Chapter 9
9
NADIA
What a very strange experience, I think, as Tom and I finally begin the walk across the lawn to leave his parents house.
His family are lovely. I liked them a lot. And I have been here under false pretences. Weird. Misrepresenting your friendship to someone s devoted family is very different from misrepresenting it to your annoying colleagues, some of whom definitely don t have your best interests at heart.
I kind of want to say something about it to Tom – the whole nasty-taste-in-your-mouth-about-lying-to-nice-people thing. But… I m not sure what to say. Because, while for two people who ve only known each other for eight days we ve got to know each other quite well, we also have only known each other for eight days.
Also, right now, I have a big immediate problem, which is going to start to cause me serious short-term problems as soon as we get off this lawn: I have really bad blisters from the tennis shoes.
We get to the edge of the lawn and I stop.
Tom carries on walking for a few paces and then turns round.
He looks at where I m holding my sandals dangling from my left hand and after a moment asks, Should you put your shoes on?
I should have mentioned it before we left, sorry. The thing is, I didn t want to take Tom away from the others for a private conversation, and I also didn t want to upset his mother by saying in front of her that she s basically maimed me for the rest of the day. I can t wear them. I got blisters from the tennis shoes and the front straps of my sandals cut exactly across them and when I tried to put them on before, it was searing agony. And that is not an exaggeration.
Plasters?
Searing agony with plasters.
Erm. He stares at me. It s a long way to walk in searing agony. And it s also a long way to walk barefoot.
I nod.
Piggyback, Tom declares a second later.
I shake my head. That is not practical.
I ve given piggybacks to large men over extended distances. I can definitely carry you to the station.
Okay, I can see that you might be able to. But it s too undignified.
What is both practical and dignified, though?
Not sure. I feel like there must be options. Like borrowing a pair of flip-flops. But I didn t want to mention it in front of your mum because I didn t want to make her feel bad about the blisters.
Flip-flops are a brilliant idea. Back in a minute. Tom s already striding back along the side of the house.
I sit down on the grass to wait. It s quite nice being here by myself actually, a nice rest from the weirdness of all the pretending.
No flip-flops, would you believe it, Tom says quite a few minutes later, his deep voice coming round the corner before he does. So we have two options. I know which one I think s better.
What are the options? Oh! I see that he s pulling a mid-sized child s fairly ancient scooter, clearly from the early days of ubiquitous scootering, because it has quite a strange shape and three wheels, but is far taller than you would expect a three-wheeled toddler-style scooter to be. Yep, that could maybe work. No, it bloody could not actually. But my other foot would still be bare and on the pavement.
Both feet on the scooter and I pull you. And then a piggyback up and down steps.
Really? No. What s the other option?
Libby and her husband Marc are actually driving to Marc s parents house in Surrey this evening, and they re happy to go through London and drop us on the way.
I think about that one for a second. That s a really long time with Tom s sister, and she seemed quite keen to question me during the barbecue. Plus, we ve done a lot of tacit lying already to a lot of people that Tom s close to and I know how I feel about that: not good.
What do you think about that? I ask.
Probably wouldn t choose to do it if we had other options. What about an Uber?
I shake my head. That would cost so much. I mean you could practically pay someone to create an AI fake girlfriend for you for that kind of money.
Scooter then?
Surely there s a better solution. I m not three years old. I can t be pulled around on a scooter. We could bump into my neighbours at the end of the journey; far too embarrassing. I wrack my brain, before suddenly shouting, Wellies! I can t believe I didn t think of them before. Maybe a size too big padded out with tissues.
Of course . Tom looks pretty relieved; his face has broken into a wide smile. What size?
I m a five, so I think maybe a six if you can find any? Or a seven?
Off he goes, and I sit myself down again, a lot happier now.
* * *
About ten minutes later we re on our way, me with my feet wedged into pink and navy polka dot (I quite like the design, not joking), size-eight wellingtons with tissues wedged all round the front of my feet.
It is not comfortable.
By the end of the road I slightly want to cry.
By the end of the next road I want to swear.
By the mini roundabout a couple of hundred metres later I do start swearing.
Should we go back? Tom asks.
Are we about halfway to the station?
Yes.
Might as well carry on then.
And on we go with me going, One, two, three, fuck , one, two, three, fuuuuuck . Swearing does help. It s scientifically proven. It doesn t help enough, though. It s really fecking painful. It s also a bit disgusting; too much information but the wellies are making my feet sweat and I feel like the tissues are shredding and balling so they ve gone into hard but irregular little bits so the effect is a foot-surround of gravel rather than the cotton wool that I was aiming for.
When we get to the station, there are steps. I stupidly take the first step as though it s just a regular, easy, human undertaking.
