This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Twelve

‘I’ve fucked it all up.’ I wail as I throw myself at Cecilia, who manages to catch me despite being half my size.

‘Come on, come inside. What’s happened?’ She ushers me through her open front door and into the living room, where she plops me on the sofa. I launch into sobbing about my misfortune but she holds up her hand. ‘Wait, wait, wait. Tea?’

I nod and she trots into the kitchen, all brisk efficiency in the face of a crisis. I grab a tissue from the handmade tissue box sitting on the coffee table. Half the sequins have fallen off but it took David two months to make so he won’t let her throw it out.

I curl up on the sofa and hold the tissue to my face, absorbing the quiet calm of Cecilia’s living room. It’s a weird hodgepodge of IKEA furniture adorned with amateur items whipped up in David’s art classes. A white Billy Bookcase holds painted cigarette cases, wonky pottery and, inexplicably, a bejewelled phallus. Photos of the two of them litter every wall and surface; some framed in varnished pine and others in multi-coloured macramé. The combination always feels homely and comforting and I wonder, not for the first time, if they’ll let me live here on their sofa forever. It’s doubtful, though — I couldn’t even promise to do any housework in return.

Cecilia wobbles back into the room balancing two overflowing cups and a plate of biscuits on a rustic wooden tray, which slopes upwards at the end and only has one handle. By the time she places it on the table it’s swimming with tea.

‘Thanks, C.’ I dab at my mug with another tissue.

‘Right, come on. Tell me what’s happened.’ She leans forward and clasps her tea between her hands.

I fill her in on the whole shitty mess, shovelling biscuits into my mouth between words. By the time I’m finished I need another drink — preferably something a bit stronger.

‘Have you got any vodka?’ I smile weakly.

She ignores me and looks me dead in the eye. ‘I think it’s impulse control, Mags.’

‘Impulse control?’ I don’t like where this is going. I don’t want to be told there’s something wrong with me, I want to be hugged and fed and assured that it’s all Theo’s fault. Why isn’t she telling me it’s all Theo’s fault? I take the last biscuit off the tray and inhale it.

‘You don’t really think before you do stuff, do you? And hey, it’s brilliant most of the time, we love you for it, but in some situations it might be worth just... holding back a bit?’

‘Holding back?’ I’m parroting now, because I don’t understand what she means.

‘Yeah. Like, maybe when something happens you could just stop for a second and think a bit. Then react.’ She smiles encouragingly.

I blink. Impulse control. Do I not have impulse control?

Cecilia senses my confusion and grabs my hand. ‘Like I said, it’s definitely not a bad thing, Mags. It’s who you are. You’re crazy and reckless and you do what feels right in the moment — it’s amazing. But when you do things like that at work... people just don’t take it well. Especially if they don’t know you.’

‘Shit.’ I put my head in my hands. ‘I’m reckless. This is all my fault.’

‘Nooo! Well... yes, sort of, but no!’ She curls up next to me on the sofa. ‘You’re great, Maggie, and I’m only saying this because I love you. But you self-destruct when you don’t think things through. Remember when we were at uni and you bought that expensive all-day-breakfast sandwich, and the first bit you put in your mouth had a chewy crust so you launched it straight in the bin?’

‘Yeah. It bounced off the side and one of the sausages landed on Boring Bethan’s shoulder.’ I sniff.

‘Well that’s sort of what you do with, like, everything. You react before you even check. Which works in some situations; you don’t find it difficult to make decisions, which is a really good attribute. But sometimes you miss out because you jump on your immediate response and don’t consider any alternative options.’

My god, she’s absolutely right. What if the rest of the breakfast sandwich had been soft and palatable?

‘What do I do?’ I whisper.

‘Just stop. When you’re about to make a decision about something important, stop and think whether it’s normal behaviour in that situation or whether it’s just what you feel like doing. Then just go for the normal thing.’

‘OK.’ I’m not sure I want to carry on talking about this, it’s making me feel sick.

‘Nice tray.’ I nod towards the wonky, soggy mess on the table.

‘Oh, don’t. David’s on woodwork at the moment.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘I know. It’s furniture now. I’ve managed to slip pieces of his other stuff at the back of the cupboard, or in the skanky bathroom that no one uses, you know? But this... how do you hide a hand-carved bookcase?’

‘Shit. It’s worse than the papier-maché.’

