Just Friends

by Holly McCulloch

  ‘Bea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wonderful. Take a seat. My name is Mary and I will be carrying out your exam today.’

  She then makes sure I am who I say I am and confirms who she thinks I am, weighs me (why don’t they do this after you have undressed?) and takes my blood pressure.

  ‘Your blood pressure is quite high. Is your blood pressure normally high?’

  ‘Erm, no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Probably white coat syndrome.’

  That sounds bad.

  ‘Oh God – what is that?’

  She looks at me with a weighted gaze. It takes me a moment to catch up.

  ‘Ohhhhh. White coat syndrome. I get it. Patient panic.’

  ‘Exactly. I see you’ve had a smear test before, so you know what to do. I’ll pop behind the curtain so you can get undressed. Let me know when you’re up on the bed. There’s a sheet there for you to cover up with, and a blanket. It’s quite chilly today.’

  Here goes. Bag off. Coat off. Sit down. Shoes off. Stand up. Tights off. Nope, underwear came with them. Every time. Assess height of bed. Can’t hop up bum-first, way too high. Knee-first it is. Done. Apart from ripping the paper sheet a bit during the twist to lie down, I handled the partial undress pretty well.

  At this juncture I panic. What is an appropriate thing to say to let her know I’m in position? Welcome to the bat cave. Enter if you dare. Trespassers will be prosecuted.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Thank God she’s made it easy for me. ‘Yes!’

  I sound way too chirpy.

  ‘Is there any chance you could be pregnant?’

  With a confidence that I rarely feel when asked a question, I reply, ‘Nope.’

  She moves my legs into position. ‘Right, try to relax. You will feel a small amount of pressure.’

  I look up to check out what is going on, but she’s dived under the sheet. I do as she says and I try to relax, but forcing yourself to relax is very hard.

  ‘OK, all done.’

  I can feel my right eyebrow rising an unnatural amount. Whaaaat? I didn’t feel a thing. Maybe I have a numb vagina. Maybe it has actually died from lack of use.

  Amidst thoughts of my dying vagina, I get up only to realize that I did so much thinking about getting undressed that I didn’t think about getting re-dressed.

  The nurse is mumbling something, but all I can see is the tumbleweed of tights and pants currently getting twisted further by my sweaty hands. Mocking me. I can practically hear them saying, ‘Ha, this is for all those times you left us on the bathroom floor, cold and alone, a mere ten centimetres away from the safety of the laundry bin.’

  I look down and somehow I’ve already put on my coat, which will make it even harder to put my underwear and tights back on. The extra bulk. The extra layer. The lack of flexibility at my elbows and shoulders. I will definitely tuck my dress into my tights. I can feel the sweat on my upper lip forming.

  In a split-second decision I decide to leave as I am, wearing no pants and no tights. Instead, I shove them into my coat pocket and make a run for it, an errant tight foot with fluff on it poking out of the pocket. My shoes are not shoes that should be worn without a barrier between them and my feet. My feet are going to rub.

  I reach the freedom of outside and immediately regret my decision to forgo the tights, for many reasons.

  Firstly, Mary was right, it is quite chilly, certainly a lot chillier than I remember it being – probably because I had tights and pants on before. Secondly, it’s also windier outside than I remember it being, making it highly probable that I will flash someone, particularly because my previously perfect outfit choice has a big flap at the front due to its ‘wrap-around’ nature. And thirdly, I haven’t shaved my legs for a while, so I will have to walk home to avoid the close human contact and the harsh, hair-emphasizing lights that both come with public transport. Next time I go for a smear test I will wear trousers. Wearing trousers means I have no choice but to put them back on, and the potential embarrassment of letting the nurse watch me struggle to dress myself far outweighs the more than likely embarrassment of flashing too many unsuspecting strangers with my cold, dead vagina.

  CHAPTER 9

  My weekend at home was gloriously restful. Apart from walking the dog with my mum on Sunday morning, I did impressively little moving. Mum made me chicken pie and mashed potato for dinner. She brought me cups of tea and dunking cookies. She even let me sit in her usual spot on the sofa. The best seat in the house.

