by Hannah Tovey
‘It’s easy for me to say that, I’m well versed on the matter. But you – this is your first.’
‘How much time are we supposed to allocate to it?’
She smiled at me. I loved Maude’s smile; it was so expressive and open and overflowing with shiny gold fillings.
‘You can’t allocate time to it, Ivy. It’s bigger than you. It’s out of your control.’
‘OK, but surely at some point you can be reminded of the person you lost and feel something other than this? It can’t be like this for ever.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Like someone’s ripped a chunk out of me.’
She rested her warm, papery hands on top of mine. ‘It’ll come in waves,’ she said. ‘Some days will be agonising, and some days you’ll feel accepting.’
‘Accepting of what?’
‘That every day is different, that everyone’s recovery is different. Be patient.’
‘It sounds like rehab.’
‘It is, in a way.’
Maude looked at the painting again. ‘How was it being home?’ she asked.
‘Nice. Stressful. Normal.’
‘And now?’
‘Dilys is doing my head in a bit.’
‘I forgot about our friend Dilys.’
‘I’m worried I’m going to fail my teacher-training, and then what?’
‘Then you grow. Life is ever evolving. The most important adventures can come from times of confusion and uncertainty.’
‘Anna said I need to stop getting caught up with my age.’
‘Anna’s right. People think if you’re not achieving a certain life by thirty or forty then it’s all over, but look at me – I sent my first voice note last week.’
I laughed. ‘I would love to watch you send a voice note, Maude.’
‘We’re not bound by age. We’re on our own adventure and our job is to learn how to enjoy the ride.’
‘You’re right. You’re always right.’
‘What’s Dilys up to these days?’
‘She says I’m going to waste Gramps’ money and be on the dole for the rest of my life.’
‘And you’re listening to that drivel?’
‘Gramps used to talk about the thing inside us that guides us,’ I said. ‘He said trusting it might not be the easy option, but it’s the right one. What I didn’t realise until after he died is that he was the thing inside me, and without him, there’s just fear.’
‘You’ve got to find a way to block out the negativity and go into school next month with an open mind. Gramps wanted you to be happy – nothing else matters.’
‘Can I keep you in my pocket, so that every time I have a wobble, you can come out and fight Dilys for me?’
‘Did I tell you that I’m calling my Dilys “Samantha”?’
‘Why Samantha?’
‘Because when my Martin was alive, every time he popped to Iceland, he’d run into our neighbour Samantha. It was as if she timed her shopping trips just as he came out of the house.’
‘Samantha sounds like a real piece of work.’
‘She wasn’t really. She was lonely, that’s all. I appreciate that now.’
I wanted to tell her that I was lonely. I wondered if that would ever go away, or whether I’d have to get used to it, too.
A couple of hours later, I was sitting in a cocktail bar in Covent Garden with Wyatt, my date for the evening. I could have stayed at the care home – they were holding a fish and chip night and one of the care workers had brought in her copy of Gone with the Wind – but I was trying to be optimistic, to be open to love.
‘A teacher? In London? Good luck.’
‘It’s a good school,’ I said. ‘The children are—’
‘Chavvy?’
‘No, they’re not chavvy.’
‘I wouldn’t bother. Teachers get paid shit anyway.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a fund manager.’
‘What do you “fund”?’
‘Global infrastructure projects.’
I had no idea what this meant.
‘Do you enjoy it?’
‘Not really.’
‘How long have you been there for?’
‘Six years.’
I waited for him to ask me a question. He didn’t.
‘Have you always wanted to be a fund manager?’
‘No, but my dad’s one and he makes a fortune, so it made sense.’
‘Of course.’
‘I was thinking about going on a sabbatical.’
‘Where would you go?’
‘Might go to Fiji, build a school or something. I’ll need to show the company that I’ve done something worthwhile with my time off.’
‘I wanted to go abroad this summer – there’s an art school in the Loire Valley that people rave about – but I couldn’t afford it in the end.’
He wasn’t listening to me; he was too busy pretending not to stare at my chest. I downed what was left of my wine and ordered another.
Aside from lovely, albeit deeply religious Nick, my dating history since joining Serendipity consisted of a trip to an outdoor cinema with a man who got an erection the minute Margot Robbie appeared on screen; coffee with a fellow art-enthusiast, whose love of art turned out to be solely reserved for portraits of young men in ballet tights; and an evening with a man who looked about sixty years older than his profile picture suggested, who spent most of the date showing me pictures of his four grandchildren. (This one turned out quite well; he paid for dinner and gave me the number of a great sitter for Anna, i.e. his granddaughter.)
When Wyatt asked me out, I said yes in the hope that I might meet someone who was interested in what I did and what’s important to me. Someone who didn’t arrive forty minutes late and boast about how much they earn in the first five minutes. Maybe, if I was really lucky, I’d meet someone who looked me in the eye when they spoke to me, instead of salivating at my breasts. I wondered if he’d had a traumatic childhood.
He rattled on about his sister, an Instagram influencer who gets him into all the West London clubs.
‘Do you know Lulu’s?’ he said. ‘It’s a private members’ club.’
