This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Fifteen

‘That’s good, right?’ Anna peers at me over the unnecessarily large menu.

‘Yeah, it’s good. I’ve always loved books.’

‘Well, good for you. I’m really happy for you, Mags.’ She reaches over and grasps my hand.

‘Yeah.’ Sophie smiles weakly. ‘If it’s what you want.’

‘I know it’s a step down. But I wasn’t being paid much more than minimum wage at my old place, and hopefully the team will be better. And I’ll get to check an item off my list.’ I close my menu and prop my head up with my free hand. ‘Anyway, I haven’t even been interviewed yet.’

‘I’m sure you’ll get it.’ Anna smiles and finally releases me. ‘Have you told Cecilia?’

‘Yeah, she’s happy for me.’ Cecilia is at one of David’s amateur exhibitions. She invited us and we politely declined, which she completely understood. ‘Wish I could fucking decline’, were her exact words.

‘Right, drinks.’ Sophie looks around for a waiter. We’re in Nellie’s Tea Rooms off Canal Street. There’s bunny rabbit wallpaper, dim lighting and mismatched crockery. It is really not my cup of tea, ironically enough.

‘Hello!’ The jolliest, most enthusiastic man I have ever seen has descended upon our table. ‘I am so sorry you lovely ladies have been waiting so long!’

He starts describing everything on the menu in unnecessary detail. Apparently they cold press their coffee themselves in the back room, using barefoot bearded men, no doubt. He’s in the middle of telling us how the tea is steeped for exactly three minutes and twelve seconds when I can bear it no longer. ‘Just a double gin and slimline tonic, please.’

He raises his eyebrows at me and scribbles on his notepad. ‘Right.’

‘Rosé, please,’ Sophie says. ‘Any, large, thanks.’

‘God, rough day, Soph?’ I laugh.

‘And for you, madam?’ The waiter interrupts me back and side-eyes me, before turning back to Anna.

‘Just an orange juice.’ Anna closes the drinks menu as he swishes away, muttering ‘a side of manners with that, perhaps?’ under his breath.

‘You forgot the vodka, Anna.’ Sophie waves her hand to get the waiter back, but Anna pulls her arm down.

‘No, I’m not drinking.’ She rubs her eyebrow.

‘Erm... what? Why? Are you on antibiotics?’ I lean forward and lower my voice. ‘Because you know it’s bullshit that you can’t drink on them, right? I’ve done it loads.’ I peer at her. She’s flushed. Maybe she really is ill?

‘It’s not that.’ She sighs. ‘I wanted to tell you all together, but David’s crochet extravaganza screwed that one up.’

‘What?’ Sophie looks stricken. ‘Oh my god, what?’

We both know what before she even says it.

‘I’m pregnant.’

There’s a silence as we process this and my stomach drops.

She’s pregnant ?

Oh my god, NO.

This is just not happening.

For the next nine months, nay, eighteen years , there will now only be three of us out partying together. And even if she does come out, she’ll have to bring a screaming miniature human with her. Babies are not pulling props. Anna’s life is over. So is the current set-up of my friendship group.

And, although I barely let myself admit it, it twinges at a nerve that I really didn’t think I still had. I had let go of that image of what my future looked like. The image I had when I met Martin. The world has been showing me examples of it being okay to be alone, admirable to be independent, laudable to be owning it while flying solo. The concept of the strong, single, put-together woman that is plastered all over my newsfeeds is my new focus, but Anna’s situation is bringing old feelings back to life.

This is the worst news ever.

My only consolation is that Sophie’s face isn’t exactly radiating happiness, either.

Neither of us has reacted yet. One of us needs to say something , but what? Are we supposed to pretend to be happy about this? Is she happy about this?

The haughty waiter appears from behind a gigantic queen of hearts card to my left. He slops our drinks down on the table and storms off again. He’s evidently been stewing over at the bar.

‘It’s okay. It was a shock, but I’ve accepted it. I want it, even,’ Anna murmurs into the awkward silence.

‘Are you sure?’ Sophie looks like she’s going to be sick.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. Brian’s going to move in with me.’

For a second I think she’s already named the baby, and is referring to his arrival in some weird, ‘new lodger’ format. That would be so Anna.

But who would name a baby Brian?

‘Brian the bus driver?’ Sophie queries.

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t get many thirty-two-year-olds called Brian,’ I muse.

‘Well that’s not exactly important, is it?’ Anna snaps.

We return to silence, Sophie and I a little shocked by Anna’s outburst. In all the time I’ve known her, she has never been rattled like this.

