CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Dancing on My Own’ – Robyn
Everything is coming up Emily. Christmas is so nearly here, for the past few weeks I’ve have a maybe-boyfriend who I make out with and listen to records with at Beats Per Minute every Thursday night after it closes (no sex yet, but I think it’s heading that way soon), and I’ve made it to the end of term in one piece. School’s out and it’s officially the Christmas holidays, and I could not be happier about it. I don’t even care about mock exams after the break. All I care about is Oliver’s party tonight and the fact that Joe is going, and we will be out in the world together. That makes it real, right?
OK, outfit time. Hmm. What to wear? A slouchy, oversized shirt and tight jeans, I reckon. I think about Joe as I dress, wondering if he prefers it when I wear something more feminine or prettier or whatever. I look at myself in the mirror and like what I see, hoping he will too. I go downstairs and pick up my bag, but just as I’m about to head out the door, I turn on my heel, run back upstairs and switch the jeans for a stretchy jersey skirt. It doesn’t conceal the fat around my hips, but it is more girly. I’ll take it.
I arrive at the party at the same time as Ella and Sophia, who profess their excitement at finally being properly introduced to ‘my man’. I blush and tell them to shut up, but in reality, I can’t help but feel the warm glow of something like pride at the thought. My man. It feels good to be someone who other people are excited for. I’m not used to this.
When we make it inside, Abi is already there, and the party seems to be in full swing. Camila and Ryan look cosy on a sofa, but both quickly leap up to hug me. Even Ryan has shaken off his awkwardness around me. My heart leaps as I wonder if Joe is here already. My man.
Even though we all saw each other at school a matter of hours ago, we seem to have loads to talk about, and we gossip so excitedly, I temporarily forget about Joe. We knock back our blue alcopops in record time (embracing the spirit of Christmas), and I volunteer to get us a refill. I squeeze past a group of people loitering in the kitchen doorway to get to the fridge where our fluorescent blue bottles are chilling like a fine wine. Bending in front of the fridge, her legs looking long and perplexingly tanned for December, is Holly in a pair of denim shorts and a grey T-shirt, the epitome of casual-cool.
‘Happy end of term!’ I say to her with a smile. I’m feeling warm with the old holiday spirit, but more than that, I’ve felt less entirely suspicious of her since I saw her crying outside the sixth-form block last month. ‘Hope you’re doing all right now.’
But she doesn’t return my warmth, and her nostrils flare, presumably at my audacity in even alluding to her moment of weakness. Fine, fine, fine.
‘Brave of you to wear that skirt,’ she says, casting a critical eye over my outfit.
I feel her taking in the way the stretchy jersey clings to the fat around my middle. Clearly my good vibes towards her are not going to be reciprocated. But I don’t care. I just don’t care what Holly thinks of me tonight. I don’t have room to care. I only have room to look forward to seeing Joe.
‘Thanks, Holly,’ I say brightly, winking at her, before exiting the kitchen to dance with my friends who are waiting for me. Horrible Holly’s going to have to try harder than that to dampen my mood tonight, the mean-spirited little sprite. I wonder if anyone’s waiting for her to come back with a drink, or if she’s so unnecessarily rude to people, she’ll just end up hanging out alone all night, throwing side-eyes at everyone.
It feels good to be at a party and not continually checking the door to see if Joe’s walking through it. It makes me feel like a chilled-out normal person who can just drink and dance with my friends. I know he’ll be here eventually.
‘I got here early so I could call things off with Oliver before the party,’ Abi murmurs to me as we sit on the sofa after exhausting ourselves to Rihanna.
‘What? Why?’ I ask. This is certainly not what I was expecting to hear from someone who seems relatively relaxed and happy right now.
‘I realized, after our conversation, I was never going to want to have sex with him. And that’s important to him, you know? It’s cool – we still really like each other. I mean, I’m here at his party aren’t I? But I just feel better now the pressure’s off,’ she says, smiling.
Huh. That seems like a cool, grown-up thing to do.
I smile back. ‘Good for you.’
