I turn back to Megan and instantly feel lonelier. She’s snogging Mr Potential Ride against the wall; their hands are all over one another. And, even though he doesn’t look like the nicest of kissers – Mr Potential looks like he kisses how most posh men kiss, like he’s trying to burp up Hugh Grant – she’s still kissing someone and I’m not. I’m just alone in a nightclub. At 33. The pitiableness of it hits me like a cartoon tonne. I cannot stay here. I trudge up the stairs to reclaim the bag I checked in and emerge, blinking, into the fading light of the summer’s evening.
Realising I need to tell Megan I’ve left, I dig about for my phone and find it has a message waiting for me.
Josh: Hi Gretts. How’s your Friday night out going?
It’s only 9.02 p.m. Too early for a bootie call, so what the hell is this? Is it a genuine message? Because he likes me and wants to know how my night is going?
I grin as I realise I can finally send one of those breezy flirty messages you’re supposed to send men in the early phases. The message where you’re out having an amazing time and invite them along all spontaneous and carefree. Normally on a Friday I’m in bed, reading Little House in the Big Woods and wondering if it’s problematic that I fancy Pa, and feeling smug about no impending hangover. But tonight I’ve morphed into Gretel. And Gretel is totally out at 9 p.m. and can send that message. Josh won’t be able to meet me anyway. London is too big, with everyone always at least fifty minutes away from everyone, so it’s a win-win. I can get the Tube home and be the hermit I’m longing to be but without him realising I’m a hermit. This is perfect!
I fire back a message as I stumble, blinking, out onto the streets, struggling to adjust to the sun still in the sky; the weird twilight zone of Calculus’s downstairs drunken universe fading.
Gretel: I’m out in Bank. It’s terrible! You should totally come along.
I’m lost in a side street when he replies. I don’t look at it immediately as I’m in the midst of deciphering the little map at a Boris Bike station. ‘Where the hell is the Tube station?’ I ask it, like it’s a person, tracing a path with my finger before I check his reply. ‘Oh bollocking fucking hellfire.’
Joshua: No way! I’m around Bank too! Are the stars aligning Gretel? Where you at? I’ll come over and say hi.
‘No!’ I say, because I’m not Gretel and therefore I’m not OK with this totally spontaneous change of plans. ‘No no no no no no no.’ I’m stuck in a moment of complete indecision. Right now, I cannot compute that Joshua is nearby and I may have to meet him. I’m tired, I’m drunk, I’ve lied to him about who I am. The map blurs as my mind sifts through the options. The most obvious being: stop this madness, April. Just don’t reply to him. Let Gretel die. It’s only been one date. You pretended to be someone else for one date. That is fucking weird and concerning, granted, but you’re having a hard time right now. Laugh it off. Nobody will ever find out. But don’t reply. Gretel can ghost him. There is no way this situation is anything other than nuts, so please for the love of God, April, stop it, go home and get a good night’s sleep.
Gretel: This is too weird! I just left a club and I’m on my way west soon, but I can drop in and meet you for one?
Josh: I’m in Forge. You know it? I’m a bit smelly in my work clothes, just warning you.
Gretel: See you in ten. And fret not, natural musk really does it for me. X
I lean against the bike map for a moment, revelling in how smooth that was. I would never have the confidence to send a message like that usually. I message Megan, to let her know I’ve left. Then give myself a moment to collect myself in this weird multiple-part evening. The sun’s finally started to slink down the sky, offering the city a breeze and some respite from the heat. The tall buildings filled with self-important people doing questionably-important jobs cast long shadows through the sunset’s gold. Tranquillity settles in me. There’s the noise of fun being had and memories being made and, tonight, I am part of it. So often this is a city where you feel like an outsider looking in, hands pressed against a glass box, watching everyone else doing it better and having more friends and knowing the places to go and getting the hang of it. You’re all breathing the same highly-polluted air and yet you’ve never felt lonelier. However, sometimes, like right now, you break down that wall and are able to crawl under London’s skin and feel its heartbeat pulse through you …
These are all very grand thoughts to be having for someone who was, less than half an hour ago, dancing like an eejit to ‘Come On Eileen’. I laugh at that. Out loud, into the setting sun. Loud and carefree and, oh my God, sometimes maybe I am capable of occasionally being like Gretel …
Gretel.
Shit!
What am I doing? I have to go and meet Joshua in, like, five minutes and I’m a drunken state! I can’t be Gretel like this.
Shit shit shit.
I pull out my compact mirror to assess my face and it’s not great if truth be told. I’ve sweated off most of my make-up. My eye make-up especially has drizzled halfway down my cheeks, and my mascara’s clumped into the biggest black booger you’ve ever seen, like a mouse shat in the corner of my eye. My hair’s moist and lank, yet has also managed to add ‘frizzy’ to its repertoire.
I do not look like a Manic Pixie Dream Girl Next Door Slut With No Problems.
I look like April, a thirty-something woman who has lost it, gone weird, and got hammered in a nightclub meant for people ten years younger than her.
How much highlighter do I need to apply to undo that?
I get to work quickly. Setting up a little workstation in the front basket of one of the bikes. I pluck out my eye booger with my fingernail and wipe it on the back of my dress. I retrieve a dirty cotton bud from the depths of my handbag, pick off the outer layer to reveal a vaguely white bit, then scrape it under my eyes to wipe up the melted make-up. When the worst of it has been erased, I quickly apply more (subtle) make-up to the blank canvas. I then miraculously find myself able to French-plait the front section of my hair to pull the sweaty bit away from my face. I can never usually French-plait but the alcohol’s given me this weird ability, in the same way it can make you inexplicably good at pool sometimes.
I check myself again.
There. Done.
I use my phone to figure out where Forge is. I’ll be ten minutes later than I said I would be but that’s only because there were so many people to say goodbye to before I left. Sorry. You know how it is when you try to leave somewhere. God, isn’t it hot today? I hope I look OK. It’s been go go go since I woke up, I swear my face must look like a melted snowman’s. Oh, I look perfect, you say? No way! You’re lying. Bless you.
I get into character as I dodge the clusters of loud office-workers spilling out onto pavements, clutching pink pints of flavoured beers, and delaying going home to their lonely flat-shares. I smile at everyone I saunter past, and receive many smiles back. I arrive outside Forge, which is surrounded by a dense moat of drunken sunshine seekers. It’s not rained for weeks now, but we’re still all desperate to make the most of it. My confidence wavers as I realise I know no one here, and I’m about to meet not only Josh, who is basically a stranger, but all of his workmates too. It takes a moment to shake April off and find Gretel again, who isn’t even thinking about what it means to meet a man’s workmates on a second date, she’s just enjoying this crazy little adventure we all share called Life with a capital L.