Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

Roo, I don’t know what I was worried about. It’s all fine! Things are back to how they were at the beginning. Just dating and having fun and not worrying about the future.

Is that what you want?

To have fun? Of course!

Okay. I’m really pleased.

Ruth didn’t sound pleased. How many cups?

Two, I said. He’s being very different now. Ruth cut a knob of butter, then licked the knife. She asked me what had changed and I said that there had just been a shift. The stove clicked and settled. The smell of melting butter and cocoa permeated.

Did he explain why he was a dick?

I said that I overreacted to some of the situations in Kenya. I’ve been a bit intense about the relationship and it freaked him out.

Ruth paused. Intense?

I explained that he hated drama.

Ruth paused again. Drama?

I poured the melted butter into the bowl. Ruth, please stop repeating words.

Grabbing a wooden spoon, she said: But you’re not drama or intense —you’re you .

I know, I’m explaining it wrong.

Okay, Laa.

Ruth handed me the spoon and told me what was on the schedule for bad-movie night. Once a month we made cocktails and watched a movie just to make fun of it. Normally a romantic comedy. The more popular the better. It always resulted in us pressing pause repeatedly, in peals of laughter. Ruth was always steadfast in her sarcasm but I fought not to get drawn into the romance. It’s the soundtrack that always gets you , she would say.

Ruth scooped peanut butter into a measuring cup, and I used the spoon to scrape it into the mixing bowl. She hovered her head over it.

Don’t eat it yet, Roo.

I asked how her new job was, and she said that she was assigned a desk next to a man who claimed to have invented putting googly eyes above cats’ tails to make them look like elephants’ trunks. I asked her how long she expected to stay there, and she put a spoonful of the mixture into her mouth, tilted her head, and grinned.

We put handfuls of the batter onto a tray and slid it into the oven. As we washed our hands, Ruth asked if I wanted to come to bingo next weekend. Unless you’re doing something with him? I threw the dishcloth to her and said that I was only seeing him once a week.

Did I tell you that he’s working at a bar now? He’s struggling because he’s not worked in a bar since his twenties.

Ruth didn’t say anything, she just reached for the cocktail shaker.

Roo, I know you’re judging me but I’m really trying not to fuck this up.

She asked where the ice was.

Freezer.

Cointreau, vodka, cranberry juice?

Fridge.

Ruth began mixing cosmopolitans. Listen, she said over the sound of the ice, I’m genuinely happy that things are going well, but I wish that it wasn’t you doing all the trying. I don’t want you prioritizing his happiness over yours. Happiness is so precarious, you know?

Ruth was choosing each word carefully and handing them to me like they were glass, like they could shatter if she was too forceful. I told her that I was meeting Steph and Patrick on Monday. Ruth stopped shaking. Really? Well, that’s something.

It was something. Patrick would tell him that he approved of “this one,” and Steph and I would become friends, which he would pretend to hate but secretly love. Later, he would tell me that he loved me because his friends did.

I got the martini glasses, and Ruth poured. I sat on the sofa, and Ruth turned off the kitchen strip light. She joined me, and I handed her the remote but she didn’t take it. Change of plan, she said. We’re dancing.

Oh no, I really don’t feel like going out, Roo.

Who said we were going out?

Ruth connected her phone to my speaker and dragged the coffee table to one side. Come on, she said, holding out her arms.

In the holidays, we would do this when I was struggling. My grandparents never knew what to do, but Ruth would put on MTV. Catherine had a chest of clothes that belonged to her mother, and we would wear them, with hats and scarves from thrift shops.

Ruth, I really am okay.

I know. Dance with me anyway.

And so I took her hand, and we began to dance, movements that built with each song until we were kicking and flailing like garage tube men on a gusty day to a “Sounds of the Sixties” playlist. Fifteen minutes later, we collapsed, breathless and purged of all our fragile words. Ruth said that now it was time to watch the movies. Ready for a night of ironic fabulousness , she said in an undecipherable accent. I asked if it was fair to still call it ironic when we did it once a month.

Like how I used to say “lol” ironically and now I just say it?

I don’t even like cosmopolitans!

Ruth rested her legs over mine, picked up the remote, and said: Lol.

