This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Thirteen

I’ve bloody well done it again, haven’t I? I’ve let impulsivity take over and legged it. Although, to be honest, what type of sick individual would carry on enjoying their yoga lesson while the rest of the room had ample time, and zero distraction, to really reflect on said individual’s transgression while relaxing in child’s pose? Not the kind of person I’d want to be associated with, that’s for sure.

Well, that’s fifty quid down the pan. Excellent.

I feel utterly miserable. I’m traipsing back home via Market Street, gazing into the shop windows and wondering when the next time will be that I have a steady salary and can actually buy stuff. It’s just so unfair. I’ve brought it all on myself though, really, and that feels even worse.

The chuggers are out in full force this evening, and a large man on a skateboard is playing ‘ My Heart Will Go On ’ on the banjo. You wouldn’t think it would work, but it sort of does, and people are dropping money in his hat like there’s no tomorrow. The human statue of the day appears to be Winston Churchill — although he looks like he’s been on rations and has dropped a good five stone.

Oh, and here are the vegans. Standing outside Boots in a circle, wearing anonymous masks and holding MacBooks showing videos of animal torture in the meat industry. Wonderful, now I feel better.

I stop and watch for a second. I don’t have anywhere to be, do I? A man tries to hand me a Bible and I shrug him off. God, these videos are horrible. I’m watching one about chickens and I can see the eyes of the man behind the mask boring into me. Is he willing me to become vegan through telepathy? It’s freaking me out, so I grab a pamphlet and carry on home.

I can’t get the image of that poor chicken out of my head. Is that what happened to the one on the fajita pizza I was going to have for tea? But chicken is so nice. And steak. Imagine a life without steak. Actually, that’s vegetarians, isn’t it? Vegans can’t even eat cheese! I feel sick at the thought.

As soon as I’m back in the apartment I sink onto the sofa and pull out the pamphlet. It’s quite interesting, actually. There are lots of cute baby animals on every page, which I definitely like. The idea of someone beheading and eating them makes me really upset, and I start crying for the second time today. I knew this happened, of course, but I imagined all the lambs frolicking in pasture until someone shot them painlessly without any warning. I didn’t realise they lived crammed together, covered in their own shit until they were murdered painfully. I wish I didn’t know this.

Through the blur of my tears I spot the title of the final page. ‘ Health Benefits ’. Hmm. Interesting. I wipe my eyes and read about how much healthier being a vegan is. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen an overweight vegan. How could they possibly be when they live on beans and broccoli?

I gaze down at the podge creeping over the waistband of my leggings. I’ve tried the cup-a-soup diet, the lemon water diet and the SlimFast shakes, all since New Year. I actually think I’ve put on weight, because I was usually so starving after a day of consuming nothing but water and powder that I tended to go home and stuff myself with a family-size Iceland lasagne.

I go on Instagram and type in ‘#vegan’.

This food actually looks... really good! Pizza is apparently still doable, and banana bread. And is that macaroni cheese? How?

OK, there’s a lot of avocado here. Like, an obscene amount. I’m not sure I like avocado, but apparently it’s a mandatory requirement for vegans. Like believing in God if you’re a Christian, or doing your dissertation if you want an honours degree. You can’t be a vegan if you don’t eat a minimum of one avocado a day.

Everyone on here is so skinny and vibrant. This woman allegedly ate a huge bowl of chickpeas and bread for lunch and is now padding about in a thong looking like the Queen. If the Queen was a sexual goddess.

Some of these people look better than Emma Penton. Bloody hell, imagine! What would my world be like if I could be even healthier, slimmer and more vibrant than Emma-bloody-Penton? Nothing would ever be difficult again. The idea is incomprehensible, like trying to imagine what aliens might look like.

I’m going to do it. I’m going to be a vegan. This is a sensible life decision for me and the planet. And surely it can’t be that hard?

