Would Like to Meet

by Polly James

  I promise I will, but then I tell Eva that I’m sure she and Esther would get on better if they spent more time together in real life.

  “It’s pointless you two pretending to be friendly via social media,” I say. “That’s one thing I’ve learned this year: virtual friends aren’t the same as proper ones.”

  The waitress comes over and takes another order for drinks, so I pause while Eva orders more wine and I choose another bitter lemon. That seems appropriate seeing as I’m the lemon who ended up volunteering to drive us to the restaurant and therefore cannot drink.

  “Carry on,” says Eva. “You were telling me about real-life versus virtual friends.”

  Maybe I was, but now I can’t seem to recall why or what, which is happening rather too often these days. I even asked Halfwits’ users what causes brain fog, but when they all answered, “The menopause”, I decided to ignore them and not give in to it.

  “Virtual friends …” I say, still without any clear idea of where I’m going with this, so I work it out as I go along. “Oh, yes. I was saying that I spent more time communicating with virtual friends on Facebook than I used to spend actually talking to Dan – and a fat lot of good they turned out to be when he left.”

  “That’s not what you were saying,” says Eva, looking smug, “or not the bit about Dan, anyway, but you can’t leave the subject of him alone today, can you, Han? In fact, you never stop talking about him and bloody Danny. Which brings me back to why you don’t just meet up with him, and come out as Pammy.”

  At least Facebook “friends” don’t tell you harsh truths you’d rather not hear. That’s a huge point in their favour.

  * * *

  When I get home from dropping Eva off, I think about what she said about coming out to Danny, and then I phone her to discuss it further. I can’t bore her any more than I’ve already bored her today, and anyway, she can’t just suggest something like that without explaining how to make it work. That’s when she comes up with her mad idea, the one I end up agreeing to. Eventually.

  “You need to start off by meeting Danny as Pammy, and then reveal you’re you once he’s made a move on her,” says Eva, who’s clearly still drunk after what turned into a boozy lunch, though only in her case.

  I’m still stone-cold sober, so one of us retains some common sense.

  “And how the hell am I going to pull that off?” I ask. “Force him to wear a blindfold for the first half of the date?”

  That’s something I once suggested he should do during sex, after I got paranoid about what I looked like naked, but since the porn conversation with Danny I finally get why Dan refused. It probably was unnecessary if he really wasn’t comparing me to young porn stars during the act.

  “No, you dipshit,” says Eva, interrupting that disturbing line of thought. “You’re forgetting about my birthday party. You invite Danny to meet Pammy there, and then she turns up in fancy-dress.”

  That’s such a stupid idea, even though Eva’s party is being held at the offices of Viva Vintage so Danny wouldn’t be able to guess who Pammy is from its location. It’s the fancy-dress part that I’m not keen on, especially with a theme like Halloween. Zombie Pammy would look more rotting corpse than femme fatale.

  Eva groans and then points out that the dead person look isn’t what she’s thinking of, because “zombies aren’t compulsory”.

  “You wear some sort of super-sexy masked costume, then take the mask off once Danny makes his move on Pammy,” she explains. “Preferably after he’s had a few drinks, so that’ll numb the shock when she turns out to be you.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” I say, to which Eva replies that she meant, “nice surprise, not shock”.

  Then she says she’s already thought of the perfect costume.

  “Catwoman,” she says. “With a half-face mask, with built-in ears. You can easily get away with wearing a latex catsuit, too, now your sit-ups and rowing are paying off.”

  “Thanks,” I say, again – this time in a genuinely appreciative tone of voice. Who knows, this might just work.

  * * *

  Joel’s back from the exhibition by the time that Eva rings off, and he doesn’t shut up about shoes for the next half- hour, so eventually I decide I’ll go for a walk. I need some peace and quiet to consider the pros and cons of inviting Danny to Eva’s party before I commit a certifiable act by actually doing it.