We clink our bottles together and sink back into the sofa, chilling out in companionable silence. It’s only when I see Joe chatting to Oliver in the doorway of the living room that I realize splayed casually on soft furnishings so that you have several chins is not the most seductive position. I scramble to my feet and go over to greet him. I didn’t even know he’d arrived . . . When did he get here? He doesn’t seem to be making any effort to come and find me. I guess he doesn’t know I’m already here.
‘Hey,’ I say, all low and soft and as seductively as I can. I snake an arm around his waist and kiss him on the cheek.
‘Oh, hi,’ he says, jumping back in surprise at my touch.
Why is he shocked to see me? It’s probably just me. Chill out, Emily.
Oliver smiles at me. ‘Abi told me you guys were—’
‘I’m going to get another drink,’ Joe interrupts, and he dashes off, calling back over his shoulder to ask if I want anything.
I just shake my head. He’s so tense – he’s talking to me like he doesn’t know me very well. Something feels off. When Joe’s disappeared into the kitchen, and it’s just me and Oliver, some strange impulse compels me to surreptitiously lift the can of Red Stripe Joe left on the coffee table to see if it’s empty. It’s not.
OK. It’s probably nothing. He probably just changed his mind about what he wanted to drink and went to get something else . . .
But when Joe comes back, he’s holding a can of Red Stripe and, if I’m not mistaken, deliberately positions himself on the other side of Oliver. But maybe I am mistaken? Snap out of it, Emily. He did not just pretend to have to go to the kitchen to get away from you. He just wouldn’t.
The hours tick by fairly uneventfully, but a shiver of suspicion has been set off in me. I’m watching all Joe’s movements through the obsessive lens of What does this mean? – taking them all in, watching for signs. Signs of what? Signs, I suppose, that he either does or doesn’t care about me. It feels like tearing the petals off a daisy.
He loves me; he loves me not.
Joe squeezes my hand fondly as he passes on his way to the bathroom (he loves me). Joe has still not kissed me (he loves me not). Joe keeps catching my eye and smiling at me (he loves me). Joe will not stand next to me for prolonged periods of time (he loves me not). Every time I think I’ve cracked it, he’ll do something to make me change my mind. Part of me wants to grab him by the collar and shout, ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT IS YOUR GAME HERE?’ in his face until he spells it out to me, but obviously that would be decidedly un-chill, so I can’t.
That’s it. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll switch off. I’ll mentally check out. For one night only, I will stop thinking about him; I will stop caring about him; I will stop analysing his every move. I will go about the rest of the party as if he wasn’t here. Fine.
I dance; I drink; I hang out with my friends. I try to let Joe slip out of my mind, which he doesn’t, because I’m manufacturing the forgetting, meaning – ironically – he’s always at the forefront of my mind. But still, at least I’m not constantly on the lookout for him. I don’t care what he’s doing. I’m hanging out with my friends. I’m playing it cool. I’m cool. My mind is constantly looking, but my eyes are determined to stay distracted.
After a solid couple of hours of ignoring Joe – in which I’ve given Abi a pep talk on why breaking up with Oliver was the right thing to do, made friends with some girl in a Joy Division T-shirt, mediated an argument between Ella and Sophia, and invented a new cocktail (the Bloody Emily) with some dudes in the kitchen – nature calls, and I set off in
search of the bathroom.
Props to Oliver: this is a well-attended party. People are hanging out in every room; a few people are in the garden, even though it’s cold. That said, I don’t pass Joe as I make my way upstairs, and with a little twist of regret I wonder if he’s already left. Would he really leave without saying goodbye to me? God, what a washout. This was meant to be a fun party for me, but I’ve spent the whole thing feeling kind of miserable. This was meant to be the first party that I officially attended with Joe, and instead I’ve spent it conspicuously separate from him. I hope he hasn’t left already. Maybe there’s still time for him to make up for being cold earlier.
As I’m washing my hands at the sink, I look out on to the small, well-manicured garden. I turn to grab a towel when something out there catches my eye. A couple locked together in a kiss. The guy’s hand up the girl’s shirt. My blood runs cold, but I can’t take my eyes off the scene – I just have to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. There’s no doubt about it. There, in the garden, floodlit by the brilliant white light from the patio, is Joe. And Holly. Unmistakably.
