by Lucy Vine
‘Right,’ I tell my miserable-looking reflection. ‘Give this a bit longer. Maybe he’s just nervous and the alcohol is making him say lame things. Another half an hour and you can fuck off home and get into bed.’
I run my fingers through my hair feeling pepped, and head back out there.
Back at the table, Adam has his head in his hands.
‘Sorry about before,’ he says at a normal volume, and then he smiles. He has a nice smile. ‘I’m behaving like a total idiot. Really bad form for a first date, isn’t it, turning up trolleyed?’ I wince at the cut glass way he says ‘trolleyed’, but I can see he’s trying. He seems a little more sober. He adds, ‘So, Eleanor Knight, tell me about yourself.’
I breathe a sigh of relief and start telling him about my visit with Dad and FaceTiming my sister. He tells me about working in the City and I laugh when he complains about having to wear a tie every day.
We smile at each other. This isn’t terrible.
‘So, what’s wrong with you?’ he says suddenly, looking me up and down. ‘You seem nice, you have a job, you’ve got a pretty face –’ (eye roll) ‘– so why are you still single at thirty?’
I laugh, a short, shocked laugh. I’ve been asked this before but it never feels any the less rude with repetition.
There’s a silence and I say petulantly, ‘I’m not thirty, I’m twenty-nine.’
He laughs and I add, ‘What about you? You’re older than me and single. So what’s wrong with you, Adam?’
He looks put out. ‘No one’s ever asked me that before.’
We fall into another awkward silence and I try to move the conversation back to work, telling him about a project we finished this week, and how Derek cried because he said he was ‘so proud’ of all of us.
Adam frowns.
‘My ex was like that. She’d cry about everything. She was crazy.’
Ah, the ex-bashing, welcome back my old friend, I was expecting you. I thoroughly disapprove of this. I think men say this kind of thing so that you – as a future potential girlfriend – feel you cannot cry or be ‘crazy’. But I am very into crying and being crazy, so this form of gaslighting doesn’t work for me. It just makes me wonder what he did to his ex to make her so ‘crazy’.
‘You don’t like emotions much then?’ I say, playfully, and he frowns again.
Then his face clears and he leans in, ‘I’ve just remembered I’ve got some coke in my bag, let’s do a line in the loo!’
I almost laugh in his face. Drugs in a Costa loo at five in the afternoon, with a stranger who I hate? Sign me up! But for real though, do not sign me up, I’m so done here.
‘No thanks,’ I say smoothly, standing up. ‘I’m sorry, I’m going to head off actually.’ I pick up my bag, hesitate and add unconvincingly, ‘It was great to meet you!’
He looks genuinely surprised.
‘Oh? I thought you were going to come back to mine after this?’
I want to laugh again. We’ve only known each other forty-five minutes, but I can already tell he’s the kind of man who thinks foreplay is watching The Human Centipede and that he would then fall asleep while still inside me. Hard pass.
‘I’m not sure what gave you that idea,’ I say, putting my coat on over my sweaty bum. ‘Sorry.’
I walk to the door, cursing myself for apologising and wishing I could take it back. I glance back as I go and he waves awkwardly, looking very put out.
Half an hour later I get a text from him:
Hey, did you leave?
5
4.15 p.m. Friday, 1 March
Location: Sitting on Maddie’s messy desk, which is two down from my own. Her desk is piled high with stuff. In addition to my bottom, she has stacks of folders, stationery of all kinds (who needs paperclips in this day and age?) and the whole Beaver Family from the Sylvanian Family range – obvs. Lord help her if they bring in the hot- desking policy they keep threatening.
Rich, the guy who sits between Maddie and I, has been out at some shoot all day but he’s back now, just in time for his four thirty crisp ritual. In a minute, he will get out a packet of Quavers, open them in a way that is somehow louder than any person who has ever opened a bag of crisps before, and then he will suck each crisp until it disintegrates in his mouth. He does this twice daily – we’ve missed the eleven o’clock showing – and it takes him between fourteen minutes twelve seconds, and sixteen minutes forty-two seconds to get through a bag. We know this, because either side of him, Maddie and I time it and instant message each other about piercing our own ear drums. He’s the worst. The Worst.
