‘Career’ all seen to, I turn my attention to my social calendar.
I unmatch the cheery Tom from last night. I book my place at yoga for next week, I organize address labels for the numerous clothes I need to return (only getting momentarily distracted by some shoes that I send to Mia – they’re far too expensive for me), and order food for the upcoming Games Night.
Games Night, which rather confusingly can take place at any time of day, is a tradition that started at university. It’s actually how Peter and I met – at the first meeting of the Board Games Society, whose tagline was ‘Don’t Get Board, Be A Player’. I still remember the first time I met him; he made such a big impression, even outside of the weird clothes. He was charming and funny and just the right side of competitive. He was one of the only people I could be myself around from the start. He still is. Unfortunately the society lost its funding after the first year, but a group of us kept it going on a casual basis. Our meet-ups have dwindled from weekly to monthly to quarterly, and attendees are always in flux, especially since some members have been procreating (hence the move from night-time to any time that coincides with nap time), but everyone is keen to keep it going. Every time we meet up we always have fun, even if we also only need to see each other a couple of times per year.
And every time we meet up, we always have a theme.
The next Games Night, which is to be held during the day on a Saturday, is in February, and so obviously I’m theming it around National Tortilla Chip Day. It’s my turn to host, but because I live in a one-bedroom apartment too far away for the majority of people to visit, I hope to use Peter’s flat instead. It’s the obvious choice, and we’ve hosted together before.
When I asked Peter if I could use his place, his reply – ‘Of course. My only request is the layered dip’ – came in far more quickly than I expected.
I jump at the soft knock on the bathroom door.
‘Bea, it’s me.’ Recognizing the voice of Penny, my work wife, I get up and slowly unlock the door.
She peeks in.
Penny quickly became my work wife out of necessity; I had snuck out of the office to buy some more animal-print clothing, only to come back and realize I’d missed the beginning of the monthly staff meeting – a staff meeting I was meant to be taking minutes in. Without batting an eyelid, she covered for me and ended up taking the minutes. Her cover story was far better than anything I would have made up, and since that time we have been like two pendulums, swinging back and forth between who owes who the next coffee, who owes who the next cover story, and who owes who the next weird and overly friendly insight into their life.
‘I’ve got to run and jump on a call, but I thought you’d like a cup of tea.’ She fumbles behind the door, using her foot to keep it open enough so she can pass me the mug, but closed enough to keep me safe from unfriendly eyes. From the sound of things, Joan, the office dragon, is stomping around nearby. If there is one person you want to avoid crying in front of, it’s Joan. She’s the kind of person who passes off bullying as camaraderie. As Penny hands me the tea, I can see that it’s exactly the colour I like. ‘Oh! And I brought you these.’ She magics a packet of cookies from her pocket and gives them to me. Double chocolate chip.
‘I don’t deserve you. Thank you.’
She blows me a kiss and lets the door close. I lock it after her, not quite ready to resume the day.
CHAPTER 5
With Valentine’s Day right around the corner all I see is red. And not because of all the stupid red Valentine’s hearts, but because I’m so angry at all the red hearts. Not only is the glitter unable to be recycled but the hearts seem to be encouraging people to do things like hold hands and kiss in public, so I am surrounded by the sight, and what’s worse the sound, of affection.
I purposefully bump into at least three couples on my way to yoga.
Truthfully, I have a constant struggle between wanting to be a yogi and wanting to give in and embrace my lack of flexibility and tummy rolls. The latter outcome is much more likely, because no matter how hard I try, or how many yoga classes I go to, I constantly surprise myself with my lack of progress. And for such a small amount of movement, I sweat a lot. The only saving grace is that I have so far managed not to fart in class.
As I reach the studio I spot Tilly, who does actually like yoga.
‘Tilly!’
She turns towards me and my overly high-pitched voice, flashes me her Insta-worthy smile and envelops me in a hug. She is quite lithe, but her hugs are deceptively strong. I often have to brace myself against them.