I smooth my list out on the coffee table, accidentally ripping one of the corners off in my excitement. I write:

8. Go vegan.

And then I draw an arrow to number two: lose weight. The two go hand in hand, surely. I scan my eyes down the rest of the items and realise that I’ve already, technically, achieved one of my goals. I draw a thick, straight line through 6. Start yoga.

I did it! I actually made a plan and stuck to it. The farting is a distant memory; I am immensely proud.

My eyes find 7. Do tea detox , and I suddenly remember the box of it sitting in my online basket and tap to checkout. Maybe I could become a new influencer, pairing tea with vegan recipes and losing loads of weight and being hot as hell. Teaganism. No. That doesn’t work.

It makes sense to cook something non-vegan for tea, my last supper, seeing as I don’t have any avocados in the house at the moment. It’s surely worse for the poor animals if they’re brutally killed and then not even eaten? Their death completely in vain? Yes, it definitely is. I’ll have my chicken fajita pizza and we’ll start in the morning.

* * *

Right, breakfast is a struggle. My cereal appears to be vegan, but the four pints of semi-skimmed in my fridge most certainly are not. I could have toast, but butter is definitely just as bad as milk, and I don’t even know where to begin with Nutella. I settle with dry cereal and some stale seeds that Martin left behind. It is utterly vile and the Special K flakes almost actively suck all the moisture out of my mouth. I’m washing each mouthful down with huge glugs of tap water and trying to pretend that it’s milk and that everything is fine. Everything is not fine.

The apartment is an absolute state. Only eight days since I booted Martin out of my life and it’s in a complete mess. He hasn’t contacted me, which is unsurprising, but is also giving my ego a massive pummelling. I kicked him out, isn’t he supposed to be begging me to take him back? He asked me to spend the rest of my life with him, and then walked (well, was pushed, really) out of the door and never looked back. I don’t want him back; I’m just about starting to acclimatise to life on my own again. But I do believe I at least deserve the courtesy of some 2a.m. drunk texts I can smugly ignore.

God, I’m such a bad person. I don’t want to be one of those girls who gets nasty with their exes. I want to rise above it all and wish him well, and I really do wish him well. I want him to be happy. But I do feel a little put-out that he isn’t pining after me. I don’t want him, I just want his attention.

And his cleaning skills.

The floor is really bitty. Lots of little crusty things in the carpet. How did that happen so fast? I was a pretty run-of-the-mill, once-a-week cleaner before Martin, and I don’t remember things getting this rank this quickly. Maybe my standards are higher now? I’m so used to living in pristine conditions that I notice the slightest bit of dirt. And I’m so used to doing nothing to maintain said pristine conditions, that I just assume things tick over quite nicely with minimal effort.

That is obviously not the case.

I can’t be doing with this. I need to get out of this hole. There’s no way I can stay here all day getting pizza crumbs between my toes. I could clean, but the hoover is really heavy and I haven’t got the energy after forgoing my usual milky breakfast.

I’ll go and visit Nana, that’s what I’ll do. Get one step closer towards ticking another item off my list. A couple of digestives and a lavender-scented hug and I’ll be right as rain. Better give her some warning first though, or she’ll get muddled and won’t have time to make me any butties.

* * *

Half an hour later and I’m on the tram out of Manchester, heading towards Altrincham. Nana offered to come and pick me up from the station when I told her that no, of course ‘Mummy wasn’t bringing me’, but I reminded her that 11a.m. on a Thursday isn’t exactly peak kidnapping time. I did worry that she might wonder why I wasn’t at work, but I’m not entirely sure she has her days of the week straight at the moment. Right now she’ll be flying around the house polishing all her porcelain figurines and turning the gas fire up to an unbearable temperature for my arrival.

I hurry off the tram and into the rain-soaked streets of Altrincham town centre. Nana lives in a little terraced house two minutes’ walk behind the market hall. She’s lived there since she got married and the entire place is like a shrine to my long-dead Gramps. It’s sweet, until you really think about it a moment too long, and then you realise it’s a bit weird.

I walk tentatively up to the front door and knock loudly. All the stone out here is covered in mould; it’s a death trap.

