‘Yeah!’ she says through cackles, ‘I mean, who’d date a man-child like that?’ I jab my elbow into her ribs and her laugh turns into a cough.
Orla smiles. ‘I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with looking after one another in a relationship, but I do think it needs to feel equal, you know? Like a partnership; a team. I never want to feel like I should be responsible for or in charge of the house just because I’m a woman. I never want to feel like someone’s mother’—this hits harder than it should—‘and it drives me mad that so many of us have been conditioned to do that.’ She makes a face before continuing. ‘To look after the men in our lives as if they’re small, incapable babies. We run around doing all this emotional and physical labour for them and half of them don’t even notice. I never want to be a side character in my own life.’
‘Exactly!’ Sam says with enthusiasm. ‘I was saying that very thing recently. And I’ve noticed so many of these dickhead men date women so muchyoungerthan them’—she side-eyes me—‘because they know those women are not as likely to stand their ground or assert their boundaries. They don’t push back in the same way.’
Orla laughs. ‘You’re so right! I can’t tell you how nice it is to be in my forties now and not give a feck.’ She pauses. ‘But that’s obviously a long way off for you two. Are you in your twenties?’
Holy crap, I’m in love with this woman.
Sam laughs girlishly. ‘We’re both thirty-one.’
‘Your thirties are such good craic.’ Orla nods. ‘But just you wait. When you hit forty, you will realise how much you’ve put up with that you didn’t have to. So far, my forties have been even better.’
‘My friend Jools says being in her fifties is the best,’ I tell her, and Orla beams.
‘I can’t wait.’
The organiser behind her gives us a signal to wrap things up and we nod obediently, starting our exit shuffle.
‘Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Orla,’ I whisper, and she stands up, reaching over for a hug. She smells incredible. Like a Lush bath bomb shaped like a human. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur into her shimmery hair.
‘It was lovely to meet you both,’ she says with genuine warmth as we move away. We catch her greeting the next person in the line with the same sort of enthused kindness.
‘She didn’t recognise me,’ I whisper as we walk away. ‘How is that possible? What new girlfriend doesn’t look up the last girlfriend? Never mind my recent viral TikTok fame.’
‘Maybe Justin lied about you?’ Sam sounds just as confused.
‘He was the worst liar ever,’ I say, and then I turn to my best friend, horror dawning. ‘Is it possible, Sam, that Orla justdidn’t ask him about his exes?’ I shake my head in astonishment, glancing back over at this magical human-being-shaped bath bomb, chatting animatedly to a group of young women as they pose for a photo. ‘Is it possible she just doesn’t care? That she’ssoemotionally healthy and mature, that she isn’t even threatened or bothered about her boyfriend’s previous relationships?’
We stare at each other. ‘Oh my god,’ we say together, the idea of it blowing our collective minds. ‘Oh. My. God.’
YOUR ANGER JOURNAL
“Anger is never without a reason, but seldom with a good one”
– Benjamin Franklin
Wednesday:
What happened?
My ex, Justin, came to drop some stuff off and didn’t even seem bothered about the situation or about seeing me.
How did you feel?
Truly crappy. Inadequate. Worthless, pointless, useless. Less.
What was the trigger?
Seeing myself through his eyes and finding myself woefully lacking. Seeing how little our whole relationship – or the last year – meant to him.
Thursday:
What happened?
Sam left her wet washing all over the radiators in the flat and the whole place stank of damp all night. I couldn’t sleep and then overslept so I almost missed my train.
How did you feel?
