18. Cirque du Spectacular Soulmate Psychology

Jade Platt was my best friend as a child. She was the only person my age that lived anywhere near me during primary school, so it’s not like I had much choice. Once I got to secondary school, I met Becca and realised friendships could be likeable things, rather than something you forced yourself to endure to seem like a normal entity within society. 

We stayed friends with Jade, but at a distance. She barely noticed anyway, since she was busy being class president by day, and college-party-slag by night. I always found her double life to seem so exhausting. But honestly, props to her for being able to maintain it. Either one of those lives on its own would have me mental. And she managed both. I mean, seriously, when did she even sleep? There’s no way she’s actually human. 

In addition to her non-human ability to lead a double life, Jade Platt is beautiful. She has long, dark hair, bright blue eyes, and perfect skin. Let’s just say, if Megan Fox and Evangeline Lilly had a baby, it would be Jade Platt. Every day she goes to things like spin class and bar aerobics, yet she manages to eat like a proper human instead of starving herself, like some fitness freaks, and therefore, has a banging body rather than a hat rack. She claims that not being hungry makes her less of a bitch. But I think she’s a massive bitch, so I dread to think what she would be like if she were hungry.

On top of her looks, Jade Platt has a brain. This means none of us can make ourselves feel better about how beautiful she is by clinging onto the idea that she’s brainless.

Nope.

Jade is both beautiful and brain-full. Last year she published her first book, which is called Breaking the Barrier of Standard: Reliablism in Femininity, and she’s doing a PhD in Philosophy at Oxford on something called Social Epistemology. She never lets us forget it either. Sometimes I think she goes on dictionary.com before she leaves the house to meet up with us, and memorizes at least ten clever words that she must find a way to include in our conversation or her day is a failure. And even if she does have that vast of a vocabulary, she should save it for the scholars. When I’m on my third pint at the pub, I really don’t need you waltzing in and sighing about ‘what a lugubrious day we’re having’ or how your ‘mendacious classmate actually attempted to peculate your cognition of the concept,’ and now you are in ‘dire need to estivate.’ 

No bitch. The weather is bad. Your classmate tried to steal your idea. And now you need a holiday.

I mean, seriously...there’s a time and a place for everything and the pub is never the place for jargon. It would be great if, for a change, that’s what she left at home, instead of her social skills. I just really shouldn’t have to go on my Webster’s app every time you open your mouth, because by the time my app is open, you’ve already said twenty more words, and I’m just out of the game for good. And anyway, if you’re born and bred in London and fucking speaking English, I shouldn’t need to hit the closed captioning button on my human remote to have a conversation with you. I could just as easily hit mute. Or widescreen. So there. 

But I suppose, aside from her incomprehensible scholar accent, she’s decent enough to put up with. For a few minutes.  

Per year.

‘I can’t believe it’s been a year since I’ve seen you!’ she cries as I turn around, ‘You look absolutely picturesque!’

Wait a minute. Picturesque? Like a nice landscape or a cosy cottage? That’s good, right?

Of course it’s good. It’s not like someone’s going to walk up to me at my own party and excitedly gush that I look like ‘absolute fucking crap!’ Like a picturesque sewage drain. ‘I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve seen that shithole you call your face! I’m so glad that it’s back!’ C’mon Natasha, don’t be a moron. 

‘Awh thanks!’ I reply, with a burst of pretend enthusiasm, ‘And you look…’

Jade watches me expectantly and I burrow around in my brain for a good description.

Stuck up?

Pretentious?

Pedantic?

Like a skinny little wasp in a butterfly costume?

‘…spectacular!’ I eventually say.

Oh look at that. By deciding to try too hard and not go with “good” or “great” like a normal person, I have now ended up over-complimenting her as though she’s a sodding Cirque du Soleil show. I’ve also most likely set the stage for a soliloquy on how she got to be so spectacular.

‘Well I’ve been so good about my bar aerobics sessions lately that Dominic’s moved me up…’

I chug my champagne instead of listening to the end of that thrilling tale. Then she wraps her arms around me and I’m overwhelmed by the smell of her Victoria’s Secret Day-Slut scented hairspray. I bet she didn’t even have to get anyone to put her hair up in Victoria’s Secret rollers for it to look like that. I bet she did it herself. Actually, I bet she got out of the shower and let her cat sleep in it, and it still dried like that. Then she put scented hairspray in it for effect. Whatever. 

‘It’s such a lamentable denouement that I wasn’t able to visit you in New York!’ she cries, ‘I just got so busy with the book publication and everything. I barely had a moment to breathe!’ She gives an airy laugh as she lets go of me. 

‘Yes, so denouement,’ I agree, even though I’m not sure what I’m saying or agreeing with.

