Do I want to flirt back? How do I flirt back? How does that go again? I try to reach inside myself for my flirting moves. For the light, fun version of Sasha Worth who would smile or say something witty. But I’ve lost it. I feel empty inside. I don’t have a line.
“We’d walk round Borough Market,” he continues, undaunted by my lack of response. “We’d buy vegetables, herbs, cheese. We’d go home, spend a few hours cooking, then eat a beautiful meal … and see where that took us. What do you think?”
His eyes are crinkling adorably. I know what he expects me to say. How do I tell him what I’m really thinking?
“Honestly?” I say, playing for time.
“Honestly.” His smile broadens infectiously. “Be as honest as it gets. I’m not scared.”
“The truth is, it sounds kind of exhausting,” I say bluntly. “All that cooking. Chopping. Clearing up. Potato peelings everywhere, you know? And some always fall on the floor and you have to sweep them up—” I break off. “It’s not really for me.”
I can tell he’s taken aback by my answer, but he recovers almost at once. “We could skip the cooking,” he suggests.
“So, what, straight to sex?”
“Well.” He laughs, his eyes glinting. “Maybe move in that direction.”
Oh God, he seems a really nice guy. I need to be completely frank.
“OK, so the issue with sex is, I’m not really interested in it at the moment. I can see how you would be into it,” I add politely. “But for me, not so much. Thanks for the approach, though.”
I hear a gasp behind me and turn to see a woman in a purple coat staring at me.
“Are you nuts!” she exclaims. “I’ll come,” she adds huskily. “I’ll come and cook with you. And the rest. Anytime you like. Say the word.”
“I’ll come!” chimes in a good-looking man standing in the other queue. “You’re bi, right?” he adds to the Pret guy, who looks freaked out and ignores both of them.
“You’re not into sex?” the Pret guy says, eyeing me curiously. “You’re religious?”
“No, just gone off it. I broke up with someone a year ago and …” I shrug. “Dunno. I find the whole notion unappealing.”
“You find the whole notion of sex unappealing?” He gives a loud, incredulous laugh. “No. I don’t believe that.”
I feel a flash of annoyance, because who is this stranger to tell me what I might or might not find appealing?
“It’s true!” I retort, more vehemently than I intended. “What’s so great about sex? I mean, when you think about it, what is sex? It’s … it’s …” I cast wildly around. “It’s genitals rubbing together. I mean, really? That’s supposed to be enjoyable? Genitals rubbing together?”
The entire shop is silent, and I realize that about twenty people are staring at me.
OK, I’m going to need to find a different Pret.
“I think I’ll pay now,” I say, my face blazing hot. “Thanks.”
The Pret guy is silent as he takes my payment, fills my bag, and hands it to me. Then he meets my eye again.
“That’s just sad,” he says. “Someone like you. It’s sad.”
His words hit a sensitive place deep inside me. Someone like me. Who is that? I used to be someone who could flirt, have sex, have fun, enjoy life. Whoever I am right now, it’s not me. But I don’t seem able to be anyone else.
“Yup.” I nod. “It is.”
Usually I take my Pret supper back up to my desk, but I’m feeling so deflated by now, I decide to go straight home. As soon as I get inside my flat, I sink down on a chair, still in my coat, and close my eyes. Every night, I arrive back here and feel like I’ve just run a marathon, dragging an elephant behind me. At length I open my eyes and find myself surveying the array of dead plants on the windowsill that I’ve been intending to chuck out for about six months.
I will one day. I really will. Just … not right this second.
Eventually, I manage to shrug off my coat, pour myself a glass of wine, and settle on the sofa with my Pret bag at my feet. My phone is flashing with WhatsApp messages, and I log on to see that my old uni friends are chatting about some new plan where we all hold dinner parties in turn with movie themes, wouldn’t that be fun?
There is no way I’m having anyone round for a dinner party. I’d be too embarrassed. My flat is a shambles. Everywhere I look I see the evidence of some task I’ve been intending to do, from the unopened tester paint pots to the exercise bands I was going to use to the dead plants to the magazines I haven’t read. It was Mum who gave me the subscription to Women’s Health. Mum, who works at an estate agency and does Pilates and has a full face of makeup on before 7 A.M. every day.
She makes me feel like a complete failure. How does she do it? By my age she was married and making lasagna every night for Dad. I have one job. One flat. No children. But still life feels impossible.
The WhatsApp group has now moved on to the subject of the latest box set, and I feel like I should probably join in.
Sounds amazing! I type. I’ll definitely watch that!!
I’m lying. I won’t watch it. I don’t know what’s happened to me—maybe I have “box-set fatigue”? Or “box-set discussion fatigue”? Conversations light up at work like bushfires taking hold, and it’s as if everyone’s suddenly in a secret club, outdoing one another with their expert analysis. “Oh, it’s totally underrated. It’s Shakespearean. You haven’t seen it? You have to.” Whoever is furthest ahead in the viewing behaves like they’re Shonda Rhimes, just because they know what happens in episode six. My ex-boyfriend Stuart was like that. “You wait,” he would say proprietorially, as if he’d invented the whole thing. “You think it’s good so far? You wait.”
I used to watch box sets. I used to enjoy them. But my brain has gone on strike; I can’t cope with anything new. Instead, after I’ve finished eating my wrap, I turn on my TV, scroll down my planner, call up Legally Blonde, and press PLAY MOVIE AGAIN for maybe the hundredth time.
I watch Legally Blonde every night, and no one can stop me. As the opening song begins, I sag against my sofa and take a bite of choc bar, watching the familiar scenes in a mesmerized trance. This opening sequence is my downtime. It’s a few minutes when I don’t do anything, just gaze at a pink marshmallow world.
Then, as Reese Witherspoon appears onscreen, it’s my cue to move. I come to and reach for my laptop. I open my emails, take a deep breath as though surveying Mount Everest, then click on the first flagged one.
Dear Karina, I’m so sorry I have not yet got back to you on this. I take a swig of wine. Please accept my apologies.
Two
The next morning, I wake up on the sofa. My hair is still in its elastic, the TV is still on, and there’s a half-drunk glass of red wine on the floor. I can smell its stale aroma, like some kind of noxious air freshener. I must have fallen asleep while I was working.
As I shift uncomfortably and remove my phone from under my left shoulder blade, it lights up with new messages, notifications, and emails. But for once I don’t start scrolling, heart thumping in anxiety, wondering what fresh hell is about to greet me. Instead, I roll back on the sofa and stare at the ceiling, feeling a resolution forming in my brain. I’m going to take action today. Big action. Proper action.
As I rub some belated Olay Total Effects night cream into my skin, I catch my reflection in the mirror and shudder. My winter-white, freckly skin looks like cardboard. My straight dark hair is lifeless. My pale-blue eyes are bloodshot. I look haggard.
But, weirdly, this sight galvanizes me. Maybe I was more stung by the Pret guy’s comments than I realized. He’s right. It is sad. I should not be this person. I should not be in this situation. I should not look so stressed out and haggard. And I should not have to leave my job because the department is badly run.
I go through my options logically. I’ve tried talking to Asher. Doesn’t achieve anything. I’ve tried approaching various other senior types—they all said, “Talk to Asher.” So I need to try further up. Talk to Lev. I don’t have a direct email contact for him; only his assistant does. But I’ll find him. Yes.