Low Expectations (20 page)

‘Oh God, that. Rose has such a big mouth! To be fair to him though, he didn't actually stick it in without my permission.'

‘I believe that is a perfect articulation of what is known as “damning with faint praise”.'

‘Let's go for a fag, I don't want to talk about this inside.'

We leave our bottle of wine to reserve our table and automatically throw our coats over our arms to disguise our glasses, which are technically not allowed outside. Exiting the pub, we shiver alongside the other exiled addicts sheltering in the tiled doorway. The English are made of strong stuff; frigid winds will not turn us into quitters. Taking a seat on a cold wooden bench that has seen better days, I roll up a cigarette between wind-bitten fingers as we stare out at the council block opposite us, resplendent in its faux-Corbusier cement glory. I reflect, not for the first time, what a different city London would have been, had it not been blitzed. France may have rapidly capitulated, but at least they preserved their skyline.

‘Go on; tell me. I've already decided he's odious based on what Rose told me, so there's no point sugar-coating it.'

Sarah holds my gaze steadily, sucking on her Marlboro with gusto.

‘I know, it's a bit awful, I think. Though it's hard to judge what is normal behaviour these days, I've dated so many strange men. Basically, there was an incident quite early on where he was suggesting we dispense with condoms cause I needed the morning after pill anyway. He was quite insistent but I wasn't into it, he used one, I considered the matter dropped. Then, a few weeks ago, we were about to have morning sex from behind and it was only when I reached back and held his cock to guide it in that I realized he wasn't wearing one. He said he was sleepy and forgot.'

‘What. The. Actual. Fuck. “Forgetting” to put on a condom is like “forgetting” to put on a bra – it only happens in the minds of horny teenage boys.'

‘I know! He said he was half asleep, but who knows. So, the other night, we are messing around and he looks into my eyes and spreads my legs – it was forceful, hot – but all without going for the johnny. I ask him if he has any left; he says no. I sort of play-struggle and say, “Stop it” and remind him I'm not on the Pill and he's like, “Don't you want to do it natural, baby? I've done this with lots of girls and nothing's ever happened.” I tell him no, that I don't want to take the risk and then we're kissing again – the whole thing is
this confusing push-me-pull-you, cause I want it too, just not like this. Things are getting heated. He pins my arms above my head and says, “You wouldn't be able to stop me, you know”. And though his tone is light and he has a smile on his face, I have a moment of doubt where I don't know if he's joking.'

‘Fucking hell, Georgie, this is way worse than Rose said. I feel like you're telling me a date-rape story!'

‘I know, but the thing is, I like dominance, so aside from this vital component, it would have been great.' I worry my lip between my teeth. I did tell Beardy that I like a man with throwdown, after all.

‘Consent should be the only vital component. I love a bit of throwdown too but this sounds fucked up, darling—'

‘I know, I know. At this point I was just kind of looking into his face, hurt and bewildered, thinking, “Is this the kind of man you are?”'

‘Jesus, what a cunt. And I don't say that lightly.' Sarah hands me one of her cigs as she sees me struggling to roll my second. Though we are sat on a bench underneath heaters, I can no longer feel the tips of my fingers.

‘Yeah, well, he just stopped really suddenly, pulled away completely and as he walks to the other side of the room he reaches into a drawer and brandishes some Trojans at me. He laughs and goes, “Just kidding, I have a whole pack!”'

Sarah looks at me, disbelievingly.

‘I know. Then came the weirdest explanation ever. He said that it was all a test to see how I would react, that so many girls were easy these days and with a bit of pressure they'd do whatever a guy asked them to. He wanted to see if I was like that.'

‘Georgie, that is some really fucked up women-hating bullshit. You should dump him immediately.'

