How Not to Fall in Love, Actually

by Catherine Bennetto

  ‘You can’t go through my stuff!’ I said, only somewhat annoyed.

  It’s not as though I had anything to hide. At school I’d be forever quelling the boredom of a droning geography teacher by scribbling limericks or poems on scraps of paper that I’d pass to friends. I still remembered one I’d given Helen during a particularly dull Latin class.

  Helen, I am tired

  I feel this room is wired

  Wired with a bomb

  And soon we’ll all be gone.

  Even now I found myself sitting behind the monitor during long scenes jotting on the backs of scripts. In fact, that morning I’d written one about Martha.

  Martha, O Martha

  I do not see why

  You don’t take my advice

  Of ‘go curl up and die’

  You’re mean and you’re bossy

  There’s no slack in your slacks

  You snore like a rhino

  And you don’t share your snacks.

  ‘Hang on now, where is it . . . this is funny . . .’ I heard paper rustling.

  ‘Get out of my stuff!’ I laughed.

  ‘Here we go . . . It’s called “I have a Little Secret”, by Emma Patricia George.’

  ‘Joe!’

  He’d found my teenage diary. I’d been a very uncomplicated teenager who’d had no scandal, drama or unrequited infatuation to document. Awkward kisses with boys were talked about with friends, crushes were either reciprocated or they weren’t and that was the life of every teenager across the world. I didn’t feel anything that happened to me was unique enough to write in a diary and hide under my mattress. So I wrote childlike poetry in the pink, scented pages of the lockable diary Grandma had given me.

  Joe cleared his throat in mock preparation.

  ‘ “I have a little secret I don’t want anyone to know”.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘ “It’s at the bottom of the garden where the daffodillys grow” . . . What, pray tell, is a daffodilly?’ Joe said, affecting a pompous voice.

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘ “I go there in the night, when the moon is out, I sit and watch my secret trying desperately to sprout”.’

  ‘I’m going to kill you.’

  ‘ “It’s been a few weeks since I planted my seed, but I’ll just sit and wait for my little money tree”. Well, Emma, I think that is literary genius.’

  ‘And I think when I get back to London you are dead.’

  Joe chuckled. It was a rumbling, heartening chuckle.

  ‘So what do you think about Brutus? Can he have a sleepover?’

  About a week into our stay at Bradley Manor, I suggested Martha eat dinner with the crew and I stay back at the barn house with the children. I’d had a broken night’s sleep the night before and was exhausted. Archie had called out in the middle of the night and I’d rushed to his room knowing the scene we’d shot that day (a zombie dummy being thrown into a ceiling fan and the resulting blood shower) would have caused him nightmares. But when I reached his bedside, mentally running through a future conversation with Uncle Mike as to why his son needed sleep therapy, he’d said, ‘Emma, can you do this?’ then he’d done the Vulcan salute.

  Martha shuffled off to the main hall early. She’d heard there were canapés, and I was left to read Archie and Tilly a bedtime story and tuck the two cuties into bed. They’d been allocated a room each as per the Filming with Children guidelines, but they insisted on sharing. Sinead and Uncle Mike usually read Archie his bedtime story via skype but they were at a charity event that night, so it was up to me. I loved having their small bodies snuggled against me, their wholesome faces engrossed in the story. We read The Tiger Who Came to Tea and disputed the feasibility of a tiger drinking all the water in a tap as it was hooked up to a mains system with a huge reservoir, most likely in Thames Ditton, but eventually agreed the author had used ‘creative licence’, then finished off with an A. A. Milne poem about bread and butter which was far less contentious.

  ‘Tell Archie about Jesus,’ Tilly said in a last-ditch attempt to resist the light being turned off. ‘He’s got it wrong.’

  ‘No I don’t!’ Archie jumped into his bed. ‘You do!’

  ‘Do not!’ Tilly flopped on her pillow. ‘Archie thinks Jesus died eating a hot-cross bun but that’s not right, is it?’

  ‘No, that’s not quite right,’ I said, tucking Tilly in and smoothing her fringe out of her eyes. ‘How about we talk about Jesus tomorrow? We need to turn the light off now and go to sleep.’