‘On Frith Street? I know it well.’
He wasn’t expecting that.
‘Oh, are you a member?’ he asked.
I’ve been dragged to Lulu’s a handful of times. It’s filled with vacuous people who fill their faces with Botox and their noses with white powder. You feel dirty when you come out; like you’ve had the best night of your life but need to be held by your mother.
‘No, I’m not a member,’ I said.
‘My sister is, so I go all the time. Last week we went and got fucked up with Lucy Fenton.’
‘Who?’
‘She was almost on Love Island.’
‘Right.’
I studied him from across the table. Anthropologically speaking, he was quite interesting. He had sharp, angular features and a small, uninviting mouth. I watched him as he talked and wondered how I’d gotten it so wrong.
He waffled on about his promotion and his new PA. He’d never had a PA before, you know, someone to get him coffee and shit.
We were out of wine.
‘It’s getting late,’ I said. ‘I should go.’
‘Do you want to come back to mine?’ he asked.
‘What? Now?’
‘Yes.’
He waited for me to answer.
‘If you’re not up for it, it’s cool,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the bill.’
I wanted someone to kiss me like they do in the movies. I wanted to be held, to be able to wrap my arms around a man and breathe them in. I knew Wyatt wasn’t the most suitable candidate, but I wanted to feel something – anything – other than this current version of myself.
‘OK, I’ll go home with you,’ I said, ‘but you need to buy me another drink first. And you need to stop talking about work.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t think th
at was a problem.’
‘It is, and I’ll have another glass of wine, please.’
We went back to his, or rather, his sister’s – his flat in Battersea was being renovated. There were framed family photos everywhere and horrible signs that read ‘LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE’ on the walls. I was half expecting to see a poster of a sunset beside some God-awful motivational quote. I was looking through her bookshelf when he took my hand and led me into the bathroom.
He turned the shower on and started to take his clothes off. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to see a man naked. His body was sinewy, like he cycled a hundred miles a day, and he had very little hair on him. I tried not to look directly at his sizable erection as I took my clothes off and stepped into the shower.
‘You have excellent shoulder definition,’ he said.
‘Thank you, I’ve recently taken up yoga.’
‘You can tell.’
‘Thanks, you look great too.’
This was a half-truth; he had the body of an eighteen-year-old and his lack of pubic hair was deeply off-putting, but it’s important to be complimentary when a man’s standing in front of you with his penis out.
After some minor geographical issues, where he spent an uncomfortable amount of time poking around my vagina, Wyatt got the showerhead and angled it towards my clitoris, a gesture I appreciated immensely.
‘Can I come inside you?’ he asked.
It was the first time I’d ever been asked this.
He hurriedly put a condom on, hoisted me up on his waist and pinned me against the wall. I gripped his shoulder as he kissed me like an angry schoolboy, and when I came he shouted, ‘Do it again, Ivy, do it again,’ right in my ear.
‘I can’t,’ I said.
He was still inside me. Thrusting away.
‘What’s wrong? Is this OK?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but I’ve had a bottle of wine and the fact I came from the showerhead is somewhat of a miracle.’
‘Can I keep going?’
‘Yes, go right ahead.’
He continued for what seemed like thirty minutes but was probably only another three. I wanted to comment on the temperature of the water; it was far too tepid for my liking, but instead I used the time to consider what I would wear on my first day at school.
‘You’re really good at that,’ he said, after he came.
I barely did anything, which boded well for future sexual relations.
He handed me a towel; it was much higher quality than my own. I made a mental note to add new towels to my list of ‘Things to buy when I can afford stuff’. The list was quite extensive at this point.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
‘I need to head back to mine.’
‘There’s a bloody good Indian down the road, and I have more condoms.’
‘Thank you, but I need to get going.’
I closed the bathroom door on him, got dressed and made a swift exit. On the bus home, I sat beside a young woman and wondered whether she could smell the sex on me. I concluded that she couldn’t, because of the shower. I got a textbook out of my bag – Get to Know the Curriculum – and started reading. Just before my stop, my phone went off. It was Wyatt.
‘Let’s do that again soon,’ he wrote.
I deleted Wyatt’s number and turned my phone off.
My benchmark for whether I’ve made a good decision is if my sister would approve of it. I know she wouldn’t approve of what happened that night. She’d tell me that sex with strangers isn’t going to make me feel any less alone, and she’d be right. But I longed for someone to touch me like they wanted me, and I wasn’t going to apologise for that.
14
I couldn’t sleep, so at 4 a.m. I gave in and got up. I opened the curtains and saw the aftermath of the bank holiday weekend – young girls in crop tops and men in floral shirts roamed the streets, trying to cling on to the party.
I went into the kitchen and started eating the chocolate chip biscuits I’d made the night before. I had started baking – mainly out of boredom – but I was out of practice and they resembled sawdust. I’d also attempted a Victoria sponge, which was sitting on the kitchen counter, gradually sinking, with pink cream spewing from its side. I sat on the sofa and painted my toenails, then tried to do some gentle yoga, but had to stop after a few minutes because I’d smudged the polish and smeared it all over the mat. Then, as Mia suggested, I listened to Katy Perry’s ‘Roar’ and stomped around the flat shouting, ‘I am a woman, hear me roar’, which is what she does before auditions, and apparently it has a 62 per cent success rate. At 6 a.m. my neighbour knocked on the door asking me to turn the music down. I’d used up my daily quota of energy, and I hadn’t even got to school yet.
