by Helly Acton
Amy, if you win this, you’ll never have to work again.
Besides, she can’t back out of this session now. She’s signed the contract. She has to spill everything. She has to tell the world about her relationship, even though she’s spent the last two years avoiding the subject, and with the very person she is in a relationship with. Was.
‘Amy Wright, thirty-two, only child, a copywriter.’ Dr Hicks interrupts her thoughts.
‘That’s me,’ says Amy, pinching the skin on the back of her hand.
‘Tell me, Amy, why do you think you’re here today?’
He puts the iPad down on the table and rests his fingers in prayer mode under his chin.
‘Because I’m a … complete dickhead?’ She shrugs her shoulders and fake-laughs. If she doesn’t fake-laugh, she’ll cry, for real.
He raises one eyebrow. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Well, I’ve wasted two years of my life with the wrong person, and now I have to start all over again.’ She can feel her cheeks heating up.
‘Start what all over again?’
‘I don’t know, trying to find someone to do life with?’ Her stomach cramps when she thinks about how desperate she must sound.
You’re such a loser.
‘And what does that mean to you? Do life?’ he asks.
‘Living together, marriage, kids, holidays, seeing things, having experiences – I don’t know, doing normal stuff that normal people do at my age.’ She sniffs and pinches the bridge of her nose.
Please don’t.
Her eyes glisten and she bites her bottom lip to stop it from shaking.
No no no no no no no.
The silence is pierced by a loud gulp.
Dr Hicks stares at her, which isn’t helping. He knows that she’s about to cry. He probably wants her to. It’ll make great TV.
Here it comes.
She grabs a tissue and quickly wipes away a tear racing down her cheek. But she can’t hold it in anymore. Letting go of her lip, she grabs a fistful of tissues and starts wailing.
‘Why are you crying?’ asks Dr Hicks, without moving an inch. He just sits there, staring at her. Not helping. Not caring.
‘I hate myself, I’m so pathetic.’ She gulps for air in between sobs, grabbing more tissues to hide her ugly crying face from the camera. When she lowers her hands one of the tissues sticks to her eye. She quickly snatches it off.
That’s the shot. I’m going to be a meme.
‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t think I’d get so emotional,’ she says, before blowing her nose and hoping to God it doesn’t go everywhere when she removes her hand. ‘I thought I was over it. I didn’t even feel that sad when Jamie dumped me – I just felt angry. These are angry tears.’
‘It’s perfectly natural to cry. And it’s perfectly natural to feel angry. But who are you angry with?’
‘Him … Me.’
‘Why?’ he asks.
She inhales and exhales deeply through trembling lips. Lowering her head, she picks the tissues apart.
‘I thought I had it all sorted. I thought I was going to get married. I thought I was going to have kids. I thought I was going to be just like all my other friends who are already miles ahead of me. Now I’m thinking, there’s no hope. I’m single again. I’ve lost two years of my life and I’m never going to find anyone else. I’m going to end up forever alone, with no children, no family and no friends. And the thing is, I probably deserve it. I could see Jamie wasn’t right. I saw the signs. The great big neon billboard signs right in front of my face saying: He is not the one! He doesn’t make you happy! I’m angry because I’ve let myself down and I’ve ruined my chances of having a happy, normal life. What’s wrong with me? Why do I have such bad taste in men?’
‘Amy, do you think there’s something wrong with you?’
‘I don’t know!’ Her voice is wobbly again, but now her tissues are torn up and she has nothing to bury her face in. Her fingers dig into her eyes. ‘I’m ugly, I’m fat, I’m old, I’m boring? I have bingo wings, big nostrils and I breathe loudly?’ she says, rapid-fire.
‘Would your friends describe you that way?’
‘No. But they’re probably too busy to know what I’m like anymore,’ she snivels. ‘For all they know, I could have run away with the circus, married a traveller and popped out three babies. Actually, if I had three babies they’d sit up and see me again. Kids are the ticket to their grown-up club.’
‘Why are they too busy?’
