How Do You Like Me Now?

by Holly Bourne

  Until we look at the seating plan and I’m not seated at a table with my friends.

  ‘What the hell?’ I mutter, checking the chart again. The seating plan is arranged according to cheeses because Harry and Claire really like cheese. Didn’t you know? Dee, Nigel, Amy, her children, and everyone else are on Gouda. Whereas Tom and I are seated miles away on Brie.

  ‘Oh no,’ Amy coos behind me. I can smell her sweet champagne breath. ‘TorTor you’re not sitting with us!’ Then she turns and swans off without much of a thought about it because she’s still seated with her friends.

  Dee is suitably outraged. ‘What the fuck?’ she whispers to me. ‘Is this because you didn’t come on the hen do?’

  ‘I couldn’t! I was in Berlin. I was doing a TED talk for Christ’s sake. Isn’t that more important than spending seventy quid to make cocktails in Tiger Tiger?’

  ‘Not according to Claire,’ Dee steers me to one side. There’s too much of a crowd around the chart and she’s wary of her bump. ‘She made at least five snide comments that night about how you’re “obviously too important to come to her little hen do”.’

  ‘Ergh! Bitch. I don’t want to sit without you!’ I wail at Dee.

  ‘I don’t want to sit without you,’ she hugs me. ‘Tor, if one more person tells me their horror birth story, I think I’m going to explode. Which will apparently hurt less than labour.’

  ‘Can everyone please take their seats ready for the bride and groom,’ booms the voice of the guy who’s been picked to politely order people around all day. Dee and I hug one last time then I take Tom’s hand and cart him over to Brie. We’re clearly on the odds and sods table. The sleazy uncle that Dee complained about is seated alongside an assortment of other people who have absolutely no common link at all. Tom and I throw ourselves into it because what else can you do?

  ‘How do you know the bride and groom?’

  ‘Oh, you work with her? That’s great.’

  ‘You and Harry volunteer together? I did not know he volunteered. Where for? Oh, the local atheist centre. Oh yes, organised religion. Terrible stuff, isn’t it? Jeez.’

  We just about cover everyone before we have to be upstanding for the bride and groom and the newly-weds arrive like rock stars while we applaud them. We sit down and everyone tries hard not to eat their bread roll before the soup arrives. I keep glancing over at Gouda wistfully. The offspring are sitting at one end, playing miraculously well with their provided paper and crayons, as the adults laugh and bond without me.

  ‘Who do you support?’ Tom asks the pervy uncle. And I lose him too, as they compare their opinions about the start of the season and their teams’ chances. The work colleague next to me is very excited that I’ve written a book and she’s looking it up on her phone.

  ‘Woah, it’s on Amazon and everything,’ she squeals.

  ‘Crazy, isn’t it?’ It has sold over two million copies.

  I watch Tom drink heavily, see the telltale signs of his intoxication begin to creep in. He will start to over-gesticulate soon. Then he will become overly affectionate. Next, he will think his dancing is brilliant. Then, he will switch to whisky and start explaining whisky to anyone unlucky enough to be near him. Next, I’ll have to be very very careful what I say because he’ll read into everything and use it to start an argument about how I’ve changed so much since we were younger. I stick to water.

  There is pudding. There are speeches and toasts. ‘She looks so beautiful today.’ The bride wipes her eyes. The transition from speeches into disco comes a little too quickly and nobody is ready to dance yet. The cleared floor shimmers with rotating disco lights and the DJ pretends that we aren’t ignoring him as it stands empty apart from a few kids using the space to skid around. Harry and Claire are at that point where the bride and groom go round and say a small word to each and every one of the guests. Tom keeps leaning in to kiss my cheek, right on schedule. I smile at him and hope he stays in this type of drunk for longer than normal. I rotate back to Dee as soon as the table is cleared.

  ‘Your table looked like it was having fun,’ I say to everyone, in a pointed way to make them realise it is weird I wasn’t sitting at it. But it’s not their rejection so they don’t notice.

  ‘Oh, it was great,’ says Nigel. ‘I heard all about your crazy landlord from your second year.’

  ‘Ahh,’ I nod. ‘Lock-your-bedroom-door-Malcolm.’

  Nigel laughs loud and wide. ‘That’s the one! Brilliant!’