I know this. Rationally, I know this. Emotionally, I know this. Spiritually, I know this. But a twisted part of me keeps making up justifications for his behaviour. Yes, it was totally inappropriate but in the end it was a joke. So he says. A joke in extremely poor taste. I am guilty of that myself from time to time. Clearly, he should know better than to pressurize me, but he also knows that I like things a little bit rough. Should I have been clear about boundaries I was uncomfortable with before we ever slept together, on the off-chance that he would think acceptable what I think is clearly unacceptable? Do people really have a State-of-the-Union-style talk before they get down and dirty? I had never considered it necessary before, but maybe I should start.

‘Is it really a dumpable offence? I don't know. He clearly thought he wasn't doing anything wrong. He hasn't done anything like it before. It makes me wonder if I am over-reacting,' I muse. This all went down a week ago and no longer upsets me, though I have started to look at him in a different light.

‘You're definitely not overreacting. I hope you gave him a right telling off!'

‘Yeah, I did. I totally did.' I totally didn't. I was too confused as to how I felt about it. Now it seems a bit late to bring it up. ‘Have you ever been in a situation like that?'

‘Fuck, no. Well actually, there was this one time. It was a different circumstance but equally manipulative. I was on a date with this guy years ago and we went to see some anniversary screening of
Titanic
. His choice, not mine. Anyway I noticed that he was crying during the end credits—'

‘He was crying! That's sweet but not exactly your cup of tea.' Sarah likes men in touch with their emotions, but weepers are a step too far.

‘It's true; I took the piss a little bit. He got defensive and started talking about how he used to watch this film with his father and that they had bonded over it. I assumed his dad had died and asked him if he had passed away recently but he didn't answer. I thought he was too upset to talk about it. I wasn't so attracted to him and we hadn't slept together yet. But by the time we ended up back at his, he was still acting so traumatized that I basically gave in to a pity fuck.'

‘That's so unlike you!'

‘I am capable of sentimentality from time to time! But when it was over, the first thing he did after rolling off me was to say, very casually, “You know, my dad isn't dead.”'

‘Whaat!' I burst out laughing.

‘Bastard made up some line about how his relationship with his father had changed and in some ways it was “As if” he was dead. As if! It's hardly the same thing. “As if” doesn't even merit a handjob.'

‘What the fuck.'

‘No shit. I haven't given in to a nurturing impulse since. It's rarely worth it. The more you give, the more you're taken. More women should know this.' Sarah lights up another cigarette. ‘Seriously, Georgie. Look out for yourself first.'

‘Wow. Maybe I should count myself lucky Beardy didn't bring any dead relatives into his condom-avoidance speech.'

‘All right, ladies? You must be dedicated smokers to bear this cold,' a familiar voice calls out. Scott has come round the corner of the pub to the left of our bench. He pauses in front of us, taking out a packet of Camels and lighting up, before raising it in a smoker's salute.

‘Scott! What a surprise!' Reddening, I pray he heard none of our conversation. My Joker-esque grimace can hardly be termed a smile; I wave a maniacal greeting from my seat.

‘It can hardly be such an unexpected encounter, considering that my bedroom is upstairs.'

Though the statement is completely innocuous, his eyes are dancing in a way that makes my stomach flip. A brief, unbidden fantasy of being in his room, pressed up against the wall rushes at me. Must stop fantasizing about off-limits men. I arrange my face into a semblance of normality. Prettiness
is too tall an order, but I can do better than the contorted buffoonery that overtakes my features in his presence.

‘An unexpected encounter is always the sweetest. That's why I'm on Craigslist!' Sarah can always be counted on to shamelessly chortle at her own bad jokes.

‘Craigslist, really? Surely things aren't as bad as all that,' Scott says, his eyebrows disappearing underneath the scruff of his messy hair, the colour of ginger biscuits in the light of the streetlamps.

‘No, not quite yet. But it gives me a thrill to read the encounters section at work in my lunch break. Far more entertaining than flipping through
Grazia
in Pret, not to mention free!'

