How Do You Like Me Now?

by Holly Bourne

  Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that this facialist woman shouldn’t freak me the hell out by telling me everything is wrong and then tell me to relax. A lavender-scented mask is not going to undo the words, ‘Oh yes, there’s a problem area here’. But I lie back and try to listen to the dolphins whistling. It’s so warm here in this little black cocoon she’s made for me. It’s almost relaxing as long as I don’t think about the designer vibrator waiting for me when I get home.

  After an hour of being stroked and poked, lathered and slathered, I am seated up and shown my face again in the mirror.

  ‘Woah,’ I say.

  The facialist laughs.

  I can’t get enough of my face. I turn from side to side, look up and look down, and wonder if it’s possible to get it to stay like this forever. It’s so pure and clean. She sits me down and shows me all the products I need to buy to get this at home. There is a cleanser and a mask and a moisturiser and an eye cream and a lip balm and a retinoid something-or-other. She tells me everything I’ve been using is wrong.

  ‘But it can’t be, it’s all organic!’

  ‘No no no. You need this.’ She places bottles into my hands with such urgency that I end up spending an extra hundred and fifty quid, on top of the extortionate amount I spent on the facial.

  I emerge into the West End and smile at everyone so they can see how glowy I glow. But, within two seconds, I remember I am in London and they’d ignore me even if I was bleeding and holding my blown-off arm out to them. I take myself to Selfridges and wander around aimlessly, picking up handbags and looking at the prices and putting them down again. I go to the book section to check they have mine in stock. Only one copy, but still. I move it to the front of a display.

  I feel very alone by the way.

  Tom’s on deadline and can’t meet me until tonight. Dee is away with Nigel for one last mini break before she’s too pregnant to move. I’m not seeing my family until tomorrow because Lizzie couldn’t get a sitter for today. Even then, she can only come up for two hours because she’s breastfeeding. I aimlessly ride the tube back to Brixton and decide to walk back through the park. It’s so cold that the morning frost lies suspended on the bits of grass people haven’t walked through yet. No one is playing tennis and you can hardly see the city through the dense November fog. It clings to the trees and buildings – I can only see people when they’re five feet ahead, emerging through the murk. I sit down on a bench, shivering as I stare out at the fog.

  Thirty-two.

  When I was younger I could hardly imagine being this age. It was just a blur of assumptions anyway. Of course I’d be married and have children in a house of some kind by then. But of course. That’s just what happens.

  You have your career, I remind myself. My glistening golden career that so many would kill for.

  You have Tom.

  Maybe, tonight, we can talk about the future. We’ll share an artisan-bread basket and I can say something really simple, like, ‘I know we both want to have children at some point, but maybe it would be useful if we actually talk time spans?’ And he’ll dip a sourdough finger into the virgin olive oil and say: ‘You’re right, Tori. You’re right. How does a year sound to you? Let’s start trying in a year.’ And I’ll say, ‘How many children do you think we should have?’ and he’ll say ‘Two.’ And I’ll say, ‘Me too.’ And we’ll beam at one another and smile in disbelief that we ever thought this conversation would be hard.

  Oh, I’m depressed now. I get out my compact mirror and look at my post-facial face to cheer myself up.

  The two lines on my forehead are back. They vanished for a while because they had so much product in them but, like the real Slim Shady, they are back. No money can apparently erase away these two lines and all the things that have happened to me that caused them.

  An idea.

  I put my phone on selfie mode to check how flattering the light is. Not bad actually. The fog softens the harshness of the low sunshine.

  It would be a shame to waste it, I think.

  I screw up my face to make the lines on my forehead more prominent. But I still take at least twenty selfies to ensure I’ve got one where I look pretty even though I’m pulling a funny face. I lighten it and, well, yes, I blur it ever so slightly so the two lines aren’t as bad, but they’re still there. That’s the point.

  Dear F*ckers,

  Today is my thirty-second birthday and I’ve been given two very prominent presents this year.

  These f*cking forehead lines.

  Look at them. Just look at them.

  At first – like any woman growing older in the world we live in – I hated them. I bought creams to hide them. I would only arrange my face into positions that didn’t make them worse.

  But then I realised something.

