Chapter Twenty-Five
It’s a rich person thing
Despite what I consider to be a less than successful evening, over the next couple of weeks I am invited back for more ‘cosy’ gaming sessions at Zoe’s. They don’t get any more exciting than the first, but at least I don’t bother with a bag of booze again and/or question the fact that the living room looks like the ‘character collectables’ section of Toys ‘R’ Us.
Jamal (who I think lives in the flat too – it’s hard to work out) seems quite suspicious of me. Kai is more friendly, although he does go on about self-care. Maybe it’s a euphemism for masturbation? That’s what men talked about a lot in the Nineties anyway. Zoe has also started coming up to sit on the balcony with me for cups of tea after her lectures. There are some upsides to this: I am drinking less alcohol, although I haven’t been getting hangovers much so I’m not sure that even matters. And Zoe is really good company and interesting to talk to, so a good start when it comes to making new Gen Z friends.
I didn’t get the Behold The Banana job in the end – apparently, the ‘vibe was off’, which is exactly the kind of in-depth and constructive advice I was hoping for. Say what you want about the drinking culture at Saatchi’s, I bet they gave better interview feedback than that. I’ve asked the recruitment agency to keep me posted on any other advertising jobs that come up, and maybe once I’ve settled into being Gen Z a bit more and got the hang of the way things have changed, I’ll be better equipped.
In the meantime, I’m still making money from Yuvana, even if I’m quite bored. And although I’m used to this – and not shyof a game or two of Clock Patience and a David Attenborough documentary to pass the time – some company is welcome. Zoe isn’t just turning into my first proper friend in my new ‘existence’, she’s also useful for learning Gen Z slang and helping me dial down the ‘salty’ expressions, as Channing calls them. Although the other day I did say, ‘What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.’ Thankfully Zoe thought I was joking, or at least I think that’s what her expression meant.
She’s studying a post-graduate in ecology and society, or something like that, and seems more worried about the planet than me or indeed anyone I know, except maybe Josie and Laure, oh and Keith and Stephen. And Simon, but he’s just so weird about everything it’s hard to tell what really bothers him. I can see from his Facebook that his mushroom phase is now evolving into microdosing. The other day he was talking about ‘harnessing the power of nature’s gifts’ and ‘exploring the limitless possibilities of the human mind’ – which all sounds like tech startup speak for tripping to me.
I replied to his email about Mother Pells and said I’d go and look at the retirement flat in Bristol with him, as it feels like an opportunity to reveal my new appearance while we are focusing on something else. And with Alannah and the boys in a different time zone, this could be good timing. For a change, he sounded quite pleased, and emailed me back saying he’d be in touch with a date. He signed off saying something about how ‘you don’t find plant medicine – it finds you,’ which gives the unwelcome impression that plant medicine might be lurking behind a bush in a nearby park.
Anyway, when Zoe and I stick to subjects like the climate crisis rather than, say, Postman Pat, it feels like the conversation flows. Even though it’s pretty bloody depressing, I can’t help but be impressed by how much Zoe cares about it. The other day she told me to imagine dressing up as a frog for Halloween andthen having to tell my children what a frog was and why they don’t exist anymore. There’s a lot to think about here. Firstly, she doesn’t know I’m forty-eight in a few weeks and children – for many reasons, not just my age – are never going to happen. Secondly, my fancy dress days are over after omelette-gate, but that’s another story I can’t really share. And thirdly, I think in that situation I’d just say a frog was a mythical creature because I would never want to be that much of a party pooper.
Zoe has asked a few questions about me, but I think I’ve handled them fairly well. The official statement is that I’m twenty-seven, work in social media marketing and I moved here from Wiltshire, so I don’t really know anyone. I’m also hoping if I say I’m from Wiltshire she’ll assume some of my ‘unusual’ phrases are just how people speak in the West Country. She’s from Sevenoaks so maybe Wiltshire sounds distant and exotic to her. The other day she also told me that Kai thinks I’m ‘a snack’. I buried my face in my cup of tea so I could a) not burst out laughing (I nearly choked) and b) work out what she meant. My idea of a snack is Reblochon spread on paprika crostini. I decided it was positive, however – like ‘dish’? – otherwise why would she tell me? So, as I lowered my cup I decided the correct facial expression was ‘pleasantly surprised’. Which I am, especially if it means the old (okay, brand new with tags on) Fuchsia Frenzy might be getting an airing sometime soon.
Finally, Nandy is coming to visit. I bought the scallop shell things again from the big M&S in her honour, and the first wine I’ve had all week. I also got some tulips to put on the kitchen island, and hoovered with Devon’s insanely powerful Dyson. Itsucked up about three hair ties, but I suppose if I’m running short I could just get one from Zoe’s.
Nandy is meant to come at seven p.m. but arrives about half-past. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she says, marching down my – Devon’s – hall and into the living room. ‘My dad turned up for dinner thinking it was Tuesday, and then Maya appeared with three bags of laundry, the majority of which appears to be hand wash only… Middle-aged problems, amiright?’
‘I can’t remember what they are,’ I laugh and hug her, but catch an expression flash across her face that I don’t like.
A tight feeling rises in my chest. Maybe she hasn’t got used to this yet after all. I was hoping this evening would be the beginning of a positive new phase – one where Nandy was actually on my side. Which is what you want from your best friend, after all.
‘Nice pad. That’s a fucking monster of a monstera…’ She looks around the room.
‘It’s called “maximalism”, apparently.’
‘Oh really?’ She turns to the plant. ‘Hi Max.’
I laugh again, trying to keep it light, but there’s already an atmosphere descending that makes my hand shake as I pour us massive Picpouls in two of Devon’s extremely delicate wine glasses, which, incidentally, I’m amazed I haven’t smashed yet.
‘These look like the wine glasses of someone who doesn’t drink much wine.’ Nandy is wandering about the living room picking up things and stroking the furniture. ‘What does this Devon even do? And what does she look like?’
I notice her voice is so much flatter than usual.
‘No idea – and no idea. It’s a rich person thing. They just float about staying in each other’s houses. Which is handy for me at the moment, as I still haven’t told anyone back home about…’ I point to my face.
‘So you’re still going ahead with this?’ says Nandy, now installed on the sofa.
‘Going ahead with? What d’you mean? I’ve already done it – you can see that.’
‘I mean, is it permanent? This is what you look like now?’
‘Yes. I told you that.’
‘I know. I suppose I just thought you might have had a few weeks to think about it and come to your senses.’
‘Come to my senses?’ What the hell does she mean?
‘Yes, Erica, come to your senses. You’ve had a chance to see how it feels, but surely this isn’t what you really want, long term?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be? My god, Nandy, I thought you at least would understand.’
‘Why “me at least”? Do you see me as someone that doesn’t like herself? Someone who wants to change to the point where they’re unrecognisable?’
