So, the prison thing. Dennis likes to tell people he’s been to prison. He hasn’t. Dennis is the most boring, middle-class white guy on the planet, and he desperately wants to give himself an edge. He sees himself as a freedom fighter, an internet outlaw, a persecuted minority. He calls himself a hacker, but really he just perpetrated a huge data breach in his old job, the police got involved, and he was let off with a caution. He did not go to prison. He thinks he’s literally the only person who has ever used the internet, and there’s absolutely no way anyone could check up on his story, but obviously I looked up the company he used to work for, found news stories about the ‘crime’ and – guess what – no prison. Oh, best bit is, Dennis isn’t even his real name. He just calls himself that because he’s a prickly weirdo about ‘security’. Imagine rebranding yourself in adulthood and choosing to become a Dennis. Not Antelope or Quark or Velour or Prince. Just Dennis.
My phone vibrates. My heart leaps in my throat. Surely Joe hasn’t replied that quickly? But no: it’s just my dad texting me from downstairs.
Make no mistake: the sad face is entirely for Dennis. Grudgingly I drag myself down the stairs and into the living room. Auntie Isobel is wearing a hot-pink satin shirt dress that looks amazing on her tall, curvaceous figure. She beams at me.
‘Aaaah, my beautiful niece! I’ve missed you so much!’ she says as she presses me to her chest and strokes my frizzy mane. ‘I love your hair this length. You look so lovely.’
She fusses and coos over me until we’re rudely interrupted by Weird Dennis himself, returning from the kitchen with a wine glass in each hand.
‘Hello, Emily,’ he says, awkwardly kissing me on each cheek.
‘Hello, Dennis,’ I reply, trying to suppress a shudder at coming into physical contact with him.
Dennis is pretty good-looking: imagine an old Hollywood actor transformed into a boring English guy who works in IT. Burt Lancaster by way of Essex. How are men allowed to get away with having mediocre personalities and yet date resplendent, majestic women like my aunt?
We sit around nibbling nuts and chatting (while my mum sips water and looks mournfully at the delicious salty snacks) as my dad puts the finishing touches to dinner. My aunt asks lots of questions about how Katie is getting on in Manchester, if I’ve thought about what I’m going to do next year, if Mum is up to date with a cop show they both watch. Dennis is getting fidgety, annoyed at the lack of attention. As soon as we fall silent for a few seconds, the brief interlude is long enough for him to pipe up with his low-quality small talk, and I’m not going to let him get away with it.
‘Emily, made up your mind about uni next year?’ he says, he clearly hasn’t been listening. He tugs the cap off a bottle of beer with his teeth. I suppose he thinks it looks macho rather than idiotic.
‘Um, no, not really. I can’t make my mind up . . .’ But I’m sure I can think of someone who wants to give me a ton of advice about it.
‘Well, make sure you get yourself a marketable skill,’ he says, nodding sagely. ‘There’s no point otherwise.’
‘I’m thinking I’ll probably just stick with English, since that’s what I’m good at,’ I reply with forced cheeriness. I’m not interested in his career advice.
‘Ah, you’ll regret that when you’re still living at home at the age of thirty!’
I don’t reply, forcing an awkward pause, but in mere seconds, he’s ready to go again.
‘So, Helen, your sister tells me you’ve started on a new diet? Good for you,’ he says.
No, he doesn’t so much say as bark. I want to die already. Who asks people stuff like that?
‘Yes, it’s tough, but it seems to be going well so far,’ Mum replies.
You can virtually see her martyrdom forming a halo around her head.
‘No chance of getting you on that, eh, Emily?’ Dennis winks in a way I assume is meant to be charming and roguish.
‘What do you mean?’ I’m feigning ignorance. I know it’ll wind him up.
‘Pardon?’ says Dennis.
‘I’m asking what you mean by that. What you’re . . . trying to say. Because I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, I’m not trying to say anything,’ he splutters, attempting a smile, but the panic in his eyes gives him away.
