I’m halfway through a cigarette when he appears through the barriers.
‘I hope you’re not planning on doing that at the party,’ he says, by way of a hello, and kisses me on the cheek.
‘Course not,’ I say, tossing it into a puddle and feeling chastised. ‘I just wanted to calm my nerves a little, that’s all. Look, it wasn’t even a whole one.’
He slips his arm around my waist. ‘Why are you nervous, Franny-Frangipane?’
‘Because,’ I say, ignoring the way that nickname puts my teeth on edge, ‘these are your people, and I know work is a big part of your life, and I’d love to get a glimpse into that. And I’m excited. But mainly I just hope they like me.’
‘Of course they will,’ he says. He stands back and holds me at arm’s length, opens my coat and lets out a low whistle. ‘You look beautiful tonight.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, embarrassed and blushing. He chucks my chin and ruffles my hair and even though I wish he had left it well alone, the sentiment was nice. He takes my overnight bag and we walk, arm in arm, to the venue.
Inside we check our coats and my bag in the cloakroom and he takes my hand and leads me into the main room. It’s decorated like an ice palace, complete with ice sculptures and hundreds of thousands of twinkly fairy lights. A giant Christmas tree dominates one corner, completely covered in ornaments. Large glass orbs, like oversized baubles, are suspended in clusters from the ceiling and snowflakes and icicle decorations hang from gnarled tree branches, sprayed silver, as table centrepieces. Lucas hands me a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and we weave between tables and people until we reach a group, huddled together at the side of the room. He drops my hand and claps one of the men on the back.
‘Alright, squire,’ he says, putting on a hugely affected cockney accent. The man turns around, guffaws and throws an arm around Lucas.
‘About time, Pussyfellow,’ he bellows, and I’m reminded that Lucas has the worst surname in all the world. If we get married I’m staying a Tatlin, because I can see Franny-Frangipane Pussyfellow becoming a thing and I can’t risk sounding like a character in a Beatrix Potter story. The man’s voice is unnecessarily loud. His face is sort of red, but it’s a kind one.
‘I was waiting for this one,’ Lucas says, nodding his head back at me. ‘Women, eh?’
What? That’s not even a little bit true. I stood, freezing my tits off for a good fifteen minutes before he swanned out of the station and told me off for smoking. I briefly consider correcting him, but I don’t want to embarrass him, and besides, what’s one little white lie? It’s not like I haven’t told worse by omission recently. Everyone in the group laughs at his comment. I feel like an ever so slightly smaller version of myself, and I wonder if he can tell I’ve shrunk back a little. If he’s noticed I’ve moved just a little bit behind him and have taken hold of the sleeve of his suit jacket. He’s definitely noticed that, because he shrugs my hand off, and styles it out.
‘So this must be Fran,’ the bellowing man says. He extends a hand and I shake it. It’s clammy and cold.
‘This is indeed Fran,’ I say, steeling my nerve.
‘Franny-Frangipane,’ a cat-like woman says. She’s tall with icy-blonde, wavy hair. Stick thin. Definitely fake boobs. Fake nails. Fake lashes. Beautifully defined cheekbones. A complexion so perfect it looks airbrushed.
‘Annoushka! Play nice,’ Lucas warns, but it’s playful. She shrugs and gives me a once-over and something tells me we won’t be comparing lippy later on. Something tells me I couldn’t afford the lippy she wears.
One by one Lucas’ colleagues introduce themselves and on the whole they seem nice enough, but my daydream from earlier of us all meeting for a pint at The Whippet on a Friday melts away like spring snow. These people are nothing at all like anyone I work with. They’re much more corporate. Much more polished. Annoushka is wearing Louboutins. I bet they’re not her only pair. I wonder if she can tell my own high heels are from New Look and my dress is from ASOS. There’s more chat, but on the whole about things I don’t know anything about, and I feel peripheral and surplus to requirements. Still, I soldier on, and spend a lot of the evening picking up on snippets of information Lucas has shared with me previously, piecing it all together and trying to form a picture, and I think I’m doing alright. My soldiering pays off. I may not know the ins and outs of what it means to work on the McLelland account but I’m holding my own pretty well and seem to be getting on with his colleagues, especially a chap called Laurence.