  But the issue with going home at the weekend is how blue it makes me feel on Sunday afternoon, a deep navy blue that bleeds into the start of the week, meaning Tuesday and speed dating has rolled around a lot more quickly than anticipated and I’m not emotionally sharp enough to be my most charming self.

  The situation is made even worse by the fact I’m the last of my friends to still be single, meaning I couldn’t find anyone to take the second ticket I’d purchased in the hope of not being alone at an event for people who are alone. What possessed me to even buy one ticket?

  What have I done?

  I breathe and try to quiet the anxious part of my brain.

  As soon as I enter the room, I am immediately glad I decided to come late, as late as possible to avoid the awkward pre-speed dating chat/lack of chat. And there is wine. Horrible, horrible wine I imagine, but wine nonetheless.

  I look around the room as I head to collect my drink. It’s busy but everyone I can see seems quite normal. I check out the girls first; I want to gauge the competition. I would say we are all within the median range, a solid four to seven rating. It’s a good thing I didn’t bring Penny; she’s more like a nine and nobody here wants a nine. Probably not the boys, and definitely not the girls.

  The boys also appear to be fairly average, which is a good thing. There is one ginger and a couple of people who definitely have issues with keeping eye contact. On the whole, an encouraging bunch of singles.

  With a loud clang, we are called to order, and all the awkward conversations come to a sputtering stop. Personally, as soon as I had my glass of wine in hand, I busied myself by searching for nothing in my bag, and therefore also managed to avoid the awkward stop to the awkward conversations.

  Someone with a very enthusiastic face starts talking.

  ‘Hello! Welcome! Welcome! For anyone who’s new to Speedy Dating, the rules are simple!’ She shimmies like a belly dancer as she says ‘Speedy Dating’, which makes me feel even less comfortable with my choice of evening entertainment. ‘You were each given a number when you arrived; this is the number of the table you’ll start at. At each table you’ll find paper and pencils so you can write down notes on each person. Once the dating is done, you’ll have twenty-four hours to go back online and mark down anyone you liked, and matches will then be able to message each other. When I stop talking, go to the table with your number on it. Girls, please sit down in the outer circle, and boys, please sit opposite. I will then ring the bell – this will signal the start of your first five-minute date! I will ring the bell again when the five minutes are up. Boys, you’ll be the ones moving, so I’ll give you a bit of time between rounds to move on to the next table and begin again! And boys – move to the right! OK. I’ll stop talking now. So, ready, set, date!’

  Cringe.

  Still unable to believe that I’m here, I find the piece of paper I crumpled up and see a hastily scrawled number thirteen. Of course I get number thirteen. The unluckiest of all the numbers. That figures.

  The harder I try to squeeze into the seat next to the wall, the more fuss I appear to make until someone (my first speed dater) sees me struggling. In an effort to avoid any more awkwardness, he tries to help me by pulling out the table, which only helps me thump into the seat with a force neither of us was prepared for. I laugh a touch too loud for it to be genuine.

  Now, I hate to say it, but after a few five-minute sessions I can see the benefits of speed dating. I’ve heard
more mature people than me say that when house-hunting you can tell within the first seven seconds if you’re going to like a property or not. And I think the same can be said of people.

  The first two are instant noes; my notepaper remains blank. The third is a maybe, as is the fifth, until the conversation quietens (briefly), causing him to bring out a list of questions he commonly asks when dating. The questions include: ‘What do you look for in a mate?’, ‘How strong is your moral compass?’, ‘Do you want children?’ and ‘If yes, would you be comfortable with your mother-in-law playing an active role in disciplining your child?’

  Luckily the bell rings before I have time to actually answer any of the questions, allowing me a breather in which to take a fortifying gulp of wine before my next appointment.

  I look up and over to assess my next Speedy Dater.

  Crap.

  It’s Oddly Bodley.

  Part of me is relieved to see Peter, a friendly face who will give me some reprieve from the stilted conversations with strangers, but the larger part of me is dying of shame that someone I know has found me speed dating.

