Page 46 of What It's Like in Words
Ruth, I really am okay.
I know. Dance with me anyway.
And so I took her hand, and we began to dance, movements that built with each song until we were kicking and flailing like garage tube men on a gusty day to a “Sounds of the Sixties” playlist. Fifteen minutes later, we collapsed, breathless and purged of all our fragile words. Ruth said thatnowit was time to watch the movies. Ready for a night ofironic fabulousness, she said in an undecipherable accent. I asked if it was fair to still call it ironic when we did it once a month.
Like how I used to say “lol” ironically and now I just say it?
I don’t even like cosmopolitans!
Ruth rested her legs over mine, picked up the remote, and said: Lol.
ISAW HIM WALKinto the pub, but I looked up at the last minute to seem nonchalant. I was wearing a new “girl-next-door” polka dot teadress, and my hair was in a fishtail plait. I was excited because it felt like forward momentum for the first time since the holiday. But then he said hello, and my excitement vanished. He didn’t kiss me; he just waved his hand in front of his chest and let Steph introduce herself as if I was someone he had met a party whose name he couldn’t remember.
Enola! I was starting to think that he had made you up!
Steph’s black hair was cut into a bob with a sharp fringe, her eyes were green, and her lips were red. Her nose was small and curved, and her eyes distinctively round. She was wearing a leather skirt and a bleached denim jacket like his, without the rip. Her shirt was a mesh material, and the black triangles of her bra were visible. She looked socool.
They sat on one side of the table, and I sat on the other, like I was interviewing for a job. Steph tucked her hair behind her ear, and I counted six piercings: three flesh, three cartilage.
Where’s Patrick? I asked.
Pat couldn’t make it, he answered, avoiding eye contact.
Steph turned to me. So, you’re a writer? B swore he’d never date another writer!
B? Who the fuck is B?
His eyes darted around the pub as if he were looking for assistance. I replied that I was trying to be and asked what she did. I already knew, but it seemed like the right thing to ask.
She turned her head and dropped her mouth. Excuse me. Why haven’t you told your current girlfriend what your best friend does? She poked him in the ribs, and when he poked her back, his fingers grazed her bra.
Current girlfriend?
Steph reaffirmed that she was an actor. I asked her if that was fun, and she said that she loved the après-ski part. I said that I had never been skiing, and she clarified that she was just “in it for the drinks.”
Speaking of drinks. He turned to me and asked what I would like. I told him a white wine. He didn’t check with Steph. Presumably he already knew what she wanted.
I felt nervous being alone with her; something in the way she was looking at him? Or the way that he wasn’t looking at me? Her eyes stalked him to the bar, then narrowed on me like a follow spot. Enola, how is writing going for you? I know B finds it hard sometimes. But he’s such a fucking genius.
I agreed and answered that writing was going well, but, hearing myself describe my book, it sounded childish and silly. I remembered his words:Don’t let it take away from your actual writing.Did he think my book sounded childish and silly? Did Steph? She was making monosyllabic sounds to demonstrate that she was listening, but it didn’t feel like she was. I trailed off like a singer running out of breath, and she told me not to give up on my dreams because if she had given up then she wouldn’t be at the Donmar now.
Just say something, you idiot. Ask her what the Donmar is.
Before I could think of something to say, she asked why we had chosen Kenya for a holiday. When I told her that I used to live there, she looked surprised and said that “B” had never mentioned that. I explained that we were only there for four years because Dad worked for the foreign office. How exciting, she said. My uncle is in the House of Lords. Is your dad still in politics?
No, I replied. He died when I was nine.
Most people never knew what to say when I told them; it was like they thought the death of a parent might be contagious. But Steph asked me how he died. I wanted to tell her that it was none of her business, but I lied: Heart attack. Then, changing the subject, I told her that my mum used to be an actress. Steph’s round eyes expanded.
You’re kidding! Is she still working?
I told her that she stopped acting when we moved to Kenya, and Steph looked more offended at this than she had at the heart attack. She commented on how hard it must have been for my mum to give up her career. I lied again and said that she just wanted to be a mum, but instantly regretted it when Steph’s smile fell.
Well, ifIdecide to have children, I’d like to think that I could have both.
Absolutely! Do you want children?
Steph shrugged and looked to the bar like she was checking her watch. I quickly asked how they met, and Steph said that they met in Bristol when he was at university and she was at drama school. Her smile returned as she recounted what was clearly a favorite story: He was working in this pub we frequented when I was at the Old Vic. And even though we were aterriblecouple, we stayed mates.