It is excruciating agony because it pushes my blisters against the gravelly tissues and the rigid boot upper. There is really not a lot of give in these wellies.
I hover on the second step from the top and perform an incredible feat and do not howl in pain, I just do a little ouch and cling onto the handrail and wait for the pain to subside to a level where I can think about anything else.
You okay? asks Tom from the bottom of the steps.
Such a stupid question. I am incredibly un-okay.
Yes, fine, I say, in a pretty normal voice, actually.
I wait a few more seconds and then I decide to go for it. I turn my foot sideways and take a second step down.
No. Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. That is not the way forward. That is terrible agony.
Are you sure you re okay? Tom asks.
I think I m just going to have to make a couple of adjustments to the wellies. I need to take them off and get the tissues out. How am I going to sit down, though? I feel like I can t do that without more serious pain. And I ll be in the way of everyone going in and out.
Maybe do it down here? Tom clearly has no idea whatsoever of the incredible and impossible challenge that getting down the steps would entail.
I can t get down there. I can t do another step like this. It s too painful. I m aware that I sound ridiculous but there are nine more steps to go and honestly I don t think Hercules had bigger challenges than that. And I am not Hercules.
Okay, simple solution: what about if I carry you down these few steps and then you can sort your boots out here.
I say, Thank you, miserably, because, yes, that is a good plan, but, no, I don t want to be an adult carried down some steps by another adult because that s quite weird.
Tom blithely double-steps his way back up, apparently completely taking his unblistered feet for granted, and swings me up into his arms.
And it s so weird. He has me cradled, his left arm under my thighs and knees, his right round my waist. It would be kind of boyfriend-girlfriendy, except I m clutching my bag to my chest and staring straight ahead at the tiled wall opposite like a very proper Victorian spinster.
I m incredibly aware of how wide and solid his chest is and how hard and capable his arms are and of where he s touching me. I glance towards his face and nearly gasp out loud when I realise how very close it is to my head. His jaw is so perfectly square. And, oh God, there s something very, very intimate-seeming about being this close to his Adam s apple.
We reach the bottom and Tom just stands there for a moment, holding me, while I continue clutching my bag and dividing my gaze between the wall and his profile.
Then he does a very big swallow, and I nearly squeak out loud at the sight of his Adam s apple moving, and then he says, his voice a little croaky, Will it hurt if I put you back on your feet?
My feet! I had literally forgotten about them.
I think it might, I say. Maybe I can lean forward and pull one off and then stand on that foot.
The floor s very grimy, though?
That is true.
We just stay there, with him holding me, for another few – very long – seconds, and then I say, There s a bench!
Oh, yes, excellent, yes. And Tom strides over to it and sets me down on it as though I m a hot potato. He then sits down too, at more than arm s length distance from me.
Thank you. I should not be thinking about how weirdly good it felt to be held by him and how weirdly bereft I feel now that I m no longer in his arms, and will obviously never be again, because he is deeply in love with Lola and I am on my man detox.
I can t actually believe that I haven t really registered before how incredibly attractive he is. I mean, I have , because you can t not notice his handsomeness and niceness. But, also, I just haven t been thinking about him like that. Because of Lola. And because I just don t meet men like that, randomly – I meet them on apps or blind dates through friends. And also, we have literally nothing in common. Nothing. Our families are very different. He is a football fan (on my never in a million years would I date list), he likes playing tennis, he has terrible taste in films. He eats pie and mushy peas by choice . And the entire premise of our situation is that we are absolutely not dating for real.
I need to ignore this weird attraction that s suddenly come over me and concentrate on sorting my feet out and getting home.
Okay, I say, in as normal an I m-in-no-way-suddenly-massively-sexually-attracted-to-you voice as I can produce. I m going to take the first one off.
And I have to say: if there s one thing that can take your mind off sudden sexual attraction, fast, it s incredible foot pain.
It is not enjoyable pulling the boot off.
Eeoow. I m quite appalled by my own foot. I hope Tom isn t looking at it. I check sideways. Oh, he is.
It s grim . The plasters must have peeled up at the edges and got stuck to the tissues. There s redness and damp rawness and bits of flappy skin, and there are tissues stuck to the damp bits.
Wow. Tom is jaw-dropped. That looks so painful.
It is, I confirm. I pull all the bits of tissue off my foot (owwwww) and then Tom shakes the boot out into a bin for me.
How are you going to put it back on, though? And actually walk? How can you do that?
I m thinking new plasters and no tissues. Good job I have a whole new pack of plasters in my bag.
I take my other boot off (that foot s even worse) and then, after I ve wiggled my feet for a bit in blessed relief that they re free of the agony, I replaster them, very carefully, and then bite the bullet and put my feet back in.
