Page 78 of What It's Like in Words
AFTER DINNER,WE CHANGEDour clothes and brushed our teeth. I wore a denim skirt and a burnt-orange cardigan, and Ruth waseffortless in black jeans and a black T-shirt with a brown belt. We split an Uber with Olivia and Sasha, who went into Soho. I asked Ruth why Olivia had been funny with me, and she said that Olivia was intimidated by people like me.
Who are people like me?
Well, from an outsider perspective you’re a professional writer who owns her flat and your boyfriend is a lawyer.
So, she thinks I’m the poster girl for cis heteronormative white female privilege, basically?
She just thinks that you have your shit together. Speaking of, how’s it going with Mr. Perfect? You never speak about him.
I said that there wasn’t much to say. Everything is fine.
Fine?
Great, everything’s great.
It’s been, what, seven, eight months now?
Erm, yes, I think about eight.
We arrived at the Korean barbeque karaoke. All around the restaurant, meat was sizzling on hot plates. Chris and his friends were having dinner. The table was dirty, and their faces were red. Enola, you came! he said in a way that made me feel like I shouldn’t have. We’re the reception guests, Ruth said under her breath. Chris said that the room was ready and that they were just paying the bill.
Downstairs in the booth, Mat was on his own looking glum. He asked if anyone else from the writing group was coming. I answered that Hugo was working and Amy had a phobia of karaoke. Mat told me that he saw an advert for her book on the tube. I replied that it was a great cover, and he told me not to judge. Ruth nudged my arm. He’s funny, she whispered, emphasizing the pronoun.
One shot of tequila and half a beer later, Chris and his friends appeared in a cacophony. Chris kicked the night off with a corporeal performance of an eighties power ballad, and Mat and I talked over the music. He asked how my book was going, and I said that it was finished and that my agent wanted to submit next month. How’s it going for you?
He replied that he had been longlisted for a competition. Then Mat asked the question that I was hoping to avoid: Have you heard fromhim? I shook my head and said that we weren’t in contact. Mat’s face didn’t change, so presumably he still didn’t know that we used to be a couple. But then he said: So, you probably haven’t heard his news then.
What news?
He’s just got signed with Simon Longman!
I choked on my beer.
Simon Longman was a renowned agent. He only signed people who he thought were going to be huge successes in literary fiction and then he made sure that he was right. Every day he tweeted something intimidating like:Never query unless you’re happy with every single word.
I know, right? Mat continued. I bumped into him and his girlfriend the other day and he told me like he wasn’t fussed. I could have punched him. Imagine being signed with Simon Longman and not giving a shit!
Girlfriend.
What did you say?
I could have punched—
Come on, it’s us! Ruth placed a microphone in my hand. People were cheering. Someone shouted “Girl power!” I was dragged up. Was I singing? A girl was sharing my microphone. Her arm around me. Tugging the microphone closer to her mouth.Girlfriend—he has a girlfriend?I ducked under the arm and shimmied backward. The door shut like a vacuum. I followed signs to the toilets and pressed down on the sink.
Okay. Breathe and break it down.
Firstly: he would never have introduced someone as his girlfriend. Mat probably saw him with a woman andassumedshe was his girlfriend. It might have just been Steph.Fucking Steph. Secondly: Why did I care? We broke up months ago! And Simon Longman… Oh my god. He was about to become huge. Like, literary-prize huge.Why wasn’t I happy for him? Was I jealous that I wouldn’t be the one sharing in his success? No, I knew what the problem was. Ruth told me thathewas the issue, that he struggled with commitment and intimacy and insecurity, and I had started to believe her. After all, I was the one with the agent and the new boyfriend and the new life. But if he was thriving then maybe she was wrong. Maybe I was the problem.
My heart started beating fast, and my hands felt numb. Fuck, I hadn’t had a panic attack in months. I instinctively reached for my wrist, but I hadn’t worn my band in months either. I splashed water on my face instead and swore at the mascara beneath my eyes. How the fuck did women in movies do this?
My jacket and bag were in the booth, so I ran in, snatched them, and left. With Chris attempting to rap, I didn’t think anyone had noticed but halfway up the stairs I heard her voice: What are you doing? Ruth was on the bottom step looking confused and then hurt. I didn’t know why, but I felt angry with her. I told her that I needed to go home. Okay, she said. Were you planning on saying anything? I told her what Mat had told me, and she pleaded with me not to get upset.
You’ve been happy, Enola. Your career is going well and I’ve not seen you cry in ages. Please don’t let this derail you, okay?
I nodded because it was the reaction she wanted.
But you can’t just run away, she continued. This is what he does. He makes you reckless. He makes you unsafe! I told her that I was always safe, and she scowled. Fine. You’realways safe—whatever the fuck that means—but overlooking that, it’s just rude! You can’t push away the people who care about you!
