Chapter 18
Now
Aoife and I are on the way to a KTPLT party – one of the few times Jackson has said it’s OK for us to come, a chance for me to network and meet commissioners who might need a writer. Jackson suggested inviting Aoife to keep me company in case the networking doesn’t happen. He knows how uncomfortable it makes me but he has to mingle and doesn’t want me to stand around on my own. There’s no way I could invite Aoife without inviting Bianca too. I’d invite Ronke too if she wasn’t getting ready to push a baby out. Jackson says, ‘So long as Bianca behaves herself.’ I mean, I can’t make promises but I do know that Aoife and Bianca are both people you can trust to leave in a room with anyone and they will make friends. Plus, these parties can sometimes be quite fun. Canapes and fancy cocktails.
I’m meant to not be drinking. I’ve done eighteen days. My longest stretch as an adult. But now I’m worried about telling Aoife and Bianca. I don’t want to dampen the night. I want them to drink freely, have a good time and enjoy the free drinks without worrying that I’m judging them – as if I would – or ask me why I’m not drinking. Maybe I can sip tonic water and pretend it’s got gin in it?
I’m overthinking it. They’re my friends – I’ll just see how the night goes; if I fancy one, I’ll drink, intuitively. I’ve proven to myself that I’m not reliant on alcohol and that I can quit anytime I want. It’s about cutting down, not cutting out completely.
‘When did East London get so desirable?’ I ask. It’s been a good while since I’ve ventured out of South London to go out out and to be honest, well, I’m shocked.
‘Remember how nobody wanted to come to ours in Brixton because it was so apparently dodgy? And now those same people are buying there,’ Aoife replies.
‘I wouldn’t even be able to afford a studio on Palace Road these days.’
‘Peckham’s next; everyone wants to live there.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
There’s a small queue of people wearing expensive clothes outside a tall brick building – some exclusive members’ club they keep hidden from the general public. A doorperson wearing black lipstick, a bullring nose piercing and dyed pink braids ticks off names on a clipboard.
Aoife looks down at her ASOS dress. ‘Everyone’s so cool around here. I’m so basic.’
‘You’re like a beautiful bag of ready salted crisps that when you open the bag, the flavour is actually something surprisingly twisted like Squirrel and Paprika,’ I joke.
‘Thanks.’ Aoife nods like that’s given her confidence.
We head inside. Polished concrete and rich-smelling candles. We take the lift to the fifth floor, checking our make-up in the mirrored panels.
It’s open-plan: trendy media people chit-chatting, a DJ playing cool music I’ve never heard before. The nerves kick in. I feel the need to be switched on, in work mode. A waiter offers us cocktails in crystal-cut glasses. ‘Picante?’
I haven’t had a picante in ages. They’re so good. And they look incredible. Really well made. I bet the tequila is posh. I’m sure expensive means a hangover is less likely. And they are free.
And just like that, willpower gone, I’m chinking glasses with Aoife.
She downs hers before slamming the glass back on the tray, none the wiser of my internal failure. We feel the gorgeous effects immediately as the tequila swims down to our knees.
‘God, I needed that,’ Aoife says, reaching for another.
‘Bianca said she’d be here by eight.’ I check my phone, pushing my hair behind my ear. I’m wearing cream silk pyjamas but with outdoor shoes instead of slippers. The pyjamas are covered in hand-drawn faces: happy, apprehensive, anxious. I thought it would look effortlessly cool and ‘arty’, but I just feel underdressed and frumpy. ‘Kooky’ and ‘bubbly’ – not in a good way.
I look about for Jackson. He’s so tall I can usually spot him anywhere. He’s standing by the bar, chatting to some stylish, sophisticated grown-up woman with a pixie cut. Jackson’s glass isn’t full of picante like ours. It looks like he’s nursing a bloody Diet Coke. He waves when he sees us, signals that he’ll be over in a minute. I can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy.
‘He’s so good,’ Aoife admires, ‘working the room.’
Why did I have to go and drink? I already regret it.