  I walk on and on, without a clue as to where I’m going. It’s been a beautiful day, though cold, but the sky remains cloudless and blue, and there are still plants flowering in some of the gardens that I pass. Probably thanks to global warming, but I dismiss that thought as being negative when I’m trying to think positive, for once. As a result, instead of fretting about whether we’ll be in the middle of a new Ice Age by the time Joel gets married and provides me with some grandchildren, I look ahead down the long, tree-lined street that I’ve just turned into. It stretches out as far as the eye can see, and there’s something so familiar about the quality of the light bouncing off the tops of the large Victorian terraced houses on either side, that suddenly I’m back in time.

  I’m the same age as Joel is now, just twenty-two, and I’m on my way to my first job, while feeling absurdly happy because Dan and I have just moved in together. Our flat’s a poky ground-floor conversion in the building I’m passing right this minute: a damp, cold space with black mould growing on the bathroom walls and hideous 1970s patterned carpets. It was also flooded with light, due to the floor-to-ceiling windows that made it so perfect for painting in. They still retained their original full-length shutters, the ones Dan used to kick shut whenever we became overwhelmed by passion.

  When did we become underwhelmed by passion, and why? And can Dan and Hannah reverse the trend, as well as Danny and Pammy? I guess it has to be worth a try.

  * * *

  I’ve gone and done it now, or rather, Pammy has. She’s just invited Danny to Eva’s party, and Danny says he’d love to come! He also says something else, something that almost freaks me out.

  I can’t wait to meet you, though I already feel I know you really well. It’s weird how familiar you seem.

  * * *

  Why do ideas sound eminently reasonable one day and insane the next? The word “meltdown” was created for how I feel when I wake up this morning and recall that Pammy’s intending to meet Danny at Halloween.

  I phone Eva, ignoring the fact that it’s 6:30am. Emergencies don’t wait for more sociable times of day.

  “Fuck off, whoever you are,” she says, by way of greeting, but she does at least listen while I regale her with my anxieties.

  “Just get into Pammy mode and refuse to come out of it until after the party,” she says, when I’ve finished. “And now let me go back to sleep.”

  “But what if Dan says he likes Pammy, but he doesn’t like me?” I say, contemplating taking up smoking again after a decade of self-restraint.

  I bet Pammy smokes, probably seductively, while waving a 1930s tortoiseshell cigarette holder around and purring in a voice sexier than Marlene Dietrich’s.

  Eva sighs, extremely loudly, then points out that it’s not being Pammy that’s made me more interesting, it’s because I’ve widened my horizons since Dan and I split up.

  “How can gardening have widened my horizons?” I say, looking out of the window as the sun begins to rise. “I don’t think talking to flowers counts as conversation. It’s pretty one-sided, in my experience.”

  “That’s not the point,” says Eva, “and that applies to drawing, as well, before you bring that up. I just meant you’re doing stuff you enjoy now, and not expecting Dan to make you happy with no help from you.”

  It’s really annoying when someone’s capable of being right, as soon as they have woken up.

  “If you’re so smart, how come you’re still single?” I ask.

  “That’s why I am,” Eva replies, before the line goes dead.

  I consider calling her back but rule it out on
the basis that, while she’s undoubtedly the smartest of my new best friends, she’s definitely not a morning person.

  Instead, I drag myself out of bed and approach the dressing table mirror, where I stare at myself unenthusiastically. I may be more interesting now, but I definitely don’t look it. Not unless you’re an anthropologist researching the effects of rough cotton sheeting on ageing faces. Maybe I should buy one of those silk pillowcases that Eva keeps going on about. I need to do something because, while the Catwoman mask will hide half my face, the other half will be on show.

  Frankie’s comment about there only being so much a haircut can do rings in my ears as I pull my slack jowl skin up and hold it behind them to see if Marlene’s face-lift technique would work, but then my mobile starts to ring.

  I pick it up with my left hand, letting go of that side of my face in the process. My cheek plummets downwards, giving me an odd resemblance to Pearl when she gets tired, though the effect looks far worse on me than it does on her. Then I realise that I still haven’t answered the phone, so I drop the other side of my face, swipe the screen and say, “Hello.”

