious to everyone that the only two people Mark has slept with are in this room. The fact that Mark was with Bea from being in school until moving to London, and then didn’t have much time for a love life before he met me, totally explains why. I don’t think it’s weird that he’s only slept with two people. But… having more failed relationships under my belt means more notches on my bedpost, so if I come out with a number higher than two (even if it’s only one more), it’s going to reflect badly on me.

  ‘Mine is two, too,’ Bea tells him, smiling.

  ‘Well, mine is two digits,’ Kerry laughs. ‘So don’t worry about yours being high, Roxie.’

  ‘It’s not high. I’m just not prepared to discuss it. I’m sticking to my guns.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Bea sings.

  Mark takes his arm from around me and stands up.

  ‘I think I’ve had enough of this game,’ he says. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘I think I’ll come with you,’ I tell him, but he doesn’t seem too bothered.

  ‘It’s OK, stay here. You can have a girly chat.’

  As soon as it’s just the three of us, Kerry lets out a big, over-the-top yawn.

  ‘Actually, I’m pretty tired… so, if you two wouldn’t mind, I’m going to bed…’

  I think Kerry is just being kind, giving me an excuse to go to Mark, and to get out of hanging out with Bea.

  In a matter of minutes we have all said goodnight, but by the time I get to the study, Mark is already fast asleep.

  Chapter Twenty

  I am starting to feel like I’m in fucking Groundhog Day, and I don’t like it. It just feels like I’m doomed to repeat every aspect of this living nightmare for ever. I have washed my hair, only for it to go insanely curly again – like an uncared-for Carrie Bradshaw circa season five.

  It just feels like I’m incapable of doing anything right in front of these people, whether it’s my hair or seeming like I’m worthy of Mark.

  I do sometimes worry about whether or not I’m good enough for him, and I usually find myself feeling scared, because I know he can do better, and I’m terrified he’s going to realise that one day. Since meeting Bea, I have realised that I’m not Mark’s usual type, but he’s the smartest person I know and, if he thinks I’m the right girl for him, I’m certainly not going to question that. I’m a caring, thoughtful, loving girl and any man would be lucky to have me, even Zac Efron.

  All I wanted to do was come across as myself and for everyone to fall in love with me like Mark did. Instead, I have somehow managed to paint this picture of a deviant nymphomaniac, without the perk of successfully having sex even once.

  Oh, and then there’s the pressing matter of this article I’m supposed to be submitting any day now, that I can’t write, but have no better ideas for, so here I am, sitting at the desk again, trying to write – again.

  The blank document is almost as blinding as the blanket of snow outside. Big, open, empty white space, suffocating me.

  I wrack my brains for an idea for my article, but with nothing springing to mind I turn my procrastination level to: full blast. It’s no use; I’m not going to come up with anything just sitting here. I need to do something to distract myself for a while.

  The men went to the pub earlier, so I didn’t really have chance to speak to Mark much this morning. I looked in on Kerry not too long ago, but she’s fast asleep. Valerie is playing with the twins while Millie is making some calls in her bedroom. You know, I don’t know what it is that’s bothering me the most about Millie’s sneaky phone calls: the fact she’s getting more sexual activity than me, or the fact she’s getting better signal. Mel isn’t feeling well, so she’s in bed, which only leaves Queen Bea for me to hang out with, and I’d rather have a dirty phone call with Millie, even with her squeaky voice, than endure any more Bea time.

  If there’s one thing guaranteed to distract me and clear my head of real-life nonsense, it’s reading a book, and luckily for me, Oscar has loads in his study.

  I skim my fingers across their spines before literally judging the books by their covers, taking a quick glance at the blurb before replacing them in the hope I’ll find something I fancy. As I pull another one out, though, I realise there’s something hidden behind them. Each book I remove is like laying down another piece of a jigsaw puzzle, until I finally move the book that has a nipple behind it. I quickly move all of the books from the shelf, pulling out the magazine hidden behind them. Young ‘n’ Hung, it’s called, and just in case I wondered why, there’s a big, strapping young man on the front, chopping wood, with the handle of the axe placed just so, so that you can’t see his chopper. I take the magazine and sit down on the bed, thumbing through
pages that look like they’ve been turned many times before. As I skim through page after page of naked men, some alone, some posing together, and then, finally, the XXX-rated, man-on-man stuff I’d expect to see in a magazine with such a title, I gasp.

  Why does Oscar have this? Is it possible that Gil is right, and that my future father-in-law is gay? Is this magazine some sort of cry for help – does he feel trapped in his marriage? The thought of being trapped in a marriage is even more suffocating than this snow. It must be unbearable.