Behind glass doors is an outdoor roof-top pool. Steam evaporates off the water. The pool lights reflect a ripple effect, painting dragonfly wings into the night. Behind, the view is startling: skyscrapers lit up in red, silver and gold, like a futuristic Matrix scene. It all feels very movie star-ish.
‘So should we be talking to people?’ Aoife asks, like, please don’t make me talk to people.
‘I suppose I should be networking,’ I reply.
‘Do you know anyone here?’
‘A couple but’ – I smile at the few faces I roughly recognize from the office – ‘not gonna lie, I’d much rather chat to you all night.’
Aoife puts her arm around me and we head to the bar to get our next drink and pretend we’re looking for someone to talk to. Jackson will be over soon, I’m sure; he’ll introduce us to people.
‘OIOI!’ It’s Bianca, hoofing across the room, looking for (and like) trouble, in a red mini boob-tube dress that looks as though it’s been bought out the back of a lorry, Dalmatian-spot coat and shiny long snake-skin boots – none of these clothes I have ever seen before.
‘God help us,’ Aoife says.
‘Is she smashed?’ I ask, looking over at Jackson to see if he’s seen her swoop in like a mad bat. This wasn’t really the purpose of the night; a few drinks is fine but I don’t think we’re meant to get drunk. ‘Please no.’
Bianca kisses us, brightly, cheek-to-cheek with an exaggerated MWAH! She stinks of cigarettes and vodka.
‘Sorry I’m late. I went for some drinks with the team.’ She rolls her eyes at ‘team’. She loves having colleagues at the PR company she’s just started at. It’s good to see her happy. ‘I’ve passed my probation; they’re keeping me on! I’ve got a real job!’
‘Bianca!’ We hug her and scream; people look over at us and we apologize. ‘Bianca, that’s amazing!’ Seeing her so genuinely excited just makes us even prouder.
‘So,’ she says, ‘are we getting pissed then or what?’
‘Yes, we need to celebrate!’ Aoife claps her hands.
I know I’m at risk of getting in trouble with Jackson but Bianca’s got good news.
‘Don’t look so anxious, Ella – KTPLT wouldn’t have a party with free cocktails if they didn’t want people to drink and have a nice time, would they?’
But why do we always have to take it too far?
The next thing we know, Bianca’s requesting Black Eyed Peas’ ‘Pump It’ from the irritated DJ who has told her 900 times that they don’t take requests. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ I say with Jackson glaring over at me. ‘Sorry!’
Bianca’s sliding into people, boffing and barging, treading on toes, lighting up a cigarette indoors because she thought she saw someone else smoking (it was an E-cigarette). OH GOD, Bianca’s spilling red wine, ordering shoestring fries that are actually tempura courgette – ‘what are these?’ – she sniffs, throwing the greasy strings across the room and wearing the metal basket they came in like a beret.
‘Bianca, NO!’
People are staring, pointing, laughing, not impressed. Jackson is looking at me like what is going on?, and I mouth, ‘Sorry,’ and demonstrate that I’ll try and keep her under control, sobering myself very quickly. Next, she gatecrashes a very serious-looking conversation and I have to steal her back like a teenage tearaway, arms looped in her elbows like that game where you pretend to be someone’s real hands. ‘No need to call security; we’ll sober her up.’ I apologize to staff. To everyone.
We drag open the sliding doors to get fresh air and feed Bianca lemonade through a straw. People are definitely watching. Oh God. The swimming pool, ring-fenced off, glimmers. Bianca smacks her lips at the water how a warthog might a muddy puddle on a hot day. Kicking her boots off, she jumps up onto a sun lounger and performs East 17’s ‘Stay Another Day’ – the lyrics all wrong. Shhhhh! Bianca! Through the window I see Jackson, locked in conversation with the important-looking woman; what’s taking him so long? He’s using his hands to gesture, doubled over, holding his belly like he does when he finds a joke really funny. Like he used to with me. Pretending not to know us. He’s not even said hi properly. He reaches for a cocktail from a tray. The same drink she’s got. He wants to fit in, to impress her, to go with the flow, to make out he’s FUN.
He sips the drink and then he twiddles his ear.
Fiddling with his lobe like he does when he’s flirting.
