How Do You Like Me Now?

by Holly Bourne

  Co-dependency. That’s what that movie is about. A morality tale about the dangers of co-dependency.

  ‘Don’t you have to put on a trouser suit now and tell a room full of people how happy you are?’ Dee asks.

  ‘Oh buggery. I’ve not even put on my primer yet.’

  *

  I arrive late and flustered and not happy in the outfit I ended up choosing.

  ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry,’ I blurt out to my publicist, Jenny, instead of hello. She’s waiting for me outside the British Library – shivering in her trendy chequered coat.

  ‘It’s OK. We’ve still got an hour. I love your dress,’ she says.

  I wrinkle my nose because I’m still not sure about it. She gestures to a glass door and I clop in on my heels. Gorgeous Femme Fatale posters adorn each red-bricked wall, and lots of pulled-together women with good taste in spectacles loiter and hold Paperchase notepads.

  I’m weaved through the throng like a cross-stitch needle. We pass a long queue of women sitting on the ground. ‘They’re queuing for your event,’ Jenny squeaks. ‘Some of them have been here for hours.’

  There’s a ripple amongst the crowds as people start recognising me and whispering their discovery to their friends. I receive lots of toothy smiles as they try desperately to connect with me in some way as I pass. ‘Did you see her? She smiled back at me!’ I imagine them saying to one another.

  We push through to the green room which, I can tell you, always sounds so much more exciting than it ever is. The room groans quietly under the weight of a very busy day. It’s mostly empty. A few people are sitting, silently tapping on their phones. The bottles of antibacterial hand gel on each table are almost used up. There’s a crumb-laden corner where the catering must’ve been. It now holds only two crumpled bags of cheese and onion crisps. Jenny panics. ‘There were sandwiches. I promise you. They were here an hour ago.’ And I tell her not to worry because I have already eaten, even though I haven’t eaten. I am glad because this means I can skip dinner without it being my fault, because there were no sandwiches.

  ‘There’s wine though!’ I say, spotting the bottles of it in the corner and making my way over. ‘This festival has its priorities exactly right.’

  Enough random people in the room titter at my joke, revealing they’ve all been listening to me. I pour myself a large glug of white as red wine yellows your teeth and I’m about to be in twelve trillion photographs. A pretty woman with a black ponytail approaches, holding a notebook in one hand. ‘Hi, Tori. Nice to meet you!’ She stretches out her hand. ‘I’m your chair for the panel event. Anika. I write for the Guardian.’

  I put down my glass of wine and reach out to shake her hand. ‘Hi Anika, it’s lovely to meet you too.’

  ‘I have to say, I’m a huge fan,’ she admits from behind her thick-framed glasses. ‘Who The Fuck Am I? helped me through the big break-up of my early twenties.’

  I nod wisely and sip the wine. ‘Ahh, yes. The we-met-too-young-and-we-want-to-have-sex-with-other-people-even-though-we’re-so-compatible-and-we’re-taking-it-for-granted break-up.’

  Her eyes shine. ‘Exactly the one!’

  I tilt my head and drink more wine. ‘I’m so pleased my book helped you,’ I say, practically robotically, even though I do mean it. I’m ushered along to a table and I’m still holding my wine glass as I meet the other two panellists. We shake hands and compliment each other on each other’s work even though we probably didn’t know we all existed until a week ago. I feel the alcohol working its magic, soothing and dulling my nerves. It’s going to be OK actually. I’ve done so many events before, I am good at this, this is what I do. I pour myself another glass of wine. Jenny looks worried. But I’m not. I’m better with a tiny bit of wine in me. I’m funnier, I’m sparkier. My filter is diminished and it’s my lack of filter that got me booked in the first place.

  I have to do a last-minute wee and it’s only then I notice I have red lipstick all over my teeth. Nobody thought to tell me and I feel a twinge of humiliation as I wipe it off in the mirror. I can’t handle it when anyone has lipstick on their teeth. It is the ultimate sign someone doesn’t have their shit together. But I found it in time and I reapply and blot and I tell myself it’s all going to go great. I get miked up and flirt with the sound technician who has to clip the little thing to my boob.

