by Holly Bourne
He muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” I asked.
“I said, I’m not a misogynist.”
“I’d believe you more if you weren’t laughing as you said it.”
He ignored me. “Anyway, the context of the word ‘pussy’ isn’t in relation to a vagina. It’s pussy as in ‘pussycat’. Put that” – he flicked out his hand towards my face – “in your pipe and smoke it.”
I gave a wry grin in defeat. He was right. Pussy came from pussycat. “I can’t smoke it. You’ve smoked it all.”
And I lost him again in splutterings of laughter.
The sun beat down on us. The leaves were glowing golden, our jackets hung off our arms. As we neared my house, we conducted an epic game of “Would You Rather?” which had us both tearing up with hysterics.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Guy said, hands flailing dramatically, barely able to talk. “If you HAD to…would you rather have two bollocks the size of watermelons, or twenty the size of grapes?”
I snorted. “That’s disgusting. I don’t even know what it’s like to have balls in the first place.”
“Oh, it’s great. Trust me.”
I suddenly found myself thinking of Guy’s balls, and went a bit red. “Umm…two the size of melons, I guess.”
He pointed at me. “Why?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. They’d be easier to tuck into my boxers?”
It took a while for him to calm down. It was hard to tell with Guy how much of his laughter was my natural wit, and how much was his cannabis habit.
When he calmed down, I said, “Right, I’ve got one.”
He raised both eyebrows, his dark eyes almost glowing hazel in the sun. “Okay. Hit me.”
“Would you rather have…incurable full body acne…” I paused for comic effect.
“Or…?” he prompted.
“Or, a full body Celine Dion tattoo. Her face was your face. Her arms were your arms. Her legs were your legs.”
He dissolved into hysteria again, sitting down on the wall of someone’s front garden and whacking his thigh like an old man.
“No…neither.”
“You HAVE to choose,” I insisted. “I told you about my melon balls.”
More hysteria. “Okay, okay, okay… The acne. Oh God, it would have to be the acne.”
I sat next to him and laughed too. For one moment, he rested his head on my shoulder. Then his head was gone. We stopped laughing abruptly and earlier’s convo napalm descended again instantly.
“I’m almost home,” I said. For no real reason.
I felt Guy turn to me on the wall and instinctively turned towards him too. The tips of our knees touched and it made my heart do a…thing. A thing I didn’t quite understand. My face tingled with the dappling of oncoming sunburn.
“So you coming to this party on Saturday then?” Guy asked, all serious.
“Yeah. I guess.”
“And you’re bringing this guy?”
“Oli.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, maybe, I guess. We’ll see.”
“The pussy…cat?”
I shot him a look. “Why do you care?”
He leaned back off the wall, balancing his weight in mid-air, and put his hands behind his head.
“I don’t care. I don’t care about anything.” He said it with pride.
“Right, well, see you Saturday.”
“See you then.”
Fourteen
It was date time. Time for the date. Another actual date! My heart was going boom badda boom badda boom badda BOOM.
“Are you okay?” Rose asked, poking her head around my bedroom door halfway through my wardrobe-meltdown. She was holding a toothbrush and pyjamas, packing for a sleepover she was going to that night.
“No,” I told her. “I am supposed to be going on a date but all my clothes hate me.”
Rose looked at the fashion concoction I’d draped myself in. “You’re not wearing that, are you?” And she made a little face.
“I’m not now you’ve made that face.”
“Flared jeans and a dress? Umm…why?”
“BECAUSE I WANT TO WEAR THE DRESS BECAUSE IT’S PRETTY BUT WE LIVE IN STUPID ENGLAND AND IT’S TOO COLD OUTSIDE.”
Panic took over – stupid overwhelming panic, over a stupid underwhelming wardrobe crisis. My chest tightened and I flopped back onto the bed, focusing on my raggedy breathing.
Rose instantly rocked into calm-down mode. “Shh, shh,” she said, joining me on the bed and stroking my hair. “It’s okay. We’ll sort your outfit out.”
Tears bulged up in my ducts at her kindness. “You’re not supposed to see me like this. Mum will go nuts.”
“I don’t care what Mum thinks.”
“I just…I…I know it’s just a date. But the other one went so badly…and…and…”
BAD THOUGHT
I’m corrupting my little sister and she’ll go mad and it will be all my fault.
BAD THOUGHT
This date is going to go awfully and I’m going to get sick from the filthy cinema and die alone.
“Shh, Evie, it’s okay. Everyone gets nervous before dates. You’re not going mad, you get that, right? This is normal nerves.”
I sniffed. “Is it normal to put jeans on under a dress?”
Rose giggled. “No, that bit’s just you.”
We laughed together quietly, though not quietly enough for Mum not to hear. She barrelled into my room, cradling a bundle of fresh laundry.
“What’s going on in here?” she asked, all suspicious, like Poirot. She spotted my blotchy face and I saw her freak-out face forming. “Evie, have you been crying?”
Mum’s eyes flicked from Rose’s face back to mine again, like she was analysing Rose for crazy-by-osmosis.
Rose – bless her – kept a poker face. “I’m just helping Evie pick out what to wear.”