‘Who’s that?’ Aoife asks, coming up for air from babysitting Bianca, hands on hips. But now Bianca’s unattended so of course she takes a running leap – has the nerve to pinch her nose – and, knees in arms, bombs right in the pool. And Bianca is not a small person. The splashback is a tidal wave, splattering the glass window of the party.
‘Bianca!’ I cry. Oh no, this is bad. I put my hands over my mouth, frozen, and gasp.
Oh GOD, getoutgetoutgetout, quick … BI-YANKA! I growl, hoping that will make a difference but it doesn’t. Bianca’s silly face pops up from the water, lapping over the edge into the grates, so proud of herself, make-up trickling down her face.
‘WOOHOO!’ She fist pumps the air. The delusion. A few strangers applaud her. ‘Why THANK YOU!’ she says with glee, not getting the sarcasm.
‘BIANCA!’ Aoife and I try to discipline her but she won’t be told. ‘Get out!’
‘NO! YOU GET IN! It’s so warm!’ She does a defiant breaststroke.
People from the party are looking now. Pointing. Security are on their way, no doubt.
Jackson pounds outside in his fresh overpriced trainers. He doesn’t want to admit he knows us but he knows not doing anything isn’t a great look either.
‘Ella, this isn’t cool; this is my work.’ He talks to me firmly, angrily, with his hand in a chopping action, like he’s teaching me to chop an imaginary cucumber.
‘I know, I’m sorry; she just jumped right in!’
‘Get her out, Ella!’
‘LOOK!’ shouts Bianca. ‘I’m a synchronized swimmer!’ Dips down, feet up, back up for air. ‘Do I look good?’
‘I’ll get her out!’ I pad towards the pool. This is so bad I can’t even look back at Jackson’s fuming face.
‘Please,’ Jackson orders. ‘I’ll try and find a towel.’
I remind myself of a desperate dog owner, pleading with their disobedient spaniel to PLEASE get out of the pond! But she’s enjoying winding me up with a ‘you can’t catch me!’ Meaning I have to kick my shoes off to chase her round the perimeter of the pool in my frigging silk ‘emotional’ pyjamas, shaking a fist like the wait ’til I get my hands on you mother of a misbehaving toddler. People are just laughing at me. We’re clowns, that’s why. I’m pretty sure even security are laughing. The cool people – like Pixie Cut – aren’t laughing though. The cool people are like ew.
‘OK, I’ll get out,’ Bianca says, surrendering, paddling to the edge where she puts her hands out for me to help her. THANK GOD. I can already see her dress has sucked itself to her body; she’s a goddess dripping from a fantasy lake, nipples pinging out like pegs to hang jackets. I don’t want to embarrass Bianca or make her feel bad; she’s celebrating. We hold hands and heave.
‘Can’t you use the ladder?’ I ask.
Aoife grabs her other hand to help; we both anchor ourselves. ‘Are you making yourself as heavy as possible, B?’
One, two, three,she’s dragged us both in. FUCK!
We plunge under. A tornado of bubbles. Underneath I see Aoife’s feet pedalling for dear life and I dread whatever will be waiting for me at the surface. All I know is it’s very, very bad. I want to never come up for air again – can’t I just live here? Underwater now, forever?
Returning with the towels, Jackson is not happy. ‘Ella, what the fuck? I ask you to get Bianca out and now you’re in too?’
By this point, Pixie Cut is enjoying staring me down; her spotless shoes are by my eyelashes, and I know I’m so badly in the wrong that I double down.
‘Why aren’t you ever fun?’ I shout. ‘I don’t even like parties like this but look, I squeeze out the joy! I make the most of it!’ I’m not having fun at all; I’m freezing, annoyed and feel guilty and terrible.
‘What are you on about?’ Jackson asks.
‘You’re always so boring. You never want to have fun with me or have a drink.’ STOP! My voice boomerangs the closed-in concrete and slate terrace.
‘You wonder why?’ he asks.
Bianca shouts, ‘OH, JUST BANG YOUR GIRL FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE, MAN, WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? FEED THE SOUL! ELLA NEEDS TO GET PUMMELLED!’
