‘Let’s change the subject,’ he says brightly, lifting his beer to his mouth. ‘No politics on a Friday night, eh?’
I twist to him and shake my head, stupefied. ‘This isn’t politics, Joshua, it’s women’s fucking lives.’
There’s a collective flinch at the table. A Mexican wave of friction to my inappropriate swearing.
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ Lucy’s saying, trying to keep the peace.
‘If we could all take a minute maybe, to calm down,’ Luke suggests.
Nobody’s having fun all of a sudden and it’s all April’s fault. I’m breaking the rules. I don’t even care. I’m so bored of this sort of bullshit and I’ve finally got the confidence to say as much.
Joshua is po-faced. His voice soft. ‘Gretel, I didn’t mean it like that. I just—’
‘I’m really sorry, but I have to go.’ I don’t care that I’ve made it awkward, and I don’t care that they’re all going to bitch about me, and right now I don’t even care that I’ve messed up my weird social experiment with Joshua. This is the time to end it, like this. With April’s energy soaring through my veins, finally having her say, revealing that even Gretel has some fucking limits. All I care about is leaving this table. Leaving this debate about something that is too painful to be debated.
‘Gretel!’
‘Sorry, it’s just, I’ve got this thing, early tomorrow.’
I’m still making a polite escape considering everything. I’m letting the side down by not just storming out. My urge to be likeable, even when storming out of a curry house, still wins. ‘It was lovely to meet you all,’ I pretend.
We even all kiss each other on the cheek before leaving. They tell me it was nice to meet me too. Joshua’s eyes are wide with drunken confusion. I kiss him on the cheek the same way I’d kiss my grandma. ‘Bye babes,’ I say, then I walk out of his life.
I practically run up the stairs. If I don’t get out of this stuffy air, I will suffocate. I push past waiters and around tables of people eating. The concierge wishes me a good evening but I hardly hear him. I’m through the doors and outside, and yes yes yes, it’s raining! It’s finally raining! Sheets of it plummet from the sky, drenching me within seconds. I stop and stand in it for a moment, not quite believing it. I’m not the only one in wonder. Soon there are several of us standing there on the grey slippery pavement of Granary Square, staring upwards, our arms outstretched, like we’re in rapture. I throw my head back, open my mouth, and let the polluted raindrops fall onto my tongue. I will never see that table of humans again and they all hate me, but I could not care less. Gretel is gone, it’s over. It wasn’t quite the grand finale I wanted it to be, but I’ve still ended it. In fact, it’s even better this way. Because I ended it while standing up for myself. In this moment I’m everything I want to be. Strong, alive, not taking any more shit. In this moment I’m invincible. I never want it to stop raining.
I duck into the Tube, shaking myself dry like a dog. My dress clings to my body, my feet slip in my sandals, my lungs feel clean from all the extra oxygen in the air. I don’t let myself think about it as the train rumbles through the darkness, its damp passengers dripping onto the filthy floors. I’m not ready to unpack the emotions, the fall-out. I just want to feel good that it’s finally raining, that I made some new friends earlier, that I stood up for something I believed in even though it was the harder thing to do.
It’s still pissing it down when I get out at South Kensington. I have no umbrella. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to even consider taking one out. So I walk home with the fat rain splashing my eyelashes, taking it slowly as people dart past me, Evening Standards held uselessly above their heads. I savour each step. I know things will get complicated once I’m inside and fully alone. So slowly I go, skin soaked and puckering, jaw chattering from the damp, unable to hear the noise of the city over the din of so much water falling from above and the low rumbling of thunder.
The flat is empty, once again. Megan merely a passing ghost these days. I stand dripping onto the wooden floorboards, laughing at how drenched I am. I peel my clothes off and carry the dripping bundle to the bathroom sink. I get my towel and rub myself vigorously, squeezing my hair until it doesn’t drip any more. Then I wrap myself up like a burrito and walk back out into the sitting room.
I thought I would cry when I got in, but instead I just feel the vague sting of self-righteousness, burning gently like the first day of cystitis. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed that I stood up to that man, that I made the conversation difficult for him, although I do feel a tiny pang for Josh, and his embarrassment at my behaviour. I expect he’ll call tomorrow, probably, after he’s cooled down. He’ll ask to meet for coffee and then make an excuse about why he doesn’t think we should see one another any more. His friends are probably going through his escape plan right now, reassuring him he’s making the right decision. Maybe he isn’t ready to date again after that last one, the girl he lived with. I pull up my phone to see the group chat’s been busy.
Better Out Than In
Hazel: How am I drunk after two glasses of wine? Why does this always happen to me? Especially when I see you lot?
Steph: Because we’re amazing.
Hazel: I mean, apart from that …
I wish I’d stayed with them. I should’ve. Why did I even go and meet Josh’s friends? Considering I have no interest in him whatsoever, why did I put that above my healing and recovery?
My phone rings in my hand, and my eyebrows furrow in utter shock when I see it’s Josh’s number. It takes three tries to accept the call as my fingers are still wet from the shower.
‘Hi Gretel.’ I can hardly hear him over the roar of the storm. ‘Whereabouts in South Ken do you live? I’m at the Tube station.’
‘You’re where?’
‘Are you OK?’
‘You’re at the Tube station?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know where to go next. Is it OK to come round?’
‘It’s pissing it down! Aren’t you soaked?’
‘Yes. Look, I’m sorry about what happened. Can you just give me your address and we can chat about it?’
I’m too shocked to do anything other than give it to him.
Unsure how to proceed next, I perch on the sofa, staring at the wall until the urgent trill of my buzzer makes me jump. I open the door, still wrapped in my towel.
Joshua looks like he’s just clambered out of a swimming pool. His mouth is set in a thin line. ‘Hi,’ he says nervously, running a hand through his hair and dislodging a hidden tidal wave of water. ‘Can I come in?’
I step to one side and close the door after him. ‘You’re drenched, I’ll get you a towel.’
‘Thank you. That would be great.’
He’s balancing on one leg to take off his shoe, dripping more rain onto the floorboards, when I come back with a dry towel.
He takes it wordlessly and rubs his face into it. ‘Do you mind if I take my clothes off? Not like that … it’s just, I really am soaked.’
‘No, that’s fine. The bathroom is through there.’