Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

  “Anyone got a pen?” Fiona asks.

  “Haven’t we already been through this?” Rachel asks in reply.

  “No pens around here either, so we’ll just have to remember the answers, then.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and wiggle it around. “I’ll make a note on my phone. Then we don’t have to worry about remembering.”

  “Good thinking, Sherlock!” Claire shoulder-bumps me. “Next question, Fi. Is it in the village, or do we need to head somewhere else?”

  “I think it’s in the village too. It says, what is the name of the village pub?”

  “The Old Ram. It’s just behind us.” I tap the answer into my phone and watch as Rachel and Claire study the map for the next destination.

  * * *

  Three hours later, I’m wet, cold, and bloody starving. We all arrive back to the hotel in a long, straggly, staggered line. Cherry and Claire bring up the rear, complaining about blisters and the much-anticipated “low food” meal we’re expecting to be served in a short while. Tory greets us at the door and congratulates us all on the completion of our task. We have half an hour before dinner, but I don’t feel like going up to the room with Claire, so I sit in front of the fire in the dog lounge and relax for a while.

  I must have fallen asleep or zoned out or something, because I don’t see Fiona arrive.

  “You ready for tonight’s culinary delights?” she asks.

  “Oh, yeah. All eight portions.”

  “I know. It was tasty last night, though. I mean, I didn’t realise beetroot came in all those colours.”

  “I think the flower-coloured apple was my biggest surprise. Any idea what’s on the menu tonight?”

  “No. I also didn’t realise that eating it would make my pee purple.”

  TMI, love. TMI. I follow her into the dining room and sit down.

  Cherry limps in last. “I swear they are trying to kill us. That twenty-mile march was torturous.”

  We all look at each other as Cherry rubs at her calves and kicks her shoes off under the table.

  The waiters do their thing again with the food and present us with parsnip consommé. Now, I don’t know if you know this, but a consumé is a clear soup. Totally clear. Just water clear. So, basically, this was parsnip-flavoured water. A small bowl of parsnip-flavoured water. We all slurp it down and reach for our water glasses. The only difference I can detect? Temperature.

  Main meals. Please, God, let it be a little more substantial than last night. The size of the dishes looks promising. They have depressions in the middle that are quite bowl-like. They were set in front of us and we all groan in anticipation.

  “Tonight’s main course is an exploration into the textures of carrot, with onion foam and pea shoots.”

  There is an orange smear across the bottom of the bowl, diced orange cubes, julienne sticks, a timbale of mashed carrots, and a swirl of piped-carrot purée. There is a rapidly disintegrating white frothy kind of something that I can only describe as gloop covering slices of raw carrot in the centre of the dish. The onion foam, I presume. Then there is the pea shoot garnish. Two pea shoots per plate. Two. Have you seen the size of pea shoots? I taste the onion foam. I am not convinced that it has met an onion. Maybe it’s bleached carrot? Every plate is cleared in moments. We’re all hungrier than last night. They could give us stale bread and we would eat it, I’m sure. Actually, I think we all would prefer it.

  Dessert is a revelation.

  We all have a banana split. What kind of diet is this, I hear you ask. Banana splits are a decadence of cream, ice cream, chocolate syrup, fruit, and the decorative glacé cherry on top. This is not fodder for any kind of self-respecting fat farm. You’re right, it isn’t. When I say we have a banana split, I mean we literally have a banana. Split. One banana between two people. And I thought rationing went out in the fifties.

  I need cheering up, and I need it now. While Claire stays in the dog lounge and bemoans to Cherry her decision to come here, I grab my phone and trundle back to the room I’m sharing with Claire. I dial Abi’s number. Rosie started her new school a few days ago, and I figure hearing about it will make me feel better.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Rosie, it’s Genna.”

  “Hi, Genna. Can you help me with my ’puter?”

  “Well, I can try. Wouldn’t your mum be better at it than me? She is there with you, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she’s cleaning up the sofa ’cos coffee came out of her nose.”

  Sometimes with Rosie you’ve just got to let go of all preconceived ideas and take everything literally. Other times, literally is more confusing than anything else.

  “Why did coffee come out your mum’s nose, Rosie?”

  “’Cos I asked her to help me with my ’puter.”

  You know that tone of voice a child uses when they really want to tell you that you’re stupid but they know it would be rude? I am getting Rosie’s version of it now. “Okay, so what help do you need with your computer?”

  “I need to find a face friend so he won’t be lonely.”

  Translation: she wants to find someone on Facebook. Not sure where the coffee and Abi’s nose is coming into this yet, but I’ll play. “Okay. Is this a new friend from school?”

  “No. It’s a man I met in school today. And I talked to him. And I want to be his face friend and make it so he’s not lonely.”

  Little jingly warning bells are going off in my head now. A lonely man she met at school. I’ll repeat that in case you missed it: a lonely man she met at school.

  “Rosie, is this man one of your new teachers?”

  “No, silly.” The “Genna is stupid” voice again. “He doesn’t work. He’s too old.”

  Too old to work, but talking to little girls at school. Little jingly bells are getting louder.