‘Not a bad idea. Free is my favourite number,' I say feebly. Sarah once told me that, from time to time, she masturbates in the toilets at work. I had hoped that she was joking. Now, I have a frightfully clear idea of what it is she's been thinking about and it involves bad grammar, loneliness and dick pics.

‘Luckily your work doesn't involve any computers, or I dread to think what you would be wasting your time with,' says Scott, touching me lightly on the shoulder.

I bark out a laugh. My level of hilarity is completely disproportionate. What is wrong with me? Please God, if you exist, ignore the starving orphan's prayers and grant me the power to behave normally!

‘With the
Daily Mail
, if I know Georgie!'

Back-stabber. Why is it that supposed friends always bring
up your embarrassing pastimes in front of men? Sure, he's not a love interest (I suspect he must be dating Alice or someone equally fabulous) but he is my boss. I invited Sarah to join me at the Saatchi Gallery last week which she turned down as ‘Too far, too much, can't be arsed', so I went alone. This she obviously does not mention, preferring to tar me with the grandstanding newspaper favoured by those who are, publicly, barely the right side of the BNP. Privately, I suspect that anyone who actually buys the broadsheet probably has a poster of Nick Griffin on their bedroom wall and eyeholes cut into half their linens.

‘You read the
Daily Mail
?' Scott's disbelieving tone suggests he is torn between disgust and disgust. Alice probably alternates between Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky when she wants a light break from Foucault. Damn her sparkly eyes.

‘Just the shitty celebrity section,' I say defensively. ‘It's an amusingly terrible rage-read! Plus, it's updated constantly, which is the key to solid procrastination. You should try it sometime.'

It's the best defence I can muster for this most guilty of pleasures. I would like to pretend that I fritter away hours on the
Guardian
or
It's Nice That
while waiting for the debut of something truly worthy, like ‘Mensa V. Design Weekly' or whatever the hipster cognoscenti has up its sleeve. Obviously, this would only be deemed suitably avant-garde for a few months and I would discover it long after it had ceased
to be cool. I just don't have the patience for things with any political or artistic import online. At three in the morning, deadline looming, a super-bland piece about our dry-as-dust Princess Waity Katie's blander outfit, quoting the blandest of all her bland statements, seems far more pressing.

Maybe I am doing Kate a grave injustice. Perhaps she has just been slowly weaned off personality in her capacity as a future head of state. Underneath it all she may be an off-beat, wacky nymphomaniac who thinks that Jesus was an alien-human crossbreed that will carry the lucky few off to the thirteenth dimension in 2017. Though a royal wedding would involve too many uneaten dinners and other bother for those anticipating transcendental teleportation to the next realm within a few years.

Still, she could be so much cooler if only she put in a little bit of effort; imagine a revamped ‘Culty Katie' in Martian warrior gear designed by Nicolas Ghesquière. I live in hope that Prince George is a martian half-breed. For fear of being thought a weirdo with an enormous over-interest in the secret lives of celebrities, I say none of this and bring my mind back to the conversation at hand.

‘You'd be amazed by how many people read it. There are quite a few undercover
DM
lovers amongst our sex, myself included.' Sarah is defending me against what may have been a tirade from Scott.

Scott reprimands me in a manner I fear is only half joking.

‘Christ. That might be true, but there's no need to advertise it, hey, Georgie? Keep that stuff on the down-low so we can remain friends.'

‘I'm not ashamed. I'm a modern, multi-faceted, independent woman,' I say, unsure why I added the independent bit, considering it won't be true until I stop depending on my parents for tragic handouts in addition to rent. Katy Perry must have subconsciously infected my vocabulary with the meaningless pinkwash ‘empowerment' she refuses to call feminism.

‘I read trash and I read proper novels, too, when I have time to fully enjoy them,' I say haughtily.

‘Oh? What was the last one you read you really loved, then?' Scott has a habit of lightly touching me when he speaks. It is very unnerving.