by Holly Bourne
It’s not that I want to marry Mark – I don’t.
It’s not because she has a diamond ring on her finger, or a white dress to wear in two weeks’ time, or the honeymoon of a lifetime around the corner.
It’s the knowingness that hurts.
Because no one romantically has ever known me the way Mark knows Chrissy and Chrissy knows Mark. I want to be known, all of me known. All of me loved. All of me accepted. I want to have someone in my life who completely and utterly knows me, and has earned the knowing of me by their unwavering willingness to stick around while I slowly reveal it all. It only grows with time and commitment and dedication, and that only comes with someone deciding you are worth the investment to become knowable. Someone who believes the bits they will learn about you will only make them love you more, not less. I don’t have that. I’ve never had that. I don’t think I ever will …
Megan’s quick to answer the phone. I didn’t even realise I was calling her until she picks up. ‘Hello? April?’
‘He … he doesn’t know me,’ I slur out. ‘He doesn’t know anything about me.’
‘What are you talking about? Are you OK? Where are you? Are you still at the hen do?’
‘Joshua!’ I shout, my voice bouncing off the metal encasement of my cubicle. ‘He doesn’t know me at all.’
‘Who the hell is Joshua? Hang on, is he that guy who was in our flat the other day?’
I nod.
‘April?’
‘He doesn’t know me, Megan.’ My voice keeps catching. ‘He thinks I’m Gretel. He only likes me because he thinks I’m Gretel.’ Snot pours from my nose, tasting bitter as it seeps between my lips though I’m not quite crying. ‘I thought being her would make me feel good about myself, but it’s just made me feel worse because he only likes me because he, he … thinks I’m her.’
‘I’m so lost right now, honey. I don’t really understand what you’re saying but I’m sorry you’re hurting.’
‘No one knows me,’ I wail, my voice a squeaky wail.
‘I know you.’
‘You don’t count.’
‘Well, thanks April.’
‘I’m not April, I’m GRETEL, that’s the whole thing.’
‘Hon, I’m worried about you. Are you alone? Are you safe? You sound really drunk. I’m here in the flat if you want to come home. I love you. I love you. It’s going to be OK. Hen parties are triggering nightmares and it’s totally OK to just come home. Say you’re sick or something. I love you.’
Megan’s kind words may as well be made with Teflon. ‘I have to go Megan.’
‘April!’
‘Sorry, I’m fine. Just fine. I’m safe. Sorry. I love you.’
‘April, wait—’
I ring off.
Stare at my phone.
I don’t want to feel like this – lost and pathetic – the very cliché of being left on a shelf I don’t want to be left on. A tiny part of me wonders if this is a good idea but the other part of my brain has already dialled his number. I sit up as it rings, pants still adorning my feet. I sniff and wipe my face.
‘Gretel?’
‘Guess whose drunnnnnnnnnnk?’ I’m full of fun and joy and I’m having such a brilliant time in this wonderful life of mine.
I feel Joshua’s smile break over the line. ‘Well hello you,’ he says. ‘Hang on, I’m just in the pub with Neil. I’ll duck outside.’
I find I’m smiling too. I wipe myself as I listen to him telling Twatface Neil that it’s me. Cradling my phone under my neck, I pull up my pants, flush and then take myself out of the cubicle. I’m just done washing my hands when he’s back.
‘I’m here. Hello. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’
‘I missed you,’ I say. So cute, so goddamned cute.
‘Someone’s been drinking.’
‘There’s that too.’
‘Anyone shoved a penis straw up their vagina yet, or whatever it is that happens at hen dos?’
‘Joshua, that has never, ever, happened at a hen do. Well, actually, it probably has.’
He laughs because I’m witty and fun and cool and brilliant to spend time with. ‘And there I was, thinking I was missing out.’