  “Rosie, do you remember the talk we had about talking to strangers, even if they seem really nice—”

  “But he’s not a stranger.”

  “He’s not?”

  “No, he’s known me my whole life. He knows you too, Genna. He knows everybody.”

  “How do you know he knows everybody?” Creepy old stalker?

  “Well, he just does.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “No. My teacher told me.”

  “Your teacher told you about this man?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you want to face-friend him?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he didn’t talk to you?”

  “No.”

  “So how do you know his name?”

  “Everyone knows his name.”

  Do you also get the feeling that we are actually having two different conversations here?

  “Will you help me face-friend him, Genna? Please?”

  Why the hell not, hey? This way I’ll at least have information to take to the cops when I shop his paedo arse to them. “Okay, is your computer on?”

  “Yes.”

  It takes me a good five minutes to get her to the right place. But we get there eventually. “So now we just have to type in your new friend’s name.”

  “Okay. How do I spell it?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie. You haven’t told me who it is you want to friend.”

  “I want to be face friends with God.”

  Now I see where the coffee out the nose came into the equation. I manage, with great aplomb, I might add, not to laugh. I can hear how serious she is. “Okay, Rosie. Have you clicked in the box?”

  “Yes.”

  “The first letter is G.”

  “Which one is that?”

  I mentally picture the keyboard. “Can you find the R for Rosie?”

  “Yes, got it.”

  “Good. Below the R is the F. The G is on the right of that. It looks like a half-circle with a stick halfway up the middle.”

  “Got it, Genna. Why didn’t you just say it was the first letter of your name? What’
s next?”

  “Next letter is O.”

  “I know that one, it’s in ‘Rosie’.”

  “That it is, sweetie.”

  “Next?”

  “Next is D.”

  “That’s for ‘daddy’. I know that one too. Next?”

  “That’s it, sweetie.”

  “Okay. Which one is my friend?”

  “I don’t know, darlin’. How many have come up?”

  “One, two, three, four, five. There’s five, Genna. Which one’s my God?”

  “I’m not sure, sweetie. Do any of the pictures look like the man your teacher told you about?”

  “No. He was holding up some big sticks.”

  “I think that’s Jesus, honey.”

  “Oh, do I need to face-friend him too?”

  “Rosie, give me the phone, baby, and friend the top God,” Abi says in the background. I can still hear the laughter in her voice, but she sounds in control.

  “Okay.”

  “Say thank you to Genna.”

  “Thank you, Genna.”

  “You’re welcome, Rosie.” Then she’s gone.

  “Sorry about that.”

  A little tingle shoots up my spine. Happens every time I hear her voice. “Don’t be. After I get over my shock of thinking God was a paedophile stalker of little girls, I’m sure I’ll be just fine. I take it she’s enjoying the new school?”

  “Yes, she seems to be having a ball there. Her confidence is already growing. This is the first time she’s asked to face-friend anyone.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m glad she’s enjoying it.”

  “She’s loving it. Did you get her letter?”

  “Yes, it arrived this morning, and it’s being deciphered as we speak. I guess I don’t need to ask if they really are teaching her about religion now, do I?”

  I can picture Abi stretched out along the sofa, all comfortable while she talks to me. I picture her in a negligee. Black. With lace and satin and really thin spaghetti straps over her shoulders that I can just push down…

  “Nope. So, what about you? How’s the health camp slash fitness training hotel?”

  “You can say it, Abi. I’m at fat farm.”

  “Okay, how’s fat farm treating you?” She laughs. I love to hear her laugh. It’s like music or something.

  “Like a prisoner of war.”

  “Exaggeration?”

  “Only a little bit. I swear!”

  “Come on. Truth, now.”

  “Okay. The food is very tasty. But very minimalistic.”

  “I.e., you’re still starving hungry, right?”

  “Right.”

  “The exercise?”

  “Not bad, actually. I spent the morning in the swimming pool by myself, and then this afternoon we had a three-mile treasure trail to do.”

  “How come you were in the pool by yourself?”

  “Well, when we were doing introductions, all the other women were telling us all how they were here raising money for charity doing fun runs and marathons and walking mountains in Nepal and stuff, and I felt really inadequate. Claire decided to tell them that she’s fat because her anorexic mum starved her as a child and so she ballooned as a way of taking back control of her life, and now she has to see a shrink every night to address her food issues.”

  “Only Claire.” Abi’s laughing so hard I think she might actually pee herself.

  “So then it was my turn, and I started stuttering. I managed to tell them that I was also here to prepare for charitable deeds, totally forgetting that I’d have to give details. Details I didn’t have. So Claire made them up.”

  “So what are you doing for charity?”

  I can hear her stretch for a tissue, probably to wipe her eyes. “Apparently I am going to swim across all the lakes in the Lake District for children with speech impairments after I learnt how to speak to strangers to the rhythm of ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’!”

  I hear a distinct thud. Some cackling. Some muffled cursing. A scratching that sounds like static on line.

  “Genna, Mum said you’d have to call back. She fell off the sofa and had to run to the bathroom. She said she needed to do more exercises with her pelvic floor. What’s a pelvic floor?”

