I didn’t do very well at Yoga Camp. I kept getting kicked out of class for giggling at the names of various positions (plow pose… tehe). Being asked to leave all the time worked in my favour because I could barely manage a full session anyway. I’m a runner and runners have tight hamstrings, so every minute of every session was agony. I complained all day and night about the lack of meat and booze (“You call this a holiday? This isn’t holiday!”). I got stuck in several positions where Mags had to untangle me. I tried to pull one of the celibate yogis. Twice. And on our last night I was caught sneaking out at 9:00 p.m. (a full hour after bedtime, shock horror) to go to the nearest town to get me some real food and a proper beverage. The camp manager felt so sorry for me by that point that she took me out herself and treated me to a banana lassi.
Anyway, besides the week Emma and Mags lured me to Satan’s butthole, Chloe and I have always been in constant contact. So whilst I’m not one to panic, I’m starting to panic.
I try calling Chloe again. No answer, so I start making a coffee but as I do I notice two evil looking spiders making a web on the kitchen window. Fast as can be I whip out my vacuum, zap the little bastards, then try calling Chloe for the sixth time today. When it rings out, again, I decide to take matters into my own hands. Dusting off my Kate-Winslet-frolicking-through-the-English-countryside-themed bike (decorated with ribbon-woven spokes and a flower basket) I start off for her apartment, taking the scenic route through Kensington gardens. I know it’s a bit lame to ramble about weather, but we have been having the most fabulous week. Apart from that Apocalypse Now style storm on Thursday every day has registered cheerful, blue skies.
Speaking of Blue, he niggles at the back of my mind as I pedal under the warm glow of the midday sun. With no car booked to take us back to London (I’d forgotten to organise the return trip, smart huh?) we found ourselves in a bit of a pickle. I suggested calling a taxi. Blue countered, saying we should check into a hotel. I told him it wasn’t going to happen. He accused me of being presumptuous. We bickered back and forth for a while. He argued that a hotel made sense because a taxi would be way more expensive and if we stayed overnight we could explore Brighton a bit more tomorrow.
We didn’t notice Nico and Eva appear, all sweaty and out of breath from the DF. They quickly cut in with a solution - we jump in their cab. The driver was scheduled to come sometime around midnight. Within half an hour the four of us were on our way back to the Big Smoke, Blue in front, the three amigos at the back, Nico roaring stories of the good times growing up in Georgia.
I was first to be dropped off. Blue told Nico and Eva to go on without him because he didn’t live too far and could walk from here. Then he had walked me to my front door. He’d started mumbling about something called bog snorkelling (?), and that the world championships were coming up soon, and would I like to come, but it was in Llanwrtyd Wells in Wales and it would be a bit of a journey, so if I didn’t want to come that was okay, but he’d really like it if I could…
I’d only seen him flustered once, earlier that morning when he’d said the Stranger didn’t deserve me (truer words were never spoken by the way). He topped that performance with the bog snorkelling rant. To put him out of his misery I put my hand over his mouth and told him that yes, I would be happy to go with him to watch the bog snorkelling championships, whatever they were. He smiled in relief, gave me a kiss on the cheek then blurted,
“You were right. I checked the other day and it was Eurythmics.”
And he’d turned quickly to walk down my street, bound for Bayswater Road I suppose. It was all a bit much for my exhausted, wine-soaked brain, so I shelved my usual male-analysis internal workshop and went upstairs, where I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.
Now that I’ve had some sleep, coffee, fresh air and feel invigorated from my spider busting, I’m wondering whether I’ll see Blue again. Maybe he was too rattled last night to remember to ask for my number, because he still doesn’t have it.
I cycle across Putney Bridge then round Chloe’s block. Damn it would be nice to live near the river. Just think of the running routes! I brake outside Chlo’s six storey red brick and lock my bike. Irrational thoughts start flooding my mind as I take the three small steps up to her front door. What if she’s not there? What if something’s happened? What if nothing’s happened? Should I break in through her window if she doesn’t answer? Would I get arrested if caught? If I get arrested will I lose my practicing certificate? And what about the spiders in my vacuum, what about them (in between thoughts of Blue I’ve convinced myself that the suction didn’t kill them, and they’re still alive, plotting their revenge from inside the bag. I should have sprayed them. Spray kills, vacuuming isn’t guaranteed).
