This is Not a Love Story

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Five

My mind is blown. I feel, clichéd as it is, like I’ve just woken up, or had a blindfold removed, or been transported Matrix-style into an alternate universe where everything is just so... clear.

The word lonely reminds me of GP surgery adverts; old women who look like Paul McCartney sitting with blankets on their knees, watery eyes gazing at the camera and the words BE A FRIEND THIS WINTER emblazoned underneath.

It reminds me of IT geeks in basements, prisoners, playground bullying and struggling single mums.

It doesn’t remind me of my sister, or my brother, or my Nana.

It doesn’t remind me of me.

I’m moving around the kitchen, sweeping a growing pile of dust from one end of the tiles to the other. I can’t be lonely, can I? I lived with Martin for two years, I was never alone. Sometimes, the only time I had to myself for weeks on end was my bus journey to and from work.

But what about Charlie? He comes home to Mum and Dad every evening; home-cooked meals around the table, questions about his day. But he was lonely, wasn’t he? Because he was pretending. He was compromising himself. Maybe, when you’re hiding who you are, you’re the loneliest person in the world.

I sweep the dirt into the dustpan and shake it into the bin. I had Martin. Martin, who made it completely impossible for me to be myself. Was I lonely, too? I think of Charlie and the beers. Is that what I do with food? Hide away and eat, smothering the frustration and isolation I don’t even realise I’m feeling? Or was it my only respite from the constant pretence? The only time I could say to myself, no, actually, I don’t like poached salmon and edamame beans, thank you very much ?

Is that why I fucked it all up? I pull a hair out of the bathroom sink. I’m certain that Mum was right, that I rocked the boat to make a change, but was it also a cry for attention? A sort of ‘see me, please’ expression of myself that I was unable to show at home? Although it pains me to say it, it fits with Cecilia’s theory: I was increasingly more reckless after I met Martin.

But my own feelings aren’t the only things I’ve been blind to.

I take out a piece of paper and bullet-point everything that wasn’t as it seemed.

Theo was giving me a chance.

Emma Penton is probably just as much of a mess as the rest of us.

Sophie was seeing Martin.

Veri needs us.

Charlie is gay (this was evident from birth, but it being the reason for his depression was a huge shock).

Darren is secretly a bullying ballbag.

Nana was lonely and afraid.

Nana is also potentially a filthy little minx.

* * *

When I’ve written it all down I stare at it for a really, really long time. It all makes sense on paper. But it makes me wonder: what if my perception of everything is skewed? Not only in the way I’ve been so blinkered by my own issues, but in how I see life in general? Perhaps disasters aren’t always write-offs. Maybe being skinny, or chic, or having a million followers isn’t everything. Maybe we all just need each other.

I pull out my laptop and write a new blog post, spelling it all out for myself and processing as I go. I reflect on my loneliness, my misconceptions, how I was so blind I couldn’t see that Theo was good and Darren was bad, Martin was killing me and my best friends were betraying me. It’s more personal than anything I’ve written before, and I feel exposed, knowing that my now 38,754 followers are about to see a side of me I have never even shown my closest friends.

As soon as I hit publish, I am filled with intense, nervous energy. I have laid my soul bare; I can’t sit around here waiting to see what the world thinks. I jump up from the sofa and throw on my running gear, grabbing my keys and slamming the front door behind me.

I suddenly feel excellent. Like really, really great. The sun is shining, it’s feeling warm for the first time this year and the stomach cramps the skinny tea gave me have finally eased up. The vegans are in a circle outside Boots again, MacBooks flashing images of sheep butchering this time. I run up to the one I think I saw last time. I can’t be sure it’s him because of the mask, but he’s in the same position.

‘I turned vegan because of you!’ I shout happily.

The soul-penetrating eyes that have seen too much animal slaughter crinkle and he pulls his mask off his face. ‘Really?’ He grins. He’s in his forties, with long hair and a star tattoo on his cheek. Basically exactly what I expected.

‘Yep! I read your pamphlet.’

‘That’s great! I’m so happy.’ He genuinely looks it, too. I wish him all the best and trot off up the street, into the dark and pounding world of the gym.

I’m finishing my run when Pete, the personal trainer who witnessed the undignified catastrophe of my first visit, comes over. ‘You’ve really improved. I’m impressed.’ He raises an eyebrow.

‘Thanks, Pete. Followed your advice in the end, actually.’ I wipe a droplet of sweat out of my eye.

‘Great news!’ He smiles and I clock how attractive he is, in that carbon-copy Instagram-influencer personal trainer kind of way. ‘Maybe you’d let me train you sometime.’

‘I’m piss-poor, Pete, you’re wasting your breath.’ I smile back.

He sighs. ‘Bloody difficult, here. People come because it’s cheap, they don’t want to fork out for personal training.’

‘I’m sorry. Must be hard.’ I cock my head in sympathy. ‘Can you answer questions for free, or is that chargeable, too?’

‘Fire away.’

‘I’ve been running for weeks now, and I’ve gone vegan. But I’ve not lost any weight.’

‘What’s your diet look like?’

‘Vegan? Like I said.’

‘Yeah, but what do you eat?’