  * * *

  It’s my turn in Tory’s counselling session to discuss my issues. I don’t want to go there. I mean, seriously, what have I got to complain about? I’ve got no money worries, no job issues, some great friends, and a supportive family, right? See? Nothing to complain about at all.

  “So,” Tory says, “tell me a little about yourself, Genna.”

  I hate that question. I mean, how are you supposed to respond in this scenario? “What would you like to know?”

  “Are you always so evasive?”

  Huh? Me? “I’m not being evasive. I just don’t know what you want to know.”

  “Hm. Well, we’re here to try and support you around the issues you have. Weight gain and food, particularly comfort eating, are often signs of much deeper issues. Would you say that you’re a happy person?”

  “Define ‘happy’?”

  “There, you’re being evasive again. What happy means to me doesn’t matter. Are you happy within your own framework of the word?”

  Is that an undergraduate psychology exam question? “Erm…not really.”

  Tory smiles at me. “And why not?”

  “My girlfriend was cheating on me, so I left her.”

  Tory leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Excellent, Genna. Now we can start to get somewhere.” She picks up a clipboard and leans back. “How long were you together?”

  I squint at her as she clicks her pen and holds it, poised to take notes. “Three years.”

  “Did you live together?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she was cheating on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be sure about that?”

  “I came home from work early and found them in bed together.”

  She nods. “Did you have a good relationship otherwise?”

  Is this chick for real? “I thought so. Obviously, I was mistaken.”

  She shakes her head sadly. “In situations like that, the wife always knows, Genna. I’m sure you knew, but something made you stay.”

  “No, I didn’t. If I’d have known, I would’ve left sooner.”

  She smiles and cocks her head to the side. “That’s what we all say, dear.”

  I grind my teeth together. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth. Ruth and I may not have had a perfect relationship, but I didn’t suspect that she was lying to me about working night shifts at the hospital and going out screwing around. I am not comfort eating because we’ve split up. In fact, I’ve lost twelve pounds since that day.” So stick that in your pipe and smoke it. I cross my arms over my chest.

  “What wasn’t perfect about your relationship, then?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. I’m not getting out of here until I ’fess up, am I? Fine. I take a deep breath and start from the beginning. You want it, lady? Well, here you go. Let’s see what you make of this little pile of dog crap. I tell her everything about Abi, no names, obvs, but everything else. I tell her about being in love with her since I figured out what that meant. I tell her about how I wish I could be with her every second of every day. I tell her how I would do anything to make her happy. I tell her about how I’ve resigned myself to never being the person she could love and how I tried to move on and let myself be with someone else instead. About how my inability to love Ruth must be the reason why I couldn’t make her happy. Why she cheated on me. The whole thing.

  Then she just sits there. Quiet. Saying nothing. Chewing on the end of her pen.

  I sit there. Bouncing my leg up and down and chewing my fingernails. Don’t look at me like that. I’m starving!

  “Do you want to be happy, Genna?”

  “What kind of question is that? Of course I do.”

  “Then you have to figure out why you sta
yed in a clearly unhappy and unhealthy relationship rather than pursuing what you know will make you happy.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The woman you’re in love with.”

  “What about her?”

  “She will make you happy, yet you refuse to follow your heart. What’s holding you back?”

  “She doesn’t feel the same.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  I sigh. “Not in so many words.”

  “Then you don’t know that. So what’s holding you back?”

  “She’s straight.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  Didn’t she just ask that question? “Not in so many words.”

  “Then you don’t know that. So what’s holding you back?”

  This is getting monotonous. “She wouldn’t want me.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  Bloody hell, buy another question! “Not in so many words.”

  “Then why wouldn’t she want you?”

  Well, that’s different at least. “Because she wouldn’t.”

  “That’s not an answer, Genna. Why wouldn’t she want you?”

  “Why would she?” Why won’t she just stop pushing?

  “You’re evading the question.”

  “Because I don’t want to answer it. Take the hint.” My breathing’s getting faster. I can feel my nostrils flaring.

  “No. Why wouldn’t she want you, Genna?”

  For fuck’s sake, leave me alone. “Because…”

  “Because what?”

  “Just because.”

  “That’s not an answer, Genna. Try this instead. Why did you stay with Ruth even though you loved someone else?”

  “Because it was better than admitting that no one else would ever love me.” Whoa. Where did that come from?

  “That’s rubbish.”

  “What? It isn’t what you wanted me to say, so it’s crap? Well, no it isn’t. It’s the truth, so you can just stick it. No one loves me. No one wants me. And no one sticks around.”

  “What are you talking about? You’ve got lots of people in your life who love you.”

  “No. I’m not good enough. Not even my own father wanted me. I wasn’t good enough for him to even call. Not once. Never. He comes and visits my family…his family…well, the rest of it, and couldn’t even say hello. As for the family that loves me so much… Well, they all lied to me all my life. As far as they’re concerned, I don’t even deserve the truth, never mind love. I’m not good enough for any of them. I’m just the ginger freak that doesn’t belong. That fat little oddity they all point and stare at. Nothing I ever did or will do will ever be good enough for them. I’ll never be good enough for my own family, so why the fuck would anyone want me or love me by choice?”