I look at myself in the mirror. Make-up smeared off, hair sweaty from the heat, dress sticking to my clammy body. Face blotchy. My whole look reduced to the words ‘train wreck’. I blink twice and picture how he thinks Gretel looks right now: grinning, red lipstick perfectly applied, sipping on an ethical straw, hair over one tanned shoulder, mischief in her eyes. Hell, her eyes might even be sparkling, though that doesn’t even exist in real life. At no point in the history of hen dos has one ever prompted Gretel to consider her own life choices and romantic prospects. I blink again and see Gretel form in the mirrored glass. She waves hello. She winks at me, and I find myself winking back.
‘I’m not calling for any reason other than to say filthy things,’ I watch Gretel say seductively down the phone.
More laughter. ‘Can I send you on more hen dos if this is what happens?’
‘Why aren’t you here right now? There’s so much I want to do to you.’
I hear him gulp. ‘Yes? Like what?’
‘Anything you want, I’ll do.’ It’s best to keep it vague, let them fill in the blanks with whichever porn they watch and feel shame about afterwards.
‘OK, and now I have an inappropriate erection in the middle of Soho.’
‘No such thing as an inappropriate erection in Soho.’
‘How can you be crazy hot and crazy funny at exactly the same time, Gretel? That’s not very fair on a man.’
I smile again and my reflection smiles back. That red lipstick really does suit her. I’ve never had the confidence to wear red lipstick before. ‘What are you thinking about?’ Gretel asks.
‘Things that aren’t helping this erection go away. Honestly, I’ve had to turn to face the wall.’
‘I wish I was there. I could do things with that situation.’
‘Please get on a train back to London now. I’ve said “please” and everything.’
‘Sorry, no can do. But wait till I next see you—’
I hang up, mid-sentence, cutting him and his erection off. I laugh at how easy it is for them to believe your pretence. I sort out my real reflection. I wipe off the ruined bits of my face, sort out my smudged make-up, and tip my hair upside down under the hand dryer to reinvigorate it.
A better April stares back at me now. Not as good as Gretel, but much improved. One that’s able to get through the rest of the evening. My phone buzzes.
Joshua: I’m going to be thinking about you all night xxxx
I do feel better.
Though, I worry part of me will be thinking about him all night too.
We end up in a club after all.
We shed the breast-feeders and the ones who could only get babysitters until midnight, and head to some awful place on the beach where all the other hen dos have congregated in some kind of rally. They’re all much younger than us. Some of them clearly on their first, exciting, one – decorated with glitter and penises and wilting sashes and the bits of fancy dress that have made it to the end of the night. We’re too drunk to mind though – dancing in a little circle, around the pile of our handbags, leaning in to shout ‘I don’t know any of these songs!’
Now I’m on the beach, smoking a Marlborough menthol even though I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life. Chrissy’s sitting next to me, also smoking. Our heels are off, toes buried into the cold pebbles.
‘I can’t believe I’m getting married,’ she tells the quiet slosh of the sea, before nuzzling her head into my shoulder.
‘I can’t believe you’re getting married either.’ I pat the top of her head with my non-fag hand.
‘I literally thought that was it. After Sven. When I left him, I left him knowing he was probably my only chance.’
‘And now look at you.’
She throws her arms into the air and her cig
arette lights a path through the darkness. ‘FUCK YOU SVEN, I’M NOT A SPINSTER AFTER ALL!’ she yells into the black sea. Whoops and cheers from other inebriated people echo back at us and we both fall into one another, laughing.
‘Sven was such a dick,’ I say.
‘Such a dick.’
‘Remember when he forgot your birthday?’
‘And somehow blamed it on me for “stressing him out”?’
We shake our heads and I take an inexperienced drag on my cigarette, sucking on its minty filter, trying to remember how it even came to being in my hand. I cough.
Chrissy cracks up then starts coughing too. ‘God, we’re a sorry state of affairs,’ she says, grinding hers out.
‘But we look so cool!’
She takes mine and stubs it out too, and there’s a moment’s calm, where the delicate crash of waves against shingle mixes with the thud of the bass spilling from the club.
‘I can’t believe I’m having a wedding,’ she murmurs. ‘I have a dress and everything. It’s so surreal.’
‘Are you excited?’