Hold on, here he comes.
‘Hey, Ellie! Hey, Maddie!’ he says cheerfully sitting down. ‘How are your days going? Isn’t the weather lovely for this time of year? Oh, hey, did you see that polar bear documentary last night? Isn’t it sad what’s happening with them? I actually cried a bit!’
God I hate him.
I don’t look up. ‘Rich, no one cares about your polar bear fetish.’
‘Haha, oh Ellie, you are hilarious.’
His laugh is the worst. And here it comes, the thundering sound of the Quaver packet. I shudder as he thrusts the bag at me.
‘Would you like a crisp, Ellie?’
‘Before or after you’ve sucked it to death, Rich?’
‘Oh, hahaha, you’re so funny! You want one Maddie?’
She shrieks and bats the packet away from her.
He continues, undeterred. ‘Are you two excited about tonight? It’s going to be weird seeing everyone get drunk, isn’t it? I’ve never seen Derek tipsy, I bet he’s hilarious!’
He’s so earnest about everything. And he thinks everyone is hilarious – even Derek. He’s the worst.
I’m going to send him another article from The Onion. I like watching him get outraged and tell everyone about it like it’s real.
It’s been a long, busy week, but tonight is the official launch party for the Nationwide Artist Hunt. Everyone’s calling it NAH for short and everyone’s also getting told off for calling it NAH for short. The whole office has used the party as an excuse not to do any work this afternoon, and I’ve seen at least four people swigging wine out of bags under their desks. But, honestly, I don’t know if it’s because of the party or if I’m only just noticing their everyday survival tool. Maddie and I haven’t started drinking yet, but Madds has been applying layer after layer of make-up since eleven forty-five this morning. I’m all for it – she’s really starting to look like my favourite drag queen; Alaska Thunderfvck.
Next to me, Madds is adding yet more blusher to her cheeks and shouting at Rich.
‘Oh God, shut up, Rich. God,’ she says, delightedly. She’s having the best day ever. Last night she broke up with Ben, and she can’t believe how not sad she is.
‘I kept thinking I would be so miserable if I ever actually did it,’ she keeps telling me. ‘But I feel AMAZING.’
‘It has only been twelve hours,’ I keep reminding her, cautiously. I’m worried the novelty and excitement is suddenly going to drop away and the devastation will hit her. I am fully expecting to find her crying on the floor of the loos later. She gets like that after a wine anyway, and it’s surely not going to take much to knock through her denial walls. You can’t throw away that many years of a relationship and not fall apart, can you?
‘It was so easy,’ she says again now. ‘I came home after work last night and Ben was playing with Alfred. I looked at him and I thought to myself, “He’d make such a wonderful Dad,” and then I opened my mouth and I said, “Ben, I think we should break up.” I don’t know where it came from but as soon as it was out of my mouth I knew it was the right decision. I felt so fucking relieved. And I can’t keep throwing away his grandmother’s jewellery in case he proposes with it. We sat there in the living-room for an hour and a half holding hands and talking about how we’d become best friends, instead of lovers.’
She pauses. ‘And then Ben told me he was happy because he couldn
’t stop thinking about sucking cock.’
Oh. This part of the story is new.
I look at Maddie, blinking. ‘Um, Madds, is Ben . . . gay?’ I ask hesitantly.
‘Yeah, I think he might be!’ she says enthusiastically. ‘It’s something I’ve thought for a while now because he talks a lot about guy on guy stuff in the bedroom. I once told him about this three-way fantasy I have with two blokes, and he said he had the exact same fantasy. I thought he meant with me and another man, but he explained he meant him and two blokes. But I just thought everyone fantasised about it. And I thought we’d stopped having sex because everyone does after the first two years.’
I nod.
‘And I don’t mind at all!’ she adds. ‘I’ve always wanted a gay best friend, like in Sex and the City! I’ve offered to help him with Grindr if he helps me go shopping for my summer wardrobe in a couple of weeks.’
I wince a bit at the clichés. Especially since the last time I saw Ben, he was wearing all brown, head to toe, including a brown flat cap he found on the train.
