Nudge 12 The Lie
The Lie
‘That’s too many notebooks.’
I bared my soul to the guy on that step and all he could say was, ‘That’s too many notebooks.’
What a strange way to turn an evening of what almost felt like bonding into foolish drunk ramblings to an impassive ear. The words have played on my mind since I woke up (the first time, and every time since) in all of their plain, dry, offensive and subtext-less glory.
‘That’s too many notebooks.’
He may as well have called me ugly and boring there and then.
My phone vibrates harshly against the glass of my bedside table, the sound grating violently against my deeply tender eardrum. I groan at the sound, rolling over and blocking my ear with my hands, but it’s no use. It keeps going, message after message.
It’s 11 a.m. . . . Are you dead?
The latest in a string of texts from Kimi. I turn the brightness down completely before even starting to reply.
Me: Worse. Hungover.
Kimi: Oooo, so the Lounge was good?
Me: It’s so blurry. But I think I danced on Aiden . . .
Kimi: ON?! FaceTime debrief. Now.
Me: No one is seeing my face today. Not even you.
‘Maddison?’ Mum calls from the bottom of the stairs.
It’s her chores call. Her ‘help me peel three tons of carrots for dinner’ call. Any other day I’d take it on the chin as part of my living-rent-free tax, but today it makes me want to be sick.
‘Maddison?!’ she yells louder, sounding slightly more irate.
I’m hit by the blinding light of the corridor the second I step out from the comforting darkness that was my cave of a room. Each step down the stairs is my own personal Everest, complete with the icy chill of my dad’s stinginess.
‘Can we please turn on the heating?’ I call into the distance and my voice comes out gruff and croaky, ringing between my ears.
‘It’s practically spring!’ my dad says from the comfort of the front-room sofa.
I moan. ‘It’s February.’
‘Exactly!’
I don’t know why I even bothered trying. The central heating is his third and favourite child, and no one touches it without his explicit permission. I’m met with a look of horror as I finally land at the foot of the staircase.
‘You look awful. Are you ill?’ Mum presses the back of her hand against my forehead.
‘No, just tired. And I drank quite a lot last night,’ I say.
‘I thought you were working?’ she asks, grabbing my wrist to check my pulse.
‘Yes, I was, and I’m fine.’ I snatch my wrist back. ‘Just need coffee. Or water. Or . . . bread, I don’t know.’
My parents were in full support of me living at home for as long as I saw fit.
‘Why rent when you could stay here and save to get on the property ladder?’ they would say.
I agreed wholeheartedly. It’s a massive privilege to have.
I did not, however, still see myself living here at almost thirty years of age.
But, to be fair, I also didn’t see the mortgage rates and rent prices climbing to where they are right now.
My parents do their best to make me feel better about the whole thing, insisting I have ‘full freedom as an adult’ and attempting to treat me as such.
But, at the end of the day, I will always be their child in this house and they can’t help but remind me of the fact.
‘Why did you drink so much?’ Mum follows me into the kitchen.
‘It was a cocktail tasting; I had no choice.’ I let out a small whimper as the fridge light smacks me across the face. She thinks I’m being dramatic; I could already tell by her tone, but her new eye-roll-and-sigh combo pretty much solidifies it.
She tuts. ‘Sit down.’ She pulls out a kitchen stool and takes my place in front of the refrigerator.
She grabs a few eggs, some peppers, red onions, milk, bacon and cheese, and gets to work at the counter immediately.
Within a matter of minutes an omelette mix is ready to go, butter sizzling in the pan in anticipation.
‘I was going to ask you to come shopping with me,’ she says as she tips the eggy mix into the pan. ‘But it looks like you need your rest, so I’ll have to either force your dad or go alone.’
‘I could go,’ I wince, folding under her gentle manipulation.
‘No, you couldn’t. You’re eating this and going back to bed. And put a jumper on – you’ll catch a cold.’
She presents me with a wooden tray. On it lies the omelette, a glass of water, a pack of painkillers and three plain cream crackers, all organised neatly in their own little sections.
The smell of egg wafts around the kitchen and under my nose, irritating the very little contents left in my stomach.
I don’t dare say anything – not after she’s gone and cooked it for me.
She’d kill me before the hangover gets its chance and I can assure you it’d be a far more gruesome death.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
‘For what?’
I don’t know why I’m apologising either, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I should probably be in trouble.
Being like this on a Saturday – or any day, for that matter – is so deeply unlike me.
And to be like this in front of my parents of all people is practically unheard of, even in my younger days.
‘Getting drunk?’ I say.
‘Honey, you’re an adult,’ she says plainly. ‘And frankly, it’s quite nice to see you actually out hitting the town.’
‘I go out.’
She chortles. It’s loud, fast and sharp. Far kinder than the ones from the office, but somehow hurts just the same. She catches my sunken eyes.
‘Aw, baby, I don’t mean anything by it. It’s just nice to see you relax, that’s all.’ Her voice is gentle, but it’s still not enough.
