How Do You Like Me Now?

by Holly Bourne

  *

  Sandy’s the only person who offers to stay behind and help clean up – the only one without a baby to use as an excuse not to. I close the door and smile shyly at her. The flat feels unnaturally quiet, as spaces always do after they’ve been crammed with people. Mess litters every surface – paper plates harvesting chocolate crumbs, nappies filled with baby food, stray bits of wool everywhere – and there’s Joel’s stain on the carpet to deal with.

  ‘Gin?’ I ask Sandy.

  ‘Gin,’ she nods.

  We crank on the radio and pull out bin bags and put everything in them, even things you’re supposed to recycle really. Then we treat ourselves to another drink. We stack all the mugs into the dishwasher while she tells me about the school and how you run one and how the government are ruining the industry and there are no good teachers left.

  ‘I cried when Dee got pregnant,’ she admits with a slur in her voice. ‘Not in front of her obviously. But she’s one of our best and the thought of finding a replacement for her, on top of all the other stress, was just too much. I went home and cried for two hours.’

  ‘She’s coming back though, isn’t she?’ I slam the dishwasher door shut. ‘She told me she’s planning to come back full-time? Nigel’s so minted they can afford nursery.’

  Sandy smiles at me like she feels sorry for me. She bites her lip for a moment, and it must be a good lipstick she has on, because none of it sticks to her teeth. ‘She won’t come back full-time,’ she replies. ‘She thinks she will, they always think they will. But everything changes the moment the baby comes.’

  I go into the living room and sit abruptly on the sofa. I raise my gin to my mouth. ‘Dee’s not most people,’ I tell Sandy, who joins me.

  ‘I know she isn’t,’ she replies. ‘But … I’ve worked in teaching a long time. Their priorities change when the baby comes, the hormones kick in. Some of their friends from NCT don’t go back, so they feel guilty and neglectful if they do. I mean, maybe Dee will be different, but I’ll be surprised.’

  I’m not sure why I’m angry all of a sudden. I’m not sure why I feel like Dee has suddenly betrayed me, and womankind as a whole. She’s not even done anything yet, and it doesn’t affect me whether she goes back to work or not anyway. But I realise I’m judging her. Already judging her. I’m horrified at myself, and Sandy can tell.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Sandy says, sensing I’ve gone away somewhere in my head.

  I look up at her. ‘You didn’t. I just … I don’t know. I’m really happy for Dee, I am. But, she’s my best friend and I don’t want things to change.’

  ‘They will. They have to.’

  It’s seven. Sandy is still here and we’re drinking cups of tea to sober ourselves up.

  ‘Christ it’s dark,’ I say, leaning over the sofa to draw the curtains. ‘I always forget how depressing winter is.’ My foot slips and I land face down on the sofa with an oomph. Sandy bursts into a cackle and I join her, laughing into the leather. I’ve had so much fun with her. I’ve not checked my phone once.

  ‘When’s your boyfriend getting home?’

  ‘God knows.’ I’m struggling with the motor skills required to get up. In the end, I go for a ninja roll sideways that gives me so much extra thrust, I’m able to get onto both feet. ‘Whenever he’s finished watching all the football games to delay spending any time with me.’

  Sandy raises one eyebrow as she takes a sip of tea. ‘You guys have a fight or something?’

  I settle in a chair at the dining table and shake my head, looking at the smudge of chocolate stain that remains on the carpet. ‘Oh, I wish we could have a fight,’ I say. ‘I wish he could yell at me at least once. It would be reassuring to know I evoke any strong emotions in him whatsoever.’ I pick up my mug of tea. I take a sip. I allowed myself one sugar as a treat because I didn’t have any cake. It tastes comforting and exactly what I need but I know I’ll hate myself for the sugar when it’s finished. ‘I know being single is awful,’ I tell Sandy. ‘And that the grass is always greener, yadda yadda yadda. But I do get jealous that single people have still got all the good bits of falling in love ahead of them. The butterflies stage and the brilliant sex stage and the stage where they still look at you like they can’t believe their luck rather than looking at you like they can’t believe you didn’t live up to the hype they imposed on you.’