  ‘This is going to be fun,’ I tell Jenny and wonder why she looks worried.

  Then we’re being summoned by someone wearing a black T-shirt and carrying a clipboard and it’s time to follow her in a line like we’re at primary school. I peek out from behind the stage curtain and see that it’s fit to bursting. Row after row is chock-a-block with dewy-eyed women. Earnestness rolls off them like mist off the sea. They are checking the time; they are wondering when it is going to start; they cannot wait to hear what us experts have to say; they want to know all the answers. Then we’re being told we’re on and I’m walking out into bright hot lights and the eager sea foam claps and whoops, and it’s only when I sit down on my stool that I realise I’m still carrying a topped-up glass of wine.

  ‘Hello, hello everyone,’ Anika says to the crowd. Very pro, very confident. ‘And welcome to the controversially-titled event Stand By Your Man.’ The audience giggle. Wow, Anika is good. Addressing the controversy right away. Letting them know that we know. ‘I’m delighted to introduce our panel tonight. On the far right, we have Lisa Ainsbury. Journalist, playwright and self-confessed “shagger of the whole city of London”.’ The audience laugh again as Lisa waves all like ‘yeah, that’s me’. ‘Lisa’s award-winning play was an autobiographical examination of her break-up that she processed through lots of casual sex—’

  ‘It’s a tough job,’ Lisa interrupts, ‘But someone’s got to do it.’ Everyone laughs again. I laugh too. Maybe a little bit too late. Oh well.

  ‘But, last year,’ Anika continues, ‘Lisa met the love of her life and is now engaged to be married. She’s working on a new stage show called I’m Stuck With This One Penis Forever?’

  Oh, how they laugh and applaud and think hahahahaha well done Lisa. When everyone’s finished clapping Lisa’s existence, we move on to the dude sitting next to me. ‘In the middle we have Liam Singer. Liam is the founder of The Good Guy Project: a web-based advice platform for men struggling with their masculinity.’ Everyone politely claps him while I try not to roll my eyes. I’m sure he has good intentions and all, but I just cannot handle men who get applauded for not being an arsehole. It should not be rewarded, it should just be a given. ‘Liam’s been with his childhood sweetheart since he was fifteen years old,’ Anika informs us and everyone coos, and melts in on themselves, and I have to think for fuck’s sake rather than say it out loud because I’m miked up.

  ‘And, finally, I’m very excited to introduce our third panellist, Tori Bailey.’ Oh, yes, thank you, they are certainly clapping harder for me than the others. I get whoops and I get cheers and I already feel much better about everything thank you very much. ‘Author of the bestselling Who The Fuck Am I? and inspirational speaker, Tori has been with Rock Man since the end of the gap year that inspired her book.’

  ‘Six and a half years,’ I add, because I want everyone to coo about Tom and me like how they cooed for the others. They oblige. Everyone coos. And I feel temporarily less empty inside. For ten whole seconds actually.

  ‘Who The Fuck Am I? is a defining book for any woman in her twenties,’ Anika says. ‘But Tori is here today to talk about what’s next. In fact – drum roll, please – Tori, I believe you have a very special announcement for us, don’t you?’

  I look to my publicist who is sitting at the side with her hands clasped together. This is the moment. The big moment. I cannot take this back once I open my mouth and say it. ‘Yes, I do,’ I say smoothly. Because I am a professional, I even put down my wine glass. ‘I’m really excited to say that I’m writing a new book. It’s called What The Fuck Now? and it’s all about your thirties and long-term relationsh
ips and how to still fancy someone after you’ve had to sit on their stomach one night to help them get rid of their trapped wind.’

  I get the most laughs. Brilliant. Everyone is so excited. AHAHAHAHA. I win, I win. I drain my glass of wine and feel pretty damn brilliant about myself. Dee was right. I am strong. I am hard core. I am good at this. I’ve not even written this book yet, even though the first draft is due in a month, but it will be fine because look how much they yearn for my lies. Look how much they don’t care about the truth. I am the emperor and they really want my new clothes to be real. Sometimes I think they want my new clothes to be real more than I do.

