The End of Men(97)
“What do you do?” I ask James, eyeing his wife, Iris, jealously. I don’t want James but I ache to have my husband by my side too.
“I used to be a marketing analyst before everything but now I work in public affairs for the government’s Male Relations Department.”
The conversation around us stops and there’s a chorus of “oohs” and “how interesting.” James blushes; this is not the first time he’s had that reaction. “How intriguing,” I say, indulging the mood in the room. “Why did you choose to move there?”
“I realized how differently I was being treated by women and I wanted to make sure that men were having their voices heard.”
“In what way are you treated differently?” I ask. I have an awful feeling that, pre-Plague, James was the kind of man who “just expected” his wife to take his name because of tradition and described himself as the Head of the Household.
“Romantically, it’s . . . a lot. I get approached at least a few times a day—as I’m traveling to work, when I get coffee, if I’m in a restaurant with a friend. It’s very rarely aggressive. Ninety-five percent of the time it’s just a nice lady coming up to me with her number written on a piece of paper, or striking up a conversation as I wait for my coffee to go, or coming up to my table and asking if I want to get a drink sometime.”
“And the other five percent?”
“They’re more problematic. It’s a desperation that, I suppose on one level, I understand, and on another level, I think, ‘This isn’t my fault. None of this is my fault. Why don’t I have the right to just sit and wait for my train without being hassled?’ When I complained about it to some of my sister’s friends they were divided. One group thought that I had every right to complain—it was harassment! It’s an outrage! You’re wearing a wedding ring! The other half smiled ruefully and explained that they knew exactly how that felt and it was part of their daily life until a couple of years previously.” Iris is nodding furiously along with everything James is saying. Is she a wife or a cheerleader? Perhaps he thinks they’re the same thing.
“And how did you two meet?” I ask Iris and him. “We started going out on March 6, 2027,” he says with a smile. I’ve never met a couple before who started their relationship after the Plague.
“How was it dating, after the Plague?” I know my question is testing the boundaries of good manners but I can’t help it. I’ve missed being nosy at dinner parties. I forgot how impertinent I could be with people I don’t know.
“Everyone kept telling me, ‘Oh, you have so much choice, James, you could choose anyone. Any woman would be lucky to have you.’ It was a bit like being a contestant on a reality show.”
“So how did you choose Iris?”
Iris smiles beatifically at him. She’s a bit annoying. “We’d known each other for years. She’s friends with my little sister. I was focused on trying to recover from the loss, my dad and my two brothers died. Thankfully my brother-in-law is immune too. I worked in sports marketing and about eighty percent of my office died and the business collapsed. It was a lot to process. I was saying to my mum one day that I really wished I had met someone before the Plague. It would have been so much easier to cope with if I’d had a constant presence, you know?”
“And that’s where I came in,” Iris simpers.
James continues without acknowledging her. “I turned thirty in February 2027 and something flipped. I wanted to settle down and the Plague showed how short life is. That feeling of wanting to build a family and have babies. My mum said it reminded her of when she turned thirty and desperately wanted a baby.”
“Sometimes a cliché is a cliché for a reason,” Iris chirrups.
“The Plague put things into perspective for a lot of people,” I say as politely as I can muster, realizing I’ve been silent for long enough to seem odd.
“And now I’m pregnant!” Iris adds with glee, rubbing a nonexistent bump. “And so’s Phoebe!”
Phoebe turns around from the wine she’s pouring for someone and I know the exact expression that’s going to be on her face even before I look at it. It will be wide-eyed, her mouth pursed as if braced against whatever horror she’s awaiting. I hate that I know her so well and yet, somehow, my oldest friend has allowed me to find out this piece of shattering news in the most unimaginably awful way possible.
“How wonderful for both of you!” I say brightly. Smile, Catherine. Keep smiling. Do not let Iris see you cry. “Excuse me, I’m just going to nip to the loo.”
Phoebe follows me through the kitchen and upstairs to the bathroom.
“Catherine, I—”
“How fucking dare you? And just to be clear, in case you try and misrepresent this later, I’m not angry at you for being pregnant. I’m fucking furious at you for not telling me and then allowing some fucking twenty-eight-year-old moron to tell me for you. What the fuck?”
Tears are falling freely down Phoebe’s face. She always cried easily. I want to shake her, hard.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how, and then. I thought I would tonight, but. It’s. Oh God, I’ve fucked up, I’m so sorry.”
Bile is rising up in me. She couldn’t do this one thing right. This one decent, necessary thing. “You’re a fucking coward. Jesus Christ. We’ve been friends for more than half our lives and you couldn’t bother to tell me. Fuck you, Phoebe. Oh, and tell Rory his friend James and his wife are cunts.”