It’s working.
‘Well is there a reason you directed your comment at me rather than at anyone else?’ I ask brightly.
Yes, I am trying to force him to explicitly say, ‘You are fat, and that is bad.’ Is it petty? Absolutely. But is it any worse than pressuring teenage girls into worrying about their weight because you’re annoyed they don’t worry about it? Absolutely not.
Mum and Auntie Isobel are shifting in their seats but say nothing: Mum, because she’s obviously on Dennis’s side; and my aunt, because I think she’s enjoying the showdown.
‘I . . . I just mean . . . maybe you could stand to lose a bit of weight,’ he ventures, deciding to fully commit to his bigotry.
I gasp in mock horror.
‘Are you in the habit of bullying teenage girls about their weight? Vulnerable young women under constant pressure from the media and advertising and the fashion industry to conform? You really want to add to that, eh?’ I’m enjoying poking him.
Just as he’s grasping for a witty riposte, he’s saved by the bell, and Dad calls us through for dinner. Dennis basically runs out of the room.
‘Never change,’ Isobel whispers in my ear as we file into the dining room.
‘I don’t plan to,’ I reply, shaking with fury yet adrenalized from my victory.
We sit down to eat at our wooden dining table, which Mum has decorated with twinkling tea lights. Dad has made smoked mackerel pâté with crusty bread (for everyone except Mum, who has concocted some limp Wellness System-approved salad). I attack the layer of clarified butter on top of the pâté. I’m going to enjoy this. I’m most certainly not going to let Dennis’s bullying put me off my food, especially when it’s this delicious.
‘Doesn’t that get you down a bit, Michael?’ asks Dennis, nodding his head towards the opposite wall.
‘What’s that?’ asks my dad, looking bemused.
‘Seeing that every day – being reminded of your former glory?’ Dennis is looking down at his plate as he speaks, determined to be provocative but not actually make eye contact with anyone to face what an idiot he’s being.
We all understand now: he’s talking about the large framed poster hanging on the wall behind the table. It looks like a vintage circus poster, but it isn’t; it was just designed that way. Bear Trap it says, above a stylized rendering of a brown bear rearing up on its hind legs. ‘By Michael Daly’ is printed below in tall letters. Once upon a time, my dad wrote a play about economics and politics and relationships that was very successful and very popular, and for a short time, he was very successful and very popular too. He has spent the past two decades trying to follow it up.
‘Actually, I feel like my glory has never really ended. It came as a surprise to me that Bear Trap did so well. I suppose I’ve been dining out on that ever since,’ he replies.
Dad is truly blessed with a temperament that resists rising to Dennis’s bait.
‘Inspiration hasn’t struck recently, though?’
My dad sighs and puts his fork down.
‘Well, I have a lot of projects that I’ve started, but nothing has really given me that spark I need to see it through. It’s hard to keep up momentum on something you’re not really interested in. And it’s not like I’ve been wasting my time since Bear Trap.’ He smiles at Dennis, perfectly good-natured.
‘Quite right! You haven’t,’ says Auntie Isobel warmly. ‘You’ve learned to cook better than most TV chefs! I remember when you first met Helen, and you could barely boil a carrot. Now look at you.’
But it’s no use. She can’t reroute the conversation because Dennis isn’t done yet.
‘You’re a braver man than I, Michael,’ he says.
Well, obviou
sly that’s true, but it’s clear this is only another backhanded compliment.
‘Oh yes?’
‘It takes bravery to let your wife make all the money while you stay at home with the kids. Very . . . modern.’ Dennis smiles wolfishly.
I involuntarily throw my head back and emit a guttural groan. I didn’t mean to; I just couldn’t suppress it. However, as it’s unconventional to communicate only in groans, I now have to say something.
‘It’s not everyone’s life mission to prove how aggressively “manly” they are,’ I snap. Even if my dad wasn’t a proper angel (which he is), I’m still not going to sit here and listen to this gendered nonsense from Mr Toxic Masculinity. ‘Some men can figure their lives out for themselves.’