  I still feel left out, even though we’re all standing together again. Because I’m trying to work out why I was sitting at a different table. Yes, it was probably because I missed the fucking hen do, but she won’t be able to admit that to herself. Why else was I clustered away from them? And, as Dee and I have always come as a pair, why wasn’t she paired with me?

  Because I have not had children and they have.

  That is what decided it. Even though I held back Claire’s hair when she vomited on the night bus. Even though I was at every twenty-first party, every ball, every boring night watching Neighbours for the second time that day … I am on the other side of the wall now.

  ‘TORRRRRRR-I!’ Claire calls and I turn to find her walking over with her arms flung wide. ‘You actually made it.’

  I wrinkle my nose as she hugs me so she can’t see it. ‘I made it.’

  ‘It’s so, so lovely to see you.’

  ‘You look beautiful,’ I tell her, because that is what you always tell them. ‘I love the shoes.’

  She points her toe out. ‘I know, right? And, they’re so much better than blowing all my money on an expensive wedding dress because I can actually wear them again. Oh, I’m so glad you came.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I come?’

  She doesn’t reply to that. I’ve won my point, so I amble on. Complimenting her on the ceremony, thanking her for the lack of goats cheese, and she laughs. She pulls me in for another hug. ‘Oh, hon. About the tables,’ she says. ‘You didn’t mind not being sat with the others, did you?’

  I make direct eye contact as I smile. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘There just wasn’t space, what with all the children. And I know how good you and Tom are at mingling. Tom, especially! Harry has such a man crush on him. Where is he anyway?’

  ‘By the bar.’

  ‘Oh I must go say hello. I guess it will be you guys next, won’t it? Though we all need to get together when one of us isn’t getting married. It’s hard when we all have children though.’

  She is already off. Hugging Dee next. Grabbing her bump. ‘Oh, it’s coming up, isn’t it? How are you feeling? I had the worst labour with Bonny …’

  The night rides on. It gets dark. Parents who drew the short straw take the children away. Amy drew the long straw and she is more than overcompensating. I watch people line up and do shots. Tom is leaning against the bar explaining whiskey to Nigel, who is also into whiskey, so they are out-explaining each other. People are finally drunk enough to dance and even drunk enough to dance to Love Shack. Dee and I sit in the corner – the islands of sober in an ocean of adults drinking to escape the lives they feel trapped in. We wave as the uni lot moves in a little circle. Amy has placed herself in the middle and spins while they dance around her. God she is happy without the children. Not that she’ll ever admit it. I feel quite calm. This month off social media suggested by my counsellor has been illuminating. After the first day or two of withdrawal, I’ve settled into it. It’s nice not to have a thought, instantly followed by that would make a good post. When that famous singer died last week, I didn’t have to pretend I liked or knew his music more than I did. I did not have to image-search for a meaningful lyric he had written and then post it quicker than others to get the most re-posts. I just thought Oh, so-and-so is dead, and got on with my day of not being able to write anything. Even now, as Dee sticks out her ankles and demands I rub them, I’m not thinking I should take a selfie of this, isn’t it funny? I’m just here in the moment and glad
for it. It’s only a month off. I need to be on those sites. Unfortunately, it’s a key part of my job.

  It gets later. Tom is at the bad stage of drunk.

  ‘Why aren’t you dancing?’ he demands. ‘You’re being rude.’

  ‘I’m looking after Dee.’

  ‘Come dance.’ A slow song starts. Robbie Williams. Tom pulls me to him and we dance slowly as everyone shouts the lyrics at the top of their lungs and points towards the ceiling. Tom also shouts along – even though he once referred to Robbie Williams as ‘the mother of all cunts’. He pulls me into his sweaty armpit and I hate him for a moment. He is a disgusting sweaty mess and he looks old and he really needs to lose some weight and I hate the way he treats me and I hate him for not loving me enough and I hate how he explains whiskey and I hate how he looks in that suit and I hate the way his sweat smells and how his recent burp floats into my face and smells of beer and vegetable samosas and whiskey. I feel a sudden urge to get away from him. To have him not touch me. I pull myself out of his armpit. Undeterred, he grabs Nigel instead, who is also singing ‘and down the waterfaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall’. I weave my way through the pathetic mess that we have all become and practically run to the bathroom. For quiet. For space. To wash my hands. To wash Tom off me.

