...And a Happy New Year?

by Holly Bourne

  I lay curled up on Oli’s chest, using his collarbones as my pillow. The end of When Harry Met Sally played on his computer – the third and final instalment of our New Year’s Eve movie binge.

  “God, I love this scene,” I said, as Billy Crystal did That Speech to Meg Ryan about how when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone you want that life to start right away. “I know it’s total Hollywood, but I love this speech.”

  My head moved up and down with Oli’s laughter.

  “You’re so soppy!”

  I sat up and pulled a face. “I’m not! Well, maybe I am. I blame you entirely.”

  Even after all this time as us, Oli blushed – the red jumping right into his cheekbony cheeks. He dragged me back down onto him and I heard his heartbeat through his chest.

  BAD THOUGHT

  It’s beating very fast.

  BAD THOUGHT

  Is he okay? Is he okay? Is he okay?

  We lay there, watching the credits roll. We’d been through The Apartment, a black-and-white indie called In Search of a Midnight Kiss, and finished on Meg Ryan. The air in Oli’s room felt stale and heavy, the curtains drawn – as they normally were these days – the radiators on too high.

  Without thinking, I reached up and gently stroked Oli’s face.

  He flinched and caught my hand to stop me. “Sorry,” he said.

  “No, I’m sorry. I forgot.” The face thing was only a two-week-old phobia, it hadn’t bedded in yet.

  I rolled off him, onto the soft carpet, and stood up – wanting the awkward in the air to dissolve. “I’d better start getting ready.” I looked around for my bag.

  It was my turn to flinch as I heard a loud thump on the bedside table. The echo of it reverberated through the air.

  “Fuck.”

  I spun round. Oli cradled his right fist in his left hand, his face red, tears in his eyes. He’d punched the table again.

  “Woah woah woah woah woah.” I crouched back down, pulled his hand away. “Stop it, Oli, stop it. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  He looked up at me, his green eyes clouded with water.

  “It’s not okay, is it though, Evie? It’s not okay and it’s never going to be okay ever again.”

  SELFISH THOUGHT

  Oh no, not again. You’d only just cheered up.

  BAD THOUGHT

  He’s right! It’s never going to be okay ever again!

  What are you going to do?

  “Shh, it’s fine. Oli, it’s fine.” I crawled back onto him, kissing his face, being careful not to touch it with my hands. He was stiff at first and then softened into my kisses, managing to lose himself in me for a moment, his hands clutching around my back. We fell into the pillows and, for a while, it was just us. Two people, totally in love, making out when they should be getting ready for a party. I felt proud I was able to distract him from himself. That he wasn’t always lost, that there were ways of finding him…even if it did involve him undoing my bra.

  Things got hazy. Oli’s hands were everywhere – mine were everywhere apart from his face. We giggled as he ran for the lock on his bedroom door. A tiny part of me was in awe about how quickly he could bounce from freak-out to fine and back again – even though I knew my mind was capable of doing the same. Chaos and disaster, tears and panic…and then flipping back to totally normal again. Because you’d let it out. Because someone you loved said the right thing. That’s what I loved about us. How we got each other. How there were no questions, no disbelief, no confusion. I totally and utterly understood him, and him me. We were weirdos, but we’d found each other.

  BAD THOUGHT

  I just wish he hadn’t lost himself…

  Shh, shut up, Evie.

  The thought disrupted proceedings as much as the angry vibrate on my phone. “Ignore it,” Oli mumbled into my neck and I tried to. But it went again. And again.

  “I’d better get it.” I gently pushed him away. “It’s just Lottie,” I said, reading the messages. Grinning.

  Oli leaned up on one elbow, trying to read over my bare shoulder.

  “What Christmas film is she failing now?”

  Bless Oli, fellow film buff. He legitimately wanted to know.

  I read out her messages.

  “Really? Even the Muppets?” he asked. “But that’s, like, the best Christmas movie ever made.”

  I kissed him on the forehead. “Which is one of the many reasons why you are my boyfriend.”

  “She does know Christmas is over though, right?”