I ring my best friend’s buzzer.
“Yes?” I hear Chloe’s voice croak through the speaker.
“God damn you Chloe, open up!” I yell.
The line goes quiet. A brief moment of horror follows. She’s not gonna let me in? Thankfully after a few moments the buzzer rings and I push open the heavy period door. I make my way downstairs to her basement apartment. Chloe’s grandma lived here before she died. It was really sad when it happened, that old woman was awesome. Smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish and had a mind as sharp as a tack until she passed away age ninety five. Anyway, her Gran left the apartment to Chloe who’s been busy refurbishing it into a stylish, slick, modern one-bedroom.
I knock on the door and Chloe opens it a millisecond later. I do a double take. She looks frail and weak, her face ashen, mahogany locks clumped around her face. I don’t think as I blurt out,
“Oh gee, did I wake you? I guess that means you weren’t raped, killed or your organs sold on the black market?”
She doesn’t reply but motions for me to come inside. She walks into her kitchen, removes a bottle of gin from her cabinet and starts pouring it into a tumbler.
“I’m assuming you don’t want any?” she asks.
“Thanks but I’m set, still feeling a bit fuzzy from yesterday.”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps looking at me with those weary eyes. I stand awkwardly, not knowing what to say or do. I’ve never seen her like this and it’s scaring me. For the five years we’ve known each other she has without exception looked and acted fabulous, defiant and self assured. Her demeanour (and good looks) naturally exudes confidence. It’s almost as if she’s developed a stoop overnight, like one of those broken horses. Is this all because I cancelled on her yesterday?
“I’m so sorry about yesterday. Do you hate me?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“We all know that when a chick says she’s ‘fine’ she’s anything but. The hierarch goes awesome, good, average, bad, whatever, fuck you, then fine. It’s the first lesson I teach boyfriends.”
I smile cheekily, expecting at least a ‘ha’. Nothing. I try again,
“Why haven’t you replied to my messages, and why aren’t you answering your phone? I’ve been really worried.”
Still, she remains silent.
“Okay okay, I’m not going to force you to tell me what’s up or start begging you to forgive me for something as stupid as a late cancellation. You’re my best friend, why are you acting like this? You’re freaking me out, man.”
“It has nothing to do with the wedding, I didn’t want to go anyway. It was what happened at Antonio’s on Friday night.”
She takes a seat at her small round dining table which is always decorated with fresh flowers. Before joining her I help myself to her coffee and milk, brew it up, then seat myself opposite. It takes a bit of goading but eventually she starts talking.
She had arranged to meet Antonio outside Knightsbridge tube stop. They had hit Budda Bar for a pre-dinner cocktail before strolling down, hand-in-hand, to Zuma. At the bar and over dinner Antonio was the perfect gentleman. He held open doors, encouraged her to order whatever she liked (even second portions of the soft shell crab), insisted on the nicest wines, pulled ou
t chairs, was sweet and complimentary. He’d brought his A-game, and for the first time since they met Chloe started thinking this might be something. He had paid, left a generous tip for the staff and asked if she wanted to continue the night somewhere else. When she said she was too full to eat or drink anymore, and dancing was out of the question, he asked if she wanted to go back to his place to watch a movie.
There, things went a bit awry.
“What do you mean, awry?” I ask, taking a sip of coffee.
“We were lying on his couch doing all the usual things, but then he takes his hand, whips it round and goes straight for the back… area. I didn’t make a big deal at first, just nudged him away. When it happened again I tried to laugh it off but he would not get the hint! When it happened a third time I had to say something.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I’m not an idiot, I knew exactly what he was after but it wasn’t going to happen.”