  Eva continues our earlier conversation as if it hadn’t been interrupted by her falling back to sleep.

  “You’re being stupid, worrying about Pammy being more appealing than you,” she says, “because you are Pammy, you idiot. She’s just the creative side of you – the one who notices the positive, and who thinks about the good things, not just the bad.”

  “Have you spent the last ten minutes reading a self-help book?” I ask. “No wonder you dozed off again.”

  Chapter 53

  It’s Halloween tonight and I’m a nervous wreck. Why is it you can always get what you don’t want, but so rarely what you do? If a genie popped out of a bottle and gave me one wish right this minute, I know exactly what it would be: for Eva’s party to be over and for Danny-and-Pammy to be Dan-and-Hannah again.

  A genie pops up after lunch, but in the guise of the Fembot – sorry, Kristin – and she’s all out of wishes, though she has got something I don’t want. When she calls me into her office she offers me a new job as Project Manager of User Experience, whatever the hell that means. I refuse, but now Esther’s barely speaking to me.

  Apparently, she overheard some of my discussion with the Fembot while she was on her way to the photocopier, though not enough to realise that I turned the offer of promotion down. She missed that bit because Geoff spotted her lurking outside the door and threatened to tell the Fembot she was eavesdropping if she didn’t “move her arse”. It’s not all bad, though, because at least it means she won’t know what I said to the Fembot next: that she should consider Esther for the job, “because she’s better at administration and more committed to her career”.

  I’d prefer her to think that was the Fembot’s idea, so I have no intention of mentioning what I said, even when she accuses me of “stealing her promotion” as I’m walking past her desk. By the time I reach my own, I don’t need to tell her, anyway, because Geoff already has. Turns out he only made her stop eavesdropping so he could do it himself.

  Now Esther’s blaming the whole thing on what she describes as my “showing off” by going to the Fembot’s rescue.

  “You know my job’s the only thing I’ve got!” she adds, before she swivels her chair around so I can only see her back.

  I’m about to say that it’s the only thing that I’ve got, too, but then I recall that Esther hasn’t got a Joel, or a Pearl – or a Danny to her Pammy – so I count to ten, repeatedly, until I calm down a bit. Then I spend the next few hours grovelling like mad, but nothing works until it’s almost time to leave for the day. At that point, the Fembot calls Esther in, offers her the job, and Esther accepts. She’s all smiles when she comes out of the Fembot’s office and suggests we “bury the hatchet”.

  Geoff mutters that she’d probably like to bury it in my skull seeing as the job was only offered to her on a trial basis, unlike when it was offered to me.

  “Why?” I ask. “That makes no sense. Esther’s more than up to it.”

  “Not as far as the Fembot’s concerned,” says Geoff. “She was going on about Esther showing a lack of courage and commitment by bottling out of attending the awayday when I just happened to wander past the door.”

  I groan before making Geoff promise he won’t ever mention that to anyone else. Then I ask Esther how I can make things up to her.

  “Come out with me to celebrate,” she says. “Tonight.”

  * * *

  Esther’s unimpressed when I tell her I can’t go out with her tonight, and even more unimpressed when I tell her why.

  “I’ve got a fancy-dress party to go to,” I say. “And Eva will kill me if I’m late.”

  “Ah, Eva,” says Esther. Her expression changes completely and then she continues, “I’ll find someone else to celebrate things with in future, Hannah. Don’t worry about it.”

  Now her tone has changed as well. It’s so chilly you’d think it was December instead of late October, and it makes me worry quite a lot, contrary to instructions.

  I start to protest that I’m only asking for a rain check, but Esther cuts me off in mid-sentence.

  “I’m sorry I bothered you in the first place,” she says, and then she stalks out of the office without even saying goodbye.

  I consider running after her, but I’m not sure I want to continue the discussion now. Not when I should try to calm down ready for the Danny/Pammy reveal and, anyway, I can’t spare the time. There’s a lot to do if I’m to turn a Hannah sow’s ear into a Pammy silk purse by 9pm.