‘They’re planning baby showers, first birthdays, redoing their basements, booking family holidays. I know it’s not their fault, that’s the life they’re supposed to be living. That’s the life I’m supposed to be living. But I just keep on making terrible life choices that take me further and further away from that.’
‘Do you compare yourself to your friends a lot?’ he asks.
‘No,’ she fibs.
‘And what about social media – do you use it?’ He picks up his iPad and types something. ‘I see lots of women your age who think their friends are living better lives than they are because of what they see on Instagram and Facebook.’
‘Not really.’
Yes! All the time! is what she should say. What she should say is, ‘It’s my go-to when I’m waiting for anything. Thirty seconds for the kettle to boil? That’s enough for a few stories. Pedestrian light gone red? I have to check what everyone else has been up to in the last thirty minutes. Walking up the stairs and watching my step? Boring! I need to know who Sarah’s with at that bar, I don’t care if I fall and break my neck.’
The truth is that her screen is what greets her in the morning and what tucks her in at night. And the script never changes.
1. Open Instagram
Flip through stories, then scroll. Feel depressed you aren’t where @lottietheexplorer is. Feel more depressed when you see that Jane’s new kitchen is the size of your flat.
2. Open Facebook
Scroll through a sea of sponsored posts about weight loss. Click on a link to a listicle about the world’s most fashionable pets. Hate yourself for wasting your life.
3. Open the Mail Online
Hide your screen from Jamie. Avoid anything about Love Island. Finish on an article about D-list celebrity weight gain. Pledge to delete the app tomorrow.
Suddenly Dr Hicks’ iPad is in her face, interrupting her daydream.
‘Amy, I want you to explain what you’re doing in this picture.’
It takes Amy a few seconds to register what she’s seeing.
‘Where did you get this?’ she asks, confused.
It’s a picture of the bouquet toss at Angela’s wedding three years ago. In the foreground are a group of women reaching out with feverish eyes and howling mouths, clambering over each other trying to catch it. Amy is not part of the group. She’s standing on the outside looking bored, with one arm firmly down and the other holding a glass of champagne. Amy remembers that wedding reception vividly. Well, not the actual reception itself. More like the next day, when everyone had messaged her about getting off with Angela’s lechy fifty-year-old uncle on the dance floor. She had wanted to die. It was the last in a series of hazy and questionable choices she had made in the aftermath of her break-up with Ben. She was the only single woman at the wedding, she wanted to feel wanted that night and after two bottles of wine, he would do. She didn’t drink for a month after that.
‘Our researchers found it,’ Dr Hicks continues. ‘I want to know what you were thinking at that moment,’ he says.
‘I was thinking that bouquet tosses make women look really pathetic. Like we’re all desperate to get married. Like we’re all rivals, racing each other to the altar. I didn’t want to be part of it out of principle,’ she says, composing herself.
‘Interesting.’ He takes the iPad away from her, placing it on the table between them and staring at her again. ‘And you say you do want to get married?’
‘I didn’t want to catch the bo
uquet because I think it’s embarrassing. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to get married.’
He nods as he taps the screen.
‘Amy, I have one last question for you.’
‘OK.’ She’s gathering up her tissues.
‘Did you love Jamie?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ she responds, a little too defensively.
‘What did you love about him?’ he asks.
Her mind goes blank. What did she love about Jamie?
Good skin. Nice smile. Clean teeth. Stacks the dishwasher. Makes supper. Has a job. Doesn’t live in a cardboard box. Clever.
‘He was clever,’ she says. ‘Sorry, I mean he is clever.’
‘Is intelligence important to you in a life partner?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it makes having conversations a bit easier, I suppose,’ she says.
‘What did you and Jamie talk about?’
‘Lots of things. Life. His business. Current affairs.’
