Some Kind of Wonderful

by Giovanna Fletcher

  ‘A little,’ she shrugs.

  ‘Fuck off, Chelle,’ I say, picking up a Sugar from next to me and chucking it into a box that’s sitting next to her to hammer home my point. The bang makes us both jump.

  ‘No, you fuck off,’ she hisses with such a strain that she causes a vein to pop out on her forehead. ‘I’m getting married. This is my time!’ she shrieks. ‘This should be the happiest time of our lives. Mum and Dad should be fussing over me and gushing about how wonderful the whole thing is, but instead you’re here with your broken fucking heart and my feelings are going to be a mere second thought.’

  ‘I think you should calm down before you harm the baby,’ I say, lowering my voice while trying to be a responsible adult – something I always fail to be when I’m around Michelle.

  ‘Are you saying I’m a bad mum already?’ she says, her face clouding over and turning thunderous, almost murderous.

  Oh fuck.

  ‘Of course not,’ I say, trying my best to reel it back in while feeling my patience wane. This is not OK. I really don’t want to be arguing with her, but equally she’s gone a bit One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest on me and I can feel my heart angrily pumping in response to her unsympathetic attitude towards me.

  ‘Are you saying I’m not putting my baby first?’

  ‘Chelle!’ I say, trying to stop her falling further into the hormonal pit of pregnancy.

  ‘You are something else. Coming in here and stampeding all over my –’

  ‘I’ve been dumped!’ I practically shout, jumping up on to my feet and interrupting her mid-sentence. ‘The man I thought I was going to grow old with, who has had my heart for the last ten years, has decided I’m not good enough. He stampeded over me,’ I blast, banging at my chest like I’m Tarzan of the fucking jungle.

  She doesn’t try to cut in, just stands there in disbelief. She’s the fiery one usually, something we’ve always put down to her being the youngest (and most immature) and therefore this is an odd turn of events for us both.

  ‘Believe it or not, your nuptials haven’t even entered my head until now,’ I continue, feeling the wind beneath my sails guiding me upstream towards my point being well and truly made. ‘Although all I can say is that the sight of you getting married is all I’ll be able to focus on that day because anything else is just going to be too painful to bear. No, I don’t want to talk to our grandparents, aunts, uncles or any of your friends about how severely I’ve been shat on. I’d rather dig a little pit for myself and slowly starve to death. I’d rather stay in bed until a load of maggots come and eat me. I’d rather tie a giant weight to my legs and jump into a river and drown.’

  Point. Made.

  ‘Are you suicidal?’ she asks quietly, her voice wobbling along with her chin.

  ‘Oh shit, no,’ I declare, the question taking me aback. Maybe I went a step too far and hammered my point a bit too ferociously.

  ‘Really?’

  I take a moment or two to think about it. I know I’ve just given three pretty horrific slow-death preferences rather than having to converse with people at my sister’s wedding (people who are actually decent folk), but I don’t think that’s where my head is at. This is my rebirth, not my funeral.

  ‘That would be one way to fully upstage you, though,’ I joke, as if it’s worth contemplating. It isn’t, FYI. I am not there. Not yet.

  ‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ Michelle sobs, running at me with her arms open wide, her body hitting mine with a soft thump as she takes me into her arms and squeezes me tightly. ‘Bridezilla and pregnancy hormones do not mix,’ she adds, nuzzling herself closer.

  ‘It’s an overwhelming time,’ I say, rubbing her back, which seems further away than usual thanks to my niece or nephew growing between us.

  ‘It is,’ she sniffs, nodding her head. ‘But enough about me. I’m sorry for being a shit. You know I didn’t mean all that.’

  ‘Not all of it,’ I half smile at her, giving her shoulder a slight push.

  My little sister is one of my top two friends along with Connie, and although I’m sure Michelle would tell me I’d marginally scraped it on to her top ten list, really I’m probably in her top five, maybe even three. Regardless, I know we love each other unconditionally and that our bond, even if I’m not her best mate, is unbreakable. I’d do anything for her.

  Michelle bows her head bashfully. ‘I can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now having been brushed aside and forced to move back in with Mum and into this room.’