‘With a U,’ he’d made a point of saying, when he’d told me his name. ‘Spelled the proper way.’
‘I see. None of this W nonsense,’ I’d quipped, and he’d laughed. I’ve talked to him the most this evening.
I sip, daintily, at my champagne, taking my time with it so the bubbles don’t go to my head, but when I’m offered another, Lucas insists I’ll just have some Perrier water instead. The waiter doesn’t hang around long enough for me to argue, and I’m presented with a highball glass of sparkling water, instead of the fizz I’d wanted. It doesn’t escape my notice that he hands another glass of champers to Annoushka and sips at what looks like a Scotch on the rocks himself.
‘What’s this for?’ I say, quietly.
‘Oh, Franny, we know what you’re like when you’re drunk. You’d be anyone’s.’
‘Pardon?’ I say, stunned at the implication and louder than I’d meant to.
‘Nothing, darling,’ he says, and I feel shushed.
‘I’m not anyone’s though, am I? I’m here with you, and it would be nice if I could pick my own drink, thanks.’
‘Just pace yourself,’ he says, patting my shoulder as if it was all good-natured, like he was just looking out for me. It’s not good-natured and my gut tells me it’s not a joke. ‘You’re such a fiery, reactive little thing.’
‘Fine,’ I say, through gritted teeth. I turn back to Laurence and give a small, tight smile. He looks a little uncomfortable and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. For a few seconds neither of us speak.
‘So, what is it that you do?’ he asks, finally, and I’m happy he’s managed to change the subject.
‘I work at Viral Hive,’ I say. ‘The digital media company.’
‘I know it!’ he says, and he looks genuinely interested. Of course he knows it. Everyone knows it. ‘Don’t tell Paul,’ he continues, and nods towards the loud man, ‘but I get so caught up on those quizzes.’
‘Yeah? My friend Mickey makes a lot of those,’ I say.
‘And what do you do there?’
‘I’m a content editor,’ I say. ‘I have a little team to manage. And I’ve recently finished making a series of videos.’ It’s nice to feel like someone is taking a genuine interest in what I do, and I find myself telling Laurence about the interview which sparked off the entire series, and some of the best reactions we’ve had to some of the wildest of foods. I tell him about how stoked Ollie and I were when our stargazey pie video hit one million views and a hundred thousand shares and went viral to an extent we’d never imagined. We’re ushered to our dinner table and our conversation continues as the starters arrive.
‘You must be so proud of her, mate,’ Laurence says, across the table to Lucas. But Lucas shrugs and pours himself a glass of red from the bottle on the table.
‘It’s just a bit of fun really, isn’t it, Franny?’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ I say, icily. ‘I mean, it is fun, but it’s not “just a bit” of fun. It’s my job.’
‘Well, this job. What you do. Going to your office in Fitzrovia every day. Turning up whenever you fancy. Faffing around online with daft quizzes and playing at being a video producer—’
‘I am a video producer,’ I interrupt. ‘I’ve produced an entire series from the concept right through to delivery. So I’m not sure what you mean, really. Also, we have core hours. I don’t just turn up whenever I like. Is that what you really think about my job?’
‘I just m
ean that it’s all a bit… worthless. Look, your little ten-minute skits are hardly going to win you an Emmy are they?’
‘I’m hardly looking for an Emmy, Lucas, and also, don’t be such a prick. What’s got into you?’
The entire table falls silent. Everyone is looking at us. Annoushka sits back in her seat and eyes me. Laurence awkwardly picks at his bread roll. Lucas is right. I am fiery. His eyes flash.
