2

Eve

The only guide I have about how to react when you've caught your boyfriend cheating on you comes from television, films, soap operas. In this moment, I am sure I am expected to sob uncontrollably without any consequence to my eye make-up, call an army of friends to come round, wrap me in a blanket and tell me I'll find love again and that he's not worth it, set to a montage of diva power pop.

This does not happen.

The forty-five minutes that follow are pure chaos, driven by full on mania, that starts with me marching to the bedroom, staring at my robe on the floor. Do you know how hard it is to find the perfect robe? One that provides warmth, coverage, that has pockets and an inbuilt sash. I can never wear this robe again. And I can't sleep on those sheets again, so I strip the bed. But then I notice something tied to the bedpost. Oh. I can't sleep in this actual bed ever again, so I obtain a power drill from under the sink and start to take the bed apart, bit by bit.

Standing there looking at piles of wooden posts and molehills of dirty sheets and clothes, I then tear at pictures, toss relationship memorabilia and all of Chris' belongings onto the floor. His clothes end up in a massive scrapheap. Everything from the socks with the holes to pants to work shirts to old hoodies that I occasionally wear because they're comfortable. Do I inhale a hoodie like some heartbroken saddo? I do. But then I feel anger. I feel the need to rip it up. Except I'm not a wolf with superhuman powers so instead I throw it out of the window which seems to be my big power move today. I throw it all out of the window, hoping for scenes on the streets where people steal the clothes and Chris is left naked, exposed forever.

As I scoop everything up, I then see a condom wrapper. But where is the condom? Shit.

I run to the bathroom to throw up. Squatting next to the loo, I look at the shower where I caught them doing the do. I spray bathroom cleaner everywhere, as if it can exorcise the memory of what I saw them doing in here. Do I spray too much so it's all I can smell and then throw up again? Yes, I do.

I head to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I down it and realise I need to eat. There is no food in the house. I orchestrated that much because I knew we were going to be out a lot over Christmas. I don't have the sanity or patience to cook something from frozen, so I head to the gifts below the tree again. A tree that sparkles, almost mocking me with its twinkle, looking all hopeful. Don't do that or I'll throw you out of the window, too. I rip open a wine and panettone gift set that was destined for Chris's aunt with the big hair and the doll obsession, and I claw at that Italian sweetbread with my hands and just eat it, downing stodgy clumps of it with Rioja at 9 a.m.

As heartbreak has no good sense or reason, I also do the very healthy thing of going on social media to track down any patterns of things going wrong. In the summer, they went for that team building exercise in York. Is that when it started? A few drinks at dinner, an invite to a hotel room, a habit they couldn't break? A month later she posted a meme about love on her Insta with winky faces. A dinner table laid out on a Saturday in October where she was waiting for company. I check my phone calendar. That was the weekend he told me he was on a lads' break playing golf in Essex. Balls and holes. I can see why he could have maybe got the two confused. After that weekend, he bought me flowers. He never buys me flowers. But then it gets too easy to replay every moment, doubt everything he ever said, wonder why and how I was such a fool.

I'm not sure what to do next. Next to me is a tin of shortbread that was destined for Chris's great aunt that I start to eat with wild abandon. I may need to get in more food before this wine kills me off. I dig through gifts thinking about what other treats I wrapped up. I bought his aunt a selection of jams. Can I just eat those with a spoon? My phone ringing switches my attention. I have to answer this.

‘Noel,' I whisper.

‘Evie, Eve, whatcha doing? It's Chrrrriiiiiistttmas!' my brother wails down the phone.

‘Are you drunk?' I ask him, hoping he's not as drunk as me.

‘I'm just excited. How was Bristol? How are you and Chris getting there tomorrow? You want to share a cab?'

I take a deep breath, trying to ensure my words don't shudder down the phone to hear his name. We were supposed to be going to Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow with my brother. ‘Yeah, about that… I don't think I can?'

‘WHAT? C'mon, sis, you're actually flaking on me, at Christmas?' he says, his tone changing.

‘I think I have flu. It's pretty bad.'

He pauses for a moment. I should have gone with another excuse. Like I don't have a heart anymore, it's in tiny pieces on my floor. That or diarrhoea.

‘Then pop some pills, I won't see you all Christmas otherwise…'

‘A little sympathy would be nice.'

‘I'm sorry for wanting to spend some time with my actual sister this Christmas.'