I SAW HIM WALK into the pub, but I looked up at the last minute to seem nonchalant. I was wearing a new “girl-next-door” polka dot tea dress, and my hair was in a fishtail plait. I was excited because it felt like forward momentum for the first time since the holiday. But then he said hello, and my excitement vanished. He didn’t kiss me; he just waved his hand in front of his chest and let Steph introduce herself as if I was someone he had met a party whose name he couldn’t remember.

Enola! I was starting to think that he had made you up!

Steph’s black hair was cut into a bob with a sharp fringe, her eyes were green, and her lips were red. Her nose was small and curved, and her eyes distinctively round. She was wearing a leather skirt and a bleached denim jacket like his, without the rip. Her shirt was a mesh material, and the black triangles of her bra were visible. She looked so cool .

They sat on one side of the table, and I sat on the other, like I was interviewing for a job. Steph tucked her hair behind her ear, and I counted six piercings: three flesh, three cartilage.

Where’s Patrick? I asked.

Pat couldn’t make it, he answered, avoiding eye contact.

Steph turned to me. So, you’re a writer? B swore he’d never date another writer!

B? Who the fuck is B?

His eyes darted around the pub as if he were looking for assistance. I replied that I was trying to be and asked what she did. I already knew, but it seemed like the right thing to ask.

She turned her head and dropped her mouth. Excuse me. Why haven’t you told your current girlfriend what your best friend does? She poked him in the ribs, and when he poked her back, his fingers grazed her bra.

Current girlfriend?

Steph reaffirmed that she was an actor. I asked her if that was fun, and she said that she loved the après-ski part. I said that I had never been skiing, and she clarified that she was just “in it for the drinks.”

Speaking of drinks. He turned to me and asked what I would like. I told him a white wine. He didn’t check with Steph. Presumably he already knew what she wanted.

I felt nervous being alone with her; something in the way she was looking at him? Or the way that he wasn’t looking at me? Her eyes stalked him to the bar, then narrowed on me like a follow spot. Enola, how is writing going for you? I know B finds it hard sometimes. But he’s such a fucking genius.

I agreed and answered that writing was going well, but, hearing myself describe my book, it sounded childish and silly. I remembered his words: Don’t let it take away from your actual writing. Did he think my book sounded childish and silly? Did Steph? She was making monosyllabic sounds to demonstrate that she was listening, but it didn’t feel like she was. I trailed off like a singer running out of breath, and she told me not to give up on my dreams because if she had given up then she wouldn’t be at the Donmar now.

Just say something, you idiot. Ask her what the Donmar is.

Before I could think of something to say, she asked why we had chosen Kenya for a holiday. When I told her that I used to live there, she looked surprised and said that “B” had never mentioned that. I explained that we were only there for four years because Dad worked for the foreign office. How exciting, she said. My uncle is in the House of Lords. Is your dad still in politics?

No, I replied. He died when I was nine.

Most people never knew what to say when I told them; it was like they thought the death of a parent might be contagious. But Steph asked me how he died. I wanted to tell her that it was none of her business, but I lied: Heart attack. Then, changing the subject, I told her that my mum used to be an actress. Steph’s round eyes expanded.

You’re kidding! Is she still working?

I told her that she stopped acting when we moved to Kenya, and Steph looked more offended at this than she had at the heart attack. She commented on how hard it must have been for my mum to give up her career. I lied again and said that she just wanted to be a mum, but instantly regretted it when Steph’s smile fell.

Well, if I decide to have children, I’d like to think that I could have both.

Absolutely! Do you want children?

Steph shrugged and looked to the bar like she was checking her watch. I quickly asked how they met, and Steph said that they met in Bristol when he was at university and she was at drama school. Her smile returned as she recounted what was clearly a favorite story: He was working in this pub we frequented when I was at the Old Vic. And even though we were a terrible couple, we stayed mates.

My body went rigid. They dated?

He returned, putting a Guinness and a whiskey chaser by Steph. Sorry, that took fucking ages. He said he ordered a platter. Steph slammed her hand on the table like a drunk pirate and said: We’ll have to get through it without Enola—she’ll just pick like a bird by the looks of her! Where did you get that dress, darl? It’s gorge .

They dated.

Enola, Steph asked you where your dress was from.

What?

Your. Dress.

Oh, M and S, I think.

Breathe. He must have had his reasons for not telling me.