‘I’m not being a prick, Frances,’ he says, evenly. ‘I guess my point is that if your job didn’t exist, the world wouldn’t stop turning.’
‘What the fuck does that matter?’ I hiss, not even bothering to moderate my language. ‘That’s the same for most jobs.’
I stop short at telling him his is included, on account of sitting at a table with everyone he works with.
‘I mean, I’m sure it’s fine for now,’ he says, still calm, still even, and that infuriates me. Because now I look like a slightly hysterical, unstable harpy, and he’s calm and entirely in control of the situation. Why do I always get into this situation with men? He looks around at his colleagues, sat back in his chair with his arm slung across the back of mine and sort of smirks in a ‘what’s got her knickers in a twist, look at what I have to put up with’ sort of way and it brings back memories of my argument with Ollie in the meeting room, and in this second I hate him. I loathe him. In this second every shitty little thing he’s said and done to me since we’ve been together, and every doubt that’s been whizzing around in my head smashes into one another like particles in the Large Hadron Collider and the aftermath is one hell of a big bang. A mist as red as my hair descends.
‘It’s more than fine,’ I say. ‘But not sure we are, to be honest.’
‘You and me?’ he repeats, incredulous.
‘Yep, that’s what I said.’
‘Not now, Fran, eh?’ he says, and he rolls his eyes. ‘You’re showing yourself up, sweetheart.’
Again, he looks around the table, but it’s painfully awkward and even Annoushka doesn’t look like she’s finding it amusing anymore. She’s staring down at the swirls of balsamic glaze on her plate and her gaze will not be averted.
‘I really think you’re taking this a bit too personally,’ he continues. His mouth is twisted into a smirk and it’s ugly. Right now, everything about him is ugly. Even the things I found attractive in him, the warm, soft parts, look hard and cold and mean. His eyes are cut just a little too narrowly. His nose is a little too pinched at the bridge. His entire demeanour is closed and unwelcoming, and I realise I’ve seen this look, or even versions of it, more times than I haven’t in the last few weeks. Right now I can see no trace of Lucas as he used to be.
‘You’ve just told me my job – which I love, by the way – is a joke. And not only that, you’ve basically insinuated that I can’t handle my drink, and you lied about why we were a bit late.’ Now I turn to everyone else. ‘He wasn’t waiting for me, other way around actually. No idea why he said that. No idea why I still think it’s my problem, either.’
‘Fran, you’re being really silly,’ Lucas says, and this time he giggles, and I am done. And as soon as I realise this, everything in my head instantly calms. All the worries I had about tonight and having to behave a certain way and mould myself into the person he wants me to be dissipate. It’s quiet now where before there was cacophony. There’s a blank mind where before, I realise, it felt like a fever dream.
‘Nah, we’re done.’
He puts his hand over mine. ‘It’s okay, we’ll talk about this later.’
‘No point,’ I say, pulling my hand away. ‘I know how it will go. You’ll try and gaslight me and tell me I wasn’t goaded at all into this. Then you’ll want a blow job and you’ll hold my head down and really, I am worth more than this.’
Paul splutters and Annoushka blinks, and I remove my napkin from my lap, fold it up neatly and place it on the table. It’s not like I can stick around now. ‘Oh, sorry, I forgot, blow jobs weren’t on my approved list of things to talk about, were they? My bad.’ I turn to address everyone else on the table once more. ‘Nice to meet you all,’ I say, and hold my hand up in a little wave, and then for my parting shot I turn back to Lucas. ‘Lose my number,’ I say. ‘I’m not really interested in this anymore. And for the record, I fucking hate being called Franny-Frangipane. So I’m off for a fag and a Big Mac, because I don’t have to worry about you thinking I’m getting fat anymore,’ and I toss back my hair and sweep from the room.
Outside, I pace up and down the street. The calm has worn off and now I’m thrumming with adrenaline. I smoke a cigarette very quickly and the nicotine and lack of food makes me feel high. I’ve just spectacularly dumped Lucas. In front of everyone he works with on the McLelland account. There’s no coming back from that. On the way to McDonalds I call Suze.