We break apart and I take in a restorative breath.
‘I’m so excited that we’re finally doing yoga together.’ She squeezes my arms, probably to exaggerate her excitement.
I don’t normally let anyone see me exercise, but I had to make an exception for this evening.
‘Are you kidding?’ Meeting up with Tilly is a bit like a celestial event – you gotta enjoy it whenever it comes around, and when she asked if I could do something tonight, I was loath to cancel the class and lose my money. ‘I worry it’s going to be slow for you.’
‘Oh, Bea, I don’t care.’
She’s impressively flexible.
After a quick bag drop, we rush into the studio just in time, feeling flustered and un-yogic and not in the least bit zen. We find a spot that is almost big enough for two, and squeeze in. The people around us give us insincere smiles and move very slightly to give us more space.
I lie down and fight the constant urge to fidget. I hope I don’t sweat too much.
Tilly lies down and immediately seems at peace.
Tilly is by far my most trendy friend. We found each other one year when we happened to both be working at a very random, very local food fair where I was trying to make some extra money selling overpriced (and, quite frankly, fairly mediocre) brownies. I made no money, but I did make some fantastic memories. In particular, learning that Tilly made out with not one but both members of the duo who ran ‘R&Brie Bingo’, an entertainment stall hosted by two men who combined cheese puns, fake French accents, homosexual stereotyping, R&B and bingo all in one go. I’ve never seen them anywhere else, but I hope they’ve found success.
I am smiling to myself at the memory as Sal, my favourite yoga teacher, walks in.
Nothing if not a creature of habit, I always try to go to this specific class. Unlike the majority of yoga teachers, who have a perma-tan, a gravity-defying arse and a positive outlook on life, Sal keeps it real. He’s bitter, he has a bit of a belly, he wears old-man shorts that pose a serious sexual harassment risk, and he doesn’t waffle on about ‘practising with the body you have today’. And no matter how shit I am at yoga, I imagine that he’s even shitter. I’ve never actually seen him in a yoga pose (thank goodness, because the shorts really are inappropriate), and I’m not entirely convinced that he practises yoga at all.
We go through all the yoga poses without too much drama. I sweat an acceptable amount, and only get my lefts and rights confused a couple of times. But something is off. Sal is uncharacteristically happy.
We are all lying on our mats, the (acceptable amount of) sweat now drying, when Sal chirps in with a final piece of optimism.
‘I hope you found time in this practice to relax and refocus, allowing yourselves the space and freedom to really connect with and appreciate who you are. And remember this –’ insert dramatic pause for effect – ‘you are enough.’
Seriously, what has got into Sal? He must have got laid last night.
‘See you all here again next week. Namaste.’ There are echoing whispers of ‘Namaste’ throughout the room, and, so help me, despite my continuing bitterness, all of a sudden I feel emotional. Bloody Sal and his ‘you are enough’ has made me feel all kinds of things, and for some unknown reason I start crying. This might be worse than an accidental fart.
There is a lot of shuffling and movement in the room as everyone goes to hang up their mats and file out
of the studio. I can hear Tilly getting up beside me but suddenly I’m not quite ready to leave, so I hide my eyes with a faux casual placement of my hand, and motion that I’m going to stay for a little longer but she should go get showered. I’ll meet her soon, once my eyes have stopped betraying me.
For a while I concentrate on my breath and try to get my tears under control.
But even with my eyes closed, I sense someone coming closer until they’re standing over me. I take a peek and see Sal looming, regarding me with a mixture of pity and kindness.
‘Yoga can sometimes be an emotional release. Don’t be embarrassed about crying. Realize that it’s doing you good to let go, to feel the emotions.’ He pauses and rests a warm, tea-tree-infused towel over my eyes. I feel like I’m in a spa, but also kinda gross, because where did the towel come from? ‘Breathe, have a sip of water, and only leave when you feel ready. There is no class in here for an hour, so you have plenty of time to collect your thoughts.’ With that he leaves me alone.
