‘We’re so happy you’re back!’ Becca squeals, attempting to give me a hug but impaired by the giant UFO hat on her head. I maneuver myself around it, careful to protect my eyes from being permanently blinded and eventually we find a jigsaw puzzle fit in which to hug. ‘You sound just like a New Yaukah,’ she goes on, trying to imitate the accent but instead produces a rather good Indian one, ‘It’s like you never lived in London at all! You’re all fabulous American now!’
I know for a fact that I sound exactly
the same as I had when I’d left and when she had visited me at Christmas but I
smile and nod for her sake.
‘Yes, you sound just like Miranda
now!’ Connor says, doing a little shake and pretending to sip a martini.
‘Who?’ Becca snaps, looking at him
like he’s an idiot.
Connor blinks, then after a quick cough,
mutters, ‘Uh nobody—someone in Scarface,’ and quickly busies himself with situating
my baggage on the trolley.
Becca puts her arm around my shoulders
as we begin moving toward the car park and whispers, ‘I won’t tell him that
Scarface was in Miami because I’m a good girlfriend.’ Then she shifts her giant
hat, blocking us from Connor’s view as he trails behind, and for a moment it
was just she and I. ‘I know you’re probably not completely ecstatic to be home
since the last time you were here things weren’t the best,’ she says softly,
‘But it’s been a year, you’ve got a new perspective and a fresh start and you
can begin rebuilding your life the way you
want it. Not for or around anybody else,’ she pauses to squeeze my shoulder,
‘And at the end of the day, this is
your home and I think now that you’re back, things are going to be fabulous!’
Once in the car, Becca wastes no time
bringing up the subject of my love life, or lack thereof, and I quickly begin to
wonder whether I should have taken a taxi. Of course, with my luck, the taxi
driver would have attempted to start up small talk with the opener, ‘So what’s
the dating scene like among youngsters these days?’ to which I would have had
to promptly reply, ‘I am a university graduate, not a youngster’ and thrown myself from the moving vehicle.
‘So Connor has this friend,’ she
begins, glancing at me through the rear view mirror to make sure I’m listening
and I promptly frown wondering what good could possibly come from this, ‘Thomas
Davison. He’s in fitness.’
I find it funny how Becca is one of
those people who identifies a person by their career field. Thomas—he’s in
fitness. Cameron—he’s in politics. Kim—she’s in escorting. Granted, I went to
school for art and art history because it’s my interest, so if someone said,
‘This is Natasha—she’s in art,’ it would give that person a little insight to
what I was all about. But that’s not always the case. My grandad was in the
stock market for eleven years before he gave up altogether and retired because
he ‘didn’t understand a damn thing or give a rat’s ass.’ So saying my
grandfather was in stocks wouldn’t tell anyone much about him except for how he
spent the most miserable eleven years of his life.
‘Thomas in fitness,’ I muse, ‘Is that
what it says on the business card he hands out to potential suitors?’
‘It means he works at a gym, Natasha,’
Becca replies exasperatedly.
‘Like a trainer?’ I’m not even sure
why I’m responding at this point; it’s only encouraging her. As if I care about
Connor’s friend Thomas in fitness.
‘Sort of,’ Connor says, ‘He started
out as a trainer but moved up through the years and now he’s in charge of
something to do with the kids.’
I laugh at this because it must be a
joke. ‘He was a trainer, but he has to work with kids now? Because he was promoted?’ I take a breather and keep
laughing. ‘So he was promoted to babysitter? Or does he train children by showing
them pictures of Arnold Schwarzenegger and having them lift cereal boxes? I
mean someone has to do it, right? Or we might end up in a world where there are
ten year olds with more than one percent body fat.’
Sometimes I really think I’m funny but
Connor doesn’t seem as amused as I am with myself and I see him sharply adjust
his bifocal spectacles. ‘He organizes children’s fitness activities, okay? Come
on. It’s stuff like rock climbing and gymnastics classes. He loves kids. Most
people see that as a positive thing.’
The fact of the matter is that I don’t
love kids and I have no shame in admitting it. There’s just something I don’t
like about all the running around and screaming and mindless chatter about
Teletubbies and Justice League—and how, if you call someone on the telly a
fuckhead one time (there was a
Kardashian on The View, c’mon, it was overload), you’re suddenly “Rubbish-Mouth
Auntie Nat” for eternity.
Then there are the mothers with pushchairs who think they own the pavement, like when they’re trying to maneuver their giant baby wheelbarrow around in a crowd, shooting everyone looks that say, ‘Hey, hello, Mother with infant here! Ceremonial right of way, please.’ As if it’s a real achievement to have gotten pregnant and been put in that position. Then there are mums who put signs on their cars that say ‘baby on board.’ Okay? And? Rest assured, I’m going to avoid crashing into your car whether there’s a baby on board or not. I really don’t want the hike in my insurance.
And for the record, if you want to be a mum, that’s fine—great, even (I mean, where would any of us be without our mums, right?), but don’t suddenly think you have a warrant to run me over because you’ve flashed me your ‘baby on board’ ID badge.
‘Do you guys know me at all?’ I scoff,
slumping further down in the backseat of Connor's little silver Peugeot.
‘We’re not insinuating anything,’
Becca replies with a grin, ‘Just thought he might be someone you’d like.’
‘Well I appreciate the charity case
but I really don’t need your help in that department, thank you.’
Becca whips all the way around in her
seat and eyes me up and down. ‘Natasha! You didn’t go out with anybody in New York. You haven’t dated
anyone since that royal fuck, David Phillips. You’re so pretty and smart and
you can do that thing with the cherry stem… Please don’t let that asshole ruin
you.’ She makes a frustrated noise before turning back to face forward.
‘That’s not entirely true!’ I snap
defensively, ‘There was that anthropologist that I dated all of November.
Remember, I told you about him.’
‘Martin?’ she mumbles, ‘Yes I remember
him. Three whole dates, all of them to science conventions. I think you need to
raise the bar a little.’
‘There is absolutely nothing wrong
with a woman being independent and focusing on herself and her goals,’ I
respond sharply.
And to quote the wise words of Melanie
B, aka Scary Spice, while she is dressed up as Geri Halliwell, aka Ginger Spice:
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