‘Know a lot about men, do you?’ He chuckles, looking around the room for support.
I’ve clearly wound Dennis up, and now it’s my turn to be on the receiving end.
No, I know absolutely nothing about men, as my complete lack of progress with Joe is proving. Not really planning on opening up to Weird Dennis about that, though. Aunt Isobel sighs loudly and saves me from having to come up with a suitably witty answer.
‘Enough, Dennis. Enough,’ she says, rolling her eyes.
Her patience with him is wearing so thin, I can almost smell it. I say a little prayer that next time she comes round, she’ll have kicked him to the kerb already.
We eat in silence for a moment. Then Dad lays down his fork and sits looking thoughtful for a moment before finally speaking.
‘I do have to hand it to you though, Dennis,’ he says. ‘Only real men go to prison.’
I choke on my bread.
Dad 1: Dennis 0.
After dinner, I volunteer to wash up so I can avoid any further social time with World’s Worst Man. And so I can distract myself from the fact my phone hasn’t vibrated once all evening. No reply from Joe, no matter how many times I check. I zone out as I let my hands rise and fall in the warm, frothy suds. My moping is interrupted when Auntie Isobel slinks into the kitchen and comes to stand next to me at the sink.
‘Come into the garden with me, keep me company while I have a drink. I like being in your garden, even in the dark. As you know, I don’t have one, so even the novelty factor is enough for me,’ she says, stroking my hair.
I reluctantly agree, if only to keep her happy, and we go and sit outside on the back step in the cool evening air. A question tugs at my insides, and I let it niggle until I can’t keep it in any longer.
‘Why do you put up with him?’ Oh no. Too far, Emily. You can’t just ask people why they like dickheads.
But Auntie Isobel just chuckles and looks at me. ‘He can be awful sometimes, can’t he? It’s only when he’s around other people. It’s like he doesn’t know what to say or can’t figure out how to give some kind of appropriate response. He’s fine when it’s just us.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Don’t worry – I know he’s not The One. And yes, I still believe in that even at my advanced age.’
‘I don’t get it, then. What’s the point in going out with him?’
‘He’s fine for right now, and when I start to find him just too much to bear, I’ll move on. I know it seems a strange thing for someone to say, but it’s different when you’re older.’
‘Different how?’
‘I’ve found it doesn’t take as much out of me to compromise. I can sort of shrug my shoulders and say that I know people I’m dating aren’t perfect, but I know who I am, and they sort of . . . don’t make that much difference to me. They’re just nice to have, not essential. I’m still me. Which isn’t an approach I would recommend to you because, although I know you feel like a grown-up, emotionally you’re like a tiny little newborn baby, and you should be nourished in exactly the ways you need. And besides, you’re a sweet, sensitive soul under all that bluster. I’ve known you since you really were a tiny little newborn baby. I know you – you can’t just shrug things off.’
‘So, are you trying to tell me, in a roundabout way, that everything does get better?’ I ask, trying to sound sufficiently detached that she won’t know I’m asking for a reason.
‘I don’t want to make promises to you that I can’t keep, but . . . honestly, yes. Your twenties and thirties are the sweet spot. It’s terrible being a teenager, especially if you want to date boys. They’re so beholden to what their friends think, so obsessed with trying to impress each other. Everything gets a lot better once everyone’s surer of who they are. It does improve. Promise.’ She squeezes my knee.
‘It had bloody better.’
‘Oh no – what’s wrong?’
I sigh. ‘It’s not exactly a catastrophe. I’m just feeling kind of left out. Everyone seems to know what they’re doing except me. I’m worried that by the time things do start happening, I’ll be, like, old, you know? I don’t mean actually old—’
‘Like me!’ she interjects.
‘Exactly. No, that’s not what I mean at all. I just mean that it’ll be weird that I haven’t got all this experience that other people have, and it’ll be rubbish and embarrassing. That’s my current area of anxiety,’ I say.
