Relax, I tell myself. It’s just a quick DM. So I only re-read it about thirty-five times, deleting bits and rewriting other bits, as if it’s going to be graded. Now I’m worried that ‘Best wishes’ sounds as if I’m following up a job interview: Thank you for taking the time to see me, Best wishes, etc. Would ‘Warmest wishes’ be better? A stark ‘Best’, or a more familiar ‘Love’? No, not love! Indifference, then? Nonchalantly yours, Josie.
Still too chicken to send it, I mooch through to the living room with my laptop, hoping a change of setting will offer a crumb of inspiration. Here I fall back onto my shabby corduroy sofa and stare up at my lopsided chandelier, as if it might spell out to me, in a code of dusty plastic droplets, what to say. Already, I feel as if I’ve panic-written a dissertation. Not that I have ever written a dissertation; I never went on to further education. But Cora did, and I can still picture her wild, bloodshot eyes after every caffeinated, essay-bashing all-nighter.
I gather myself up and have another stab at it. ‘With thanks’, like a colleague? A brisk ‘Cheers’? No, no – Ravi has died. It’s not and never will be a ‘cheers’ situation. I’m not sure a DM even needs a sign-off – it’s never been an issue for me before – and I know I’m overthinking it as I consult ChatGPT.
Take it easy, it suggests. Love and light. Stay golden.
And they say AI is the future? Possibly, yes, if you want to sound faintly creepy. I type out further options in my finger-jabby Gen X way, rather than the speedy double-thumb method of the young. Cora keeps nagging me to change, saying, ‘Mum, you always make things harder than they need to be.’ Story of my life. However, my make-up – which I’m deeply attached to – is, by her reckoning, not complicated enough. ‘No one uses powder any more, Mum!’ she announced recently, as if it were dust I’d swept up from the road. Nowadays it’s all illuminators and glazing sprays and a Korean twelve-step ‘glass skin’ routine. Twelve steps – and she’s a new mum! When Cora was a baby, I barely had time to wash myself.
I refuse to be bossed around by a twenty-eight-year-old and will carry on texting and powdering my complexion however I like. I’m not getting into Botox and fillers and having my face yanked up (not that I can afford or have the nerve for any of that). Hair-wise I’m letting the grey come through, albeit muddled with chemical blonde. What I’m doing, I tell myself frequently, is embracing this marvellous life stage of anxiety and head pills and non-listening doctors! However, remembering him now – that cocky GP who was barely old enough to rent a car – triggers The Rage in me, which causes me to stab furiously at my phone. And this has the unfortunate effect of sending my message prematurely with the sign-off: Best golden love Josie.
My heart bangs. Oh God, I did not send that. No – I did! Fuck!
Don’t panic, I tell myself. As we don’t follow each other, my DM will have plopped into Shane’s requests folder. If his is anything like mine, it’s all bots and pervs – and who ever bothers to look at those?
Back in the kitchen, I grab the wine from the fridge and pour myself the last dregs, marvelling as I always do how an entire bottle can hold so little (is it the concave bottom?). Then another thought hits me. The unsend option! Does Instagram have that? I rush back through to check and snatch at my phone, feeling quite sick as I stare at it.
Shane has already replied.
3
Shane
Josie, hi! Lovely to hear from you even in these horribly sad circumstances. Yes, I had heard about Ravi. Tragic news. I’m so sorry. When is the celebration?
I stare at it, telling myself not to freak out. He’s just being polite and wants to know when it is. It doesn’t mean he’s going. Better not respond right away or he’ll think I have nothing better to do on an uneventful Tuesday evening than sit and wait for messages from him.
I pace around my living room, briefly examining my shrivelled spider plant, and reply:
Josie
Saturday May 3, 6-10 p.m.
Then, to suggest that everyone will understand if he can’t make it, I add:
Awfully soon, I know.
Shane
Right, thanks.
Well, that gives nothing away. Is he going or not? I don’t even know where he lives, and my fleeting glances at social media have revealed nothing. How do I ask without sounding as if I’m remotely interested?
Another message appears:
Shane
Where are you living these days?
So that’s his game. He’s sussing out the situation, and whether it’s feasible for me to go.
Josie
London. How about you?
Please say, ‘A remote Pacific island.’ Please add that, regrettably, there is no means of getting off it.
Shane