  And there is no way out. Damn these stupid pub benches with their velvet bum pillows and unhelpfully heavy tables.

  He looks at me and smiles. I can’t help but smile back.

  ‘Is it just me, or is it mildly depressing being here? I feel like I should give up now and invest in one of those companies that specializes in meals for one.’ He takes a seat and leans forward conspiratorially. ‘It’s nice to see you though. I didn’t know you came to these things.’

  ‘Oh no, no, I don’t come to these things. I mean, obviously I do come to these things because I’m here, but this is my first time.’ Why am I blabbering? In my lifetime I’ve spoken to Peter for many, many hours. Why am I all of a sudden flustered at having to speak to him for five minutes? My hands are flapping now, which can’t be a good thing. I sit on them. ‘You don’t need to be here, you’ve never had a problem finding a date. I feel like you’ve taken a ticket away from someone whose dating need is greater than yours.’

  And it’s true, Peter has never had a problem finding a date, especially after it got out at university that he came from old, plentiful money. Schools of girls started circling him, angling for a shot at the title. They even earned their own label, the Bodley Babes. His groupies tended to be very tall and very pretty, but also very dim and more attracted to Peter’s money than to Peter himself. Proudly, I was never a member.

  He has the sense to look a little sheepish. ‘Well, yes, I am OK at finding dates, or at least they’re good at finding me. But I rarely find an actual girlfriend, and my mother is getting increasingly anxious about my happiness – well, probably her happiness, which is currently tied directly to the prospect of me having children.’ He puts on a high-pitched, comical voice. ‘“Time is ticking, Peter. And I want grandbabies.” So I thought it was worth trying something different. Of course, it would be easier if she actually liked any of the girls I bring home. The only female of the species that I have introduced her to and that she’s liked is you.’ This is a nice surprise to me as I always thought I had a face that people forgot. ‘Truth be told, I’m also here supporting a friend. The chap you just spoke to, Al. He says he comes to these things a lot but rarely gets a date out of it, so thought I’d tag along and offer any insights I might have. Not that I’ve ever actually been very good with women, but I might be able to give him some pointers. You know. How did you think he did?’

  ‘Can I be honest?’

  ‘I would never expect anything else.’

  ‘Terribly. He started off OK, but then he got out a list of unnecessarily intense questions.’

  ‘Ah, I wondered what he was scribbling on his way here. He’s even more lost than I had feared.’ There is a brief pause, and Peter looks at me for a little longer than I’m comfortable with. ‘So if you’re not doing anything after, can I take you out for some chicken? I know a fancy Nando’s around the corner.’

  The odd look gone from his face, I have no qualms in saying, ‘Sure. But I would be happy with regular Nando’s too. Just so you know.’

  The end of speed dating, and the promise of chicken, can’t come soon enough. Spotting Peter after the final round is easy; I can’t actually see him, but his laugh can be heard even above the noise of the post-speed dating din. Physically reaching him at the bar is harder than it should be though. At five foot one (on a good day), I’m often too short to register for the average-sized human, which can either make navigating crowds really easy (if the crowd size is exactly right), or really hard (if the crowd size gets too big for the allotted space, as it is this evening).

  As I near the bar, I can see Peter more clearly … and the girl he’s talking to. From the look of things, she would have fitted in perfectly well with the Bodley Babes. She reminds me of a magpie: attracted to anything that sparkles.

  ‘Hey, Pete. Ready for some chicken?’ I think I can see hesitation in his eyes, so I add, ‘Or do you want to hang out here for a while longer?’

  ‘Well, I have just ordered another drink. Can I get you one and then we can go for dinner?’

  The idea of being Peter’s wingwoman on what has been an already taxing evening is too much for me to handle. I can feel my mask slipping. I must retreat.

  ‘Of course, finish your drink. I’m going to head out though. I didn’t have lunch today,’ (lie) ‘and I have an early exercise class tomorrow morning,’ (a bigger lie) ‘so I’m gonna go pick up something to eat and head home.’

