From myself, I thought. “I can't,” I said. “If I blow this it's over for my career.”
We'd walked nearly the whole way home before he spoke again. “I know work is one of the main issues here, but are we going to talk about why you left dinner? The timing was pretty specific.”
I swallowed. That was the last thing that I wanted to do. Not with Henry. “No.” When he went to speak anyway, I stopped walking for a moment to accentuate my point. “Please,” I said, interrupting him. “I don't want to discuss it.”
This time, he pushed me to talk. “Because I know you have some serious self-esteem issues which are linked to how you look, and I know that Rob said you were a—”
“—Henry!” I said, throwing my hands up to stop him from speaking. There was a really raw edge to my voice, and I was too tired to disguise it. “Can you stop being so fucking understanding for like two seconds? You have to be fucking sick of my bullshit by now, you really want to hear more detail about it?”
He watched me, not reacting to what I was saying.
I didn't want to cry again. “Yes, I have some fucking 'serious self-esteem issues that are linked to how I look', and if you knew the half of them you'd run a fucking mile. Do you really want me to go into all of that? Really?”
His eyes swept my body and then ended up locked on mine. He took a step towards me. “I want to do whatever makes you feel better, and you're obviously desperate to tell someone,” he said, and went to reach towards my face. I shook my head, and he let his hand drop. “And not that I've ever particularly cared what my girlfriends looked like, but I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it: Min, I've always genuinely loved how you look.”
I could barely speak, and I lost my fight against tears. “Henry, I just hate it.”
He held his arms out to present himself, looking down at his shoes for a second and then back at me with a gentle smile. “And look, I'm still here with you, regardless of how much you hate yourself. Or why.”
Just that image of him standing there on the side of the road with a gentle, accepting smile. Loving me despite everything. God, it hurt.
“I don't understand,” I said, and meant it, about everything. About Henry loving this, about the fact I was doing so badly at work suddenly, and most of all, how wrong I felt about how I looked now. “I just don't understand anything, and I don't know how to explain it.”
“Do you want to try?” he asked me very carefully. I shook my head. “Don't forget I'm a psychologist.”
I shook my head again. He respected that, and we just walked home together. He did pause in the door of my apartment as he gave me my handbag, though. “I know you want to be alone right now,” he said, “but I'm not sure I should leave you alone. You're not in a good place.”
I rolled my eyes. “Henry, I'm not going to kill myself.”
He looked a little alarmed. “Well, that's good,” he said, I think satisfied that I wasn't, “but I meant in general. No one should have to feel like you're feeling and also be alone.”
And yet that was exactly how I wanted to be. “I'll be okay,” I said. “I'm just going to go to sleep, anyway. I'm exhausted.” It didn't look like I'd managed to persuade him, so I added, “Literally, I've had a really long week at work and I'm going to have a shower and then go to bed. I'll feel much better after I've slept. There's no point in you staying.”
“There would be a point,” he said, but he stepped out of the doorway anyway. “I'm not going to force you, though. I know you like your space. I hope you won't be too upset if I decide to check on you over the weekend, though.”
I shook my head. “Goodnight, Henry.”
He put a warm hand behind my neck and kissed my forehead. “I'm here for you,” he said simply. “Whatever's going on.”
I didn't actually end up having a proper shower. I was too exhausted, I just kind of ran the water over myself and then at some point realised I should probably get out.
I had to face myself naked in the bathroom mirror when I was done, and it was still so weird. My hair was plastered against my neck and shoulders. I had a vision of myself just going 'fuck everything' and taking scissors to it. They were right there on my bathroom vanity, beside some makeup that I'd left out. I looked down at them for a second. They were new, they'd be really sharp. It would be so easy, I thought, but, fuck, who was I kidding? I couldn't do that, I had my job to worry about. In one movement I just swept everything off the vanity and listened to it clatter across the tiles. Whatever, I thought, and went to put on my pyjamas.