  I flick through a few more pages. I’ve seen some things in my time (mostly on the internet) but this magazine is something else. I mean, what is he doing with that big log (not a euphemism)?… surely he’s not going to… oh, my gosh! I’m just getting to the pages that make my eyes feel watery when I hear someone opening the door. I stuff the magazine inside the covers and try to look less suspicious – probably only making myself look even more suspicious than I do already.

  ‘Hello, Valerie,’ I say brightly.

  ‘Roxie,’ she replies. Amazing, that she can’t even bring herself to be pleasant to me. ‘I thought you might be busy, but now I see that you’re not… I’m here to talk weddings with you.’

  ‘Oh, well, I haven’t even thought about that stuff yet. I figured I’d wait until the New Year,’ I tell her.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she replies. ‘You need to strike while the iron is hot. There’s no telling what might happen: venues getting booked up, people changing their minds – you should get a move on.’

  I can’t help but pull a face.

  ‘Weddings are a big deal in this family,’ she explains. ‘Everyone gets married in the local church – we’ll have to show it to you when the snow clears up – and then, obviously, there’s the Duck Inn for the reception. Oh, and then there’s this.’

  Valerie holds up a garment bag in front of me.

  ‘We’re not sure where we’re getting married yet,’ I tell her, but I’m wasting my breath.

  ‘Everyone in this family gets married in the local church,’ she informs me. ‘Mark won’t feel any different. It’s tradition. It’s also tradition to pass wedding dresses down. Millie wore Alex’s mum’s dress. Which means… I’ve brought mine for you to try on.’

  Val unzips the bag, removes the dress and holds it up in the air for me to take it in.

  Valerie’s wedding dress is so seventies, it should be in a museum.

  ‘I’ll step out while you try it on,’ she says.

  ‘Val, I appreciate the offer, but I just have so much work to do and…’

  ‘Roxie, I am trying here,’ she reminds me. ‘Just try it on.’

  Is this woman for real? She doesn’t think I’m good enough for her son, to the point where she has no problem vocalising it, and now here she is, planning my wedding and giving me dresses to try on.

  If I just try the damn dress on, then it’s done. I can take it off and get on with writing my article.

  I reluctantly wiggle off my clothes and step into Val’s dress.

  I think this is the most body coverage I’ve ever had going on. From the high, tight neck to the big, poufy chiffon sleeves, to the floor-skimming ruffles of the skirt – this dress is awful, and, just like the snow, and just like my blank document, all of this white is suffocating me. I pop the veil on, just to really complete the look. Yep, I look ridiculous.

  ‘Decent?’ Val asks, walking in anyway. ‘Oh, Roxie, you look wonderful. Let me zip you up.’

  I glance over at the mirror. No. No, I don’t look wonderful. I’d hoped at the very least I might be able to carry this off as a retro look, but it’s not happening. I am humouring her to spare her feelings, but there’s no way I’m wearing this.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she continues. ‘Like the loo roll cover we had when I was a girl.’

  Am I being trolled here?

  ‘Anyway, I’m just going to check on the twins,’ she tells me, walking off.

  ‘Wait, I need a hand getting this off,’ I call after her.

  ‘I left Bea building a snowman with them; they need a hand, too. Just relax, get a feel for the dress.’

  I’ll get a feel for the scissors if she doesn’t hurry back. I know I’ve been freezing the entire time I’ve been here, but the high neck, long sleeves and floor-length skirt are making me boiling. I don’t know if it’s having so much skin covered, feeling panicky or a combination of both that’s doing it. Either way, I need to keep calm.

  There’s only one thing for it: I shuffle over to the desk and, with no sign of Val, I Skype Gil. Luckily he answers straight away.

  ‘What the actual fuck?’ he asks upon seeing me.

  ‘Mark’s mum’s wedding dress – she says I can borrow it.’

  ‘You look like Miss Havisham,’ he replies.

  ‘I feel like her.’

  ‘Take it off – right now,’ Gil insists.

  I shrug my chiffon-clad shoulders.

  ‘I can’t,’ I tell him. ‘I need unzipping.’

  ‘I’m going to hazard a guess things aren’t getting any better there…’

  I fill Gil in on everything that’s gone on. He laughs wildly at me, like a true friend.

  ‘And now she wants me to wear this ugly dress and get married in the village church,’ I conclude. ‘Maybe if I tell her I had a different style of dress in mind – what kind do you think?’

