Chapter 33
Already smashed down by the terror of sending out my work, I feel vulnerable and tremulous, forgetting that absolutely nobody can read a giant novel and give you feedback in an hour. I meet Aoife in London Bridge to silence the voice of my inner critic and self-medicate with food. I am DETERMINED not to drink but meeting up with my best mate in a fancy place is a test. She’s clearly feeling herself: high-waisted leather pants and her clip-clop boots, swinging her TK Maxx handbag. Aoife’s recommended this pasta bar where they cook the pasta in front of you. They don’t take reservations, she says, but you can drink in the queue. Queue? For pasta? The queue is at least fifty people long and next to an alley that smells of vomit, piss and fish blood, but apparently it’s so worth it. I’m sorry but have you ever watched anyone make pasta pesto in front of you?
I manage to dodge the queue-drink by offering to go to the shop whilst Aoife holds our place. I return with the two bottles of Peroni she requested and tell her, ‘I’m just SO thirsty,’ whilst cracking open my sparkling water.
Aoife’s tipsy by the time we’re seated at what she calls ‘front row’ at the bar looking over the kitchen. She claps her hands excitedly, leaning over, naming ingredients very loudly to impress the chefs. Ah, that’s why she likes it here. ‘They’re tattooed, bearded and Italian’ – a chef wipes their forehead with a rag like a Diet Coke advert – ‘and stressed.’ Her eyes flicker at the untame, orange flames, snake-charmed.
She glances at the wine list, ripping at the (very good) bubbly bread, whilst perving over other people’s burrata. ‘Order whatever you want – I’ll expense it. Red? Or white? To start?’
‘I might eat something first.’ I buy myself time.
‘A carafe of the Rosso Toscana, please?’ she tries to pronounce in her South London accent to the waiter, who returns with two glasses. I let them fill my glass with delicious-looking red wine but don’t drink.
‘So, I’m having doubts,’ I begin, but it isn’t easy to talk; it’s crowded and loud. We’re sat in the middle of a chain of strangers and the plates come small, quick, and in no order, interrupted with top-ups of water and small talk with others, the staff. Aoife’s acting like we’re on holiday, here to make friends, twirling pappardelle, catching eyes.
‘About?’
‘Jackson.’ I wince.
‘It’s definitely the engagement; it’s freaked you out.’ She’s so sure she barely looks up. Wipes her bread around a ramekin of grass-green oil, sprinkles on crystals of salt.
I nod; already this is bringing me great comfort. I prefer this diagnosis to having to leave him, which is much more effort.
‘You two were happy before this. We always thought you saw things long term with Jackson. We told him it was a good idea,’ she confesses.
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘And the way you ran for that bouquet at Mia’s, I mean—’ She chuckles to herself in that way that makes you sometimes want to punch your mates.
‘I can’t pin my future on catching some flowers.’
‘So, turn the engagement down a notch? Buy yourself some time to figure out if it’s Jackson or the commitment? He’s always working anyway – as if that guy will find the time for a wedding! It might never happen. Just talk to him.’
‘I can’t. He’s on a high with work, got a deadline, we’ve just got the flat—’
Aoife sits back to analyse me, holding her wine close to her chest.
‘What? Why are you looking me like that?’
‘Could it be that things are just a bit too good?’
‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful but I’m not sure it’s what I want.’ Silence. I chew the inside of my cheek and add like it’s another part of the story. ‘I met up with Lowe last month?’
She’s not surprised; then again not much surprises Aoife. ‘And are these two things related or … ?’
‘No!’ I blurt. ‘Well, no, not like that, but it has given me perspective. Reminded me of who I was before and how it’s meant to feel to, you know, feel.’
She doesn’t like this. ‘We’re not kids any more, El,’ she says like I didn’t know. ‘It’s normal to be intoxicated and entranced by these celebrities.’ The word ‘celebrities’ is said with almost no sound at all in case journalists are everywhere.
I laugh at her hysteria. ‘He’s still Lowe!’
Aoife looks at me like I’m naive, like she could say a million things about Lowe but will – just this once – spare me her opinions, filling her mouth with a forkful of rocket salad. I watch her tackle it and then she leans in closer.
‘Elbow, don’t be mad. Jackson is FIT!’ she jokes, then softens. ‘He’s successful and kind – he’s as good as partners come, and, most importantly, he loves you, Ella, and you love him.’ I see now she’s pissed, enjoying playing the role of independent-female best friend in a movie but here, with the wine and the surroundings, it’s kind of working. ‘It’s because we’re used to chaos; we run away from love, from accomplishment and nice things, but look—’ She holds her hands out to present the chefs as an example of nice things.
She continues, ‘It’s cos our mums were raised by women who didn’t get a say, who didn’t have ambition, who they just saw cooking, cleaning and having babies, so they became such feminists. Now, they’ve hammered that trauma into us – we shouldn’t settle, be conventional blah blah – but it’s just turning us into desolate islands!’ She orders a second carafe of wine, transferring the wine from my glass into hers. ‘Should have just got a bottle.’ She considers me. ‘You’re not preggers, are you?’
I shake my head.
‘I’ve had enough of drinking right now, it isn’t doing me any favours. I don’t like how I am when I drink.’
‘You don’t even drink a lot though, El.’
‘I know, but it’s enough to be horrible to myself the next day.’
This somehow permits me to order a lemonade.
She can see I’m still being eaten up and admits, ‘That kind of romantic lovey-dovey thing you think exists out there does not. Dating apps suck; trust me. Don’t break up with Jackson, not in winter. It’ll be lonely as hell. It’s not a good time to make big decisions.’
When we can feel the restaurant wants our seats back, Aoife unapologetically zips her leather pants back up with force, debating whether or not she can be bothered to go to the house of the new guy she’s seeing. I should have asked Bianca for advice instead; she would have just screamed, ‘LEAVE HIM!’ Though at least Aoife’s advice means I don’t have to act right now. I can just keep doing what I’m doing: waiting.
When I wake up, Jackson’s already at the gym and I have a message from Aoife: I was fucked last night chatted crap, sorry if I said the wrong stuff. Should have just been a good friend and listened. Always here if you wanna chat, I’ll keep my big mouth shut, I promise! Love you. Dreaming of that Need not to drink so much! X
I text back: you are a good friend x
And an email from my agent: Ella! Couldn’t sleep, read your book. It’s fucking nuts but I really love it. Lots of questions but I think we can do this. I might put the feelers out? Let me know your thoughts. And well done. It was worth the wait.
And I put my hands over my chest, pull the duvet up over my head and squeal. The first and only person I want to text about this is Lowe. To share the news, but very quickly the news feels news-less and needy. Nothing concrete to get excited about. We never share intimacies like this. The back and forths are irregular, about nothing much, few and far between. And I think it’s probably safer that way.