  Sandy shakes her head laughing. ‘Tori,’ she says into the steam of her tea. ‘Being single isn’t awful. I mean, it’s hard sometimes, yes. But it’s not the worst thing in the world.’ She pauses, uncertain what to say next. ‘I mean, it’s not as bad as being in the wrong relationship.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I counter quickly, not sure why. ‘The things Dee told me about some of her dates. It sounds like carnage out there.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not denying that. Dating can be brutal. The moment I hit thirty-five, my number of matches dropped because all the men put that as their limit, even if they’re forty-two.’ Sandy closes her eyes for longer than a blink before looking right at me. ‘I mean, there are a lot of arseholes you need to wade through, and it can be pretty exhausting and some days you just feel like giving up … Can I have another cup of tea? I’ll leave soon, I promise.’

  I smile at her. ‘Of course. I need another one too. And stay as long as you want.’

  Sandy stands with me while I boil the kettle. She compliments me on my hilarious mugs that Tom doesn’t find funny. I’m drinking from a Lionel Richie one that says ‘Hello? Is it tea you’re looking for?’ and Sandy’s drinking from the Adele one – ‘Hello? It’s tea.’ We pour in milk and I don’t have sugar in this one because I had sugar in the last one and I shouldn’t have had that as it is. We sit back down again and pick up where we left off, like we are friends who have known each other forever.

  ‘When I first started dating again,’ Sandy continues, ‘at first I was horrified at the state of all the men. I had some comically awful dates and started to worry something was wrong with me.’ I’m gripping the handle of my mug so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t fall off. I cannot imagine any man not wanting to fall in love with Sandy. I am already half in love with Sandy. She laughs. ‘But then I got the hang of dating and learned how to dodge the crazies. And now it’s really quite fun. I mean, obviously I’ve not met The One, but I’ve met so many interesting people I’d never have met otherwise. Dating gives you this opportunity to get a little glimpse into someone’s life. It’s great if you’re nosy. The thing is, after a while, something just clicked. I stopped worrying and caring and just focused on me and my own life and what I wanted to do and now I love being single.’ Her face breaks into a smile. She is telling the truth, I can feel her telling me the truth. ‘My head feels so much lighter, you know? I was in a terrible relationship in my early thirties and I sucked myself dry worrying about how he was, and what he was thinking and what he meant when he said this. I would be having a lovely day, then one argument with him would lead me into total free fall. But now …’ she takes another slurp of her tea ‘… now, I feel about ten stone lighter, and I’m so much happier. Don’t get me wrong, I still hope I meet someone, but I also know I’ll be fine if I don’t, you know? My life is mine, totally mine. And, on good days, it’s mad how empowering that can be. I’m not saying there aren’t hard days though … God, sorry. I’m really going on. Blame the gin! Anyway, I guess none of this is relevant to you. I mean, you’ve got Tom, haven’t you? Well, if things are OK between you?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got Tom.’ I say. I take a sip of my tea but I don’t taste it. My eye started twitching right from the moment Sandy used the words ‘sucked dry’. It’s like a little clockwork monkey has got out a mallet and smashed a nerve. I remember how, the other day, I was euphorically giddy because Taylor Faithful told my publicist she wants to read my new book when it’s done. Tom got home and I was being silly and dancing around the kitchen, saying ‘Guess what? Guess what?’, all springy and bouncy and just how he likes me, b
ut apparently the rules had changed because he didn’t like me that day. ‘What’s got into you?’ he asked, practically in disgust. And, when I told him, all he said was, ‘Well done Tor’, but with these dead shark-eyes, and all the euphoria vanished as I started to worry what was wrong with him, and whether I’d upset him, and I kept asking him if he was OK and he kept saying he was fine, but he turned on the football and didn’t talk to me all night and I cried in the shower so he wouldn’t see my blotchy face.

  Sucked dry …

  ‘So being single in your thirties isn’t terrible then?’ I find myself asking before I even know I’m going to ask it. The smile Sandy gives me in return is so warm that I could almost tan in it.

  ‘No, Tori. You might actually find you’re quite happy … you know … if you ever decided—’

  ‘To leave him?’ I interrupt. I can’t believe I’ve said it. I can’t believe I’ve said it out loud. I mean, of course I won’t leave him. I love him. But, I’ve said it out loud.

  Sandy nods. ‘Just something to think about.’

