What Fresh Hell

by Lucy Vine

  Don’t think about it. Denial ain’t just a river in the world somewhere (should’ve paid more attention in Year Nine geography lessons).

  Luckily Will insisted on paying for this, and I was so excited, I let him. I even called in sick to work so I could go get my hair done to look nice for the trip. It really needed doing properly anyway – I haven’t been for ages. I was too traumatised after my last visit in January, when this new hairdresser kept touching my hair way too erotically and making noises that seemed inappropriate. Then, when I asked for a trim, he insisted I ‘trust him’ with a ‘funky look’ he wanted to try out on me. I weakly protested and told him I’m too old – or possibly too young – for ‘funky’, but he didn’t listen. I sat there watching the situation in the mirror get increasingly dire and not being brave enough to stop him. I mean, gawd, going to the hairdresser is such a horribly stressful experience as it is, having to stare at your own stupid damned face under yellow lighting for hours on end, and then trying to work out if you’re allowed to accept their compliments on your hair, or whether you have to go, ‘Well YOU did it’.

  It’s all totally ugh. So I definitely didn’t need a fucking rogue hairdresser turning me into Rod Stewart.

  After three hellish hours he got the tiny ta-dah mirror out to show me the back, and I told him it looked ‘really great’. I thanked him profusely, tipped him generously – and then went to the loo to cry at my reflection. Lauren picked me up for lunch afterwards, and was so nice when she saw how upset I was. Firstly, she told me it didn’t look that bad at all and that Rod Stewart is actually a pretty big inspiration for the autumn/winter catwalks, and then she went into full-on Lauren Bolt Rage Mode, insisting on storming back into the hairdressers and screaming legal words she’d heard on Ally McBeal, while I hid around the corner. She got my money back and a big fat voucher that I’ve obviously been way too scared to cash in. But still. She was truly amazing.

  I feel a bit sad, suddenly, at how far away all that feels.

  I didn’t even tell Lauren I was going to the hairdresser today and I haven’t mentioned this spontaneous mini-break either. I used to tell her every minutiae of my life, and now I’m too scared she’ll get cross with me for taking a night away from her to-do list.

  The waiter returns with our first plate, which looks like a blob of dead jellyfish and tastes like – yes – watercress. I thank him, resisting the urge to put on a Russian accent. In posh hotels like this, I’m always desperate to Pretty Woman the shit out of the situation. Try to somehow convey to everyone around us that Will is my rich client and I’m here to do his bidding.

  Ooh, maybe I should buy a blonde wig.

  I turn to ask Will if he’s up for doing the sexy stranger thing in the bar later and find him staring misty-eyed across the restaurant. A stressed-out-looking family are hissing at each other in low voices a few tables away, telling their two kids to ‘shut the fuck up and sit the hell down’ as they run in a circle around the table, trying to stab each other with butter knives.

  ‘Cute, huh?’ he says and smiles at me dopily.

  ‘Hmm,’ I say, as vaguely as I can, taking a mouthful of watercress jellyfish and feeling fear creeping up my spine. First a non-proposal, now . . . what even is this? Is Will getting broody? Children are basically aliens to me. They’re so far off my radar that the other day on my train platform, I thought it was a group of dwarves waiting a few feet away. My brain went to that place long before it reassessed them as school kids.

  ‘Hey, after this,’ I say, trying to distract him, ‘shall we order in McDonalds to our room? You know they do deliveries now, right?’

  He smirks. ‘Are you not excited about the purple caterpillar dish that’s coming up next?’ he says and we both laugh. We laugh a lot, and it’s not at the joke, but relief at being here together and having fun.

  He reaches over and takes my hand. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he says suddenly and I feel the weight of the last couple of months lifting.

  ‘Me too,’ I say.

  12

  I stretch my hands out towards the long mirror covering the length of the wall, feeling everything else in my life melt away. The eviction notice for Fuddy-Duddies United, Lauren’s increasingly crazy eyes whenever I see her, and my multi-coloured bank statements – it all floats away.

