Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

I check my phone. There are no new messages, but a piece of glass splinters from the screen like a crystal of sugar. It’s nearly six o’clock. Time to get dressed. I lift my Mario Kart T-shirt and, glimpsing myself in the wardrobe mirror, recall once overhearing a man on a bus describe a woman as “one of those fat skinny girls.”

When I was fifteen and had just gone on the pill, my grandma told me that I was chubby, but that same week Catherine told me that I needed feeding. I’ve always been neither one thing nor the other. My hair is neither blond nor brown, my height neither tall nor short, my appearance neither attractive nor unattractive. And my writing? I couldn’t write before him, I couldn’t write with him, and yet somewhere in between those states, like Schrodinger’s cat, in the liminal, I started to write. Perhaps I’ve always existed in the space between spaces, the crack down the side of a radiator.

I open the wardrobe and avoid myself.

Jesus. How many clothes do you need, honey?

But my wardrobe is a diary; the clothes are words. On those dungarees is paint from when Ruth and I decorated my flat. In that sliver of sage is the feel of swimming pool tiles on my knees. By my feet, like a cairn, my THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE T-shirt smells like his aftershave.

I put on a white tank top, blue jeans, and a checked shirt, no bra or socks, nothing restrictive—Dad used to say that the sole purpose of a sock was to go in a shoe—then I lie back on the bed and continue our story like it’s a restored black-and-white film. It’s one that I’ve seen before, but because the Technicolor is new, I’m hoping that it will end differently.

A MY CLEARED HER THROAT . All right, loves, because this is my last session, I wanted to let you know how much your feedback has meant. You will all be cited in the acknowledgments. And I’m sorry to have to bow out for a bit, but with all the publicity for book one and now edits for book two… I know it’s cliché but debut year really is a whirlwind. Anyway—

She looked to me.

I raised my glass: To Amy!

All right, Mat said. Enola, you’re up.

The last time I’d brought my work to the group was nearly a year ago, and the reaction had been tepid. Amy said that she didn’t feel safe with my writing; she didn’t trust that I knew where the book was going. This story felt completely different to anything I had written before, but I was nervous. I remembered the expression on Chris’s face when his protagonist was called a cunt.

I swallowed, and Amy squeezed my knee. I’ve actually brought something new this week, I said. Chris muttered that at least I had brought something.

I had this idea for a YA book and—

A children’s book? Hugo asked, judgmentally tightening his ponytail.

Young adult, Amy corrected.

Clever move. It’s a growing market, said Chris.

As I read my chapter, I knew there were words to change and sentences to rearrange, but when I finished there was a hush. If Hugo liked something he hummed. If Chris was jealous he went quiet. Mat was always kind, but if Amy didn’t like it she spoke in a way that made you feel as bad as it did good: I just didn’t think it was worthy of you, hon.

Hugo hummed, and I exhaled.

At the bar, Amy told me that she loved my chapter. I waited for the sting, but there wasn’t one. Honestly, sweetheart, I just really loved it. It was so different from your usual stuff—

Sting.

My friend Diana, who is my agent’s assistant, is building her own list and I’ll mention you when I next email.

Gosh, Amy, that’s so nice, but you don’t need to do that!

Amy looked confused and cross. Diana’s looking for a book like yours. It’s not a favor , Enola. Then she stared like she was trying to understand me and told me to advocate for myself. I apologized and thanked her. That wasn’t so hard, was it? she asked. It had been, actually, but I wasn’t sure why.

Mat turned with a fresh pint. It had been nice to think about something other than him this evening, but they were friends and so his name was bound to come up. Mat said that he enjoyed my chapter, and I asked how his book was. Mat answered that he was rewriting it in the past tense. I sympathized and said that he was rewriting his in the present tense. He’s just gone back to his dad’s, actually, to work on it. We’ve just had a week in Kenya, so I think he just wanted a place without distractions, you know?

Mat looked confused and then slapped his forehead. I’m sorry. I forgot that you guys had met!

Mat doesn’t know we’re a couple?

The bartender asked what I wanted. I answered that I had changed my mind, but Amy ordered a white wine. As I moved to leave, she asked me if he had decided about the wedding yet. I said that I would ask him soon. I didn’t tell her that he had already said no, because I had been secretly hoping to change his mind.

Please hurry, Enola. I have other people I can invite.

Amy started telling Mat about her house extension. He threw small noises like grenades to show that he was listening, but it was making her lose her rhythm.

I went to the bathroom to collect my thoughts.

Him and Mat weren’t that close, but still, what if none of his friends had heard about me? He could vanish from my life with no one to explain my absence to. What if he already has? We had gone from waking up next to each other every day to me sending a video in the morning of an otter washing its face and hoping that he might reply ha before midnight. I hadn’t even told him about my new book yet. I wanted him to come back and for us to write together like we used to, this time with me actually writing.

I snapped the elastic band around my wrist. Everything would be okay. Tomorrow I was seeing Ruth, and the world would make sense again.

S ASHA , R UTH ’ S FLATMATE , WAS DJing in Dalston. Melodyless music thumped from black speakers, and groups of friends defended their dance circles like they were in bumper cars.

Air? mouthed Ruth.

On the terrace our voices emerged quietly as our ears adjusted. Ruth asked whether tonight was too full-on, and I told her it was better than moping at home with the post-holiday blues. She looked concerned. You’ve barely spoken about it, Laa. And you’re looking really skinny.

I’m really not.

You are. You’ve lost weight very quickly.