The truth is that conversations with Jamie had entered drought status months ago. Their interactions revolved around whether there was milk in the fridge, what they fancied for supper and if Jamie was going to the gym. Occasionally they’d branch out into discussing Headplace. Jamie would ask Amy for an opinion on a logo; she’d choose her favourite and he’d choose anything but her favourite. She’d learnt long ago not to bring up her own work. His standard response would be, ‘I’m not sure, Piglet. Just do what you gotta do,’ which didn’t even make sense half the time. He hadn’t always been like that. At the start, he was involved. Interested. He helped her with her CV, he put feelers out for contract work, he even read some of her copy and showered her with praise. But after a year of investing in the effort, he could sit back and relax. He’d caught her. She was going nowhere at her age, and he knew it.
‘Amy?’ Dr Hicks leans forward.
‘Yes, sorry?’ She blinks, coming back into the room.
‘I said, did you ever talk about your relationship?’
‘Sometimes,’ She responds. Never.
‘And when you did, what did you talk about? Can you give me an example?’
‘He gave me a key to his flat recently, and told me I could come and go as I pleased,’ she says. ‘Well, as long as I gave him some notice.’
Dr Hicks stares at her.
Yes, thank you. I realise how stupid that sounds now. But the key proved our relationship was serious. You don’t give someone a key if you’re about to break up with them.
‘And did you talk about what the key meant for your relationship?’
‘No, I didn’t think we needed to. It was symbolic.’
‘Did you ever discuss your future?’ he asks. ‘Marriage, kids, that kind of thing?’
He did refer to her as ‘wifey’ once when she went through a phase of packing their lunches. She wasn’t doing it to be ‘wifey’, she was doing it to save money. The comment had both irritated and pleased her. Irritated her for making her feel servile, and pleased her because he was thinking about her like that. And then she was irritated with herself for feeling pleased.
You can’t say that in front of the cameras. You will look like such a moron.
‘He called me “wifey” once,’ she says.
Oh, Amy.
Dr Hicks stares at her again.
She sighs and rubs under her eyes, conscious of the mascara smears on her cheeks.
‘No, not really. Sorry, it’s quite hard to think of examples on the spot when I’m being watched. I need more time. I need a break.’
‘OK, Amy. I think that’s enough for now.’
‘That’s what I just said.’
He picks up the iPad and starts tapping, leaving Amy to wonder if she has to apologise to anyone. She doesn’t think she’s said anything offensive, but she should probably apologise for being such a blubbering mess.
‘I have some homework for you. I’d like you to work on it before our next session in a week.’ Dr Hicks stands up and walks over to a printer on the other side of the room.
Amy looks at what he’s wearing from behind. Brown cardigan. Brown cords. Brown loafers. His clothes are worn and his few remaining tufts of hair are unkempt. He must be in his late fifties. No wedding ring, but then not all men wear them.
‘I can’t believe Pete wears a wedding ring,’ Jamie had said, laughing as they clambered into a taxi after leaving a supper at Jane’s last year – the last supper they’d been to as a couple. ‘How pussy-whipped is he?’
Amy hated that expression, and had asked Jamie before not to use it.
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ replied Amy, feeling her toes curl.
‘Women wear rings. Real men wear Rolexes.’ He raised his eyebrows and lowered his chin in the look that said, ‘You’re so silly’. Amy had a love-hate relationship with that look. It was so arrogant. Why did she find it so sexy?
‘Real men shouldn’t be worried about whether they look like real men,’ she replied, gazing out of the taxi window at the raindrops racing across the glass. ‘They should wear what they like. I just think if women wear wedding rings, it makes no sense for men not to.’
‘Since when did you become such a little feminist?’ he said. ‘Is pocket-rocket Piglet on a mission to smash the patriarchy?’
‘No.’ She was getting goosebumps. She couldn’t tell if it was because he was making her skin crawl or because he was kissing her neck. ‘Piglet’s on a mission to prove that you’re a sexist pig.’
Then he’d oinked into her ear, making her laugh and ending the conversation.