  I’m in my early morning yoga class and it’s totally wonderful. This is my – and I know this is a lame word but I’m going to use it anyway – sanctuary. I’ve been coming to yoga for the last couple of years, at least twice a week, and more when I have time. Which I don’t lately.

  It’s like having a brain colonic, washing out all the nonsense and flushing the mess away, at least for the hour I’m in here. For that time I’m in the room, nothing really counts except my limited limbs and the sweat circling my face and down into my mouth, which, yes I know, is gross.

  But it feels amazing.

  Not that I’m good at it. I’m the most inflexible person who ever existed. Really, Will has to do all the work in the bedroom. But I’ve definitely seen improvements since I started. I feel taller and leaner and fitter. And so much clearer.

  I reach into a downward dog, feeling my spine creak with happiness. Ooh, it’s good.

  Around the room are several familiar faces moving into the regular poses, alongside the usual scattering of frightened-looking newbies, who look like they want to cry. I catch the eye of a lady who always comes to this Saturday class with her husband, and takes the same spot at the front. We’ve never actually spoken, but in my head they are the Wiggums from The Simpsons. They look exactly like Chief Clancy Wiggum and his wife Sarah Wiggum! Weirdly so. They even have a bit of a yellow glow in this dim lighting.

  I consider again now how interesting it is when people date someone who looks just like them. I notice it happening more and more. My Facebook feed is full of them! Couples who are basically dating themselves, who fancy themselves. Because that’s what you’re saying when you date your clone – that you want to have sex with yourself. Isn’t that funny? I think it’s funny.

  A few feet away, Chief Wiggum grunts loudly as the class changes position, and I try to redirect my focus back into my breathing. That’s what you’re supposed to do. It’s all about the breathing, they tell us over and over.

  But two years of classes later, I can officially, unilaterally confirm: it’s fucking not.

  Mate, breathing I can do any time, and much as I love yoga, I just can’t get into the hippy-trippy side of it. I’m here to sweat and repeatedly fail to reach my toes; I don’t want to hear about, I don’t know, monks or my soul or the universe.

  But even though I’m impatient with breathing and struggle through every class, I still find this to be sooo much better than the gym. I have never been a gym person, it’s just not for me. There’s one attached to this yoga studio and I slink through it every week, back against the wall, feeling inadequate. There are just so many taut, veiny people shouting at each other about squat thrusts and leg days. It genuinely scares me. I tried going along a couple of times a few years ago and I just wandered around feeling lost and lonely. I ended up speed-walking on the treadmill for twenty minutes and then I left.

  The yoga instructor talks us through our final posture and then makes us lie down in the dark, in the disturbingly named ‘dead body pose’. You’re meant to lie here totally still for ages to ‘centre’ or something. The guy leading the class always says this is the hardest position, which is obviously horseshit, but I get what he means; it’s because staying still is difficult for people like me, people who are always moving. The trouble is, if I lie still for more than thirty seconds I will . . .

  Yep, I fell asleep and then immediately woke myself up with a loud snore. I try to loudly clear my throat to cover it, but everyone definitely heard. The almost-naked instructor comes over, wearing his Speedos. And by the way, it’s not even that hot in here, this
isn’t Bikram yoga. He just wants to show off his body as he leans over, his bulge horrifyingly close to my face.

  ‘You OK there, Lilah?’ he says in what is meant to be a soothing whisper.

  ‘Yes,’ I squeak, getting the pitch totally wrong. Mr and Mrs Wiggum sigh across the room at me. I’m ruining their bliss. Oh no, I really hope they’ll still be able to breathe OK after this.

  ‘Just take deep, calming breaths there,’ he tells me and I smile tightly. ‘Let everything go. Lie still for at least another five minutes and then make sure you get a good night’s sleep tonight, OK?’

  I nod, hating him. I should get some sleep, should I? Great to know, thanks so much.

  I give him and his big lumpy penis a thumbs up and try to keep still.

  The thing is, there’s just too much going on for stillness and bliss at the moment.