We both look up at the giant head sculpture sitting on the dining table. It’s lobster pink, with electric blue eyes and tufts of matted blonde hair superglued to the top. It’s grotesque, and it’s supposed to be Cecilia.

OK, maybe it’s not worse than the papier-maché.

David is a freelance life coach, and clients are very, very scarce because a) who wants a life coach, we’re not in California and b) word has gotten around about Brenda and the cactuses.

Yes, this is an actual story.

Brenda was David’s first client, who had an obsession with cactuses (cacti? I don’t know). It was severely impacting her quality of life because she couldn’t bear to leave the house in case one of them got too dehydrated or something. David said something along the lines of ‘come on Brenda, they come from the fucking desert, love’ and told her to leave them for a week as a test. Brenda did as she was told and when she returned from a nice holiday in Skegness the cat had eaten every single cactus and died. Brenda has since been diagnosed with a learning disability, which helped her swerve an animal neglect charge, and David was featured in an article titled ‘ Life Coaching: A Destructive Tool In The Wrong Hands? ’ He hasn’t had much business since then. With sweet FA to do most days, he spends the majority of his time at various art classes, learning a new craft every month and filling his and Cecilia’s house with crap in the process.

‘Just get rid of it.’ I shudder, tearing my eyes away from the gaze of Cecilia 2.0.

‘I can’t. He was so proud of it. I can’t even break it because he sees it as some symbol of his love for me, and its destruction would be the destruction of our relationship or whatever.’ She sighs.

‘What?’

‘Don’t even ask, Mags. It’s bonkers.’ She runs her hand through her short, blonde hair. ‘Anyway, what are you doing tonight?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I put my mug back on the table. ‘I was going to go to that yoga class but I think I’ll just go home and eat fried chicken and cry.’

‘See? This is what I’m talking about. You making the choice that’s easiest but gets you nowhere.’ She says it kindly, but it reminds me of what Kelsey said the other day.

That’s why you’ll always be stuck at the bottom, while everyone else makes an effort and actually gets somewhere.

She’s right, of course. I always do the easy thing, or the thing that makes me happy or comfortable in that moment. I’m the friend who disappears on a night out, because in the middle of Mr. Brightside I realise I want a pizza and my duvet and walk out without going through the rigmarole of telling everybody. Instant gratification, I believe they call it.

‘Fine. Fine, fine, fine.’ I stand up and spread my arms. ‘I’m going to yoga. I’m going to sort my life out and get flexible.’

‘That’s my girl.’ Cecilia rises from the sofa and wraps me in a bony hug. ‘You’re fab, Mags. You’ll figure it all out.’

I head over to the door and shove my shoes on, nearly toppling over and grabbing the nearest thing for balance.

‘What the hell is that?’ I jerk my hand away from the tall sculpture. Long, gnarled wood twists upwards, and antlers shoot out in every direction from the top. It looks like a destroyed beach umbrella with a death curse.

‘It’s a hat stand.’ Cecilia stares at her feet.

‘A hat stand?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many hats do you own?’

‘Two. My beanie and that horrible one I wore to my cousin’s wedding last year.’

‘So... why do you have a hat stand?’

‘I told you, David’s into woodwork now.’ She gazes at it sadly.

‘Oh my god. Are those real antlers?’

‘No. He carved them. Oak, apparently.’

‘Jesus, Cecilia, you can’t carry on like this. It looks like something from a cabin-based horror movie.’ I swallow nervously.

‘I know. Do you want it? If I told him you’d taken a shine to it I’m sure he wouldn’t mind—’

‘Absolutely not.’ I interrupt. ‘No way.’

She sighs. ‘All right.’

I wrench the door open and step out into the cool air.

‘Chin up, enjoy yoga and call me later, yes?’ Cecilia smiles.

‘Only if you promise to do something about the hunting shed your house is becoming.’ I pat her arm sympathetically. She’ll never take action. She’ll say nothing until one day she wakes up to find her bath is made of silver birch. ‘See ya.’

I give her one final squeeze and head down the garden path.

* * *

OK. Yoga. I can do this. Everyone can do yoga, can’t they? It’s not like a marathon. I’ve never heard of anyone coming back from a yoga class and saying, ‘God, that’s completely wiped me out.’ No. Ninety-year-olds do it, fat people do it, homeless people do it at the cathedral. It’s for everyone, isn’t it? I’m part of everyone.