‘Veggie stuff. Vegan pizza. Vegan mayo. Vegan bacon and soya yogurt. Lots of avocados.’ I say smugly. Try and argue with that, Petey.

‘See, that’s probably where you’re going wrong. Just because it’s vegan doesn’t mean it’s low fat or low sugar. You’re probably getting just as many calories, if not more. Avocados are full of fat.’

I stare at him.

Is he serious? I’ve been eating avos like apples.

‘I can’t believe it,’ I whisper.

‘What’s your alcohol intake like?’ he tries.

‘Jesus, look at the time. I’ve got to go, actually...’ I edge past him and move towards the changing rooms.

‘Wait, remember you’ve got to think about muscle gain, too. You’ve been running and you’ll have gained muscle on your legs.’

I spin round. ‘Well that’s definitely what it is then!’ I grin. I knew it wasn’t the endless bottles of wine and deep fried falafel bites.

‘A pound of fat is the size of a grapefruit, a pound of muscle is the size of a tangerine. So maybe you weigh the same but feel slimmer?’

‘Wow, you know what, I think I do!’ I am delighted. ‘That is so interesting, Pete.’

‘Friend of mine over at the Quays branch told me that one.’ He smiles.

‘Bloody hell, his name wasn’t Martin Peel was it?’ I laugh.

‘Yeah! No way, do you know him? What a great guy.’

And suddenly, just like that, Pete is a wanker, too.

‘Ex-boyfriend. Massive twat.’ I give Pete a thumbs up. ‘See you later.’

* * *

The weather is too beautiful to go home, so I grab a soya latte and sit in Albert’s Square, watching people pass by in the sunshine. My phone is full of yet more unread messages from the girls. I haven’t opened the chat since it happened. I have a flick through Instagram; more holidays, more new clothes, more promising face creams. I feel my mood drop an octave. The strange thing about social media is that even when your brain is telling you to close the app, put your phone down, your thumb just keeps on going. Like you’re not in control of your actions; eyes wide, fixated on the stream of shit you don’t want to be seeing. Comparing, comparing, comparing. As if seeing other people’s wonderfulness will somehow make you more wonderful, or push you to hate yourself so much you change everything about you.

That particular thought hits a little close to home.

I scroll down some more and come across a picture of Anna showing off her tiny baby bump. My heart twists. We’ve shared everything for nine years, the three of us. I always imagined us being those lairy middle-aged women in town, screeching over pornstar martinis, bitching about our husbands and matchmaking our grown-up kids. The idea of not being around for this amazing moment in Anna’s life, sharing it with Sophie and Cecilia, makes me want to cry. Is one mistake really worth throwing away everything we’ve ever had? Haven’t I made my fair share of those?

On a whim, I fire off a text to Saffron, taking her up on her offer of drinks. She replies immediately, suggesting Friday night at La Vi?a. I get a weird flash of guilt as I remember the last time I was in there, laughing with Gary about my life choices. I can’t explain why I haven’t spoken to him. He didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, he did everything so completely right that it now feels hard to justify my running away from him. I was just so caught up in the hurt and embarrassment of the Sophie and Martin situation and the fear of being trapped with another man, on another life trajectory that didn’t fit with who I thought I was, that I panicked — I had to get away and be on my own. He messaged me a few times over the following days to check if I was OK. I never replied. I feel like I’ve left it too long now; he’ll have realised what an unstable nutjob I am and will have put me straight in the bin, adding me to the list of could-have-beens. The list of lucky escapes.

I know that a text won’t suffice, and I suddenly feel like I have to see him. I have to apologise and explain why I cut him off so abruptly. I don’t know where he lives, but there’s a chance he’ll be at yoga tonight. During the last session of our six-week intro course, Altantsetseg advised us to start attending the weekly beginners’ classes every Tuesday. Tonight is the first one. I wasn’t planning on going — it’s ￡8 a week — but it’s a small price to pay if it means I can make amends.

I head home to grab a shower and change into some fresh exercise gear, leaving again as soon as I’m ready. I head towards yoga, nerves swirling around in my stomach as I prepare what I’m going to say to Gary. I need to make him see that it wasn’t his fault, he didn’t do anything wrong. I just hope he’ll stick around to listen. What if he takes one look at me and runs out of the door? Or worse, hears me out and still decides he wants nothing more to do with me? I suppose I’d understand; we’ve never had an encounter where I haven’t done something ridiculous. I probably bring unwanted drama into his life. Nothing is normal around me.

Although what do I even want from this? His friendship, or something more? My heart flutters. I can’t walk in there without an answer in my head, but I know I’ll never really have one. Not until I’ve tried.

I walk into reception with five minutes to spare, and Frank lights up.

‘I knew you’d come back! I just knew it!’ He runs over and holds me again, pushing my face into his flaky dreadlocks. I swallow.

‘Hi, Frank! Yeah, I thought I’d come and give it a try.’ I prise myself out of his scrawny arms and root around in my purse, putting ￡8 in small change on the counter. ‘Anybody else from the beginners course here?’

‘Not sure,’ he says, opening the till. ‘Your friend Gary didn’t come to the last session though, did he?’ Frank sees right through me. ‘Maybe he doesn’t know it’s on.’

