Low Expectations (10 page)

My ambitions have been rather more prosaic – don't fuck up or get fucked up too much, find a job that's satisfying
enough, enjoy the company of good friends, find a man who treats me well, and hope for a window of a few years between spots and wrinkles where I have really good skin. It's not asking for the world, is it? So why do the people with the grandiose dreams seem, somehow, happier?

‘The video sounds really good, if you can pull it off … post-apocalyptic David Lynch zombies sounds like it might take more than a couple of hundred quid and a few days' shooting,' I say in a reasonable tone.

‘Nah, you don't understand. It's a gift I have – I pull things off. It's a combination of talent and bullshit. I've always been that way; things just seem to come together for me.' Beardy smiles, more to himself than to me, with supreme self-satisfaction. I am both very attracted to and supremely jealous of this smug cocoon.

‘Do you think that's maybe because you're really, really, good looking?' I ask, doing my best Blue Steel impression.

‘Probably … and you haven't even heard me with a guitar.' Beardy walks naked to pluck his beloved instrument from its case across the room. It was too much to hope that he wouldn't start serenading himself (ostensibly me), at some point. Trying to sustain an expression of polite but not-too-encouraging interest while a man masturbates for what feels like hours on your fiddly inanimate replacement is torturous. Worse still is the frequent assumption that it makes up for actual foreplay.

Why is it men think that because women get their panties in a twist caught up in the mass hysteria of watching a famously talented musician at a gig, they will be equally floored by an unrequested, substandard version of ‘Little Wing'? After about two minutes I'm usually fantasizing about a tone-deaf accountant who, though he may have a tiddlywinks hobby, will at least never force me to watch him play and think he's doing me a favour.

In fact, oftentimes the only way to get them to shut up without hurting their feelings is to seduce them. So I suppose I've answered my own question.

‘Babe … you're so good at that. Come back to bed,' I try to purr, laughing to myself, while lounging in what I hope is a seductive manner, my legs bent at the knee. I swing them back and forth in a peepshow effect.

Beardy grins at me appreciatively, but keeps on strumming. Staring around his room, which is bare but for a few biographies of football players, a giant stereo and a truly hideous ethnic wall hanging, I wonder why it is that his room expresses so little of his personality. I've seen more effort in prison cells on the telly. There's a certain thrill to being in another person's home, inspecting how they choose to decorate and display their taste. It is like seeing a little part of their soul. When so little effort is put into it, I feel strangely affronted that my nosiness has not been catered to, as well as a suspicion that not much lies beneath.

Beardy's head has begun to shake in time to the music and he's beginning to croon. I make my way to the toilet, not out of particular necessity but in order to pass the time. I try to walk past him with a seductive wiggle but he is oblivious, eyes closed in a trance. Strangely, though I have as many body hang-ups as the next girl, I feel much more comfortable naked in front of a man than I do in a bikini on the beach. I suppose my logic goes that if they're fucking me, I must not be that repulsive to them, whereas on the beach I'm a visual imposition that may or may not be appreciated.

Sitting on the toilet, I feel something strange. Looking down, I see the gnarled plastic of last night's condom hanging between my legs. We weren't completely wasted last night; surely he would have noticed the condom coming off? I curse under my breath. So rude. Was he intending on ever mentioning this? I pull out the offending article and flush.

‘Um … did you realize the condom came off last night?' I lean on the doorframe, arms crossed, trying not to appear too irritated.

‘What? Oh, I don't know … ah, did it?' Beardy looks up at me with wide eyes, a little too innocent to be completely believable.

‘Yeah, it did. Were you planning on telling me?'

‘Hey, what are you accusing me for? I didn't know … you'll be fine. There's a clinic not far from here, you can get the morning after pill.'

‘Because that's just how I want to spend my Sunday, hung-over in the clinic hoping they have a free appointment. You aren't just guaranteed a space, you know. I'll probably end up buying it at the chemist.'

