Chapter Twenty-Five
It’s a rich person thing
Despite what I consider to be a less than successful evening, over the next couple of weeks I am invited back for more ‘cosy’ gaming sessions at Zoe’s.
They don’t get any more exciting than the first, but at least I don’t bother with a bag of booze again and/or question the fact that the living room looks like the ‘character collectables’ section of Toys ‘R’ Us.
Jamal (who I think lives in the flat too – it’s hard to work out) seems quite suspicious of me.
Kai is more friendly, although he does go on about self-care.
Maybe it’s a euphemism for masturbation?
That’s what men talked about a lot in the Nineties anyway.
Zoe has also started coming up to sit on the balcony with me for cups of tea after her lectures.
There are some upsides to this: I am drinking less alcohol, although I haven’t been getting hangovers much so I’m not sure that even matters.
And Zoe is really good company and interesting to talk to, so a good start when it comes to making new Gen Z friends.
I didn’t get the Behold The Banana job in the end – apparently, the ‘vibe was off’, which is exactly the kind of in-depth and constructive advice I was hoping for.
Say what you want about the drinking culture at Saatchi’s, I bet they gave better interview feedback than that.
I’ve asked the recruitment agency to keep me posted on any other advertising jobs that come up, and maybe once I’ve settled into being Gen Z a bit more and got the hang of the way things have changed, I’ll be better equipped.
In the meantime, I’m still making money from Yuvana, even if I’m quite bored.
And although I’m used to this – and not shy of a game or two of Clock Patience and a David Attenborough documentary to pass the time – some company is welcome.
Zoe isn’t just turning into my first proper friend in my new ‘existence’, she’s also useful for learning Gen Z slang and helping me dial down the ‘salty’ expressions, as Channing calls them.
Although the other day I did say, ‘What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.
’ Thankfully Zoe thought I was joking, or at least I think that’s what her expression meant.
She’s studying a post-graduate in ecology and society, or something like that, and seems more worried about the planet than me or indeed anyone I know, except maybe Josie and Laure, oh and Keith and Stephen.
And Simon, but he’s just so weird about everything it’s hard to tell what really bothers him.
I can see from his Facebook that his mushroom phase is now evolving into microdosing.
The other day he was talking about ‘harnessing the power of nature’s gifts’ and ‘exploring the limitless possibilities of the human mind’ – which all sounds like tech startup speak for tripping to me.
I replied to his email about Mother Pells and said I’d go and look at the retirement flat in Bristol with him, as it feels like an opportunity to reveal my new appearance while we are focusing on something else.
And with Alannah and the boys in a different time zone, this could be good timing.
For a change, he sounded quite pleased, and emailed me back saying he’d be in touch with a date.
He signed off saying something about how ‘you don’t find plant medicine – it finds you,’ which gives the unwelcome impression that plant medicine might be lurking behind a bush in a nearby park.
Anyway, when Zoe and I stick to subjects like the climate crisis rather than, say, Postman Pat, it feels like the conversation flows.
Even though it’s pretty bloody depressing, I can’t help but be impressed by how much Zoe cares about it.
The other day she told me to imagine dressing up as a frog for Halloween and then having to tell my children what a frog was and why they don’t exist anymore.
There’s a lot to think about here. Firstly, she doesn’t know I’m forty-eight in a few weeks and children – for many reasons, not just my age – are never going to happen.
Secondly, my fancy dress days are over after omelette-gate, but that’s another story I can’t really share.
And thirdly, I think in that situation I’d just say a frog was a mythical creature because I would never want to be that much of a party pooper.
Zoe has asked a few questions about me, but I think I’ve handled them fairly well.
The official statement is that I’m twenty-seven, work in social media marketing and I moved here from Wiltshire, so I don’t really know anyone.
I’m also hoping if I say I’m from Wiltshire she’ll assume some of my ‘unusual’ phrases are just how people speak in the West Country.
She’s from Sevenoaks so maybe Wiltshire sounds distant and exotic to her.
The other day she also told me that Kai thinks I’m ‘a snack’.
I buried my face in my cup of tea so I could a) not burst out laughing (I nearly choked) and b) work out what she meant.
My idea of a snack is Reblochon spread on paprika crostini.
