‘No, it’s all right. I’ll cry alone and leave you in peace.’
The last five minutes of my lunch hour is stuffed with other electronic communication. Chrissy checks I know the details of the upcoming hen weekend and prompts me again to send over my deposit. My mum sends a trail of pictures of bridge club.
Mum: Came 3rd!
Mum: Would’ve been second but Margaret was cheating.
Mum: She can’t see this message can she?
I go and stand in front of the biggest fan to cool down from being outside. I tell more people who ask that I’m fine. I have a cup of tea. The bad thoughts stay in the Tupperware during my meeting about volunteer retention. Though I look out through the glass wall at Matt, knowing he’s covering my shift and wondering what’s come up and if he’s OK and back it comes – feeling guilty and worried and wondering what’s in the inbox and and …
Oops.
Better Out Than In
April: Any of you ever been told to use the container method? It work for you?
Anya: Ahh, that old chestnut.
Anya: It only works for me in the first two weeks of my period cycle.
Anya: But then again, that’s the case with every positive thing in my life.
Charlotte: OMG! The same! I feel like such a kick-ass trauma-annihilating warrior, then I get PMS and suddenly it’s like I’ve never had any therapy at all.
Hazel: Yep. Me too! All my emotional spirals come in the days leading up to my period. Why do they never tell you this in therapy?
Charlotte: Recovery tip no.1: Never judge your recovery on days 26-28.
Hazel: I’m so jealous your cycle is only 28 days long.
Hazel: Since having Jack, I’ve literally never had a regular period. It’s so hard to tell if I’m legitimately going mad or not.
Anya: In short, April, the container method is OK. But nothing works as well as coming to class and kicking the shit out of a punch bag.
Charlotte: Seconded.
Anya: You coming this week?
April: Hell yes.
When five thirty eventually comes around, I’m feeling much better. After a day of standard behaviour, no one’s acting like I could spontaneously combust any more. I’ve dragged myself out of email backlog hell. I’ve organised the rest of my workload for this week, and I have messages pinging in from my new boxing friends. Even Megan seems improved. She emails to let me know she’s managed to send two whole emails.
Gretel: I’ve got a hankering for some ramen. Fancy changing plan to suit my urges?
Joshua: You want soup?! It’s 30 degrees!
I’m applying my not-there make-up in the bathroom when I get his reply. ‘Yes, in this heat,’ I say to my reflection, before blotting my just-bitten lip stain. ‘Gretel is just random like that. She’ll be eating ice cream in winter next, crazy cat. Doesn’t shit like that just make you feel aliiiiiiiive?’
Gretel: Eating hot food cools you down. Science.
Gretel: Carpe diem, Joshy. YOLO. #BeARebel
Joshua: OK OK, O Captain, my Captain! Let’s go for spicy soup.
He’s there before me when I bluster my way into the empty noodle house, sweat pouring down my body from the long bus journey. He’s sitting nursing a beer under the ceiling of fans, and he stands when I get in, looking slightly unimpressed.
‘Gretel, hi.’ He kisses my cheek formally. ‘They wouldn’t seat me until you arrived.’ Pass-agg laces the sentence and I raise an eyebrow, looking around the deserted restaurant.
‘Well, it’s totally empty so I wouldn’t panic,’ I say.
‘Hmm.’ He turns his back to me, alerts the waiter. ‘She’s here now,’ he says conspiratorially and I raise my eyebrows again as we’re led past long tables with high stools to a little set up in the corner.
‘Right under a fan, perfect.’ I smile over, but Josh just picks up the menu. ‘What are you drinking?’ he asks it.
‘Um, a white wine maybe?’ I eyebrow him once more but he’s too engrossed micro-reading the descriptions of extras. Something is up and I panic for a moment that he’s found out somehow – my stomach turning itself into cinnamon rolls laced with anxiety.
‘Your housemate any better?’ he asks the menu.
‘A little better. It will take a while.’
‘Yeah.’
The waiter reappears with a notepad. She hasn’t left us very long but it’s not like there are any other customers to wait upon. ‘You guys know what you want to drink?’ she asks, pen poised.
I smile with all of Gretel’s charm. ‘A white wine please.’ I gesture towards Joshua, who is forced to look up.
‘Another of these please.’ He points to his pint.
‘Great. Coming up.’
Before I have a chance to make eye contact, Joshua’s vanished behind the menu again. I scratch my neck, wondering what Gretel’s done wrong. If he did know, I reckon he’d be less passive aggressive than this and more aggressive aggressive. My stomach loosens slightly.
‘You know what you’re going to get?’ I offer one last olive branch for whatever crime I’ve committed.
‘Well, ramen, clearly.’
That’s enough now. Time to take the power back. I shake my head then jump off my stool, and, without saying a word, I walk out of the restaurant. I’m enveloped by the steam of heatwave Soho as I walk away slowly, waiting for him to inevitably follow. It feels deliciously overdramatic, but also fitting considering his behaviour. I wish I’d thought to do this all the moments in the past when I’ve been cold-shouldered. I’ve just reached the corner when I hear him.
‘Gretel? Wait! What the hell?’
I keep walking a few more steps. One … two … three.
‘Gretel!’ There’s urgency to his voice. The squeak of surrender as the power floats through the city’s mugginess and lands back into my hands. I turn around, looking bored.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks.
‘I don’t do passive aggression,’ I say. ‘Don’t meet me for dinner and then not speak to me. I won’t stand for that sort of crap, Joshua.’ I put my hand on my hip. ‘We’re not 12. If I’ve pissed you off, tell me.’
He glows red with guilt. ‘I’m sorry.’ He offers up the apology instantly. ‘I’m, well, can we just go back inside?’
‘I don’t know. Are you going to make eye contact?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you going to explain to me what’s going on, like the grown adult man that you are?’
He stares at his feet, looking nothing like a grown adult man. ‘Yes.’
‘All right then. Let’s go back in.’
The waiter’s holding our drinks patiently when we return – nonplussed, unbothered – this city rendering her unshockable. I take my wine, thank her, and drink a giant glug as I clamber back up onto my stool. Joshua’s still blushing as he sits. He takes a sip of his pint and places it down, before squeezing his hands together like he’s trying to juice them.
The waiter holds up her pen again. ‘You guys ready to order?’
I shake my head. ‘Not quite yet. Maybe give us a few minutes?’
She nods and exits stage left. We’re left alone and I lift my face to the ceiling fan, letting it whip my fringe off my forehead.