by Holly Bourne
‘Yes, no. I don’t normally come here. I’m just out with a friend, it’s her favourite place.’ Megan gestures towards me, and Mr Potential Ride smiles over. He’s dressed how every other wealthy finance type is dressed in here – navy blue suit he probably dropped two grand on, red tie, statement pocket hanky, shiny pointy shoes, a self-satisfied smirk.
I smile back and return to my phone. God, it’s dull, waiting for people to copulate. Hopefully she’ll close soon and then I can go home and have the flat to myself, strip to my pants and point the fan at my body while watching Joshua Jackson. I’ve just been paid, so I may even be able to get an Uber. Then, I’ll be sobered up by eleven, and won’t be hungover tomorrow, and can do yoga or something in the morning – not that I ever do yoga, but I could always start.
At least ‘Come On Eileen’ is on. This is so exciting that I forget my purpose and catapult into Megan, yelling, ‘THIS IS MY FAVOURITE SONG.’ I don’t think that’s true, but it feels true in this moment. I drag both of them onto the constipated dance floor and start dancing like an actual madwoman.
I’m having the very profound realisation that when ‘Come On Eileen’ starts going slow and then speeds up again, it’s impossible to feel anything but euphoria.
‘Come on, EileentaloorahYAY,’ I scream into Mr Potential Ride’s ear. He looks mildly alarmed and it’s ruining my vibe, so I turn away and fling myself into a circle of people as excited about the song bridge as I am. Suddenly I’m in the middle of them, lunging for some reason. Young people surround and clap me. I get a smidgen of sadness when I realise I’ve become that crazy older person in the club you call a ‘legend’ but secretly hope you never end up like. However, the drum beat’s coming up and the chorus is about to drop in the most wonderful way, and I don’t give a flying fuck about anything any more, so I jump and twirl and let this circle of youth worship me, and get lost in Eileen and how she must come on. The song merges into the ‘Cha Cha Slide’ and I’m shocked to find everyone knows the routine. ‘But HOW?’ I yell into a girl’s chandelier earring. ‘You must’ve been a fucking … fucking … FOETUS when this came out.’
I can’t remember the moves though – maybe my memory is going with old age – and suddenly I don’t know what to do with this group of children dressed in expensive suits who probably spent more money on shots tonight than I earn in a week. They are cha cha-ing and they are sliding, and this isn’t fun and I’m lonely now.
I turn back to Megan and instantly feel lonelier. She’s snogging Mr Potential Ride against the wall; their hands are all over one another. And, even though he doesn’t look like the nicest of kissers – Mr Potential looks like he kisses how most posh men kiss, like he’s trying to burp up Hugh Grant – she’s still kissing someone and I’m not. I’m just alone in a nightclub. At 33. The pitiableness of it hits me like a cartoon tonne. I cannot stay here. I trudge up the stairs to reclaim the bag I checked in and emerge, blinking, into the fading light of the summer’s evening.
Realising I need to tell Megan I’ve left, I dig about for my phone and find it has a message waiting for me.
Josh: Hi Gretts. How’s your Friday night out going?
It’s only 9.02 p.m. Too early for a bootie call, so what the hell is this? Is it a genuine message? Because he likes me and wants to know how my night is going?
I grin as I realise I can finally send one of those breezy flirty messages you’re supposed to send men in the early phases. The message where you’re out having an amazing time and invite them along all spontaneous and carefree. Normally on a Friday I’m in bed, reading Little House in the Big Woods and wondering if it’s problematic that I fancy Pa, and feeling smug about no impending hangover. But tonight I’ve morphed into Gretel. And Gretel is totally out at 9 p.m. and can send that message. Josh won’t be able to meet me anyway. London is too big, with everyone always at least fifty minutes away from everyone, so it’s a win-win. I can get the Tube home and be the hermit I’m longing to be but without him realising I’m a hermit. This is perfect!
I fire back a message as I stumble, blinking, out onto the streets, struggling to adjust to the sun still in the sky; the weird twilight zone of Calculus’s downstairs drunken universe fading.
