Not That Easy (24 page)

I laughed. “I guess not. I know you're right. I just feel like everything's kind of falling apart, you know? Nick was so brutal yesterday. And my mum thinks I'm some kind of brazen hussy and it's giving her extra gray hairs. And you and Will hate me for the Ollie thing, so that's a massive mess. AND I really, really don't want to go to work tomorrow or ever write another column. I don't even have anything NSFW to write.”

“Okay,” said Emma. “Let's fix this one by one. Firstly, I don't hate you because I never could and you're an amazing friend even if you did fuck our other friend.” I gave her a wobbly smile. “Will will get over it, although he was screaming about a spoiled spinach and ricotta cannelloni this morning so you may have a bit more apologizing to do. Bar the whole Nick thing, it seems like the next biggest issue is your column, but how do you actually feel about it, El? Like, screw whatever anyone else thinks.”

I sighed. “I don't know. On one hand, I love writing it and I don't really care if people know this stuff about me. It's not like I'm actually describing the sex—I'm just saying I have it. Besides, people find it funny and I love that. But the only problem is that every time I write it, I feel guilty because I know my mum's going to go crazy and, well, what if I do fuck up my future? I may never get employed again.”

“Babe, we're the Facebook generation. We've grown up with the Internet—public over-sharing is just what we do. So long as you keep it vaguely appropriate and do it well, I doubt any future employer is going to care. Hell, if you stay in the same industry, I bet your next boss will love that you did this. The only potential issue is if you can't shake the guilt.”

“That's just it though. I can't tell if the guilt is because of what I'm doing to my career, or more just part of the religious guilt my mum taught me about never masturbating and all that. You know, like the female shame about using your vagina and daring to talk about it. I bet if a guy did it for
GQ
or whatever they'd laugh about him being a bit of a player. If I was a boy, I know my mum wouldn't care as much. This is SEXISM.”

Emma scrunched up her face. “Um, maybe, but I feel like that's not the real problem here. Am I right in saying that you want to keep doing this?” I shrugged in response. “Exactly—you do. And the only problem is your mum caring. But you have to stop letting that be a problem. Like, you can't always please your parents. OMG, someone tweeted the best thing the other day about life being a relay race and your parents always giving you the baton—but there comes a point where you're like, why am I even holding this baton anymore, you know? So you can just drop it and walk away.”

“Um, okay,” I said. “I guess I see your point, but there is also
the minor fact that I still don't actually earn a salary and am exploiting myself for no money.”

“So ask for one.”

“Do you not think I've already tried? Maxine is a psycho bitch who refuses to budge. I have tried SO MANY TIMES.”

“Well this time, just make her an offer she can't refuse,” said Emma, crossing her arms with a grin.

“Do you have a plan? Please tell me you have a plan. I really need money to buy food.”

“Sorry, babe, I just say the motivational things. You've got to go and actually do them. Good luck.”

•   •   •

I was standing outside my office building at eight a.m. Even Maxine wouldn't be in this early, but I needed the time to prep myself before the big meeting. Well, it wasn't a meeting per se because Maxine still didn't know it was happening, but it was going to be big. I was going to finally ask her for some money and it was going to work because I'd come up with a plan. I had something to offer that she couldn't refuse and it wasn't unpaid labor.

Emma's inspirational speech had helped. So had the fact that I'd basically hit rock bottom and had nothing to lose. I was angry and I was ready to fight for my rights.

I poured my flat white down my throat, relishing all £2.10 of it. I could do this. I could go in there, reclaim my life and stand up to that bitch. If Anne Hathaway could stand up to Meryl Streep I could totally do it. I'd just have to try to do it in Primark's finest instead of Valentino—and try not to chuck my phone in a fountain.

“Loitering?”

I whirled around and saw Maxine standing there, arching her eyebrows at me. They put my home-tweezed brows to shame.

“Just on my way in,” I replied brightly, trying to regain my composure. This was not how I wanted her first sight of me to go.

“Come on then,” she said.