  It takes a while for everyone to quieten down from the excitement of this bullshit book announcement and, eventually, we launch into the questions.

  ‘So, expert panel, what does monogamy mean to you?’

  Lisa: It means working through the hard bits. It means knowing they will make you stronger. It means connecting on a deeper level.

  Liam: It’s growing together, not apart. And that is so beautiful.

  Me: It means picturing someone else when you’re having sex as it’s the only way to still be aroused by them, but never, ever, telling them.

  AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

  HAHAHAHAHA

  HAHA

  HA.

  ‘Now, tell me, do you have to be happy in yourself before you can be happy in a relationship?’

  Lisa: I mean, of course you have to be happy with yourself. That’s the only way. When I was having all that casual sex, I thought I was happy, but I wasn’t. It was only when I was truly happy with me – just me – that my fiancé popped out like magic. It’s like the universe knew.

  Me: So single people aren’t happy with themselves?

  Lisa: That’s not what I was saying.

  Me: Then why were you rewarded for being happy with yourself, but not other women who are happy with themselves?

  Lisa: Umm.

  Liam: I mean, I get what Lisa’s saying. My wife and I met when we were fifteen and we still love each other so much. When you meet that young, of course you’re not totally happy with yourself, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still be happy in a relationship. We’ve grown together, that’s what I love about us. I’m happy with us, not just me. Us is more important than me. I think that’s what ‘real love’ is.

  Me: But what if your wife got hit by a bus tomorrow? Then what? Because it could happen. It could totally happen. You could always end up alone, even when you’re together with someone. They may get cancer or hit by a bus or have a midlife crisis and leave you and start another family with someone fourteen years younger. You can only control you. You cannot put your happiness into another person. You can … can …

  Anika: OK, right … moving on …

  ‘Can you be a feminist and be in a heterosexual relationship?’

  Liam: Well, as you all know, I’m a proud feminist.

  Audience: Wooo! Go you!

  Liam: And what I love most about my relationship with my wife is how totally equal it is …

  Me: Oh my God, so you clean the toilets?

  Liam: Umm …

  Me: You’ve actually, in the course of all your years together, scrubbed your own shit off the porcelain?

  Liam: We have a cleaner so …

  Me: Who cooks the Christmas dinner?

  Liam: Well, my wife likes cooking so …

  Me: I bet she does.

  Lisa: I’m a feminist and you can totally be one in a heterosexual relationship. Totally. It’s so important. Me and my fiancé are in a completely equal, feminist, relationship.

  Me: Are you on the pill, Lisa?

  Lisa: What? Umm … that’s a very personal question.

  Me: Or the coil? Or the injection? Or that thing they put in your arm that makes everyone get fat and go crazy? Are you taking hormones because your fiancé doesn’t like using condoms?

  Lisa: I don’t see how … anyway, he always says he would take the male pill if it existed.

  Me: That’s a very easy thing for him to say considering it doesn’t exist. And never will because, God forbid, hormones give men side effects.

  Audience:

  Anika: So, Tori. You’re a proud feminist. Are you saying you and Rock Man are in an equal relationship?

  Me: I don’t fucking know anything any more.

  Afterwards, the general politely-put-by-my-publicist consensus on the event is ‘um … well … all publicity is good publicity’.

  I can’t remember the rest of it, to be honest. I just remember being sad when my glass of wine was finished. And the moment I wasn’t able to stop myself pulling a face when Lisa told her super-cute proposal story. Half the audience laughed, and half took to the Internet to tell me I’m a bad person afterwards. Jenny keeps promising me it went ‘really well’. Liam asks me for a drink afterwards because ‘your questions have revealed parts of my privilege I’d never realised before’. He clearly thinks one discussion with a drunk angry women will help absolve him of his guilt.

  ‘I can’t go for a drink,’ I slur at him. ‘Just promise me you’ll go down on your wife every so often and clean the fucking toilet once in a while.’

  He laughs. I can tell he hates me when he laughs. I picture him getting into bed with his wife tonight and saying, ‘I met the most awful woman tonight. Just awful. I feel so sorry for her boyfriend.’