‘Yes, I think so. I mean, it’s also really stressful. Like just a giant project to manage, and you know about Mum and her MS and all the worry about how she’ll cope with the day, but it will be lovely I hope.’
‘It will be lovely! What are you looking forward to the most?’
I used to ask myself this same question about my own hypothetical wedding. During those moments when I used to plan it in my head, like I’ve been groomed to do since being born a girl. Of course, the most obvious answer is that thing from 27 Dresses – the look on his face at the end of the aisle when he first sees you. That’s the low bar heterosexual women set themselves as a romantic accomplishment: find a man who looks pleased to be marrying you on your actual fucking wedding day. Dream big, April …
‘His speech actually,’ Chrissy says after consideration, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I’m really looking forward to his speech.’ She picks up a pebble and squeezes it in her palm. ‘The thing is, I know Mark loves me. I mean, he must do, right? We’re getting married! But he’s never been very verbally affectionate. I told you we’ve argued about it a lot. How he never really gushes over me. Never really says “I love you” or “you look gorgeous”. Stuff like that. He says words don’t mean anything and I get that so it’s fine. It’s totally fine. I mean, I’d rather he did say nice things, but that’s not him, and he treats me like he loves me and that’s what’s important but, well, the speech is going to be special. Cos he’ll get a chance to say it all. And it will be nice to hear it, just once, you know? I feel like he’s saving it all up for then, and it makes me feel all warm and gushy. Does that sound stupid?’
I stroke her hair. ‘It doesn’t sound stupid at all.’
‘I’m really looking forward to it.’
I turn to her and cup her face, like I’m the romantic lead in a film. ‘You’re beautiful, Chrissy,’ I say, in a macho voice. ‘And you’re so smart, and kind, and I’m so so lucky to have you in my life.’
She giggles, and I do too. ‘The funny thing is that, even though you’re a girl, and you’re joking, it does still feel really nice to hear it,’ she laughs, before launching herself at me for a hug, her hair getting up my nose. ‘I really want it to happen to you,’ she says, mid-hug, pulling me tighter. ‘It will honey, I promise. You’re too amazing to end up alone.’
The hug feels suffocating. I have a deep urge to push her away, push her into the sea. I clamp my eyes shut and feel the bottom of my stomach drop out. I don’t like being the charity case. I can’t stand that I’ve become this one.
‘I’ve met someone actually.’
Chrissy pulls away. ‘What?’ Her eyes light up from the moon.
‘It’s still really new. He’s called Joshua.’
‘Oh my God, why haven’t you told me?’
‘It’s your hen do. It’s not about me, it’s all about you.’
‘But I want to know. Wow! Joshua! What a great name.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘So, tell me everything!’ She’s grasping both of my hands. She’s so happy for me, that I’ve got there. Well, that I’ve got a chance to get there.
‘There’s not much to tell yet. As I said, it’s really new. He works as a coder. Umm, he has his own flat …’
‘Great, great. Pictures?’
I retrieve my phone, pulling up a selfie he sent me the other day of him on a ‘training walk’ up Hampstead Heath. ‘He’s a bit sweaty in this one.’
She snatches the phone off me. ‘Oooo, cute! I like the look of his face. He looks kind. Do you have any more?’ She starts swiping through my pictures, finding additional shots, zooming in, telling me all the things that she can tell are good about him from the photos. I look over her shoulder, seeing him again through her new eyes and I feel … pride bubble in me, a smile sneaking up my cheeks, warmth in my stomach. Oh God, this is not a good sign. Not a good sign at all. And yet it feels wonderful.
My phone’s returned with another hug. ‘I’m so happy for you,’ she says. ‘You so deserve this.’
What a strange thing to say, I think, but the thought is then lost in a Sambuca fog. Lost in the feeling of this moment. How nice it is to be the girl who has found the boy and it looks like it’s really going somewhere. The relief from others, from yourself. I find myself floating out of my body for a moment, and watching us, two friends, drunk, on the beach, hugging one another and sharing gossip about ‘our guys’. The belongingness of it.
