The thought that if she’d stayed the same Darren wouldn’t have left crept in every now and then, but she pushed it back in the box, sure that her health and confidence were more important … but still. It hurt. Everyone seemed to have an opinion, and even the comments that she looked so much better now still felt like insults. It was her body, bigger or smaller, stronger or weaker, and she loved it. She was just still trying to figure out how to live in it.
She leaned closer, pulled at the dark circles under her eyes, prodded her cheeks to move some life into them. She looked washed out. She really had to relax more. She must have looked a state last night. How could Ollie have possibly … well, he wasn’t asking her out because he fancied her, he was doing it out of pity. And because he needed something. Tig appreciated that; it was safe. Here are his motives, here’s what I get out of it, it’s all clear-cut, she nodded, ignoring the dull thud in her stomach that told her she was excited.
Her phone beeped from the bedroom, and she felt her heart race a little, but dulled it down. Probably work, shut up, Tig growled at herself.
‘No chickening out now, girlfriend. Ollie (The Barman) x’
Oh, damn.
*****
Tig went about her day as usual. After the gym she cycled over to Hampstead, to The Cottage. Every time she rang on that doorbell, she felt like a failure. Perhaps because The Cottage was clearly not a cottage, but a four-million-pound mansion opposite Hampstead Heath, but mostly because this was not what she was meant to be doing with her life.
‘Lily! Come on in!’ Mariella, the housekeeper, always treated her like a friend, probably because they were both staff. Maybe this wasn’t what Mariella was meant to be doing with her life, either. ‘The kids are in the den.’
The ‘den’ being equal to the size of her and Ame’s house. She didn’t know when she’d become so bitter. Sure, the money she’d been making doing photography was good, but it wasn’t going to make her a millionaire. This house and this lifestyle had always been out of her reach, and she didn’t want it. So why was she angry?
Petunia and Theo sat quietly at the table in the middle of the room, smiling widely when they saw her. Okay, so that part was nice. They were good kids, it was easy work, and she enjoyed it. It was just that she felt like a fraud, somehow. She really needed to pick her camera up again, just to start it off. Ease into it gently. She thought about Ollie, about easing into this new part of her life gently. That was what he’d promised her, right? She shook him from her mind, his image becoming fuzzy – all she held on to were those green eyes winking at her.
‘All right, dear ones,’ she announced, plonking down her bicycle bag, ‘today, we’re going to get messy.’ Tig grinned, holding up an image of Jackson Pollock to show them. Their mum wanted them to be the next great artists at five and seven, so here she was, educating. Not quite what the art degree had been meant for, but among Petunia and Theo’s friends, who were meant to be the next Dali, Picasso and Monet, Tig was making a nice wage from the Future Hampstead Artists. Besides, maybe she wanted to fingerpaint, too.
A couple of hours later, with paint in her hair, but a smile on her face, and significantly more cash in her purse, she checked her phone as she got on her bike. Most days she’d go to Entangled, but she couldn’t, now, could she? He’d messed everything up. She couldn’t go until he called her. Or until he didn’t call her, for long enough that it became obvious that he wasn’t going to call her, and then she could go in there and purposefully ignore him. Besides, he was only here until November … she could always find another coffee shop for a few months. Tig frowned. She was not a fan of change.
Had it always been like this? Worrying about who called whom, and what it meant, and who said what, and when? Was that how people connected now? Tig felt old, and tired. She tried to remember if she’d ever felt that with Darren, but it had been easy then. Her friend told his friend, and they kissed at the school dance, and then after that they held hands, until eventually it was snogging behind the bike sheds and being the first ones to ‘do it’. It had just felt such a natural transition. If they wanted to communicate, they had to call the home phones and she had to speak to his mum about how glad she was he’d found a nice girl, and he had to hear her dad trying to connect with him through music. Which never worked, because her dad loved Bob Dylan, and Darren liked things with names like Squeakstep and Psybeats. But that made it love.
Had there been this panic? This worry about what it meant? Or had it been clear, as so many things were when you were a kid? He’s holding my hand and kissing my neck and putting his hand down my top, and he calls me his girlfriend. Obviously he likes me. He asks me to be his fake girlfriend because I’m depressed and he’s got a stalker – not so clear.
Her phone rang. Ame.
‘Hey, you wanna get dinner tonight?’ Ame sounded too perky.
‘Is Clint in the room?’
‘Uhuh! Oh, baby, you say the sweetest things!’
‘Did I tell you this is pathetic, baby, because it is! Stop pretending to date someone and just date someone.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that!’ Ame cooed, as if Tig had just said something depraved, but slightly alluring.
‘I am really tired of this. Do you want me to get dim sum on the way home?’ Tig asked pointedly.
‘Yeah! I’ll meet you at mine tonight. Can’t wait to see you!’ Ame hung up and Tig just stared at her phone.
‘I’m surrounded by insane people!’ she exclaimed as she put her phone in her bag and got on her bike, ‘and it’s making me talk to myself!’
On a bad day, Tig would go to the studio. It was a small space her parents had bought her as a graduation present, part of a converted factory owned by a friend of theirs, in a back street of Kentish Town. It was hers to ‘build her creative life’, according to her parents, and, to be honest, it was the only place that was hers. When Darren dumped her, and she left the flat, she’d slept at the studio on the sofa for days, too embarrassed to tell anyone. Ame and Dana had been sweet, if unsurprised, and Ame asked as a favour if Tig would stay with her for a bit, as living in the house by herself was freaking her out. Even then, Ame had been Ame. Now, it was like they were all these drones, walking around making moaning noises. Zombies, they were zombies. Out for blood and moaning about it.
Anyway, since the photography business fell through, the studio had ceased to be a haven anymore. It was more of a tomb, where all her hopes, dreams and previous talent resided, and was painful to visit. But each time she went, she handled the equipment, looked through a few more portfolios. And each time she left the studio, she missed it a little more. Some days it was the only place to get away from Ame and the flat and the realisation that things weren’t going to go back to how they were.
She didn’t want to do that now. Instead she rode up to Hampstead Heath and skidded down the slopes, untying her hair so it billowed out behind her, fiery and flamed, like a warning to all who saw her. The sun shone down on the lake, and as she curved around paths she realised that there was so much to be happy about. She jumped off, pulling a pashmina out of her bag, bunching it up into a pillow, and putting it beneath her head as she got comfy on the grass, pulling down her shades and closing her eyes. North London was home, and there was comfort in that. Her parents had been kind, her sister had been amazing, and her friends were trying their best to deal with their shit. Even if that meant Ame making lewd phone calls to her in the middle of the day, and Dana considering an implant that allowed her to make phone calls when her battery died.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket – Ollie.
‘Hello?’
‘Well, hello there, girlfriend of mine,’ he drawled. ‘How’s it going?’
‘The sun’s shining and I’m in the park – can’t get much better,’ she smiled. ‘So about last night …’
‘I told you, no chickening out. And