‘Nana!’ I cry out as soon as she opens the door, launching myself into her woollen bosom.

‘My goodness!’ She laughs and holds me at arm’s length. ‘Is that my Marge? You’ve gotten so big!’

She is the only person I let get away with calling me anything but Maggie or Mags. It’s always Marge or Margie, although the other month she accidentally called me ‘Margarine’.

‘I only saw you a few weeks ago, Nana; I don’t think I’ve grown since then.’ I rub her arm. What does she mean, I’ve gotten big ? ‘Let’s get inside, it’s freezing.’

The heat smacks me in the face as soon as I’m over the threshold. A stifling, lavender-scented wave of epic proportions. The first bead of sweat has formed on my top lip before we even reach the living room.

‘Now, what are we having? A nice cup of tea?’ She potters through into the kitchen and I follow her.

‘I’ll just have a glass of water, please. Let me get it.’ I take the mug from her hand and fill it from the tap, gulping it down. I’m dehydrated after thirty seconds in here.

‘Use a glass, love!’ She pulls a crystal tumbler from the cupboard and fills it for me. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a milky brew?’

‘Nana, if I have a cup of tea I think I’ll die. It’s far too hot in here. Are you drinking enough?’ She’s wearing two jumpers.

‘Oh, if I drink too much I need the toilet, you know that!’ she chuckles.

I think that’s sort of how it works, isn’t it? I decide against the argument we’ve had a thousand times. I take over the tea-making and sit her down in her armchair, setting her drink down on a coaster that has a photo of my Gramps’ face on it. I never really understood the concept of coasters with faces on them — who wants to slam a boiling-hot beverage on top of someone they love? Of course you could get ones with faces of your enemies instead — that could work. Theo springs to mind.

‘You’ve got some new things, have you?’ I reach over to a cushion with ‘Enid I’m a healthy vegan and I mustn’t dwell on the past.

I move Nana onto less self-esteem-destroying topics while I do the washing up, and then gather my things to leave. As I’m putting my shoes on, Nana presses something into my hand. I try not to feel too disappointed when I see that it isn’t a tenner, but a small potted plant.

‘Aw, thanks, Nana.’ I smile weakly.

‘You’re sad, love. You need a little brightness in your life.’

And then I really do start to cry.

* * *

I cried all the way to the station, I cried on the tram, I cried all the way home and now I’m crying some more.

At first I thought I was crying because I really did need that tenner, but then I looked at my tears collecting on the leaves of the plant nestled in my lap and realised that I was crying about a million other things instead.

How unfair is it that boring, awful Suzannah gets to be so gorgeous while I’m sitting here with something vaguely resembling a personality (however malformed) and a belly like a Hartley’s jelly cup? How did Cecilia get an amazing job where she gets to work from her lovely home all the time, when I got a 2.1 in Biology and she got a third in Media Studies? Why has Anna managed to find the love of her life on the V1, while I’m moving from one failed shitfest of a relationship to the next? And when did my lovely Nana get this forgetful?

I don’t hold back on my self-pity session. I sob and snot all over the potted plant (which I’ve named Veronica) until I reduce myself to heaving hiccups and a sick, lightheaded feeling. Finally rising from the sofa, I carry Veronica through to the kitchen and set her on the side while I make a cup of tea (no milk, promise!) and shovel half a sharing bag of Kettle Chips into my mouth. The salt-and-fat rush buoys me. I need to snap out of this. ‘The past cannot be changed, the future is yet in your power’, I saw on Instagram earlier. An ‘unknown’ (aka made up by someone unimportant) quote against a night-sky background. I must try to internalise this bullshit.

Firstly, I make a promise to Veronica that I will not let her die. I will measure the success of my life against her survival. Veronica has got a lot of pressure on her now. If she gets a fungal infection I’ll probably commit myself to a convent.