  My phone went again, with a message from Amber saying just that. I saw the time at the top of my screen. “I really should get ready.”

  I readjusted my clothing, and pulled my compact mirror from my bag, checking my make-up. I’d applied it before I came over, but some of it had smudged. I pulled out my bright red lipstick, carefully smearing it over my lips, feeling Oli’s eyes on me.

  “What?” I asked, keeping the mirror deliberately away from him. He was going through this…phase. With reflections. Along with his other phases.

  BAD THOUGHT

  What if it’s not just a “phase” though, Evie? What if he’s always like this?

  He smiled and blushed at the same time. “Nothing,” he said. “Just…you’re pretty.”

  I felt myself go red. God, how were we still like this? Blushing and stammering whenever we complimented each other. We’d been going out for a year.

  I went back to my lipstick, hoping tonight would go okay. It had been such a strange Christmas break. Amber and I had been so excited to have Lottie back for a month, but she’d returned all…odd. I mean, she’d been a bit off when we videotimed her, but I thought maybe that was just because she was wrapped up in being away. But, since she’d been back, she kept saying stuff like, “I can’t believe there’s no Pret here!” or “Why do the pubs here close at eleven? In London you can stay out all night.”

  Most of her sentences started like that now. “In London.”

  I felt left behind. I felt like a small-town girl, who would never take a midnight train going anywhere – I mean, that is very late to be getting a train! Especially if you don’t know where it’s even going! Where would you sleep when you arrived? What if you ended up in the worst anywhere possible?

  I was sure Lottie didn’t mean anything by it. Amber wasn’t so sure. I felt Lottie’s constant stream of Bechdel messages was her way of trying…

  Oli was already ready for his night, so he just watched me as I put the finishing touches to my face and stuffed things into my bag. His eyes followed me around the room and I felt self-conscious, aware of my movements.

  I turned around. “Voila! How do I look?”

  Once again, Oli’s face had become tearful and tense.

  “Don’t go,” he said. “Please, Evie. Don’t leave me tonight.”

  Lottie arrived about ten whole minutes before the bulk of the party.

  “I bought cheese balls,” she announced, flinging her arms around me, a packet of cheese balls slapping me across the back. She smelled a bit of alcohol, which wasn’t really like her. Or was it? I wasn’t sure who she was these days. Going to London had changed her a lot. She’d even cut her long, black hair into this annoyingly-amazing razored bob that no one but Lottie could pull off. She was wearing skintight jeans and a tight purple crop-top covered in sequins.

  We let go of the hug.

  “Where’s the drink then?” She wandered off into my house, the cheese balls now in my hands.

  I heard her find Kyle in the kitchen.

  “HAPPY NEW YEAR, KYLE’S ARMS,” she yelled.

  I smiled, despite myself, and followed her in. Kyle was making that face he always did whenever he was confronted by Lottie. The stunned-that-you’re-saying-this-but-I-quite-like-it one she often coaxed out of people. Lottie shamelessly flirted with him, but in such a giddy, blatant way it never bothered me. Plus, I was used to girls flirting with Kyle…guys flirting with Kyle…anyone who’d ever
met him flirting with Kyle…

  Lottie twisted the lid off a bottle of wine and poured it right up to the top of a plastic glass, taking a deep sip.

  “So, I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, not really taking a breath. “And there’s not actually a huge amount of inherent sexism caught up in New Year’s Eve. It may now therefore be my favourite holiday. I mean, Christmas is just a clusterfuck of women having to do all the cooking, Valentine’s Day is full of boys proposing to girls in cheesy obvious places, like no one has ever considered the fact girls could propose to boys, or MAYBE WE DON’T HAVE TO GET MARRIED AT ALL. Easter, well, there’s not a lot of girlfolk in the Easter story, is there? Just that random prostitute that never got much airtime…” She went on, drinking more, listing all the other holidays. The exhausting feminism tornado that is Lottie Thomas.

  Kyle stood behind me, his arms around my waist, listening with his chin resting on the top of my head. “Is Will coming?” he asked, when she paused to down more wine. His chin dug into my head as he spoke.