  These two lines are the equals symbol. They’re just ‘=’ rolled gently onto its side.

  Because life = wrinkles.

  Living = wrinkles.

  Having fun and being carefree and travelling the world and going on adventures = wrinkles.

  And going through hard times and coming out stronger = wrinkles.

  Every moment of my life, both good and bad, over these thirty-two years = these wrinkles on my face.

  So, I’m going to stop apologising for these wrinkles. I’m going to embrace them and everything I did in my life that put them there.

  What do your wrinkles equal? What have you come through to get such a deserved, brilliant trophy on your face? Let me know below.

  Lots of love

  Your (older) friend

  Tori x x x

  I have over a thousand likes by the time I leave the park.

  I feel a little better.

  *

  ‘Mum? Mum! Can you see me? I can see you.’

  Mum’s nostril is right up in my screen. I can see every pore, every light moustache hair. ‘I can hear you Tor.’

  ‘Move your face away from the iPad, yes, that’s it. Now, can you see me?’

  Mum’s whole face lights up like I’ve just performed a magic trick. ‘Oh there you are! Wow. Isn’t this clever?’

  Every single time we Skype.

  Every. Single. Time.

  ‘ARE YOU HAVING A NICE BIRTHDAY?’ she shouts. ‘I saw your post about wrinkles. It was funny.’

  ‘I’m having a great birthday, thanks. I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.’ I’m curled up in bed, all dolled up for my night out, though I’m still not actually dressed. Cat purrs gently on my lap like a white-noise machine. I stroke her long fur with the back of my hand. ‘I feel so old though!’ I wail.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she replies. ‘Wait until your sixties. Whenever I go to the GP now, I have to ask him how many ailments I’m allowed to bring up in the ten minute session. The limit is three. So I have to prioritise everything that’s going wrong with my body.’

  I squeeze up my face. ‘Crikey. What’s number one?’

  ‘My prolapse.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But they’re putting this inflatable ring up there to stop it all falling in. It’s very clever, but I can’t jog any more.’

  ‘Thanks Mum. You can stop now.’

  She cackles at me. ‘Having you was worth it though, Tori.’

  ‘I can’t believe it’s my birthday and you’re using it to guilt me for your prolapsed vagina.’

  Dad arrives in the background, cradling a sleeping Ewan. ‘Oh, is she talking about her prolapse again?’ he asks. ‘Do stop her.’

  ‘Hi Dad,’ I wave. ‘Aww, hello Ewan. He’s so cute.’

  Dad waves the baby towards the camera so I can see him better and I feel my stomach turn over with genetic love. ‘Happy birthday Victoria.’ He steps back to a respectable distance so I can see both him and Mum. ‘Did you have a lovely day?’

  I nod. ‘Great, thanks.’

  ‘You’re looking very nice. You off somewhere with Tom?’

  ‘Yeah. We’re going to that special place where they
put chocolate in all the food.’

  ‘Very fancy.’

  The tinkling sound of Tom showering stops and I look to the clock at the top of the screen. ‘I have to go,’ I tell them. ‘We’re leaving in a minute and I’m not dressed yet.’

  ‘Well, happy birthday poppet,’ Dad says. ‘We can’t wait to see you tomorrow.’

  It takes Mum two full minutes to disconnect from me while I laugh at her confused wrinkled neck trying to find the right button. Then the screen goes black and I can see my reflection in it. I can smell Tom’s aftershave through the en-suite door. He hardly ever wears it any more, tonight must be a special occasion. I step into my dress and wiggle the straps over my arm. It’s blue and expensive and I’m not quite sure my shoes match.

  Tom emerges in a cloud of steam, like he’s just been through the makeover part of Stars In Their Eyes. He raises both eyebrows. ‘You almost ready?’

  ‘I just need to get my bag.’

  Objectively, he looks handsome. His suit is well cut because I was there when he bought it. His skin is soft, his dark stubble the right length to be considered designer. He’s not currently smiling but, when he does, he only gets one dimple which is cuter than two dimples. He’s tall enough and just broad enough to be considered manly. He is an attractive man.

  I do not fancy this attractive man in my bedroom. I’m having to intellectualise myself into finding him sexy.