Gretel: I’m out in Bank. It’s terrible! You should totally come along.
I’m lost in a side street when he replies. I don’t look at it immediately as I’m in the midst of deciphering the little map at a Boris Bike station. ‘Where the hell is the Tube station?’ I ask it, like it’s a person, tracing a path with my finger before I check his reply. ‘Oh bollocking fucking hellfire.’
Joshua: No way! I’m around Bank too! Are the stars aligning Gretel? Where you at? I’ll come over and say hi.
‘No!’ I say, because I’m not Gretel and therefore I’m not OK with this totally spontaneous change of plans. ‘No no no no no no no.’ I’m stuck in a moment of complete indecision. Right now, I cannot compute that Joshua is nearby and I may have to meet him. I’m tired, I’m drunk, I’ve lied to him about who I am. The map blurs as my mind sifts through the options. The most obvious being: stop this madness, April. Just don’t reply to him. Let Gretel die. It’s only been one date. You pretended to be someone else for one date. That is fucking weird and concerning, granted, but you’re having a hard time right now. Laugh it off. Nobody will ever find out. But don’t reply. Gretel can ghost him. There is no way this situation is anything other than nuts, so please for the love of God, April, stop it, go home and get a good night’s sleep.
Gretel: This is too weird! I just left a club and I’m on my way west soon, but I can drop in and meet you for one?
Josh: I’m in Forge. You know it? I’m a bit smelly in my work clothes, just warning you.
Gretel: See you in ten. And fret not, natural musk really does it for me. X
I lean against the bike map for a moment, revelling in how smooth that was. I would never have the confidence to send a message like that usually. I message Megan, to let her know I’ve left. Then give myself a moment to collect myself in this weird multiple-part evening. The sun’s finally started to slink down the sky, offering the city a breeze and some respite from the heat. The tall buildings filled with self-important people doing questionably-important jobs cast long shadows through the sunset’s gold. Tranquillity settles in me. There’s the noise of fun being had and memories being made and, tonight, I am part of it. So often this is a city where you feel like an outsider looking in, hands pressed against a glass box, watching everyone else doing it better and having more friends and knowing the places to go and getting the hang of it. You’re all breathing the same highly-polluted air and yet you’ve never felt lonelier. However, sometimes, like right now, you break down that wall and are able to crawl under London’s skin and feel its heartbeat pulse through you …
These are all very grand thoughts to be having for someone who was, less than half an hour ago, dancing like an eejit to ‘Come On Eileen’. I laugh at that. Out loud, into the setting sun. Loud and carefree and, oh my God, sometimes maybe I am capable of occasionally being like Gretel …
Gretel.
Shit!
What am I doing? I have to go and meet Joshua in, like, five minutes and I’m a drunken state! I can’t be Gretel like this.
Shit shit shit.
I pull out my compact mirror to assess my face and it’s not great if truth be told. I’ve sweated off most of my make-up. My eye make-up especially has drizzled halfway down my cheeks, and my mascara’s clumped into the biggest black booger you’ve ever seen, like a mouse shat in the corner of my eye. My hair’s moist and lank, yet has also managed to add ‘frizzy’ to its repertoire.
I do not look like a Manic Pixie Dream Girl Next Door Slut With No Problems.
I look like April, a thirty-something woman who has lost it, gone weird, and got hammered in a nightclub meant for people ten years younger than her.
How much highlighter do I need to apply to undo that?
I get to work q
uickly. Setting up a little workstation in the front basket of one of the bikes. I pluck out my eye booger with my fingernail and wipe it on the back of my dress. I retrieve a dirty cotton bud from the depths of my handbag, pick off the outer layer to reveal a vaguely white bit, then scrape it under my eyes to wipe up the melted make-up. When the worst of it has been erased, I quickly apply more (subtle) make-up to the blank canvas. I then miraculously find myself able to French-plait the front section of my hair to pull the sweaty bit away from my face. I can never usually French-plait but the alcohol’s given me this weird ability, in the same way it can make you inexplicably good at pool sometimes.
I check myself again.
There. Done.
