I’m feminine, of course. Not in an obvious, insecure way. We’ve established already that I’m not insecure. How repulsive, for a woman to be insecure. Not me! Where were we? Oh yes, I’m feminine. Don’t worry, I never take too long to get ready. I’m naturally beautiful. I don’t realise it, of course, that would be egotistical, but I’m also confident in how I look. I’m feminine in an effortless way. I’ll randomly shove on some flowery dress and I’ll reek of womanliness so much that the flowers may just float off my dress and follow me around like Pocafuckinghontas.
I’ve got an edge to me though. I can totally be one of the guys. In fact, he loves to bring me out and watch how well I fit in with them and how they all look at me and wish I was their girlfriend. I make the perfect crude joke. I have an interest in whatever boring-as-bollocks sport he’s into. Not because I’m pretending to – I actually find it interesting.
I’m one of those people who will wake him up one morning and say, ‘let’s go on an adventure’ with a glint in my eye, and both our passports in my hand.
I’m not a pushover, that’s important to note. I won’t let him walk all over me. I completely and utterly know my worth, and, if he doesn’t show me the respect I deserve, I will let him know it. Somehow I manage to do this in a magical mystical way that never feels like ‘nagging’.
My cool job means I have money, so I don’t need him in that way. But, I don’t have a silly, intimidating amount of money. Maybe just the same as him, ideally a tiny bit less.
I always smell good.
I dance like I’m lost in the music.
I’m not fussy about where I sleep.
I have a brilliant appetite but I’m never fat.
I like to have sex however he likes to have it.
I reach orgasm through penetration alone.
No man can believe his actual luck when he meets me.
Oh, by the way, I’m not fucking real.
* * *
The morning rolls around, as it always does. I wake sticky and dehydrated, mangled in my sheet. I take a cool shower but am sweaty again by the time I’ve dressed.
Megan’s face down on the kitchen table, thumping her head into the wood.
‘Looking forward to work?’ I ask her.
A groan is her reply.
‘You’re always fine once you’re there.’
‘No I’m not. I can’t believe I wasted all yesterday watching Dawson’s Creek.’ Her hair spills all over her head so her entire face is completely obscured. ‘How are you anyway?’ her hair asks me.
I smile and find I actually mean it. I take out the porridge oats and start the laborious process of cooking them into the most boring, unsatisfying breakfast food ever, no matter how much agave syrup I shove on top. ‘Dead inside,’ I reply. ‘But in a good way. A useful way. I feel like I’m at the start of something good. Less dramatic.’
Megan sits up, flicking her hair back like a mermaid exiting the water. She analyses me stirring my healthy sludge. ‘Oh my God, you mean it,’ she says. ‘Have you given up on men? Even despite all those terrible books you bought?’
I nod and stir. It feels good when I nod. Like I’ve just lost twenty stone of bullshit. ‘Yup. I told you they were for research. You have no faith in me. But, yes, it’s over. It’s all over. I feel amazing!’
Megan’s out of the chair, pulling me in for a hug. ‘Aww, hon. Welcome to the Happiness Club!’
‘You’ve literally just been banging your head against a table.’
‘That is true. But job stress is so much easier to handle now that I don’t have stupid man-stress to deal with. Look how far I’ve come with my career since I’ve stopped dating.’
I nod again; it is not to be argued with. There has been a very definite shift between pre-fuck-it Megan, and post-fuck-it Megan. I scooped her off the floor so many times at university and then all through our early twenties. She made my reaction to heartbreak look like I was competing in the stiff upper lip Olympics. I’ve seen her screaming outside an ex’s house at least twice, sobbing and demanding to be let in. Rumours that she was mental ran amok amongst her posh boarding-school friendship circles, and she was deliberately not invited to at least two fancy-pants weddings a few years ago. After every man-gone-wrong, I’ve picked the pieces off the ground and handed them back to her, and when she’s screamed and said she didn’t want them, I’ve picked them up again and eventually forced her to piece herself together.
Then we’ve been through Zen periods, where she’s realised that ‘Mikey From The Jubilee Line’ or ‘Connor’s Little Brother’ probably, on reflection, wasn’t the love of her life. During these phases she’s gone to the gym every day, meditated, and started nudging her way up the corporate pole of jewellery PR. Until she’s met ‘Joe’ from ‘this thing’ and ‘it’s just sex, I don’t want a relationship anyway’ and, suddenly, she’s screaming at Joe’s window and work have pulled her in for a disciplinary.
But, three years ago, when she decided to just stop, she picked up the pieces herself without prompting. She started going in to work early, leaving late. Then she applied for this new position at a jewellery company that was much more her style – all graphic, plastic-but-high-end novelty necklaces worn by quirky celebrities and millionaires who live in East London – and she walked it. It’s incredibly stressful and I’ve seen her bang her head on the table like this multiple mornings, but I’ve not seen her cry since that day. She has consistently remained ‘Megan’.
I tip my porridge into a bowl and join her at our table, chucking some blueberries on top in a futile attempt to improve the thing. ‘I don’t think I can handle work today,’ I admit, dipping my spoon in unenthusiastically. ‘Everyone is going to ask how Friday went, and I’ll have to tell the whole damn thing all over again.’
‘So, don’t tell them.’
‘You know I don’t have that capacity. I literally can’t keep anything in. I even told my dental hygienist about him.’
‘Why?’ she asks.
My spoon full of porridge stops on the journey to my mouth. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, why do you tell everyone everything?’
‘I don’t know. I just do.’
Megan gets up and stretches her arms over her head, leaning left into it and making a small straining sound. ‘I just wonder what you get out of it,’ she says, ‘compared to what they get out of it. All these helpful advice givers.’ She bends down and touches her toes. ‘I just worry sometimes that you come out of it confused, and they come out of it feeling much better about themselves.’
The porridge sticks in my throat. I take a sip of tea and force myself to swallow. ‘It’s a bit early for Megan psychotherapy, isn’t it?’
She pats my head, then picks up an oversized plastic rainbow-necklace from the side and shoves it unceremoniously over her head. ‘Probably. I’m just using you as a distraction from how much shit I have to get through at work. I dunno though. Be careful today, April. At work, I mean. Don’t fall into that trap of being the untogether one whom people care about deeply, but whom they also use to feel more in control of their own lives. Even if they don’t mean it, don’t let them put that on you.’