  Lauren is full bridezilla now. She’s basically having a nervous breakdown but will scream at anyone who points it out. Then I had my brother on the phone this morning, asking to borrow more money. He says he needs to move, because now Mum and Dad have been around to his urban commune, the ‘vibe’ is ruined. He says he’ll give me his new address, but I’m not allowed to pass it on. And obviously I had to say no, because I’m utterly broke.

  Things are hell at work too. Rex has started kicking off about the Quiz Monsters: Live Celebrity Special. He says all the celebs I’ve managed to line up for it are old news, and the whole thing has a been-there done-that feel to it. He wants me to come up with some extra element to make the format glitter a bit more. He told me I should stop relying on his ‘dazzling abs and teeth to pull in ratings’. Which is so irritating. As if handling a dozen celebrities – their schedules and their egos – in a live setting isn’t exciting enough?

  I tried brainstorming yesterday with Sam and Aslan, which went something like this:

  Me: So, guys, any ideas on how we can take this celeb special to the next level? Give Rex something to thrill his Twitter followers?

  Aslan: That’s a great outfit you’ve got on today, Lilah. You look fantastic.

  Me: Um, thanks. So, ideas?

  Aslan: I’m just saying, you’ve nailed your look.

  Sam: What if we do the whole thing on a plane, and when one of the celebs gets a question wrong, we throw them out?

  Aslan: With parachutes, you mean?

  Sam: No.

  Me: Right, OK, I really like your thinking, Sam. But I have a feeling that might be seen as too extreme – too far away from the original Quiz Monsters format. Anything in between? Aslan?

  Aslan: Oh Lilah, you don’t need my help on this one. You’re great at all this. A natural with the ideas side of things. Don’t be shy – tell us what you’re thinking.

  Sam: That’s super unhelpful, dude, she knows what you’re doing.

  Me: She’s right, Aslan. Please don’t Rex-pander me. I need your help. You’re meant to be working on this special with me.

  Aslan: OK, yeah, sorry. I just don’t have any ideas. It’s a quiz show; we can’t reinvent the wheel.

  Sam: Oh, how about some kind of wheel?

  Aslan: Yes! Great idea, Sam. Like the wheel of fortune?

  Sam: Or, like, we could attach the celebrities to a large wheel and have Rex throw knives at them?

  Me: Hmm, again, I think that might be too far away from the original quiz concept. And possibly a little bit un-insurable.

  Aslan: You know Rex would love it, though. Especially if that one out of Take That’s coming on – you know their feud goes way back.

  Me: Since the thing with Lilo, yes, I know.

  Sam: What’s the thing with Lilo?

  Aslan: Well, she . . .

  Me: No, Aslan, we don’t have time for the whole story. Google it, Sam. It was in all the papers. There was a high-speed car chase, drug cartels, they nearly killed each other, blah blah. Come on, guys. Anything else?

  Sam: Death fight match?

  It went on and on like that for an hour, and just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I pulled a pen out of my bag to make some notes, and only realised it was actually a tampon when I tried to write with it.

  Ah, sod bliss. I grab my towel and sweaty mat and head for the showers.

  Wedding Number Eight: Daniel and Seiji, South Farm, Norfolk

  Theme: Rustic. There were leopard-print rugs across every surface, and a big log fire that immediately went out but continued to smoke the whole afternoon, choking out an asthmatic great uncle.

  Menu: Smoked salmon starter, followed by chicken and a meringue dessert. Veggie option: stuffed red pepper with goat’s cheese.

  Gift: Silver candlesticks @ £60.

  Gossip: On the morning of the wedding, one of the wedding party announced she and her girlfriend had decided to have a civil ceremony later the same day. They took the best man and half the guests off with them as witnesses.

  My bank balance: -£595.01 (plus one or two credit cards, but they don’t count, right?)