The track-pants hadn't come back from the wash, yet, so I just put on the jeans with Henry's big old t-shirt and shut the wardrobe to a reflection of myself in the door. I looked like an 18 year old guy.
“Are you happy now?” I asked the mirror. “Is this what you want?”
I watched myself for a few moments, completely not understanding why this was how I felt comfortable. In the end I was the same person, so why was how I looked so critically important to me? I exhaled and shook my head. I had no idea how I was going to sleep. Wine might help.
I was so busy glaring down my front that when I went into the kitchen, I'd forgotten about the flowers Bree had gotten me. I looked up just as I passed the kitchen bench and found myself staring straight into the gaping maw of one of the bigger ones.
There was already so much adrenaline in me that it gave me the fucking fright of my life. For about a second I literally thought there was an alien creature jumping at me from the bench.
I'd backed against the oven with my heart going again when I realised that it was actually just a flower. The rest of them were sinisterly lit by the glow coming from the city outside, and because they'd started to die, all their colour had faded and they looked slightly skeletal. Who the fuck buys these?
“Fucking Bree!” I said aloud, putting a hand on my chest. Those fucking flowers. Even as I said it I could hear her saying soulfully, 'But it's not their fault!'
God, it was so ridiculous. I ended up drinking a few mouthfuls of red wine out of the bottle while I stared at them and tried to calm myself down. They were hideous, and I kept discovering new hideous things about them as they withered. I remembered Bree had said they'd reminded her of me, and I was feeling pretty fucking hideous right now, so it seemed apt. Shit, and I hadn't replied to her before, either. I should do that quickly unless I wanted to add another person to the list of 'casualties of Min's issues'.
I put the wine back in the cupboard and then grabbed my phone from my handbag and went and lay on the bed.
Sarah had texted me, 'Hey Min, hope you're feeling okay. Rob's a bit sick, too! Must have been something in the food. Had a great time anyway, great to finally get you out of the office! See you on Monday!'
I exhaled at length; at least she didn't think I was crazy. On one hand I was glad I could keep her quarantined from my personal crap, on the other hand I hated lying to her. I closed the message and opened Deviant Art, going straight to my notes.
Bree's latest message just read, “im sorry if i said something wrong again i didnt mean it :( :( :( pls dont ignore me :( :( :(“
I took another deep breath. Fuck, I couldn't do anything right; now Bree thought I was angry with her, too. To be fair, I had been, but it all seemed extremely hypocritical now. I sighed and ran my hand over my face. I wasn't sure I had enough energy to comfort her, to be honest. I was too fucking tired to deal with my own crap, let alone anyone else's. But, in all honesty, I couldn't leave her feeling like that, could I?
I hit reply and thought for a second. “Sorry, Bree, I'm not deliberately ignoring you! Things are just crazy for me at work at the moment. We'll talk soon.” I read it a couple of times to make sure it seemed chirpy enough, and then sent it.
It took her literally two seconds to reply, “before we met u used to reply really quickly :( :( :( so like u can say its about work all u want but yeah.........:(“
I had really only been planning to tick the 'replied to B
ree' box so I didn't feel like shit about it. I didn't want to start a conversation with her, but the thought of her being heartbroken and thinking I didn't like her was awful. God, she needed to just not open herself up like that to people, she was going to get hurt.
Since I didn't want to be the one to actually hurt her, what should I say to make her stop feeling like everything was her fault? I could make something up, but I'd been grumpy at her for lying to me so that wasn't a great option. On the other hand, I really didn't want to confide in her. I'd have to be vague.
“I've been having a hard time recently over some personal stuff I don't want to discuss. It's not you at all.” As soon as I sent it, I regretted it. Why would I share that with a 17 year old?
She took a bit longer to reply this time, saying, “hang on a sec im gonna make something for u,” and leaving me in limbo.
