5
“Why are you not dressed?” Emme asks, a week later, as she almost falls through the door with her arms full of parcels.
I turn to her from where I was making my fifth slice of toast in as many hours and frown, “It’s 6 pm on a Friday,” I say, “It’s officially the weekend and I intend to spend it in my pyjamas,”
In fact, I have spent the full week in my pyjamas, but that’s that Work From Home Life we know and love.
“No,” Emme says, dumping the boxes and mailer bags on the table, “We’re going out, I told you,”
My frown deepens, “Nope. You made me go out last weekend,” I say, “I’m barely over my hangxiety,”
As expected, I spent most of this week replaying telling Miles, the drug dealer, that he could be a model. Suffice it to say that Sober Me was not impressed with Drunk Me’s behaviour.
“You agreed,” she says, folding her arms, “We’re going to that bar that Jess from work told me about,”
I groan, “Every bar your colleagues suggest we go to leaves me unable to pay rent after one drink,”
And, no offence, Emme, but I hate your marketing friends.
“They do not,” Emme mutters, but she doesn’t seem convinced. “Come on,” she whines like she won’t survive the night without me. It is probable since the marketing girlies do a lot of squealing and comparing notes of their latest Finance Bro boyfriends, and Emme likes to exclusively date hipsters who smoke weed and think they had the original idea for whichever app is currently doing well.
“I told you, once a month is my limit,” I say, “I need another three weeks to recover from Daisy and Harry’s,”
Emme rolls her eyes as she grabs a glass of water, “Please, that was barely even out. It was at their house and you spent most of the night hiding with a drug dealer apparently,”
I grin, “Exactly, how wild am I? I spent Saturday night drinking with a drug dealer,”
And that, my friends, is the coolest I will ever sound.
Emme chokes on her sip of water and shakes her head.
“We’re going,” she says, “And I know how to convince you,”
I raise an eyebrow, taking a bite of my toast, “Oh, this should be good,” I say, thinking that unless she plans on drugging me and using me like a ventriloquist doll all night, I am not, in fact, going out.
Emme grins mischievously, “I’m almost certain that that feathery top—you know, the one you told me to tell you not to buy but then bought anyway—is in that pile of parcels,”
My eyes widen and I drop my toast, “Are you serious?” I ask, wiping my hands and then beginning to rifle through the packages. “Oh my god,” I screech as I find the pink mailer.
Emme grins, triumphant, as I run to my room, ripping it open as I go.
*
The feathery top is fantastic and ridiculous and worth every penny of the money I had put aside for my niece’s birthday. I mean, she’s three, it’s not like she’s going to know if I only spend a tenner on her birthday present, right?
Unfortunately, Emme was right and the chance to wear such a fucking fantastic top means I am now willing to go out. If only so other people get to see me in this top. It deserves the attention, frankly.
I am just pulling on my shoes when I hear Emme open the door to Jess and a gaggle of marketing girls.
I roll my eyes. I mean, they’re all nice enough, I guess but they sure know how to make us insecure girlies feel bad for, well, everything.
They’re all the kind of girls who are, like, really good at being girls, you know? They all have that great hair that stays where they put it and they never have mascara stains under their eyes 0. seconds after putting it on. And I don’t care what you say about setting spray and setting powder, I’ve tried it all and I’m convinced that getting makeup to stay is actually in your genes and nothing, not even spraying your face with hairspray like we used to do as teens, is going to get your makeup to stay unless you were born with it.
I look at myself in the mirror and try not to actually hate myself. I mean, I’m not bad-looking. Plenty of people have said I’m not, and at least three of them weren’t my relatives. But I do wish I was better at being a girl.
And I wish my dumb pale legs looked slightly better in this skirt. The skirt is fucking fabulous too. A similar lilac to the top, but denim and with white top-stitching. But, unfortunately, my dumb pale legs just don’t work with it.
I groan.
I mean, it’s not like this issue is going to be solved anytime soon. I’m always going to have pale legs.
I look comical in fake tan. Mostly because I tend to turn the same colour as my very ginger hair when I wear it because I'm total crap at putting it on. And I could move to the surface of the sun and not get a tan. So, I'm learning to embrace the offensive level of paleness of my skin. (I'm not, I just tell myself this so I don't start using fake tan again.)
I sigh for one last time and then pick up my silly little clutch bag and leave my room. The girls are already standing around the kitchen counter and sipping those cocktails in a can you get from M&S. I walk over to them, doing that thing where I forget how to walk, and making a mental note to try my damnedest to fit in with them in some way this evening.