Some Kind of Wonderful

by Giovanna Fletcher

  In a moment of abandon I grabbed Connie’s hand and led her to the other side of a big wheelie bin, where I managed to convince her that we strip out of our jeans, lower our tops and treat our bras as bikini tops. We were allowed in, and at no point did anyone query the fact that we were both a year underage, or that we were indirectly being forced into getting our kit off so that we could go inside and have a flirt with some older men. Back then I was so set on a night out that I’d do just about anything to make it happen. I was a sociable little thing.

  I can’t remember the last time I acted like that. Yes, it might’ve been a bit reckless and slutty (I will never show my mum and dad this particular pic), but I was having fun. You can see in the picture that I’m laughing my head off and that we all seem like such a tight bunch of fab people.

  At what point did I drift so far from that image that I forgot about it? If I think back, Ian and I did go out a fair bit in the first year, although it was rarely to clubs. Ian hated them with a passion. He was more into his bands, so we went to a lot of gigs and listened to live music instead. It was because he harboured this great passion for and knowledge of music that I became disengaged from my own love of dancing. I thought I could rock my body to anything with a musical beat. However, Ian’s preferred musicians wrote songs that made heartache sound like it was something to disparagingly wallow in, rather than shake off and dance about. There was no room for me to strut my stuff underneath an imaginary glitter ball, close my eyes and see where the music took me. I guess I could’ve done so if I were starring in an episode of Girls – Lena Dunham would’ve had Hannah experimental dancing across the stage – but I wasn’t. So I didn’t. Instead, I’d do as Ian did and quietly sit nodding my head appreciatively. His love was an art form. Mine focused on carefree fun. His seemed cooler, and I guess at a point in life where I was desperate to fit in and be accepted, I was happy to absorb his preferences. I wanted to please him and for him to know I was totally right for him. I was his ‘one’.

  How have I got to this point in life, where I’d rather spend a night in on the sofa watching Making a Murderer than getting dressed up to go out with mates? Because this isn’t just about a difference in musical taste, it’s not even about having more self-control and keeping myself fully dressed at all times. It’s the social element that really causes me to take a moment and ponder the difference between me then and me now. I was a social butterfly, whereas now I’m more likely to turn down an invite to go out (they have become few and far between), with some silly excuse about work or lying about already having plans.

  Perhaps putting myself out there once more is the way to paddling my way back to the girl I once was, and saving her in some way.

  The picture is enough to get me thinking in a more detailed way of the changes I’ve undergone since meeting Ian – some little, some big. Changes that I made, not because he necessarily asked me to, but because I chose to for one reason or another.

  I jump on to the bed, grabbing an old notepad in which I’d written a few lovesick poems over Henry Collard, my first senior school crush, and start writing everything I know about the girl who left for Sheffield ten years ago.

  ‘She …’ I start writing, realizing that I feel so far removed from the girl I once was that I’ve automatically started talking about her in the third person. She seems like someone I used to know, rather than am.

  What a scary thought to begin with.

  She …

  … was eighteen years old.

  … loved going out with her mates and would regularly be carried home or bundled into the designated driver’s car after one too many.

  … would go out on a Monday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday.

  … would dance literally like no one was watching (they probably weren’t anyway), and let the music transport her somewhere else. She didn’t care if it was some cheesy 80s tune or hardcore drum and base – if it had a beat, she was there.

  … saw mates every night.

  … loved an Archers and lemonade.

  … used to socially smoke.

  … had killer legs.

  … could wear heels all night and not complain.

  … loved her body.

  … loved the greats like Bananarama and the Spice Girls but wasn’t afraid to mix it up with a little R’n’B or drum and bass.

  … listened to Kiss FM.

  … loved Kiss FM because it made her feel naughty and sexy.

  … had a huge crush on the actor Billy Buskin and had his poster on her wall.

  … loved quick and easy food. Pasta, fish fingers, waffles, chicken dippers and frozen lasagnes (the ones we’ve since found contained horse meat) when Mum wasn’t around to cook.

  … used to wear multi-coloured eyeshadow. (My eyelids were a disco ball of fun at all times. Even my eyeliner was blue.)

  … was useless in the kitchen as Mum used to do it all.

  … could devour a tub of Häagen-Dazs ice cream in one sitting and not feel sick.

  … wore thongs.

  … wore miniskirts, tops as skirts, bras to clubs.

  … also mixed it up with her daytime look of baggy jeans and cute little character tops.

  … loved singing!

  … watched MTV.

  … loved Big Brother and Friends and watched them religiously.

  … was a soap slut. Emmerdale, Hollyoaks, Corrie, EastEnders – she loved the lot.

  … shaved her legs every day – just in case.

  … was very handy with DIY, although a little haphazard in her approach.

  … would whip off her bra and get into her PJs as soon as she got home.

  … used to swear like a trooper. Every sentence contained the f-word.

  … used to write poems about anything and everything – e.g. Henry Collard.

  … was a big-time lover of cheese.

  … weighed eight stone two and wondered if that was a little chubby.

  … drank tea with milk and two sugars.

  … made the meals she could cook (pasta sauce, curry and chilli con carne) with copious amounts of garlic. She loved garlic.

