Lack of practice.
My first and last boyfriend （unless you count being married to Jeremiah Stephens for the duration of lunch break in year three, which I don’t, because he promptly divorced me and was married to Kerry Jennings by Friday recess） was a boy in my year when I was seventeen. Eight years I’ve been out of the game, and it was hardly what you’d call a relationship anyway. We only held hands and kissed （no tongue） near the bus stop after school for nearly three months. He grabbed my boob a grand total of four times—and it was always the left one. We broke up weeks before our last day of high school because he wanted to be single for freshers week of university. I haven’t had another boyfriend since.
“How long must I proclaim my innocence?” the witch cries. “Drown me and I sink, then I’m innocent but dead. Drown me and I survive, you burn me at the stake!”
What if Ben calls and expects an actual conversation? I hate talking on the phone. My eloquence only reveals itself when I can take the time to think about what I want to say, write it down, and edit it a few times before hitting Send.
Even at the obnoxious, egotistical age of seventeen, my “boyfriend” and I didn’t have much to say to each other. Our phone calls were so awkward, just gaps of silence and, intermittently, breathing. I shudder at the memory.
Members of the audience gasp.
“How can that be?” an actor declares, and I realize I’ve missed something crucial in the play.
I try to pay attention.
I really hope Ben sends a text instead of calling.
Chapter Four
Ben doesn’t call or text, and I endlessly alternate between relief and disappointment, until an actual piece of life-altering news occurs.
I think I may have found the perfect flat.
With my current salary and atypical lack of a social life, I’m hoping to rent a room in London for a maximum of eight hundred pounds a month with bills included, so I spend my free evenings and entire weekend at viewings until I meet Jo Bowen （whose name is actually Joseph because her mother believes free speech can’t exist if any words remain gender-assigned. Jo has a sister called James who goes by Jamie and a brother called Elizabeth who goes by Eli）。 Jo has a room available in a three-bedroom flat in Wandsworth located a ten-minute walk from two stations.
Hi Maddie,
Yes, the room is still available! You’ll be living with me and another flatmate called Cam, who moved in last week. She works as a primary school teacher’s assistant and I work in the charity sector. Are you free to view the room and meet us Sunday afternoon? x
The ground-floor maisonette is an old build and the landlady, Winnie （Jo’s mum, and possibly short for Winston?）， bought this house in the seventies. The kitchen has white panel cupboards, an old-fashioned oven and linoleum floors; the fridge is the most modern fixture. The corridor is long but narrow, Cam’s room is next to the kitchen, and the living room is bright and colorful, with a red sofa in the middle and a teal armchair with a tartan blanket draped over it in the corner. A painted tapestry of a rural village hangs on the wall and two tall bookcases are slotted into opposite corners. Like the kitchen, it has enough room for three people, and there’s even a small garden out the back. Upstairs, Jo shows me a separate toilet and bathroom. I picture myself in the tub, lights off, candles lit, bubbles, music, seltzer in a wineglass and bath bombs that change the color of the water pink.
Then we walk into what would be my room. It’s bigger than the box room I currently reside in at home, and I briefly consider what I’d do with the space if it were given to me.
The room comes with a double bed, a large wardrobe, wide windows, and a small desk and chair. The rent is more than I hoped to pay, but this is the best flat—and residents—I’ve found by far.
Before Jo, I’d spent an entire day wishing the opportunity to move out had been presented to me earlier. Only a day before my search began, Shu messaged to say Lydia had agreed to them living together and they were now looking for a place for just the two of them. Since then I’d met shared-bathroom-nightmare Carrie, who’d left two used tampons floating in the toilet; four-in-the-house-and-therefore-four-sets-of-crusting-washing-up-left-in-the-sink Jennifer, and who could forget are-you-single-because-this-is-an-open-kind-of-house Tim? I’d of course met some regular people too, but not surprisingly their rooms were snapped up before I’d even caught the train home.
Usually I’d stand in the corner whilst I was essentially interviewed by the prospective flatmates, but Jo offers me a cup of tea and a seat on her squashy sofa and when Cam is off the phone we all talk about work, books, and social lives （theirs far more distinct than mine）。
Jo has wavy dark-blond hair and bright blue eyes that make me think she could cry on cue, whilst Cam is the opposite. She has short brunette hair （which I think used to be longer because she often reaches up to pull it into a ponytail before realizing she can’t）， brown eyes, a slim face, very … unobjectionable. Ryan Fellows in secondary school once called me plain-looking. He was surprised by my offended reaction. He said it was a compliment, that there was nothing odd about my face, that I still looked nice without any makeup on. Looking at Cam, I understand what he was getting at.
“I’m still new around here,” says Cam, “but it’s a great area. The commute is easy and there’s shops and bars everywhere.”
“My two previous flatmates moved out to move in with their partners,” adds Jo.
Cam rolls her eyes and says, “Social convention strikes again.”
“You wouldn’t move in with a partner?” I ask her.
“Oh, I would,” she says, “but I like to indulge in hypocrisy every now and again.”
Cam leaves shortly after to meet a friend for dinner and it’s just Jo and me. I suddenly remember what Shu said about threateningly pretty flatmates. As Jo speaks about the decline of our government and whether Eton College is worth all the praise if this is what it keeps churning out, I consider her. She has big, pale blue eyes, round cheeks, and an easy smile, with a needle-thin gap in her front teeth. She has on a giant blue jumper, gray leggings, pink socks, and her feet swing inches from the floor.
Am I threatened by her? No.
Not because she isn’t pretty—it’s because … well, why should I be threatened when I don’t have a Lydia, a partner to protect? Why should I feel threatened when I don’t see myself having someone to shelter against the harsh vicissitudes that is other female beauty?
I think of Ben who has yet to call or text.
“I think that’s enough about me,” Jo says. “Cam, even though she moved in only last week, is great, as you saw. She can be a little sarcastic, but aren’t we all? She’s not much of a girly-girl, but I kind of like that. I can throw enough glitter around for the three of us. Are you very girly?”
“Oh.” I frown. “I’m not actually sure.”
Jo tilts her head, and I wonder if I’ve failed the interview. She smiles. “Still finding out who you are?” she asks.
I consider her question. “I think I’m just starting to learn, actually.”
* * *
On my way home, Jo messages to say that after a phone call with Cam, they’ve decided the room is mine if I want it.