  ‘It’s not that bad. The situation is obviously pretty dire, but the room is fine,’ I shrug. ‘It’s comforting being back in here.’

  ‘I guess …’ she says, giving it another look. ‘I mean, if it were me, I’d be sleeping on Ted’s flipping running machine,’ she says, her pitch rising as she points her thumb in the direction of her old bedroom, AKA Ted’s home gym. ‘They got rid of me good and proper, didn’t they.’

  We both laugh at that.

  Michelle chuckles while rubbing at my arm. ‘Sorry, bubs.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ I say, pursing my lips together to stop myself getting emotional.

  I often wonder if all siblings are like this and able to switch between love and hate so easily – not that I could ever hate the girl who has continuously been one of my greatest allies and my scariest antagonist all at once.

  ‘Although you have truly buggered up my seating plans,’ she mutters before pulling me in for another hug.

  She really can be an absolute bitch.

  12

  I know I can’t lock myself in my old bedroom for ever-more, but I do so until the end of the week. If anything I take a few steps back in my mending-heart process after doing too much too soon; however, by Sunday night I’m back to being fired up and ready to leave the house.

  So this morning at eight a.m., after having a whole week off – I called in and explained very honestly that I wasn’t fit for human interaction – I decide to go into work. I’ll admit that it was also a slightly selfish move as Michelle is heading to Mum’s today to sort out wedding favours. I didn’t want to get in the way or make her feel like I was intruding on a special moment she should be sharing alone with Mum, so thought I should leave them to it. I have no desire to stir things up again now that I’ve finally managed to convince her that my break-up wasn’t meticulously timed to ruin her wedding plans.

  Mum said getting back to work would help take my mind off everything and she was right. It’s amazing how looking at endless catalogues of sparkling tat can make you hate life just that little bit more than you already do.

  I’ve always heard that big life events can cause you to look within and question the things you hold dear, enjoy and even put up with – that the stark reality of them can make you question the fibre of your being and force you to see the world around you clearly for the first time. Well. On the walk here a guy shouted lewd remarks at me out of his van window and then followed them up with ‘go fuck yourself, you uptight bitch,’ when I didn’t seem grateful for his attention, I stepped in dog muck just outside the shop and then a box of sequins fell from the top shelf straight on to my head – causing a bump to pop up. I’m pretty sure I’ve cut it, but I don’t feel too dizzy so I’m sure I’m fine, although the words ‘fuck my life’ have been uttered more than once.

  Thankfully, my boss Stephanie is out with a client most of the day and has taken the assistant Pippa out with her. Seeing as it’s only us who occupy this shabby chic (and ridiculously expensive) showroom in the heart of Chelmsford, I don’t have to worry about small talk – and she’s already grilled me over the phone on the ins and outs of our break-up, so it’s not like she’s going to be rushing back for gossip. The only thing is, I’m not feeling too inspired to dream up ideas for the homes and spaces of other people right now, and seeing as that’s my job it means I’m being very unproductive.

  At lunchtime, just as I’m tucking into a KFC bucket with garlic mayo and have oil dripping down
my chin (fuck you, Ian and any clean-eating food doc we’ve ever watched), Connie calls.

  ‘Babes, the craziest thing has just happened!’ she trills, diving straight to the point.

  ‘What?’ I munch.

  ‘Well, I didn’t want to say anything in case nothing came of it and I’d just be left feeling like a tit, but I submitted something to a publisher,’ she says, her grin apparent in the cheeriness of her voice.

  ‘You finally did it!’ I say, my mouth still working its way around a tasty chicken leg while simultaneously shoving in an extra chip for good measure – I’m close to popping in a spoonful of baked beans too but decide against it.

  ‘Yes! But I changed the idea from when we talked about it,’ Connie sings.

