Carrot
‘Why am I here?’ Gramps asks.
I don’t know why you’re here, Gramps. I don’t know why Linda is here either, but hey, here we are, without Josh, in my favourite bakery, Clapcake. (Unfortunate name, but they have the fluffiest cakes in Southwest London.)
Last night is a little bit of a blur. I remember slut dropping with Woody and then being put into a taxi by Frankie and Lace.
They were waving from the pavement, and I thought they looked like such a cute couple that I drew a love heart around them in the window condensation.
The taxi driver told me off for making his window mucky, and this made me cry.
Josh was awake in bed when I came stumbling in.
I remember asking him a few times if he was mad, and he kept saying no.
I wanted him to say yes. Yes, Amy, you should have told me where you were, I was so worried.
Why are you so drunk? You could get yourself into trouble .
. . Josh would never speak like this. If he’s mad, he’ll sulk.
Gramps tries the cake and then scrunches his face.
‘Eurgh! Tastes like washing-up liquid,’ he says loud enough for the baker to hear. Linda tries to shush him, but he carries on insulting each cake, yelling out across the bakery that Ellie’s cake is far better than this flavourless rubbish.
‘I think carrot,’ Linda says, taking another bite. She closes her eyes and swallows and then confirms. ‘Yes, carrot.’
‘Carrot is nice, but I’m going to go for vanilla,’ I say.
‘The orange one,’ Gramps shouts.
‘I like the vanilla one,’ I repeat. As much as I appreciate their support, their opinions are neither here nor there. It’s my wedding and I like the vanilla one.
‘Did you? I found it a little bland,’ Linda says.
She takes another mouthful of the vanilla.
‘Boring, isn’t it? Dad, what did you think of the vanilla?
’ Gramps has wandered away and is fingering all the bread on the shelf.
‘Dad, did you like the vanilla cake?’ Linda raises her voice across the customers.
‘What vanilla cake?’ he calls back.
‘Exactly. Forgettable,’ Linda says. I find this very unfair, considering Gramps’s condition.
I go for another try of the carrot cake.
It’s not bad. I just assumed I’d have vanilla at my wedding.
Carrot doesn’t seem classic enough. ‘Let’s get Joshy’s opinion.
Come here.’ Linda takes out her phone and puts him on a video call.
I stand close to Linda, and she puts her arm around me, and we wave to Josh down the phone.
‘How’s the wedding cake tasting going?’ Josh asks, as if he’s the big boss checking in on his workers. I open my mouth to explain, but Linda beats me to it.
‘You see, we’ve tried all the cakes,’ Linda yells, disturbing all the customers as they have their quiet Sunday coffee and cake.
‘Amy likes vanilla, but I like the carrot, and so does Gramps.’ Josh looks away.
I work out he’s on our sofa watching football.
That’s the real reason why he’s not here – football is on, this has nothing to do with diets.
Look, I’ve grown up in this country, I’m used to the Beautiful Game dominating my weekends.
But for GOD’S SAKE, it’s our wedding cake tasting.
‘Are you watching football?’ I ask.
Josh sits up. ‘Erm . . . I’m catching the end of the game.’
‘Right.’
‘Bloody football,’ Linda tuts, and then goes back to cakegate. ‘So, what do you think Josh, vanilla or carrot?’
‘Amy, what do you think?’ he asks.
‘Vanilla.’
‘Cool, so vanilla it is.’
‘Carrot is probably healthier,’ Linda sneaks in.
‘Erm,’ Josh says, as he glances at the match. ‘I suppose. And carrot will go with our orange theme, right, Amy?’
‘It’s rustic!’ I say a little too loudly.
‘So, carrot?’ Linda says.
Josh is distracted again, gripping his head with one hand.
‘Carrot, Josh, yeah?’ Linda pushes.
‘Yeah, carrot,’ Josh says quickly.
‘Josh?’ I say.
‘Oh, good, thanks, Joshy.’ Linda hangs up the phone, smug as a cat. ‘So, Josh thinks carrot.’
I feel I should carry on fighting for vanilla, considering I’m the bride, but I have lost my passion.
If Josh doesn’t care what our wedding cake should taste like, then why should I?
We also need to go before Gramps gets us permanently banned from Clapcake.
He has cornered the baker and is mansplaining how to make ‘proper’ cakes.
I wouldn’t know what to do without my weekly buttery flapjacks.
‘Yeah, carrot, why not?’ I say. Linda gives me a big hug.
‘I knew you would come round, pet.’
We leave with an order for one three-tier carrot cake with ‘semi-naked icing’.
I’m showing Linda where Debenhams is, and then I’m off home to die on the sofa.
We’re walking across Clapham Junction, and Linda is describing the wedding outfit she will wear.
A bright yellow dress with a wide yellow hat. Good, so she’s coming as the sun.
‘Oh, that reminds me, I need some magic tights to suck all this in.’ She taps her stomach a couple of times. ‘I don’t know where Josh gets all his discipline from. He must be so exhausting to live with.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s a miracle. The first time Linda is half insulting her son. She laughs and then says, ‘I would hate it if Jason, bless his heart, were the good-looking one out of us two. I mean, I’m not saying you’re not pretty, pet, but you know. You know.’
Yes, Linda, I do.
I drop them off at Debenhams, with Gramps as confused as ever. I walk home to burn off my anger and the teaspoons of cake. I don’t know why Linda’s comment has bothered me so much. She is only saying what I already know.
I am a six. Josh is a nine. You can’t drown in the Red Sea. The universe is growing every second. Josh is hotter than me. Fact. Fact. Fact. And this is not me spiralling in self-pity and insecurity, the world also backs me up.
We were in a restaurant in France earlier this year when the waiter came over to collect the plates.
I remember how he looked at me, then at Josh, and the surprised expression that followed.
‘You’ve managed to get him? You must be a good cook,’ he said.
We laughed about it at the time, so funny.
So, so funny. It ruined my holiday. And it’s not just the French waiter.
Our friends at Leeds University thought it.
Arabella and every other pupil at Clapham High says it.
I see baffled looks as we pass people on the streets. Now, his mum is joining in too.
Josh, though, always seemed oblivious to the gap between us.
That is, until he started listening to Joe Rogan and his gym obsession began.
The last time we had decent sex was the morning of his twenty-ninth birthday, nearly a year ago.
After that, Josh began to go to the gym religiously in the morning, so the only time we had was when we could be bothered in the evenings, which wasn’t very often.
Meanwhile, he was becoming more ripped, and I was staying my dumpy self.
I tried to seduce him on Valentine’s Day, but he told me he was too tired from the gym.
That hurt. How undesirable could I be that he doesn’t want me on the day of love?
We did it once or twice in the spring, and then he stopped being able to get hard, and it’s because he’s no longer oblivious to the fact that I’m a six and he’s a nine.
After my long walk back from Debenhams, I find Josh watching a documentary about wall climbing. I flop on my side of the sofa and curl up.
‘Lab Rat not good?’ he asks.
‘Lab Rat down.’ I curl up tighter and feel every roll in my stomach squish up. On the telly, a man is almost running up a vertical rock without a pea of fat on him. I sigh, feeling sad for my plump, hungover self.
‘What’s wrong?’ Josh asks and rubs my hair.
‘Nothing. Just feel rough.’
I am not going to tell him what his mum said. It won’t help. He’d either tell me that she didn’t mean it or, worse, suggest that I go to the gym with him, confirming that he now agrees with his mum, the waiter in France and the rest of the world.