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‘Do you use the apps? Tinder? Grindr?’
‘I prefer to meet people in person. But as I said,’ I over-enunciate my next words, ‘not looking.’
‘I don’t want you to miss out on falling in love again. Just promise you’ll give me grandchildren one day.’
Parents place a weird expectation on their kids to “give” them grandchildren, regardless of whether these kids actually want their own or not. The jury’s still out for me. I love the idea of loving someone so hard it hurts, but only if I have someone to share it with. Like my mum and stepdad, more than my mum and my own dad.
Because I’m sure I’d be fun, just like my dad was. I’m sure I’d charm all the parents at the PTA, just like he did. But I’m also worried the permanence would stress me out, and I’d get itchy feet and need to move across the world, like he did, with or without my child. It’s not outside the realms of possibility that I’d be exactly the same. I’ve spent my adult yearslocked in a similar system after all; move somewhere, make some loose connections, move again, start over.
‘I promise I will let you know about any major changes in my life,’ I reply noncommittally, refusing to bow to the pressure of being in your late twenties in a world that tells us we should be locked in already by this age. Mum’s not satisfied with my response, but that’s the best I’m going to give her.
I’m saved from further interrogation by the arrival of one of the twins. Unlike me, Aisha is the perfect mix of both Mum and my stepdad, and as the baby of the family—by seventeen minutes, sorry Ali—has managed to wrap both her parents around her finger. I used to think our ease with people was something we shared genetically, but I’ve since realised we both get it from our similarly charismatic dads. Clearly our mum has a type.
Our conversation moves to what the twins have been up to, and thankfully the topic of grandchildren and falling in love isn’t broached again.
7
I’d let Shrek do some very not-feminist things to me
A V A
A lot of menseem to be under the impression that lying about their height will go unnoticed when you meet in real life. I guess they’d rather be a liar than short. Regrettably, many are both.
Rugby-boy Oscar didn’t lie about his height. I notice this immediately when I step into the dingy, low-ceilinged Soho basement bar we’re meeting in. As a woman who could never in any universe be described aspetite,the Neanderthal in me raises her horny little head at the idea of feeling small next to this man.
‘Who’s your celebrity crush?’ he asks, shoulders perpetually hunched, his frame too big for the bar stool.
‘Shrek,’ I reply, no hesitation.
His thrice-broken nose wrinkles. ‘That’s… an interesting choice.’
‘Yeah?’ I ask, eyebrows drawn. With a weak smile, I add, ‘I also like men without donkey sidekicks.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he says with a low chuckle.
Despite the evident confusion on his face, I know how to fluff a man’s ego for my own gain, and I refuse to let tonight end the same way my last few dates have. So I soften my features, covertly tug the neck of my shirt down an inch or two and change the subject. When I ask him about his degree (an MA in Conflict, Security & Development in the War Studies department, concepts Ihave approximately zero understanding of) I realise this is a rookie error, because the topic is now firmly settled on something I’d rather avoid.
‘What did you study at uni?’ he asks, swirling the dregs of whiskey in his glass.
‘I started doing graphic design but had to drop out in my second year.’
Then he asks the question I’d really hoped he wouldn’t. ‘Why’d you drop out?’
The boxes I taped shut long ago flex and pulse at the reminder, like their contents are alive and desperately trying to find a way to seep out and find something new to stain. But right now, while I’m sitting with a man I barely know, is not the time to let my brain go to that place I’ve spent years trying to get away from. So in the end, I say, ‘Just family stuff.’
‘Did you ever go back and finish your degree?’
I tear a corner off my napkin. ‘I never got around to it.’ If he notices the prickle of defensiveness in my words, he doesn’t mention it. ‘But I’m fine where I am now. I work a job I don’t have to think about after I leave in the evening. It pays the bills and then some, and I live with my best friend in her parents’ flat and they charge me an unbelievably low rent for London.’
‘You’re lucky,’ he says, and I laugh to alleviate some of the tension. He doesn’t know how true his statement is. After everything that happened, sometimes I feel like our family is the luckiest in the world. When I look down, I realise my napkin’s been ripped to shreds.
‘I still can’t believe you think Shrek’s hot,’ he says a while later,joining me on the sofa we’ve moved to with yet another round of shots.
Candlelight dances around the mason jar between us, and I’m distracted enough by the way the low light catches the angle of his jaw and the stubble that grows there that it takes me a while to register what he’s said.
‘And?’ I scoff, swallowing my tequila. The drink warms my insides and tastes more and more like bad decisions with every second that passes. I rest a hand just above his knee as I ask, ‘What about you? Who’s your most obscure crush?’
The primitive, alcohol-soaked part of my brain glues its focus to how his shoulders stretch out his shirt, how his arms are slightly too big for his sleeves, how his thighs are wider than mine, for once. An image flashes across my mind of him picking me up and throwing me around, which in theory I want to hate, but in practice probably wouldn’t hate at all. I let my leg press lightly against his.