I am climbing the four flights of stairs to the studio and breathing with some difficulty. I’m only at the second floor. Is this the warm-up? Why isn’t there a lift? I thought they were a legal requirement now; it’s not very inclusive to not have a lift. What about our diverse and accessible society? Some people need lifts, what if I physically required one?

Oh, shut up, Maggie. You’re overweight and lazy, not disabled.

I grasp the handrail and pull myself upwards, step by step. After an embarrassing amount of time I arrive at the top and pause outside reception to get my breath back. God, I feel like I’ve done enough now. That’s more exercise than I’ve had in weeks — I’ll sleep well tonight. I’m very tempted to go home. I’m peering through the glass panel in the door and I can see incense and an impossibly thin man with dreadlocks surrounded by cushions behind the reception desk. He’s swaying and slapping the table in time to a beat I can’t hear. Oh, goodie.

I take my hand off the door handle and go to turn around, but an image of the list swims into my mind.

Come on, Maggie! Resist the impulse!

I force my feet forward and open the door. Dreadlocks turns his face towards me and breaks into a grin.

‘Well, hello you!’

Wait. Do I know him? I swear I’ve never seen him before.

‘Hello!’ I smile extra-enthusiastically. If it turns out he doesn’t know me he’ll just think I’m keen.

‘Who do we have here?’ He beckons me over to the desk. OK, so he doesn’t know me, and he’s talking to me like it’s my first day at nursery. Is it too late to pretend I’m in the wrong place?

‘I’m here for the beginners’ yoga course.’ I force myself to say. Trap myself in my circumstances so I can’t back out.

‘Wow. Wow. ’ He claps. ‘This is amazing. This is the first day of the rest of your life, I LOVE it.’ He whips a piece of paper out from the drawer with such speed I wince. That’s a recipe for paper cuts if ever there was one.

‘Ha. Yes.’ What else can I say?

‘I absolutely, completely and utterly adore this moment. Do you feel it? This one, this moment right here.’ He gestures to the empty space between us. An awkward second passes while he closes his eyes and inhales noisily. ‘You’re starting your journey and you don’t even know it. Your first experience of yoga.’ He gazes into the distance. ‘I remember my first time.’

I watch him lick his lips. ‘Great! OK, wonderful. So do I pay here, or—?’

‘Yes! Yes. Just fill in your details and then we’ll process the payment.’

I take the paper and go to turn around.

‘And then !’ I turn back. ‘Your journey of mind and body begins.’ He claps again.

I scuttle into a corner where I sink myself into a beanbag. I’ll never be able to get up from here. Am I actually about to part with ￡50 for the privilege of climbing those stairs five more times and dealing with that guy every week? Oh good lord, what if he’s the teacher? I will not be able to cope.

I distract myself by turning my attention to the form.

It’s basic, aside from the odd curveball — what is my divine intention, for example? My spiritual inclination? I leave those blank — and I fill it in quickly. I attempt to haul myself up from the cushion and succeed at finding myself on my hands and knees, my paper crumpled in my fist. Rising ungracefully to my feet, I stumble back over to reception.

‘Nice cow.’ Dreadlocks winks.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Your cow position over there. Great warm-up.’

‘Oh. The doggy-looking thing I did?’ I blush immediately. How I wish I had a filter.

‘Oh no, the doggy-style position is known as the ‘cat’. The back is arched with the buttocks in the air.’ He takes my form and smooths it out, then files it away without looking. Thank god.

‘I guess I’ll learn the technical terms soon.’ I smile weakly, tapping my pin into the card-reader he’s holding out to me. It beeps: too late now.

‘Yes! In exactly five minutes! If you want to go through there, the studio is on your left. There’s a rack for shoes and socks at the door.’ He reaches forward and grabs my hand suddenly. ‘Enjoy it. Live it. Breathe into it.’

I wrench my hand out of his and run through the door to the left, checking over my shoulder to see him staring at me with misty eyes. Good grief.

I peel my socks off and stuff them inside my shoes. My toenails are chipped. Actually, scratch ‘chipped’, they’re less than 50 per cent polish at this point. Hopefully no one will look. I push the door to the studio open and I’m pleasantly surprised to find a bright, airy space with pale wooden floors and whitewashed walls. It does feel quite relaxing.