I pause for a moment. It's nice to hear I'm important to someone. But I can't tell him. Noel would rage for a start. He would not react well. He would choose violence. As much as I adore my brother, I don't know if I have the mental capacity. I also can't show up to a restaurant in trackies, my hair swept back from my face, sobbing about the state of my love life. I don't want to ruin Christmas. But if I see him, I can't not tell him. I will break to have to sit there in a French restaurant staring into my onion soup and the whirling abyss of my emotions. This is not a good idea.

‘I just can't. I'm so sorry. I'm really not well.'

‘Evie, seriously? You've got time to sleep it off. See how you feel tomorrow? At least just come for a drink? It doesn't have to be a late one.'

‘I don't know how to tell you this. I… I…'

‘You're a flake?'

‘Noel, don't be a dick.'

There's silence on the other end of the phone. He's angry. I can hear his eyes rolling from the other side of London.

‘You're my sister, my only sister. You are my person.'

I sob silently on the other end of the phone.

‘You're abandoning us at Christmas again to spend time with your boyfriend. I get it.'

But he's not my boyfriend anymore. Tell him. He's Noel, your Noel. But I can't. The shame, the sadness is too strong, and I don't want to share that with someone I love so dear.

‘I'm sorry…'

‘Fine. Both of you will at least show your faces on Christmas Day though, right?'

‘Noel.'

‘Eve!'

‘Noel, I can't…'

‘I can't do this. Just make sure you at least explain yourself to Dad.'

He hangs up and I take a massive glug of wine. God, that was awful. I never lie to Noel, ever. I do flake out on many a social occasion with him because he's the sort who doesn't plan. He'll send a quick text to say, ‘Hey, I have festival tickets? I'll pick you up in half an hour!' without even thinking he may have to bring a tent, some wellies and a change of underwear. I can't share this with him. I just can't. I can't share it with anyone because, unlike my boyfriend, I fear I may have empathy and when you're downing Christmas drinks and getting into the rhythm of the festive season, the last thing you want is some sad sack on your doorstep looking like a loveless orphan. Maybe I'll hide out here, tell him on Boxing Day. In the form of a meme and a YouTube link to a sad song – he'll get it because he's my twin and that's how we communicate, via the power of noughties rock ballads. I miss him now. I miss his reassuring hugs. I think back to the time I got dumped at university and he came to find me with a banoffee pie, a shopping bag full of alcohol and an offer to ‘find the douche who'd dumped his sister and sucker punch him.' I declined the offer. We drank all the alcohol.

I sit there blankly. Maybe I should call Noel back? But it's only then that something catches my eye on the coffee table nestled in a pile of paperwork: a printout for tickets. Ice skating at Somerset House, bookings for today, a 10 a.m. session followed by a champagne brunch in the oyster bar. A full-on Christmas date. Just not with his girlfriend because I was scheduled to come back here for 4 p.m. So a date that was going to be followed by him playing happy families with me, and a proposal? He was going to ask me to be his wife. Like, part time? When was that proposal going to happen? What was he going to do? Get on his knees? Like her? Or was the ice skating his parting gift? The blowies in the shower have been fun but I'm off for a life of domestic bliss now. I picture Chris and Allegra ice-skating. She's in one of those big fur Dr Zhivago hats, the snow falling lightly around them, and giant, glamorous trees twinkling in the background. They cling on to each other, skidding all over the place. He wipes a snowflake off her cheek. They kiss. I look at the booking confirmation. He's a liar and a cheat but not a very clever one. I scan the QR code on the booking. I cancel the booking. They have a twenty-four hour no refunds cancellation policy, am I sure? Yep, very sure.

And as I click the button to confirm, a tear curves down my cheek ever so slowly. Because cancelling a reservation is not a hugely gangsta move. But also, because in all that paperwork, I also see a receipt. ￡75. For an engagement ring he bought in early December. Lovely. I hope someone found that ring. Hopefully that old lady who wears the orange beanie and a thick tweed skirt and spends a lot of time walking between Lidl and the bus stop on our street. I hope she pawns it in and buys herself the biggest fucking turkey you've ever seen.

Why do we give each other rings? These small, metallic circles that are supposed to cement a relationship, that are supposed to be lifelong symbols of commitment. I'd have worn that ring. I'd have worn it with pride, with hope, and all of it would have meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have nothing. So, I cry, desperately wanting to hold back the tears but it's like someone's turned on a tap. Flashbacks flooding into view of moments, words, promises that really amounted to nothing. I'm just here, alone at Christmas. I don't even have a bed anymore because I dismantled that. And through my tears, in the corner of the room, I see a red velvet ring box from Caspar & Sons on the floor where I threw it. Solitaire, round cut, gold ring, low clarity. At least he went to my place of work to buy that ring. I glance down at the empty box. I need to get out of this flat. I need answers. I need to go there.