She shoots me a strange look before turning to Becca and saying, ‘so where is that divine boyfriend of yours? I feel like I haven’t seen any of you in forever!’

Becca moves her eyes over to the place where Connor is still watching Alistair jump around like a caveman, and suddenly Jade purses her lips and pushes back her jacket to reveal more of her chest. Sex game: on.

 ‘Alistair!’ she calls, fluttering her hand at him like a butterfly wing, the same way my mother flutters her hand at me when she wants me to stop talking about things she doesn’t find interesting. So basically, anytime I’m not talking about wine, modern art, her dress shop, or Dad.

‘PLATTTT!’ Alistair yells in response, and gives her a punch-in-the-arm greeting, like he did with me. I don’t know why this pisses me off, but it does. What is Alistair doing punching Jade's arm anyway? I thought he only punched people he liked. Maybe he likes everyone after four pints…or, by now, six. Yeah, that must be it. He doesn't even know who he's punching anymore.

Jade starts yapping about how beneficial pole dance aerobics classes are for flexibility, while shooting me a smug-pie glance as though she's somehow winning an imaginary Alistair competition. I don't care though. He punched me while he was still coherent enough to know whom he was punching. I've already won. Plus, I got a punch without showing my boobs and without being tan or "smoking hot like Rihanna." Still winning...err. 
Anyway.

I'm fortunate not to have to endure much more of Jade and her contortionist-yoga-juice banter, because Connor moves toward Becca, excitedly grabs her arm, and whispers, ‘he’s here.’ Then, they both giggle like two 13-year-old winners of a One Direction meet n’ greet competition.They really are meant for each other.

‘Come, Natasha,’ Becca says, and pulls my arm, ‘It's time to meet your new boyfriend.’

‘Calm down,’ I say, holding up a hand.

'Hey, you never know,' she replies, beaming, 'This could be the weekend you meet your soul mate!'

Ugh. Becca and her soul mates. I think she currently has like twenty. And Connor's the only one of them that's actually alive. The rest are either old guys that have been dead for centuries, like John Adams or French King Louis the something, or they're random inanimate objects that she believes were made to be hers. And this is the reason why she and Connor's flat is decorated with the dirty old grandfather clock called Henry, that she found on Portobello Road, and decided was worth 640£. It doesn't matter that Henry can't even tell the proper time and only chimes when he feels like it. And then, when he does chime, it's as though the weeks and weeks of silence were spent building up the strength to produce a sound so colossal, it could rival the cries of Godzilla. You might as well have your head inside a cathedral bell as Quasimodo bangs them with a forklift. 

Once I was staying at their flat while they were away, babysitting Connor's plant jungle, and Henry decided it was midnight at 2:14, and then again at 2:33, and then again at 2:46. It took all of my will power not to smack him in the face with a frying pan. Henry literally has one job and he can't even bloody get that right. He's seriously lucky that he's among my best friend's soul mates, or believe you me, he would not be getting away with that sort of cheek.  

‘If I meet my soul mate this weekend, you can have my Princess bear Beanie Baby,' I respond. Becca's wanted this Beanie Baby since the day she first set eyes on it because Dad spilled bleach all over it and the stain ended up looking eerily like it spelled the word "Bec." She thinks this means the Beanie Baby is one of her soul mates and that fate will bring them together eventually. Makes total sense.

'And actually, he’s only my new boyfriend if I like him. Otherwise, he’s my pretend new boyfriend. But that will remain between you and me.’

‘And Connor,’ Becca points out.

Connor’s frowning at me. ‘You can’t do that,’ he says, ‘Thomas is a friend and I can’t let you use him in your twisted David Phillips game. Plus, what kind of psychologist would I be if I just stood by and watched as you manipulated another human being for your own pathological purposes?’

‘A really cool one,’ I respond, and then I flash Becca a face, indicating that it’s time for her to step in.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says to Connor, ‘Nat will like him. And if she doesn’t, she won’t use him for any games.’

‘Thank you,’ Connor replies with a grateful nod.

‘Because David Phillips revenge is not a game,’ she goes on, ‘It is a serious situation of psychological warfare that Natasha must be on the winning side of. For the sake of her sanity. And all those around her. Observe in the name of research, Dr. Atholl.’

Connor stares at her, blinking, and then says, ‘Quite right, yeah. Okay, then. For the sake of research. And sanity.’

'And being called Dr. Atholl,' I say under my breath.

Cool. Achieved doctor's note granting permission to be an ath-hole from Dr. Atholl. Onward for the sake of sanity, successful-psychological-warfare, and soul mates. All I can say is, this weekend better deliver me at least one of those.

© Natalie Cawthorne