‘How’s it going, lady pal?’ she asks. ‘Are you having a nice time? Out having a smoke?’
‘The smoking part, yes, but the rest not so much. I’ve broken up with Lucas.’
‘Well thank fuck for that,’ she gasps.
‘Suze!’
‘Wait, who was the dumper and who was the dumpee?’
‘I was the dumper.’
‘Thank fuck for that,’ she repeats. ‘He was horrible. What happened?’
And I give her a blow by blow account whilst I’m tottering in my pinchy shoes down towards the familiar comfort of the golden arches. She’s indignant when I tell her about the bizarre lie about me being late, and incensed at how vile he was about my job, but she howls when I get to the bit about the blow job and how much I hated that stupid pet name.
‘Do you think anyone was videoing it?’ she asks.
‘God, I hope not,’ I say, but a little bit of me hopes that maybe someone did.
‘Well, either way, it’s going to be office chat for weeks,’ she says.
‘Good!’ I say. I’m outside McDonalds now and the sweet, fatty smell of sugary buns and cheap meat and burger sauce and salty chips is enticing. ‘I’m going to go. Maccas is calling, and I’m compelled to answer.’
‘Come on home after. You probably feel invincible right now, but this is going to hit you sooner or later and when it does you’ll need wine and a box of chocolates to hurl at the TV.’
By the time I’m home my buzz has worn off and that, coupled with my burger and large fries, has left me feeling less than ideal. It’s all sitting in my stomach like a dead weight. I dumped my boyfriend in front of all his colleagues because he said something that upset me. Was that perhaps a little hyperbolic? I’m not sure. What happens if I shift my perspective and revisit? I dumped my boyfriend in front of all his colleagues because he belittled me in front of them, knowing I was nervous and keen to make a good impression. I dumped him because he lied about me, in front of me, put me in a position where I couldn’t easily defend myself, and turned me into a joke. Because my gut told me I wasn’t there as his partner, or his equal, but just as someone to talk him up, play the part of the obedient, dutiful, eager to please girlfriend. Because he made me question myself when he’d kept back information, and I’m not sure it wasn’t purposeful. Because he didn’t like my friends and made excuses not to see me, when really he should have been battering down my door to take me out. Because he didn’t respect me, certainly didn’t love me, and it just so happened I realised all this at his Christmas party. The weight in my stomach is still there, but added to it now is resentment and anger, and a lot of that is directed at myself.
When I was little I remember my mother telling me that you reap what you sow. I believe it, too. After all, she sowed a Barry-shaped oaf and gave up her family. Now I wonder if, deep down, Lucas is surprised by what I did, and if he realises how horrible he’d grown to be. Surely his behaviour tonight was inexcusable. Surely, even in the name of lad banter, he went too far. Surely, he must know that. Or does he think everything he said, and has been saying since the summer, is okay? Had he, in his mind, been lovingly cultivating roses? Because
in mine he scattered Japanese knotweed and now his garden is fucked. I’m cross with myself for allowing it to go on and now I’m back home, I’m embarrassed it got as bad as it did. I should have nipped it in the bud that first time at The Whippet when he’d patronised me in front of Carlina. I should have said something at the restaurant. Suze was right; I should have asked him not to talk to me that way. I should have set boundaries. I should have held on to more of myself around him. I’m cross that it took something as dramatic as what happened tonight for me to act in my own best interests. Maybe I sowed weeds as well.
Suze opens the door, hugs me tight and hands me a large glass of wine.
‘Ding dong, the arsehole’s gone,’ she says. ‘You’re better off and honestly I’m glad. He was a little bitch, and I can tell you that now.’ And she guides me into the living room and sits me down and I tell her how I’m feeling and how I’m almost a little ashamed of how I enabled it all and she strokes my hair and tells me none of it, not one single part, was my fault.
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