“Wear where? Where are you going?”
“Umm…to the cinema.” I wasn’t going to tell Mum about my date. She’d have opinions. Negative opinions.
She still looked surprised though. “The cinema? Evie, that’s huge. Are you sure you’re ready? I mean, you’ve not mentioned it… Have you talked it through with Sarah? I mean, the cinema! That’s great…but, are you ready for that?” She looked at Rose and then realized she’d hinted at the crazy. “I mean…well, not that it’s a big deal…”
“Muuuuuum,” I said. “You’re not helping!”
“Oh… Okay, but I do wish you’d tell me these things, Evie.”
“Mum,” I sighed again. Rose and I stared pointedly at her until she took the hint and left.
“Now,” said Rose, clapping her hands together. “Take off the dress and show me what lacy tops you have.”
I did as she said. “I love you, Rose.”
“Yes…yes… Oh my God, Evie, why are you wearing cowboy boots?”
Fifteen
We were meeting at the cinema. Like dates do. My date. And I. For our date. DATE. Rose had calmed me down enough to put some make-up on and shoved me out the door with the strict command of “tell me everything”.
Oli’d actually asserted himself when it came to deciding what to watch. I’d had my eye on this new indie comedy called And Rainbows but he’d messaged quite firmly saying he’d booked us tickets for the new Tarantino.
BAD THOUGHT
He won’t have booked an aisle seat. How am I supposed to run away if it all gets too much if I don’t have an aisle seat?
I’d been given a new method for dealing with the resurrection of bad thoughts – courtesy of Sarah. I was supposed to start owning them, rather than the other way round. This involved a process she’d scribbled down for me, with strict instructions to practise.
How to own your bad thoughts
1) Put them through the Worry Tree.
What the heck is a worry tree? Well…it’s a bit like those flow chart tests you get in women’s magazines that tell you what s
ort of orgasm you’re supposed to be having or whatever. However there are only two branches to the tree.
Is there anything you can do about this worry right now?
2) Acknowledge that you’ve had a bad thought.
Sorta like “Oh, hello there, you fine young man of a bad thought, I can see you, you know.”
3) But do not “indulge” the bad thought.
Example of indulging a BAD THOUGHT
Bad thought: Hey, you, do you think that maybe you’re always going to be mad? That maybe, Evie, darling, you should just give up on this whole “recovery” thing and go back to the unit and get sectioned for ever and never have a boyfriend because you’re so fucking crazy?
Evie: Oh my, you’re right. I am crazy. How long do you think I have left before everyone realizes and gives up on me?
Bad thought: Hmmm, maybe a year? Then you’re screwed.
Evie: A year’s quite a long time.
Bad thought: You’re right. Six months. Who do you think will be the most disappointed?
Evie: Mum probably…but then Rose…
Bad thought: Yeah, Rose. Man, you’re really going to screw her up, aren’t you?
Evie: *nods sadly* I know.
* Continue until Evie lies sobbing on her bed for no visible reason.*
What next? Well, after you’ve successfully acknowledged but not indulged the bad thought, you…
4) Return your mind to the present moment.
Note: Modern psychology is currently OBSESSED with The Present Moment, like it’s the elixir of life or something. You do this by either focusing on your breathing, or listening to all the noises around you and concentrating really hard on them. Sort of like meditation, like the Buddha did.
5) When you find your mind drifting…
Which it inevitably will, because the present moment is so utterly boring compared to freaking out and fretting obsessively, well…
Return to step two.
Over and over.
There you go, thoughts owned.
That’s about five hundred quid’s worth of therapy, right there for you. But does it work? Ha, that’s the problem. You have to exert brain control in order to do it, and isn’t a lack of control over your brain why you’re in therapy in the first place?
As I walked to the cinema to meet Oli, I did try and own them. This was my backlog of bad thoughts so far:
BAD THOUGHT
You look like crap.
BAD THOUGHT
How are you going to eat the popcorn? You can’t seriously dip your hand repeatedly into something – think of the germs multiplying. You’ll get sick and vomit down yourself and Oli will hate you.
BAD THOUGHT
Will it be awkward? What if we don’t have anything to talk about?
BAD THOUGHT
What if you have a panic attack in the cinema? You’ve not had one in ages, but you’ve not been to the cinema in ages…
So I really tried to concentrate on The Present Moment to calm myself down. I looked up at the leaves on the trees and thought how pretty they were, the first tinges of yellow tarnishing the edges. I listened to the steady whir of traffic as cars passed me. I counted my steps on the pavement – up to ten each time. And, soon, Sarah was right… I was almost there and I hadn’t spiralled into a sobbing incoherent mess.
The cinema was in the distance, all new and shiny and the-most-exciting-thing-to-happen-to-this-town-in-five-years. Oli was in there, with his basil eyes, and his questions about monkeys, and his tendency to prefer violence in movies…and all of these were good things and things that made Oli Oli. And I was going on a date to find out more about what made Oli Oli, and he was going to find out more about what made Evie Evie because that is what dates are and that is how love begins to maybe happen and I so wanted to fall in love. Because love means someone accepts you for who you are, unconditionally; it’s like you’ve been given a giant “well done” sticker from the universe, and I was well on my way to starting that so why…why…
…despite all my best efforts, did Proper Bad Thoughts start to win things right at the last moment?