  ‘Mmm …?’ I manage, finding it hard to swallow now that I’ve jammed too much food into my mouth. Connie has been thinking about turning her blog into something more tangible for a while. She did try and get one of the monthly magazines to take her on as a dating guru or new ‘girl about town’ columnist, but that proved pretty tricky, as it tends to be a ‘one in, one out’ policy and a case of ‘who you know’. The second thing we talked about was trying to turn her work into a self-help guide – almost a Dating for Dummies, but in a way that tells the reader we’re all in this together and that it’s all right not to have met the love of your life even though you might be turning thirty next year.

  ‘I sent in a fiction idea,’ she carries on. ‘I figured I’ll have more scope with that and won’t need to worry about being sued by wankers of yesteryear if vanity gets to their heads. Anyway, Karl at work’s wife’s friend is a literary agent. I managed to persuade her to get her friend to read the book and send it on to some of her publisher mates if she thought it was any good.’

  ‘And …?’ I say, certain of what’s to come.

  ‘She did. Then three editors came back interested.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. That all happened while you were away, actually, but I didn’t want to bother you with it.’

  ‘Oh, bless you,’ I say, knowing why she wouldn’t have told me the other night either and risked being insensitive. She has the ability to be a blunt powerhouse when she wants to be, but never when things are serious.

  ‘I’ve just been in to meet the final editor and hear what she has to say,’ she says excitedly, which is funny to hear as she’s usually so nonchalant about most things life has to offer. ‘I’m in love. I accepted her offer of a two-book deal right there on the spot. I’m going to be a fucking author! Well, I say me, but really Vix Bishop is – I’m the researcher, she’s the one with the words and the loyal readership.’

  ‘This is amazing! Congratulations!’ I squeal, throwing my chicken bones in the tub and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, which I then wipe on my black jeans.

  ‘Who knew cavorting my way across London and beyond would actually lead to something of actual substance. The fuckers were worth it,’ she shouts.

  ‘I’ve always told you how good you are,’ I praise.

  ‘At cavorting? Oh yes, I’m very good,’ she says devilishly.

  She gives a dirty cackle and I join in.

  ‘Have you told work yet?’

  ‘Trevor knows. He’s heartbroken – aren’t you?’

  ‘Heartbroken that you’re staying,’ I hear him say, making Connie laugh louder.

  ‘Staying?’ I repeat, surprised she hasn’t already packed up her desk and given an Oscar-worthy kickass exit speech to the rest of the office – Bridget Jones-style.

  ‘Yeah, I’m not going to be leaving this place any time soon. It turns out books don’t pay that much, and I still have my rent to pay. One day I will be saying adios to this bunch of twats and not coming back, though!’

  ‘Is that a promise?’ Trevor calls, making Connie howl.

  I know he doesn’t mean it. Even though Connie tends to find happiness at the expense of others, her humour is always seen for what it is. Light-hearted fun. She’s well loved and, as she always points out herself, an asset to the team. There’s no doubt in my mind that the prospect of losing her to a new career is a saddening one.

  ‘We should get together and celebrate. What are you doing tonight? I could get the train up as soon as I’m done here,’ I offer, wondering if this is my chance to venture out and reclaim my sociable days. It certainly would be the first Monday night out I’ve had in years. Just thinking about the spontaneous fun we could possibly have sends a tremor of excitement across my tummy.

  ‘Oh, I have a date,’ she says, sounding sorry and pleased all at once.

  ‘The same guy as the other night?’ I ask, trying not to sound too disappointed over the fact Connie has her own exciting life to be living still even though mine has gone kaput.

  ‘That’s the one. I saw him Saturday night too,’ she admits, her voice dropping.

  ‘This is serious,’ I exclaim.

  ‘No, it’s not like that. It’s just a few dates.’

  ‘Yeah … Maybe another night then,’ I say, trying to push through the murkiness that’s creeping over me. ‘Oh, I’ll see you at the wedding, anyway.’

  ‘Of course! Little Chelle is getting married,’ she sings. ‘Should be a good one.’

  ‘Ooh Con, Steph’s just on the other line,’ I lie, feeling guilty instantly. I never tell her porkies. ‘I’d better go. Enjoy tonight. Let me know how it goes. I promise I won’t be sat on your doorstep waiting for you when you get home this time,’ I joke, laughing as I hastily put the phone down while Connie is cheerfully saying goodbye back.

