Only say nice things about your partner. Do not tease him, or laugh at him. They are not ready to be co-conspirators with you yet. And whatever the hell you do, do not ask them for advice about the relationship. Do not look to them to quash your neediness, to tell you how much nicer/prettier/thinner you are than the previous girl he introduced them to. In fact, part of the ‘ignore the elephant in the room’ game is you all pretending there was no one before you. That they didn’t smile politely and shake hands and say ‘hello nice to meet you’ to girls before you. Maybe they even went on fun minibreaks with her. Maybe some of them are still in touch with her. Maybe some of them are hoping they’ll get back together and you are just a phase.
Ignore it. Push it down. Let’s all play nice and act like you’re the one, the only one, and that they’re not comparing you to the people before.
Do. Not. Flirt. Never flirt. Remember, in this context you’re all asexual with no urges whatsoever. Yes, of course his male friends will wonder briefly what it might be like to have sex with you but no no no, let’s all pretend that’s not true.
Be bubbly.
Be light.
Be a radiator, not a drain.
Smile a lot.
Say please and thank you.
Be interested in their jobs.
Comment on the weather or something but don’t be too boring.
And if his male friends scare you, don’t worry, the female friends are much more terrifying – much harder to get right. They will not like the fact you are now on their territory. Even if they never wanted him, they’ll want him to want them. Compliment them on what they’re wearing. Ask them where they got it from. Reveal a minor insecurity about yourself. Offer it up to them like a sacrifice while remarking on their shoes or hair style.
Don’t discuss the future in any way. If you fuck this up, there won’t be a future, remember? So don’t start suggesting group holidays, or even meeting up next weekend. It will only make everyone uncomfortable, you desperate pathetic bitch.
* * *
Before I’m thrown to the lions of Joshua’s university clique, I have to wear jogging bottoms for their actual purpose for the first time in years. I’ve booked myself into Carol’s trendy trauma boxing-club beforehand, hoping it will dislodge the guilt I’m harvesting about spreading my Gretel lie to a wider net of people.
I forgot that jogging bottoms are for exercise, rather than changing into the moment you get home. I’m going to boil to death, I’m sure, but I can’t commit to buying shorts until I’ve seen if this class is as useful as Carol claims. I dig out my sports bra that still has the tag on. I’ve tied a novelty T-shirt into a knot. When I look in the mirror before I leave, I could definitely pass for someone who understands how exercise works.
The sky above me is a light grey, gurgling in pre-thunderstorms that none of us believe will actually come. The country’s collectively given up on the idea of rain. On TV they tell us to only flush the toilet after pooing. That baths are the enemy. That hoses are a banned substance.
I’ve packed my overnight stuff as I have to meet his friends straight after the class. I’ve managed to successfully dodge him all week with lies about working late and cocktails with friends I didn’t see. Gretel’s been so busy while April’s been so preoccupied with lying in bed, sweating into my sheets and staring at the old faithful crack in the ceiling.
It takes an age to get from the red brick and leafy squares of West London to the chaotic concrete and smell of bins of East London. It’s a side of the city where I’ve never felt I belong. Where the air of hip is so intoxicating you feel the need to pull everyone you pass to one side to convince them you drink cold brew coffee and really dig it. I clutch my phone in one hand, using maps to steer me past Banksy-decorated walls and homeless people with no teeth begging outside flats that cost eight hundred thousand pounds. The pollution pouring off the clogged roads makes it feel even hotter. I cough and turn left, before realising I’ve turned too early and have to retrace my steps past a queue of people waiting to get into a café where you can drink bubble tea surrounded by cats.
I find the class five minutes before it’s due to start. It’s in a little dilapidated hall in a tiny piece of green you’d easily walk past if you were on your way to trendier things. The noticeboard outside advertises a cornucopia of different activities. There’s a Legs, Bums and Mums class, a Bitch ‘n’ Stitch knitting circle, a self-help group for victims of narcissism, and, every Sunday, a religion-free church ceremony.
‘This might help,’ I say out loud, crossing my fingers like a child wishing for a pony. ‘This might help, this might help, this might help.’
I push through the doors into an empty entrance hall that smells of cheesy feet and old sweat. School pegs adorn the wall, clogged with bags. I bung my stuff on one with a sticker of a smiling giraffe on it and listen to the chatter of the main hall through the glass door.
‘This might help,’ I whisper again before I make myself push through into the hall to the squeak of trainers.
‘Hello, are you here for the class?’ A woman clad all in canary-yellow Lycra beams at me. ‘You look new.’
I nod nervously.
‘Welcome! We’re just stretching, then we’ll start in a few minutes.’
There’re about twenty or so women clotted into groups around me, all with ponytails and in an array of limbering-up poses. Two dozen pendulum boxing-bags hang from the low ceiling, and two giant fans whirr at full pace in each corner. When I researched this class beforehand, it advertised itself as a female-only martial arts class. Only in the small print at the bottom, it read ‘this class is for survivors of trauma.’ As I look around me, I feel like there must be some kind of mistake. All the women here look confident and functioning and … trauma free. They’re laughing with their friends, or holding their calves back against their buttocks and remaining perfectly balanced as they do so. Most of them are smiling. I mean, the instructor is wearing all yellow. I find a space in the corner near the fan and pretend to stretch too. As I lunge forward I wonder if, from the outside, I also look as untraumatised as these women do.
Canary claps. ‘Right guys, are you ready? Find a punching bag.’
The women who all look like nothing bad ever happened to them disperse. I weave myself into the most inconspicuous spot at the back.
‘Right, we’re just going to start with a warm-up. One punch with your left arm, then two short jabs with your right. Punch, punch-punch, punch, punch-punch.’ She attacks her bag forcefully but gracefully in demonstration, her French plait swirling around her head. Then she walks to the front of the hall and presses her phone attached to some speakers. Little Mix blares across the polished wooden floor. ‘Let’s go!’ she calls over the music. ‘Punch, punch-punch.’
I feel silly as I throw my hands into the hefty mass of the swinging sack. It hardly moves. Everyone around me attacks theirs with much more vigour. Maybe I could try hitting it a bit harder? I pull my shoulder back, curl my fist tighter and heave my arm into it.
Oof. Oof-oof. The sack wobbles. Oof. Oof-oof. That feels quite good actually. I whack it harder, then harder still. No matter how much I hit it, the hanging sack can absorb it, like it’s ingesting all my pain. I start thrusting the full force of my weight into each swing. The noise it makes as my fist connects is weirdly pleasurable, like the feeling you get when you hear snooker balls clonk off each another.