I use my phone to figure out where Forge is. I’ll be ten minutes later than I said I would be but that’s only because there were so many people to say goodbye to before I left. Sorry. You know how it is when you try to leave somewhere. God, isn’t it hot today? I hope I look OK. It’s been go go go since I woke up, I swear my face must look like a melted snowman’s. Oh, I look perfect, you say? No way! You’re lying. Bless you.
I get into character as I dodge the clusters of loud office-workers spilling out onto pavements, clutching pink pints of flavoured beers, and delaying going home to their lonely flat-shares. I smile at everyone I saunter past, and receive many smiles back. I arrive outside Forge, which is surrounded by a dense moat of drunken sunshine seekers. It’s not rained for weeks now, but we’re still all desperate to make the most of it. My confidence wavers as I realise I know no one here, and I’m about to meet not only Josh, who is basically a stranger, but all of his workmates too. It takes a moment to shake April off and find Gretel again, who isn’t even thinking about what it means to meet a man’s workmates on a second date, she’s just enjoying this crazy little adventure we all share called Life with a capital L.
Gretel is such a fucking dick, I swear.
‘Gretel!’
There’s a delay between Josh calling my name and me registering he means me.
He tries again. ‘Gretel!’
This time I kick in, twisting in the direction of his voice, a playful smile already on my face. I spot him amongst the ocean of loosened ties, and raise a hand to wave hi. He’s standing with a group of all men cradling mostly finished pints. I feel their eyes on me as I make my way over, weaving gracefully through the throng, keeping my smile on the whole time. I reach Josh, and, without hesitating, lean in for a hello kiss on the cheek. ‘This is so weird that you’re here,’ I say, faking excitement at the odds of it. ‘It was a good thing you messaged when you did, I was about to get on the Tube.’
I can tell Josh is drunk from the sweetness on his breath and the way he clutches me a bit too intimately for only one date.
I wave at the clutch of IT men. ‘Hi, I’m Gretel,’ I say, picturing my floating Pocahontas trail. ‘Who wants a drink?’ I point to their mostly empty pints and, bewildered by my sudden arrival, they nod.
Shit. That’s all my payday money gone within one evening.
‘Great! Same again?’ I turn to Josh who’s still grinning at me with his slightly sunburnt, excitable, drunken face. ‘And you?’
‘Yes, that would be great. Cheers.’
That’s another fiver.
‘Brilliant!’
The bar inside is dark, cooler, and adorned with fake flowers hanging inexplicably from the ceiling. It’s mostly empty apart from the scrabble of people at the bar. The staff wilt behind the counter, leaning over and letting people yell instructions, nodding, while also frantically scanning the rest of the queue to see if they’ll ever get a breather. One lines up a queue of Magners, splashing each bottle into pint glasses filled with ice, a sheen of sweat glistening on his face like a glazed doughnut. I scan the queue for the best entry point, doing the maths of crowd flow to figure out where to stand to get served quicker. I pick a spot, push in, and, I’m just in the process of trying to make eye contact with a barmaid when I feel Josh’s presence behind me. I arrange my face into a smile and twist around. His face is already in a giant grin.
‘Well, fancy seeing you here,’ I say, blinking more than I normally do.
His grin stretches wider. He’s too drunk to hide how very glad he is to see me. ‘I thought I’d come and pay for your round,’ he explains. ‘It’s very polite of you to offer and everything, but I don’t feel it’s right for you to blow fifty quid on beer for my work friends.’
The thoughtfulness almost makes me stumble. That, and the relief that I don’t have to financially cripple myself buying six London Pale Ales. ‘Thank you,’ I tell him, just as I manage to grab the bar lady’s attention. I lean over and shout my order at her then I turn back to Josh as we wait. ‘That’s really kind, thank you.’
‘Just the right thing to do,’ he mumbles, blushing at my gratitude.
‘Well now I don’t have to remortgage my house in order to pay for this round.’
He laughs. ‘No, now I’ll have to remortgage mine.’
‘And live in an empty pint glass.’
‘Hey, at least the pint glass is branded with the logo of this super cool pale ale that’s brewed on-site.’