There’s one woman here already, sitting in the middle of the floor with her eyes closed. I don’t trust people who choose a space in the middle. Who walks into an empty room and just plonks themselves right at the centre? Everyone knows you stick to the periphery unless you don’t have a choice. In contrast to Dreadlocks on reception, this lady looks like she’s just come straight from her corporate tower. Her hair is pinned into a chignon, she’s wearing smart designer glasses and her lips are a vicious shade of red. Even her workout clothes are business-like; all black and skintight like a ninja.

‘Are you here for the beginner’s course, too?’ I peer at her.

She sighs and her eyes flutter open. ‘Yes.’

She gives me a withering look and her eyes slide closed again.

Rude.

I grab myself a mat and wedge myself into the corner, where I feel comfortable surrounded by walls. Plus, no one will be able to see my bum when I do the cat position. Everyone’s going to see her bum, aren’t they? I’m being uncharitable. But isn’t this supposed to be a beginner’s class? What is she doing meditating like she already knows stuff?

Other people straggle into the room, finding spaces against the walls and fidgeting nervously on their mats. Like normal people. We’re all essentially circled around Corporate Lady, and I feel for a moment as though we’re about to watch her perform some interpretative dance for us.

We are saved from the crippling awkwardness by the arrival of another person, a man, who looks around self-consciously and then drags a mat and parks it next to me.

‘Hi, sorry, is this beginner’s yoga?’ he whispers.

‘I hope so,’ I whisper back. ‘If it isn’t this is about to get really, really bad for me.’

He laughs and his face explodes into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. It’s quite alarming. ‘Same!’

He has really kind eyes. He’s about my age, but he has very pronounced laughter lines, which immediately make me like him. He obviously spends a lot of his time smiling, which, while suspicious, is quite nice.

‘I’m Gary, by the way,’ he murmurs, fiddling with the cuff of his pants. Gary? Didn’t people stop calling their babies Gary in the seventies? I thought they’d be extinct by 2050. This guy will be a lone wolf.

Although who am I to talk?

‘Maggie.’ I smile and he returns it, shocking me again with the transformation of his face.

‘Oooookaaaaayyyyyyy,’ someone breathes, and we look up.

Corporate Lady is rising to her feet with the elegance of a flamingo trained in ballet. She turns on her heel and regards us all calmly.

‘Good afternoon and welcome. Welcome to our six-week beginner’s yoga class.’

What is she doing? Why is she welcoming us?

Oh my god, is she the teacher?!

‘My name is Altantsetseg . I don’t expect you to be able to pronounce it straight away. It’s my Buddhist name, and it means “golden flower”.’ She smooths her t-shirt.

Somehow, deep down in my instinct centre, I know that this woman’s real name is either Jane or Liz. Surname most likely Smith.

‘Over the next six weeks, we are going to go on a journey together. You will see your mind and body stretch and expand beyond your own expectations.’

I hope this is figurative. My body does not need to expand.

‘Let’s start by introducing ourselves. If we could each say our name and why we’re here.’

The entire room bristles. This is the worst possible circumstance to be in. Trapped in a room full of complete strangers, about to embark on an activity of which you have no knowledge and that will probably make you look ridiculous, and asked to present yourself as a normal human at five seconds’ notice.

‘Let’s start with... you.’ She nods at a girl a few spaces down from me.

‘Oh. Well, I’m Casey, and I want to get more flexible.’ She reddens slightly.

Good girl, Casey. Set the bar nice and low. A name and a simple statement are now all that is expected of introducer number two.

‘Hi everyone. I’m Jack, and I’m doing yoga because I want to improve my core strength and posture. I get quite a few problems with my back from time to time.’

OK, Jack, well done for ruining it for everybody. Firstly you’ve gone and given a greeting to the room, which no one else will want to do because it’s awkward, and secondly you’ve upped the ante with a second tidbit and made Casey look bad. The tension in the room grows as people scrabble in their brains for something interesting to say.

Gary is next. ‘I’m Gary, and I’m here because I wanted to try something new.’

Well done, Gary.

Right, my turn.

‘Hi, I’m Maggie. I’m here because I want to do something different and take myself out of my comfort zone.’ OK, that’ll do. ‘I’ve been told I have a problem with impulsiveness and running away from my problems, so I’m trying to force myself to do something that makes me feel uncomfortable.’ Oh, look, I’m still talking. Why am I still talking? ‘I also just broke up with my boyfriend and keep eating and drinking way too much, so I wrote a list and I’m hoping this will calm me down a bit and help me shed a few of the family buckets off my thighs.’ I jiggle my legs in demonstration. I need to stop. They’re all staring at me. The silence is unbearable. ‘Also because it seems fun. Not fun, I mean new. Enjoyable. Exciting? Yes. Something like that. It seems great, absolutely great. OK, who’s next?’ My face is hot and my heart is hammering in my chest.