  I kissed both kids on their little noses and switched off the light.

  ‘See!’ I heard Tilly whisper. ‘I told you. Jesus died in Brent Cross.’

  After putting the religiously confused kids to bed I went searching for snacks and found a suitcase filled with treats. I do not exaggerate. Martha had brought a fully loaded second suitcase of snack food. Tubes of Pringles, Twix, Bounty and Snickers bars, packets of jelly babies, Toblerones, marshmallows and other assorted treats lay colourful and snug in every available space. Like a completed game of Tetris. With a Yorkie bar in my fist I plonked down on the sofa, flicked the TV to yet another cooking competition and called Alex.

  ‘I’m in a rather inclement mood. Tell me something to cheer me up.’

  ‘Why are you in such an “inclement” mood?’ she said. The now-familiar background sound of tropical birdsong had replaced the ceaseless tih tih tih tih tih of Bangladeshi desk fans.

  ‘Oh, let’s see . . . it’s probably because my ex-boyfriend took my best friend to Paris for her birthday. And not even a special birthday; she’s only turning twenty-seven. He never took me anywhere, unless you count a trip to Bristol to pick up a 1950s commercial waffle maker he bought on eBay.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Or it could be because I have no money, so have to be a chaperone for my cousin who earns double what I do.’

  ‘He does?’

  ‘And maybe it’s because I have to work with a bunch of people who have a party every night and don’t invite me. And even if I did get invited I’d have to drink water because vodka is not good for the baby that I am accidentally pregnant with. By my ex-boyfriend. Who emptied my savings account to buy an ice cream van. Who went to Paris with my best friend to eat slugs—’

  ‘They’re actually a specific breed of land snail.’

  ‘I have stretch marks; my arse is growing like rising pizza dough; my nipples are the size of UFOs and there’s a man living in my cottage, planting herb gardens and going through my knicker drawer.’

  Alex was silent for a moment.

  ‘I thought Helen was your best friend.’

  ‘Not helping.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Well, um, it’s nearly summer?’

  ‘It’s not nearly summer, it’s March.’

  ‘Um . . . you’re going to have a beautiful baby soon?’

  ‘Which I have to get out of my vagina, a relatively painful process, I’m told.’ I was not going to make this easy for Alex. ‘I want hardcore good news,’ I demanded. ‘A pot of leprechaun gold at the end of my shit-coloured rainbow.’

  ‘Nice image.’ She laughed.

  I joined in, enjoying the exaggerated grumble.

  ‘I’m going to go now, but you think of something good in my life and you ring me back and you tell me!’ I said, getting dramatic.

  ‘Sir, yes sir!’ Alex laughed.

  I’d barely taken a bite of my stolen Yorkie bar when the phone rang again. Alex.

  ‘You’ve got something better?’ I answered.

  ‘Yes!’ she said, triumphant. ‘So, I told Cal about Ned taking your money and him being with Sophie—’

  ‘You what?!’ I shrieked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . . because that’s what happened.’ Alex sounded surprised that I would react the way I had. ‘And he’s my fiancé and I tell him everything.’

  ‘I’d really rather you didn’t talk to other people about how shit your older sister’s life is.’
r />   ‘That’s not what we were saying,’ she said with a note of exasperation. ‘And he’s not “other people”, he’s family.’

  ‘Not yet he isn’t,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Will you stop being so sensitive and let me tell you what Cal said?’

  ‘OK. What did Cal say?’

  Alex made an impatient noise, then continued. ‘Well, seeing as after this movie you don’t have a job,’ Alex paused for dramatic effect. I clenched in anger. ‘He wants to lend you enough money to buy a car, get all the things you need for the baby and cover you for a while till you get on your feet! Isn’t that nice?’

  ‘Oh my god, Alex!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t need your fiancé bailing me out! That’s so embarrassing!’

  ‘No it’s not.’ She sounded offended.