  I power walk home, thinking about ways to make it up to Esther tomorrow, and then I head straight for the bathroom to take a shower.

  The door’s not locked, but that turns out to be misleading. The room’s already occupied by Joel and Marlon, who’ve already started getting ready for tonight. I’d forgotten they always dress up for Halloween.

  I order them to hurry up and then Joel demands to know why he and Marlon haven’t been invited to Eva’s birthday party.

  “There are bound to be hot models there,” he adds.

  I hadn’t thought of that, so I forget about gaining access to the bathroom and message Danny instead, for reassurance.

  He claims he’ll only have eyes for me, then refuses to tell me what his costume’s going to be, though he adds that his plan to sweep me off my feet should give me a clue. It doesn’t, but the general idea’s so wonderful that I spend ages visualising it, while Joel and Marlon continue to faff about in the bathroom. The swearing level seems to be increasing with every minute that passes, so eventually I go back upstairs, to investigate.

  “Fuck’s SAKE,” yells Joel, as I step into the bathroom.

  “Don’t you swear at me,” I say, stopping dead in shock. “You’re not too old to be grounded, you know.”

  Joel corrects this erroneous assumption in no uncertain terms, but then apologises and explains he wasn’t swearing at me anyway.

  “It’s these bloody contact lenses,” he says. “You were right, Mum. It is stressful putting them in.”

  Why do young people never listen to a word you say until they’ve proved the value of your advice by experiencing the consequences of ignoring it? I told Joel he and Marlon would regret basing their entire Halloween outfits on the concept of less is more. They insisted they didn’t need any costumes because wearing ordinary clothes with weird, red slitty-eyed contact lenses would represent a “mindfuck of epic proportions” by messing with people’s expectations. I put that load of nonsense down to laziness at the time, and now Joel admits that I was right.

  He and Marlon both look wrecked: their hands are shaking and sweaty, and their faces pale as they explain that they’ve only managed to insert one lens each so far. The eyes that are still contact-less are now so bloodshot, they’re redder than the ones that aren’t.

  “The list of things that can go wrong when you use these lenses is a bit of a worry, too,” says J
oel, to my amazement.

  He’s always claimed that reading warning notices is a waste of time, so I point that out.

  “It is a waste of time,” he replies. “The warnings are what stressed us out so much, we’d lost our nerve before we even started putting the bloody things in.”

  It’s almost 7:45pm by now, but when I yell at the boys to get a move on, it doesn’t help to speed them up. First Joel drops his other lens onto the floor, which means it has to be cleaned and soaked again, and then Marlon succeeds in inserting his second one, only for it to migrate to the back of his eye. Cue more swearing from all parties, including me.

  “Let’s go for make-up instead,” says Joel. “Mum, lend me yours?”

  No chance, not now I own the expensive kind. I shake my head, and then Marlon has his bright idea.

  “Face paint, Joel!” he says. “The stuff we bought last year’s still at my house, so let’s go there!”

  When Joel agrees, they both rush for the front door, while yelling goodbye. It’s time for Catwoman to take centre stage.

  * * *

  Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!!! I’m sorry, I know that makes me sound like Joel, but this is justified. How the hell are you supposed to put on a latex bodysuit? I can’t seem to pull mine up further than my calves before it gets stuck. I text Eva in a panic and, thankfully, she replies immediately.

  Talc yourself first. Then ease it on, and take your time.

  Time is exactly what I haven’t got, along with talc, so now I’m going to have to race round to Tesco Metro and see if they’ve got some there. Talc, I mean, not time.

  I pull the Catwoman suit off and kick it under the bed, in case Joel decides to return home while I’m out. Then I pull on a grotty old pair of jogging bottoms and a hoodie that once belonged to him, throw my coat over the top and rush out of the door. It’s dark, so hopefully I won’t bump into anyone I know, or get run over by a bus, seeing as I’m ignoring Pearl’s rule about never leaving the house without wearing decent underwear.

  I run all the way and it only takes me ten minutes to get to the junction of the street where Tesco is. I can see the store from the pedestrian crossing where I stand, waiting for the lights to change.