Chapter 20
My first foray out of the flat was not a success, but that was Felix’s fault.
I should drag myself to campus and not miss any more lectures.
I can’t miss a whole week. Monday to Thursday is one thing, but missing Friday as well feels like a step too far.
So I step into this cute vintage dress with a pussy-bow at the neck, throw on my favourite coat with the big faux-fur collar and pull on my boots.
All I can do is try. Showing up is the first hurdle.
I rummage around in my trinket dish for my balloon-letter ‘M’ necklace.
I like having it as a little protective charm.
And I wasn’t wearing it when I went to Felix’s yesterday and he was a dick, so maybe things will go better if I wear it today.
As soon as I pull it out, I can see it’s all caught on itself, knots formed along the chain from being moved around in the dish.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t undo them, and I have places to be.
This is not a good omen for the day ahead.
As soon as I make it onto campus, I realise we have a problem.
My sense of safety and comfort has evaporated.
As I tap my card in the café to pay, I make eye contact with the barista and wonder, Did you spike my drink?
When I walk into the library, the guy ahead of me holds the door open and smiles at me as I pass through, and I wonder, Did you spike my drink?
In my Considerations of Curation lecture I look around at the few guys on my course and think, Did you spike my fucking drink?
It makes me wonder how I’m meant to be walking around out here in the world at all.
And the thing I can’t bring myself to think about is the fact that nothing actually happened, because then I have to think about what the alternative would have been, what their intentions actually were, and what I’d be feeling now if I’d found out.
And when I make myself stop thinking about the spiking, I catch the eye of a cute boy reading on a bench, and though my usual response would be to return his gleaming white smile, today all I can think is, Do you want to have sex with me while inside I’m begging you to stop?
Nothing actually happened nothing actually happened nothing actually happened nothing actually happened nothing actually happened nothing actually happened nothing actually happened nothing actually happened nothing actually happened nothing actually happened.
So why do I feel like this?
I make it all the way to the door of my Contemporary Chinese Art lecture. I put my hand on the doorknob. And I can’t make myself turn it. I can’t make myself go in. I can’t. I don’t want to. I can’t. What’s the difference? Nothing.
Instead of going into my lecture, I leave campus and start walking down Tottenham Court Road, down Charing Cross Road, to the Portrait Gallery.
I want to be in the soothing dark-green room surrounded by my saints.
This time, the exhibition room is completely empty, and I get to sit in silence and solitude and just think.
I can’t do anything from here, but I can at least think.
Besides, I always find I feel better once I’ve been here, like it’s a weird sort of comfort blanket.
As I leave the gallery, I check my phone and see I have a message from . . . my dad. Not Stephen, but my actual dad.
Hello, I’m planning our Christmas trip back to the UK and thought I could take you for dinner on Christmas Eve if that works for you? If not, I don’t know when I’ll be able to squeeze you in so hopefully you’re free. I’ll make a reservation somewhere nice.
I’m free! I reply, before wondering if maybe I should have left it a bit longer to reply. Left off the exclamation mark. But that’s something, isn’t it? My dad coming to London, taking me for dinner on Christmas Eve? It’s not all bad, I suppose.
Before I head home, I force myself to go back via campus, to check the Quad Media pigeonholes to see if anyone has sent in any new questions for me to answer.
When I reach the top of the stairs, it’s clear the pigeonholes are still being used as a bin, and I have to move a discarded takeaway coffee cup to see if there’s anything for me in there.
Amid other random paper junk, there are a couple of envelopes addressed to M-E.
I open the first one, and it’s a pretty standard question from someone about wanting to get with their flatmate but not wanting to disturb the domestic balance.
I’ll be able to bash out a response to that in no time at all. And then I open the second one.
Dear M-E,
My friend is going out with a guy who doesn’t respect her at all, and I’m worried she has no idea.
They’re meant to be just ‘casual’, but I don’t think that’s any reason for her to be treated like shit.
He’s seeing other girls too, which is not the worst thing as I think she knows about that, but it’s the way he talks about her that bothers me.
He’s known as a bit of a dick and definitely a player, and he makes a big deal out of how much he respects women and how he’s a feminist, but everyone knows that’s just a tactic to get girls to like him and trust him.
I thought she could see through it, but I’m wondering now if he’s managed to pull the wool over her eyes too.
She doesn’t know that I’ve heard him say things like, ‘She just makes it so easy. It’s harder to not sleep with her than it is to sleep with her so I might as well.
’ She’s the most amazing, vibrant person and shouldn’t be wasting time with someone who talks about her like this, no matter how casual the relationship is meant to be.
Should I talk to her about it or just let the situation run its course? What would you rather someone did?
Concerned Friend
I read it. Then I read it again. Then I screw it up and twist the paper in my hands like I’m trying to wring out a cloth.
I do all of this while I’m walking but I don’t necessarily tell my body to walk, it just does it.
Then I toss it into the recycling bin in front of the wrought-iron gates leading into Bedford Square.
Was it about me? I don’t know. Probably.
By someone who presumably knows me and Felix at least a bit.
Does it matter? Not really. If the shoe fits, right?