  ‘You look nice,’ I tell him. Because he does.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I wait for him to say ‘you too’. I have shaved and moisturised, primed and foundationed, plucked and highlighted, washed and blow-dried, dieted and squatted for this man, this one man, to tell me I look nice.

  ‘There’s a ten past train we might just catch if we leave now.’

  He doesn’t.

  We power-walk to the station, heads down against the cold, hands stuffed safely into our own pockets. We catch the train because it’s one minute late. There are seats and we fall into them, opposite one another. We are on our phones before the train has pulled away.

  Sandy: You having a nice birthday? I’m so jealous you’re going to that chocolate restaurant. I’m desperate to try it out.

  I smile as I compose a reply. We’ve been messaging back and forth since the baby shower, and I find I’m talking to her more than Dee these days.

  Tori: Yes, thank you. Although I went for a facial and I think the beauty therapist negged me.

  Sandy: At least you weren’t negged during a facial using the sexual sense of the word. That really would ruin a birthday.

  I burst out laughing and Tom looks up briefly, irritation lacing his face. He doesn’t ask me what’s funny. He just returns to his phone and me to mine. My post is doing really well. It annoys me that the ones where I’m honest about ageing do so much better than the others. I refresh my feed over twenty times in the fifteen-minute journey to Blackfriars. I get annoyed at Tom for being glued to his phone even though that is exactly what I am doing. I secretly think I’m not as bad about being on my phone as he is about being on his phone. I also know he secretly thinks the opposite.

  ‘Ready, Birthday Girl?’ Tom asks.

  We step off the train and put our phones back into our pockets. The glass walls of Blackfriars reveal the city all around us – lit up against the night sky, showing off all the big rides in this theme park of a capital. I get a rush of embarrassment, remembering when Tom and I were last here together. All the things I said. All the ways he ignored them. How can it be that it’s winter now and yet nothing has changed?

  We walk with bowed heads through the Dickensian streets which have felt significantly less Dickensian since Nando’s has installed its flagship restaurant here. You can smell the chocolate restaurant before you get to it. And we’re engulfed by the heady warm scent of it when we push through the doors, the cold clinging to our coats. We’re led upstairs and seated at a good table near a radiator with a view of the empty market below us.

  ‘Look!’ I say, in delight, excited by all the things in this restaurant I am supposed to be excited by. ‘The pepper grinder is full of chocolate beans instead of pepper.’ I pick it up and shake it in Tom’s face, scattering cocoa dust over the table.

  ‘Cool,’ Tom replies, although he could be more excited about it.

  ‘And there’s chocolate beans for us to eat! Look! Here in a bowl!’ I gesture towards it but Tom isn’t looking. Tom is checking his phone. I defiantly pick one up and try it. It bursts like bitter chalk in my mouth and, when the waiter arrives with menus, I’m coughing and spitting it out into the napkin.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t explain,’ he says. ‘You don’t eat the beans whole. You roll them between your fingers to break the shell, and then eat the middle.’

  I grin up at him, probably with bits of kernel all stuck in my teeth. He is young, cute. Probably waiting tables here until London gives him the break he’s sure he deserves – much like everyone else in this city. ‘Whoops, my bad.’

  He smiles. ‘Happens every day. Now, can I get you some drinks?’

  ‘I’ll just have a beer,’ Tom says to his phone.

  ‘Tom, it’s a chocolate restaurant. We should get chocolate cocktails.’

  The waiter opens up the menu and points out the ones that are the best. ‘Ooo, yes, one of those,’ I say, when he points to one made of molten chocolate.

  ‘Just a beer mate, thanks.’

  The waiter leaves just as Tom puts his phone down and smiles at me. ‘Chocolate cocktails. Exciting!’

  ‘Why are you getting a beer?’

  ‘Because I feel like a beer.’

  ‘But don’t you want to order something chocolatey if we’re in a specialist restaurant?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘OK.’

  We can’t argue because it’s my birthday and because we’re both making an effort because it’s my birthday and you can’t argue on your birthday because what does that mean? But I’m annoyed that he’s getting a beer. Even though it’s his life and he can get a beer if he wants one. But it really annoys me that he’s got a beer.

  The drinks arrive and we smile at each other.

