And it was. Plus, Adrienne, boss of the organisation, ran the place so wonderfully that it felt like the safest place on earth. Nurture by name and nurture by nature.
During my second year there, when I decided it was the right place for me, Marc and I moved in together. Buying atwo-bedroom apartment meant we could afford almost no furniture but as time went on, things improved. We splashed out on a grey velvet couch we could both almost sleep on and a rug in a modern print. And cushions. I adore cushions, the squashier and more velvety the better.
Apart from the cushion fetish, I’m a minimalist. Marc’s wallet is testament to his messiness. Receipts hang out of it and if he didn’t have me to accompany him around shops, he’d be dressed like a tramp.
Oh but I’m doing it again. Saying ‘if he didn’t have me’.
It’s all past tense now. So past tense that the tumble weeds are rolling through the remains of our relationship.
Nearly a year ago, Marc left me the couch and the rug and I began to think about getting a cat.
‘He’s gone? Just like that? How dare he dump you. You should have dumped him first,’ Vilma said as I told her the news that night on the phone. Vilma, eighteen at the time, was heavily into female empowerment and the belief that girls rule the world. I did not tell her that, in my experience, this was unfortunately not the case.
‘I did not know it was over, so he got to do the dumping, which is fine,’ I assured her, sounding calm because I wasself-medicating with vodka tonics and Haribos instead of dinner. At least nobody could see me, Nurture Department Head, public purveyor of the Sugar is Evil message, doing this.
While Vilma gave out stink about men and how, if she had a staple gun, she’d sort bloody Marc out, with a fewwell-judged staples and when was I going to tell our mother, Giselle, because she’d be devastated, I ruminated on pets. Cats don’t need to be walked. If I had a dog, it would have to come into the office with me and no dog would survive the noisy chatter of our office. A cat wouldn’t mind vodka tonic nights. Cats can look after themselves. I didn’t want to be alone. Alone scared me.
‘Why did you say that about cats?’ Vilma asked, confused.
The vodka:tonic ratio was 50:50 at this stage, I should point out. Desperate times and all that.
‘I’m just upset,’ I improvised. ‘He said it was time to end it.’
Vilma hissed, which is what all younger sisters do when their big sister’s boyfriends leave. It’s a comfortingly feral noise. I adore my sister.
It was just as much my fault as Marc’s, but to tell Vilma would be to ultimately hurt her, so I couldn’t. But I did miss him, missed having someone to watch telly with or get takeaway with.
Which said it all, really: when TV and takeaway are the things you miss most about your relationship, you know it’s over.
Vilma’s and her friends’ delight is infectious as they queue up to get into Whelan’s, the venue where an amazing band called Granny’s Fruitcake will be on stage from ten.
They’ve all decided I am to ‘have a fun night out!’ and are taking this seriously: before long, they have commandeered a high table near the stage, are treating me like bodyguards taking care of a celebrity, and have put a mini bottle of wine, an actual glass and a packet of crisps in front of me. All young men who attempt to infiltrate the group are warned off by them, like lionesses warding off attack.
Despite several nights out with the girls, I am not sure exactly what Vilma told them, but am guessing it involves how poor Sid is lonely, needs to get out more and still isn’t over being dumped.
There’s no point correcting this version of events and I am happily going along with it because I have no choice, it might be fun and I am out of box sets. EvenIknow it’s worrying how I put calendar reminders on my phone diary when new ones are due on Netflix. Life lived through Netflix series is the sort of thing you probably regret when you are dying. But, who knows?
There are five young women: Vilma and her bestsister-pack – Rilla (trainee police officer), Sinead (beauty therapist), Svetlana (working in a gym and doing fitness coach qualifications) and Karla (training to be a nurse). They’ve been friends since school apart from Karla, who’s an honorary member of the team because she and Rilla are dating.
I love their protectiveness. I am halfway down my packet of crisps before I get a chance to try my wine.
‘The wine’s crap here,’ says Karla, her spiky haircut coloured an unlikely red. ‘Are you sure it’s OK for you, Sid?’ she asks, as if I am a wine connoisseur.
‘Watch her glass, Karla,’ says Vilma, looking left and right. ‘I don’t trust glasses: anybody can slip a drug into one. Bottles are better.’ She waved her beer bottle at me.
‘Put it down and never pick it up again,’ recites Rilla, who has rippling blond hair and the look of afairy-tale princess, but she’s aself-defence genius who learned unarmed combat from her army dad from the age of twelve. I love Rilla.
I pull my wine glass into my embrace and think that if it makes me look like a wino, it’s better than being dragged off into the night drugged out of my brain on GBH.
‘We take care of each other,’ Vilma says, reciting the mantra I taught her. ‘Nobody goes to the loo on their own. We travel in pairs. Check in.’
I feel a surge of pride at seeing Vilma and her friends taking care of each other.
‘I feel like the older Sarah Connor inTerminator,’ I say, grinning, ‘the one with the amazing combats and boots who has her own rocket launcher. ’
We allhigh-five each other as the band starts up. Their delight is infectious.
Granny’s Fruitcake will never be on my playlist but they are earnest, sweet, trying so hard. The lead singer is the youngest, possibly only shaves twice a week and has a lovely huskiness to his voice but the music isn’t my thing. Still, that wasn’t the point.