She sips her wine and thinks for a moment. ‘I see what you mean. But you will never regret doing stuff in your own time, even if that’s slower than everyone else. There’s no point rushing this stuff. You’ll only end up getting hurt if you try.’
I think I would love the opportunity to get hurt. Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, and all that.
‘Emily . . .’ she says, gripping my wrist with her free hand as we stand to head back inside.
I look at her, hoping she isn’t about to say something extremely serious. ‘Yeah?’
‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry that he seems to want to wind you up so much. I was thinking earlier that I should tell him off more, but you do seem to be capable of handling yourself,’ she says.
‘Oh . . . um, that’s OK. He’s not your child or your pet, I guess,’ I reply.
‘It feels like he is a bit. To be honest with you, I can’t help thinking that being single might be a nice holiday,’ she says, with a wistful look in her eye.
An hour later, as we stand waving goodbye to my brilliant aunt and her dreadful boyfriend, I wonder if it’s truly that bad to be single. If I really think about it, I would rather literally die a virgin than have to deal with a man like Weird Dennis—
I feel my pocket buzz. I pull my phone out – and my heart leaps.
CHAPTER TEN
‘The Edge of Glory’ – Lady Gaga
If I’m going to make the playlist for Ella’s party, I’ll have to do it right, no messing. It’s the morning of the party, and I’m sitting at my laptop with Ted snuffling around my feet, trying to come up with the perfect assortment and sequence of songs to make a seamless start-to-finish . . . experience. Six hours is kind of a long time, it turns out.
Here’s my game plan: start off with stuff that was big over the summer, some recent mainstream fun – a little Sia, a little Drake. Then, move things along to some Blondie, Grace Jones, before segueing into some super-happy irony-free tunes to make people want to dance. Maybe Candi Staton followed by ‘Groove Is in the Heart’. ‘Yes, that’s the one,’ I whisper aloud as I feverishly drag songs into a playlist.
Once I’ve used those to establish that it’s time to dance, I can break out the girly pop bangers . . . I’m thinking Carly Rae Jepsen, Katy Perry, Little Mix. Let that danceable pop run for a good hour or so, to really keep the mood up, and then cue some Rihanna to transition into 90s hip hop, peaking with ‘Hypnotize’ by Notorious B.I.G., which I hold dear in my heart as one of my all-time faves.
Then on to the bad-girl bangers – some Kelis, some MIA, some Nicki Minaj – for the all-important phase of the night where everyone’s grinding on each other in the dark. I suppose I’m providing a public service: music to make out to. Once everyone’s cooled off a bit, we can dial it ba
ck down and end the night with some no-nonsense pop tunes like early Madonna. Perfect. A perfectly curated night of music, if I do say so myself.
That was . . . fun. And kind of easy. Maybe I should forego university and become a DJ. Note to self: ask the careers advisor at school about this.
I’ve taken pride in my task for a reason. Now, obviously I would care about making the playlist good anyway (I want Ella’s party to be a success! And I’m going, so of course I want it to be fun!). But if I’m honest, I especially, particularly care about making it good because I don’t want Joe to think I’m Bad At Music. Joe being at this party gives everything that extra . . . edge, that extra spark, that extra panic. High stakes. Every time I think about seeing him, my heart properly flutters. I thought that was just a made-up thing, like a way of talking about a thought you have about someone, but it turns out it’s real. Thinking about Joe produces that physical sparkle in my chest, and I can’t keep it away. It’s excitement and it’s uncertainty all at once. I’m excited for a thing I don’t know, that I can’t predict. Don’t worry: I know that realistically he has probably given no thought to me at all since I last went to Beats Per Minute. He doesn’t need to know he’s always on my mind—
‘Lunchtime!’ Dad calls from downstairs, snapping me out of my daydream.
I head downstairs and find that, like a genius, he’s made the perfect autumnal lunch of creamy chicken soup with French bread: the ideal calming antidote to my inner butterflies.
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