‘Are you okay? Like, really okay?’ I reach for her hand, offering the comfort she would give me, but which makes me feel itchy and squirmy.

‘No.’ A fat tear lands squarely in her glass of juice.

‘Oh, Anna.’ Sophie curls her arm around Anna’s shoulder.

‘He’s not thirty-two.’ She gulps. ‘I’m not ready to be a mum.’

Which of these facts do I address first? My head desperately wants to know how old Brian really is, but my heart knows I need to comfort my friend.

Oh, fine , my heart wants to know how old Brian is too.

‘How old is he?’ My hand is getting really sweaty in hers, and I don’t know what to do with it. She’s clinging on for dear life, though, so I don’t really have a choice. To ease my own tension, I start circling her wrist with my thumb, but that feels really romantic and weird so I stop immediately.

‘You’ll be so angry.’ She sniffs.

‘We won’t. We promise, we won’t.’ Sophie looks at me. We probably will, to be honest.

‘He’s fifty-eight,’ Anna whispers.

Oh my fuck. That’s older than my dad. Older than her dad.

‘Jesus.’ Sophie catches my eye again.

‘I know, I know. He told me he was thirty-two, I wasn’t lying, I promise!’ She’s crying again.

OK, I know some men look good for their age, but a twenty-six-year difference? Is she blind?

‘You don’t have to have this baby, you know,’ I remind her.

‘I know I don’t. But I will.’

‘Okay, well you don’t have to live with Brian. Not if you don’t want to.’ Sophie squeezes her arm.

Anna looks up. ‘But isn’t that the right thing to do?’

‘Well, do you love him? Do you want to be with him?’ It’s a shame it took me two years to be so rational about my own relationship with Martin.

‘I don’t know. Maybe? He’s friendly. He has really long nose hair, but nearly no hair left on his head. And he always makes jokes about TV shows I’ve never seen. He wants to get the full box set of The Clangers for the baby when it comes. What the fuck is The Clangers ? And how many Carry On films did they have to bloody make?’ She’s shrieking a bit now.

‘Can I get you anything to eat, girls?’ Moody McGee is back, and he’s softened his tone a bit. He’s probably been hiding behind the pillar in the corner listening in to the drama.

We reject food (a dearth of vegan options — this is proving to be really, really limiting), order more drinks and get back to Anna’s hormone-addled turmoil.

Together we whittle it down, and we figure out that Anna wants the baby (sort of, she’s sure she’ll love it when it’s born... i.e. after it’s ripped her vagina in two and left her with a stomach like the wallpaper of a flooded house) but she isn’t sure if she wants Brian. I’m pretty certain she definitely doesn’t want Brian, but she’s not drinking so she’s less easy to convince.

Anna decides she’s going to tell Brian that it’s too early to move in together. She’ll keep dating him and he can go to all the scans, but no cohabiting just yet. This seems wise.

As we pay the bill and put on our coats, Sophie and I slightly tipsy, Anna grabs us both into a group hug.

‘You’re the best friends in the world,’ she breathes into my shoulder.

‘You’ll be the most amazing mum, babe.’ Sophie plants a kiss on her head.

‘With your support, maybe.’ She smiles and pulls away. We trundle out into the glaring daylight of the street, and say our goodbyes. Anna turns to leave, but spins back round again.

‘I completely forgot!’ She beams. ‘You’ll be godparents, won’t you?’

* * *

I cannot be a godparent. For a start, I don’t believe in God. Secondly, I don’t believe in children. Well, I know they exist, I just don’t believe in them in the way one might not believe in giving to charity. It’s not for me, I don’t want to hear about it. So the words ‘god’ and ‘parent’ combined are making me want to move countries and find a new set of infertile friends.

I used to believe in children. It used to be all I ever wanted, before Martin. But I trained myself out of that little aspiration and now I want nothing to do with them.

All sorts of terrifying thoughts are filling my head. What if the baby hates me? What if I have to babysit, and I accidentally overheat it by putting too many blankets on it? What if it takes my best friend away from me? What if I love it too much?

Oh god, I’m drowning in this.

I’m back at yoga after spending the last five hours sobering up and having mild panic attacks over unborn babies. I’ve done the forty thousand flights of stairs again (they weren’t as hard this time, but still nearly killed me) and I’m sitting in lotus position breathing deeply. There was a sort of murmur of silence when I entered the room, if that’s possible. I decided to offer no explanation or apology for my early departure last week and, being British, no one mentioned it.

