‘I know, thank you. Our CEO was so chuffed. She said “well done Megan” as I was leaving, and, from her, that’s like the biggest thumbs-up ever. Hopefully this will really help my promotion next year …’ But she’s not looking at me, and she’s not glowing with pride like she should be. She’s staring into her merlot instead.
‘What? What is it?’
Megan shakes her head with her eyes closed. ‘Sorry. I’m being stupid.’
‘No. What is it? What happened?’
She puts her glass down on our messy coffee table and wipes under her eyes.
‘Megan?’
‘Sorry …’ she’s crying. ‘I’m an idiot. I just … it went so well, and I worked so hard, and I should’ve been buzzing, you know?’
‘I know, I know. You’re amazing. What is it?’
She shakes her head again. ‘But I couldn’t enjoy the evening, April. I know it’s pathetic, but I kept thinking about him. Even though I meant nothing to him, I kept … it sounds stupid … but I kept thinking maybe he’d turn up to support me, as a surprise? Make a grand declaration or something? And I kept imagining him seeing me in the press photos in tomorrow’s Metro and realising his true feelings … Then I realised I’m insane and pathetic, and I just got really sad. It was one of the best nights of my career, and I couldn’t enjoy it, couldn’t get lost in the moment, because I liked a man and he didn’t like me back.’ She snuffles and wipes her eyes again. ‘I’m such a loser.’
‘You’re not!’
‘I am.’ She puts her face into her palms, and wipes them back over her hair. When she looks up, her make-up is smeared in two lines from her eyes to her ears. She smiles meekly. ‘I’m going to get help,’ she says. ‘First thing tomorrow. I’m booking an appointment. I know I told you you need help but I’m starting to think I need it too.’
‘You don’t need help, you just—’
‘What? Need to never try with men ever again? Shut them out of my life?’
I shrug.
‘It can’t hurt, can it? I don’t want to feel like this any more, and I don’t want to be in this pattern any more, and those are precisely the two things they say therapy is for. Even if I use the sessions just to figure out it’s better to be by myself, I still want to know I’ve made that decision from a healthy place.’
I reach out for her glass and take a sip of her wine. ‘Well, if that’s what you want to do, I support you,’ I say. ‘And I’m so pleased the launch went well. I never doubted for a second that it would.’
We stare at the blank television screen, passing her drink back and forth, taking it in turns to have some.
‘What about you, Gretel?’ she asks.
‘Please. Don’t.’
‘Is he here?’
‘He’s here. He’s asleep.’
‘Can I go and look at him?’
‘No!’ I laugh. ‘That would be weird.’
‘Oh, because nothing else about this situation is weird at all, Gretel.’
‘Don’t. Please.’ It’s my turn to put my head in my hands. ‘I’ve invited him to Chrissy’s wedding.’
‘What? What the hell are you doing, April?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, with total honesty. ‘I don’t know.’
Reasons not to trust men
• Every single man I’ve ever opened my heart to has damaged me
• Even the good ones are still dysfunctional man-children who never check their privilege and want a medal for being ‘a good guy’ every hour of the day
• Everything men have done
Reasons to trust men
• They are not all the same
• You must believe the best in people
• You will die alone if you don’t get over this
• Barack Obama
• Joshua???
Our trainers squeak on the floor, our bodies pant with exertion. Sweat drips from the ceiling. Splosh splosh splosh.
‘Do you trust men?’ I ask Charlotte, through short gasps for air. It’s hard to be heard over Destiny’s Child. She runs sideways and throws me the squashy ball. I crab-run in front of her, and manage to catch it.
‘Now that’s a question and a half.’
‘Well? Do you?’ I throw the ball back. ‘And is it a good thing or a bad thing to do so?’
We’re playing a game called ‘Emotional Labour’ where we have to run from one side of the hall to the other, chucking the ball of ‘fragile masculinity’ between us.
‘Be careful ladies,’ Gillian, our instructor calls. ‘Don’t drop it. Remember how fragile it is, it will definitely smash.’ We all giggle which is hard with my heart pumping so hard from the crazy cardio. Will this ever stop feeling amazing? This hour of class, followed by the hour in the pub afterwards is the only time in my life right now where I feel good.
Charlotte holds on to our ball while she thinks of her reply. ‘I didn’t trust them for a really long time,’ she says. ‘I remember where you are so well. I didn’t trust any of them. Thought they were all the same.’
‘Aren’t they?’ I gasp.
She throws the ball. I catch it. We run. I throw it. She catches it.
She shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ She throws it back. ‘Not all men do terrible things to women,’ she says. ‘I think there are some good ones. They’re not all abusive. At all. But …’
‘But?’ I say.
‘But they’re all still men, I guess. They may not be violent or controlling, but they are all a bit … rubbish. They can’t help it even.’
‘And take a breather,’ Gillian calls out, over the whirrs of multiple fans. I’ve since learnt that Gillian trained in kickboxing after her husband kicked her down the stairs, broke five of her ribs, told her she was crazy to accuse him of such a thing, and then, when she eventually left him with two black eyes, told the custody court that she was an unfit mother.
Charlotte drops the fragile masculinity, and I bend over, hands on my knees, oxygen not getting into my lungs quick enough, my heart beserking its way through my chest. We heave in air together for a moment, like everyone else.
‘So, they’re rubbish,’ I try and clarify, ‘but you can trust them?’
‘Oh no.’ She lurches up. ‘You can’t trust them. I trust women, but I could never trust a man. But …’ she picks up the ball from the ground, ‘I do trust that they’re not all abusive wankers. That some of them are just nice and hopeless. Does that help?’
‘I’m not sure.’
She stops, wipes the sweat off her forehead, and pats me. ‘I really feel for you,’ she says. ‘You’re only just starting to see a counsellor for this. I’m a few years ahead of you in recovery, and I remember your stage so well. It’s all still so raw, and you’re still questioning everything, and you don’t trust any of your instincts. It’s exhausting!’
I well up a little.