Joe

‘I'M GETTING MARRIED, BITCHES!' our future bride shouts at the top of her lungs across this crowded bar, at a volume usually reserved for people stuck at sea trying to flag down help.

The bride's name is Tiffany and I reckon she might be eighty percent alcohol at the moment. Whoever she is marrying will need both luck and carbs to sober her up ever again. A group of her friends squeal in reply, and they all gather in a collective twerk around Tiffany to Destiny's Child's Eight Days of Christmas so even though it borders on obscene, it is at least festive. A Christmas twerky, one could say. One of them twerks with such velocity that she actually loses a chicken fillet from her bra, so one half of her bosom looks slightly deflated. There is no way I can fix this situation, can I? I stare at the fillet on the floor as someone steps on it. Too late.

‘Do you want to see her ring?' one of her friends shrieks at me, staggering, slurring her words, her hand on my chest. Another friend cackles in reply at the euphemism. I'm fine with seeing neither but I smile because that's part of the job and the tips are what will keep me going today. ‘I'm sure it's a beautiful ring,' I reply and one of them falls off the velvet banquette she was sitting on. I offer her an arm so she can rejoin us at the table.

‘What's your name?' she asks me.

I never give my real name. I learned this the hard way when I was stalked online a year ago by a bride's mother who sent me unsolicited pictures of her breasts.

‘Douglas.'

‘Hi, Douglas, I'm Bianca,' she says flirtily, a penis straw in between her lips. The maid of honour (the bride's sister, who has already visited the bathroom five times since we've been here) has gone hard on the penis motif this evening: there are penis games, penis drinks accessories, the bride even had an inflatable one on her head before, like a hen unicorn, and people threw rings at it and cheered every time she caught one. Willy hoop-la. Bianca does not seem undeterred that I have a very unsexy, imaginary name. It was the name of one of my uncles who ate a lot of meat that came in tins. I think he died of gout.

‘Are you single, Douglas?' she says, uncrossing her legs and pushing her chest forward. Bianca is classically beautiful but there's a ferocity to her that scares me, and that's just in her eyebrows.

‘I am an elf, so we have a very strict non-dating policy in the North Pole. Santa doesn't allow it.'

Bianca cackles so hard, a bit of cocktail shoots out of her nose, not that she'd notice it. ‘Oooh, roleplay. Well, you're down south now, Douglas. I won't tell Santa if you want to be a bit naughty.'

‘But Santa will know,' I reply, diplomatically. ‘I like my job.'

‘Do you make toys?' another one of the hens asks.

‘I do.'

‘I have some toys I'd love to show you…' replies Bianca.

I try not to think about where that woman's toys have been. This is not my first hen do. If we're keeping a tally, then we're on about twenty-five. I have had women eat sushi off my naked body (someone tried to pick up my penis with chopsticks…), women have painted me in the nude, I've roleplayed all sorts from firemen to Vikings (which I don't mind as the fake fur keeps me warm at least). I went to a tennis hen do once and had to wear a sweatband and there were many jokes about the bounce of my balls. Is this a forever job? No. Just a little side career that keeps me afloat and pays the bills whilst I meander through my mid-twenties thinking about what I really should be doing with my life. For now, I am here for the cold hard cash, my dignity parked outside with my battered old Mini.

‘Shots, shots, shots, shots,' one of the hens starts to chant and they all join in. That's the problem with hen dos. If my dignity is outside, then so are their inhibitions. I reckon Bianca is a respectable primary school teacher in the day but here, with her tribe, she just wants to roar into the night, expressing an appetite for alcohol, and, well, penis. I get it. I have three older sisters so sometimes you do have to own the night, you need to gather your womenfolk, dance to absolutely any damn thing by Beyoncé all in the name of saying down with the patriarchy. They're still chanting about shots. That's my job. This is a bottomless brunch. I'd rather they got their money's worth with the food, but I think salad bars and sliders are the last thing on their minds. I grab at bottles of vodka and cranberry and put a boot to the table, refilling the sea of shot glasses, aware of someone's hand grabbing one of my butt cheeks. I think that's an aunt who was initially told that today was going to be a nice Mexican meal. Yes, Aunty Celeste – that's a different sort of burrito you're trying to grab. She told me something about her South Pole a while ago that may scar me forever.