No one except Gary, that is.

‘Pst.’ He leans slightly towards me, his eyes still closed. ‘Clench your bum.’

‘Shut up, Gary,’ I murmur, earning a loathing glance from Altantsetseg , who has clearly not forgiven me for ruining her zen last week.

I try to relax into the position, and I find myself surprised that it is slightly less difficult today. My head is still swimming with thoughts of babies and best friends, but they are fainter, somehow. Easier to blur away.

We move slowly, breathing into each movement, and we finish in the cactus position: flat on our backs, elbows at right angles by our sides, eyes closed. I feel quite deeply relaxed by this point, and I inhale the pine and incense scent of the room slowly, appreciative of its fart-free aroma.

‘Maggie.’

I snap my eyes open. Gary’s face is looming over me, his gigantic smile almost tearing his face in two.

‘Yes?’ I sit up and notice that we are the only two people in the room.

‘You were snoring.’

‘No, I wasn’t!’ I feel heat rise to my face. For Christ’s sake, I’m going to be asked not to come again at this rate.

‘You were. We had to end meditation early because no one could concentrate.’ He holds out his hand and I grab it, hauling myself up.

As we leave the building, I am aware that I feel looser, more relaxed. I feel quite... good? It’s a strange sensation.

Gary offers to walk me home as it’s dark by now, but I decline. I only live five minutes away, and as I round the corner and wave goodbye, I feel a tiny swell of happiness in my tummy. I’ve got a new friend; someone to share this tiny portion of each week with.

* * *

I let myself into the apartment, thinking about how absolutely magic yoga is. My teacher might be a fun sponge but she’s obviously doing something right; my mind feels really focused, like I’m on speed. Not that I’ve ever taken speed, but I have a very vivid imagination.

I think I’ll start meditating every morning. I don’t have anything else to do, and it might help me to get more out of my weekly classes. Sort of like revision, maybe? I pull out my list and write 9. Meditate, before downloading a couple of apps and vowing to start tomorrow.

I suddenly remember my interview, and my heart thumps in my throat. I swallow it down, urging myself to keep my positive, relaxed mindset. I really want this job. I’m in desperate need of the money, I need the full-time hours to fill my days, and the prospect of free books is too good to resist. I could be one of those girls who sits in cafés, surrounded by battered paperbacks, chunky glasses on the end of my nose. What an amazing Instagram story I could have. People could see me go from ‘Messy Maggie who lives on the sofa’ to ‘Quirky Maggie who works in a bookshop’. Imagine that combined with my meditation, too — I’d have a really bohemian nerd vibe going on.

It’s not forever, though, is it? I still want to write. I still want to sell my own books.

I need to start this blog. I grab the list again and add:

10. Start blog.

Once again my mind rakes over the possible subjects I could write about. I’ve discounted every single one, and I’m starting to think there’s nothing I can specialise in, nothing I can offer. What do I know — biology? Nobody’s interested in that. Bars in Manchester? Already done, and I’m hardly a critic, just a borderline alcoholic. How to totally fuck everything up? No. Nobody would read it.

Or would they?

Hang on a second. People generally write about what they know, don’t they? Ex-policemen write about crime solving, social workers weave heartbreaking tales of child abuse. I sit up straight and ask myself again: what do I know?

The answer suddenly so clear, I suck in a sharp breath.

This.

This is what I know. Being twenty-seven, with no idea what I’m doing and royally fucking up everything around me. I’ve been doing it my entire life!

With a huge rush of excitement, I pull out my laptop, open it up and begin.

* * *

Two hours later I sit back, exhausted. I have clumsily navigated WordPress and created a cute, blue website for my blog. With all the widgets, fonts and sidebars that the free version of the website will allow, it looks pretty bloody good. I’ve uploaded photos, modified my background and set the order in which I want my posts to appear — reverse chronologically.

I have also written a grand total of zero words.

I slap my laptop shut and stare up at the ceiling. It’s late, and I’m wondering why I’ve decided to do this now instead of preparing for my interview tomorrow morning. Is this part of the condition Cecilia tells me I have? Putting off something I need to do until I’m faced with something even less appealing and more imminent? I’m an imbecile, honestly.

I half-heartedly rifle through my wardrobe, pulling out a black pencil skirt and a white blouse, both of which make me look like a ma?tre d’. As an afterthought, I throw my gym kit into my rucksack. I’ll go after my interview so I won’t obsess too much afterwards.

I climb into bed and close my eyes, drifting immediately to sleep.