She had explained to him that there was a perfectly awesome, conventional way of having sex which she obviously preferred, and that that way of doing things wouldn’t be happening for a very long time (if ever). As soon as she’d finished Antonio underwent an 180o personality adjustment. He became cold, distant and rude. He told Chloe he needed an early night because he plays football Saturday mornings
[At this point I’m reminded of last weekend, when I was subject to a similar line. Football on Saturday mornings? Seems the Beautiful People all dipping from the same dish of lame excuses, and someone should tell them that no one likes a double dipper].
Then Antonio had ushered her out. Chloe couldn’t believe it. She wrote him off as a freak with a fetish and decided she was better off without him. In fact, an hour later she was lying on her couch watching Friends (surprise, surprise) in a perfectly pleasant mood. Always better to find these things out early, she reasoned. Who wants to be dating a secret aberration?
As Joey was trying to get money from Monica for eating a jar of pickles, her phone had pinged,
Why didn’t you want to do that before?
Being the smart girl she is (much smarter than hothead me, who would have responded with something abusive), Chloe ignored Antonio’s message and went back to Ross and Rachel.
Hours later, as she was fast asleep, Chloe was woken by another ping. She sleepily rolled over to check her phone and saw a second message from Antonio, this time with a photo attached.
Looking pained, Chloe shows me the picture.
At first I don’t know what I’m looking at, so I try turning the phone to its side then upside down. And then it registers.
I scream, dropping her phone on the table.
“Is that what I think it is?!” I yell.
Chloe nods.
“You should have warned me, I’ve never seen one up that close before!”
Disgusted, I warily pick up her phone again and read the caption below,
This is what I want to do to you!
I manage one more look at the photo. Yep, that’s his butthole, cheeks spread like a pro. I start giggling,
“Oh my god what a dirty bastard! That’s the most awful thing in the history of awful things. And if he’s spreading both cheeks, who’s taking the photo?”
I explode in peals of laughter but stop when I catch Chloe’s expression. A bucket of icy water thrown on my head couldn’t have stopped my chuckles quicker.
“I’ve just had a Christian Grey moment and you’re laughing?” she hisses.
“Come on... Don’t you think it’s just a little bit funny?” I suggest.
“No.”
“Are you sure? My funny meter is usually spot on?”
She looks at me, livid.
“Oh come on Chlo, maybe if you chillaxed a bit …”
“And maybe if you stopped being such a bitch I would’ve responded to your texts?” she interrupts.
I freeze.
“Wow… Okay… Wow.”
She doesn’t reply, instead shakes her head and looks at me with hard eyes. It takes a ridiculous amount of self control to stay calm and speak evenly (because what I really want to do is call her a bitch back),
“Chlo, I love you, I would never want to hurt you. I’m sorry I laughed.”
She looks down at her kitten-themed placemat,
“I can’t believe you’d laugh when you were the one who forced me into this. But hey I guess you were right, you said I’d get a look into his dark and disturbed soul, and there you have it. Happy now?” she says, quietly but firmly.
“I’m sorry Chlo, that was a joke, I was only trying to help.”
“Well men aren’t always the solution, and I’m getting really tired of this conversation. I’d like to be alone now.”
She stands, motioning in the direction of her front door.
“Excuse me?”
“First you bully me into a date with a guy I wasn’t all that keen on, then you laugh when he does the most filthy, depraved thing a guy could do. What kind of a friend are you?”
I sit in shock, mouth slightly open.
“Uh, not a very good one?”
“Understatement of the century.”
I cannot believe this!
“You know what, that’s fine. Just fucking fine. This is so typical of you, Chloe.”
“What?”
I stand from my seat,
“It happens all the time. A guy hurts you and you take it out on your mates. Crazy Poo hurts you, you vent your anger on Emma. Antonio hurts you, you take it out on me. Maybe it’s time you started to value your friendships a bit more!”
I’m shouting. Chloe begins shouting back,
“You can talk! I spent all of last year holding your hand while you cried and moaned and almost drank yourself into a coma. Then a guy does something just as disrespectful to me and you laugh. You fucking laugh?”
