by Jo Watson
“Okay, Val. Go for it.”
And so I did. I pulled. I could tell it was absolutely excruciating. His face crinkled and contorted as the stuff peeled off like a second skin. I could almost feel his pain as his body tensed and shuddered with every pull.
“Nearly there,” I said to him as I passed the eyes and was about to hit the forehead.
“Hurry!” I could tell he was holding his breath.
“Breathe,” I said.
“I can’t.”
“If you don’t it’s more painful,” I offered, thinking of what you see in all those TV shows where women give birth and are told to breathe through the contractions.
“Just hurry,” he whimpered, still holding his breath.
“Breathe!” I urged, as I was sure he was about to pass out.
“This is not a Lamaze class.” He finally took a breath. “Just, please. Get. This. Thing. Off.”
“Okay!” I yanked hard and it finally all came off.
“Oh my God!” The relief in his voice was as palpable as mine was. He jumped out of the chair and put his hands on his face, as if he was making sure it was still there and working.
“That was terrible! That was . . . it was . . . wow!” He had a cute British accent; it was the first time I’d really noticed it. He pulled his hands away from his face and then . . . I tried very hard not to stare.
From a face totally obscured in black goo, he revealed something entirely different. Something that made me stop and stare . . .
Have you ever looked at someone, and for some strange, inexplicable reason, felt completely at ease with them immediately? As if they give off some kind of reassuring energy that makes you want to sit down, hold hands, be friends with them and tell them all your deepest darkest secrets?
Well, he had that quality to him. But that wasn’t all—when one looked at him for a little longer, this friendly, reassuring face gave way to something else entirely. He was good-looking. But not in any obvious way. His looks seemed to defy any kind of category I’d ever seen before. This intrigued me.
His eyes were bright, warm and friendly—despite their cool, gray color. Eyes you could trust, that shone with depth and intelligence but seemed to also have an edge to them, a smoldering kind of edge. The watery gray was framed with black lashes that almost made him look like he was wearing eyeliner, but not in a gothy way, as if he was about to break out with a poem about his inner angst. And when he smiled, I was even more taken aback. It was a gentle, kind smile that created this boyishly sexy dimple on his left cheek. His hair was a salt and pepper color, more salt than pepper actually. Not a look I’d ever found myself drawn to, but on him, there was something distinguished about it. The hair didn’t make him look old though, in fact, his face was clean-shaven and youthful-looking; this combination seemed impossible somehow, and yet, here it was. Standing right in front of me.
I was surprised that I was even noticing his looks in such minute detail, since I hadn’t done that in a while. But there was something about this man that was hard not to notice.
“Thank you!” He finally let his face go and took a step closer to me.
“I’m glad I was walking past,” I said, pulling my eyes away from him.
“Me too,” he said. “I was busy contemplating whether or not I needed to call 999.”
“Just don’t use samples from magazines again.” I wagged a finger at him.
“Trust me. I won’t. Thanks again! I owe you one. Please shout if you have an emergency.”
I chuckled. “I will.” I started walking away but bent my knee a little too vigorously and winced.
“What’s wrong?” he called after me.
I turned. “I scraped my knees.” I shrugged my shoulders as if it was no big deal. I didn’t want to explain how I’d gotten them like this. In fact, I’d rather this stranger thought I’d gotten them from carpet burn than the alternative. I turned once more and continued to walk away again.
“Hey, are you staying here?” he called after me.
“Yup!” I shouted over my shoulder.
“Maybe we’ll see each other around then?”
“Uh . . . sure. Maybe,” I said dismissively as I continued to walk away. I wasn’t trying to be rude, but I didn’t really feel like making friends while I was here.
1 Jan. 2018
Dear Diary,
It’s a new year. And I am making new resolutions.
1. Lose weight—at least seven pounds which I am sorry to say have all decided to hang out on my hips. Where is the equal distribution, people?
2. Get out of active wear—I have no excuse to wear it other than laziness. I am not a mom of three and I do not go to the gym. (Maybe I should. Go to gym, not become a mom.)
3. Drink less this year—goes with number 1. Suspect the extra pounds are all the beer and pizza evenings with Matt—which brings me to 4 through to 10.
4. Stop spending so much time with Matt! Get a tinder profile and start dating other people. But not if they are gross and creepy—you are not that desperate. Yet.
5. Get a hobby so you are not always with him. Matt is not a legitimate hobby.
6. Get over Matt!
7. Get over Matt.
8. Fucking get over him! Okay!
9. Just do it. Get over him.
10. Matt! Get over him. ASAP! Must. NOW.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I woke in the morning feeling physically exhausted, emotionally bruised and battered, not to mention feeling a sense of dreget that was so great, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get out of bed today. Dreget was a word I’d come up with many years ago. It’s the all-consuming combination of regret and dread. Usually in that order. I first discovered this horrific emotion back in my first year of university in my English lit class.