And then I walk with a kind of shuffling slide, and lift each leg with my hands under my knee when it comes to steps, and like that I proceed in a peculiar and very slow but fairly manageable way.
* * *
I cannot describe how relieved I am when we are finally sitting on the train and pulling out of the station.
How are we going to manage at Waterloo? Tom asks.
Problem for the future. I m leaning back, my eyes closed, just adoring my seat and the weight off my feet.
I owe you big. He doesn t sound that convincing, actually.
I open one eye. How… do you think this afternoon went?
Um, well, Tom says. They loved you. I could see confetti in my mother s eyes.
I really want to ask him if he feels guilty about it but I can t work out how to phrase it because clearly if he doesn t it would sound as though I were judging him. And – just like all they ve seen is a snapshot of me and they re making assumptions based on that, that Tom and I are a couple – all I ve seen is a snapshot of them, and maybe if I hadn t been there they d have been a complete nightmare. So maybe Tom does think it was good that we hoodwinked them.
I don t think either of us wants to talk about this right now.
I m just going to check my messages, I say. In case there s anything urgent.
I have no urgent messages.
Tom checks his too.
And then we sit there, next to each other, and it s a little weird, because we ve been a couple all day, not in a PDA way, but very much in a social way, and now we re just two fake daters sitting awkwardly next to each other at the beginning of a remarkably long Tube ride.
Want to play the best phone game ever? Tom asks eventually, over the rattle of the train as we go into a tunnel. It s called Brawl Stars.
Porn stars? I m a bit shocked that a teacher would play a game with that name.
Brawl stars, he shouts. One of my colleagues got me into it after he confiscated phones from Year 8 kids playing it at morning break. He d been watching them over their shoulders for a few minutes and managed to get addicted to it in that time. And now he s dragging me down with him.
Oh . Yes. Definitely. I m very happy to be dragged down too. That s a very good idea. I download it and he s right, it s really good, and it s a lot of fun going up against each other.
This is why kids get so addicted to games on their phones, I say several stops later.
No shit, Tom says.
And then we get back to it.
* * *
When we get to Waterloo, I resume my slow slide-shuffle, and it s okay. Not entirely un-painful, but entirely manageable. I can do steps, up and down, and everything.
Can I take you back to yours in a taxi? Tom offers.
I m honestly fine, thank you very much. I really just want to get home now, by myself. Tom s great company but it all felt a bit weird back there.
Are you really sure?
Yes, really definitely.
Okay, he says. Let s at least get on the same train and I can help you. I can come back to Wimbledon with you?
No, honestly. I m completely fine.
He looks unconvinced, so I say, I might actually meet a friend at the station when I get back, so I genuinely will be alright.
Okay, if you re absolutely certain.
I am. This conversation s getting silly. Let s play one more round of Brawl Stars while we have time.
* * *
So this is me, Tom says as we approach Clapham Junction. If you re still sure you don t need any help.
Totally. Thank you. I give him a big, I-am-absolutely-fine smile.
Okay, well, thank you very much for today. Incredibly above and beyond. I owe you.
He stands up and we have a slightly awkward moment, because how do you say goodbye after a day like today; should there be hugging or cheek-kissing?
In the end he leans down for a quick air kiss and then he turns and goes. And I am simultaneously weirdly bereft and relieved.
* * *
When I eventually get inside my flat, after very slow slide-shuffling and a crawl up the stairs inside my building, I pull the boots off and then lie on the sofa, enjoying the fact that my feet are finally free.
I stare at the ceiling, really not sure what to think about the day. It s as though Tom and I have committed a crime together, that we share a big guilty secret now. I kind of feel as though the easiest thing now would be to never see each other again. Fake dating should obviously remain in fiction; in real life you just can t do it.
I heave myself off the sofa and go over to the kitchen area. I need a cup of tea.
Oh my goodness the joy of not having to wear anything on my feet.
As I flick the kettle on it s like something flicks in the decision-making part of my mind too. We should stop the fake dating now. It did work well with my colleagues, but I don t want to carry on lying to Marisa. And I can t believe Tom really wants to carry on lying to his family.
As I take the first slurp of my tea, a message comes in from him.
Thank you so much. The frilly pants and the blisters were far beyond the call of duty. How are your feet now? Do you have flip-flops? Will they work?
I have very happy feet now that I m back home and shoe-free, and it was no problem. You have a lovely family
Who we lied to. Not great. I kind of want to just say goodbye forever now. But there s Bea and Ruth s wedding. And Tom s just sent another message.
Gonna need to collect my mum s wellies from you
Oh yes! Maybe at the wedding?
Good idea. Goodnight then and thank you again
Yep, I think we have to stop fake dating.