Page 23 of What It's Like in Words
Shit.I hadn’t thought about that. All I had thought about was him on the beach in his swimming trunks. Even when we got vaccinations and malaria tablets, nothing had felt real until this conversation.
Roo. Stop, okay? It’s just going to be a fun holiday!
Ruth held her hands in front of her chest. Her nails were painted yellow, apart from her right thumb, which was black. Okay. Don’t have a go at me. I’m just worried, Enola. You’ve spent a long time getting your life to a place that you’re happy with and to go back to Kenya after nearly twenty years with someone you barely know?
I told her that I did know him. And that I didn’t think my life had been in a place that I was happy with. Ruth asked if that was true. Do you really think you’ve not been happy, Laa?
I told her that I wasn’t sure, but that I was definitely happy now.Ruth lifted an eyebrow. I asked her why that was so hard to believe. She ran her tongue over her gums, and I knew that she was going to say something that I didn’t want to hear.
For one, she began, you keep saying that he’s straightforward and easy to talk to, but if that was true, you’d literally be going anywhere else! Think about it. You’re so keen to please him.
I told her to stop getting in my head. She told me that I was different at the moment. I rebutted that she was different when she met someone. How? she challenged. I told her that when she was with Elle, she watched lots of German films, and with Kris, she started bouldering. Ruth dropped her chin and said that was taking an interest in their hobbies. Does he take an interest in yours? I told her that we wrote together. She said that writing wasn’t a hobby, it was my career.
It’s ahobby, Ruth.
And is that from him?
No! But sitting watching him type just reaffirms that I have absolutely no hope in being a professional writer.
She said that she hated that I was doubting my writing. I told her that I had been doubting my writing for years. She said that this was different. And if that’s the case, why not spark something up, write something new, do a course—don’t just sit there watching him type!
I’m not just watching him—
Ruth interrupted. We’re going off topic. At the end of the day, I’m concerned that this trip is going to hurt you. And that you’re not protecting yourself enough with this guy.
I told her that I was fine. But then the coffee shop became louder and brighter, like a video game, and I had to blink to settle it. Ruth asked me if I had eaten enough. She had on an expression like we had this conversation all the time, but we hadn’t had it for years. I said that the real issue was that she didn’t like him. She said that was irrelevant. Did you like the last guy that I went out with, Enola? I reminded her that the last time she went on a date with a man was fifteen years ago and he paid for his own dinner with supermarket vouchers. At thatwe laughed, and I was relieved until her eyes glossed and she said that she always thought we would go back to Kenya together.
Oh, Roo.
I plunged my hand into hers and told her how sorry I was. I’m so selfish. I didn’t think. She told me not to worry.
I’m so sorry, Roo.
She waved her hand like it was nothing before condensing her feelings into pithy advice: Just make sure you pack the Jungle Formula.
The conversation was over. Ruth checked her plastic strawberry watch and finished her coffee; then, singing a thank-you to the waiter, she opened the door and stepped aside to let me go through first. With us the air was cleared as easily as it was filled.
CHAPTER 7
There was a current running through me, and I couldn’t sleep, so I watched a television show where people showed doctors the parts of their bodies they were embarrassed by. I wasn’t sure if there was power in revealing your flaws publicly, in close up, under indiscriminate white lighting, or whether these people were masochists. I hid the parts of myself that I didn’t like and sometimes I wondered how much of me was left visible after that. Butheliked me, he wanted me, he was happy with me. Ruth was wrong. This is what happiness looked like: a week’s worth of day and night outfits rolled up in a suitcase that had been packed for two weeks. When he saw it, he had teased:Jesus. How many clothes do you need, honey?
After the show finished, I watched a movie about a tsunami and when there was nothing left to distract me, I texted my mother:
I’m going on holiday tomorrow, so I’ll miss Wednesday’s chat.
I would tell her that we were going to Kenya if she asked, which she wouldn’t.
Ruth wasn’t the only person who tried to repair the relationship between me and my mother. My grandparents used to drop hints in the same unsubtle way as Amy, who had recently started attempting to set me up with David’s friends. We would be eating cheese, and Gran would say something like:You know, Enola, they have great cheese inFrance!But I hated it the most when Catherine did it because it made me worry that she just wanted her spare room back.
I went onto the balcony and looked out over the cold, sharp city. Now that the trip was real, the daydream of us on the beach, him in his trunks, both of us happy and golden, had been replaced by something violent and awful: a plane dropping out of the sky, a car crashing into a tree, a wave washing our happiness away. I shut my eyes and fantasized about being killed in a tsunami. He survived and, finding my name on a list of the dead, collapsed, weeping about how much he loved me. Then I went to bed and masturbated to a video he’d sent of him making bread from scratch.
TIREDNESS HOVERED IN THEterminal. Teenagers slept on backpacks by the windows, and couples in bejeweled tracksuits had their children riding suitcases like ponies. He was in old jeans with a hole in the crotch, because he said that they were comfortable for the flight. I was in a loose blue playsuit for the same reason. I wanted to smell the perfumes in duty free, but he pointed to the champagne bar: Come on!
We sat on high stools at the black marble bar in our raggedy clothes, while the only other patrons looked like oligarchs. I commented on how one woman was wearing fur, and he laughed. Fuck it, I’m on holiday. Two glasses of the cheapest champagne were handed over by an unsmiling Polish woman. We clinked our glasses, and he looked happy. I touched his smile lines, and he didn’t stop me. Then he said: You know, I’ve never been on holiday with a partner before.
This was the first time that he had spoken about his past relationships, and I wanted more information. I knew the answers to the questions that writers were supposed to ask about their characters: What does he have for breakfast? (Whatever he made for dinner.) What is his favorite color? (He always wears blue or black.) What items does he carry in his pocket? (Gum, cigarettes, keys.) But I didn’t have the answers to any of the big questions.
What about your ex—what was her name? I asked, scrolling on my phone so that he didn’t think I wastoointerested.