My heart sinks. Frank’s right — Gary didn’t turn up to our final session. Although maybe he got the email Altantsetseg sent round? I can’t give up hope.

‘Right.’ I give Frank a pat on the arm and head into the studio, breathing deeply against the anxiety as he murmurs blessings and encouragement behind me.

I take my shoes and socks off slowly, delaying the moment I have to walk in. I hope I can settle myself in just as the class starts, giving me all lesson to think about how I’m going to approach him if he’s here.

At one minute to, I push open the door and keep my head down, grabbing a mat and placing it in one of the spaces I can see through my limited, floor-gazing vision.

‘So, if we’re all here?’ It’s Altantsetseg again. Part of me hoped for another, less psychopathic teacher, but I find that another part of me is glad. She did teach me well, even if she is terrifying. But this isn’t the point; I’m not here for the yoga. As we start our first poses (a bit of Cow, a bit of Doggy-style) I take a few sneak glances around the room. There are more people in here than there were on our course — about twenty — and I can’t see him.

We stand up into Warrior One and I use the heightened vantage point to look more closely. I can’t see through to the left of the front row, so I lean to the side, peering through the bodies. Keeping my arms stretched above my head, I edge myself an extra inch, but it’s too much. As I feel myself toppling, my brain makes a quick calculation and decides that the priority is holding the pose, impressing Altantsetseg, as opposed to throwing out my arms to catch my fall.

I land square on my side, arms still raised above my head like they’re chained that way, my ribs singing with pain as they take the brunt of the impact. Altantsetseg hovers over me.

She sighs. ‘Maggie.’

‘Hi.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yep.’ For some reason I’m still holding the pose, laid out on the floor like one of those aerial-view baby photos.

She reaches out her hand and I take it, rising ungracefully to my feet. Everyone is staring. I would be, too, to be honest.

‘You hit the ground pretty hard. Go and rest up. Come back next week and take the lesson you paid for today. Frank will sort it.’

I nod and she pats me on the arm, her hostility towards me given way to raw, baffled pity. I put my mat away, feeling every eye on me. As I reach the door I turn round and scan the sea of faces one last time.

He isn’t here.

* * *

Frank gives me a cup of weird tea and sits me on another beanbag I dread trying to get up from.

‘You poor mite. Does it hurt?’ He strokes my hair.

‘Yeah, but it’ll be fine.’ I smile and awkwardly lean my head to the side, away from his hand, but he follows my movement and keeps going. It would be quite soothing if there wasn’t a heady mix of eye-wateringly strong patchouli and furniture polish emanating from his clothes.

‘I’ll do Namu Myoho Renge Kyo for you.’ He closes his eyes.

‘What?’

He sways slowly from side to side, breathing deeply, before starting to murmur slowly under his breath.

‘Sorry? I can’t hear you?’

‘Namu Myoho Renge Kyo, Namu Myoho Renge Kyo,’ he chants quietly.

I stare at him. What is happening? He’s showing no signs of stopping. Is this supposed to make me feel better?

‘Frank?’ He continues chanting. ‘That was nice, I think I feel better now.’

He gets louder. My eyes dart around the room. What do I do? Would he notice if I left? I can’t get off this fucking beanbag quietly, though. Should I join in? He’s repeated it so many times I know the words off by heart. It’s a real earworm.

‘Frank.’ I try again.

‘NAMU MYOHO RENGE KYO, NAMU MYOHO RENGE KYO!’ He’s practically screaming now, his head swaying rhythmically like a cobra. Oh my god, why is this happening to me? Why is this kind of shit always happening to me?

He lets out a final, ear shattering blast of his chant, before snapping his eyes open and grinning at me.

‘Oh. Hi.’ I am taken aback by the sudden break of his trance. ‘That was... good.’

‘The essence of Buddhism.’ He sighs and holds his hands in prayer. ‘That each of us, at any moment, has the ability to overcome any difficulty, to transform our suffering.’

Good grief. It’s only a bruised rib.

‘How lovely.’ I smile and rise to my feet. ‘I must be off now, thank you, Frank.’

‘Wow!’ He clasps his hand over his mouth.

‘What?’ Please, god, not another chant.

‘The grace! The poise! The strength!’ He’s dancing a little jig around the room.

‘Frank, I—’

‘When you first came here, you couldn’t get off that beanbag!’

I stop and look down. Bloody hell, he’s right! I’ve just got up from the beanbag in one swift movement, no awkward all fours or pushing with my hands.

‘You’re so much stronger.’ He cups my face between his hands. The smell of furniture polish is really strong.

‘You’re right!’ I’m excited, too. ‘I can’t believe it!’

‘Go forth, child of the universe.’ He moves to the side, allowing me to pass. ‘Go forth and love yourself!’

I wave goodbye, not wanting to speak in case I open up another spiritual chat, and scoot out of the door. I feel like I’ve just passed some kind of test. Maybe the beanbag is a metaphor for my problems: I’ve risen above them without struggle. Just like Frank’s chant!

Or maybe, just maybe, all the running and yoga is finally paying off .