The evening went on and left me behind. I ate too much of the platter because I was fed up of skinny people telling me that I was too skinny, while he and Steph howled about places I had never been invited to and people I had never met. All I could think was: Steph helped me with the cake ; I crashed with Steph ; Steph tells me I have crap taste in women .

I bet she fucking does.

When Steph went to the bathroom, he folded his arms and asked what was wrong. He reminded me that I had pushed for tonight. The least you could do is make an effort, Enola!

I told him that I was trying to but— I had a gulp of my wine.

But what?

But why didn’t you tell me about you and Steph?

The righteousness fell from his face. Glancing to the bathroom, he asked what she had said.

Just that you dated.

He curled his lips and said that he didn’t realize he needed my permission to date people in the past . Should I run all my ex-girlfriends by you? I lost my virginity to Pippa Macdonald. She lives in Boston now but I can find her online if you’d like?

I explained that I had felt ambushed. Why didn’t you tell me?

Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps because I knew you would react like this?

I was so angry that he would invite me to meet Steph without telling me their history—and now to make it my fault that I didn’t know? I recalled every moment in Kenya when he checked his phone and put it on the table with the screen facing down; how he smiled with his mouth but not his eyes, like he was trying to tell me that there was someone in his life who was a threat to me while, at the same time, getting ready to attack me when I felt insecure about it.

Steph returned, tucking her shirt into her leather skirt as if she didn’t have time to do it in the bathroom. She announced that she needed to stop spending money. But we could go back to mine, have a couple lines?

He said that he was keen but that I was working in the morning. Awesome, she said, and like she was concerned I might contradict him, lifted me into an immediate goodbye, silver rings digging into my arms. I hope we see you again soon, Enola!

I tried not to scream at her use of the collective pronoun.

He put on his jacket, and I willed him to return my gaze, but he wouldn’t. I wanted to finish the conversation, but Steph was on his arm. I said goodbye, and he mumbled that he would text me later. I tried to kiss his lips, but he gave me his cheek. Steph pretended not to notice, but she did, of course.

I GOT HOME AT midnight, drunk from three glasses of bad wine. The flat smelled like blocked drains, and as the light clicked on, dust was visible in the corners. There was always so much to do. I couldn’t remember the last time that I cleaned the oven.

How could the evening have gone so badly? My evaluation probably started the instant they left the pub. B, she’s sweet but she’s just not right for you. Or perhaps she just looked at him pointedly and he shook his head and said Steph, don’t start . Or maybe they didn’t mention me? Maybe they just restarted the night like I had never been there? Did I even care? That thought stopped me as I removed my left boot. Did I care? Because he should have told me that they used to date! Or should he have if there was nothing going on between them now? But if there was nothing going on between them now, then why was the evening so uncomfortable? Was that the real reason he didn’t want us to meet? Although I hadn’t met Patrick either, and they had never dated. Or had they? I still only had a handful of clues on my murder board, all of them fought for, nails bloody.

I slid down the wall and rang him. He didn’t answer, and so I rang again and again like I was picking a scab. The more obsessive he thought I was, the more obsessive I became. I pictured him turning the phone over, shooting a glance to Steph, having another line. God, she’s a little intense isn’t she, B? Fuck. I hated her. I hated her! But that wasn’t fair. It was me. I was the problem.

Fuck, why isn’t he calling me back?

I slammed my palm into the floor and, feeling a twinge in the base of my wrist, did it again, harder, until I clutched my hand to my chest. In the pain, I saw a girl crying until her nose bled over her suitcase. Screaming for her dad, screaming for her mum, screaming not to leave her home. I didn’t want to be that girl. I wanted to be a woman who didn’t wait by her phone at midnight with one boot on and one boot off, and who knew how to clean the oven. I wanted to thrive, to feel about my relationship the way that I felt about my book when I was alone with it, not childish and silly, but like anything was possible. But I was becoming smaller and smaller. All the choices, all the words, were his. Ruth was right: happiness was precarious. And I couldn’t keep giving him the keys to mine. I removed my other boot and put my phone inside so that I wouldn’t be tempted to use it.

I got into bed at one, but I was still resolved to wake up and write before my shift. Even through my white-wine emotions, I knew everything would be okay as long as I had my book. That was one story I had control over. I went to set my alarm but remembering that my phone was still in my boot, went back to the hall to retrieve it. I turned on the screen and burst into tears. A message sent fifteen minutes ago:

Sorry for being a dick tonight. Wish you were here. xx