Then Mark is sitting down.
Sitting down.
Back on his chair. Like the speech is over. Which it must be. Chrissy’s face is on pause, as she computes whether that’s it or not. I see the exact moment she realises that’s all she’s getting. There’s a millisecond where her features collapse, where the hope he may be different, just for once, on their wedding day, because it’s important to her, falls out of her stomach. She blinks. Smiles. Recovers. And stands herself as everyone claps half-heartedly, trying not to shrug at one another. Chrissy stands to repeat her thanks to everyone. My heart is breaking for her. It’s her wedding day. The one thing she wanted on the one day she needed it the most and he didn’t do it.
My anger and bitterness rush in, despite the damp, forgiving, hand holding mine. I want to drop it. I want to go and scream in Mark’s face. I want Chrissy to get what she deserves. Why do any of us bother? I find myself thinking. Really? What is the payoff for the disappointment?
Yet Joshua’s hand is still in mine in this doorway. I’ve cried on him, and told him my name isn’t Gretel, and revealed all my chaotic mess, and he is still here. He’s not run out of the door, or called me crazy, or assumed the worst. He’s just asked for an explanation and listened to what I had to say. We still need to talk, oh boy, do we need to talk, but the fact he’s still here is new. This is not what I’m used to.
And then … I feel his breath on my cheek.
‘That was his speech?’ Joshua whispers in my ear. ‘Seriously? Just that? On his wedding day? I thought you said she was looking forward to this bit?’ He shakes his head, clearly as disgusted for her as I am. ‘Bloody hell. Your poor friend.’
I look down at our held hands, then up to his face.
Maybe you are different, I think.
I wait for Gretel’s reply. Her warning. Her snark.
I get nothing.
Maybe you are different, I think again, as I lean over to kiss Joshua’s cheek – which could be the making or the undoing of me. I will not know for some time. I may never know at all.
Maybe you are different.
And it begins.
Whatever it is. It begins.
One year later
I hate some men.
And you know what? I don’t think that’s over the top, considering what some men do1. The ones who hurt and push, the ones who see you as decorations, the ones who are so sad and so messed up that they take and take and take and still feel empty. I hate that they refuse to admit that they hate women. I hate that they still blame it on us. I hate that so many of them seem so far beyond help, and all the damage they’re going to cause as a result of that. I hate the ones who laugh at our anger, who diminish our pain. Who want to keep their slimy hands tightly clutched on the reins of this world, riding the rest of us and whipping us like horses.
I hate the men that did the things to me that made me hate men. I think that’s appropriate. I believe only I am allowed to decide if forgiveness is something I’m willing to give them, and I choose not to. I will not turn the other cheek to the men who damaged me. I don’t owe them anything.
But I love some men. I love the men who try to be different. I love the men who listen more than they talk. I love the men brave enough to hear what we have to say. I love the men who then talk to other men about it, even though it goes against everything they have been taught not to do. I love the men who want to break the cycle. Who want to be different from their fathers, or their brothers, their friends or their colleagues. I love the men who can confront the uncomfortable truth that it is their fathers and brothers, friends and colleagues who are doing this to women. Who have to admit maybe women see a different side to them, one we are not lying about. I love the men who don’t need sisters and daughters and wives to make us human and not want us hurt. I love the men who cry.
I love a man.
I have managed to find a man who, for now, is worth loving. I love a man who has stopped and listened and tried to understand, even though he is a man so he can never truly understand. But he tries. The important thing is that he tries. I love a man who holds me when I cry and is there, but who is making me build myself back strong rather than letting me use him as my strength. I love a man who annoys me so much sometimes that I honestly, seriously, sometimes think I hate him too. I love a man who finds me equally annoying at times but who still chooses to love me anyway.
I love a man, and it has not solved all my problems. It has not made my entire life slot into place like I thought it would. It has not saved me from the huge amount of work I need to do to save myself from things that never should’ve happened to me. There is no ‘the end’ we can hide behind after we found out that we loved each other. There are still two complicated human lives to lead and no guarantee that we’ll make it.
Some days are pure magic, some days are pure hell. Some days I feel like we’re soulmates who perfectly fit, other days I wonder what the fuck we are doing together when we’re so incompatible. Sometimes he gets it, sometimes I can’t even handle how badly he doesn’t.
Some days I believe the hard work is worth it, and other days I don’t.
I’m starting to realise this is what love is. I do not know if it’s worth it. If it makes me any happier. If the pain and frustration of blending a life with another life is worth the gooey moments. I don’t know if the good days will outweigh the bad days.
I don’t know anything.
Yet I keep loving him anyway.
And he keeps loving me.
I’m starting to realise that’s what love is.
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Footnote
• Gretel’s Guide to Becoming The Girlfriend and Staying The Girlfriend
* * *
* ‘To nag’ = Express distaste at any legitimately bad behaviour and ask politely if this behaviour can be changed because it’s making you hugely unhappy.
Acknowledgements
I’d just like to start by quickly thanking all women, everywhere. Whenever I think about this book, and everything I read, everyone I spoke to, every painful secret that was whispered to me, I tear up when I realise the sheer strength of us. If your story is anything like April’s story then I wish you peace, I wish you recovery, I wish you love. I hope I did her story justice. This story was partly inspired by the years I spent, like April, helping victims of sexual violence, and, like April, there came a time when it became too much and I had to stop. So thank you to everyone out there who continues to work for these services. It’s such vital, important, brutally-hard work and you are all my superheroes.
There are so many women in particular I’d like to thank too. To Maddy, as always, my own official dream-maker and powerhouse – and to her amazing team. To Kimberley, my editor, for pushing me to make this book everything that it is. And to everyone at Hodder in general for not batting an eyelid when I sent over the opening line ‘I hate men’. For getting it and believing in it, and championing it, and me, and the work I do. It means the world that I have a publisher who lets me tell these stories – thank you. Also a special shout-out to Becca, your passion and work ethic is as impeccable as your hair.