I didn't know how long she wanted me to wait, all I really wanted was to go to sleep and just pretend today had never happened. Unfortunately, she was quite unpredictable and the thin slither of me that didn't just want to go to bed forever was curious about what she was up to.
It took her about five or ten minutes to get back to me, and when she replied, it was with a link and several wink emoticons.
I tapped it, and my media player opened. That made me raise my eyebrows, but not half as far as they went up when I heard her voice blaring out of the speakers of my phone.
“Hey, Min!” she said. “I'm sorry you're feeling like crap, but I bet I know something that will cheer you up!” She giggled. “I don't know how good your Korean is because you sound like a total Aussie, but on the off-chance that you actually speak it, I spent all evening learning something for you. I hope I don't screw it up too much!”
Then, she began to sing.
She was terrible. All her high notes were just a little bit flat, and her timing was way off. Despite her abysmal musicianship I could still understand her: she was singing Kpop. A Girls' Generation song, I think, but Kpop always sounded completely generic to me so I couldn't be sure. I had no idea if she knew how bad she was, but she was so darn enthusiastic about it that it was hard to criticise her.
Towards the end of the song, the second-hand embarrassment factor was just so high I ended up with my pillow over my head, laughing from the pain.
She finished off by saying, “Hope I didn't do too badly and I hope you liked it!”
When my phone fell silent, I took the pillow off my head. She hoped she hadn't done too badly? She could not have done worse. That was almost a YouTube infamy level of terrible.
I didn't really know how to tell her she was potentially one of the world's worst singers, so I decided not to comment on the song at all. I just typed, “You're silly ;)”.
“I know ;) ;) ;)” was her reply.
I decided to leave the conversation there and get some sleep, and when I leant up to put my phone on the bedside table, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and everything that had happened just hit me again. I flopped back against my mattress and pulled the doona up under my chin. Whatever, I thought, the wine will kick in soon.
NINE
Because I hadn't gone to bed before ten since I was about eight years old, I did end up wide awake at 3 am after all. And because I was awake in the dead of the night and there was nothing else to do, I discovered I had two choices. I could either lie in bed and rehash yesterday over and over again until I felt like just cleaning up all the wine in my cupboard, or I could get up and work solidly on the framework docs and give myself a fighting chance at getting ahead. God, though, it was early and my eyes hurt as I got up and turned on my laptop. Fortunately, I was too tired to focus on anything except who was buying pink diamonds, so when the sun came up my first thought was, 'Wait a minute, aren't the days getting shorter?' It was 7:30 and I was nearly done with the statement.
I was also kind of hungry, but rather than interrupting my work I opted just to push through it and by 10 I had the statement and the target consumers defined. After some deliberation I decided I didn't have time to stress about whether or not Russia was the right direction; leadership was apparently about having to make risky decisions so I just needed to call it. After I'd set up the stupid encryption software on my laptop, I emailed the docs through to everyone's private emails and CCed Jason.
I had sat down on my bed with the full intention of ordering room service to shut my stomach up, except somehow I fell asleep and woke up after midday. I sat upright, feeling fucking awful like I always did after daytime naps, and had the misfortune of catching sight of myself in the mirror. I looked like that chick out of The Ring if she'd been cast as a guy instead. I put my hair up so I didn't look like I was ready to haunt anyone.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress, I just sat there for a few seconds, slowly remembering everything that had happened yesterday. It felt really far away, like I'd dreamt it all. I hadn't really run out on dinner with Sarah and Rob, had I? And that conversation with Henry? All the adrenaline was gone and, even looking at myself in these clothes, I felt numb, as though I wasn't awake enough to hate myself yet.
I looked so much like I used to in high school before I started wearing makeup. Without any of it on I seemed younger; I could easily have told people I was 20, or even maybe 18 and gotten away with it. I'd definitely get carded if I tried to buy alcohol looking like this. I swallowed. Younger, and, well, guy-er.