Though this moment doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to Gretel.
Chrissy’s hug judders to a halt and I’m held at arm’s length again. ‘You have to bring him to the wedding!’ she says, so excited by the thought it’s like she’s discovered gravity.
‘What?’
‘As your plus one! You must bring him.’
I’m looking at my hands, twisting them in my lap, imagining how to get through that day without anyone calling me April. ‘Oh, I’m not sure. I don’t know. I mean, he might be busy.’
‘At least ask him. Yay! I can’t wait to meet him. I knew it would happen for you, April. I never gave up hope. Even if you did.’
‘Shall we go in and find the others?’ I’m already standing up, turning my heels upside down to dislodge the pebbles that have taken refuge in there.
‘But it’s so hot.’
‘Come on Hen,’ I hold out my hand to yank her up. ‘You only get one hen do.’ We both make a noise of exertion as I pull her to her feet.
‘Let’s hope so.’
We link arms, two old friends, and pick our way across the stones to get back to the club, leaving the black ocean behind us.
I stumble through our flat door, eyes red, the stench of last night all over me, random drunken bruises coming up on my legs. I drop my bags to the floor and groan.
Megan turns around from her spot on the sofa. ‘You look like someone has vomited you up.’
‘Everything hurts. I’m too old for this. I was too old for this even when I was the age it was considered the appropriate thing to do. Why is it so fucking hot? When will this fucking heatwave ever end?’
‘In a good mood, are we?’
‘No. Is it that obvious?’ I kick my shoes off and flop down alongside her. I must smell bad because she inches away slightly. I look at the television. ‘Oh, it’s the episode where Joey loosens up and becomes Other Joey.’
‘Yep, she’s about to sing “Cheap Tricks” and act slutty.’
‘God she’s annoying.’
‘The actual worst,’ Megan confirms. ‘I mean, they call her “Other Joey”, like you can compartmentalise the fun, cool parts of a girl away from the tricky bits … Hang on … come to think about it,’ she points at the screen with the energy of someone who doesn’t have a hangover. ‘How many times have we seen this scene in other incarnations?’ I twist my broken head to where Joey’s singing on stage and taking her clothes off, while Pacey looks on adoringly
. ‘There’s always the woman who is too tightly wound or whatever, because she wants to do well in school or her career or whatever the hell else it is that’s actually probably a pretty good aspiration to have. And then some slightly-fucked-up dickwad turns up and starts getting her to realise her “true self”. But her “true self” is always some drunken, slutty, fun-loving twat who takes her clothes off and dances on stage while everyone cheers.’
‘True,’ I say, and then I can’t say anything else. All other words seem impossible. I cuddle up to Megan’s legs. ‘Megs?’ I start.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
Sensing something in my voice, she picks up the remote and Dawson’s Creek comes to a standstill. ‘What is it?’
‘If I tell you, you have to promise not to say anything.’
‘You haven’t killed a man, have you?’
I scramble so I’m upright, fold my legs into a crossed position, sitting across from her. ‘No, I’ve not killed a man.’
‘Then what is it? You can tell me.’
‘I’ve … I’ve …’ I savour this last moment where my weird little secret is still just that. Safe within the realms of only my knowledge. I close my eyes, open them. ‘I’ve met a man … That Joshua guy.’ Her eyes widen. ‘But it’s complicated. Because, well … he’s my boyfriend now, except he isn’t because I’ve been pretending to be this fictional woman called Gretel.’ It sounds even worse out loud than I thought it would.
Megan’s eyebrows lift, crinkling her forehead. ‘Right,’ she says slowly, picking up a cushion and hugging it. ‘Right.’
‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’
‘I think I need a bit more explanation. Though last night, I got an inkling. You called me, do you remember?’
The moment she brings it up, I do. The fog from last night lifts and I’m smacked with the memory of my knickers down, wailing to Megan about not being known.
‘Shit. Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.’
She waves the apology away. ‘So, who’s Joshua? And, who is Gretel? Isn’t she that girl you used to work with?’