I've had to buy the pill often enough over the years, at times back in the day for friends who were too embarrassed to do it for themselves. In my opinion if you can't walk into Boots to get the magic baby-eraser shame-free, you probably shouldn't be having sex in the first place. However, the statistical probability of being served by a disapproving woman combined with the interminable wait in a chair directly facing both the condom and pregnancy test aisles leads me to believe the chain is waging psychological warfare with young women.

‘Fine, I'll give you the money so you can buy it from Boots then.'

His tone suggests he is the soul of generosity. Finally putting down the guitar he comes over to me, still naked, sporting an impressive hard-on. As he starts kissing my neck and ear, I start to unwind a little.

‘You know … since you're going to take the pill anyway … we could just not use one …' he whispers in my ear.

For fuck's sake. Condoms are obviously not the sexiest things in the world, but being a hypochondriac of the highest order, the thought of spending the next few weeks thinking
I've caught a disease every time I have an itch is really not worth the ten minutes of plastic-free pleasure.

‘Er … I don't think that's really a great idea …'

‘C'mon, I'll pull out too, it'll be fine. I pulled out all the time with my ex, she wasn't on the Pill and it was fine.'

Ah, the prayer method, so effective the world over. With all the options available to women today, it's surprising how many of us go along with a blind faith that you can will your ovaries into inactive submission even if it means being convinced you are knocked up ninety-five percent of the time you are not actually bleeding. Of course, it isn't even pregnancy that particularly worries me, though an abortion would be seriously traumatic. At least an embryo can be removed. Genital warts are for ever.

‘Er, definitely not. Actually I should really go.'

‘What, now?' Beardy looks down at his dick comically. ‘Don't leave me this way … c'mon baby.'

I sigh and let him kiss me, feeling my resentments slowly melt away as he lifts me onto a desk and does something delicious to my neck.

‘Fine, fine, just make sure you use a condom,' I mutter before we get too involved. I suspect he might attempt to just stick it in and hope I won't notice.

I dimly wonder when I'll be a proper grown-up woman in a proper grown-up relationship. The type in which both parties have had sexual health screenings, she's on birth control and
they both genuinely trust each other not to stray, like you see in the talkies. I'm beginning to think that Beardy is the sort of man who sees one of the perks of being in a relationship as being able to fuck someone while they're asleep and have an unspoken understanding that it's consensual.

In the meantime, however, he's naked, I'm naked, we're together and any further reflections seem, under the circumstances, rather pointless.

After an interminable conversation with Javier the pharmacist about the risks of the morning after pill, that ended only after I waved my debit card under his nose, saying repeatedly ‘I know, I need to go,' I left Boots with my purchase. I am now armed with a host of possible complications for my paranoid mind to ruminate on.

How is it possible that I never knew that the morning after pill could cause ectopic pregnancies that, left untreated, can be fatal? I had always thought that the worst aspect of it was simply the annoyance that your period can arrive sooner, later or at exactly the same time. Of course, Google has also revealed that severe gingivitis can lead to stroke, heart disease
and death, so I try to focus instead on the reassuring improbability of all these statistics.

Trudging back to our little Victorian terrace house, I see that Stacy has strung up red heart-shaped fairy lights in the living room. This addition against the black velvet curtains gives it a look somewhere between a vampiric den and a brothel.

As it is her place, I've little right to complain about the décor, but her taste does represent a schizophrenic divide in her psyche. Half aggressively minimalist, with hard angles, simplicity and bare functionality, half gothic froth, as if she can't quite decide whether she wants to project clean perfectionism or messy seduction. I do lust after her free-standing wrought iron and white porcelain bath with skull feet, but it is in her bedroom and purely decorative. When I once suggested we fill it with ice and use it to cool booze at house parties, she looked as if she might have a heart attack. This was before I realized there were to be no house parties chez nous.

‘Hello?' I call out, as I walk into the narrow hallway and hook the collar of my coat on the silver row of metal spikes that serve as the most dangerous clothing hangers ever designed. I am convinced I will be blinded before the year is out.

