Low Expectations (4 page)

Spinning on my heel, I catch sight of his startled expression before I march off into the crowd with the fake purpose of the directionless.

I had meant my tone to be more jocular, but residual anger hardened my words, making me sound like a bitter, humourless old hag. The kind of person I fear becoming most, but at this point I have no option but to go with it. ‘Never surrender! Never apologize!' is my motto and also the reason why I am a terrible waitress.

I'm going to regret this in the morning, I think.

I awake, in some pain, having bled onto my sheets. Fantastic. That does go some way towards explaining my temper last night. I never have PMT; the week before I am largely unaffected. I am far more likely to bite someone's head off when my innards are twisting, my knickers are stained and my breasts may explode. There's no fighting the insanity of oestrogen. The womb is more powerful than the will, as I believe they say in
Star Wars
. Something to that effect, anyway.

Oh well, I only acted like a massive bitch to that rarest of birds – a very attractive man hitting on me. He might only have been trying to mollify me but I prefer to think the glimmer of chemistry between us wasn't imaginary. Though even if he was chatting me up, he probably didn't
really fancy me; there was an extremely favourable ratio of men to women, the likes of which I will probably never see again. I am twenty-four years old and I've been dating since I was sixteen. Only three really good-looking men have ever actively sought me out, so if this trend continues, in a few years it will happen again – barring dramatic weight gain, resurgence of teenage acne, et cetera.

It shouldn't be this difficult, I think, as I drag my aching carcass to the bathroom. Dating the type of boys you meet drunk in pubs and clubs hasn't worked out for me terribly well. And though there are packs of hipsters, they have the off-putting attitude that if you were worth knowing, they would have slept with you by now. These types limit themselves to incestuous partner-swapping within a circle of highly individual friends who all look like they were spat out of Urban Outfitters, though they never shop there.

It doesn't help that I went to an all girls' school followed by a Womenswear degree where most of the men are otherwise inclined. There are, of course, straight guys in fashion, but they are highly in demand. They may not realize it at first, but within a month it becomes apparent that many of the well-dressed women around them are rarely approached. I am always surprised that more heterosexual men don't go into fashion. Seducing the girls is as easy as shooting koi in an ornamental pond.

If your peer group has failed you it is hard to meet new
men in London. People are less confident in approaching others unless they are formally introduced by a third party or are totally wasted. And call me old-fashioned but I take exception to someone grinding up against me in a club before saying hello, often before having a clear view of my face. When you discount the perverts, drunkards and those good eggs not cheating on their girlfriends, it leaves you with a very narrow pool to choose from on a Saturday night.

Sarah, a friend of mine who has been coupled up with a lovely man for some time, suggested I take a crack at Internet dating. As she described it, ‘If I could, I would be all over that shit … You can have total control! It's like window shopping for dick!' She is the only person I know who sees the grim meat-market reality of OKCupid as exciting.

I pretended I might give it a go, though I've secretly already tried it. Let's face it. Failing at finding love online is not something anyone wants to broadcast. I probably didn't help matters by saying on my profile: ‘Willing to lie about how we met,' in the ‘About Me' section and posting a funny-not-sexy picture with my face obscured. It is hard to advertise yourself effectively when consumed with residual shame. A few dates later, I deleted my account. They were not in-and-of-themselves catastrophic, just wasted hours of polite tedium and a scramble during awkward silences for the kind of lame conversation I last used while babysitting.

In any case, it seems I am just as cowardly behind a
computer screen as I am in real life. I fall into the same pattern – throwing out my net, being passive, waiting to see what hapless creature stumbles into it and then being totally underwhelmed by my catch. Like a fisherman who catches only anchovies, I am desperate for a cod. Or a salmon. Or a Scotty McWhatever he was called. With his hair of toast.

My stomach grumbles and I dismiss these thoughts as the crazed unrest of a hungry mind. The blues can always be alleviated by something involving cheese, or if the hour permits, booze. If there is one upside to the first day of your period, it is the guilt-free consumption of fat in all its glorious varieties. When someone invents boozy cheese, my life will be complete.

Weekends being life's greatest pleasure, it is particularly maddening that mine is to be ruined not only by The Curse, but also by my flatmate. I can hear noises in the kitchen; I hesitate on the stairway, hoping that she will return to her room before I die of hunger.

Anastasia is one of those people who is superficially normal, but if you were to talk with her for, say, the length of a dinner party, you would soon realize there are cracks in her sanity. And if you were to live with her, you would soon realize that she is in fact totally unhinged. However, I was desperate for a place to stay when my previous housing fell through and I thought, how bad can an acquaintance-of-a-friend-of-a-friend be? The answer is very fucking bad.

Stacy, as she prefers to be known (an early warning sign: Stacy is a name for a child's doll circa 1994, not an adult human woman) is twenty-seven and one of those perpetually out-of-work actors subsisting on, I presume, family money. She claims to be from White Russian stock originally – hinting, but not outright inferring, that she might be related to
the
Anastasia, of Disney and historical fame. She does not believe in banks, cash-points, Eastern Europe, personal space, laughter, starchy root vegetables, the rights of the poor, council tax or central heating.

