Four
I’ve been staring anxiously at my phone all week, willing it to be a call from Ladditude . For the first time in a long while, I’m hoping it’s something other than an out-of-the-blue call from Chris. I’d consider that a major breakthrough if it wasn’t so driven by necessity: I’m overdrawn by ￡1,000. I know Ladditude won’t call, though. I just know it. After that farcical interview, I’ve about as much chance of getting that job as there is of Martin Scorsese directing a rom-com.
“Any news?” Adam wanders into the kitchen, looking hopeful. I shake my head.
I’d wanted to give him a hard time after the interview, but he looked so pleased with himself that I just didn’t have it in me to berate him.
“Stop staring at it. You need to go and do something. You’re focusing on it too much.” Adam has a strange, slightly spiritual look, and I wonder if he found the article I’d tried to sell to Zen Zumba a few months ago. I’m pretty sure a few of the early drafts ended up scrunched into balls and thrown behind the sofa. It turns out to be surprisingly difficult to write about the power of yoga when you’ve never so much as tried to touch your toes.
“You need to go get laid or something,” Adam continues, and I swiftly revise my opinion of him from ‘zen’ to ‘constipated’.
He’s right, though. About getting out in general, not about the sex. OK, maybe a bit about the sex. I think back to Chris. How well he knew my body, how he knew exactly how to touch me in ways that made me instantly melt. I could be having the worst day, and he would fold me into his arms, and it would all become instantly better. The security made the rejection-filled life of a writer that much more manageable, less sharp somehow. Even the ‘thanks but no thanks’ from Zen Zumba hurt that bit more.
I slam the door on my Chris reverie, grab my coat and wander out into the crisp autumnal day. I fully intend to go for a walk in the park and enjoy kicking up the blanket of burnt orange leaves – imagining myself lost in deep thought like a modern-day Annie Hall . Unfortunately, to get to the park, I have to wander down the high street, past so many enticing cafes full of warming cappuccino and fluffy pain au chocolat.
My willpower lasts about seven whole minutes, and then, almost of their own accord, I find my feet headed towards a little coffee shop. Before I know what I’m doing, I order a hot chocolate but manage to resist the blueberry muffin at a typical London price that could cover a decent evening meal in other parts of the country. My stomach grumbles at my resistance: Leaf kicking and deep thoughts are all well and good, but sadly, they’re never going to compete with overpriced sugar on a fake antique Chesterfield.
I may have managed to avoid the exercise, but the unwanted thoughts creep in regardless of location or activity. Memories of Chris swirl and eddy, and the more I resist them, the more they become all-consuming. I pick up my phone and open Instagram, desperate for that swipe-induced dopamine hit to eradicate my thoughts. Seeing a post by Overheard Bumble, the Insta account of the popular dating app, catapults my thoughts back to the heady days post-break-up when I attempted to bury my emotions by dating up a storm. An error.
There was the date with Frank, the, it turns out, hugely religious guy who spent the entire date telling me he could only marry a strict Catholic. This was not listed on his profile, and I am not a strict Catholic by even the most charitable of definitions. Then there was Peter, the man who wasted my evening sobbing into a pint about his ex, who he was still paying rent for, as well as the occasional electricity bill. Then there was Simon, who had a chip on his shoulder about his height, who, despite claiming to be 6’3”, was actually 5’6”, which would have been fine if he hadn’t been so resolutely furious about it. And then Doug, who was a bit of a know-it-all and thought he could do everything better than everyone – right down to leaning over the bar and pulling his own pint. Finally, the guy, Jonathan, who got the clock change thing wrong and turned up an hour early, only to go on a rant about women disrespecting men’s time when I wasn’t ready to leave – a rant which he didn’t take back when a laughing Adam pointed out that it was his fault.
Worst of all, though, were the dates when everything felt amazing and electric, and I would melt into a first kiss like I’ve kissed them a thousand times. The ones where I was instantly connected to them and comfortable with them. I would be giddy all the way home, knowing with an unfamiliar certainty that I’d get a “safely home? I had such a great night – can’t wait to see you again. x” text. The next morning, I’d wake up and look at my phone expectantly, knowing in my bones I’d have a sweet good morning message. But then boom. I was greeted only with the WhatsApp silhouette and no ‘last seen’ timestamp, meaning he’d blocked me, and I’m left to spend the rest of the week analysing with Bea over his clearly avoidant attachment style, his mother issues and his deep-seated fear of intimacy and commitment.
People say it’s an ocean of available men out there, but we all know there’s more plastic than fish in the sea at this point.
Feeling decidedly sorry for myself, I drain the rest of my hot chocolate and head home. Even the sugary warmth is not enough to exorcise the ghosts of bad dates past. I know this path of rumination only leads to bad things, but it’s just so hard. With Chris, everything felt so perfect – so right ; the chemistry was off the charts. I gave my heart and soul to that relationship, and it scares me. Even though I gave it my all, I still couldn’t make it work. No matter what I sacrificed for him, be it attending his friend’s birthday over mine when they fell on the same night or cancelling Bea, who was coming to stay because he had a big project at work, it just never seemed to be enough. He always seemed vaguely disappointed in me, like I was never quite living up to his expectations of perfection.