  ‘Yes it is,’ I spat. ‘I’m older than him.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, it’s – it’s humiliating.’ I sighed. ‘I wish everyone would stop trying to fix my problems and just let me get on with it. You’re making me feel like I can’t . . . Like you don’t think I’m capable of . . . You make me feel like a complete loser.’ My voice had taken on a strained note and Alex would know I was trying not to cry.

  She was quiet for a minute.

  ‘I didn’t realise you’d look at it that way,’ she said eventually in a subdued voice. I didn’t reply.

  ‘Em, we just want—’

  ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ I said.

  ‘OK,’ I could hear her disappointment and it stung. ‘We’ve picked a wedding date. It’s going to be in February.’

  ‘Oh yeah? But it’ll be freezing.’

  ‘I know. I’m sick of this sweaty tropical climate. We want to get married in England, in the cold.’

  ‘Cool.’

  I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I didn’t want to be a bitch and tell her that instead of cheering me up, her talk of winter wedding plans only reminded me how very far from the traditional ‘have boyfriend, get married, have baby’ agenda I’d strayed.

  ‘We’ll hold the reception at a country pub,’ Alex continued. ‘People can sit anywhere they want and wear Ugg boots and woolly jumpers with snowman motifs if they want. We’ll have Guinness and steak pie for dinner and a log fire and everyone drinking pints.’

  ‘Does Mum know?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Not looking forward to that conversation.’

  Alex chittered on about how they’d found a pub in Grasmere that was perfect and had a huge stone fireplace and an excellent winter menu, with my responses becoming half-hearted murmurs before we said our goodbyes and I headed off to bed.

  I awoke later that night to a loud bang and a frightening groan. I shot out of bed and flew to the children’s room but they were asleep, their faces soft and tranquil. Another loud crash from Martha’s room had me hurtling through her door.

  ‘Martha! Are you – ARRGH!’ My hands flew over my eyes but not before I saw Martha on her knees, naked, shunting up and down with a pair of hairy, scrawny legs sticking out beneath her. Her face was as red as a tomato and contorted in pleasure. Pendulous bosoms, a fleshy stomach and pale wobbling thighs quivered with each hoist. A porcelain bust of a regal woman lay in pieces on the floor and I wondered if she’d committed suicide at the sight. I recognised Steve’s droopy face behind Martha’s infinite frame.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry!’ I said, hustling out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘I’m a very sexual being,’ Martha said after seeing a depleted-looking Steve out.

  She sat in an armchair and took a bite out of a Bounty, chewing languidly, her fluffy bathrobe barely concealing her modesty. Beads of sweat clung to her hairline. ‘Men find my queen-size shape very erotic.’ She trailed a hand across her heaving chest.

  I nodded, still reeling from the thirty-five minutes of banging and grunting I’d just aurally endured.

  ‘Men ogle my breasts; beg me to let them motorboat between my thighs.’ Martha looked at me. ‘You know the motorboat? Where they blow a raspberry on your clit—’

  ‘I get the picture.’

  ‘I actually come to orgasm very quickly. I don’t need penetration.’ She leant forward and grabbed another Bounty, giving me a most unwanted flash of hairy gusset. ‘You know the hill we drove down to get here?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said weakly.

  ‘Buttered my knickers four times.’

  ‘Oh, that’s . . .’ There were no words.

  ‘Of course the driver knew exactly what was happening, the dirty bugger, and drove over the field looking for bigger holes. Had a huge hard-on when he unloaded our luggage.’

  ‘Did you . . .? With the driver?’ I asked, immediately wishing I hadn’t.

  ‘On that sofa.’ Martha licked her lips.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, squirming.

  ‘But don’t worry, Tilly wasn’t here, she was feeding the horses with the stable manager. Who is also quite the goer, if you know what I mean.’ Martha gave me an impish wink, which propelled me off the sofa into the darkness outside, mumbling something about pregnancy cravings and going to the kitchen for a carrot and Marmite panini. I shivered under the covered walkway. Faint drum and bass floated across the estate from Scott’s private cottage in the forest. I thought of Amy draped over Andrew and Claire handing round her bag of Es like they were Smarties. If I weren’t pregnant I was sure I’d be up there in a skirt a little too short, a top a little too tight with a bottle of vodka a little too empty. That’s where I belonged. I was young, single and fun. Well, I used to be before I had to stop having fun to grow a baby. I did not belong down here with Martha and her sickening overshare.