  … used to wear a crazy amount of make-up.

  … never used to dye her hair.

  … used to work in the home department in Debenhams and enjoyed making the displays look pretty while harmlessly flirting with the guys in Electricals on the upper floor.

  … wanted to travel the world.

  … had been in a three-month relationship with Richard – which felt very long term and committed. (Clearly I revised this thought when I met Ian and subsequently broke Richard’s heart.)

  … thought we’d live in a trendy area of East London together and be super cool.

  … was extremely excited to be moving up north and gaining a bit of freedom from ‘The Parentals’.

  … thought anything was possible.

  I sit back and look at the list, wondering if there’s anything else I should add to it. It’s funny how quickly the words have been tumbling down and on to the page; she’s clearly an unforgettable character.

  Deciding it’s a solid start I turn the page and start a new list, accessing how far I am away from where I once was.

  Now I …

  … am twenty-eight years old.

  … rarely go out with my mates, and always make excuses as to why I have to pull out of arrangements. So much so that people have stopped asking me to join them on nights out.

  … can’t remember the last time I was so drunk I literally had to be carried home.

  … drink sensibly or not at all.

  … drink organic red wine – unless on holiday and can make full use of the bar for cocktails. I would personally prefer white wine at home, but seeing as Ian is a red wine fanatic it didn’t make sense to have two bottles open at once.

  … quite fancy an Archers and lemonade.

  … don’t smoke at all.

  … on the rare occasions we do go out, rarely dance. I’ve lost my mojo and
therefore feel awkward and silly. I feel like I’m being watched and judged.

  … still have killer legs. Seriously. They’re my best asset.

  … couldn’t think of anything worse than having to wear high heels. I wear an inch to work and that’s enough. My back, feet, knees and shins can’t take the strain – plus I look like Bambi on ice as I cautiously totter about.

  … am dubious about my body. I see its flaws glaring back at me whenever I look into a mirror.

  … try to tackle those flaws in the gym, three times a week.

  … still love the greatest bands of all time but now have an even more diverse love of music, especially the live stuff.

  … hate Kiss FM. Yes, completely contradicting the statement above but it’s just noise.

  … feel old if I listen to Kiss FM. I’ve even outgrown Radio One. I’m now on to BBC Radio Two!

  … have a profound respect for the very talented Billy Buskin … and am currently contemplating putting a poster of him back up in my old room.

  … never eat processed foods as I know they contain too much sugar, salt and unknown ingredients, like horsemeat. We got a bit obsessed with food documentaries and after seeing what I’ve seen there’s no going back.

  … cook! And I’m great at it. Everything is fresh and prepared from scratch.

  … would settle for a tub of Booja-Booja (a sugar- and dairy-free ice-cream alternative) over Häagen-Dazs.

  … wear more natural make-up and usually neglect my eyelids altogether.

  … wear big knickers and don’t understand why I ever tortured myself with thongs, or thought they were sexy.

  … wear clothes as they’re intended and in the manner they were designed for – to cover me up!

  … can’t remember the last time I wore baggy jeans or a top that had a character on it – superhero or otherwise.

  … rarely sing. Not even in the shower.

  … binge watch Friends, New Girl, Gossip Girl and Girls (lots of ‘girls’ in there) whenever Ian is out (this will no longer be an issue).

  … don’t watch any soaps at all.

  … never shave my legs unless I’m wearing a dress or shorts. What’s the point if no one is going to touch them?

  … haven’t had to do a DIY project for a few years. Ian has been in charge of the tools since we moved into the flat.

  … would never let my boobs swing freely without a bra on. Ian once (rather innocently) referred to them as my udders, which led to me keeping them in my balcony bra until bedtime so they looked more pleasing and I felt more attractive.

  … try my best not to swear as I realize it’s not big or clever. However, I still secretly believe there is nothing more satisfying than dropping ‘fuck’, fucking’ or ‘fucked’ into a conversation.

  … never write poems – although maybe lists can become my new thing.

  … rarely bother buying cheese because Ian hates it and it goes to waste. My intake is usually limited to Christmas when I can eat it with family.

  … weigh ten stone. Fuck. How’d that happen? I think my bones got heavier. Come to think of it, my clothes have shrunk too.

  … am caffeine free and usually drink fresh mint tea.

  … never cook with garlic because Ian said it gave him migraines. Food is bland without it. I’m pretty sure it’s psychological on his part as there’s always garlic in the dinners we eat outside of the house.

  … work for a small interior design company here in Essex called Home Comforts. Being Essex-based we largely add bling and garish prints to people’s homes. It’s not to my own taste (I’d say it borders on tacky), but the clients are always super happy with the work we do.

  … still want to travel the world. (Seeing Africa, having a fleeting trip to Venice and driving across America on Route 66 was great, but it didn’t quench my thirst for it at all. I always wanted to see more, but our jobs have prevented it from happening.)

  … have been dumped by the person I dumped Richard for.

  … have moved out of my flat in Chelmsford (not a cool part of town), and back in with my mum.

  … don’t crave the freedom I did when leaving for university, but rather need some parental support.