When I reach home and open the front door, Adam is practically jumping up and down with excitement. “Alex, Alex, Alex! Amazing news! About two minutes after you left, the house phone started ringing. I mean, I don’t think it’s ever rung before! At first, I thought it was the carbon monoxide alarm. I started opening windows and everything.”
I roll my eyes. Adam’s sense of drama can grate on a difficult day. “Is that the news? You’ve worked out that we have a house phone? And I’m the one who needs to get out more.”
Adam continues, unfazed: “But then I followed the sound into the living room, and there it was, on that little table behind the armchair. This dusty old house phone! At first, I thought it might just be your parents or my parents because who even uses a house phone below the age of seventy? And then I thought it’s probably just one of those dodgy scams…”
“Did your thoughts stretch at any point to picking up the phone?”
“They did. And it was them! It was Ladditude ! They want me to start on Monday! I said I could. They said they loved my writing style and enjoyed how candid I was when it came to discussing sex and eroticism, and an open-minded, experimental, non-judgemental person is exactly what they want.”
I gasp audibly. I never thought people do that outside the movies. But today, I manage it.
“I got the job!” I shriek.
“Well, we got the job!” Adam says. “They liked my eroticness! Maybe I could be a writer…”
“Writer? Adam Hunter, you have never so much as sent a single cogent or coherent text message in your life. I can’t see you making it as a writer.”
“Hmm. You said good writing is about communication, not grammar.”
Great, now he remembers what I told him.
“Nah. Don’t worry. It’s your gig. But if you become famous, you better remember me generously. I’ve already been out to get us a celebratory bottle of Tesco’s Finest sparkling wine.”
An hour and a half a bottle of cheap sparkling wine later, I’ve composed my thank you speech for when I win the Best Agony Uncle of the Year award. Obviously, Adam hasn’t found out any pertinent details from Ladditude , so once again, in my go-to pyjamas, I draft an enthusiastic email to Stephen Lippman, clarifying the salary details and the submission process. I also mention that I frequently travel so meetings are easier by phone. He replies swiftly (it is only 4pm), reassuring me that they don’t mind being flexible as long as I get the work done, and as the Agony Uncle role is so self-contained, there’s no expectation of my joining editorial meetings. Thank. God. I send an effusively grateful response and return to contemplating my new gig. Then, as if on cue to sap my joy, in pings an email from my appropriately cold-blooded managing editor at Reptiles Monthly .
Alex,
Your deadline was an hour ago. I expect to see the feature on the Sand Skink in thirty minutes.
Flora.
Damn. Back to reality. I get to work on finalising my compelling prose on the eating habits of the Sand Skink. It’s kind of interesting, to be fair, if not something you’d want to read about while eating.
I’m polishing off the article when Ladditude sends over the first batch of correspondence they’ve received since advertising their new column in case I want to get a head start for Monday. Amongst the bodybuilding, erectile dysfunction, and fears of baldness, one email stands out:
I am 10 years old, and I’m kind of hating school. Since I was very small, I have always been bullied, but in the last few months, it’s got a lot worse. My voice broke before anyone else’s, and I didn’t want to go to school at all, but my dad told me that it was a sign of being a man and that everyone would think I was really cool. They didn’t, and the teasing is getting worse all the time. I saw Ladditude ’s post about writing in with problems and stuff, so I thought I’d give it a bash. I really hate school – and nobody really understands. They say to just ignore the bullies, but that doesn’t really work. If you ignore them, they hit you just the same.
Thank you,
Troubled.
I frown as I read Troubled’s letter. Maybe I’m in over my head. I have no experience with voices breaking or anything that boys go through in puberty. I was sort of hoping to be advising from a (secret) female perspective on guys’ various idiotic actions when it came to dating women. I decide to come back to Troubled’s letter after I do some research. I move on to another.
Dear Alex,
I’ve been with my girlfriend for two years, and I really love her. The problem is her “best friend.” It’s a guy. I’m sure the problem could be my jealousy, as my girlfriend maintains, but I can’t help feeling a little worried every time they’re alone together. I’m really trying not to be that jealous, paranoid guy, but I feel like he deliberately provokes me. He flirts with her in front of me and tells her she looks beautiful all the time, and he knows her so well that even though she tries to hide it, I can tell he nails her birthday and Christmas gifts better than me. I just don’t know what to do. Every time I bring it up, we argue, and I know if I were to give an ultimatum (yes, I know that’s a terrible idea…), she would choose him anyway. I trust her completely … just not him.
Help! I don’t want to lose her, but I can’t put up with this forever.