The night before, I’d spent three hours picking out an appropriate outfit for my first day. After a couple of meltdowns and several non-starters, I settled on a black dress with white polka dots and black flat sandals. My main concern was my armpits; I was on my period and my sweat glands had failed me once again. I’d already cried three times that morning. Once when looking at photos of Gramps; again when I opened a card from Eleanor – Anna had taken Eleanor’s handprint and written, ‘I love my clever auntie to the moon and back’ beside it; and thirdly when I opened a present from Dan and Mia: a caramel-leather satchel with ‘IVY EDWARDS’ embossed on the front. Make-up was a complete no-go.
Anna called at 6.30 a.m.
‘Sorry, I know it’s early, but I’d seen you’d been online,’ she said.
‘I couldn’t sleep. What’s your excuse?’
‘I have a two-month-old baby.’
‘How was last night?’
‘Brutal. She woke five times. She’s been glaring at me for the past hour, refusing to go to sleep.’
‘I miss her.’
‘You saw her two days ago, darling. How are you feeling?’
‘I’ve been reading online blogs about what to expect from your first day and I still have no idea what I’m getting myself into.’
‘This first week was always going to be the hardest.’
‘I had an email from my university tutor over the weekend. I’ve got to write an essay about the purpose of education and what I think its values should be.’
‘If in doubt, be like a man and fake it until you make it. You don’t see a man going into the workplace, worrying they won’t be able to handle it. They talk over you in every meeting and ask you to do the Pret run and cup their balls as they walk around the office like they fucking own the place.’
‘You OK, Anna?’
‘You deserve to be there just as much as anyone else. Sorry, I’ve got to go give my boobs a massage. Call me as soon as you can, OK?’
‘Will do. Love you.’
‘Love you more. You’ve got this, Ivy.’
I stood in front of the mirror, with my new satchel draped over my shoulder. I wanted more than anything for this to be it. I couldn’t waste another decade watching others make something of themselves whilst I sat back avoiding anything of real substance. I checked my bag for the hundredth time, picked up the Victoria sponge, and set off to Clerkenwell Primary School.
I decided to walk so that I wouldn’t get stressed out on the Tube, but of course this did nothing for my sweating, and I had to stop off at Tesco en route to buy myself some deodorant and wet wipes. By the time I arrived I looked like I’d come out of an aqua aerobics class.
I walked in the reception and said hello to Mary.
‘Miss Edwards! Welcome back!’
‘Thanks, Mary. It’s so good to see you again. How are you?’
‘I’ve been great. My broad beans and chard are thriving. Do you garden, Ivy?’
‘No, I wish I did. People who garden are so optimistic, aren’t they?’
‘It’s the great outdoors, Ivy. Come around mine one day and I’ll show you how it’s done.’
I smiled and a large bead of sweat fell from my forehead onto my upper lip.
‘Why don’t
you go to the bathroom, freshen yourself up,’ Mary said. ‘Mr Reid will be here in a few minutes.’
After using an entire loo roll trying to soak up the waterfall on my face, I walked back to reception, and found Mr Reid leaning against the desk. He was wearing another waistcoat, and he’d grown a few grey hairs in the four months since we’d last seen each other. But he’d lost weight and looked much younger because of it.
He put his hand out to greet me.
‘And so it begins,’ he said.
I wanted him to say something like, ‘Great to see you! Well done on your interview! We’re excited to have you!’
‘Thank you so much for the opportunity,’ I said. ‘I’m so excited to be here.’
He smiled and led us to his classroom. Our classroom.
The room was larger – and neater – than I remembered. Everything was labelled and laminated, and every item on a desk was positioned at a perpendicular angle. There were neat rows of rulers and notepads and worksheets, and by the window was a large basket with ‘The Cleaning Bee’ written on it. There was a box of wet wipes, hand sanitiser and several rolls of toilet paper under his desk. I wondered whether this was because children lose control of their bowels so easily, or because Mr Reid had a nuclear-grade personality disorder. Either option wasn’t ideal.
There was a grand canvas on the back wall, splattered with various shapes, colours and patterns. I walked over to it and put my hand on a cardboard rainbow butterfly.
‘I thought we could do a lot more painting this year, with you as our driving force,’ he said.
‘That would be great. The children must love it.’
‘They do, yes. It gets very messy.’
I could see his eyebrow twitch at the very thought of this.
‘It’s so freeing, that’s the beauty of it,’ I said.
‘I’m glad you think so, Ivy.’
I walked around the room, marvelling at it all. I couldn’t believe I was in my own classroom, and that someday I might be in charge of all this.
There were deep shelves stacked with hundreds of books, a creative writing space, a painting and gluing area, a table for all things numbers. I spotted some practice sheets and remembered my first day back in March, looking at the numbers on the page and wanting to flee.