  … miss my friends.

  … wonder when life stopped being so fun.

  … no longer think anything is possible.

  … actually think ‘life’ is a bag of shit.

  I feel pretty het up as I place the pen down and look at the two lists side by side. I mean, I’ve gone a bit depressing at the end, but my hand took over on that one and I didn’t bother stopping it – a spot of free-flowing writing is supposedly meant to be good for the soul.

  So now I know who I was and who I am. I’m not suggesting for a minute that Ian was the sole cause for me adapting my ways and becoming someone new; I’m sure a lot of it was because I grew up in the time we were together, but some of it is a direct result of our relationship and I have to think about whether I want to be the person Ian helped create.

  I don’t.

  I want to peel back the Ian layers and find me again.

  I start by bringing my hand around to my back, unhooking my bra through my top and whipping it out of my sleeve.

  It’s a step in the right direction.

  11

  ‘God, this is depressing,’ I hear, as Michelle waddles into the room and looks over the boxes surrounding me on the floor, one side of her upper lip curling in disgust as she leans back against the wall. Her face is somewhat similar to mine but also nothing alike at the same time. Our eyes, noses, mouths and even ears are different from each other, but it’s the way we use them that anchors us together as sisters. Maybe it’s the characteristics we’ve inherited from our parents I can see reflected in her face that remind me of myself. Little mannerisms we’ve picked up from the environment we grew up in that’ll always give our connection away. She’s always been blonder than me, although this has been heightened thanks to her obsession with bleach. She’s two inches smaller and far rounder, with curves that seem to go out and in at just the right points. Her eyes are bigger and brighter, her nose smaller, though with the same sloped tip. Her cheeks are rounder, pinker and plump – as are her lips. Mine always seem rather deflated in comparison, especially when she’s pouting them in the manner she is right now.

  Michelle has come upstairs wearing her Ugg boots. A trail of mud follows her in, along with a waft of freshly washed clothes. Mum said she’s been frantically washing before the baby gets here, but I didn’t realize that applied to her own clothes too. Her navy wrap dress is covered by a chunky grey knit cardigan, yet even through the layers I can see her bump has really grown in the two and a half weeks since I’ve seen her. She’s popped out. She doesn’t look as comfy any more either, although that could be a direct result of hauling herself up Mum’s narrow stairs, and she’s still got a fair way to go. I won’t be pointing that out right now though, as she tends to be quite sensitive about anything and everything I have to say about her pregnancy, or upcoming wedding. She’s feistier than me, always has been.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, continuing to sort the boxes into ‘keep’, ‘charity’ and ‘dump’ piles. Unsurprisingly, the ‘dump’ pile is growing the quickest. I’m no longer feeling attached to some of the things I once loved and cherished.

  ‘Seriously though, I did not see this coming. I thought you were going to totally eclipse me with some engagement news, and that everyone would be yapping on about that next week,’ she frowns, disbelievingly shaking her head while simultaneously scratching one side of her bump. ‘I didn’t expect you to steal the attention by letting your life fall apart twelve days before the biggest moment of my life.’

  ‘It’s not like I planned this,’ I say, telling myself not to argue with a pregnant lady, even if she is being an absolute moron.

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ she pokes, inspecting the ends of her hair and picking at a split end before dropping it on the floor.

&nb
sp; ‘That’s not very nice,’ I reprimand, feeling like our mother.

  She stares at me, declining to retract her cold statement as she sweeps her hair over her shoulder and places her hands on her hips.

  She’s two years younger than me, meaning most of our childhood was spent with me doing things that she couldn’t. She constantly whined and bitched, but I thought that all largely ended when I left home for Sheffield. I didn’t realize she was still harbouring feelings of resentment over the fact I passed through our mother’s fanny before she did. I mean, that’s hardly my fault and not something I’ve ever wanted to, or felt I needed to, apologize for.

  ‘You’re about to get married and then give birth. I think it’s safe to say all eyes will, well and truly, be on you,’ I say curtly, hoping she’ll see sense.

  ‘They won’t,’ she strops, flapping her arms by her sides. ‘As if they will be now you’ve gone and done this.’

  ‘Don’t be a twat,’ I sigh, dropping my eyes to the useless box of magazines by my feet – mostly Sugar, Sneak and Bliss, but with the odd cheeky More thrown in too (bought for Position of the Fortnight, even though I most definitely would not have been having sex at the time). It might be interesting to see familiar faces of long-forgotten celebrities on the cover, but I don’t need to be hoarding them for the rest of my life.

  ‘Mum and Dad are going to be constantly looking at you to see if the strain is too much. “Oh no, Michelle is content and happy, how must our Lizzy feel?” ’ she mocks, her hands over her chest as she looks painfully worried.

  My mouth drops in response.

  ‘It’s not a competition,’ I manage to say.

  ‘No,’ she agrees. ‘You wouldn’t feel that way, because you’ve always been the winner. But as soon as I was set to trump you you’ve gone and derailed the race and set it on a completely different course.’

  ‘Seriously? Are you actually being fucking serious?’ I gasp. I’m all for a spot of healthy sibling rivalry, but this is ridiculous.