‘All the hipsters will be living in these pint glasses in a year’s time. You’re so ahead of the curve.’
He lets out another seal-bark of laughter, putting his hand on my back to reiterate how funny he finds me. The physical contact, again, ignites annoying chemicals that dance around the spot where we’re touching.
‘It’s nice to see you again,’ he layers the come-on.
‘You too.’
We stare at each other, and his green eyes really are very pleasant. I think it’s impossible for any woman in my age bracket not to find green eyes have some kind of kryptonite effect. The drawing scene in Titanic came out at a very influential time in our sexual development.
‘Six pints of pale ale and a rum and coke,’ the bar lady announces, gesturing to the cornucopia of glasses in front of her. ‘That’s forty-two pounds ninety, please.’
Keeping his hand on my back, Joshua steps forward with his card. He’s standing so close that most of his left side touches most of my right. I start collecting up the drinks to distract myself from my bodily stirrings. There’s no way I can continue with this if I lose sight of myself and get chemically involved, even though I’m not really sure what ‘this’ is. Apart from maybe a very significant psychotic meltdown. That, or I’m living in someone’s intense revenge fantasy fanfic.
We weave back to his workmates who are at the point of drunk where they cheer our arrival. I hand out their drinks and they thank me, not realising I’m not the one who paid for them. Then they return to their huddle and their boring conversation about office gossip.
‘So, yes, if we don’t launch till October, then Michael will definitely resign …’
‘The problem with that operating system is it’s so hackable, how they cannot see that …’
‘When do you think they’re going to announce if we get Christmas to New Year as extra annual leave? I don’t know whether to book a holiday in September or not …’
I clutch my glass and try to nod in the right places but there is literally no way to join in office conversations regarding an office you don’t work in. Not even Gretel has that superpower. Luckily, after ten minutes about the upcoming pension meeting, Josh saves me, twisting me away from the huddle.
‘I’m sorry,’ he smiles apologetically. ‘I didn’t mean to drag you away from your crazy night out for you to listen to dull talk about operating systems.’
‘But it’s my life goal fulfilled.’
‘Where have you been tonight anyway?’
I flash back to only an hour ago. Flinging myself around a cheesy and morally questionable bar with a bunch of youths like a geriatric mess. ‘All over,’ I say. ‘My housemate Megan met someone though, so I thought I’d move on.’
‘So you have a housemate then?’ he asks.
I nod. They’re
maybe not the most aspirational thing to still have at 33, but Gretel lives in London and doesn’t have rich parents who can help her afford somewhere gentrified in Brixton. I can’t fake that. ‘Yes, Megan. It’s her flat. We’re university friends. How about you?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. I live by myself. I’m scared of housemates. After I had to move out from my ex’s, I ended up living with this terrifying guy called Donny from SpareRoom. He was so racist I think he should have been entered into some kind of Olympics. He managed to make literally every conversation racist. You’d say, “Morning Donny, it’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?” and his reply would be, I’m not even joking, “Yeah, it’s supposed to be twenty-three today. The blacks will fucking love it, won’t they?”’
I almost spit out my drink.
‘I know! I was stuck in a fucking contract with that man till the break clause came up. And in that time he’d actually tried to make me go on a British Pride march.’
The mention of the ex has not gone unnoticed amongst the other shocking parts of his story. April brain rushes in: Does he still love her? Wow, they lived together, that means it must’ve been serious. This means he’s capable of a long-term relationship. Well, is he though? Because they broke up. I wonder why? I shake my head to dislodge the thoughts.
‘Sounds like you had quite the escape,’ Gretel says.
‘From my ex, or my crazy replacement housemate?’
‘Only you know the answer to that,’ Gretel says, because she is not threatened by the mention of exes. She understands that we all have a past, that’s just life, isn’t it.
‘I’m still trying to figure out the answer to that,’ Josh mumbles into his pint.
I raise my eyebrows. Uh oh. Emotional baggage. Here it comes. We made it to almost-date two before it surfaced. I find the exchanging of ‘why-I’m-fucked-up’ suitcases comes earlier in a relationship the later into your thirties you get.