  13

  We’ve been waiting for Lauren for thirty-five slow, tedious minutes and the woman behind the counter – who was already giving us the stink eye just for being alive – now absolutely, definitively hates us. The only reason she hasn’t thrown us out is because Joely pulled a fairly dramatic DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM move on her when she started muttering about other appointments. Joely suggested Resting Bitch Face call the manager if she wanted to discuss the next lengthy blog post she’d be putting up about how ‘up its own arse’ this place is for her millions of followers. And then she sent the woman scurrying off to bring us two more glasses of champagne.

  In case you couldn’t guess by the level of unnecessary snobbery behind the counter, we’re in a bridal shop. It’s actually the sixth bridal shop we’ve visited around Greater Manchester over the last few months, in Lauren’s quest for gown perfection. But right now, our bride – who is supposed to be here with us trying on an array of different types of white froth and lace, while we gasp appropriately – is instead stuck in traffic. She keeps sending us messages, ordering us not to leave, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult to cope with the shop assistant’s dirty looks. I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman again, but it’s not sexy this time and I don’t feel the urge to wear a blonde wig. She quite quickly spotted that I am the weaker of the two and is now focusing her fury in my specific direction. And honestly, I’m not sure I can handle the pressure much longer. I’m going to run out screaming and crying any moment now.

  My phone rings – maybe it’s Lauren. Hopefully she’s here!

  But it’s not, it’s Dad. Should I answer? Can I deal with this? At least if I’m on the phone, it’d be harder for the woman to force us to leave.

  ‘Hey, Dad,’ I say, pressing my phone to my ear and making my way to the front of the store, away from Joely.

  ‘What’s new, pussycat?’ he says, predictably.

  ‘Not much. Busy as ever. I’m in a bridal boutique at the moment, waiting for Lau—’

  ‘That’s great, love,’ he interrupts. ‘Listen, have you spoken to your bitch mother?’

  Immediately. Great. I roll my eyes.

  ‘Please don’t call her a bitch,’ I try weakly.

  ‘I would love to not call her a bitch, Delilah, I would absolutely love that,’ he says enthusiastically. ‘But she IS a bitch. She is behaving like a bitch and is a bitch down to her core, so what else can I do? Tell me what I should do, what word should I use, because it is the only word that describes her.’

  ‘OK,’ I sigh. ‘No, I haven’t heard from her.’ But just as I say it, my phone lights up against my ear. A quick look confirms it’s a text message from Mum. She wants me to know my dad is a garbage toilet. When I put my phone back to my face, Dad is mid rant.

  ‘I really mean it, the woman should be tested for rabies. I’m not even sa
ying that in a mean way. I’m actually worried for her health. I feel like she is going to fall into a rabies coma very soon – any moment now – and then it’s going to be too late to save her. Like, I hate the bitch, but I don’t want to see her dead, and she is clearly demonstrating all the symptoms of early-stage rabies. Foaming at the mouth, being insane, general uncalled for rage. It’s really obvious that’s what she has.’

  ‘Has anything actually happened, Dad?’ I say a tiny bit impatiently. This is not a new speech.

  ‘Yeah, and I think this fact is going to blow your dick off, Delilah,’ he says dramatically, using another phrase he’s picked up from late night American telly. ‘She’s started seeing that turd, Jack, again. She sent me a cock picture and it looked a lot like the ones she sent me while they were together.’

  ‘Dad, that’s charming—’ I start, but he’s still going.

  ‘So then I sent her a pair of tits I found on the internet and she came back immediately and said they were clearly Kim Kardashian’s, and unless I was getting off with Kim Kardashian, then I was a pathetic loser.’

  ‘That is very harsh—’ I try again.

  ‘And I tried to call your brother to talk to him about it, but he didn’t answer, as usual. It’s really ruined my day, Delilah. I was trying to watch old episodes of The Voice, the ones where Tom Jones performs, and your mother has completely ruined that experience for me. You need to talk to her, Delilah. Tell her she’s a vile bitch. Use those words.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Dad,’ I say, feeling tired. ‘Listen, I have to go. I’m in the middle of stuff. But I’m sorry you’ve had another little falling out with Mum. I’m sure she didn’t mean any of it.’

  He scoffs as I quickly say bye and hang up.

  My parents are the worst.