  Gil winces.

  ‘You know I don’t know or give a shit about dresses,’ he replies.

  I sigh.

  ‘You’re the worst gay best friend ever,’ I tease.

  ‘Well, maybe Mark’s dad can be your new gay BFF,’ he laughs.

  ‘Oi, stop it,’ I reply. ‘Although… I did find a gay porn mag in his study…’

  ‘Which one?’ Gil asks curiously.

  ‘Young ‘n’ Hung.’

  ‘Nice,’ Gil says casually. ‘He’s got good taste at least.’

  I shrug my shoulders.

  ‘It was a bit… overly butch for my taste,’ I reply. ‘Too outdoorsy.’

  ‘Yeah, you’d prefer some white-collar, Fifty Shades kind of sugar daddy who will spank you with wads of cash.’

  ‘Yeah, send me a link,’ I joke. ‘Right, I need to go write this stupid article, and possibly try to hang myself with this veil, so I’ll speak to you later?’

  ‘Yeah, keep in touch,’ he tells me. ‘And keep that chin up.’

  I go back to staring at my blank screen, tapping my nails on the desk as I think. It’s just so hard to get my mind on anything other than this situation right now… so maybe I should find a way to write about it, just not in the way Kath has asked me to.

  Sex is always a great topic to write about. I may not be having as much of it as I usually do, but maybe I can write about that. What to do when you’re not having sex as much as usual.

  The first and most important thing you need to do – or rather, not do – is take it personally. It’s not you, it’s not him, it’s not anyone. Unless you’re having problems in your relationship that are much bigger than a lack of fireworks between the sheets, then it isn’t weird to have a dry patch. A change in circumstances of any description can have an affect on things: life can get too busy, schedules can disalign – wait, is disalign a word? What word do I mean? I massage my temples as I wrack my brains for the words to express what I’m trying to say. The point I’m trying to make is that shit happens, and sometimes it makes it hard to continue with business as usual. So what can we do about this? Don’t feel like you need to do anything; sometimes it’s better to just leave things be and hope they get back to normal when life has settled down, but if that’s not working then maybe a little sexual intervention is needed. Hmm, maybe that’s what Mark and I need; one of us needs to up the ante and get us out of this funk.

  After my little peanut butter and jam faux pas before we left, I’m not about to suggest food as a solid solution to sexing up your man, but I’m not having much luck trying to seduce him the old-fashioned way either. What we
need is something different, something fun – that’s it, something that will take the pressure off entirely and remind him that sex is supposed to be something fun that we enjoy together, and not just a duty we’re obliged to fulfil for one another.

  I hit save on my draft, ready to take action in real life instead. It’s not a very good article, but maybe if I try and do something useful, it will enrich my words.

  Stranded here up north, without my box of tricks or so much as a branch of Ann Summers to help me, I need to think outside the box.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Mark blurts from the doorway. ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘Your mum’s wedding dress,’ I reply. ‘Ta-da.’

  ‘You look hideous,’ he replies.

  I feel my face fall.

  ‘Not you,’ he corrects himself. ‘Just that dress.’

  Valerie comes back to free me from the dress.

  ‘Oh no, Mark, you’ve seen Roxie in her wedding dress – don’t you know how unlucky that is?’

  Mark stifles a laugh. He’s not at all superstitious.

  ‘Oh no,’ I agree. ‘That means I can’t get married in this dress now.’

  I pull a pouty, disappointed face, hopefully picking up a little something from my theatre roots.

  ‘I think the wedding is jinxed regardless,’ she concludes.

  I really don’t understand Valerie Wright; she’s as confusing as this dress, which is somehow simultaneously too big and too small for me. One minute she hates me, the next she’s trying to help me. Is she trying to help me, though? Is forcing an old, ugly wedding dress on someone at all helpful?

  Mark wraps an arm around me and laughs it off.

  ‘God, you’re hot,’ he tells me.

  ‘I thought I was hideous?’ I reply.

  Val pulls a face.

  ‘No, I mean literally. You’re boiling,’ he replies.

  ‘I’ll help her out of it,’ Val replies. ‘You go keep an eye on my pans. I just started dinner.’

  With Valerie returning the dress to the vault she keeps it in (or whatever), Bea outside playing doting ex-auntie-to-be (or whatever the hell title she’d have in relation to Mark’s nieces) and everyone else in bed or out, I decide to creep into Mark’s old bedroom and look for inspiration. I’m not sure what I’m looking for exactly, but I’m sure something will jump out at me.