'Bloke in a skirt', Rob had said, and I'd felt that assessment like a tonne of bricks. I knew why, and for a second, I was scared to even think about the question. I forced myself to.
Did I actually want to be a guy? Like really, not just, 'Yeah, it would be easier'?
In finally just asking myself, I had kind of expected to get a really definite answer. I didn't have one, and I couldn't separate those questions from oh god what happens if I really do and Henry and Mum find out. My brain felt like scrambled eggs and as soon as I'd asked myself one question another twenty were waiting to be answered. I settled on, 'I think so', and then felt like an idiot for not knowing for sure. The best I could manage was that I liked how I looked in these clothes, I liked how I felt in these clothes, and it was a welcome change from hating myself and my reflection.
I stood up stiffly and got a better look at myself in them. Wow, I could seriously pull off the guy look, especially when I tried to. I experimented with different postures and expressions and, feeling a bit disconnected and scientific, analysed the results. I looked quite feminine when I smiled with my teeth—not that I did that very often. Also, the fabric from the t-shirt was brushing on my nipples and when they were hard it was a dead giveaway I was female, too. Men didn't have nipples like this. I thought about that for a second. I actually used to wear a really tight crop-top to the gym downstairs to stop them from standing out so much. I probably still had it somewhere...
I actually did, and I found it when I burrowed all the way down the back of my underwear drawer. I put it on and put the t-shirt back on over it and my nipples were gone, and actually I looked a lot flatter, too. That felt better, I preferred there being absolutely no sign there was anything on my chest at all.
I wasn't sure what to do now, though. What did people do when they felt like this?
I went to go get myself a drink of water and fantasised about living alone on a desert island and wearing whatever the fuck I wanted forever and not having to worry about it. I drank half the glass and gave the rest to the evil flowers. Well, I guessed there was no harm in just wearing this stuff around the house, as long as Henry wasn't around. I kind of had been for years, anyway, I'd just never really understood what the appeal was until yesterday.
Ugh, yesterday. Just thinking the word was exhausting. It did remind me that my team would probably have replied to my email by now, though. I went and sat at my laptop and read through them; my colleagues were all giving me indications of when their components would be done and none of it was before Sunday. Jason had even sent me a one-liner: “I
guess my book came in handy after all.”
“You fucking prick,” I said at the screen, conflicted as to whether I should be flattered by the fact he was saying I had good time management, or pissed off by what a snide bastard he was. At least he might give Diane good feedback about me for once; maybe I wouldn't get demoted to admin after all.
While I was updating the timelines and really struggling to ignore my loud stomach, my phone went off next to me. I checked the screen: Henry. I hesitated before I answered, momentarily panicking about my clothes. Then I laughed at myself. Min, you idiot, I thought as I answered it. He can't see you, it's a telephone call.
I put it to my ear. “Told you I wouldn't kill myself.”
He made pained noise. “I'd prefer if you wouldn't joke about that,” he said, in his serious voice. “Are you alright, Min? You were in a pretty bad way last night. I hope you slept more than I did.”
I sighed internally; it looked like he wanted to talk again. Leaning back in my chair, I went to run my hand through my hair. It was something I used to do when I was fourteen, and it didn't work because I had long hair now and it was tied back. My fingers got stuck near my hair-tie and I disentangled them from my hair as I answered. “I slept okay, considering.”
He didn't say anything straight away, and there was an unspoken question that kind of hung in the air: he wanted to know what had been upsetting me. My immediate fear was that he'd figured it out and just wanted me to say it for confirmation. He had to have some idea, because I'd told him about high school and he did know what Rob had said that had upset me. What if he had guessed? Would he know what to do? Actually, that was a stupid question. He would know exactly what to do, he always did. But this wasn't just some client of his, this was his girlfriend. I could just imagine him politely trying to pretend he wasn't upset about the fact his girlfriend had some strange desire not to be a girl anymore.
Under My Skin Page 16