  I lower my forehead on to my desk before banging it on the wood a few times. Not heavily, not enough to draw blood or even make a mark, just enough for me to feel it. The repetitive drum attempting to knock some sense in there or shake me out of this fog that’s blowing into view.

  What just happened? Here I was, hating life, and then my best friend phoned with some great news and I’ve been left feeling even crappier.

  I’m happy for Connie, let’s not jump the gun and pretend I’m anything different (OK, I’m slightly jealous too), but how have our lives completely flipped on their heads? How have I become the single one in a dissatisfactory job while she’s just bagged her dream occupation and potentially a man too?

  My best mate is reaching and achieving and I’m just sitting here doing the same thing I always have while the world around me falls apart. I’m twenty-eight and living back home with my mum. I’m single and working in a job that I don’t particularly like. I know I’m going through a tough time and all that, but I don’t want to start getting used to the way things are. I don’t want to stop dreaming and achieving. I don’t want to start coasting. I need to stop failing. I need to start making changes to my current situation.

  I’ve looked over my lists from the other night again and again, not knowing how to bring back the girl I once was, or even if I have the energy to do so. But maybe that’s the wrong way of looking at it. Maybe seeing how much I changed during my relationship is enough to show me how adaptable I am. All this phase of life is doing is giving me a chance to adapt again, although this time my new discoveries will be solely because of my own tastes and preferences. I don’t have to parade down the street in minimal clothing, but I do have to put myself out there and see what life has to offer.

  With my phone still in my hands I go on to my notes and start a fresh one. At the top, in capitals, I type ‘THE PROGRESSION OF LIZZY RICHARDSON’, and then set about writing a list of the things I am going to change or do something about to be the best now version of me. I need to give myself options so I can find out who I am.

  Sort out what’s happening with the flat. Rent it out or sell it. Get it done.

  Get dolled up and go out with Connie – or whoever offers.

  Join a group – get a hobby?! Look at what’s on in the area.

  Start writing poems again.

  Sing more (could be part of new hobby?).

  Buy a pack of thongs.
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  Job … think about whether I’m happy here.

  Travel?

  Music. Find a love of my own.

  I stop mid-flow to switch on the radio. It’s tuned into Radio One because Stephanie refuses to concede to the fact we’re too old for it now. I turn the dial until Kiss FM appears on the little digital screen. The old me used to love it, so it’s time to see what I think of it now.

  Bruno Mars booms out of the speaker with ‘Uptown Funk’ and a smile spreads across my face. Despite myself I drop my phone and jump my way around the room, punching at the air as I go. I’m knackered by the time it finishes but feeling pumped. I’m ready to jump some more to the next song but the mellow strumming of a guitar comes in and the sound of a man and woman soberly singing about a raining utopia kills the mood.

  Funny though, I thought Kiss FM was a bit more vibrant than that. I look at the radio screen before turning some more. KISS comes up again, but this time a dance track beats its way into the room. This is the KISS I know. I didn’t realize there were now spin-offs to everything life has to offer.

  I haven’t voluntarily (or happily) listened to music like this for a long time, but the fact it’s full of feeling, desire and a beat that keeps giving stops me from turning over. Instead I sit back down, my heel tapping along to the bass drum, as I grab my phone and see if there’s anything else I can add to the list or an old habit I can ‘crack’ immediately.

  Without thinking too much I pick up my bag and lock up, taking another trip to the shops, this time to buy some new underwear. I giddily power walk my way through the busy High Street, but find myself feeling stupid as I eye up the display of knickers in front of me. It’s shameful how bashful a set of Marks & Sparks briefs can make me – and most of them are black, white or nude. It’s not like I’m in Ann Summers next to a bunch of sex toys, eyeing up the crotch-less knickers, yet I feel as though I might as well be. I think Sisqó’s ‘Thong Song’ has a lot to answer for here. I’m literally standing in front of my normal high-leg variety and looking at the skimpier sets out of the corner of my eye to avoid drawing attention to myself. The result is that I probably look like a shoplifter.