  I think he might be a bit sad, but not sad enough to cancel the order. ‘Sure thing.’ He pauses. ‘Hey, it was great to see you though. Sorry about Al and his list of intense questions.’

  ‘No worries.’ I try to hide the disappointment in my face. ‘Night, Peter.’

  I give him a quick hug and make my way through the crowd. My backpack, which I have put on as added armour, keeps snagging against the shoulders of people who appear to be having a much better time than I am, making me feel even more out of place.

  Back at home I curl up on the couch, slightly bruised, with a microwaveable veg pot that is too hot to eat balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa. What I don’t understand is that everyone else there seemed to be having a good time. Even Peter, who only went as back-up for his friend. I found it tiring and depressing. I turn the TV on even though I know I’m not in the headspace to watch anything, but the background noise makes me feel slightly less alone.

  My phone pings; it’s Mia.

  How was speed dating? x

  I don’t know how to respond, so I decide not to.

  Instead I put my phone down and look at the sad crumpled-up piece of paper that has my hastily scribbled notes on it. Nobody stood out for a good reason. I crumple it back up and throw it across the room.

  CHAPTER 10

  By the time Thursday, aka second-date-with-Toby day, rolls around, I’m ready for a nap. Tensions in the office are at an all-time high as we’ve had to scrap the kids’ vitamins altogether and there are no tea-bags left in the kitchen. I’ve had to resort to drinking hot water. You can’t dunk biscuits into hot water. It’s an absolute nightmare.

  Even texting Toby has become a chore. My general malaise has bled into my messages, and I know I am bordering on boring, but I have no armour against it.

  Dressed in my usual monochrome, this time with a pop of lip colour (but not enough to risk the under-lip), I find I’m actually quite nervous; I’m entering territory I haven’t entered in a while – I’m going to a boy’s house for a date. I didn’t think this would be suggested until the third date at the earliest. But surely just because I said yes to him cooking me dinner at his apartment doesn’t mean I’m saying yes to everything. Or does it? I hope it doesn’t. Me and my dead vagina aren’t ready for that.

  But how much do I really know about dating these days? Despite my recent flurry it would appear I am still very naive. Just this morning I overheard a shocking conversat
ion at work about the necessity of getting your anal tone checked out ahead of a date. And whoever this woman was talking to didn’t seem shocked at all. Instead, all she said, very casually, was, ‘I think that is wise. And a doctor would be able to tell you. You don’t want to rely on anyone less than a professional for these things.’

  Sitting close to the kitchen comes with both advantages and disadvantages.

  And yet, despite this, I’m still on my way to the date. I pop his address into Google Maps and get a seat on the tube. I’m sure it’s a sign that this evening will go well – until I’m met with another passenger’s crotch in my face. It’s the most crotch I’ll be getting tonight but it’s hard to really enjoy it.

  I only go the wrong way once on the walk from the station to Toby’s place, so I’m feeling pretty smug as I arrive. I ring the doorbell with a hint of a smile on my face.

  After some scuffling noises at the door, I see Toby. In truth I see more of Toby than I was bargaining for. He’s wearing an open dressing gown (a little weird, but maybe fine) with his manhood dunked into … a can of coconut milk? This is not fine.

  The hint of smile drops from my face.

  ‘Bea! Welcome! Come in, come in.’ He opens the door a fraction wider to make room for me to squeeze by. ‘So, I realize this looks unusual, but I’ve had a bit of a nightmare and didn’t want to leave you out in the cold.’ I am glued to the doorstep. ‘Please come in. I won’t be a second.’ He scampers away with his dressing gown flowing out rather majestically behind him. He shouts back at me, ‘If you could shut the door behind you.’

  I step inside and shut the door, too stunned to do anything but follow simple instructions. I can already feel Captain Hindsight preparing his ‘I told you so’ speech. But alas, I ignore him and follow Toby further into his lair.

  I walk through to an empty kitchen. I can only assume Toby has retreated to the safety of a bedroom. There’s a box of food on the counter, partly unpacked, and some of the ingredients are simmering away on the stove.