‘Dance, dance, dance, dance!'

This is not usually part of my job description. You have to pay extra for the dancing and even then, it's not really dancing. These ladies have all seen Channing Tatum, and they expect full on thrusting gymnastics. We have a grinding expert at the agency called Julius who is known for his flexibility, even though I know that he bulks his pants out with socks. I look over at Tiffany who puts her hands together in a prayer position, possibly begging.

‘But it's Christmas!' one of them squeals.

That it is. I hope Aunty Celeste is carrying cash. I try to just think of the debt this will pay off, the gifts I can buy all my nieces and nephews. I can upgrade their chocolates to Lindt, actually put things in a savings account. I start to shimmy which is a pleasing advancement to proceedings for all of them as it also makes the bells on my shorts ring. I'll just shimmy and thrust then. Aunty Celeste puts a tenner in my arse crack. I should keep going.

‘Tiffany, get a picture next to his schlong!' Bianca screams, like it might be on view. It won't be on view because this isn't that sort of club and that sort of behaviour will get us thrown out. Tiffany bends over in a fit of giggles. ‘Like you're sucking him off!' I fake a smile, inwardly begging them not to simulate that sort of action, here, now. People are eating. Tiffany looks less keen as well, but Bianca reaches over and pushes her head towards me.

‘Bianca! Piss off!' she shrieks back at her. Looks like we're at that part of the brunch already. There's usually a fight at these things, usually over cliques, past beef, laced with jealousy, and the girls bare their nails at each other. I just didn't think it would happen so soon. Tiffany's head bounces off my thigh but as she pulls her head away, there's a scream that echoes through this place. I mean, I work on my thighs at the gym, but I hope they haven't given her concussion.

It's only then that I see it. A chunk of her hair, stuck in one of my bells.

‘Hold up, don't yank it!' I tell her, trying to detangle her, putting a hand to the top of her head as she panics, moving her head back and forth. Bianca is in hysterics and snaps away on her phone.

‘You stupid bitch… Stop taking photos!' Tiffany says, a perfectly manicured taupe nail pointing in her direction. Someone tries to stop Tiffany as another girl comes over, her face in my crotch trying to free her friend. ‘Has anyone got any scissors?'

I flinch for a moment at the thought of something that sharp down there.

‘How are these bells attached?' Tiffany squeals at me.

‘I don't know, I didn't sew them myself…' I reply, apologetically.

‘You call yourself family. You've always been jealous of Tiffany and now it shows…' Tiffany swings her head around and my crotch goes with her to hear Aunty Celeste having a pop.

‘Oh, shut up, Aunty Celeste. You're only here because we mixed up the invites. Dried up old?—'

Bianca doesn't get a chance to finish that because Aunty Celeste gets up and hits her with quite a sizeable handbag. Someone claps. Ouch. That will leave a mark. The table suddenly becomes a sea of arms and spittle and high-pitched insults, and I notice the tears forming in Tiffany's eyes as she crouches beside me, her hair still caught in my bells.

‘Come with me, there's a disabled toilet over there… Can you maybe shuffle over with me?' I ask her. She nods, in a strange crouching position and we sidestep over tentatively. A line of people waiting by a chocolate fountain clock me and burst into hysterics. I flip them the finger. As we enter the toilet, I close the door behind us.

‘I grew my hair out for the wedding,' she says, tears rolling down her cheeks, one of her fake lashes giving up on her and trying to leave her face. ‘Do you think we'll have to cut it?'

I look down, the throbbing music outside the door and sweat in my eyes not helping me or bringing any calm to this situation. ‘So I'm going to suggest something. I don't want you to think anything of it, but I think it'll be easier if I take the shorts off. I have underwear on underneath and then it'll be easier to see what I'm doing.'

Big, drunk eyes look up at me and she nods. I'm grateful at this moment for an elasticated waist, trying to be gentle as I step out of the shorts, which are left hanging there off her head of hair. And I am here. In my underwear. I reach over to the sink.

‘I'm just going to use some hand soap to try to loosen the hair and… Please don't cry…' I ease my fingers over where her hair is trapped, thinking back to a time we had to do this with my sister who had gum in her hair. I may have put the gum there. The shorts finally fall to the floor.

‘See, no cutting needed,' I say, relieved, hurriedly redressing, watching her run her fingers through her hair. She collapses to the floor and sits there, backed on to the door.