I decided it was positive, however – like ‘dish’?
– otherwise why would she tell me? So, as I lowered my cup I decided the correct facial expression was ‘pleasantly surprised’.
Which I am, especially if it means the old (okay, brand new with tags on) Fuchsia Frenzy might be getting an airing sometime soon.
Finally, Nandy is coming to visit. I bought the scallop shell things again from the big M&S in her honour, and the first wine I’ve had all week.
I also got some tulips to put on the kitchen island, and hoovered with Devon’s insanely powerful Dyson.
It sucked up about three hair ties, but I suppose if I’m running short I could just get one from Zoe’s.
Nandy is meant to come at seven p.m. but arrives about half-past. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she says, marching down my – Devon’s – hall and into the living room.
‘My dad turned up for dinner thinking it was Tuesday, and then Maya appeared with three bags of laundry, the majority of which appears to be hand wash only… Middle-aged problems, amiright?’
‘I can’t remember what they are,’ I laugh and hug her, but catch an expression flash across her face that I don’t like.
A tight feeling rises in my chest. Maybe she hasn’t got used to this yet after all. I was hoping this evening would be the beginning of a positive new phase – one where Nandy was actually on my side. Which is what you want from your best friend, after all.
‘Nice pad. That’s a fucking monster of a monstera…’ She looks around the room.
‘It’s called “maximalism”, apparently.’
‘Oh really?’ She turns to the plant. ‘Hi Max.’
I laugh again, trying to keep it light, but there’s already an atmosphere descending that makes my hand shake as I pour us massive Picpouls in two of Devon’s extremely delicate wine glasses, which, incidentally, I’m amazed I haven’t smashed yet.
‘These look like the wine glasses of someone who doesn’t drink much wine.’ Nandy is wandering about the living room picking up things and stroking the furniture. ‘What does this Devon even do? And what does she look like?’
I notice her voice is so much flatter than usual.
‘No idea – and no idea. It’s a rich person thing. They just float about staying in each other’s houses. Which is handy for me at the moment, as I still haven’t told anyone back home about…’ I point to my face.
‘So you’re still going ahead with this?’ says Nandy, now installed on the sofa.
‘Going ahead with? What d’you mean? I’ve already done it – you can see that.’
‘I mean, is it permanent? This is what you look like now?’
‘Yes. I told you that.’
‘I know. I suppose I just thought you might have had a few weeks to think about it and come to your senses.’
‘Come to my senses?’ What the hell does she mean?
‘Yes, Erica, come to your senses. You’ve had a chance to see how it feels, but surely this isn’t what you really want, long term?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be? My god, Nandy, I thought you at least would understand.’
‘Why “me at least”? Do you see me as someone that doesn’t like herself? Someone who wants to change to the point where they’re unrecognisable?’
‘No, no… I just mean…’ I gulp my wine. I don’t really know what I mean, so I change tack. ‘I’ve nearly got as many followers as Cassia now.’
Nandy looks confused at the subject change, but I keep going, hearing myself talking faster and feeling sweat beading on my top lip.
‘She won’t be happy. She looked ridiculous doing that “healthy gut” reel the other day, did you see it?
I mean who the hell could say “I’m Stool Savvy” with a straight face?
I bet she got thousands for that though.
I’m hoping to be able to get some big sponsors too once I hit 200K. ’
‘I didn’t see it,’ says Nandy.
‘It was a load of shit. Literally.’ I laugh but it comes out quite manically. Nandy doesn’t laugh, but instead starts flicking through one of Devon’s coffee table books about Mykonos or latte art or something.
I top up our wines.
A bit later, scallop shells and bottle of Picpoul now empty, we sit in the deckchairs on the balcony smoking a joint, wrapped up in blankets like pensioners on a pier. London is twinkling all around us and car horns and sirens echo down below. After the wine, things feel slightly more relaxed.
‘Do you think Cassia knows it’s you?’ asks Nandy, licking non-existent mornay sauce out of a scallop shell.
‘Unless she thinks I’m a deep fake. But I hope so. I’m happy to flex a bit.’
‘To what?’
‘Flex. Show off.’
‘Right…’ I think Nandy is pulling a face behind the shell.