I can barely breathe. It feels like my chest is being gripped by a huge, hot, iron fist. Don’t cry, for God’s sake. Just don’t cry. I sit on the edge of the bath and zone out. But my trance is interrupted by someone banging on the door. I jump to my feet.
‘OK, OK – I’m nearly done,’ I call, my voice shaking so much, it doesn’t even sound like me.
‘Emily, is that you?’ I realize it’s Abi on the other side.
‘Yeah, um . . . do you want to come in?’
‘Not with you in there . . . Wouldn’t that be a bit weird?’ she asks.
‘No – I need your opinion on something,’ I say, looking once again out of the window to check they’re still at it. I shudder. They are. I open the door, and Abi enters with trepidation.
‘What’s going on? I only wanted a wee,’ she says.
‘Look out the window, into the garden,’ I tell her.
She leans on the sink for a moment, craning her neck to prove she’s really looking. Then her eyes widen.
‘Oh . . .’ she says.
‘Yeah.’
‘Literally what the actual hell? What is this?’ Abi’s nostrils flare with fury.
‘It’s definitely him, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ Abi says, craning her neck again to get another look. ‘It’s definitely him, the absolute fool. And it’s definitely Holly. I know by those stupid little shorts.’
‘God. Why? Why does this have to happen to me? Why . . . can’t things just work out right?’
Abi gives me a sympathetic look. ‘This has nothing to do with you,’ she says, grasping me by the shoulders.
‘It feels like it does. It feels like this is about me,’ I say, exasperated and, finally, on the point of bursting into tears.
‘No. Emily. You wouldn’t do this to someone, would you?’
‘No, Jesus, no.’ I shake my head as tears start rolling out of my eyes.
‘And why not?’
‘Because it’s wrong? Obviously?’ I say impatiently, brushing the tears away as gently as possible so I don’t smudge my mascara.
‘Right. You wouldn’t want to hurt someone you cared about. This isn’t your fault. This is their fault.’
Abi moves away from the window, and we perch ourselves side by side on the edge of the bathtub.
‘It’s just one kiss, maybe it doesn’t mean anything . . .’ I trail off.
Abi exhales loudly. ‘Even if that’s the case, look how it’s made you feel!’
‘I’ve thought about him every day for months on end. I wanted him so much! I don’t just want to throw this all away now I’ve got it.’
‘It seems like he’s the one that’s throwing it away. Which makes it very easy to see that he’s not good enough for you in the first place.’
‘But Horrible Holly! Why her?’
‘I don’t know. I would say he has bad taste in girls, but . . . he doesn’t. You’re a perfect treasure.’
‘I don’t feel like one right now. I feel like an ugly, unlovable mess.’
I’m not used to talking like this about myself. I want to be strong and kickass and assertive. How dare he put me in this position, where I’m blaming myself for being treated like this. But maybe it is my fault. Maybe everyone is right. Maybe if I wasn’t fat, these things wouldn’t happen to me. Maybe I would be easier to love. Maybe I wouldn’t be as easy to hurt. Maybe I would be more valuable. Maybe I only have myself to blame. Maybe I should have bowed to the pressure years ago and gone on some crash diet.
‘Emily, you are not an unlovable mess. Clearly, you’ve got something going for you, and that’s the problem. Holly’s always been jealous of you.’
‘Jealous? Of me? What?’ Why would Holly be jealous of me? Holly who’s too mean to care what anyone thinks of her. Holly who’s much thinner and much prettier than me . . . The idea of Holly wanting anything I have is totally bizarre.
‘Because you do so well at school without trying! Even when she tries, she doesn’t get as good grades as you do. And she really cares about grades. If you don’t do well, you just shrug it off and move on; you know it’s just because you were having a bad day or hadn’t revised or whatever. But Holly’s always competing with you, whether you’re competing or not.’
‘Oh . . . well. I never thought my grades would be something that someone would be jealous of.’ Abi’s hypothesis sounds kind of absurd, but also . . . I can see it. I can totally see it.