‘And now I’m single,’ she says, awed. ‘For the first time in my adult life, I’m actually, really single.’ She turns to face me, taking both my hands, like we’re in a movie. ‘I need you to tell me everything, Ellie, everything. I need you to do some single-splaining. Remember that I know nothing at all. Like, God, Ellie, do single people still talk about sex in detail like they did on Sex and the City?’
I shake my head. ‘Nah, calm down, Samantha. I mean, sure, you can tell me you had sex if you like, and you can tell me if it was fine or good sex, but it’s not the noughties any more, we don’t want to hear details or positions. No one cares about your clitoris.’
She claps her hands, delightedly. ‘I have a clitoris and straight men are going to see it!’ she shouts.
That’s Rich done, and he gets up, muttering about tea and speed walking towards the kitchen. He hasn’t even finished his crisps. Rich is single – duh! Who would date him – but I think he’s totally asexual. In fact, I would guess that he has no penis at all. I think he has, like, a smooth Ken-doll crotch down there. I get an impulse to check, and then feel sick. Instead, I tut at Maddie.
‘I literally just told you I don’t want to hear about your clitoris. OK, look, we’ll compromise. You can tell me if it’s bad sex and how you had to, like, Febreeze his penis before you put it in your mouth. Because that’s funny, and funny bad sex never goes out of fashion. But having good sex is totally passé.’
Maddie nods. ‘Oh right, OK. Ooh, this is so exciting! I’m so Charlotte right now!’ She paces up and down in front of her desk. ‘Maybe I’ll meet someone tonight. A rich art collector! Everything is a possibility now, Ellie. Every new person I meet could be The One. Except, of course I’m going to be single for a while and really make the most of it. Make sure I get my number up to double figures. I can’t wait to try a dating app! Oh my God, hold on, I’m going to make Ursula tell me the wifi password and download Plenty of Fish right now.’
I grimace at the choice of dating app, and glance over at Ursula, who is dressed even more like a gothic art teacher than usual today. It’s like a Halloween Death costume you would order off eBay – it’s just missing the scythe. Next to Derek, she looks even more terrifying. He’s wearing a tie that features Mr Blobby from Noel’s House Party. It’s like he’s projectile vomited down himself after a night of drinking pink and yellow cocktails. It’s actually pretty hypnotic.
Maddie jogs over to the pair of them and I can see her and Ursula arguing. Ursula’s in charge of office admin, which includes changing the building’s wifi password daily. She then treats that password like it is a nuclear code and the rest of us are North Koreans. Maddie will only get that password if she can offer Ursula something of worth.
The arguing suddenly stops and they smile at each other. Maddie returns.
‘What did it cost you, Ariel?’ I ask, curiously. ‘Just your voice?’
Maddie smirks. ‘I told her my boyfriend is gay. There’s nothing she prizes more than gossip, and I don’t care if everyone finds out. It saves me having to tell them.’
I snort and pick up Mrs Beaver from Maddie’s desk to check under her skirt. Smooth like a Barbie doll – and like Rich.
Several hours later, looking around the large hotel banquet room The Hales have hired for the event, I resentfully have to admit this looks pretty good. I was expecting, I don’t know, streamers and party poppers draped across every surface, but the hotel must’ve put their foot down with Derek. They’ve arranged a few nice flowers and some candles, and that’s it. The effect is understated and almost bordering on elegant. Maddie and I have been here since 5 p.m., when Derek excitedly announced to the team that we could all finish up and head on over to the venue. Obviously everyone immediately left and went to the pub ‘for one’. But they must be drinking very slowly because it’s nearly half seven now and so far there’s only thirteen of us here. Maddie and I keep exchanging angry glances because we wanted to go to the pub, too, but a sweaty, sweaty Derek cornered us as we were leaving, and begged us to go with him to the party. He’s promised around a hundred guests and you can see he’s starting to panic at the sparse room. He keeps asking Maddie and I to dance ‘to liven things up’ and ‘get the mood going’, which we have obviously point blank refused to do. Dancing alone in an empty room at a work event is not the way to earn respect from your peers. Derek came over to ask again a few minutes ago, so I said would he mind us including HR in this conversation about our boss ‘forcing us to dance for him’. He scuttled away and is now sulking in the corner.