  *

  82 people commented on Tori Bailey’s wall:

  Jessica Thornton: Happy birthday Tor! Hope you have an amazing day and that Tom spoils you rotten x x x

  Dee Harper: I refuse to accept you are 32. You are still 19 and you’ve just been sick in your handbag so the taxi doesn’t fine us.

  Sandy Carson: I am wishing you a happy birthday online. This makes us proper friends, don’t you know?

  Someone From School I Never Speak To And Yet We Are Online Friends: Happy Birthday Tori. I hope you have a great day x

  *

  Document: Dee’s Baby Shower Planning

  It is my birthday and I’m dreading having sex with Tom later.

  We’ve not had penetrative sex since his birthday, in February. And, before then, we’d not had penetrative sex since my birthday. We almost had sex last Christmas after my publisher’s big party, but he was too drunk to keep it up so we passed out on the sofa instead.

  I know it doesn’t make sense to be dreading having sex with Tom when I spend all my time complaining that Tom and I don’t have sex any more. But I am. Because this sex won’t be sex he’s having with me because he fancies me and he just can’t not. It’s dutiful sex. Sex we must have because having sex is something couples do to each other on their birthdays. And, though Tom has come up with plenty of seemingly valid reasons for why we don’t have sex the rest of the time – reasons like he is tired, or I put too much pressure on him, or I am needy, or he’s worried I’ve secretly stopped taking the pill to trick him into getting pregnant (oh, yeah, that happened, last month. Anne threw a fit.) – even Tom can’t deny birthday sex. If you don’t have sex with your partner on their birthday there really is a problem with you as a couple and neither Tom, nor I, want to be a problematic couple. We just want it to work.

  God, the sex is going to be so fucking awful. I hope I get flu between this morning and tonight so we have a really valid reason not to have sex.

  *

  Tom wakes me with a cup of fresh coffee from the good deli next door.

  ‘Happy Birthday gorgeous,’ he singsongs.

  I blink a few times into the dull grey November light, turn around and smile at him. ‘Morning.’

  He presses the hot drink into my hand and ruffles my hair affectionately. He peels off his jogging bottoms and climbs back into bed. The cold air from outside lingers on his legs. He picks up his own cup of coffee and we relax back together in our pillows, sipping and watching the steam spiral up to the ceiling.

  ‘Thirty-two,’ I say. To no one. To him.

  ‘Hey, spring chicken. Thirty-two is better than thirty-four.’

  I sip my drink which is too hot and burns the tip of my tongue, scalding off some rather vital taste buds. ‘But it’s not the same for you. You’re a guy. You don’t have a use-by-date stamped onto your genitalia.’

  ‘Let’s not go down this road, Tor. Not today. Let’s just have a nice day.’

  Cat counter-attacks the comeback souring in my throat. She leaps onto my legs and starts clawing at me through the winter duvet. We laugh at her and watch her and marvel at how funny she is and what a personality she has.

  ‘Ready for your present?’ Tom asks.

  ‘Oh yeah! Of course!’

  He leaves me with Cat and returns with a small oblong box. I kick my legs, disrupting Cat, and say ‘presents presents presents’ like I’m a cute child. He smiles like he actually likes me. Tom puts his arm around me and I snuggle into his shoulder. I open the card first – it’s an arty one with daffodils on the front.

  I open it up to read inside.

  Dear Tor,

  I really fucking love you.

  Happy Birthday

  Love Tom x

  ‘Aww Tom,’ I burrow further into his shoulder, feeling the love kick-start again. I picture him choosing the card in the shop, I picture him sitting with a pen deciding what to write.

  ‘It’s true.’ He kisses me on the top of my head. ‘Now, come on! Open the present.’ His excitement radiates off him while I try to hide my disappointment it’s not a small, square, jewellery box. Even though I didn’t think I wanted one. Even though I didn’t know I was maybe expecting one, until the wrapped box came out in this size and shape.

  ‘What have you got me?’ I use my fingernail to get under the Sellotape. I push back the folded flap of wrapping paper. I peer in. It’s a black box made of silky cardboard. I’m none the wiser until I totally rip off all the paper and turn to the front of the box.

  It’s a vibrator.

  A very expensive vibrator.