I nodded weakly and followed her in. She padded along in her casual flats and I started to regret my heeled boots. I'd worn them to look powerful but they just made me feel clumpy and try-hard next to her.

“So, um, I was hoping to come and see you later,” I said. “There's something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Go on then.”

“No,” I cried out. “Um, not now. I wanted to do it, um, properly. In your office.”

She raised her eyebrows again and I felt my cheeks burn up.
Why
was I so bad at the “you go, girl, reclaim your life” thing? This was not how it would have gone in the movie version of my life.

“Fine. Come by at half-eight.”

I nodded quickly. “Cool. Yep, will do.”

She ignored me and walked out of the lift straight to her office. It was fine; I could totally do this. I just had to be less Ellie Kolstakis and more Anne Hathaway.

•   •   •

Me: I'm freaking the fuck out.

Emma: Think of the $$$!! You can do it.

Lara: Don't freak out or you'll act weird and lose your high ground.

Emma: Yeah, stay strong, babe. You need to have your “go gurl” moment.

Me: What if I bugger it all up?

There was a significant pause in the conversation before Lara replied.

•   •   •

Lara: Then you leave and get a different job. It'll be fine!

I sighed and put my phone down by the bathroom sink. It wasn't going to be easy but I had to do this. I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was looking pretty good, my eyeliner was even and the black chiffon shirt I was wearing looked smart. If I didn't know better, I would have thought I was someone with a paid job.

In the last few months, a lot had changed. I'd gone from being the girl who'd only been penetrated once, to the girl who fucked her flattie and had people—okay, one person—wanting to be her boyfriend. My adult life was finally starting—it was just a lot messier than I had anticipated. Either way, I needed to ride this wave before it went off without me and I was left wondering where my life went.

I grabbed my phone and walked out of the bathroom. I was done spending my days hiding in the loos. I would go and get my salary—even if it meant breaking my mum's heart. If she couldn't deal with her child turning into a sexual adult, then she shouldn't have had kids.

“Maxine?” I said, as I pushed open her glass door.

She pushed her black Chanel frames down her nose and peered at me over them. “Ellie. Come in.”

I obliged and sat down on the chair in front of her desk. “Thanks.”

“So what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Maxine, I want a salary.” Her face didn't move so I carried on. “I work nine to ten hours a day, I help everyone with content, I've
secured really good interviews for the mag, and now my columns are bringing in thousands of readers a month. I can write more and I have ideas of how to expand the business through new content.”

“Ellie, I appreciate all the hard work you do, but budgets are tight here.”

I felt my heart sink, but then I remembered my leverage. I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair. “I have a killer column for you, Maxine. I'm done hiding the details—I want to embrace this and make it my own. I don't want to write about my life anymore—I want to tackle a new everyday woman's issue each week. Starting with losing a condom inside you. And slut-shaming.”

“Why would that be more popular than the current one?”

“Um, because confessional journalism is so over. Everyone my age wants to know about the general stuff—we don't care about making everyone into a celeb anymore. So I can use bits of my life as a jumping-off point, but what I can really give you is an insight into what people my age want to know. Not posh people like Camilla and co., but actual, real, ‘how the fuck is this my life' twentysomethings. I want to write about issues we all care about. I want to write about feminist issues in an acceptable way. But I'll only do it for £25,000 a year. No negotiation.”

Maxine took off her glasses. Oh fuck. I'd gone too far—I knew I should have asked for £20,000, although how anyone expected me to live off that I had no idea.

“Okay.”

My mouth dropped open. “What?”

Maxine looked amused. “Let's do it. You're right—we're meant to be an edgy site and we need edgier people to work for us. I'll get a contract drawn up. You can start your new role now. Oh, and I'm only paying you £23, 000.”

I knew £25,000 was too good to be true. But fuck it—I still had a salary! And Maxine thought I was edgy. I bit my lip to stop
a huge grin spreading across my face and instead nodded seriously. “Okay. I'll accept that. Thanks.”

“Thank you, Ellie. But don't let me down.”

I wanted to fall at her feet promising I wouldn't, but I forced myself to stand up tall. “Thanks for the chance,” I said and walked out.