Post-shower and make-up removal I’m still a bit puffy and numbed, like when you have a cold. I can’t quite walk properly, but eventually I zombie out of the changing room and spot Tilly ogling the overpriced yoga clothes.
‘Bea! I loved the class. And I love these leggings.’
They are far too patterned for me, but I can see that Tilly would look great in them, so I nod.
‘Shall we get some food?’ I’m starving. Crying makes me hungry.
‘Oh, I’m doing this alternative day fasting thing, so I can’t really eat, but I could have tea? We have so much to catch up on!’
And we do. Somehow we haven’t seen each other for at least four months. How does this happen?
My hunger can wait, but hanging out with Tilly can’t. I’ll pick up food on the way home.
‘You grab the seats, I’ll grab the tea.’ She heads towards the seating area in the entryway whilst I potter over to the massive urn, fill a couple of glasses with an unknown herbal tea and narrowly miss knocking over a tray with my bag on the way back.
I sit down and try to shake off my feeling of numbness and concentrate instead on the friend sitting in front of me.
‘Tills, how was the yoga retreat?’
Part of the reason I haven’t seen Tilly for a while is because she’s been travelling. I don’t know where she gets the money from. I don’t think she really has a job, but I know that her parents aren’t bankrolling her either.
‘It was amazing! I didn’t realize until I got there, but it was a silent retreat, absolutely no talking allowed.’ The one thing Tilly loves more than yoga is talking. ‘I loved it so much that I ended up staying for a whole month!’ A nod is all the encouragement she needs to keep going. ‘It was so enlightening. When I first emerged into the non-silent world, I felt so rejuvenated. The effect was transformative. It’s such a shame because, as with all these things, I can no longer feel the full effects, but when I feel low, or overwhelmed, I try to remember what I felt like during that month and I immediately start to feel more in control again.’ A mini pause as she gazes up to the ceiling, probably trying to remember what it was like to be silent. ‘I kept a diary. Wanna see it?’
She looks so excited I can’t say no.
‘Is it long?’
‘It’s a visual diary of sorts.’
Tilly then gets out her phone and proceeds to show me one of the most depressing photos I’ve ever seen. Zooming in, you can see that she used twigs that she found on her walk around the compound (the only exercise in addition to yoga that she was allowed to take) to mark the date, with each day represented by a random object. The backdrop is a cracked concrete wall and floor with a couple of dead bugs strewn about.
‘What is that?’ I ask, pointing to something that looks like an old, chewed piece of gum.
‘That’s dried banana, to remind me of, well, the dried banana. It was the only thing we were allowed to eat at dinner time, and even then we were restricted to five pieces.’
No wonder she’s looking so thin.
‘Day fifteen was a good day!’ She zooms in to the washing-up liquid. ‘I finally managed to signal to someone that my water wasn’t working. The kindest man with the most sparkly eyes came to fix it, so I could take a bath and flush my loo.’
On day fifteen?! She had spent more than two weeks not showering even though it was blisteringly hot, and not flushing the loo, even though day three was ominously represented by loo roll? I had purposefully zoned out when she recalled that day. I haven’t eaten yet.
My eyes scan the rest of the photos to try and find something positive so my face doesn’t have to work as hard to keep a neutral expression. ‘Day twenty-five looks interesting.’
Day twenty-five is represented by a condom.
‘Oh yes! This was really the apex of my stay. Helped by the fact it was Buddha’s birthday, I managed to achieve a Buddha-enlightened meditative orgasm.’
Huh.
‘And –’ she takes a breath and leans in – ‘I met someone. He’s great. As soon as we met, we totally clicked even though we couldn’t talk for the first month of knowing each other. In fact, he’s the reason I came back early. I actually cut my trip short so I could help him find an apartment here in London. His name is Jeroen. He’s Dutch, tall and gorgeous, and I am madly in love with him.’
‘Oh, Tills, that’s so great. What’s he like?’
