by Holly Bourne
There’s a brief interlude because I’m gasping for breath. I panic as stale oxygen gets trapped in my chest. Carol squats down in front of me, repeating, ‘Breathe, April, come on breathe. In for five, out for seven, in for five …’
This morning, Joshua and Gretel were so cute. They got up and danced around to The Boo Radleys, him twirling Gretel under his arm. What would he think if he saw her now? An irreparable mess. A pile of shattered glass. A ball of ugly emotions. He would not find it as cute as dancing to ‘Wake Up Boo’ let me tell you that for certain.
‘Have you considered boxing?’ Carol asks me, once my human functioning comes back. She sits back on the chair and crosses her legs.
‘Boxing?’
She nods. ‘There’s this class. In East London, I think. It’s women only and they have special classes for survivors.’
‘There’s a pop-up rape-victim aerobics class? Wow. East London literally thinks of everything.’
She ignores my joke which is annoying because I’m pretty pleased I’ve found the energy to be sarcastic at a time like this. ‘Lots of survivors find it a really good outlet. It may be a way of letting out all these emotions you’ve been talking about.’
Despite my cynicism, I can’t deny that the thought of violence immediately appeals to me. To hit. To destroy. To hurt. I log what she’s suggested, making a mental note to look the class up. Then return to a more pressing concern.
‘Is it … normal?’ I ask her. ‘To be pretending to someone that I’m someone called Gretel?’
‘You know that “normal” isn’t a useful word in these kinds of sessions.’
‘Blink once for yes, twice for no.’
Her smile is tight now. ‘I guess it’s worth asking yourself what you think this behaviour is going to help you achieve?’
The answer tumbles out of my mouth. ‘Power,’ I say.
‘Power?’
I nod. The fans lift my hair around my shoulders. ‘Being Gretel is the first time since I started dating when I was 16 where I feel like I have any power at all.’
‘What do you mean?’
I shrug, my eyes widening. ‘Just that. I’ve never, ever, felt like I’ve had any power with men. I’ve constantly been on the backfoot, because I want the love too much, and they’ve made me feel like wanting love is a weird thing. A wrong thing. A needy thing. Even when I’ve gone for men who I actually, initially, think are a little below my league. Once we’ve got into it, they’ve still all ended up rejecting me. Do you know how powerless it makes you feel? To lower your standards to try and love someone and even then they don’t want your love? But, when I’m Gretel …’ I can hear her singing into the breeze of the fans, laughing like she’s never worried about anything in her whole goddamn life, ‘… I feel powerful. Like I’m in control. Like I’m finally the one who is less into it. Like I’m the one who needs convincing. And, most importantly, I’m not the one who is going to get hurt this time. I even feel guilty!’ I laugh Gretel’s laugh. ‘I’ve never felt guilty before. Never in my whole life. Guilt is the luxury of the powerful.’
Carol makes a quick note in her book before she finally looks up. ‘Do try and get to that boxing class,’ she advises. ‘This feeling of disempowerment may be able to be channelled through … er … well, less destructive ways.’
‘I will go.’ And I will. When you are at rock bottom with only a pickaxe to dig further down with, you are willing to try just about anything. ‘But this feeling of powerlessness pre-dates what Ryan did to me,’ I tell her. I reach out and tickle the truth, burning my finger. ‘I’ve always felt like I’m on the backfoot, that I’m chasing a rainbow I don’t deserve, that I’m not worth anything.’ My throat’s smaller. Hands shakier. ‘In fact, when he did it,’ I say, hardly able to get the words out, ‘it wasn’t even a shock.’ I pause again. ‘More a confirmation of the inevitable.’
A huge hunk of silence follows that.
Then, ‘Go to the class,’ she echoes.
I’m signed off for a week, and taken off the rota indefinitely, even though they definitely can’t spare me. I get sympathetic looks as I leave the office at 11 a.m.
‘I hope you feel better soon,’ Matt says.
‘I’m sorry to be leaving you in it.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’
I cry the entire journey home.