‘Georgina? We're in the living room if you care to join us,' Stacy calls out. I wonder which of her lovers she is entertaining.
I don't think I've ever seen her just relax at home with a mate; though she seems to have a wide variety of female acquaintances, I suspect they are most important to her as contacts and that she considers the whole idea of friendship rather childish.

I walk in feeling awkward and grimy, wearing ripped jeans that haven't seen the inside of a washing machine in months and one of Beardy's old Radiohead T-shirts. I like the idea of wearing a man's baggy shirt, but in practice my breasts are too large to make it look sexy and I end up looking like a dumpy roadie.

‘You must be Georgina. Lovely to meet you,' says a man I presume to be Cosmo, though the rotation of men in Stacy's life is too rapid for me to risk saying his name aloud.

He is very good looking, with one of those perfectly symmetrical faces typical of her men friends. Though flawlessly handsome, to my eyes they all look rather bland, like a carousel of revolving ‘I'm-In-Finance' Ken dolls. Lean and athletic, he sports the off-duty investment banker's uniform of crisp white button down shirt with contrasting collar and cuffs, perfectly tailored Ozwald Boateng cobalt suit jacket with dark fitted jeans, completed by a black Hermès belt and Italian loafers on bare feet. I wonder how cold it needs to become before he gives in to cashmere socks. Does he think it sexy, the wealthy urban male equivalent to Northern girls going out half naked in the winter, or is it a status symbol,
signifying that his feet will remain permanently toasty as he is never far from his chauffeur? One of my most granny-ish pet peeves (and I have many) is weather inappropriateness.

‘Yes, thanks, lovely to meet you too.' I try to smile in a confident manner, while aiming my face to the side. I am concerned that I have dragon breath. Why is it with certain hangovers you can brush your teeth multiple times yet still feel like a furry hamster is rotting in your mouth?

Stacy stays seated, elegantly draped along the couch, smoking a joint. All of the furniture in this room is so poker straight and unforgiving it seems to have been lifted from a medieval church. I have wondered if this is a clever tactic to put flatmates off lingering there, thus allowing her to keep a private salon.

‘Do you want some? It's Nepalese hash, very smooth.' Wearing only a thin silk jersey dress, her blonde hair loose and golden, Stacy looks very relaxed, with a warm glow about her. I hope this is due to the drugs and fairy lights rather than rampant sex in communal spaces.

‘Ah, well, maybe a few tokes, I'm not the best company stoned.' I have no particular desire for it, but there is a part of me that still thinks that a free high is always a good high. This has led me into many questionable situations over the years, but none I've regretted enough to reform my character.

‘Cosmo brought it for me – it's the best I've had in London. He refuses to reveal his sources, though, the tease.' Stacy
looks up at him coyly through dark lashes that she has tinted bi-monthly.

‘I need something to keep you coming back to me, beautiful.' Cosmo walks over and strokes her hair before kissing her tenderly.

‘I'd always find an excuse to come back to you, darling!' Stacy giggles girlishly, a noise I would previously have thought so out of character as to be impossible.

Jesu Christi, I think incredulously as I take a deep hit, girl's got it bad. I have only seen her behave with indifference or outright contempt around her other men, to the extent that I thought she was incapable of emotional attachment.

‘I'm not much of a smoker, I hope it won't be wasted on me …' I trail off as they carry on, looking like two turtledoves batting their heads together in a frenzy of desire. I haven't seen Stacy around much in the last two weeks and feel rather like a Who down in Whoville after the miraculous transformation of the Grinch. What could have effected this metamorphosis, that her heart is no longer two sizes too small?

‘So, Cosmo,' I say, searching for a topic of conversation to distract them from each other's tongues, ‘any special plans for Christmas?'

Drawing away from Stacy with obvious regret, Cosmo sits on the floor opposite us. He must have already experienced the inhospitable nature of the chair next to him.

‘Yah, well, some of my best mates and I are going to Verbier
for the week, who knows what I'll do for New Year's … I'll probably have to come back for this little beauty, if she won't join us skiing.' Cosmo looks fondly at Stacy, while I try not to cringe at the ‘little beauty' remark. It seems the sort of compliment a man might pay a horse.