“That was different, I was engaged.”
“It’s not different at all. Imagine if I had laughed after you told me how Voldemort broke it off?”
“No offence but I don’t see a degree in break up management hanging off your wall!”
“No offence but you’re a selfish bitch who only thinks of herself. You know what this friendship has become, Pen? Co-dependent. You obsess about yourself and your relationships and I put up with it.”
“I’m a naturally obsessive person! I spent the entire morning debating the best way to kill two spiders, and now I’m obsessing that they’re gonna crawl out the vacuum tube to attack me in a fit of righteous vengeance.”
“Exactly! ... Wait a minute, what?”
“You heard me! They’re going to attack in the middle of the night when I’m weak and vulnerable. Emergency services will find my dead, lifeless body covered in spider bites, and then you’ll be sorry!”
“My god Penny,” Chloe is shaking her head and she’s calmed her voice, “honestly, sometimes the only thing holding this friendship together is that I don’t say half the things I actually want to.”
“Well I don’t really fancy listening to what those things might be! I don’t know why you’re going all Chris Brown on me and calling me names, but I don’t have to stand here and take this shit.”
I angrily slurp a final mouthful of coffee (waste not, want not), pick up my backpack and walk out. I slam her front door as hard as I can behind me and sprint up the small flight of stairs, two and a time. Walking quickly out of the block of flats I unlock the latch on my bike and start down the road, pedalling furiously.
Voices justifying my behaviour and condemning Chloe’s start whirl pooling through my mind. Chloe’s a cow, they say. She was wrong, they say. You didn’t do anything bad, and even if you did how dare she say those things? You don’t call your friends selfish bitches, you just don’t. And I don’t obsess over guys. I don’t! She says she’s biting her lip with things I do that annoy her? Well, what about all the things she does to annoy me? Like… Umm… Compulsive list making. And when she buys magazines or newspapers she a
lways checks the entire stack meticulously to get the most crisp, clean copy.
I take a deep breath as I cross back over Putney Bridge.
Then another.
Maybe… maybe she doesn’t have all that many things that annoy me. And maybe, just maybe, she made a couple of reasonable points today. Did I really bully her into the date? I encouraged, sure, but I didn’t think I was bullying? Maybe what I consider a strong suggestion is interpreted by others as intimidation? But Chloe doesn’t get intimidated by anyone, she’d just tell me to sod off. I didn’t put a gun to her head, and I encouraged because I care about her. I really do.
As I replay the rest of our fight in my mind one of Chloe’s comments keeps hammering home - You obsess about yourself and your relationships and I put up with it.
True, I was devastated and needy after He Who Shall Not Be Named. And true, when I get oxytocin-poisoned I get a bit of premature-love-syndrome. But it’s not that bad, is it? As I ride up Fulham Road dodging buses I try to make myself feel better, but then I remember that voice message I left on Chloe’s phone yesterday. The mean one. And all those times I’ve whinged about bad dates and bad men. Chloe’s always been understanding, always listened. And the first time she endures a horror date I respond with laughter?
I should have been more sensitive. She was obviously upset and there I went, charging in like a bull in a China shop. I should have played it differently, with kindness and compassion. Why did I do the brash and brazen comedy routine when she needed a shoulder and a sympathetic word?
I admit, it scared me seeing my bestie looking frail and damaged. Chloe can’t be broken by men, she just can’t be. Crazy Poo didn’t break her, and before him the acid addict didn’t manage it either. If Chloe has given up because of a butthole (literally), if she can’t manage all that the world of male-shittiness has to offer, what hope do the rest of us have? Me, Mags, Emma, all the other women out there, we don’t possess one tenth of the strength Chloe has. I guess I thought (hoped) that if I was my usual self this morning (the Amazingly Unfunny Penny Routine) she would go back to her normal, strength-of-a-mountain self, too.
Crazygirl Falls in Love Page 18