Joshua: How’s work going? I can’t stop thinking about last night.
Gretel: Me neither. That air con really was very powerful.
Joshua: You’re hilarious.
Gretel: Just wish we’d had air con in your flat for everything that happened afterwards.
Joshua: Messages like these are very hard to receive when I’m stuck in the world’s most boring meeting.
Gretel: Bet that’s not the only thing that’s hard, huh?
Joshua: Stop. Killing. Me.
Joshua: What you up to tonight? I’ve purchased a fan. It would love to meet you.
Gretel: You know how to tempt a girl, Joshua.
Gretel: But alas, I have to work late tonight.
Joshua: Never mind. It was late notice anyway. What about Friday? You around? I’m meeting some friends for a curry.
Gretel: In this heat?
Joshua: Yeah. My friend Neil found this really good deal at Dishoom. Up for it? Me and my uni mates? They’re a nice bunch. Very good at sharing poppadoms.
Two hours later …
Joshua: It’s just a curry. No pressure. We can do it some other time. They just want to meet this girl I can’t stop talking about :) :)
Joshua: Seriously, no dramas.
Gretel: Chill Joshua. I’d LOVE to go for a curry. I was just tied up at work. What time’s the table booked for? xx
Joshua: Eight. That OK?
Gretel: Better than OK.
• So No One Told You Love Was Going To Be This Way – Gretel’s Guide to Meeting The Friends
* * *
The meeting of The Friends is a much bigger deal than either of you admit. You casually ask the other to come along to a thing, and they casually reply that yeah that sounds great – neither of you pointing to the giant elephant in the room that’s wearing a painted banner saying ‘BIG DEAL, BIG TEST’. Because if they introduce you to their friends, that means they have to explain to their friends who you are, and why you are in their life. And you don’t tend to do that unless you’re hopeful you won’t have to explain at a later date why you’ll never be seeing each other again.
It’s a fucking minefield.
You need to look pretty, but, of course, you cannot look like you’ve tried. You need to resemble an accidentally-beautiful eunuch essentially. Because you can’t let out any sexual vibes whatsoever. There is no room for sultry – we don’t trust women like that. The best case scenario is to be a sexy children’s TV presenter. Think Konnie fucking Huq. Everyone would love to introduce Konnie fucking Huq to their mates.
Conversationally, remember that you don’t have to say anything and anything you do say could be held against you. This is a first impression. The approval of friends matters. You will sour before his very eyes if they do not think ‘jolly good girlfriend choice, well done’. As always, bland is a good starting point. Remember, it’s easier to add than to take away – a bit like doing a smoky eye. Start unremarkable and build from there. Slowly. Whatever you do, do not mention politics or religion or sex or mental illness or past relationships or comedians you like.
Only say nice things about your partner. Do not tease him, or laugh at him. They are not ready to be co-conspirators with you yet. And whatever the hell you do, do not ask them for advice about the relationship. Do not look to them to quash your neediness, to tell you how much nicer/prettier/thinner you are than the previous girl he introduced them to. In fact, part of the ‘ignore the elephant in the room’ game is you all pretending there was no one before you. That they didn’t smile politely and shake hands and say ‘hello nice to meet you’ to girls before you. Maybe they even went
on fun minibreaks with her. Maybe some of them are still in touch with her. Maybe some of them are hoping they’ll get back together and you are just a phase.
Ignore it. Push it down. Let’s all play nice and act like you’re the one, the only one, and that they’re not comparing you to the people before.
Do. Not. Flirt. Never flirt. Remember, in this context you’re all asexual with no urges whatsoever. Yes, of course his male friends will wonder briefly what it might be like to have sex with you but no no no, let’s all pretend that’s not true.
Be bubbly.
Be light.
Be a radiator, not a drain.
Smile a lot.
Say please and thank you.
Be interested in their jobs.
Comment on the weather or something but don’t be too boring.
