Exciting Times(47)
On the last day of July, I was in bed, willing myself to sleep, not sleeping, refreshing things on my phone, when a message came.
Just to let you know, work sending me back now. Flight next week. Logistics to sort so might be hard to reach. Let me know if anything you need. Thanks for minding flat. J.
I thought: someone needs to teach this man how to have a feeling, and how to write a message, and they also need to tell me what the fuck I do now.
37
August
August was too hot to walk outside. The day after I got Julian’s message, I went alone to Pacific Place and walked a circuit past luxury outlets and American coffee shops. Outside Celine I mussed my hair to look like a dishevelled rich girl, then went in and tried on a white blazer. The shoulderpads held themselves up as though my own dimensions were immaterial. The salesgirl seemed to feel that this also held for the rest of me. If I bought everything in the shop then she would have to accept that I was important – and really, I could spend my whole life proving that. I could probably get Julian to marry me if I said it was to satirise men who had wives, and then it would only be a matter of not taking too much money at once. He would certainly let me have enough for everyone to think I mattered.
Eight days till he returned.
My savings account had more than enough for a deposit now. I could move tomorrow if I wanted. I had nothing to fear from Julian coming back. At worst, he’d kick me out and I’d return to a life where one room cost me half my paycheque. That was how most people lived. It was fine.
On the ground floor I caught sight of myself in a big Zara window. How can you be that pale, I thought, and not be sick. It was all ridiculous. I ordered a flat white at a marble-tiled café, sat down, and drank it. The caffeine went through the appropriate channels. I thought: faster, please.
At first it seemed unlikely I could harm Edith or Julian. They were rich and smart, and I dented fricatives for a living, badly. But the trouble was that the more I followed this logic, the less I could see why they’d ever got involved with me. If they were mistaken enough about our relative status to let that happen, then it stood to reason that they might also, erroneously, be hurt that I’d been seeing someone else.
My thoughts over coffee were always quite interesting.
That evening I had pot noodles and wine for dinner. I watched a zombie film on Netflix, liked a post of Edith’s on Instagram, and read one of Miles’s PDFs. Finally I opened Julian’s latest message.
We should have R&V for dinner when I’m back. Or take them out. Latter prob best. Been in touch with V & she says you’ve been ignoring her messages. All well? Not like you to not reply. Not like you to enjoy V’s company either, but you need friends. Ask when they’re free. Maybe a present for them. Just sth from M&S and I’ll say I got it in London. & get Miles sth too. Don’t write notes – I’ll do that. Talk soon. J.
I decided to write one of my therapeutic drafts. I typed:
i’m fucking edith. i’ve told you who she is in previous fake messages, so i’m not sure if it’s more consistent to pretend i’m sending this to the julian who’s read them or if you’re a new one now. it’s all fake anyway. so: my girlfriend edith and i are in love. she doesn’t know about you. also, it would not be ideal for me if you kicked me out of your apartment over this, so i don’t know why i’m telling you. you say you don’t have feelings, but if you do, i’m sorry.
I deleted it, went to the kitchen and drank more wine. The tap dripped. I’d meant to get it fixed, asked Julian who to call, remembered him sending me the landlord’s number, but later couldn’t find his message and didn’t want to ask again for fear of seeming scatty.
When I came back, I reopened my laptop and saw that rather than ‘delete’ I’d pressed ‘send’. I laughed.
He didn’t reply. At work I took toilet breaks to check my inbox and weathered Joan’s dirty looks. On the MTR my data wavered, which forced me to go longer periods without refreshing. This made me think he surely would have messaged by the time it was my stop, but I’d climb up, get the signal back, and see he still hadn’t. My throat felt tight and fraudulent. In that split preliterate second when I saw a new bolded message, my pulse jumped from me, then ‘TST tn? who’s keen’ in the teachers’ group chat and it settled. I’d think: I am not keen on TST tonight, or ever, and I could reply to that effect in all of two seconds, but I won’t because that would take effort and I am currently funnelling all available resources – physical, mental, human – into not publicly screaming at how fucked I am.
Edith asked what was wrong. ‘You’re like me lately,’ she said. ‘Checking and checking.’ I said if she did it then surely I could, too. ‘You can do anything,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know why you’d want to be like me.’ I did want to be like her, but that also wasn’t why I kept looking at my phone.
I could have told her about Julian at that point, but then there would be consequences, whereas if I put it off then I would not have to deal with them yet. This reasoning seemed sensible to me, and I wondered why anyone ever volunteered information.
Four days later, Julian responded.
A – bit of a strange message but I assume sent under the influence. It’s fine. Not as if we’re a thing, so do what you want. See you next week. J.