I had done it. I was going to get an actual salary, and I hadn't even had to use my backup plan and get on my knees and beg. Anne Hathaway had nothing on me, because I HAD A SALARY.

NSFW

Ever since I started writing this column, my life has started living up to the title. I guess it proves Oscar Wilde right—life really does imitate art. But people have reacted in different ways to this obvious show of, well, sex.

For some, it's been the stamp of cool they've needed to respect me. For others, it's embarrassing but they're intrigued out of good old-fashioned curiosity. Others think it's awful. Not only am I, a young woman, having casual sex—I'm writing about it. I've even been called a slut.

It's why I want to finally deal with this, the S-word, because I'm sick of girls being slut-shamed. It's been going on for long enough, and it's time we took a stand against it.

I thought about what would happen if we banned the word “slut”—but it won't work. Banning things just makes them more exciting, and there's that niggling issue called freedom of speech.

So my friends and I tried to reappropriate the word “slut.” We tried to give it a positive meaning, and go back to the basic fact of it just meaning someone who has a lot of sex. We called each other sluts to get rid of the stigma attached to it.

But that didn't really work either. It got confusing, because not everyone was using it the way we were. When someone called me a slut, I forgot all of this rationale and I just felt sad.

It's why I've finally realized that when it comes to the S-word, all we can do is remember that's exactly what it is—a word. We're the ones who give it power and put meanings on it. Some might use it in a positive way—“you're so slutty I love it”—but others are derogatory—“yeah she shagged him. What a slut.”

That negative use is just part of a wider social problem—as in the world is pretty fucking unfair. But as much as I want to, I can't change that. All I can change is my personal relationship to the word “slut,” so I've decided to finally accept it for what it is—a word.

I'm going to stop being so scared of it, and if someone calls me a slut, I'm not going to care. I have the power to either let that bother me, or to ignore them and realize that's just their ignorance. I don't have to let that little syllable get to me.

I want to live my life the way I want. I'm going to be judged for it, because that's the world we live in and I can't control it—but what I can control is how I let that
affect me. And there's no way I'm going to let someone else's stupidity stop me from living my life. So to anyone who wants to slut-shame me, go for it. I'll be too busy having fun to even notice.

•   •   •

I stood outside Pizza Express shivering in my thin pleather jacket. I was starving and the girls were typically late even though I'd given them two hours' notice before calling the emergency dinner.

I grinned to myself. Lara was on the train up from Oxford, assuming that I was still in breakdown ricotta mode. She was going to die when she found out I'd stood up to Maxine—and won. Now that I had a paycheck I was even planning on treating them to the meal. They didn't need to know I had a twenty-five percent off voucher.

“Babe,” called out Emma, as she tottered down the street towards me. She was wearing black suede leggings with seriously high boots. I hugged her happily, knowing she was finally getting back to her pre-breakup self.

“Sorry about the last-minute plans. I just really felt like seeing you guys.”

“No worries, I just really want to know what happened. God, Maxine is such a BITCH. What did she say to you, hun?”

“Oh, um, just like really bitchy things. I'll tell you properly when Lara gets here. I love your shoes by the way.”

“Really? I haven't worn them in ages because I'm trying to tone down a bit and be more adult, you know? But I didn't have anything else that would go with the outfit.”

“Somehow I can't believe that, but either way, they look great. And what's all this about toning down? That's just your personality.”

She shrugged. “I guess, but my personality has kind of let me down lately.”

“Sergio's a wanker,” I cried.

“Um, I meant just with getting stressed at you for the Ollie thing,” she said, as people turned to stare at us. “Not Sergio.”

“Oh, shit, sorry,” I said sheepishly. “But, Em, we've been over this—you were legitimately allowed to be mad at me. I kind of fucked up our flatshare.”

“It's true, you did, but . . . I might be able to persuade Meely to move in.”

“Really? That would seriously up our street cred.”

“Ellie, it's weird that you find her so cool. She's just like us. You're going to freak her out if you keep going on like that. But yes, it's a possibility. So we won't all get kicked out for not paying the rent.”