And if his male friends scare you, don’t worry, the female friends are much more terrifying – much harder to get right. They will not like the fact you are now on their territory. Even if they never wanted him, they’ll want him to want them. Compliment them on what they’re wearing. Ask them where they got it from. Reveal a minor insecurity about yourself. Offer it up to them like a sacrifice while remarking on their shoes or hair style.
Don’t discuss the future in any way. If you fuck this up, there won’t be a future, remember? So don’t start suggesting group holidays, or even meeting up next weekend. It will only make everyone uncomfortable, you desperate pathetic bitch.
* * *
Before I’m thrown to the lions of Joshua’s university clique, I have to wear jogging bottoms for their actual purpose for the first time in years. I’ve booked myself into Carol’s trendy trauma boxing-club beforehand, hoping it will dislodge the guilt I’m harvesting about spreading my Gretel lie to a wider net of people.
I forgot that jogging bottoms are for exercise, rather than changing into the moment you get home. I’m going to boil to death, I’m sure, but I can’t commit to buying shorts until I’ve seen if this class is as useful as Carol claims. I dig out my sports bra that still has the tag on. I’ve tied a novelty T-shirt into a knot. When I look in the mirror before I leave, I could definitely pass for someone who understands how exercise works.
The sky above me is a light grey, gurgling in pre-thunderstorms that none of us believe will actually come. The country’s collectively given up on the idea of rain. On TV they tell us to only flush the toilet after pooing. That baths are the enemy. That hoses are a banned substance.
I’ve packed my overnight stuff as I have to meet his friends straight after the class. I’ve managed to successfully dodge him all week with lies about working late and cocktails with friends I didn’t see. Gretel’s been so busy while April’s been so preoccupied with lying in bed, sweating into my sheets and staring at the old faithful crack in the ceiling.
It takes an age to get from the red brick and leafy squares of West London to the chaotic concrete and smell of bins of East London. It’s a side of the city where I’ve never felt I belong. Where the air of hip is so intoxicating you feel the need to pull everyone you pass to one side to convince them you drink cold brew coffee and really dig it. I clutch my phone in one hand, using maps to steer me past Banksy-decorated walls and homeless people with no teeth begging outside flats that cost eight hundred thousand pounds. The pollution pouring off the clogged roads makes it feel even hotter. I cough and turn left, before realising I’ve turned too early and have to retrace my steps past a queue of people waiting to get into a café where you can drink bubble tea surrounded by cats.
I find the class five minutes before it’s due to start. It’s in a little dilapidated hall in a tiny piece of green you’d easily walk past if you were on your way to trendier things. The noticeboard outside advertises a cornucopia of different activities. There’s a Legs, Bums and Mums class, a Bitch ‘n’ Stitch knitting circle, a self-help group for victims of narcissism, and, every Sunday, a religion-free church ceremony.
‘This might help,’ I say out loud, crossing my fingers like a child wishing for a pony. ‘This might help, this might help, this might help.’
I push through the doors into an empty entrance hall that smells of cheesy feet and old sweat. School pegs adorn the wall, clogged with bags. I bung my stuff on one with a sticker of a smiling giraffe on it and listen to the chatter of the main hall through the glass door.
‘This might help,’ I whisper again before I make myself push through into the hall to the squeak of trainers.
‘Hello, are you here for the class?’ A woman clad all in canary-yellow Lycra beams at me. ‘You look new.’
I nod nervously.
‘Welcome! We’re just stretching, then we’ll start in a few minutes.’
There’re about twenty or so women clotted into groups around me, all with ponytails and in an array of limbering-up poses. Two dozen pendulum boxing-bags hang from the low ceiling, and two giant fans whirr at full pace in each corner. When I researched this class beforehand, it advertised itself as a female-only martial arts class. Only in the small print at the bottom, it read ‘this class is for survivors of trauma.’ As I look around me, I feel like there must be some kind of mistake. All the women here look confident and functioning and … trauma free. They’re laughing with their friends, or holding their calves back against their buttocks and remaining perfectly balanced as they do so. Most of them are smiling. I mean, the instructor is wearing all yellow. I find a space in the corner near the fan and pretend to stretch too. As I lunge forward I wonder if, from the outside, I also look as untraumatised as these women do.
