Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

I put on a short maroon dress, my brown boots, and red lipstick. I drank half a bottle of prosecco and looked at my body from every angle. This is what being single and happy looks like , I said to my reflection. Ruth and I joined Sasha and their friends in Hackney. At the bar, we downed tequila shots and held our beers.

Come on, I said.

We danced, but really I was hunting. I scanned the checked shirts and white T-shirts: tall men with brown hair and short, stocky blonds. I moved suggestively and wished that he was here to watch me.

Ruth touched my waist. Toilet?

I waited outside the cubicle, and she asked how I was doing. I told her I was doing really well. I feel so free! She said that was because he was a narcissist. I told her that I could see it now. I really can. Paper was pulled and torn; then the toilet flushed. Ruth washed her hands, and I leaned against the hand dryer.

I think I was just swept up in how attractive he was?

God, what is it about these ordinary-looking men and gorgeous women. It’s the Judd Apatow effect, and I’m sick of it.

I’m not a gorgeous wom—

You are way hotter than he is!

You just didn’t like him, Ruth.

I moved so that Ruth could dry her hands. Straining over the noise, I ranted about things he did that I now realized were manipulative. But despite my words, there was a voice in my head countering: The first time we had sex and he ignored my doubts? He’s not a mind reader. That time that he took over the risotto? I hate cooking. The times that he gaslit me about Steph? I was paranoid.

Ruth shook water from her hands. I’m so happy to hear that, she said. It’s been killing me watching him do this to you.

We left the bathroom, and I asked if she thought that I should tell him it was over. She paused. Isn’t it already over? I shook my head and said that we were just on a break.

Don’t contact him, Laa.

Okay, but shouldn’t I tell him that I don’t want to be with him anymore?

Ruth stopped, and we leaned against the wall. The club was ahead, blue and moving. She said if I wanted to show him that it was over, silence was the only way to do that. Otherwise, you’re still giving him the power! She said that by focusing on him, I made him responsible for my happiness. You need to look at your role in this, Laa.

I felt the blood drain from my face. You think it’s my fault?

She held my face. No, not at all, not even slightly!

I asked her if she thought I should have been more laid-back. She said that he should have loved me unconditionally.

So, you don’t think I’m laid-back?

Enola, you are laid-back in many ways but—

Not in others?

You, Enola, are perfect! Don’t let his definition of a flaw be yours.

I asked what she meant about my role in the relationship. She said that, on more than one occasion, he had showed me who he was and I wanted him anyway. I mean, we’ve been talking about him forever and—

Okay, well, I’m sorry for talking too much.

That’s not what I meant!

Ruth put her hands over her face. For a second, I saw the same despair in her eyes as I used to see in his. She tried again: Okay, so this is a really simplistic example but, like, you know when you get upset about the coffee grounds spilling and it’s clearly about something else?

No. It’s always about the coffee grounds.

Fine, that’s a bad example.

Ruth said that she was worried I would get into this situation again if I didn’t figure out why I liked him to begin with. I reassured her that I would never get back together with him, but she was still frustrated. I didn’t mean him necessarily, Enola, I meant—Forget it, I’m not expressing myself well.

I put my arms around her and told her that I was sorry. She told me not to apologize. I said that she would never lose her mind over someone. She hummed. That’s not true—remember a few years ago, my obsession with that yoga instructor? I told her that people were supposed to became calmer toward their thirties but that I seemed to be regressing. She said that I wasn’t regressing, I was—

But the music was too loud to hear the last word.

At the bar, I ordered another tequila and a J?gerbomb. Ruth looked concerned, but we returned to the dance floor. Everything was fun until I caught sight of myself in the mirrored wall. My hair was flat, and my skin was pallid. There were black flecks under my eyes, and I could see the line from where my underwear cut into my waist. I was the ghost that appeared when a photo of a group of friends was developed—one of those images shared on social media with a message saying you would die in seven days if you didn’t pass it on. But Ruth looked beautiful. She hadn’t even wanted to come out tonight, but she was immaculate. There wasn’t a pore on her face, and she had the figure of an “after” picture. I noticed then the men gathering around her, dancing with their friends but keeping one eye on her, edging closer, willing her to look at them.

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

Ruth put her hand on my shoulder and asked if I was feeling okay. I told her that I needed some water. She said that she would get it, but when she left, I took myself home.