‘Mum . . . Do you think I’m boring?’
It’s been on my mind since Monday and it won’t leave no matter how much I try to shake it. Who better to ask? She’s known me literally all my life and she certainly won’t shy away from being honest.
She stops her tidying, turning back to face me with a look of shock and disgust on her face.
‘Of course I don’t think you’re boring. Why would I think you’re boring?’ she says, offended at the mere idea.
‘It’s fine. I was just wondering,’ I mutter, sweeping it back under the rug.
I can’t get into it with her. Not while she’s prepared to go full mama bear. She shuffles over and wraps me in her arms, my head resting against her stomach as she gently rubs the back of my head soothingly.
‘Did someone call you boring?’ she asks.
I snuggle into her closer as she squeezes me tighter, with the silent promise that she won’t let go.
I think back to Gus and to Pippa, to Aiden and my seven notebooks, to all the looks and the laughs and the eye rolls between them.
I run through conversations like scripts in the back of my head.
Predictable, responsible, too many notebooks, but never boring.
I came up with boring and stuck with it – kept pushing the agenda until there was no other word I could describe myself with.
Do I think I’m boring?
I sink further into her embrace, shut my eyes and try to shake off the last of my headache.
It’s no use. It stays with me, pounding violently against my skull all the way through to Monday morning.
I try to keep it easy, plugging my headphones in the second I get to my desk and slowly making my way through Evie’s latest batch of weekend emails over a cup of tea.
But Pippa won’t stand for it. Her voice cuts through my lo-fi playlist, bright and bitchy, twenty minutes into the workday.
‘Is there a reason your calendar’s blocked out today from ten a.m. till five p.m.?’
Of course there is, and she’d know that if she’d bothered reading the email I sent her last week when I blocked the day out.
‘Evie emailed – she needs me offsite today. I’ve swapped my Wednesday Summer Splash focus day for today to make up for it.’
‘Oh. Anywhere exciting?’
‘I don’t know. She’s kept it very hush hush.’
And I hope, for my head’s sake, that wherever I’m going is just as hushed.
‘Oh, yeah, how was Friday? What did you think of the Lounge?’ Gus asks.
‘It was fine; nothing to report,’ I reply.
I have no energy, or desire, to run through the antics of Friday’s misfortune with Pippa or Gus.
They don’t actually care and, honestly, the less it’s mentioned, the quicker I can forget about how I once again acted a fool in front of Aiden Edwards.
I reach for my earphones, pointedly sticking them in my ears yet again in the hopes that they’ll finally take the hint, but the man himself walks through the door before the Bluetooth even has time to reconnect.
Pippa’s face lights up the second Aiden appears, her hand flying to smooth her hair back quicker than I can inhale.
Even Gus smiles wider and looks brighter under Aiden’s ever-disinterested gaze.
Their behaviour is vapid and shallow, and far beneath them.
Or maybe it isn’t – frankly, they’re pretty low already.
‘Aiden! How’s it going mate?’ Gus asks, his voice deepening. ‘Heard you went to the La La Lounge Friday – bet it was sick.’
I have never heard Gus use the word ‘sick’ once in my four years here, or refer to anyone as ‘mate’. One glance at Aiden and I can tell he’s just as baffled at the faux familiarity as I am.
‘Yeah, it was good, thanks. Ended up being a pretty late one.’ He is so clearly uninterested in the conversation.
‘Oh, I bet it was!’ Pippa jeers before launching into a chorus of knowing giggles. ‘What time did Maddison head off?’
I can’t deal with this today. I’m sick of her giggles and hair flicks, and snide little comments about how predictable I am.
I can’t bear to listen and I certainly can’t bear to watch as they delight in how Aiden had to ferry me home.
I take a deep breath, squeeze my mouse and start desperately clicking through old emails in an attempt to appear like I couldn’t care less.
If I try hard enough, I can tune all three of them out while they revel in my lame too-many-notebooks-filled life.
‘Actually, she ended up outlasting me.’ I look up just in time to watch Pippa’s face fall at Aiden’s lie.
‘I couldn’t keep track of her, from the dance floor to the tabletops .
. . This girl is a menace once you get a few drinks in her.
But you guys should know that already, right?
With a party animal like her in your team, she must invite you out twenty-four-seven. ’
I would pay disgustingly large amounts of money to have Gus and Pippa’s current expressions immortalised.
The utter shock, confusion, and, dare I say, jealousy, has formed the kind of look worthy of preservation in the Louvre.
And I need it preserved, because at this moment in time I can’t enjoy it the way I so dearly want to.
I’m too busy frozen in my own state of shock and confusion.
What game is Aiden playing now?
‘We should head out,’ Aiden says blankly, turning to me. ‘Evie’s waiting outside – we don’t want to be late.’
I nod back tepidly, gathering my things and following him towards the lift. He doesn’t look back, so I don’t either. I leave Gus and Pippa behind. They’re probably still frozen, probably still dumbfounded. I get it; I know that I certainly am.