We’re almost at a minute and no—
Yes! There’s one! And two! And three and four! Thank you. Now we’ve broken the seal, it all gets sexy. Someone comments, ‘Yumstrels.’ I dabble with the notion of liking the comment. It’s a commitment, liking comments, because once you start you really have to follow it through and like all of them. Really it’s best not to start, plus it looks less obsessive, less like you’re monitoring things. I just left this here and walked away! What, you think I have nothing better to do with my day than refresh this inanity?
I’m waiting for any likes, but really I’m waiting for the women I currently admire online. It’s been moving this way for a few years and recently it calcified. I want the women to want me more. I wait for a name that means something. I wait for a sign. There are certain people whose attention I am keen to attract. Margot Ripkin. Buzzface Cruise. Wintering Marianne. Suzy Brambles. Suzy Brambles more than the rest, perhaps, because she just started following me back (two days ago! I’ve been following her for years), so it feels as though we are now connected. As we should be. Entwined, you might say.
Suzy Brambles. Oh, Suzy Brambles, with your hostile bob and black Citroën DS and kickboxing lessons and almond eyes and lips like you’ve been sucking on a frozen Zeppelin. What’s not to like? And I like. I like and like and like. The first post that ensnared me was a charred corncob on a beach barbecue, with the caption: The adventure is already inside you. I was pretty lost on the adventure front at the time, so that corncob spoke to me on many levels. This morning, Suzy Brambles has been kicking up leaves in Dulwich. She is such a playful thing! I have watched the video five times already. Suzy Brambles only posts in black and white. This is because she has real integrity. I watch the video of her in the park again. Each time I watch it, I find something new to admire in her choice of composition, angle and filter.
I look at the time. It is almost 11 a.m. How did that—
‘That thing is the first thing you look at in the morning and the last thing you look at at night.’
We were in bed. It was a week or so before we broke up. I was looking at my phone while we were having sex. I see now how that might have been interpreted as rude – some might even say offensive. He put his hands on my shoulders and said: ‘Stop.’
I stopped.
He said: ‘Jenny, somehow I just don’t feel like I have your full attention.’
‘You do!’
‘I don’t. Even when you’re here it’s like you’re not here. It’s like half your head is somewhere else.’
It was. Half my head was in Copenhagen, where Suzy Brambles was having a splendid time. The earthenware in one particular eaterie was ‘lickable’.
Art said: ‘I feel as though this constant interfacing has become a wall between us.’
I almost said: But does sex require one’s full attention? Eating doesn’t, after all – and that is arguably as important as sex.
I looked back at my phone. I smiled at Suzy smiling.
Art pulled himself out from under my legs, sat on the side of the bed and whipped off the condom. He rubbed his face. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We have a problem.’
I finished my comment, a simple, single red heart emoji – the classic choice; just … enough – clicked the phone to sleep and looked at him. Art said: ‘You are on that thing when we eat, you are on it when we watch TV, you are on it when we go for a walk, and now you are on it when we are having sex.’
‘It was a slow bit!’
‘It was sex, Jenny. Not a film.’
I looked at him and tried a cute: ‘Sometimes it’s as good as the movies, though.’
‘Mmmmmmmm.’
It was a long sound, that mmmm. Like a door buzzer, or a hornet trapped in a jar. I watched the sunlight on the wall flicker. Summer was almost over. First thing in the morning and last thing at night. There was a time – even in my life – when that slot would have been reserved for a lover.
Art said: ‘Are you in love with someone on the internet?’
‘No!’ I said. Which was almost not a lie.
He said: ‘I’ve noticed a direct correlation between you growing more distant from me and closer to your phone.’
He said: ‘It’s like I can’t get to you when you’re there. Your eyes are all wide and you’re plugged in like a happy little robot.’
He said: ‘Except you’re not happy.’
‘How do you know I’m not happy?’
‘Because you’re never satisfied.’
I took his penis in my hand. ‘Maybe that’s just me.’
back into the main office. It’s all creative types in here – advertising and media, mostly. There’s a lot of lino. A lot of dachshunds. Lots of plants that are real-imitating-plastic. You see men with visible pocket watches high-fiving over MacBook Airs and you worry about what this means for evolution.
I work for an online magazine, The Foof, and it is as awful as it sounds. My editor, Mia, is fucking terrifying – stupidly; admirably? – socially fearless. I think this is her seventh or eighth start-up. Art called her a ‘delectable oaf’ (not to her face). I’m anxious to please her because I’m an approval junkie and have a teacher–pupil dynamic with people in positions of authority. You should see me getting a smear test – it’s like I’m trying to sell them my super-clean vagina. I thought I’d offended Mia on Friday when I told her UV uplighters for teeth were imbecilic, unaware that she was wearing one (I thought she was slurring on her anti-depressants) – but then she liked one of my pictures on Sunday and I breathed a sigh of relief because I knew everything was okay. Saturday was fraught – I spent a lot of it questioning my whole life and worth. Even though I don’t respect Mia, I fear her and professionally that’s ultimately a good thing because it means I want to impress her, so I give my work my all. I’m only really effective around people I want to impress. Otherwise, my energy deadens. I’d churn out dross if I actually felt comfortable around my boss. Vague social terror: that’s my motivation.
The Foof has a permanent office here, in the loosest sense. There’s a sign – FOOF TOWERS – in fluffy pink letters across the back wall. The sign could be taken down at any given moment. So could the wall.
I make my way across the main space to my desk. I don’t come in every day so I share with Gemma, who writes the horoscopes and product reviews and is so cheerful I want to punch her. (Sorry, I don’t want you thinking that just because I work in the media I’m a fucking idiot.)
I sit down and start to compose an email, which is what I do after any unsatisfactory social interaction.
DRAFTS
Subject: That Croissant
Dear Breakfast Maven, Queen of the Granola,
You know and I know that croissant was prehistoric. It was yesterday’s batch, that’s why you were trying to palm it off on me. I deserve a fresh croissant, do I not, for my £3.50? In America, that kind of hesitation within the service industry