My phone pinged with messages.

Where did you go?

I’m with Sasha by the left speaker.

Are you okay??

I lied that I was in an Uber.

It was warm, and there was no breeze apart from the traffic. I put my headphones in and listened to music on shuffle. Being surrounded by songs made me feel like my pain was normal, beautiful even, until the opening chords of “Video Games” teleported me back to the beach. But I played the song over and over until, somewhere between Dalston and Shoreditch, it lost meaning.

After about fifteen minutes, I sensed someone following me.

I kept my headphones in but paused the music.

What would I do? Confront them? Run into the middle of the road? What would a feminist do? That was a stupid thought. A feminist would do what any woman would: try to survive.

I saw a broken bottle on the ground. I could plunge it into their neck? Argue self-defense? But she was wearing a very short dress. I worked up the courage to look behind me, but it was just another woman, jacket pulled up, phone gripped like a weapon.

W HEN I GOT HOME , I ran to the bathroom, crouched over the toilet, and vomited until alcohol stung my nose and throat. When there was nothing left inside me, I curled onto the tiles and sobbed. This is what single and happy looks like. God, I missed him. I missed him so much. I got my phone—ignoring the missed calls from Ruth—and rang him. It was one in the morning—he had to answer. If he didn’t answer, was he with someone else? I wanted to smack my head against the tiles. The phone rang and rang but, at last, his voice: Enola?

I need to see you.

Oh, honey…

Please, please . I just need to see you, okay?

He said my name as if he were a parent warning a child, but I pleaded desperately. Why not, though? Why can’t we see each other, just for tonight? I reminded him that we made the rules: That’s what you said—that we make the rules? I held my breath until he spoke. He told me that he had friends over for poker but would be finished in an hour.

I SHOWERED AND DRESSED again like it was the beginning of the night. As I walked to his flat, I knew that this relief was temporary, but I didn’t care, because in a few more steps it would be him.

Hey.

Hey, you.

His pupils were dilated, and there was a beer in his hand. He walked me into his bedroom, put his beer on the desk, and stood by the unmade bed. The sheets were the same. He said that this was breaking the rules. Definitely, I agreed, like they were my rules to break. I ran my fingers through his hair. He moaned to let me know that it felt good and the sadness left my body. But then he pushed my hand onto his crotch. Come on, then, is this what you wanted? Everything happened next as on a fairground ride: fast and unpredictable. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t keep up. His hand pushed up my skirt and pulled at my underwear. When he lifted his top, I could smell dried sweat. He hasn’t showered? The main lights were on, and the curtains were open. Nothing was cozy; nothing was safe. This was wrong. I was trading my body for the hope of his heart, and he was saying yes to a cup of tea that he didn’t really want because someone else was making it.

Quick and hard, he took several fistfuls of me until he shuddered into my neck. After he came and I didn’t even pretend to, he put his clothes back on, and, for some reason, I began to shiver. I asked if he could lend me a jumper.

Oh no, honey, you can’t stay…

Of course not, I didn’t mean that, I…

He waited for me to finish the sentence even though it was clear that I couldn’t. He reminded me that tonight was a one-time thing. We promised we would take space, remember? I told him that I was just cold, and he said that it was August. I said that he didn’t need to make me feel like I was insane, and he looked at me like I had something stuck in my teeth and he was the only one willing to point it out.

Enola, did it ever occur to you that if you feel insane there might be a reason?

Are you calling me insane?

He told me not to put words in his mouth and then opened his laptop and started writing as if I wasn’t there. I watched him and then gathered my clothes. I went for the bathroom, but he held out his arm. My flatmate is in there. Use these. He handed me a couple of sheets of paper torn from the skinny gray toilet roll on his desk. I held them awkwardly between my legs, then put them in the plastic bag over his door handle that he used as a bin.

I had wanted this so badly. His body. His hands. His smell. But what was it that I actually wanted? Because the sex was never good , was it? It was just a period of time where I had him. It was addictive. It was control. But he didn’t want me and he wasn’t even pretending to.

I got into my own bed after three. I kept the blinds and the windows open. The lights were stars, the traffic was lions, the footfall was wind rustling grass, and, as I closed my eyes, for the first time, I didn’t miss him.