We had this guest lecturer, a semi-famous poet. Of course, in my seriously naïve nineteen-year-old brain, I had thought him to be the most brilliant, enigmatic man I’d ever met. And when he’d started reading his poems out loud in that angsty, emotional way, his long hair falling into his face, his hand clutching his heart, I’d almost flown off the chair and into his lap. And later that night, after several glasses of red wine (I didn’t drink the stuff, but I was just trying to impress him by how sophisticated I was), I did land up on his lap. But halfway through the sex, he’d started doing some kind of weird tantric breathing and humming and whispering lines of poetry in my ear and saying things like, “open your Yoni and your soul for me.” I’d lain on my back looking up at the ceiling with dregret. Regret for where I was, followed by the dread of what was about to come—I hoped it would be him, and I hoped it was going to be soon! (Yoni, I later learned, is the tantric word for vagina—let that sink in, that someone would actually say that to you in bed.)
But my dregret this morning was even greater than that. I felt almost crippled by it. I wished so badly that I could go back in time and stop myself from making such a public fool of myself. I was never going to live that incident down, and I was sure it would become my story. I would forever be “that girl who publicly confessed her love to her best friend at his engagement party.” I dreaded what people thought of me, what Matt thought of me.
I rolled over slowly and pulled my phone off the bedside table. It was time to check in with my friends—no doubt they were worried—so I left a message, requesting an urgent Skype conference. We did this fairly often. We’d become rather good at these, with Annie in LA, Jane in Greece and the rest of us in South Africa. The only person who was unable to figure the whole thing out was Stormy, whose suspicion and disdain of technology were infamous. Messages immediately started flying back and forth between us all and a time was arranged for the call in six hours. What the hell was I going to do until then?
I put on the fluffy hotel gown, walked onto the patio and looked out. I wondered how much dregret Alex the facemask man had this morning. God, I hoped I didn’t see him today, I didn’t have the energy for any kind of a conversation. I barely had the
energy to breathe right now.
But from here, the sea did look rather inviting. I didn’t have a bathing suit though. Perhaps the thing to do today would be to track one down and then lie by the beach inhaling cocktails until the dregret was washed away? And maybe I could wash Matt away too? I had to. I took in a deep breath, my lungs hurt, or was it my heart? I pulled my phone out and Googled the nearest store. It was fairly close so I decided to head out on foot.
The small shopping section in the village of Saint-Gilles was truly unique. I couldn’t compare it to anything I’d ever seen. The buildings were colorful and bright, almost luminous; oranges, yellows, pinks and greens splashed across everything in sight. The place looked like a Pantone paint strip or a drag queen’s make-up palette. And everything here was so French. I had no idea how French it all was until now. I was standing on a rue opposite a plage and was suddenly very thankful for those mandatory two years of French I’d done at school, even though I’d absolutely hated them.
And there were certainly enough shops to choose from. I slipped into the nearest one and found what I was looking for. Rows and rows of bathing suits and bikinis. The very helpful woman let me try half the shop on before I decided on a super-cute yellow bikini. It looked so tropical and so appropriate for the beach—plus it was on sale. I grabbed a few summer dresses, the cheapest I could find, and headed back feeling somewhat determined. Yes, I was going to go to the beach, drink cocktails, lie in the sun and let its warm rays melt away Matt, and all the dregret, embarrassment and self-loathing that I was currently feeling. I could do this!
I arrived back at the hotel with a semi-limp. My knees were feeling very tight now that the big, ugly scabs had formed and I wished I’d taken a taxi instead. But I was still feeling determined to sea, sun and sand my emotions away. I walked across the lawn towards my room and that’s when I saw him. Again.
He had his back to me and the last thing I wanted was for him to turn around and see me. So I continued my walk carefully and slowly, hoping to escape his prying eye. But no, as if he could sense me, as if he knew I was there and could smell my fear, he turned and looked straight at me. My blood ran cold under the intensity of his gaze.
“You,” I said, wagging a finger at him. “You were wrong. Look.” I pulled the bikini out of the bag and waved it in front of his face mockingly. He looked at me with what was clearly disdain.
“I’m going to put this on now, and head to the beach and I’ll be over Matt in no time. Ha!” I scoffed at the creature. But he looked unconvinced. So I continued. “I will. Trust me. I am getting over him this time, once and for all.” But the more I said it, the less I believed it. He tilted his head and glared at me with a condescending eye.
“Mommy, look, that lady is talking to a tortoise.” I looked up and saw a little girl point at me. Her mother stood behind her and looked down at me with a strange look. She put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and pulled her away.
“Come, dear, let’s leave the lady,” she said, rushing away from me as if she was concerned.
I straightened. God, was I going mad?
Suddenly I didn’t much feel like lying on a beach anymore, so I walked back to my room and crawled into bed.
Two Years Ago
14 Feb.
OMG OMG! Matt just messaged me and said he wants to tell me something really, really, really important. (He used three reallys in the message which has immediately started making me think certain thoughts!) Am trying not to freak out inside and let my mind run away from me—it is exactly one year since meeting him, after all. But my imagination has run. Am imagining confessions of love, falling into each other’s arms, kissing and sex. (NB—get wax before important announcement and put on sexy lingerie.)