From this point on I hate myself a little, because instead of being totally and completely happy for Tills – poor Tills who really has been on a bit of a rollercoaster with relationships – only a small part of me feels genuine happiness, whilst the bigger, louder part of me feels jealous and sad and even more lonely and confused. She went travelling with no interest in finding a man. In fact, before she left, she had started referring to men as sperm donors. But not this time. This time Jeroen is a partner, her partner. And despite actively looking, I am still alone.
If I were wearing plimsolls and badly fitting shorts under a totally bizarre but mandated skirt, this would be just like school sports all over again. Always awkwardly last to get picked. Less and less hopeful that my luck will change. And wearing clothes that aren’t cool.
CHAPTER 6
Games ‘Night’ has arrived and I’ve been at Peter’s flat since 10 a.m. prepping all the dips. It shouldn’t be taking as long as it is, but Peter has a unique way of helping.
‘Leave it alone.’
‘But it’s fun.’
‘No, it’s not fun, it’s going to spill all over the counter. Stop stirring it.’
‘It’s like a mini whirlpool.’
I know he’s doing it on purpose – he’s smiling the same smile he uses when he knows he’s doing something he shouldn’t. Like that time I caught him secretly swapping dust jackets in a random bookshop. I try not to find it charming.
I ignore him in the hope he’ll stop if I don’t pay him any attention, and go back to wiping the board so I can start chopping the coriander.
‘Oops.’ I look over and see that the counter is now splattered with blobs of refried bean.
I probably should get mad at him, but he smiles and instead I decide to simply clean it up, cloth already in hand.
Peter leans across the breakfast bar to watch me chop the coriander. ‘So what are we playing today then?’
After squishing his massive sofa to the side, we managed to squeeze in four playing stations. Any game is allowed, except Twister, which we had to stop playing because too many of us were getting injured in our old age. Personally, I normally steer away from games like Monopoly and Risk, and steer towards games like Scrabble and Pairs, or if I’m feeling particularly unadversarial, a calming puzzle. Some people are good at dealing with confrontation or taking risks, endangering their prawns or queens. But not me.
‘Well, I thought we’d go with Scrabble, Snakes and Ladders for Jess –’ who has recently had a baby, and requested a mindless game that is still fun, but will allow her some peace so she can bre
astfeed – ‘Shithead and Cranium.’ I have also bought extra play-dough as that’s everyone’s favourite part of the game.
‘A well-rounded selection. I like it.’
The doorbell rings. I’m still chopping, so Peter goes to open it. I can hear Mia and Mark before I see them, looking fresh-faced from their mini-moon, followed by the usual gang of regulars. At the back of the group I can see a timid-looking Isla peeking through. She doesn’t often come, which is sad as she’s also an advocate of the quieter games.
I take a fortifying breath, stop chopping, wash my hands and start hugging everyone. I’m smiling on the outside, but on the inside I worry I didn’t order enough food.
‘You can’t do that! That’s cheating!’ Someone slams their hand on a table and I jump, just a smidge, from the safety of the kitchen. Shithead has proved to be quite popular today, so after Jess left with the baby in tow, we converted a second table to the enemy-making card game.
Mia is uncomfortably competitive, a trait I’m quite glad I don’t possess, so when she comes charging over having lost, my main focus is on trying to calm her down and make her realize that it’s only a game. She might have lost tonight, but she’s still very much winning at life.
She takes an unusually large sip of wine and cuts right to the chase.
‘Distract me. Tell me something funny.’
I look up and right, searching for a funny anecdote to distract her with. I could talk to her about my dating life, but that’s more sad-funny than funny-funny, so I opt for something else instead.
‘We’re bringing out a range of edible vitamins, mainly aimed at kids, but they taste a little too good, and some kids are eating far more than they should and are actually changing colour.’ I shrug. ‘Apparently orange is the most vivid.’
Mia looks genuinely aghast. ‘Really? I thought there would be controls on that sort of thing.’
Just Friends Page 3