“Glad to hear it. I really don't need to add ‘evicted' to my list of this year's events.”

“So true,” said a familiar voice. I turned around and hit Lara with my bag. “Ow, can you be a bit more graceful, Ellie?”

“Sorry. Just glad you're finally here. Shall we go and get a table?”

“Fine,” she grumbled and we walked inside. “So have I missed the disaster recap then?”

“Nope, we were waiting for you,” said Emma, as she sank down into the chair. “All I know is that Maxine is as much of a bitch as ever.”

“
Quelle surprise
. So, you asked for money and she told you to get fucked?”

“It was worse,” I said and they both looked suitably shocked. “She acted like an actual human being.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Which means I've either misinterpreted her this whole time, or she's having a breakdown.”

“I'm lost,” said Emma.

“Shut up,” cried Lara. “She gave it to you?”

I grinned. “Twenty-three thousand pounds!!!!! I mean, it's 2,000 pounds less than what I wanted, but I get to write about actual topics and not just exploit myself for money. I've already done my first one about slut-shaming—it's going up soon.”

“Oh my God,” shrieked Emma. “This is so so good! Congrats, El.”

“I know,” I squealed.

“You deserve it,” said Lara. “I just wish you'd warned me it was good news or I might not have come down from Oxford, and actually stayed to do some revision for a change.”

“Revision's overrated. Besides, I knew you'd only come if you thought it was bad news.”

“I did think you'd be crying hysterically,” said Emma as Lara nodded.

“Jeez, thanks for the faith, guys.”

“You do cry a lot,” pointed out Lara. “Every time you have a mini crisis you sob hysterically. It's only fair we figured you'd be a mess.”

I rolled my eyes at them. “Well, I'm not. I obviously had a bit of a cry on the weekend—because my boyfriend called me a slut and dumped me—but I've pulled myself together and now I have a
job
with
money
and my friends are my friends again.”

“We always were,” said Emma.

“I know but still. I feel so much better, like I've sorted everything out. I've even come to terms with the whole Nick thing. I was factually slutty, and if he meant anything else by it, then he's judgmental and wrong. I deserve better than him.”

“Are you sure you don't miss him though?” asked Emma. “He did seem kind of perfect for you, babe . . . bar the slut thing, obviously.”

“No!” I cried. “He yelled at me and abandoned me to the cows.”

“Yeah, but you did sleep with someone else,” said Lara.

“BECAUSE HE NEVER TOLD ME WE WERE A COUPLE,” I cried, as the nearest waiter U-turned back to the kitchen. “I'm not a mind reader—how was I meant to know?”

“Um, because it was obvious?” said Lara. “He always messaged you, he called you the whole time, he suggested cool dates, he bought you drinks, he made you dinner, he cared about you and your life, he remembered your friends' names . . . Seriously, Ellie, one-night stands don't really do that.”

I sat back in my chair. “Shit. I guess he did do quite a lot.”

Emma nodded. “I did think he was getting quite keen, El. Didn't he always pick you up at work too, and the fact that he invited you on a mini-break was just the biggest giveaway. Casual shags don't do that.”

“Do you think that he thought I knew he wanted to be more than casual?”

“Probably,” said Lara. “Any woman with half a brain would assume the guy really liked her if he did all that stuff for her.”

“Wait, seriously?” I asked.

They nodded.

“Oh God. I'm an idiot. I just didn't see all the signs.”

“Well, obviously,” said Lara. “Every other guy has always been a total bastard to you. You've read into it way more than they have and you've got hurt. It was your natural defense to see the worst.”

“She's right,” said Emma softly. “Babe, they're not all like Sergio. I got taken in but it doesn't mean you have to. You may genuinely have found the right one.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Please. Nick is not ‘The One.' We have, like, zero in common and he thinks I'm a slut. He may have fancied me during our ‘relationship,' but I think that ship has sailed.”

“No, it hasn't,” said Lara. “You're just being dramatic.”