How could she have let a comment like that pass? When did she become so sloppy with her standards? What had happened to her? Twenties Amy would have stopped the cab, hopped out and skipped off, confidently telling him never to call her again. What happened was that she hit thirty and found The Fear. The fear of not finding The One. And if she didn’t want to die alone, she’d have to accept unacceptable behaviour.
The printer hums into action and breaks her train of thought. Dr Hicks returns to his seat with a single sheet of A4 paper and three questions on it.
Amy Wright, Day Four,
Session One: homework
When did Jamie make you feel happy in your relationship?
When did Jamie make you feel unhappy in your relationship?
Name what you need to feel happy in a relationship.
Amy reads the list of questions, as Dr Hicks hands her a pen.
‘We’ll discuss your responses next week.’ He takes a seat and starts clicking on the iPad again. ‘Goodbye, Amy. Good luck with the baby.’
‘Thanks,’ she says, as she stands up and all the tissue bits scatter across the floor.
Ten
‘YOU CAN HAVE HIM BACK NOW!’ shouts Jackie from behind fake-baby Ben’s moon head, with his glassy eyes and a mouth that’s covered in crust.
‘Where’s yours?’ asks Amy, amused, grabbing him and holding him at arm’s length.
He stinks.
‘Under a blanket where she can’t be seen, heard or smelt!’ Jackie tuts, walking away. ‘Why the fuck you’d ever want a baby in real life is beyond me! Do you hear me, Aaron? Why would you want to live this fucking nightmare?’
Jackie slumps onto the sofa and lets out a big sigh.
‘Don’t tell me you want one of these?’ she asks Amy.
‘I do. One day. I’m an only child, so I always thought that having a family would be fun.’
‘Ah.’ Jackie raises her hand for a high five. ‘I’m in the Only Child Club, too. Did Jamie ever use it against you? Aaron always said I had “only child syndrome”. Which meant I was selfish and spoilt. Apparently, I don’t care about anyone else except me and my dad.’
‘Jamie used to tell me I had only child syndrome because I was needy, which wasn’t true at all. I think he just wanted something to use against me. Did your parents spoil you? I feel like mine did, a bit.’
‘Parent. It was just me
and Dad growing up. Mum left when I was a baby. He didn’t have much to spoil me with, but I suppose we were very close. Didn’t let many people in. That’s what bothered Aaron.’ She looks down at her lap. Amy sees her swallow. ‘I hope Dad’s going to be OK with me in here. I see him every day, you know, now that he’s getting on. I shouldn’t be here. God, maybe I am Selfish Jackie.’
She inhales deeply and exhales hard. ‘I just hope staying was the right decision for us. Me and Dad, I mean. Not Aaron. Cold-hearted bastard doesn’t know the meaning of family – he can fuck right off.’
‘Why did you decide to stay?’ asks Amy gently.
‘I think I just needed an escape from reality for a while. And the truth is, we need the money. This show might be about helping me find a long-term relationship, but I couldn’t give a shit about letting another man into my life right now. Our lives, I suppose. I have to include Dad. We’ve been really struggling. I lost my job last year, which meant I couldn’t help Dad out as much as I used to. I want to win this for him. Give him a better life. Pay him back for everything he gave up for me. I just don’t know how I’m going to pretend to be “a keeper” when I’m the opposite. I was thinking I could get some publicity out of it afterwards, even if I don’t win. Sorry, probably a bit too much information. And Aaron thought I was good at keeping secrets. The arsehole doesn’t know me at all.’
‘Well, if your dad has a TV at least he can watch you every day. I’m sure he’s really excited for you.’ Amy smiles, giving her a side hug.
‘He sounded excited. Well, more like confused, actually. I called him before I came on to make sure he was going to be OK. Didn’t have a clue what I was on about, but I told him what channel to watch and at what time. We’re a tight unit, me and Papa. I’d never let anyone or anything get between us.’
The next night, Ben won’t go to sleep. Again, the little shit. He has kept her up for three nights running now. It’s 1 a.m. and Amy has been pacing back and forth with him for over two hours. Everyone else went to bed long ago, and she feels deranged with tiredness.