  Lisa and I hug and pretend we’re friends and I say I can’t wait to see her show. Even though I will never see her show. She says she can’t wait to read my new book. Even though she will never read my new book. Because we are women and women always have to pretend they like each other and support one another otherwise they are bad feminists. There is no signing afterwards – Femme Fatale policy. Which is just as well because I run to the green room toilets, pull my tights down, and scratch the top of my thighs until I draw blood.

  Month Eight

  Tori Bailey has created an event:

  Dee’s ‘Mother’s Ruin’ Baby Shower –

  November 15th 2.30-5.30p.m.

  Hey everyone,

  So it’s a bit last minute – I’m still in shock that Dee is having a baby – but let’s get the gins in and all hang out and do baby shower stuff at mine. Bagsy I’m the one who’s allowed to buy her a Sophie the Giraffe!

  16 people are attending

  Comments:

  Amy Price: Hey Tor, it’s not clear from this invite if babies are welcome at this baby shower. Am I allowed to bring Joel and Clara? Otherwise I can’t come because I won’t be able to get a sitter this last-minute.

  Tori Bailey: Whoops, didn’t think of that! Yeah, of course they’re welcome!

  Claire Spears: Phew, I was about to ask the same thing.

  Sally Thomson: Me too!

  *

  Google search: ‘Baby shower ideas’

  Results:

  ‘Why not cut out pastel-coloured squares of paper and get people to write their mothering advice on them? Then you can put them into this beautiful box for Mother Hen to look through whenever she has a tizzy moment!’

  ‘Baby piñata! You can buy one in the shape of a stork, and then fill it with dummies, and teething rings and all sorts of other baby goodies. Just make sure pregnant mummy is careful while swinging that bat!’

  ‘Bless the baby. Buy a candle for all of your guests, light them, and get everyone to say a blessing for the baby. This ritual is a super-cute way to bond the party. And they can even keep the candle to take home as a party favour!’

  ‘Why not get everyone at the shower to put their thumbprint onto a picture to make into a unique piece of art to hang in the baby’s room?’

  ‘Pin the sperm on the egg!’

  ‘Baby bingo!’

  ‘Who can change the doll’s nappy the quickest?!’

  ‘Bobbing for nipples!’

  Google search: ‘How the fuck do you bob for nipples?’

  *
/>   If you type the words ‘baby shower ideas’ into a crafting website’s search bar, the appropriate word for what happens next is ‘clusterfuckingfuck’.

  ‘No way,’ I mutter to myself as I scroll through the death of feminism. ‘This is satire, surely?’

  I have never found the words ‘basic’ and ‘bitch’ so hugely necessary to be used together. Who the hell comes up with this stuff?

  Oh, and don’t get me started on that thumbprint thing. When did thumb-printing become linked with socially-acceptable life-goal celebrations? I mean, who cares if the government snoop on us when we are willing to give up our individual thumbprints whenever we go to an event in our thirties? It’s only a matter of time before our sentimental ‘thumbprint art’ is released to the government for ‘our own safety’. There will be a news story about a serial killer who was tracked down because, even though they’d covered up every single trace, they’d still had to shove their thumb into some pink ink at Jenny and Ben’s wedding to add to the ‘love air balloon’.

  Calm down, Tor. Deep breaths. Click off. Click off.

  Dee won’t want any of this stuff anyway. I order in ten takeaway pizzas. I buy three big bottles of gin. I even order a giant Colin the Caterpillar cake from the catering section of M&S and, when it arrives, I’m so excited I take fifty selfies with it. I decide to make one baby-showery decoration, just to stop all the mums bitching about me afterwards. The least repulsive thing I can find is bunting made out of Babygros. I reckon if I hang it over the sofa then Amy won’t be able to make bitchy comments about how I obviously wasn’t the right person to host this. I buy a pack of cheap, gender-neutral Babygros from Primark, some ribbon and tiny pegs, and, an hour before everyone is due to arrive, I’m on the carpet figuring out how the sodding hell to make it look like the photo.