Canary claps. ‘Right guys, are you ready? Find a punching bag.’
The women who all look like nothing bad ever happened to them disperse. I weave myself into the most inconspicuous spot at the back.
‘Right, we’re just going to start with a warm-up. One punch with your left arm, then two short jabs with your right. Punch, punch-punch, punch, punch-punch.’ She attacks her bag forcefully but gracefully in demonstration, her French plait swirling around her head. Then she walks to the front of the hall and presses her phone attached to some speakers. Little Mix blares across the polished wooden floor. ‘Let’s go!’ she calls over the music. ‘Punch, punch-punch.’
I feel silly as I throw my hands into the hefty mass of the swinging sack. It hardly moves. Everyone around me attacks theirs with much more vigour. Maybe I could try hitting it a bit harder? I pull my shoulder back, curl my fist tighter and heave my arm into it.
Oof. Oof-oof. The sack wobbles. Oof. Oof-oof. That feels quite good actually. I whack it harder, then harder still. No matter how much I hit it, the hanging sack can absorb it, like it’s ingesting all my pain. I start thrusting the full force of my weight into each swing. The noise it makes as my fist connects is weirdly pleasurable, like the feeling you get when you hear snooker balls clonk off each another.
Thwump thwump-thwump.
I like this. Can I go harder?
Little Mix sing about how they’ve got the power and how they make it shower. I don’t usually like pop music, but their voices ignite something in me, make me want to punch harder, fight harder.
‘Now we’re going to add some kicks in,’ the instructor chirps over the chorus. ‘Eight punches, followed by four kicks. Like this.’ She attacks her bag with her foot, arching her body sideways to land her shin into it sharply. I clumsily try to copy her, and it takes me a good few goes to get my balance right but, by the time Christina Aguilera’s ‘Fighter’ booms through the speakers, I’ve got the hang of it.
My leg sinks into it, thwack thwack. My arms are going for it too. It’s like I can’t attack the bag hard enough. I start to picture Ryan’s face and imagine my punches and kicks landing squarely. Fuck you, I think as I punch him again and again. Fuck you fuck you fuck you. I feel amazing. Powerful. I picture his nose breaking. Blood spurting out of it, like in a Tarantino movie, soaking that stupid blue T-shirt he always used to wear. ‘Stop,’ I picture him pleading, his arms up
to protect his stupid face. ‘Please.’ But I don’t stop. Why should I when he didn’t? I punch eight times and kick four. His face becomes pulp and yet I still keep attacking.
This is how it feels when someone doesn’t stop, I say to him. You don’t like it, do you? You don’t like it at all, you pathetic piece of shit.
He falls to the floor and I rain down more kicks, sweat flying off my body. The words from Christina Aguilera’s ‘Fighter’ fill my head and spur me on. She sings about how she won’t forget, and neither will I. I remember everything. That’s what makes it so intolerable sometimes. The complete inability to forget it. How relentlessly the memory haunts you. I lose sight of everyone around me. I forget to be embarrassed by my sweat, or the potency of my rage. I’m just lost in feeling like I am finally in charge for once. That I’m the one to be scared of. I am one who decides whether or not I’m going to stop. So many defensive men put their hands up whenever women dare talk about it. ‘Not all of us,’ they say. ‘Not all men,’ they say. ‘How dare you suggest,’ they say. ‘That’s actually quite offensive,’ they say.
I punch eight times, I kick four times.
Yes yes yes yes yes, I think. Poor diddums. Getting all upset. Not wanting to feel like baddies when they’re goodies. How unfair to all be lumped together. That must really hurt. I mean, it doesn’t hurt even the millionth of a fraction compared to being sexually violated, and yet we make the poor men’s feelings more important than the violated women’s.
My kicks get harder. I’m using every muscle in my body and it all already hurts but in the most brilliant way. Punch punch. Kick.
Imagine the blood.
God, I feel powerful.