Second in Love
Oh good, one I can answer.
Dear Second in Love,
That sounds tough. However, I think women have had to put up with their boyfriends having female friends and ex-girlfriends (and mistresses!) around for centuries, so I’m sure you can learn to trust and accept your girlfriend’s version at face value. If you don’t have trust, what is there? You say you trust her, but it takes two to tango, so there must be a small part of you that doesn’t trust her if you’re entertaining such thoughts. You don’t own her. Come to terms with your jealousy, or move on.
Alex
I sit back, proud and a little drained from my masterful first response. Who knew dispensing wisdom could be so cathartic? I re-read my advice. Yes, it’s good. I’m doing this girl a huge favour. I take a sip of tea and am just about to get to the next letter when Adam wanders in.
He sits down opposite me and stares at me, his slightly over-tanned features radiating smugness. “I’ve saved you,” he announces, “yet again!”
“Saved me?” I ask. “From?”
“This time – from your impending spinsterhood.”
I glance at him coldly, much like a western bush viper might consider a mouse. What has he done now? I suppress the absurd hope that, by some miracle, he has persuaded Chris to get in touch with me again.
“I’ve set you up on a date with Malcolm,” he continues, with an expression of accomplishment that I find baffling.
“I don’t want to go on a date with Malcolm,” I mutter through gritted teeth. Adam’s friend Malcolm is a complete troglodyte… he’s the type of man that sends sane women running at speed for the nearest convent. Surely the last time he had a girlfriend was an after-school playdate? When Adam invited him here, he spent the evening drunkenly leering at me (despite my ardour-killing pyjamas). There is no way I’m going. None. I’d rather live on an island with only a palm tree aggressively dropping coconuts on me and an angry pelican for company.
Oblivious to my internal monologue, Adam continues, “You do. He’s a nice guy who was just a bit drunk that time he came around. He’s doing really well. He owns a two-bed flat in Battersea!”
I try to picture Adam in a Jane Austen-esque Mrs Bennet’s bonnet.
“Look, he’s around in Clapham later anyway, so he can pick you up at eight tonight. Remember, you promised your mum you would be more open-minded about dates. I’d hate to have to Facebook her with the truth…”
“ADAM!” I explode. “That is completely uncool of you.” He looks unmoved, so I try a different tack. “I can’t anyway. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I have to get my first advice section sorted for Ladditude .”
That catches his interest, and he strolls over to me and stands behind me, looking over my shoulder at the screen.
“Alex, you haven’t sent that yet, have you?” He’s reading my letter to Second in Love .
“Not yet, but it’s good, isn’t it?” I answer proudly.
“Good? It’s horrific. No guy would write that to another guy who came to him in confidence asking for help!” He looks shocked enough for me to wonder if I should take him seriously. He ushers me out of my seat and starts pounding away at my keyboard.
“There!” he announces with a flourish. “Much better.”
I reclaim my seat and read, correcting the proliferation of typos:
Dear Second in Love,
I totally get how you must be feeling right now, and I’m sorry. That really sucks. Without knowing your girlfriend, it’s hard to advise, but all I can say is that in my experience, honesty is the best policy, and communication is key. I think it’s best to be truthful with her about your feelings. Explain that you love her and that you’re feeling a bit threatened by this friendship, and ask if there are some compromises you can come up with. You could suggest you get to know him more so you feel less threatened, or you could do some double dating. If she doesn’t meet you halfway, I’d genuinely reconsider the relationship, as it sounds like this is getting you down.
Yours,
Alex
“Wow!” I say, impressed. “That’s actually pretty good. Why don’t you treat relationships like that in real life?”
“Oh, I know what I’m supposed to do,” Adam says. “It’s just that women like a project they can fix. I’m happy to be that for them. Public service and all that jazz.”
He continues, apparently immune to my ice dagger glare, “Speaking of projects… Malcolm. You should get changed. I know he’s slightly batting above with you, but you should at least shower.”
“Not. Going.” I stand my ground, but Adam looks undeterred, pulling out his phone. “Are you texting Malcolm to tell him I can’t make it?”
“Nope! Facebooked your mum. Told her she could stop fretting about your committed singleness. She’s really pleased.”
Ten minutes later, my phone pings. “That’ll be her,” Adam said, smiling.
I look down at my phone. Dammit. Text from Mum, despite her loathing of 21st-century technology: “Alex. Adam.told.me.about.your.date!Your.father.and.I.are.over. the.moon!So.good.to.get.back.on.that.bicycle.again.after.Chris.Remember.your.hair.dear.A.quick.comb.never.hurt.anyone.and.also.be.careful.to.meet.publicly.in.case.he.is.a.sociopath.”
I groan. Dammit. Also, interesting that advice about sociopaths is secondary to hair combing. I glare at Adam. Sometimes I hate him. Hate him.
“So!” he smiles brightly. “What are you going to wear?”