14 Feb. (later that day)
Dear Diary,
Sam.
Short for Samantha.
That’s her name.
Yes, that is the name of the girl Matt just introduced to me . . . as his girlfriend. His girlfriend! That was the really, really, really important thing he wanted to tell me.
Apparently, he’s been on a dating app this entire time, since he’s known me, and they have been messaging each other for months. This means 2 things.
1. My so-called best friend lied to me about a girl he was into—why?
2. If he’s been on this app since we met, he never, ever had any romantic inclinations and intentions for me. Ever.
They even confessed love to each other before meeting. She lives in Cape Town so they hadn’t met until she flew out for their romantic Valentine’s first date. (I wonder if there was sex? What am I saying . . . OF COURSE THERE WAS SEX!)
I feel like such an idiot. I feel so embarrassed. Like a total loser. Might as well go online and order myself one of those male sex dolls that is also AI so it’s programmed to be like a real boyfriend too. (*NB—possible article idea there.)
Fuck! FUCK! I can’t write about this anymore. It’s too damn painful. I had to sit across the dinner table from her tonight and smile and try NOT to show that inside my heart was breaking. There was this painful tightening in my chest. This thick feeling in the back of my throat that made it hard to swallow. I felt nauseous and all I wanted to do was run to the bathroom and throw up. But I couldn’t.
I can’t. I don’t know. Maybe more later. But I’m not sure . . .
SAM!!!! (multiple exclamation marks for added fucking emphasis.)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was Skype time. Their faces all popped onto the screen, and our reactions were all the same.
“Good God, Stormy! What the hell have you done to your hair?” Jane asked.
“I’m going blind,” Annie said, covering her eyes playfully.
“It’s green,” she said proudly, fluffing her long hair between her fingers. As if we couldn’t see that. As if that incandescent, lime glow emanating from the small block on the screen wasn’t a dead giveaway already.
“Um . . . we can see that!” Jane said sarcastically. “But why? That’s the question.”
“I’m just really into green these days,” she said. “It’s a very soothing color, you know.”
I wasn’t going to point it out to her, but that color was anything but soothing.
“But enough of my hair, back to Val,” Stormy said.
“Yes, but we need to hurry. I have to yank out a tooth in ten minutes,” Jane said.
“Gee, such a delicate dentist you are,” Annie quipped.
“I’m going to do it under anesthetic, you know. I’m not that bad, guys! But Val!” She snapped her fingers at us all now. “What the hell happened? I saw the video.”
“What video?” I asked.
There was a collective silence on the call. “What video, guys?” I repeated.
“Your speech at the engagement party,” Jane said.
“Oh, God, no!” I hung my head.
“Did you really think something like that could happen and no one would film it?” Jane said so matter-of-factly.
My heart started pounding. Of course someone had filmed it. I might have done the same had I been on the receiving end. “What part did they film, exactly?”
Everyone looked at me blankly, as if they didn’t want to answer.
“Oh. I see. The whole thing. The whole, ‘I’m in love with you’ thing. From start to finish.” My mouth suddenly felt very dry.
“Don’t worry. It will blow over soon enough,” Lilly said, speaking from experience after a very questionable photo of her went viral and generated thousands of memes around the world.
“The tweets don’t even have that many likes,” Annie added. My stomach tightened.
“What tweets?” I asked. “I thought you said someone filmed it.”
“Um . . .” Annie hesitated, “Byron kind of live-tweeted it too.”
“He what!” I half shouted. Byron moved on the periphery of our friendship circle like an asteroid in the outer asteroid belt.
“Don’t go read them though,
” Lilly urged, “it will make it all worse.”
“I’m not sure I could feel any worse if I tried,” I muttered.
“So how the hell did you land up on an island? What’s it called, anyway?” Annie asked.
“Réunion.” I picked a brochure up from the bed and waved it all at them. “It was an accident. Well, I was trying to hide from Matt at the airport and next thing I knew, I was on a plane.”
Lilly burst out laughing. “That’s a new one. Even for us.”
“Nothing happens by accident,” Stormy piped up. “You are exactly where you’re meant to be, right now, in the multiverse.” She nodded her head and her green hair bobbed about.
I nodded back in agreement; it wasn’t worth asking about the multiverse part. I could see everyone else was thinking the same thing.
“So what are you going to do?” Annie asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Hide here for a few days. Then fly back home, sell my house so I never have to see him again. Change name and identity, go into the witness protection program and move to a small town in an alligator-infested swamp somewhere.”
“Dramatic,” Lilly said.
“Hey, well wasn’t it you who told me to tell him how I felt?” I asked pointedly.
“Look,” Lilly said, “you had to tell him how you felt. You had to finally get an answer, good or bad. It’s a pity it happened so publicly. But now that you have the answer, you can work with it.”
I nodded. “I wish I didn’t have the answer. What did he say, he’s never thought about me like that, he sees me as family . . .”
“Ouch,” Jane said.
“I think it’s good you finally know,” Stormy jumped in. “You can’t spend another three years hoping for something that will never come. You’ve wasted enough time on him already.”