“You could save it,” said Emma. “I mean, he is the nicest guy you've ever dated.”

“I've dated two men. Precisely two.”

“So? How many guys out there can you imagine doing all that cute stuff for you? Especially ones who earn so much and are attractive and normal.”

They had a point. He was pretty out of my league. “Fuck,” I said.

“Exactly,” said Emma. “In fact, I don't know what you're doing here—I'd be at his right now apologizing for being such an idiot.”

I looked at her and then at Lara. “Guys . . .”

“Oh my God, no,” said Lara. “I've come all the way!”

“You can have dinner here and I'll pay for it, and then you can sleep in my bed.”

“The one where you and Ollie had sex?” she asked.

“No,” I cried. “That was in his room. Mine's fine.” I stood up and rifled through my wallet, pulling out my one and only £20 note. “There you go, guys, dinner's on me.”

“That's it?” asked Emma. “I think it's probably going to be a tiny bit more.”

“There's a voucher online. I'll forward it to you while I'm on my way to Waterloo, okay? Love you guys so much, have a good dinner, and WISH ME LUCK.”

I ran out of the restaurant before they could stop me. They were right; Nick wasn't like other shitty men—he was The One. Well, the right one for now anyway. I had to win him back.

•   •   •

I stood outside Nick's building. I'd raced on the Tube all the way to Waterloo and now I felt like a total idiot. The last time I'd seen
him, I'd been standing in a muddy garlic field. He would have had to explain to his whole family why I'd been exiled back to London and why he'd fancied a psychopath. He probably still hated me.

But I still had to do this. I had to give myself a real chance of having a proper boyfriend. Nick was kind, attractive, generous and caring. Yes he was a banker, and he did call me a slut, but really I should be flattered that he'd even cared enough to be so pissed off. I couldn't imagine any of my other Internet dates being remotely bothered if they found out I'd fucked my flatmate.

And, you know what, Ellie, you do deserve Nick
, I told myself. It was about time I ditched this teenage insecurity. It was driving me—and my friends—insane. Nick fancied me, so clearly I wasn't that unattractive. Even the other online dates had wanted to go out with me. I had amazing boobs and I was clearly good at my job or Maxine wouldn't have said yes. Besides, I was STRONG. I'd stood up to Maxine. No one did that. If I could handle her, I could damn well sort stuff out with Nick.

“Can I help you, ma'am?”

I whirled around in surprise. The concierge had come up to the door and was now holding it open for me. Oh fuck. He probably thought I was a stalker—or a prostitute. Then I remembered that actually I was a columnist for an online magazine. I stuck my chin in the air and walked through the door he was holding for me.

“Thank you,” I said. “I know the way from here.”

“Very good, ma'am.” I shot him a look to check he wasn't hiding a smile, but he looked pretty sincere. I breathed out in relief and ran up the stairs to Nick's floor.

21B. The door was shut. I crept up towards it and put my head to the keyhole. I couldn't hear anything. Maybe he wasn't even home. I suddenly felt like an idiot. I'd just rushed over without even
sending him a bloody text. He probably wasn't in and I'd have wasted my night and train fare.

I heard a sound from inside. Oh God. He was there. This was so much worse than a wasted £2.40. He was going to think I was a nutter. I might have felt like I was in an Audrey Hepburn movie when I was fleeing Pizza Express but really, it was more like a scene from
American Psycho
.

I took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell before I could run away. The door opened.

“Ellie,” he said, staring at me.

“Hey. You're in.”

“Um, did you not think I would be?”

“Wasn't . . . sure.”

“How have things been?”

“Umm fine,” I said. Why wasn't he inviting me in? Shit, did he have someone in there?!

“Do you, do you want to come in?”

I breathed out in relief and followed him into the flat, wishing I'd thought to take the lift so I could check my makeup in the mirror. What kind of girl went over to see The Potential One without fixing her mascara?

We sat down awkwardly on his sofa. He was still wearing his work shirt, but had changed into tracksuit bottoms. He looked sexy. I felt the exact opposite.

“How was the rest of the Isle of Wight?” I asked.