  Amy is in the bathroom.

  I find her alone, sitting on the loo with the seat down, her arm outstretched, and taking several selfies. She’s pulled down her dress so she has a better cleavage. She is doing a duck face.

  ‘Oh my God, Tor.’ She staggers up. Man, she is drunk. Her voice is slurring, her eyes are all over the place. ‘We need to get a photo.’

  She drags me back into the toilet cubicle and it takes her three tries to even get the camera up on her phone. She pushes me to her left, which means the photo will be on my bad side. We obviously have the same bad side and she has won the battle of who gets to hide it from the camera. ‘On the count of three. One, two, three.’ I smile like I’m having the best time in the world because I know that Amy will post it instantly and everyone I know will see it and I want them to look at the photo and think how well I’m doing. We both crowd round the screen to examine ourselves.

  ‘For God’s sake, I look so old,’ Amy moans with pure despair. ‘Look at the state of my eyes.’

  ‘You don’t look old,’ I protest, silently pleased with how the photo has come out for me and hoping she still posts it.

  ‘I’ve not slept in years.’ She puts her phone back into her clutch bag and slumps against the wall of the cubicle. ‘I’ve not been on holiday anywhere that doesn’t have a fucking soft play area. Do you have any idea how much of my life I spend in soft play, Tor? Any idea? I have a degree in Sociology, but all I can tell you is where the good soft play is locally.’

  I’m not sure what to say to her. Her eyes are rolling back in her head now. I sense a puke brewing. I want to message Dee to tell her to get in and help but I left my phone on the table. Amy always did this at uni – always drank too much, always got too emotional, always ended up needing at least one of us to look after her. For a moment I’m back in that carefree time, with my feet sticking to the floor and the loud bass thudding through the gross toilets with no seats on them.

  ‘But you seem so happy,’ I tell her. ‘All the photos you put up …’

  ‘I am happy, I am … I am …’ She’s almost saying it to herself now. ‘I’m so lucky. So lucky. It’s the most beautiful thing having children, Tor. The most beautiful.’ I roll my eyes as I stroke her hair. Saying ‘there, there’ and wondering when I can leave. I try to tune out her incoherent mumbling. ‘Joel is such a menace, but a good menace you know? He’s got a good heart. And Clara. Her smile just lights up the room, you know? The whole room. Everyone says so. I mean, it’s hard, Tor. No one tells you how hard it is. Relentless. That’s the word. Relentless. Nick and I haven’t had sex in ages of course. He’s always nagging me. Push push push. But I’ve just not been interested since the birth … I hope he doesn’t have an affair. And I’ve always been so jealous of you …’

  Hang on.

  ‘Jealous?’ I ask disbelievingly.

  ‘Yes,’ she admits. ‘You’re always swanning off, all over the place. You always wear nice outfits that match. I just have one jumper that I feel nice in. Just one.’

  I shake my head. I reject her words. I can’t believe them. ‘Things aren’t always as they seem,’ I manage to get out.

  ‘Ah, come on. You and Tom have the perfect life, the perfect flat. You both have great jobs, you go on all those trips away.’ Her voice borders on anger now. Bitterness. I see a little bit of my medicine she has to swallow – my projections and my posts and my photographs and how they make her feel. It makes me feel slightly less guilty for the multitude of bitter, nasty, judgemental thoughts I have about her. And this is all very revealing and all very interesting and everything but the moment has passed now because Amy is gasping, ‘I’m going to be sick.’

  And she swings her head into the toilet bowl.

  I hold her hair back for her.

  We never talk like that again.

  Month Seven

  Lizzie Jones

  Jake and I are so happy to present little Ewan to the world. Two weeks late, 9lbs and 7ozs, but very worth it for the chubbiness of those cheeks. Georgia is already smitten, as are we.

  324 likes.

  Tori Bailey likes this.

  *

  Claire Spears has posted a photo album containing 287 photos

  ‘Who says you can’t go backpacking on your honeymoon?’

  231 likes

  Tori Bailey likes this.

  *

  Dee Harper has posted a photo.

  Caption: Don’t know why my headteacher deemed this scary costume ‘inappropriate’ for the school Halloween party …

  32 likes.

  Tori Bailey: I LOVE YOU SO MUCH

  *

  Extract from Tori’s first draft of What The F*ck Now?

