We’ve never had a bathroom clash in the morning beforebecause, well, Clara hasn’t been out of bed before 10am since she moved in. But here we are today, at seven in the morning, and not only is she up but she hasn’t actually yet been to bed. She was out drinking with some new friend called Amanda. A woman she is for some reason referring to as ‘Chest of Drawers Amanda’. I heard her crashing home about an hour ago, raiding the kitchen, and then hogging our one bathroom ever since.
‘What is she singing?’ A rough-looking Harry emerges from his room, blinking hard. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin pallid and grey.
‘Oof.’ Salma winces at his appearance. ‘You don’t look too good, mate.’
‘Yeah,’ he mumbles. ‘I had a few with Clara and Chest of Drawers Amanda last night.’ He gestures at the bathroom door as jealousy stabs me in the chest. Harry is my friend, not hers. He swallows hard. ‘I couldn’t hack it, though – those two are hardcore. I came home at about one.’ His breath is ragged. ‘I feel awful. How is Claraalive, never mind singing?!’
Salma raises a finger. ‘Hold on,’ she says, listening. ‘This is the chorus again, I like this bit.’
‘Butthole hair, ohhhhhh where do you come from, buttttttttthole hair!’ Clara yells tunelessly.
‘CLARA, GET OUT OF THERE!’ I screech, pummelling the door with my fists, furious that it sounds like I’m adding both percussion and harmony.
‘Got somewhere to be?’ Salma asks, looking amused by my outburst, and I suddenly feel a bit shy.
‘Er, just the library. I’m meeting Aarav.’
I wanted to get to the library early today. Yes, I’ve got a meeting with my mountain climber later, but I’ve also had a notification thatToo Good to Be Trueis back in stock already. He’s returned her. And I know there will be a note waiting.
It’s been nearly three weeks now since I left that semi-group-sourced reply. Three weeks since I found out from librarian Mack that my pen pal is a man. And our correspondence has since picked up pace quite a lot. He replied quickly – just a couple of days later – with answers to my silly questions. His favourite season is spring, he told me. His usual supermarket is Sainsbury’s – which spun him off into an enjoyable tangent about whether there is meant to be an apostrophe (there is). He admitted to being occasionally guilty of recording long-winded voice notes, but only for old friends where catch-ups are long overdue. My pen pal is apparently an early bird, like me. He has indeed been in an ambulance, and relayed a scary story about a family member recently breaking their leg. Oh! And he does indeed cry at adverts, a confession that made my heart swell with such affection for this faceless human; a man capable of real emotion and honesty.
He had his own questions and I replied swiftly, relaying my childhood pet’s name (Bonnie – a surly cat), my favourite swear word (fuck, though I try to use it sparingly), my first job (a dishwasher in a local National Trust tearoom) and my favourite takeaway (fish and chips, natch). The next library notification came just a day later, and I laughed,remembering how much those dings used to annoy me. That feeling has been replaced each time with a shiver of excitement through my whole body, knowingToo Good to Be Truewould be back on the shelf – with a new note hopefully waiting for me. And there was:
Hello you,
I adored your latest note, you make me laugh so much. I’m with you on fish and chips, although I am also a huge fan of a regular Chinese. Y’know, just for a bit of variety. Got to keep things interesting, right? Enjoy a wide range of fruits and veg. My first job was also as a dishwasher, but it was at my uncle’s restaurant, and I’d much rather have worked for the National Trust. I secretly love a wander around a pretty old conservation site. I understand that makes me ancient but I can’t help that – I am, after all, in my thirties now. And I am DELIGHTED to hear about Bonnie! She sounds like exactly the kind of cat I like – temperamental and mean. Big cat fan over here.
E x
Ohhh, that E. How I’ve obsessed over that E. I spent an entire evening doodling E name options, wondering if my note writer could be an Edward, Eric, Evan, Earl, Edwin, Eli, Ethan, Eddie or Elijah.
We’ve exchanged several more since – with me now signing a J at the end – with the notes getting progressively less silly and more intimate as time’s gone on. E told me how hismum got him into reading; how they would read together when he was young; and how his favourite literary characters are all women.
‘Becky Sharp, Katniss Everdeen, Jo March, Matilda Wormwood, and number one is definitely Elizabeth Bennet,’ he wrote in one note, adding, ‘I also have a special place in my heart for all of George Eliot’s female characters, but that’s my mum’s fault.’
I replied with my own top choices: Julianna fromToo Good to Be True. Mary Poppins, Miss Marple, Elinor Dashwood, and I agreed with him wholeheartedly about Elizabeth Bennet. I’ve always admired the way she metaphorically bitch-slapped Mr Darcy into being a better human. It felt like very relatable female energy we still don’t see enough of.
We’ve talked about growing up as awkward book kids and struggling to make friends. He admitted to feeling lonely even now, as an adult, though he’s close to his family. He didn’t say what he does for a job, but did reveal it can be isolating. We teased one another a lot more about our preference for cats (him) vs dogs (me) and discussed a mutual revulsion for smelly cheeses. It’s been intriguing, entertaining and – thanks to our running in-joke aboutThe Very Hungry Caterpillar– still quite silly a lot of the time.
It also feels absurdly – stupidly! – romantic. I’m walking around with a fizz in my stomach all the time. I’m checking my phone constantly, checking my watch, checking my bag. For nothing. It’s like my body is waiting expectantly for something to happen. I think about E a lot, and regularly open WhatsApp to send him a funny picture or meme,before remembering I don’t know his name, never mind his phone number.
After each note, I feel buzzy with excitement. He seems so smart and knowledgeable. Andfun. The whole thing feels dangerous and naughty. Like I’m passing notes at school. But it also feels risky in a whole other way. Because what if I’m starting to feel something for this guy and he turns out to be a monster? What if he’s married? What if he’s got seventeen kids? He mentioned being in his thirties, but that could easily be a lie. What if he’s eighty years old? What if he’s an eighty-year-old married monster with seventeen kids andalsoa fan of Andrew Tate?! Or – most likely – what if we meet and he is completely underwhelmed by the IRL me? What if I am a disappointment?
Clara keeps telling me to stop worrying. She says it’s no different from exchanging messages with someone on Tinder. When I pointed out that you get photos, a name and an age on dating apps, she pfftt’d me and said everyone lies with those things anyway. Then she showed me the heavily filtered photos she uses on her Tinder account, and I honestly couldn’t have picked my twin sister out of a line-up.
So I’ve decided to try my best to go with the flow and enjoy the mad feelings that are creepy-crawling around my stomach. I’m embracing lying awake at night, imagining what he might look like; who he might be. I’m delighting in staring at anyone and everyone who comes into the library, wondering if it could be him. I’m even enjoying the terror I feel at the prospect of falling in love with this man. Fallingin love for the first time. Because, sure, I’ve dated before, but I’ve never had a serious boyfriend. I’ve never been in love.
Unless, of course, you count the men I’ve fallen for in books. There have been a lot of them. And that’s part of the problem, I think. I’ve always thought fictional men were better – or safer at least. Sure, they’re not real, but at least they can’t hurt you.
Clara emerges from the bathroom at last, steam billowing around her as she blinks at the huddled group of housemates in the hallway.
‘What are you all doing out here?’ she asks with surprise, pulling her towel tighter around her. ‘Are we doing a fire drill?’
‘Just enjoying your lovely singing,’ Salma snorts as Harry mumbles something about being sick. He pushes past the lot of us, slamming the bathroom door in my face.
‘NOOOOOOOO, HARRYYYYYYYYY!’ I scream helplessly at the locked door as Clara saunters off to her room without a care in the world.
Chapter SeventeenCLARA