Isn’t yoga supposed to be relaxing? This is ridiculous.

The rest of the room hastily introduce themselves, a slight sense of relief in their voices as they know they can’t fuck it up any more than I did. Well, I took one for the team. That’s something.

‘Right, great, it’s lovely to meet you all.’ Altantsetseg scans our faces and avoids my eye. ‘We’ll start with a joint-freeing sequence. If we could all sit on our mats with our legs out in front of us.’

We spend the next half an hour copying her movements, which are bloody boring to say the least. A full minute of rotating my left wrist, followed by a full two minutes of moving my head from side to side. Have I signed up for a weird type of yoga? I didn’t read the small print.

‘OK. That was great. You should all feel nice and loose. Now we’re going to try some rudimentary poses. I want you to practise everything we do today at home before next week, so pay attention to how we transition.’

She moves swiftly from sitting cross-legged into a doggy style (sorry, cow ) position. We copy.

‘Now from cow...’ she arches her back, ‘we go into cat.’

Dreadlocks was right, this one is definitely a bit raunchier. I mirror her movements. This is really easy! Feels nice on my lower back, too.

‘Remember to breathe. The breath is central to our yoga practice. Focus on the body’s movement and the breath’s journey and clear your mind of other thoughts.’ She inhales deeply through her nose.

Right. I alternate between cat and cow with each breath, matching her pace. I focus on the air entering my nostrils and my back stretching and contracting. Inhale. Stretch. Exhale. Contract.

Contract. Job contract. I don’t have a job contract. How has this happened? How have I rendered myself unemployed in the space of a week? This time yesterday I was terrified I’d be getting a major telling off. If only.

I wonder what type of job I’ll apply for now. Scientific writing is the obvious choice, but what about a fresh start? One I won’t need a reference for in particular. I’ve already discounted detective work and lawyering. I do like the idea of working in a café. All the busy lives and the gossip and the steam and the cosiness. I’d have to stand up all day, though. Maybe it’s just the concept I like. I’ve never tried it, have I?

Shit. Concentrate! I’ve stopped breathing in time and my pace has quickened so I’m flipping my back up and down like an excited seal.

‘OK, now we’re going to bring our left leg forward,’ Altantsetseg brings her left foot to the front of the mat, keeping her right knee on the floor, ‘and then hold our knee and twist the body gently.’

Ooh. That sort of hurts, but in a nice way. My abs and legs are aching already. What’s this called? I can’t remember. The proposal position, I’d call it. The exact position Martin was in a few days ago. I cringe into myself. That ring was so pretty. But I could have bought one myself if he’d paid half the rent like I asked him to. God, I’m glad he’s gone. I haven’t even thought about him really. Isn’t that mean? Is it horrible of me not to have thought about him?

My legs are shaking like crazy. How much longer is she going to keep us here? I feel like I’m going to topple over any second and start a domino effect across the entire room. Don’t stop now, Maggie, come on. Keep it going. This is how you improve. Don’t embarrass yourself in front of—

Shit. I really need to fart.

Hold it, hold it, hold it!!! I’m willing it to retreat with every cell in my being. I’ve never clenched so hard in my life. It’d probably be a silent one, but there are people everywhere — I’d never get away with it. Oh god, help, please. Don’t let me become the yoga farting cliché.

‘OK, now switching legs and bringing our opposite foot forward.’

Good. I can get a hold of myself while I switch legs. Just need to bring this knee backwards...

Brrrrrrrrp.

Oh my lord, no.

My arse has let rip mid-transition.

The gaseous cat is out of the bag.

Every eye in the room has turned to me.

I feel a heat rise from my chest and prickle at my face. No, no, no. I can still hear it ringing in the silence of the room. I could blame it on Gary? Look at him and scoff in disgust? No, it’s too late. I’m bright red; my face has incriminated me.

I hover in silence, one leg trembling awkwardly beneath me. Slowly, I let my eyes travel from face to face, my shame growing with every horrified stare until, finally, I land on Altantsetseg. Her once-smooth forehead is wrinkled with distaste.

I run.