Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

Eight thirty-five. Virinder will be sitting on his white leather sofa, with a preprepared meal in the oven, ringing someone to tell him, just as Ruth told me, that he is lucky to be out of that abusive, toxic relationship.

A beeping from the kitchen: the washing is done.

I go to the machine. Wet, my THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE T-shirt is even more of a bad joke, but at least his aftershave is gone. I drape the items over the radiator and turn the thermostat up. I sit on the sofa and smell the flat as it warms: the dust on the metal. Ahead, on the bookshelf, Amy’s debut, The Dark Side of the Coin , stands in bright yellow. The reviewers called it “gripping.”

When we were working on my book, Diana asked questions like, Is this really what it is like? She helped me focus on telling a story as opposed to being a writer. She told me to save my first draft. The more you edit, the more you stray from your original intention , she said. It’s the same in relationships. We form a connection with someone at a writers’ event or in a hedge fund café, and over time that connection gets replaced by its memory, and so we edit and rewrite and delete in an effort to recapture what we felt. Maybe the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics is just different drafts of the same story. Virinder was just tonight’s mistake, that’s all.

C LOSE YOUR EYES AND hold out your hands.

In my palms, Ruth placed a black T-shirt with gold writing that read: THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE . She was wearing the same one in pink and silver.

We were meeting Sasha and their friends in Soho for Pride, but the plan was to walk there along the river and stop in different pubs on the way. We got ready at mine, drinking dark rum and putting glitter on our faces. Ruth did us both, because the last time I did her face, she told me that she looked like a child’s finger painting.

There, she said, finishing the last gold star on her blue cheekbones. What do you think? I told her that she was hot and politically relevant. Ruth said that she’d have to put that on her Tinder bio.

Didn’t Virinder want to come today?

Nah, it’s not really his thing.

Hates the gays?

Can’t stand ’em.

She asked how long we had been dating now. I told her since February. Nearly five months. Ruth’s eyes widened. That long? I smiled, thinking about how great things had been going.

It’s just so easy , Roo. He actually cares about my needs. And he’s such a grown-up! I told her that my favorite thing about staying over at Virinder’s was falling asleep to the sound of the dishwasher and waking to the sound of the coffee machine.

So, you like that he’s rich?

I like that he’s organized.

I asked Ruth if there was anyone that she was interested in at the moment, and she shrugged and rummaged inside her bum bag for her lipstick. She applied a matte pink to her own lips and then offered it to me. Can you? She held my chin, and I closed my eyes.

Okay, she said, blot. We turned to the wardrobe mirror. Her: leather skirt, pink T-shirt, hair in caramel braids. Me, jeans, black T-shirt, and a checked shirt. We had stood so many times posing like this, like we were still eight-year-olds saying cheese for a disposable camera.

Do I look too emo?

Ruth laughed. Was that not what you were going for?

I told her that I loved her hair like that. She said that she wasn’t sure. She had wanted the braids to be a cooler shade; it was too warm. Then she looked at her strawberry watch and said that we should leave. I turned her wrist. Roo, it says seven in the morning! She laughed, but then I looked at my phone and conceded that she was right. She put on her platforms, and I reminded her that I had plasters in my bag. She told me that going out with me was like going out with a girl guide. Then she summoned the lift while I checked the lights and the stove. Virinder did the same thing when he left his flat. Being with him made me feel normal. Better than normal: fun. Because he thought I was fun.

Outside, it was perfect June weather. Pale blue sky with cartoon clouds. I felt the same as I did last September when Ruth and I were floating in Hampstead ponds. Everything was fresh and exciting and light ; like how I used to feel at the beginning of a school year with my new pencil case and shiny shoes. Diana and I had agreed to have my book ready to submit to publishers in the autumn, and so weeks of editing lay ahead. But first, Ruth and I headed to Soho.

T HE NEXT DAY , I woke to the smell of toast. There was a pint of water by the bed with a Post-it that read DRINK ME and two painkillers with another that read EAT ME . I rolled off Ruth’s mattress and followed piles of clothes, like stepping stones from the night before, to the kitchen, where Ruth was sat on the stained counter. Sasha was at the stove. They still had glitter on their faces.

You’re awake! How do you feel?

Good!

Ruth said that she felt rough this morning but better now. She asked if I wanted to come to Catherine’s later. I told her that I was going to Virinder’s. She said he was texting a lot yesterday. I grinned. Yes, he does that.

Sasha grunted toward the French press. Ruth reached for a mug. I poured a cup. Ruth said the beans were from a new place in Hackney Wick. I jumped up next to her, and she leaned on my shoulder. She smelled like last night’s perfume and secondhand smoke.

All right, Sasha said. Bacon’s ready. Sorry, Enola, it’s vegan. Toast’s in the toaster. But there’s no butter because someone forgot to buy it.

Ruth looked to me and said that someone was grumpy because someone didn’t get any at Pride.

B EFORE HEADING TO V IRINDER ’ S , I stopped at mine for some clothes, but as soon as my keys hit the monstera tray, I heard: Don’t be silly. Six months and the flat was still a graveyard.

When I got to Primrose Hill, Virinder was wearing a white tank top and tracksuit bottoms. Sweat glistened on his skin. He asked if I wanted dinner. I said that I had just eaten breakfast, and he laughed. How was Pride? You and Ruth sounded pretty hammered.

It was fun and, no, it was more sugar than anything else.

Ruth is a bad influence!

He said that he had set my writing desk up for tomorrow. I reminded him that I didn’t have to work at his, but he said that he loved me being there. I told him that I didn’t want to take advantage. He moved toward me. Oh, I see. Using me for my flat, is that it? I told him that I couldn’t help it. Primrose Hill had the good pastries. Don’t you dare work anywhere else, he said. We kissed, and he tasted like peppermint.

Summer sun flooded the skylight, and a candle made everything smell like mimosa. I felt tired, but it was nice, like I had taken a sleeping tablet and my muscles were relaxing. The shower clicked on, and I had an idea. I stripped and opened the bathroom door. He turned like a startled animal. What are you doing? I climbed into the bath. He said that he wasn’t big on shower sex. That the function of a shower was to get clean. I told him that there could be another function, and he played along, but mostly he looked uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if this was something I actually wanted or something I would have done in my last relationship to prove that I was that girl. I went to climb out, but he held my waist. I didn’t say I wanted you to leave, Enola. Then he washed my hair for me.

Later we curled on the couch, and I dozed to the sound of him laughing at a show about scientists. He nudged me awake when it was bedtime—which, as always, was at ten thirty—and we went to bed. He slept, and my brain activated with thoughts of my book. When it moved to other things, I took two painkillers and waited for the harder edges to soften.