Ruth asked when he was back from Norwich. I tried to sound casual: It was meant to be a week, but it might be longer because he’s writing. Then I changed the subject, because I wasn’t ready to tell Ruth how bad things were. When is your job interview?

Monday, but I don’t want to talk about it.

There we were, two hiding places: her, the threat of a stable career; me, how empty London was now. The wind changed, and a couple’s cigarette smoke blew over. I looked to them: a slim, matching pair with bleached hair and torn leather. I wondered what their sex life was like.

Do you have gum? Ruth asked, palm on her chest.

Juicy Fruit.

Taking a piece, she screwed up her face and said: Great, now I taste like the nineties.

We leaned against the wall, bricks damp from rain, and as the dance floor left our bodies, the air grew colder. Ruth asked if my new book was going well. I said that it was, and I meant it. She shook my shoulders: That’s the spirit! I’m so excited about this. I’m so excited for you . I told her that it was scary, but that I was excited too. She told me that she was proud of me, and I moved closer into her warmth.

I wonder how his writing is going.

She asked if I was enjoying Sasha’s set. I answered that he was great. She corrected the pronoun. Sorry, they’re great, I said.

She told me that I didn’t have to lie. I know your music taste, Enola!

Is my music taste the reason he isn’t calling me back?

I asked Ruth what was wrong with my music taste, and she said there was nothing wrong with it. You just like songs with words. Don’t let him get in your head, Laa.

I’m not!

I wonder if his tan has faded.

I needed to stop thinking about him. I told Ruth that I might need another drink, and, catching something in my eye, she lifted a silver hip flask with a pagan symbol from her leather bum bag.

Is it…?

She nodded. Dark rum with an MDMA bomb. Do you want to?

Did I want to? I wasn’t working tomorrow and getting high might help me take my mind off him. Fuck it. I took the flask and drank. The rum was sweet, but there was that familiar chemical bitterness. Ruth took my hand and led me back inside.

Ruth came up first. Her eyes became wide and black, and her arms shot above her head. She told me that she loved me. I was so worried about you going to Kenya, you know?

I know.

And you barely messaged when you were there, so I was worried that you were having a bad time. Because I love you so much and you’re my best friend and you deserve to be happy and, like, if he makes you happy then I’m happy for you, you know?

I know.

But does he make you happy?

I drew back and looked at her face shining under the lights. Sasha played a remix of “Summertime Sadness,” and the beat rose in my chest. Ruth knew that something was wrong, but she would wait for me to come to her like a wounded animal.

Is there any left?

She grinned and handed me the flask. Come on, she said, voice sailing, and she moved my arms to the music. By the time the song changed, tingles were shooting up my limbs, but the high never came. Sasha joined us on the dance floor, and Ruth kissed them on the lips. Your set was great , she said. As we danced, someone touched my waist. A dark-haired man was smiling, shimmering pink on his cheekbones.

I signed to Ruth that I was going to the toilet.

The lock was broken, so I leaned against the door. Toilet paper was strewn on the dirty floor, and there was urine spattered on the seat. Someone was vomiting in the next-door cubicle. I called him again. I didn’t think that he would answer but he did.

Hey, honey.

His voice.

Hi, I said, sinking into the word like it was a pillow. He asked me if I was drunk in a tone that made me feel adorable. I told him that I was dancing with Ruth and teased that we were surrounded by men.

God, yeah, it must be a nightmare going out with Ruth.

And instantly I wasn’t adorable; I was plain and invisible. That was the real reason he was losing interest. He had looked at me under bright beach lighting. He had seen through me like an X-ray.

The door hit my back. One minute!

I asked how he was, and he said that he was fine. I asked him how writing was going, and he answered the same. I asked if his tan had faded, and he said it had. I asked when he was coming back, and he said that he wasn’t sure. He left small beats before each answer, and his cadence was a typewriter’s.

The door hit me again. One minute!

I asked if everything was okay, and he answered this question so quickly that the end was shaved off: What do you mean?

I swallowed, then swallowed again.

Between us?

He said that everything was fine and suggested that we talk tomorrow. I dug my nails into my fingertips. But will we talk tomorrow? He asked what that was supposed to mean, and I said that we had barely spoken. You would tell me if there was something wrong?

There was a pause. I wondered whether he had hung up, but then he said: Honey, I was at dinner when you called yesterday. And this morning I was out, and, look, I’m not going to list my activities for you. Go have a glass of water.

We hung up the phone. Or he did.

On the wall, graffiti from someone else’s bad night read: Bitch, he doesn’t want you.

I took the elastic band from my bag, put it around my wrist, and snapped it twice.

At the sinks, I washed my hands between two women. One, an ice blonde with laminated eyebrows, was telling her drunk friend that she was fighting her fiancé for a videographer. They’re, like, three thousand pounds but totally worth it, she chirped, eyebrows high.

He’s being a right dick, said the friend, swaying.

Here, look! A phone with a photo of a wedding dress was passed across me.

Sorry, she said, giggling.

No worries—nice dress, I said.

The dress looked like everyone else’s. Sort of a fishtail. Sort of white. Sort of beaded. Sort of lace. Vintage lace, she said in a way that made me think she didn’t know what the word meant.

Excuse me. I turned on the hand dryer. The water resisted blowing off my hands like it was trying to grip the skin. When the noise stopped, the woman was talking about how her “frenemy” Suze said it would be sexist to be given away.

Like, I get it, I’m not property, but at the same time I think feminism ruins things for women.

Her friend made a noise that didn’t satisfy her need for a response, so she grabbed my arm and said: Would your dad walk you down the aisle?

No, I said, but my dad’s dead.