‘For real, they are. It’s not all about guys and looks, you know. You saw how upset she was when she didn’t get into the uni she wanted to go to. She really minds about that stuff.’
‘And given she didn’t like me anyway, she won’t care how much I like Joe. Hurting me is just a bonus,’ I say, slumping backwards into the empty bathtub.
‘She doesn’t even know you’re with Joe, though – surely this is just a coincidence?’
‘No. This is not a coincidence. She must have been planning this ever since she saw him outside school. He was waiting for me there one day last term, and she commented on how cute he was. Maybe if I’d gone for a less cute guy, she wouldn’t have wanted to make out with him, and I wouldn’t be here now. This is what I get for punching above my weight.’
Ugh. That expression. Somehow it always comes back to my weight. I sigh, sprawling pathetically in the tub. God, this is just horrible. I feel like I’m being turned inside out. I want to wail and throw myself at him asking what’s going on. Or maybe I just want to wail . . .
We’ve been in here a while now, and the knocks on the bathroom door have become too insistent for Abi and me to ignore any longer. We’re ushered out so people can use the toilet as intended rather than as a therapist’s office.
I look at my watch. It’s late, and there’s not much party left in me, so I decide to call it a night and head home. I give Abi a hug and go downstairs, but just as I’m making my way to the front door (attempting a quick, quiet exit, not wanting to say goodbye to anyone else in case I burst into tears when I open my mouth), I feel a hand on my shoulder.
‘You off?’ Joe asks.
As if he cares. I turn around to face him. He’s swaying slightly and his gaze is unfocused. Clearly he’s been powering through those cans of Red Stripe. I notice pinky-brown lipstick smudges around his mouth. I’m glad I already spotted him and Holly, that I’ve already felt the sharpest bit of the pain, that I’m not finding out right this second.
‘Yeah, I’m going home,’ I say defiantly.
‘Oh, cool. I didn’t get to hang out with you much,’ he says, looking at me intently like he’s trying to figure out if I know or not.
And whose choice was that?
‘You didn’t really seem up for it,’ I say.
‘Oh. Sorry,’ he says, leaving the words hanging there dully.
‘Anyway. Bye.’ I turn to leave.
Why isn’t he trying to say good
bye properly? Why doesn’t he try to stop me from leaving and say, ‘Hey, let’s do something fun soon.’ I guess I’m really not top of his list of priorities tonight. As I go to pull the door closed behind me, I see him already meandering off towards Holly. She catches my eye and waves at me, her face twisted into the smug smile of victory.
It feels like the bottom has fallen out of my stomach.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘What Have I Done to Deserve This?’ –
Pet Shop Boys
Christmas is rubbish. You wait all year for it, and then it’s a huge anticlimax. So far this year, it’s been even worse than usual. I’ve woken up every morning of the holidays and managed about three seconds of awakeness before remembering that Joe is gone, and everything is rubbish, and I never deserved him in the first place. And now it’s Boxing Day which is the most bleh day of them all.
There’s been radio silence from Joe ever since the party a week ago. He’s probably off with Holly, rolling around under the mistletoe. But I’m not contacting him. I thought my silence might prompt him into action, but no. Nothing. I don’t know what I’d say to him; I just want to hear something from him. I want him back. I’ll be normal, I promise; I won’t be a weird stalking girlfriend; I won’t mind if we have sex or not; I won’t mind about anything. As long as I have him. As long as I’ve got someone incredibly fit and clever who gives me records and wants to talk about books; someone who says I’m cute or beautiful or whatever he wants to call me.
The only thing that’s making this holiday in any way bearable (apart from my dad’s cooking and a constant flow of Cadbury Roses) is the fact Katie is back from Manchester for a few days. It’s a welcome distraction, but it has also made me feel quite down. I tell her all about Joe, and I can tell she feels sorry for me over what happened with Holly, which I just hate. Even though I would feel sorry for me too. I hate that I’m someone you would pity, I hate that such pathetic things happen to me, and I hate that they get me down so much. I should be able to bounce back from this in no time, but here I am, all sad and moping and going through the box of Roses looking for the strawberry creams as if that’s going to solve all my problems.
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