Just when I start to give up hope for this event, a large group of eight or so bland-looking men arrive, stopping at the door to regard the room with disapproval. There’s one woman with them, mid-forties I’d guess, dark blue trouser suit, and taller than all of them. She’s frowning too, but in a sort-of amused way as she surveys the scene. She seems relaxed, like she’s used to being the one lonely smurfette in the group at events like these, and I get a sudden rush of feeling that I want to be her when I grow up. She’s got that that kind of gravitas – that pull some people are just born with. I can’t imagine ever being impressive. Maybe if I won the lottery I could pay people to pretend I’m impressive? I want to be the kind of person who can walk into a room full of strangers and not feel like I’m pretending to belong. Imagine that.
Derek rushes over to the new arrivals, shaking hands and welcoming each of the men. And then the woman too, as an afterthought. He points towards the bar, saying something enthusiastically, and they all nod, unsmiling, and move in that direction, marching as one. It reminds me of the scene in The Matrix where the Agent Smiths arrive en masse to take down Neo. I practise some martial arts moves in my head in case they move to kill me.
I turn back to the conversation. Maddie’s talking to Aaron from the post room about – in what I can only assume is an attempt at flirting – signing for ‘packages’, giggle giggle. Good for her, maybe she’ll finally get off with him. I hope so because I really, really don’t want to. Derek moves to join us, awkwardly introducing himself to Aaron, even though they see each other every day, and had a long conversation just yesterday about a lost ASOS delivery. Aaron stares back at him, heavy-eyed and resentful.
Derek clears his throat and awkwardly turns to me, instead. ‘They’re from Windsor,’ he tells me in a hushed, conspiratorial voice, leaning in and nodding over at the Agent Smiths. We watch as they circle the bar suspiciously, staring at their box wine in plastic cups with genuine horror.
‘Ooh, Windsor,’ I say semi-sarcastically, but I am secretly impressed. Windsor is one of the biggest chains of art galleries in the U.K. They own a string of them across the country, and NAH is actually their competition that we’ve latched on to with the bare minimum of sponsorship allowed.
‘I hope tonight goes OK,’ Derek says again, anxiously, staring over at the important people. ‘This is more money than The Hales has ever invested in a
project. This competition really needs to raise our profile. We want to be taken seriously by the art community.’
I nod supportively, thinking about the project I’ve just finished working on – yet another Peppa Pig rip off. ‘Have you sent your entry in yet?’ I ask him, politely.
‘Oh, are we allowed to enter?’ Maddie interrupts, turning away from Aaron.
Derek’s eyes bulge.
Yes, we’re allowed to enter. Very much encouraged to do so. Derek has talked about this in every meeting we’ve had since entries officially opened two weeks ago. But, to be fair, Maddie’s just got really involved in Kim Kardashian’s Hollywood game on her phone, so I understand how hard it’s been for her to pay attention. Either way, as one of the smaller sponsors, the bosses at Hales have been drilling it into us that we should get involved urgently, in order to ‘inspire others’ (bolster the number of entries). The whole competition is being totally independently adjudicated so there’s no conflict of interest, and Derek keeps going on about how we are ‘bringing art to everyone’ like it’s so far been trapped in a box. Schrodinger’s Art.
‘Yes, Maddie, you can enter, we’d really like everyone to,’ he says exasperated.
She looks at me excitedly, ‘Ellie should enter! She’s amazing.’
Everyone turns to look at me and I feel my face turning bright red.
Maddie’s never seen my paintings, but in between waiting for her Kardashian energy to recharge during meetings, she’s watched me sketch the faces of people around the table. Faces – people – are my favourite thing to draw. There’s so much to a face. So many weird, ugly, amazing little intricacies. Have you ever really looked at a nose, close up? It’s fascinating. So weird and complicated and colourful. All these strange tiny colours running across an awkward bony lump inexplicably positioned in the middle of your face. For a while, I was all about ears, now I’m obsessed with noses. I love drawing Ursula, with her Resting Bitch Octopus Face. Maddie keeps a caricature I did of her, tentacles flailing, on her desk, and regularly, innocently asks Ursula if she likes it.