  ‘That looks great, Tor,’ Tom says of my drink, swigging from his bottle. ‘What does it taste like?’

  I take a small sip and the thick milkshake-like liquid clings around my lips. It tastes delicious, like WillyWonka childhood dreams come true mixed with guilt about the calories. ‘Amazing,’ I squeal. ‘You should’ve got one.’

  ‘I might try a bit of yours.’

  This annoys me because I don’t want to share, but that will make me sound childish so I sidestep into a different row instead. ‘I think we should ban our phones through the meal,’ I say, out of the blue. ‘Whoever picks theirs up first has to pay for dinner.’

  Tom’s mouth is a thin line. ‘But we’re paying for dinner using the joint account.’

  I sip my drink. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Tom tucks his phone back into his pocket then he stares at me.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  He points with his eyes towards my phone on the table. ‘You too.’

  There’s this really good moment where we both have to look at the menu to decide what to have which gives us a valid reason for why we’re not talking. I watch him peruse the menu and try to make myself feel affection towards him. It comes, after a moment or two of effort. I think how kind it is that he’s taking me here when he hates novelty restaurants. I picture him nervously asking the shop assistant about what vibrator to buy because he honestly thought it was a good idea. The affection swells and I reach out and take his hand and squeeze it over the table.

  ‘I love you.’ I tell him. In that moment it is the truth.

  ‘What’s brought this on?’ His hand is warm and he squeezes it back. He is happy I have touched him and said that.

  ‘Just you being you. I’m very lucky to have a man like you on my birthday.’


  Our shared tenderness is cut short by the re-appearance of the cute waiter. ‘Do you know what you’d like?’ he holds up his notepad, ready to take it down. I signal with my eyes that Tom can go first.

  ‘Oh, yeah, thanks. I’m going to get the cheeseburger and fries,’ he says.

  I lower my menu. ‘You’re not getting a chocolatey meal either?’

  He shrugs. ‘I feel like a burger.’

  ‘But you can get a burger anywhere.’

  The waiter, sensing tension, beams at both of us. ‘Our burgers come with cacao mayonnaise.’

  ‘There you go,’ Tom says, handing the menu back to him. ‘Can’t get that anywhere.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want the lamb?’ I press. ‘You love lamb. And this one comes in a dark-cacao gravy.’

  Tom’s voice is now being expelled through gritted teeth that are stretched into a determined smile. ‘I. Told you. I. Feel. Like. A. Burger.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  The waiter expertly turns towards me and asks, with side-helpings of smoothing-over charm, ‘And what would the lady like?’

  There are only two vegetarian things on the menu. One is a macaroni cheese with chocolate, which is what I really, really want. But I also want another chocolate cocktail and I’m already picturing the cellulite that will form on my arse.

  ‘The cacao vegetarian curry,’ I say, feeling a little piece of me die as I say it.

  ‘Excellent choice. Let me know if you need any more drinks.’

  Tom and I are left. We drink from our drinks. We smile at one another. We comment on how nice the decor is. We manage two whole minutes of discussion about how Borough Market is so overrated and only tourists go there. I finish my cocktail and order another. Tom orders another beer. Loosened by the first drink, I allow him a sip of my second cocktail and he says, ‘Man, this is amazing actually,’ and orders one for himself. The sparkplug of my love for him splutters into a flicker of light. The food arrives and that gives us additional conversational fodder while we ask one another what theirs is like. Tom makes a joke about the cacao mayonnaise and it’s funny enough that I just about laugh. There are couples all around us, sitting at identical tables, probably having identical conversations. How normal is it to have nothing left to say to the person you’re supposed to love more than anyone? Tom and I know every single thing about one another. I’ve collected his anecdotes, and his memories, and his worries, and his traumas, and his childhood favourites, and his opinions about all of his friends, and I’ve pocketed them all like Pokémon. I’ve completed the set. The only new ones to collect are the things that happen to him when I’m not there. How was your day? What happened? Did your boss do that annoying thing again? Please tell me because it’s new. I sip at my molten chocolate drink and think about why people have children. Is it simply to give themselves more to talk about? Is the act of procreation merely an exercise in being able to sustain conversation? And, if they are seriously at that point, why are they having a child with someone they are so totally bored of?