I’m very confused right now, it has to be said.
He’s not behaving how I know men to behave. Intellectually, I’m certain this is only because I’ve been Gretel. That his lack of game-playing and mind-fuckery and not-really-knowing-what-he-wants and emotional-whiplashing is only a non-event because Gretel is a non-event. A safe, make-believe woman for him to be infatuated with. I mean, I’ve never met someone that it’s got so serious with so quickly, so it must be the Gretel effect, right?
But a tiny part of me is starting to believe. In him. In men. Maybe he really is a good guy. Maybe they do exist. Maybe I’ve been lucky enough to stumble across one because, for once, I wasn’t looking. They always tell you it happens when you’re not looking. The mattress shifts. Joshua stirs. I turn towards him and watch him wake up to this morning and my face.
‘Hello.’ His voice is gruff, sexy.
‘Hello.’
He pulls me into his naked body. I can feel what he wants pressing into my thigh. But he’s also staring at me in wonder. He leans in to kiss me on the lips. ‘Come here,’ he whispers. ‘I want a cuddle.’
Though inevitably we do more than cuddle.
*
‘You don’t have a coffee machine.’ Joshua’s wearing only yesterday’s boxers and looking around, offended, at our tiny kitchen. ‘You don’t even have a cafetière. I can’t cope under such conditions.’
‘I’ve got Nescafé.’
‘That’s it. I’m out. I’m leaving.’ He smiles to check I know it’s a joke. I smile back. We’ve been doing this all morning. Talking. Kissing. Grinning. Kissing. Grinning. Every sentence the other utters is worthy of a joyful smile and a congratulatory peck on the lips.
‘I have tea? Lots and lots of tea?’
‘I suppose it will have to do.’
I get out two mugs and the special Teapigs bags that I always get from my mother for my birthday – alongside the obligatory Richard and Judy Book Club novel, a small vial of Jo Malone Pear and Freesia, and the yearly lecture about how men are all shits and she can’t believe Dad just left her to bring me up alone. I boil the kettle, splash water onto the teabags, tip on some milk, and hand a mug to Joshua who says thank you. We return with them to my mangled sheets and sit up against the wall, legs twirled around one another, sipping even though the drinks are still too hot.
‘I like your bedroom,’ he comments.
It’s very much April’s bedroom, not Gretel’s. I’m not sure what Gretel’s bedroom would look like. I guess she’d have framed photos of all her travels. Or maybe not. Maybe she’s someone who ‘doesn’t need to take photos because the memory is enough.’ She’d probably have a vinyl record player, not because she’s a hipster, but because she genuinely understands music and genuinely knows it sounds better on vinyl. There’d be a glass filled with wildflowers that she’d somehow managed to pick herself in inner-city London. Her bookcase would contain The Catcher In the Rye and Catch 22 and all the other books men love women to read because they’re all about men and written by men.
But Joshua only gets April’s bedroom.
I try to see it through his eyes afresh. There are quite a lot of clothes on the floor, and a big pile on my chair, which never gets sat in, what with the constant pile of clothes. The top of my wardrobe has a nice framed photo of Megan and me on it, from that one good holiday we managed to take together in Greece. But it’s somewhat obscured by the scattered bottles of all the things I apply to my face and body each day in order to pass as a functional woman. Deodorant. Moisturiser. Night cream. Day cream that I’m still not sure is different from moisturiser. Make-up remover. Cotton pads. Eye make-up remover. Vitamin C that stings my face and I don’t understand why I need it, just that I do. E45 anti-itch cream for whenever I shave my legs or bikini line. Tweezers to pluck out my nipple hairs. There are piles of make-up-blackened cotton pads I haven’t been arsed to transfer the whole metre to the bin yet.
‘I really like that poster,’ Joshua comments, pointing to the one by the door. It’s a framed Harry Potter print I got as a leaving present from my last job. A quote about finding light in the darkness.
‘You like Harry Potter?’
‘Yeah, of course. Doesn’t everyone? I even dressed up as Dumbledore once at a uni party.’
‘And, there I was, thinking people in IT are all geeks.’
‘Oi!’ He tickles me in protest and I shriek and spill tea down my chest and then shriek louder. He takes my mug from me, puts it on the side, and pulls me into him. I nestle in, take another inhale of his scent, ignore all the nagging in my brain.
‘I had a really amazing night last night.’ He kisses the top of my head again.
‘Even though I stormed out on your friends?’
‘Especially because of that. In fact, I’m glad that happened. I mean, I’m sorry it made you sad. It was nice to talk to you about …’ He picks up my palm, and starts to stroke the inside of it with his thumb. He’s about to say something deep and meaningful.
‘About …?’ I prompt, hungry for it, even though I know how deliciously dangerous such moments are.
‘Just about …’
There’s the crash of our front door. A wail like a dying animal has been trodden on. We jump comedically. I pull up my sheet to cover myself.
‘Are you here?’ Megan howls.
‘It’s my flatmate,’ I whisper. ‘Shit.’
‘ARE YOU INNNNNN?’
It sounds bad. Really really bad. I get out of bed and shrug into a T-shirt and knickers. ‘I’m here,’ I call out. ‘Hang on. I’m coming.’
Joshua is still, watching me, eyebrows drawn up in confusion. What was he about to say?
‘I think she’s upset,’ I tell him needlessly. ‘I’m just going to check she’s all right.’ I skid out of the door, closing it behind me, but it doesn’t quite catch. No time to worry about it though, as Megan is right outside my room. She’s fallen to the ground, bag exploding at her feet, and she’s gone into full-on child’s pose, her back heaving as she cries.
‘Megan? What’s happened?’
Worst case scenarios ricochet through my head. She’s been raped. She’s been mugged. She’s just been fired even though it’s Saturday. She’s just been diagnosed with incurable brain cancer.
She raises her blubbering face, shot through with red-raw emotion. I brace myself for the impact. ‘It’s … it’s … him.’
I close my eyes for a second. Malcolm. I allow myself a moment’s relief. This is a problem we have overcome many times before. I should’ve known, really, the moment she got into the foetal position. ‘Oh hon, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry,’ I say, even though I’m not sure what he’s done yet. I drop to the floor. Pat her back. Tug her armpits. Encourage her to come and sit on the sofa to tell me what happened.
‘He … he …’ she leans forward onto her knees and starts crying again. All I can do is keep rubbing her back, waiting for her to get the words out. I glance at my door. I can feel Joshua’s getting-ready movements. Is he going to stay in there? Or come out? How do I explain any of this? But Megan howls again and snaps my attention back.