‘…Well…I don’t.’
‘If you hold them in they come out in your sleep. Maybe that’s why Steph got you the pyjamas. You think you never fart but actually by night you are Explosive Emma.’
‘You seem to be worryingly full of gas knowledge.’
‘You seem to be worryingly full of gas.’
‘Are you going to help, or did you just come to insult me?’
‘Pass me the knife.’ He smiled.
As he began chopping, I remember feeling very solemn, like it was some kind of pivotal moment in our relationship that I should honour. Leon was in my kitchen. Chopping a carrot. He passed me the little pieces of vegetable and I took them very delicately, like he was handing me a baby.
‘You’d better not start calling me Explosive Emma.’
‘Already changing it in my Contacts,’ he said, reaching for his phone.
I threw a potato at his head.
‘It works in reference to your violent nature, too.’
‘I hate you.’
‘Do you?’ he asked, looking straight at me. I suddenly felt like I was made of glass and all my insides were on show. My stomach started backflipping, as he moved imperceptibly towards me…
‘Bollocks,’ he said, breaking eye contact.
It took me a second to register he’d cut his finger.
‘The irony,’ he said sheepishly, as I ran to get a wet cloth and started dabbing at him.
‘Haha, yes, irony, yes.’
Touching Leon, touching Leon, touching Leon.
‘Thanks, Emma.’
‘No problem.’
I would gladly clean up your blood by licking it off the counter.
‘Can I have a plaster?’
‘Sure.’
Take all the plasters. Take everything. That fruit bowl. That pile of Vogue magazines. My shoes. My vital organs.
So… yes. That is the story of the plaster. I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever found anything so satisfying as putting on that plaster. Before he left he put it in the bin and took another one, and I took it out of the bin, wrapped it in cling film and put it under my pillow. Yes. Fine. I admit it. I’M NOT PROUD OF IT, OK. As long as I remember that this is freakish behaviour, it’s definitely sort of OK. And luckily I have Steph to remind me. (‘THROW IT AWAY NOW YOU COMPLETE WEIRDO’ I believe were her exact words.)
I put the sacred pie in the fridge, ate some toast and went to bed. The pie didn’t last very long because Mum ate it the next day. She didn’t understand why I was so upset, though.
Thursday, 4 September i.e. Day 47 of Despair
posted by MissH 12.03
Only just got up and already wish I hadn’t. Not a single Snapchat or WhatsApp. You’d think someone might have bothered. I mean, I’m not speaking to anyone, but you’d think they might have tried a bit harder.
posted by MissH 14.59
A picture of them has been uploaded. A PICTURE OF THEM HAS BEEN UPLOADED. They’re at London Zoo, in front of the squirrel monkey exhibit. Anna is standing half smiling and Leon is crouching down pretending to be one of the animals. He looks like he’s having so much fun.
Are they there now? Are they there now having fun whilst I’m here sitting looking at them having fun and feeling as if I’ll never have fun again???
I can’t believe they went to London Zoo. On a date. A date to London Zoo like a real couple. A real couple in a real, Facebook official relationship. UGH. It’s like celebrities who have a verified tick on Twitter. It just makes them more valid as a human being, somehow.
posted by MissH 15.30
Mum came back from a meeting with a new client and started babbling at me from the hallway. It did actually feel nice to hear someone talking in the real world, even if it was about mood lighting and sinks without plugs.
‘Anyway, I told her I don’t care how nice they look, a sink without a plug is insane. I refuse to be that kind of designer…’
She came in, looked at me, and sighed.
‘Lovely, is that how you greet me now?’ I demanded.
‘I’m sick of you, quite frankly, Emma. Look, I know you’re upset,’ she blathered on, ‘but it doesn’t mean you can lounge around here being moody, not cleaning up after yourself.’
One time I forgot to clear up my breakfast tray, and now I will never hear the end of it. And if she chooses to refer to my heartbreak in such diminishing terms i.e. ‘being moody,’ then I will obviously choose not to answer her.
She stood in the doorway, scanning me with judging eyes.
‘You’re not the only one who’s ever been upset in a relationship, you know. What about me? The Poison Penns? The entire world?’
(Who are the Poison Penns?)
‘I know you’ve been upset, Mum.’
I wanted to add, ‘because you make poor decisions,’ but I didn’t.
‘Get up and get on with it,’ she said, walking off before I could get another word in.
I hate it when she does that!!
Of course, I could get up and get on with it, but I’m too comfortable. Why can’t a girl have a few months where she lies in her own filth and literally doesn’t move unless it’s to urinate? I’m hardly going to start taking life advice from her.
Reasons I will not be taking life advice from my mother:
| 1) | She’s seeing a man who takes off his clothes in front of other women for a living. Bit of a red flag when you’re already a possessive person. Which she pretends not to be, but she is. |
| 2) | She knew that about him when she chose to go out with him. It’s not like she met him, liked him and then found out. It was listed on his online dating profile. |
| 3) | He’s about ten years younger than her. Absolutely fine, in theory, if only she didn’t keep going out with younger men and then moaning when they want different things. ‘Mum,’ I said once, ‘you know there’s a solution, and match.com have made it really easy for you. See that little bar? Where you put your age range in? You just need to shift it along a bit.’ Then she threw something at me. |
| 4) | I’m her own daughter, and I don’t even know if she’s still seeing him. Who knows what’s happening with her love life? Does she even know? They’re on and off like Ross and Rachel, but weirder and in no way romantic. |
posted by MissH 22.31
Still, I can be mean about her online dating antics all I like but she may have a point. I thought it was time to finally communicate with the outside world and get a valid, non-parental opinion. So Steph came over. When she arrived I heard Mum say, ‘She’s somewhere in the darkness.