  A flash of…something passed over Lottie’s face, or maybe I imagined it, because then she smiled – her dimples fully indented.

  “Yes, of course. He’s coming straight from the airport. He’s been skiing.”

  “Great. At least I’ll know one other person.”

  Will and Kyle had met when Kyle came over for a few days last Christmas – that incredible last year of college before we’d been ripped apart and put on different slipstreams towards the big scary bad that was adulthood. They’d instantly bonded over the weird bands they both loved and spent many a night chatting in old man pubs. Oli had got on well with Kyle too. Speaking of which, I hadn’t seen him in aaaaages.

  The doorbell went.

  “I’ll get it!” Lottie yelled, smushing her now-empty plastic cup onto the table. “You get the music going.”

  She dashed to the door and Kyle and I shrugged at each other, before turning the volume up.

  “You need to tell them,” he said again.

  “I will, I will.” I picked out The Smiths so everyone at the party would think I was cooler than I actually am.

  I’d started to wonder if Lottie would even mind when I told her my news.

  Everyone was here! Everyone, everyone. All the old FemSoc lot, some of The Imposters, a band we knew, and people from college and people I’d grown up with and who just knew me as Lottie, rather than that up-herself girl. The only shitter was that Megan wasn’t here. But as she was on a beach in Thailand having the most epic time of her life, I couldn’t feel too bummed about it.

  I was swirling and twirling and hugging everyone – jumping with excitement as each new face made it through the door. It felt so nice and safe and comfortable, like my old pair of pyjama bottoms where the butt has almost worn through. The music thumped the walls, bottles clanged and crashed as they were unloaded in the kitchen, the ping-and-hiss of dozens of opening beer cans littered the air.

  Still no message from Will though…

  He was supposed to have landed half an hour ago. And according to the real-time information on my phone, the plane had, indeed, landed on time. Which is a shocking amount of stalkerness on my part. But this is what happens to me if I have a boyfriend and he comes for the night and doesn’t have sex with me. I turn into activate-the-psycho.

  But it was fine, because here was another glass of wine. Just one more couldn’t hurt, could it? I drink wine in London all the time because it’s the only drink you can afford really. Me and the few people off my Philosophy, Politics and Economics course who I’ve managed to win over go to a Bargain Booze down the road to stockpile, and then drink wine around one of theirs. I’ve also noticed Heather, Aimee and Jade doing this on numerous occasions. Sometimes they’ve actually invited me to join in, but only in a really hollow, false way that’s made it clear they’d be devastated if I actually said yes.

  “Maybe you should just say yes,” Will had said. “They’re not that bad.”

  “Will, have you not met them? They literally flinch whenever I mention feminism,” I replied. “That’s if they’re not already rolling their eyes. Once, Heather, flinched and rolled her eyes at the same time while applying her false eyelashes, which is quite an achievement. She wears false eyelashes every single day, Will. All three of them do. Every. Single. Day. And they dressed up as Playboy Bunnies in Freshers’ Week. Playboy. Bunnies. And they’re friends with some guys from the rugby team, who make actual rape jokes, and my housemates laugh at them!”

  “God, I know, I know. You’ve told me already,” Will said. Before he didn’t have sex with me.

  Now I was hugging Ethan, a guy we knew from college. And I found I kept talking about London. Utter freaking nonsense about it, to make up for all the conflicting thoughts in my head.

  “Yeah, the energy there is just so…unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.” Why was I using the word “energy”? I don’t usually use the word “energy”. “And there was this one time, when we stayed up all night, and we walked past St Paul’s Cathedral as the sun was rising. I mean, you don’t get a better walk home after a night out than that, right?”

  Ethan nodded, looking over my head.

  “Where’s Evie?” he asked.

  That was a point. Where WAS Evie? She should’ve been here by now. Whenever Now is. I wasn’t sure of the time. It must be nearly midnight already, right?