  ‘It’s a vibrator,’ I say, as Tom laughs and congratulates himself.

  He pulls me in for a hug while I stare at the box in my hands. ‘Well, you’re always banging on about how we never have enough sex,’ he says. ‘So I thought this would help.’ He’s smiling as he says it.

  Here are the orgasms you were after. I won’t feel emasculated about you wanking to get them because I picked out the device myself.

  ‘The lady in the shop said they’re really good.’ He kisses my head again. ‘Are you proud of me? I went into an actual Agent Provocateur and everything. I even asked for advice. I’m a new man!’

  I can’t bring myself to take it out of its box. I’m using all I have not to cry on him. The thing is, this is him trying. I know him so well and I know this is him really, really trying. But his trying is breaking my heart.

  ‘You’ll have to hide it tomorrow when your parents come over for dinner.’ He picks it up and waves it around comically. ‘Sorry I can’t come to that by the way. I’m so bored of going to Copenhagen. We’ll have a nice dinner tonight though, won’t we? Oh, Happy Birthday Tor.’ I’m engulfed in yet another hug. I manage to squeeze him back, just enough so he won’t suspect anything. But if I don’t get out of this room very very quickly, he will see me start to cry. Then I’ll have to explain why and he won’t understand because he thought he was trying so hard. I feel like I need to reward his trying, even if he got it so very wrong.

  ‘Thank you Tom,’ I manage to say, without even a quiver of grief in my voice.

  You have to leave him, you have to leave him, you have to leave him, my brain is shouting. I gulp. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’ I kiss him right on the lips and dislodge Cat from my legs, stumbling over to the en suite.

  ‘Tori?’

  I turn back and find he is spread out on the bed, hand under his head, leg bent. A bit like how Rose poses when Jack draws her in Titanic – except Rose hadn’t got a giant pink dildo out of its box and hilariously shoved it between her legs.

  ‘We can use it later tonight.’ He wiggles his eyebrows.

  It is my birthday and now I am really dreading have sex with Tom later.

  *

  I get a facial. Because they’re always telling you to and I’m panicking about the two lines that have appeared between my eyebrows. They lie like a sideways equals sign. On
the plus side, they provide the perfect measurement of when to finish plucking my eyebrows. On the negative, I’m fucking shitting old.

  And stern.

  My face has always been all angles, which is jolly nice when you’re growing up and you can turn the best angle towards a camera and people tell you you could be a model. But now these angles are ageing badly. I’m going to be one of those pointy old women that make you jump if they emerge from the fog holding a poisoned apple or something. I wonder if there’s any way to put on weight, but only on your face?

  ‘How is my skin?’ I ask the very expensive facialist. ‘Is it OK?’

  ‘Do try to relax,’ she replies, bundling my face into its fourth hot flannel.

  ‘I gave up smoking,’ I tell the flannel. ‘When I was twenty-five. So I’m hoping that helped with everything.’

  ‘I’m going to apply a moisturising mask now. It will need to sit for ten minutes while I give you a neck and shoulder massage.’

  The mask feels cold on my face but my, it’s good to be touched. Even if it’s by someone you’re paying to touch you. I close my eyes and imagine the mask burrowing into my sideways equals sign, plumping it up, erasing it. The facialist’s fingers deftly stroke upwards and around, they zoom in on the sides of my nose, clogging it with special magic mask. It’s not like I don’t want to grow old, I just want to do it in that graceful way everyone always bangs on about. Where you don’t get Botox because that is weird and cheating, but your wrinkles are kind of in the right places and glow and look all mature and sophisticated.

  ‘What does Helen Mirren put on her face?’ I ask the facialist.

  ‘We’ll go through products at the end of the session. Do try and relax.’ I don’t know why she’s being so snippy. I mean, she started this ruddy thing by using some evil camera that ‘diagnosed’ my face, pointing out everything that is wrong with it in the photos, and then telling me off for not using sunscreen properly in my gap year. ‘Sun protection is so important,’ she told me, even though it’s obviously too late for that advice unless I now make a fucking Tardis. And if you’ve managed to conquer the complexities of time travel and then only use it to go back and shovel sunscreen onto your face, rather than murdering Hitler, well, then, I think that says a lot about you as a person … Maybe you could do both though …