‘Hmm, how fantastic.' I am envious. Christmas over the past few years has become a terrible emotional tussle in which I, the only child, have become the prize. It is supposed to be Christmas Eve and Day with Mum, Boxing Day with Dad and Vitoria, but oftentimes I am emotionally blackmailed into staying with her longer. Mum's hyperbolic tendencies are extreme when describing their age-gap relationship. My tolerance for hearing things like ‘Your father already has a child with him', ‘They are probably playing Hide-The-Candy-Cane right now' and, even worse, ‘I bet her presents cost more than yours' is low. Thus masterfully manipulated into feeling disturbed at the thought of seeing them together, the thought of the trek to Rickmansworth combined with a relentless December hangover is too stressful to bear.

‘It would be even more fantastic if my little beauty here would accept my invitation and join us, but she's been so resistant!'

Is ‘My Little Beauty' his actual pet name for her? That may trump Cocka-Tootle-Poo in awfulness.

‘Oh, Cosmo, I can't just cancel my plans at the drop of a hat, you know that,' Stacy evades.

‘You seemed keen before! I even bought you that Stella ski jacket.'

‘Darling, it isn't an act of generosity if you then try to bribe me with it. There will be other ski trips. I just realized how rude it would be to Tarquin and Cordelia to cancel on them all of a sudden.' A note of irritation creeps into her voice and she pulls away, tucking her long body into the couch and turning her face to the wall.

Slightly stoned, I try to make a mental note of this interaction in case I ever date a rich man whose plans I want to refuse but gifts I want to keep. I rather doubt this is in my future what with my general tendency to date men whose most expensive possession is a Zippo, but here's hoping.

‘Well, is it bribery if I offer the matching suit to go with the jacket if you change your mind?' Cosmo cheekily inquires. How a man can manage to be cheeky while offering to purchase a £600-plus designer item that can be worn at maximum a few times a year is baffling to me, but evidently in Stacy's world this is the norm. She swats at his broad shoulder in mock-irritation and quickly changes the subject.

‘Did you enjoy your weekend, Georgina? You look a bit out of sorts.'

‘Out of sorts?' I parrot idiotically.

‘You know. Rather … grungy. And spacey.'

‘Just unwashed as usual and now a little bit stoned, Stace.'

She hates it when I call her this, thinking it sounds
common, though I think Stacy is much more chavvy and am always surprised she ever shortened it from Anastasia. Failing that, ‘Stasia' would fit in better with the Tarquins, Cosmos, Cordelias and Lentils that make up the majority of her acquaintance.

‘No need to get snitty, dear.' Stacy inspects her perfect nails before glancing down at my grubby ones. I wonder, not for the first time, what she's like when she's not smoking – is it possible she's actually less uptight? I also start to wonder if maybe I smell, though I remind myself I've taken a shower and brushed my teeth. Could it be my alcoholic pores are stronger than any power-shower? My hamster mouth more lethal than Listerine? Or was wearing Beardy's shirt a mistake? I am about to furtively sniff my armpit before deciding I'm a fixating paranoid and should really just stop smoking and make a speedy exit.

‘Ah, on that note, I think I'd better leave you two lovebirds … I might go out later so I should probably shower. Thanks for the warning, Stace.'

‘I think you look great! Grunge is in, isn't it, Stacy? Where are you off to?' Bless Cosmo and his well-brought-up little heart.

‘I'm not sure if I'll definitely go, this guy I'm seeing is playing a gig at Shelter. I'm not sure if I'm up for it, I'll see how I feel in a bit.' Doing any uni work, as I had originally intended, is out of the window at this point. I need a full,
unbroken day to really start, so I have sufficient time to waste in the interim to build up my motivation to the point of blind panic.

‘Shelter? Sounds hip. Is it a wine bar? Well, enjoy your night, we'll be out having a drink at Boundary later if you fancy stopping by.'

Cosmo is far and away one of the nicer men Stacy has brought home. I strongly suspect that if they stay together for any length of time, she will make him miserable. I hope he makes a lucky escape.