I blink, astounded. What the fuck did she just say?
‘TOO FAR!’ Aoife scolds.
‘Sorry but it needed to be said,’ Bianca says. I mean, it did, but not like this, not by her and definitely not now.
‘Thanks for that, Bianca.’ I haul my body up the ladder, the cream silk sticking to me like clingfilm, revealing my bright-pink bra underneath and high-waisted knickers.
Jackson clenches his jaw but says nothing. Just holds out his arm and helps us out one by one, wrapping a massive thick towel around the three of us like we’ve been rescued from a flood and he’s the rescuer, even though he did nothing except shame us. His – let’s be real, our – KTPLT colleagues look on.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
I wait for Jackson to say something like, Me too. But he doesn’t say anything at all, which is worse.
In the taxi home, Jackson and I are silent. I’m shivering for dear life, even with the waffle dressing gown and flimsy slippers that the members’ club gave us from the spa that KTPLT will be charged probably a hundred quid for, which I can’t even appreciate because I’m in the doghouse. Underneath I’m completely naked. My silk pyjamas and underwear, sodden, are in a carrier bag from the members’ club gift shop.
After brushing his teeth, Jackson goes straight to bed and turns off the light. I should wash the chlorine off me so it doesn’t itch but I don’t want to be any more of a nuisance. I’m not worthy of a shower. I just crawl in, next to him, where his back is turned, knowing I’ll wake up with stupid waffle squares imprinted all over my skin like an actual waffle.
‘Who was that woman you were chatting to all night?’
‘Which woman?’
‘The one you had a picante with?’
‘What the fuck is a picanate?’
‘Pixie Cut?’
‘You are literally speaking fairy at this point.’
‘Short hair.’
‘Zahra?’
That’s a cool name. ‘Who?’
‘KTPLT’s president? From the New York office.’
Ooo, whoop de fucking New York dooo.That’s mean.
‘Who often employs you, Ella?’
‘How am I meant to know that? I’ve never met her.’ Her name does sound familiar from email chains but she never writes back.
‘Are you joking me?’ he says. ‘You’re obviously still pissed.’
I’m not and he knows it but it’s an easy way of making me feel quite mad and shamed.
‘I wish I was!’
‘I’ve just secured a massive Christmas advert for us. She was saying, Well done, thank you.’ He’s diverting and distracting. ‘You could try it sometime?’
I roll my eyes at his cliché line. ‘All I do is support you!’
‘Do you call tonight support?’
‘I’m sorry – it wasn’t me. Bianca had good news from work – we got carried away.’
‘Yeah well.’ Is his entire unfinished sentence.
I know what Jackson’s flirting looks like. My chest starts to burn but I don’t think it’s jealousy; it’s more injustice. Now is not the time to say it but here I am saying it:
‘You were playing with your ear.’
‘Wow. What are you on about? I don’t play with my ear.’ He’s doing it now.
‘You’re doing it now!’
‘Because I’m seeing if it’s something I do. And it’s not. I can’t believe you and your dumb mates made it about yourselves. Such attention seekers.’
‘Don’t say dumb! It’s offensive.’
‘You’re such a child, Ella. Grow up!’
SILENCE. The darkness envelopes us.
‘I’m really sorry, Jackson.’
‘Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen.’
‘But if we do, it will just cause problems.’
‘There already are problems, clearly,’ he says.
‘So, we should talk?’ I say. SILENCE. ‘Jackson?’
Knowing I won’t be able to sleep if we leave it like this, he eventually says, ‘Go to sleep – love you.’
‘Love you too.’
And I hear this voice in the back of my head from nowhere say, I wish he’d just cheat on me. Then I could leave.
I understand there are lots of things in life that don’t feel nice. Standing on a plug. Being heartbroken. Stubbing your toe. But waking up to press Day Zero on the sober app after a clean run of almost three weeks is really fucking shit and hurts even more when you’re hungover. The whole screen goes black – just for a second – like I’ve died in a computer game – and then it offers me a motivational quote and the timer begins again. I click on the ‘community’ tab where I can see other Day Zero-er’s; Self-loathing. Pity. Shame. Did I somehow think I didn’t belong here?