There’s a silence. It’s Nandy who breaks it though. ‘So did you say you’d made a friend in the building?’
‘Yes. Zoe. She’s nice.’ I’m pleased Nandy is taking an interest.
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s a student. At Goldsmiths.’
‘Same as Maya.’ Nandy raises her eyebrows. ‘Wonder if she knows her…’
I can tell it’s not really a question, so I just smile and pull my blanket tighter around me. ‘I’ll go and put our paella in the microwave in a minute,’ I say. ‘Sorry it’s not homecooked but it’s M&S. I got Raspberry Royales for pudding. They slap.’ I’ve heard Jamal say this and want to try it out.
Nandy looks incredulous at this. Perhaps she’s not keen on paella. Anyway, she doesn’t mention it and instead says: ‘Maybe you and Zoe can come round to ours for dinner sometime. We like having Maya’s friends over.’
For a second I smile at the invitation, then realise she’s being snide. I don’t say anything, but she keeps going. ‘The three of you can tell Ash and me about the latest trends and slang words. We like to hear what all the young people are up to. Helps to keep us on our toes.’
The tight feeling rises in my chest again, so I try to lighten things up. ‘Her friend Kai is into me, it seems.’
Nandy puts the scallop shell down. She seems to be taking quite a long time to reply. When she does, she has her eyes closed, which is a bit weird. ‘How old is he?’
‘I don’t know, same age as Zoe I guess, twenty-four?’
‘And, what, I’m confused… you’re interested in him?’ She’s opened her eyes now and is looking directly at mine.
‘Yes – I suppose I am.’ I smile and lean in. ‘He’s pretty hot. Although they don’t really say that these days, I’ve discovered.’
Nandy appears to be taking a deep breath for some reason, then talks really slowly and deliberately. ‘And… sorry… just to be clear… you’re planning to… what? Have sex with him?’
‘Hopefully!’ I relight the joint and then laugh, coughing out smoke. ‘You know, for the plot.’ Another Jamal expression.
‘For the plot?’
‘Yeah, you know, being adventurous.’
She does that weird incredulous look again. ‘He’s the same age as Rohan.’
I laugh again.
Nandy abruptly stands up. ‘I’m going to go, Erica. Feel free to get in touch when you have found your mind again. Because you appear to have totally fucking lost it.’
Then she marches through the living room, grabbing her bag from the sofa, and before I can even haul myself up off the deckchair, I hear the front door slam.
Later, I’m lying in bed, wondering why Nandy, Josie – and Gabe for that matter – can’t see I am just trying to be a better version of myself?
But they can’t, clearly. It’s actually quite upsetting.
I mean I didn’t expect them to throw me a bloody party, but I thought they’d at least try to understand.
But it feels more like I’m being punished.
And so maybe it’s time to move on and surround myself with people who do appreciate the new me.
Maybe it’s part of the change I so desperately wanted – want.
Maybe the problem isn’t mine. Maybe it’s theirs.
I mean, what do they know about how I felt anyway?
They’ve settled down, got married, had kids. Our lives aren’t remotely comparable.
I’m woozy from wine and weed but quickly check my emails on my phone before I crash out.
There’s another email from Gabe. I didn’t reply to his last one so I’m not sure why he’s in touch again.
Opening it, I see it’s just the contact details of his friend Maxine, the comedy producer, with a perfunctory note saying he’d forgotten to include them in his last email.
But I don’t exactly need to email her anymore, do I?
I’ve got it made doing this social media for Yuvana Labs.
But I’m not rude – so I reply, briefly, just saying thanks. Not really much else to say, is there?
While I’m online, I log into the WULT? Woman Insta account to see if I have any new likes or comments, and sure enough the pro-ageing brigade have clearly had a glass of sulphite-free rosé tonight.
What’s the latest? Oh, that apparently I ‘make the Kardashians look understated’.
I think you’ll find it’s ‘Kardashable’, I say to myself, suddenly and unexpectedly missing my mum.
Another one says that ‘this is what internalised misogyny looks like up close’, which I might need to pop into ChatGPT to decipher.
The last one I read before I throw my phone down on the bed says: ‘You’ve had more work done than my kitchen.
’ That doesn’t even make sense. JEEZ. It’s not like I’ve had a splashback put in.