Next, I take the first step in ticking 3. Exercise off my list. I join the gym. The gym seems like a really great place to be right now. Emma Penton basically lives there, and I don’t think I follow a single other person on Instagram who doesn’t seem to spend 50 per cent of their week on a cross-trainer. I can become one of them! Then everyone will think I have it completely together. I could even go and just relax in the changing rooms in gym wear. Take a few selfies, maybe. You don’t actually need to see people running to think they’re fit and dedicated — they just need to look the part. But no! If I’m going to do this vegan thing and get skinny like Bloody Suzannah then I’ll need to actually exercise as well.

The gym is only eighteen pounds a month, and no contract, which is useful as I’ll probably need to cancel it before the second direct debit is due, what with the joblessness etc. Martin is based at the Salford Quays branch so there’s no chance I’ll bump into him, either.

Still reeling at the idea of exerting myself physically, I then make a promise to myself that I will go back to yoga and face the farty music. I cannot afford to be fifty quid down for nothing, and crossing it off my list feels like a bit of a cop-out if I’ve only been once. I will also stick at this vegan thing, no matter how many ham butties I am offered.

I then phone Trafford Council and make the weary woman at the end of the phone promise me to send someone over to de-mould the pavement outside Nana’s front door. I will not live with myself if she slips and dies from smacking her head on one of the terracotta plant pots with Gramps’ initials on it. I do a bit of research and find a few alternative GPs, then text the list through to Mum and ask her what she thinks.

Finally, I make the most important resolution of all: to write something. I can’t keep pretending to be interested in science anymore, so I need to put my energy elsewhere. I’m going to start a blog. If nothing ever comes of it... fine (I will die). But I need something in my life that feels like it’s worth pushing for.

Of course, I’ll need a job in the meantime. My chances of becoming a successful writer would be greatly impeded by starvation or homelessness. No reference means a complete change of career path for me, but I was probably never getting back into the drug-selling world after my workshop performance anyway. I get on indeed.com and set up an account, before speed-applying to about eighty random jobs that pay by the hour. Casting my net wide.

I’m watching Ru Paul’s Drag Race and chain-smoking to reward myself for my life-changing action plan, when my phone rings. It’s Dad.

‘Hey, Dad.’

‘Hello, poppet. How are you?’

‘Good! Brilliant!’ I enthuse. This is not exactly untrue — I’m embarking on a new life; that’s good, isn’t it? ‘How are you?’

‘All good here. Your mother and I were just wondering if you’d like to come over for Sunday lunch this weekend? I know you have work the next day, but we can drop you home. And Mum’s bought a chicken.’

His booming, friendly voice is so warm and familiar, suddenly the only thing I want is to go home and be looked after. So much for my independent woman attitude — I want to be a baby again. I also feel like I could actually do with seeing people. Plus, with the out-of-bounds chicken comes roast potatoes, and everyone knows I’ll do anything for a roast potato.

‘Ooh, yeah, that’d be lovely! I was going to have a quiet night in, actually, so no plans. I have decided to go vegan, though, so I’ll just eat the roasties.’

He sighs. ‘You and your fads. All right, we’ll get some extra veg in. Come over whenever you like. Bring Martin too, if he’s free.’

I ring off quickly, a sick feeling swirling in my stomach. I’ll have to tell them about everything — Martin, my job, the lot. It’s not going to go down well. Unless I just... don’t say anything? Pretend everything is fine and skirt around the subject? Is this what Cecilia would call a lack of ‘impulse control’? No, I don’t think it is. This is premeditated avoidance, it’s not impulsive at all. It’s actually the opposite — yes, I’m making the most comfortable decision and taking the easy road, but I’ve put careful thought and attention into it, which is exactly what she wanted me to do, isn’t it?

Besides, it’s all for the good of my family. If they thought I was jobless, boyfriendless and depressed, they’d be beside themselves (with disappointment, mainly) and I can’t handle that right now.

So that’s decided. I’ll be a responsible adult and tell nobody about my current life issues. And when I’m successful and earning a good wage, I’ll drop the bombshell and nobody can be angry with me.

It’s a win-win situation.

I’m sure it is.