  I turned, without saying goodbye, to look for her. She wasn’t in the packed kitchen. She wasn’t sitting on the stairs with the people playing guitar and singing Tenacious D. She wasn’t dancing in the living room with Sylvia, who was waaaaay more drunk than me already, which was quite frankly a relief. Deflection drunkenness is the way forward. I spotted Amber, chatting with some of the Art Lot in the hallway, and tapped her hard on the shoulder.

  “Oww, what is it, Lottie?”

  “Where’s Evie?”

  “Have you not seen your phone? She said she’s running late.”

  I pulled out my phone. TWO MESSAGES. Yes! One from Evie, saying she was late, and one from Will.

  On my way.

  No kiss.

  On my way no kiss.

  No kiss.

  First no sex and then no kiss.

  Where was the wine again?

  I sat on the floor, Oli still on the bed. I’m not sure why I was on the carpet, but I think I just sort of wilted onto it.

  Also, Oli kept punching his pillow and it was starting to scare me.

  BAD THOUGHT

  Why is he being so selfish? You’ve been with him all day.

  BAD THOUGHT

  You knew he’d do this.

  “Oli, stop punching the pillow. Please.” I tried to use the tone of voice that I’d found helpful when I spiralled. Firm but warm, in-control but kind. My coat was still on, my bag still on my arm, but I knew I wouldn’t be leaving for a while. Not when he was like this. Oli did one extra punch and then flopped face down onto the bed and started to cry. Tears scratched my own eyes but I blinked like mad to stop them. Seeing me cry only made him worse. I got up and perched gingerly on the bed, stroking his back, wondering once again how only moments ago we’d been tangled in a compromising clinch. Him smiling and confident and sexy…until it came to people who weren’t him and their ability to leave the house.

  He looked up, his eyes wet and red.

  VERY BAD UNFEMINIST

  THOUGHT

  I don’t like seeing boys cry.

  And I wanted to slap myself. And him. Or to throw myself on the pillow and cry too. And scream and act out all the emotions I felt about what was happening and how bloody unfair it all was.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You should just break up with me. You don’t deserve this in your life.”

  “Stop being stupid.” I reached out to stroke his cheek but stopped myself at the last moment, remembering. I touched his shoulder instead.

  “I just…just…don’t want you to go.”
/>   I bit my lip. “I know that.”

  “But I know it’s not fair of me to ask you to stay.”

  BAD THOUGHT

  But you’re asking anyway…

  “No…it’s not.” My voice was firmer and I saw him harden. Like I used to whenever people were firm with me. Even though you know it’s for your own good. Even though they’re only following the instructions of the medical professionals Who Know Best. Even though, logically, you know it hurts them to be this firm just as much as it hurts you.

  “It’s just…just…it’s so unfair.”

  And secretly I thought, I know. And not just unfair for you.

  What happened with Oli

  We were supposed to be having a happily-ever-after. Ever since that night at his eighteenth birthday party – when he grabbed my hand and pulled me to one side and kissed me. We’d both worked so hard to get there. After my OCD relapse, every inch of recovery I’d made felt like crawling over an acre of glass shards. Oli was in recovery too – though he was way ahead of me. We’d been advised not to date, not like we were in any fit state to anyway. Slowly, I got better, and Oli got more better. I went back to college, I managed to lower my dosage to just under five mil, which felt like enough to keep The Crazy at bay, but low enough that I felt like me again. Then his birthday happened and everything fell into place. I fell in love like salt dissolving in warm water – all my bitterness and unhappiness fading away into clear.

  I should’ve known that just because it looks clear, doesn’t mean the bitterness isn’t still there.

  We both started at the same local university in September. He did Film Studies, and I surprised everyone by taking Psychology.

  And then – how do I put it?

  I flew. Oli sank.

  It was like two different winds had blown us onto two totally different paths.

  I loved uni. I loved it from the first day. I was, naturally, terrified. By all the new people, by the fact there’s an actual thing called “Freshers’ Flu”. I worried that people would think I was a weirdo for still living at home rather than in halls. But I was determined not to let my fear ruin this, like it had my first year of college. I went to every social, joined three different societies, drank and danced and spent most of my student loan on late-night taxis home.