PROPER BAD THOUGHT
You may be owning them, but you’re having an awful lot of them.
PROPER BAD THOUGHT
What if you start not being able to own them?
I stopped dead in the car park and got honked at aggressively by a bald man driving a BMW.
I barely heard him.
WORSE THOUGHT
It’s really, maybe, coming back again.
Sixteen
I was late. I found a quiet alleyway round the back of the cinema and I stayed there for a bit, wiping the tears from my eyes the moment they spilled so as not to wreck my mascara, and breathing in deeply for three, and out for six…
I entered the cinema with only five minutes to go before the film began. The cool air of the unnecessary air-conditioning helped shake off the remaining panic and dried up the moist layer of sweat on my forehead.
I could make out the back of Oli’s head. His spiked hair gave him away. That, and the fact he was the only one left in the foyer because it was so goddamned late. I reached out and tapped him on the shoulder, tentatively.
“Evie.” He spun round and I almost gasped. His face was like looking at my reflection – his eyes panicked, forehead sweaty, his smile strained. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said, in a breezy way that didn’t have anything breezy about it. I felt so guilty for being late.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, the guilt blooming in me like a flower. “I, er…got caught up. We’ve still got time, haven’t we?”
Oli’s strained smile became more natural. “Yeah, we’ve only missed the trailers. We probably don’t have time to buy any popcorn or anything though.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I’m so glad you came, Evie.” And then, in a fit of courage, he reached over and took my hand and it felt so lovely that all I could do was stare at our unionized fingers.
“Evie…”
“Huh?” I still stared at our entwined digits.
“Evie?” Oli said louder.
I looked up, confused, still riding the tsunami wave of today’s emotions. Oli’s stark green eyes were scared again. Instantly I panicked.
“What is it?” I asked.
He gulped and took away his hand, scratching the side of his head. “I…umm…there’s something I need to tell you.”
And just as all the worst-case scenarios catapulted into my brain, we were interrupted…
“Hello,” said an unfamiliar voice behind me. “You must be Evelyn.”
What?
“Oh, Oli dear, she’s just as lovely as you said.”
I spun in the direction of the voices and saw two frumpish grown-ups. An older couple, both wearing bobbly cardigans. They beamed at me like I was selling them cookies.
“Evie…” Oli said, his voice shaking. “These are my parents.”
PARENTS PARENTS PARENTS PARENTS PARENTS PARENTS PARENTS?!?!?!?
They held out their hands and I found myself shaking them in shock, and saying, “Nice to meet you.”
“Lovely to meet you too, Evie,” Oli’s mum – MUM?! – said. “But we better be taking our seats otherwise we’ll miss the start of the film.”
We all turned and walked to the cinema door, handing our tickets to the cinema guy, like it was the most normal thing in the world. His parents – PARENTS – walked ahead and disappeared into the darkness before us, their chatter drowned out instantly by the noise of the last trailer.
Oli took my hand again, but oh how different it felt.
He leaned over and whispered, “Don’t worry, we don’t have to sit next to them.”
And we, too, were submerged in the darkness.
Oli was right, we didn’t have to sit next to his parents – PARENTS. They sat a grand total of three aisles in front. Just before the film began, his mum turned round, waved, and literally said, “Coo-eee.”
Oli
stared at the giant cinema screen, rubbing his hands together like Lady Macbeth, offering absolutely no explanation for:
a) Why his parents were there,
b) Why he didn’t tell me they were coming, and,
c) WHY HIS PARENTS WERE THERE!
That’s the thing about anxiety. You can worry about anything and everything, dream up all sorts of weird and wonderful situations to be terrified of in the hope your fear will control the world somehow…and yet the world remains uncontrollable. Nothing you can imagine is ever as weird and wonderful as reality and what it chucks at you.
Never, in my history of bad thoughts, had I conjured up:
BAD THOUGHT
What if my date brings his parents?
Three minutes into the Tarantino film, the grisly violence began. Guts splattered against the screen and blood spurted from people’s heads against the backdrop of clever-but-essentially-meaningless (in my filmic opinion) dialogue. I shuffled in my seat and tried to focus on the movie but it was hard. I really wasn’t a fan of this director and I was too distracted by working out what was happening with Oli. I glanced over in the dark. He was leaning right forward in his seat. I looked over at his parents. His mum had already buried her face into his dad’s bobbly jumper.
I had a think.
Possible reasons for why Oli’s parents were here
a) They wanted to see the movie too… But then why was his mum’s head now right up his dad’s bobbly cardigan?
b) They are very overprotective parents… But then wouldn’t he have warned me?
c) He has a bee allergy and they’ve got to be with him at all times in case they have to inject adrenalin into his heart…but he comes to college every day?
Then it hit me…like a cartoon of a light bulb pinging above my head.
Maybe Oli’s got anxiety too.
I looked over again in the gloom.