  Lies We Tell Ourselves

  How much do you need to lie in order to make a long-term relationship work?

  Not only to your partner – no, of course I don’t think your friend is good-looking. Yes, it’s fiiiiiine for you to go out tonight, I don’t mind! Masturbate? When I have you? Of course not!

  But how much do you need to lie to yourself? I really do love them. I honestly don’t mind. I am lucky to have them.

  I’m supposed to be telling you the truth, so I guess that means telling the truth about the untruth. The denial and the suppression and the covering up that needs to exist in order to wake up to the same person every single morning and not want to smother yourself (or them) with a pillow. OR MAYBE THIS ISN’T RIGHT, TORI? HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT THAT? MAYBE OTHER COUPLES DON’T NEED TO LIE TO ONE ANOTHER AND TOM AND YOU ARE JUST FUCKED UP AND WRONG.

  *

  I have this really good sexual fantasy on the go.

  In it, Tom cheats on me, which means I’m free and single, but without any of the guilt. And the person he cheated on me with is much less pretty than me so I’m not even insecure about the fact he cheated. He begs me for forgiveness but I say no. I go clubbing with Tiff and meet a really attractive rich banker, but, like, he’s not like other bankers. He volunteers for a children’s hospice too, or something like that. I’ve not figured that bit out yet. Anyway, he looks amazing in sharp suits and he’s instantly bewitched by me. Every single thing I do and say further bewitches him. He takes me on incredible dates in incredible restaurants. I plan my imaginary outfits for every single one of these dates, including shoes, handbags, make-up and how I will style my hair. In one, I’m somehow wearing a dress exactly like the green one Keira Knightley wears in Atonement when she has sex with James McAvoy in the library. At the opera, I wear red like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman and he gets us a box and, somehow, in this fantasy I actually like opera and don’t find it boring and pretentious. The red dress is off-the-shoulder by the way, in case you are wondering. Hang on, I’ll get to t
he sex in a minute. Sometimes I’ve fallen asleep by the time I’ve got to this point in my sexual fantasy. It takes me so long to plan all my outfits that I zonk out before I’ve even had a chance to masturbate. Anyway, finally, when we’ve been on enough dates that the sexual tension is almost unbearable, this man books us into that hotel at the top of the Shard. The moment we get into the hotel room, the atmosphere changes and suddenly he’s not a gentleman any more. He’s rough and wants me so much it’s insane. We rip each other’s clothes off as we stagger around the luxury room while he murmurs constantly how beautiful and sexy I am, and how he has never once been this aroused by anyone or anything ever before. He reaches down and touches me and knows exactly how to touch my clitoris and I get wet much quicker than I’ve ever done before because this man is so perfect and good at sex. Then he takes me onto the balcony and bends me over it and pulls up the skirt of my dress (blue, vintage, with a skirt made of netting, a bit like the one Carrie wears in Paris in the last ever episode of Sex and The City). With the entire city of London stretched out below me, we have sex from behind. Anyway, the sex is rough and, even though I’ve never once enjoyed sex from behind in my entire life, somehow in this fantasy it feels really good and I don’t feel objectified or worried about the size of my arse or anything. We both come at the same time – naturally – and fall onto the huge hotel bed made with white crisp sheets. He doesn’t fall asleep or lose interest in me now he’s got what he wants. Instead, I play with his chest hair and we talk about our childhoods and he opens up to me in a way he’s never opened up to anyone before. And he says, ‘Tori, there’s something about you. I can just open up in a way that I’ve never opened up to anyone before.’ Then we kiss slowly. We stroke each other’s faces and feel each other falling so much in love. The kiss slowly builds to a really passionate one and then we make love on the hotel bed, really tenderly and slowly. He looks into my eyes with each thrust like he cannot believe his luck that he gets to thrust into someone as amazing as me. And I cry, the sex is so beautiful. We both orgasm again, even though I can hardly ever come through penetrative sex. But this man is so perfect and so good at sex and I realise it wasn’t my awkward body that was the problem, it was just that all the other boys I’ve slept with were shit in bed. But I don’t have to worry about that any more because this man is here now and I’ll never have bad sex ever again. He will love me unwaveringly, and never lose his sex appeal, and never once fancy another woman. We’ll have sex at least three times a week, even when we’re old. And we’ll be that couple that everyone is jealous of.