But what hurts way more than hitting rock bottom, Day Zero, is letting somebody you love down.
I can’t take it back. I can’t parrot sorry at him all day. I can’t ‘treat’ him with food or presents or affection; no, I just have to own this one. And I have to change. I have to grow the fuck up.
I’m up early. I wasn’t properly sleeping anyway; my conscience wasn’t having that. I haul my body to the shower. I wash my dirty hair and brush my teeth. Then I change into my leggings, an old sports bra and a t-shirt that I don’t care about. I wrap my hair into a knot.
When he wakes up, understandably mad at me, I enter the bedroom with his coffee. ‘Thanks,’ he grumbles. He’s frowning into his phone, rubbing his chin in that way he does when he’s trying to solve a problem. The problem being me. He can’t even look at me in the eyes.
‘Are you going for a run today?’
‘I run every day.’
‘Can I come?’
He doesn’t reply.
‘Jackson?’
‘What, to shake off your guilt?’
‘No, so I can be with you, so that when we get home we’re on the same page, so we can talk about last night – and all the other things – and see if we can make it better.’
He folds his arms. ‘Ten K?’
‘Ha! Five!’ I blurt but read the room, love. ‘No, yes, yes, ten K sounds absolutely brilliant.’ OH GOD.
We run – my style more shuffle – down our street, which is OK because it’s on a slant, almost downhill; if anything I’m scared I’m going to trip on my laces and smash my face in. Past the row of shops and down the backroads where everyone else is probably just being cosy and watching TV – jealous. My knee aches and my ankle feels dull – probably shouldn’t put weight on it – arriving at the park gates. I was hoping that this would be The End because he knows this is the most I’ve run in a long time but oh no, it dawns on me that at the park there’s kind of nowhere to go except follow the track around in a huge endless circle and if you wanted to, or were mad, you could just run that track around and around until the end of time. Very quickly my face goes bright red. My chest hurts as the cold air hits my lungs and burns. I am breathless and have had enough.
Come on,he says. I can tell he’s hanging back for me. I cup my boobs to stop them bouncing. Gulp huge mouthfuls of air and exhale. There is snot. A lot. My nose won’t stop running. Why do I suddenly have a cold? I want to cough. Then my shoulders start playing up – I’m hunching them: I remember to drop them and now it’s my leggings, wrinkling up at the ankle. He says, Keep going, you’re doing great. Are we not even going to play some music? Korn or Rihanna or The Strokes? Is he not irritable? Does this not make him annoyed? Jackson’s so naturally light on his feet; he’s like an athlete, swinging in these long power strides, human and cave-person-like. But then I see people walking with coffee cups and we pass them at speed, leave them behind in the dust. We see a dog chase a squirrel. Kids on bikes. Leaves bustling. Emerald, jade, chestnut, radish red leaves. Parakeets. Geese. Conkers. Pigeons. The sky above us, expansive and swallowing. And our breaths, in out, in out. We find a rhythm. Without forcing it, we find a pace. We’re together. We don’t talk; we just run. And then I start to feel it: the simple pleasure, of my feet on the ground, of my own body motoring me along, fuelled by my own steam. I’m doing this! The challenge, the reward, the sweat begins to come in little trickles but it’s sweat all the same. I get all-over body vibrations, tingles, the stretch, the ache, the pain, endorphins and Vitamin D. My heart beating, flooding blood all around my body and at every point, when I promise myself I’ll stop at that bush, that lamppost, that tree, I don’t. I keep going.
When we reach the river, it’s Jackson who stops first. He invites me to admire the view. But I’m bent over, huffing and puffing, hands on thighs. I look up to see he’s breathless too. Hands on hips, face in an expression of I wouldn’t say enjoyment but endurance. We are reasonably far from home. I look out at the water and then I just release. I begin to cry.
Jackson wraps his arms around me.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I sniff.
‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘Life is … a lot. Neither of us can get it right all the time. We’re just learning. Doing our best. It’s OK.’
And we turn back and walk home.