My So-Called (Love) Life. A. L. Michael
Ollie raised his eyebrows and grinned. ‘You’ll see! I don’t usually accost young women on my first night of a new job because I’m scared of my twenty-two-year-old neighbour!’
‘Twenty-two!’
‘I’m glad you agreed, because I told her I was seeing someone.’
‘What exactly did you say?’ Tig asked, worried she’d have to adopt a false identity and pretend to be a doctor. Actually, that sounded like a lot of fun, being someone else for a few months.
‘I said my girlfriend’s really hot and her name’s Tigerlily. It was really lucky I met you tonight.’ Ollie winked and she pinched his arm.
A car horn beeped and Tig saw a hand waving out of a black cab across the road. Sure enough, Sergei stuck his head out. ‘Bit early tonight, Lily, you’re getting old!’
‘And boring!’ she waved back.
‘Party girl, are we?’ Ollie grinned.
‘You have much to discover,’ she smiled back. ‘Well, I’m going to get going, it was nice …’
‘… entering a completely inappropriate verbal contract with you,’ he finished.
She put out a hand to shake, and instead he moved in close to drop a kiss on her cheek. ‘Goodnight, Tigerlily.’
‘Um, fake boyfriend … perhaps you would like my actual phone number? So we could schedule those fake dates you were talking about?’ Tig laughed as he looked a little embarrassed and put her number in his phone. Think you’re so smooth, you’re not, she thought solidly, walking over to the cab, and waving back at him when she got in. She knew, suddenly, she was going to wake up and have dreamed all this. Or she’d go back to Entangled tomorrow and there would be a barman called Ollie, but instead of looking like a blond Adonis, he’d be a weedy seventeen-year-old with acne. No doubt.
‘Who’s that?’ Sergei asked as they started their usual journey.
‘My boyfriend, apparently.’ Tig grinned, and wondered what the hell she’d got herself into.
When Tigerlily awoke that morning, she was sure that the evening before had just been another drink-fuelled hallucination. She’d had enough of those. But as she brushed her teeth and listened to the usual sound of Ame – ‘Sod sodding arsehole!’ – as she rushed out of the door, already late for work, she realised that her hallucinations were not usually about anything other than destroying Darren. Or occasionally tequila-induced nightmares about her boobs getting bigger and bigger until she suffocated, while he stood over her telling her that, actually, he loved her again.
Tig shook her head, and decided to just get on with her day. She didn’t have to go to Entangled today anyway, so why not forget the whole debacle? Sure, in her head she’d entered a mutually beneficial arrangement with a seemingly nice and definitely gorgeous barman. But in reality, by the state of her headache this morning, for all she knew she could have drunkenly mumbled something and then drooled on him. Who knew?
She walked back into her bedroom, previously Ame’s guest room, all smooth lines and neutral decor, filled to the brim with her tacky, multicoloured belongings. A small portion of her photography equipment, metaphorically gathering dust in the corner, sat piled neatly. Her clothes were mostly in piles on the floor, and a box of art supplies stopped the door from opening too far. She’d at least put her own bedsheets on – or rather, after standing frustrated and being given the option of Ame’s expensive guest sheets or the ones she’d taken from her flat in a rage, only to realise she didn’t want to have the same sheets she’d shared with Darren, Dana had dragged her out to the shops. It was a bit of an existential crisis, one that she didn’t want to deal with. Which was why everything she owned, after years of wearing slimming black, seemed to be tie-dye. She was turning into her parents, but hey, at least they were happy. Kind of dopey hippie types, but happy, in a lasting relationship, with a home and all that stuff.
She went to her bedside table and looked at the invitation again. So classy, so royal, all that fancy calligraphy and expensive paper. She wondered if Darren was actually putting any of his own money towards this wedding. Whether this girl had a ring picked out from a jeweller’s and a proper proposal; whether he’d done all that stuff because he actually wanted to, because he loved her in that proper way. Tig honestly didn’t know why Darren had even proposed in the first place. She’d never been bothered about marriage. Her parents still weren’t married and they’d been together almost thirty years now. He was the one who wanted it, and when she’d agreed, she’d somehow become the fool. Not fair at all.
She placed the invitation in the drawer, underneath a bunch of papers, and tried to ignore the RSVP note. She absolutely should not go to that wedding. But if Ollie wasn’t a figment of her imagination, but actually a real, absolutely gorgeous guy with the sort of hair Darren dyed for, and muscles that he’d never burn his beer belly off for, well … didn’t she sort of owe it to him to turn up? Just to show she had no hard feelings? Or that other men did – for her?
Tig shook her head, irritated at herself for caring, and got herself ready for the gym. A few hours beating the crap out of a punching bag would solve the problem to everyone’s satisfaction. She cycled back a couple of hours later, exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. Tig rested her bike in the hallway, safe in the knowledge that Ame wouldn’t be home for hours, and would never know, and jumped into the shower.
When she got out, she dried herself, dropped the towel, and looked at herself in the mirror. It never seemed to get any easier, even though these days she was kind to herself. She turned this way and that, checking the curves and lines of herself. She liked to see where the exercises she’d done that morning changed her. She was creating herself, carving herself out of stone. She was kind to herself now, no pinching or pulling. Her body was better than that. And so was she. She swallowed and nodded at herself.
She’d never really hated herself when she was bigger. Sure, there were days when she’d cry after trying on clothes, or tried to smooth down the bumps when she bought a new dress, but she’d never hated herself. Never tried fad diets. She’d always liked herself too much for that. She was just Tig. She was a little chubby, and had a kind round face, and people liked her because she was nice. Darren used to pat her on the bum and say she was perfect. And her other mates used to get asked out as she sat on the sidelines, but that was fine because she had Darren. And those boys usually ended up being her mates anyway.
Now … people seemed to look at her more. The comments about how she had such a pretty face seemed to have been replaced with judgements on why she wanted to lift heavy things, did she want to look like a man, did she want to be a body builder? Why did everyone have to have an opinion on her body? It had taken so many years to find a way to change herself without admitting that meant she was less. That you could like who you were and still want to change.
She knew she was lighter, she felt lighter. She could run without pounding. Some days she worried that, as her face thinned out, she became more pointed, more drawn. But she hadn’t worried about that until Darren left. She’d liked how her body became streamlined, like an expensive car, revealing curves and smooth lines. She fluffed up her hair, and it framed her. She was too pale, and her red hair seemed to have dulled a little over the last few months. She looked herself straight in the eyes, and nodded. ‘You are doing fine,’ she said firmly. ‘You are enough.’ The same words she’d said every day since he left. She looked down to her boobs, still hefty enough, and her face shifted into an expression of pity. ‘You are, really,’ she told them, and pulled on her robe.
Tig’s process had been the same, every day. She was aware that her body had changed, and in her opinion for the better, and yet she didn’t really feel like herself anymore. She was the same outgoing, cheery girl she’d been at size sixteen (or at least until Darren went), but people seemed to respond to her differently. Men who’d joke