‘I'm so sorry. What a bloody disaster of a day.'

‘But we detangled you…'

‘I mean the drama out there. Bianca being a total lech…'

‘It's part of the job. I'm frankly a little more scared of your Aunty Celeste, she's a handsy one.'

She giggles through her tears and I pass her a bit of hand towel to blot her face.

‘Your name isn't Douglas, is it? The agency told my sister different.'

‘I'm Joe.'

‘Well, thank you, Joe. I am sorry.'

‘I've seen much worse.'

‘Really?'

‘I was on a party bus once and someone's maid of honour got so drunk, she tried to step off the bus while it was still moving. She broke both her legs.'

Tiffany guffaws, still crying, snot flying out of her face with some velocity. She wipes it off with the back of her hand.

‘I'm such a mess…'

‘It's allowed. It's your hen. What's your groom up to today?'

There is a sudden flicker in her eyes when I mention him, and she beams at me. It's a warming change of emotion.

‘He's having a weekend on a boat in Marbella. His name is Robbie.'

‘And when's the big day?'

‘Sixth of January, the twelfth day of Christmas. It's all themed. All the tables are named after a part of the song.'

I want to make a joke about maids a-milking without sounding coarse, but I do like how talk of Robbie and her impeding nuptials brings her happiness, calm.

‘He also chose you an excellent ring.' Tiffany looks at me strangely and I point to her hand. ‘May I?' She extends it for me, and I take it in mine. ‘Marquis cut, incredibly clear diamond, classy with the rose gold, too.'

‘You know rings?' she asks me.

‘I work part-time in a jewellers'. That is a ring from someone with impeccable taste but then look at you,' I tell her, despite the make-up falling off her face and her hair starting to foam where I put the hand soap. She beams at me and then reaches into her bra. Crikey, lady, I was just being nice. She pulls out one hundred quid in notes.

‘Here. You are really nice. Take this. Please go.'

I shake my head. ‘But you have me for another two hours,' I explain.

‘Mate, I'm going back to my hotel. I'll leave them to fight it out, but I am going to get a Nando's and go eat it in bed and pass out,' she says, still swaying slightly from the booze. I like how it's still the afternoon and this is the plan.

‘Can I call you an Uber?' I ask.

She grabs both my cheeks. ‘Sweet Joe. The politest bloody stripper I've ever met in my life. You're so lovely. You're very good looking, aren't you? You look like a young Zac Efron with better eyebrows.'

‘My mum tells me that, but she's biased.'

‘Your mum is so right. But I am relieving you of your duties,' she says, grabbing my chin with one hand and all at once, I like that she's not seeing this as a moment to have one final fling with singledom, that behind those drunken eyes is a girl ready to get married, whose heart belongs to another. I open the door but as I do, a man dressed all in black puts an arm around me.

‘Alright, Jingles?' he says menacingly. ‘This isn't that sort of establishment, mate. Out you go.'

Tiffany widens her eyes, slinking away before they can get to her. The group by the chocolate fountain cheer loudly. Oh, knob off.

‘This isn't what you think…' I explain, reaching over to the table where we were sitting, grabbing my bag.

‘Yeah, yeah… Were you taking turns to have a wee? Admiring the flooring? I've heard it all before…'

As I'm escorted out, I glance over and see that Tiffany and her hens are still mid-fight. Aunty Celeste radiates with rage, one is asleep under the table and Bianca is sobbing over a broken phone. Tiffany catches my eye and waves.

‘And she's getting married,' the bouncer says, shaking his head, casting his judgement a little too vehemently.

I shrug his arm off. ‘I'll walk myself out. Don't mind me.'

As I exit the venue, I get a couple of wolf-whistles from the line of people waiting to go in.

‘Alright, Dopey!'

Leave it. ‘Dopey was a dwarf, I am an elf,' I say, re-educating them.

I get out my phone. It's only 3 p.m. On the 3 rd December. I may as well go home. Time to find my car and maybe treat myself to a decent Deliveroo to see in the season. I remember I have money in my pants. That's the difference between a meal deal and Wahaca. But it's then that my phone starts to ring. I reach around to get it out of my bag, glancing at the screen, confused as I look at the name of the caller.

‘Mr Caspar?'

‘Oh my, Joe. I am so glad you answered,' he says, sounding surprised.

‘Is everything alright? I wasn't due in today.'

‘Could you get down to the shop though?'

‘Now? Why?'

‘Yes. It's just… Eve…'