  The next morning I lay in bed thinking about my career prospects with a newborn. I drew a long, quiet blank. I might actually have to go back to AD-ing with its life-consuming hours. I’d have to get a nanny. A Portuguese girl who spoke no English. The baby would end up speaking Portuguese and I’d have to learn the language just to be able to communicate with my own child. I’d have to take Portuguese evening classes. The nanny, of course, wouldn’t be able to stay all day and night so I’d have to get an evening nanny. She’d probably be from Poland, so the baby’s second language would be Polish. Then I’d have to take another night class. And get another nanny. The ringing phone stopped me reaching for my laptop and signing up for Ukranian lessons.

  ‘I’ve just read Grazia,’ Alex said.

  ‘You rang to tell me that?’ I yawned.

  ‘And according to Grazia – which, by the way, we do get out here in Vanuatu but only if I cycle to the other side of the island, get a fishing boat to the next island, walk up a dirt track that is covered in snake tracks, big ones, and borrow it from the Canadian romantic novelist who lives on the hill (she’s quite mad), then go all the way back home – you are having a quarter-life crisis.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ I pulled the duvet up higher round my chin.

  ‘That is a totally unfounded statement.’

  ‘It says it right here in black and white next to the photos of Russell Brand and Katy Perry. It basically describes you. Honestly, though, what is with them, getting married on elephants?’

  ‘Oh, now that is ooold news. You spend a day of snake-track/rickety-boat travel to get a Grazia that old? Look, if you get your charity company to pay for my flights I’ll bring you the latest magazines.’

  Alex emitted a solitary ‘ha’.

  ‘It could be my new career. I’ll get flown to remote corners of the world where you self-sacrificing types are bringing modern-day normality to the deprived loincloth-clad, and I’d bring the Western young woman’s life essentials. Magazines and decent chocolate.’

  ‘See, right there! Quarter-life crisis. You’re flippant and surly.’

  ‘I’m always flippant and surly.’

  ‘True . . .’

  ‘Anyway, I am twenty-seven so it’s not quarter. That would mean me living to a hundred and eight.�
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  ‘That’s some quick maths.’ Alex said, impressed.

  ‘I know. I have skills. Anyway, it must be more like a third-life crisis. Why don’t you ring me back when you’ve read an ancient, out-of-date article on third-life crises and we can discuss it then? Although by the time you have gone up your writer’s hill and round the island on an 1840s bicycle I will be on my midlife crisis and we will have to start the whole process again. Best just forget it.’

  ‘Well don’t come crying to me when you are two kids down the road and can’t afford your psychiatrist bills.’

  ‘I won’t. Mum’ll pay. Surely any therapy should be charged to her. She’s probably almost expecting it.’

  We were silent for a moment.

  ‘So what are you doing now? Is it dinner time?’ I said, glancing at my bedside clock.

  ‘Yip. The guys caught loads of fish today. We’re going to barbecue it on the beach. What about you?’

  I thought of Archie’s schedule for the day ahead. Four scenes outdoors, some SPFX shots and one scene involving a pack of untrained, feral chihuahuas. Cats, it had transpired, were not easily trained to act like vengeful zombies and so an inbred pack of chihuahuas had been brought in to run after the campers. VFX would digitally change them to cats in postproduction. But the chihuahuas were proving to be a disaster. One bit Caroline, one ran into the forest with a blood pouch and, as far as I could see, had not returned for a couple of days; two seemed to be mostly deaf and one (cross-eyed and with a tongue that didn’t fit in its mouth) kept trying to mount his sister.

  ‘Just more filming,’ I sighed.

  We said our goodbyes and I went back to fretting about Filipino nannies and where I’d fit their extended family.

  After showering and breakfasting and still in a stunned, dry-retching type state from the previous night’s activities, I phoned Helen while waiting for Archie in Wardrobe.