To me this sounds a bit more like bad gym etiquette than anything else, but I’m probably wrong. I haven’t been to a lot of gyms.
‘So he hasn’t made a move, which I totally respect because no one wants to be the creeper at the gym. But then when we were having the gym drinks tonight, I suggested that rooftop bar because I thought that’s the perfect spot for him to make a proper move. I basically handed it to the man.’ I briefly wonder what it feels like to be so sure a man wants to have a crack that I could line up the perfect setting for him to do so. Distantly, I hear the timer go off for the gems. Bee doesn’t require more than understanding nods at this point.
‘And we were dancing, and he was justall over me,Gertrude. So, I decided to be an independent twenty-first century woman, like you always tell me…’ Do I? ‘and went to kiss him. But he pulled back and told me that he couldn’t taste me once and then leave me behind.’ She sighs wistfully. ‘He said he just wasn’t strong enough.’
Equal parts impressed and disgusted now. He gets points for the landing, but it isn’t enough to make up for that thing abouttasting her.
‘Oh, okay! So it didn’t have anything to do with him pashing that chick in the back of your last story?’
‘What?’
Why, Gertrude, why? You were so close.
Bee frantically searches for her phone among the discarded clothes. I watch her watch her own stories. See her facecrumple when she makes it to the last. The sun is starting to peek through the edges of the curtains on the opposite wall. The gems are absolutely drying out, well on their way to burnt at this point. Can the air fryer burn things, or does it just turn them into fossils? Is it a fire hazard? Bee flings herself back onto the bed, her open-mouthed wails muffled by all the fabric.
Quietly, she says, ‘Gertrude, do you think he’s even going back to Colombia? Or was he just planning to switch gyms?’
Quietly, I’m inclined to think the latter. But if I’m planning on getting any sleep at all, I need to hold that in. I will not self-sabotage twice in one conversation.
‘I’m sure he was just looking to blow off some steam after having to walk away from what could have been with you.’ Bee seems placated by this, but it gives way to another issue.
‘Why is it so hard for me to find a man? I feel like I’m going to be alone forever.’ There has been, rough guess, an aggregate thirteen weeks in our adult lives in which Bee has not had a partner, boyfriend, friend with benefits, situationship or flirtationship. But perhaps I have a different definition of hard to find a man.
I stroke her hair. ‘He’s out there for you, Bee. You go shower. I’ll be here with potato gems when you get back.’ I really hope they aren’t burnt, because I can’t stand to see Bee disappointed all over again.
‘Up you get,’ I say. I have permitted overnight drama to morph into early-afternoon wallow. (Well, not really, I just stayed in bed doomscrolling until way too late.) I don’t realise until about two o’clock that Bee isn’t out paying someone to torture herand call it exercise, but is in her room with the door closed, pity party for one.
We’re not having that. I walk past her and pull the lever to open the window slats. Not as dramatic as a big curtain reveal, but I don’t want to damage the mechanism. ‘Come on, Bee. You’re not a vampire. You’re a…a lizard. You need sun to survive.’
‘A lizard?’ she cries, still muffled by the blankets. I can see a tuft of her hair sticking out over the top. It makes me chuckle.
‘A flower! A flower. A great big sunflower that needs to get the fuck up and let this room air out while we go and have sugary cocktails and overpriced pasta at the new place around the corner.’
I gave us an hour and a half before the reservation, building in extra convincing time, and it takes every second of it to get Bee out the door. The restaurant is trendy, with olive-green textured wood panelling, small round tables and comically large bowls (the bowl itself isn’t that large, but the rim is taking the piss).
Luckily for us there’s only one other party there, up near the window, and judging by the awkward yet fascinated body language, it’s a first date. A pretty successful one, given that he’s started stroking her leg underneath the tiny table.
We sit in the middle of the restaurant, exposed. I can hear the chatter from the kitchen over the light music. There are four waiters standing at the pass, and as we sit, they launch: one deploys the napkins, the other explains the specials and the last offers us still or sparkling and makes a bit of a showof using baby tongs for the lemon wedges. One is left behind only because we can’t possibly fit anyone else around the table, and he looks dejected as he pretends to wipe down a surface.
I take a sip of the second-cheapest white and look at Bee. There’s a slight frown on her face. ‘Is your wine not good?’ I ask.
‘It’s fine,’ Bee replies, her voice wobbly. Waiter #1 comes back over to take our order, but I ask him to give us five. Come on, he can hear everything we’re saying—he knows we’re not ready. Go bother the lovebirds, mate.
Bee takes a big gulp, says, ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ then walks out. Not towards to the bathroom. Out the front door. Her silhouette crosses the windowfront, peering at its phone.
I look at the army of waiters. They look at me.
No, I don’t know where she went.
No, I don’t know if she’s coming back.
No, I have no idea what went wrong.
‘Can I please get some of the kingfish to start?’
It’s nine minutes that Bee is gone, but it feels like ninety. When she sits back down her eyes are blotchy, and I know she has been crying. She stares at the crudo as it lands on the table.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