She does believe in Epigenetics, something I had previously never heard of. From my Google research, I have found it to be rather different from the theories she has subjected me to. In essence, she thinks she can exercise the power of the mind to control her physical sensations. Stacy insists she can regulate her body temperature as though she were a Tibetan monk, even when her lips are blue and the downy pelt on her arms is standing on end like a field of wheat. All this would be harmless New Age quackery I would have no problem indulging, except that the flat is always freezing. She refuses to admit she feels the arctic chill seeping through the Victorian windows of our little terraced house near London Fields. We are currently engaged in a silent Cold War, where I run around turning on all the radiators as soon as I notice she is out, which she promptly switches off again as soon as she returns.

She also believes in water fasts, which apparently ‘can heal all ailments the body can experience'. These fasts consist of temporary bouts of starvation, lasting anywhere from seven to fourteen days. Unprompted, she informed me that if I would only follow a water fast for six weeks, I could have the body I have always dreamed of. This was the turning point where I mentally shifted her from ‘Annoying' to ‘Evil'.

What irritated me the most was her presumption that my dream body must be her dream body – that of Doutzen Kroes. Aside from the fact that if I lost that much weight my breasts would look like punctured piñatas, you can get really creative with a ‘dream body'. Maybe a thigh gap is not that important to me. Maybe swimming underwater for prolonged periods of time is. Maybe what I really want is gills.

During her fasting periods, if I come near her with food or liquids other than water, she will glare and find a corner in which to purify her energy, which I have selfishly polluted. Smoking cigarettes inside is obviously against the rules. Smoking blunts, though, is always allowed. I've never been that into ‘The Devil's Weed', to use my Mum's terminology. People who claim it is equivalent to alcohol are kidding themselves. Even if I share one joint, there will always be a moment where I wish I wasn't high. It takes a lot for me to wish I wasn't drunk. Anyway, since living with Stacy I've lost interest in it entirely, in case her crazy is somehow catching. I don't know why she bothers – I've never met such an uptight stoner.

‘All right, Stacy?' I say. I have relented my pathetic stakeout and stumble into our little kitchenette. It is spotlessly clean, as usual.

It is one of Stacy's stipulations that the dishes be washed immediately after usage. As she does not often eat, this is supremely convenient for her, rather less so for me. She does spend a lot of time in here, standing by the kettle with a mug of hot water and lemon (plus a tiny squirt of agave syrup if she is feeling indulgent) watching my meal preparations with an air of vague superiority. I am convinced she is thinking that if she ever deigned to cook, she would do a much better job of it.

I am currently wrapped up in a sexy ensemble of stripy long johns, a cashmere scarf I found on a bus, a thick jumper, a giant woolly cardigan and knee-high clashing ski socks. Last night's MAC eyeliner has migrated under my eyes. I look like the result of a passionate encounter between Alice Cooper and Pippi Longstocking, raised by ‘Stitch and Bitch' enthusiasts.

Stacy is wearing a silky Chinese robe, loosely belted to reveal her sternum and coltish legs, holding a glass full of what looks like pondscum. She looks like Grace Kelly lounging in a boudoir in Shanghai, holding pondscum. She is forever attempting to make me try her algae-vitamin concoctions but I refuse on the grounds that I want to nourish the taste buds I've not yet killed through smoking and anyway we are not living in L.A.

‘I'm perfectly well, thank you, Georgina.'

Stacy always calls me Georgina, though she knows full well I hate it.

‘Oh dear, you're not looking very well this morning. Late night? There's some more barley-cayenne-asparagus in the fridge if you want. It's good for spots, puffiness and dark circles. I've never suffered from those symptoms, as they are usually related to liver strain and as you know I rarely drink. It would do you a world of good if you took a shot every morning and made some lifestyle changes.' Stacy smiles tightly and looks at my face as if she is concerned.

‘Yeah, I was working late. I've got hideous cramps. I think I need a bit more sustenance this morning. Thanks though.' I crack open some eggs and resist the urge to smear yolk on her perfect complexion. The fresh spots on my forehead have elected to co-ordinate themselves with the bobbles on my red scarf.

‘I never get cramps. It's one of the benefits of fasting.'

Even her uterus is perfect, damn her. She probably sheds three drops of blood on a super-slim tampon and is done for the month.

‘Yes, you've mentioned that. Do you want some omelette?'

‘No, I want to keep myself fresh for my date with Cosmo.' Stacy wrinkles her nose in delicate disgust.

She is the only person I know who speaks about food as if it sullies her. I cannot understand this mentality. I have
felt genuine angst in debates over the great, imperative, eternal question that wakes truth-seekers up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night: Food or Sex. Gun to your head; no caveats. For ever.

Would you choose a constant supply of fantastic sex with only flavourless gruel for sustenance? Or three-Michelin-star-worthy feasts and eternal celibacy, no masturbation allowed? The additional variable of weight gain or loss might influence your decision. Heart disease is no joke, while sexathons would keep you spry well into your nineties. Though being so well fed, would you cease to care? The smell of scrambled eggs with cheddar, mushrooms and chives wafts up at me. At the moment, I would choose food.

However, if Michael Fassbender suddenly appeared in the kitchen half naked and tried to ravish me, I'd be back to square one. It's an insolvable quandary, you see, best tackled while impassioned and drunk.

Stacy's persistent whining about her date's choice of venue interrupts my reverie. Apparently, though it is super-expensive, it lacks the panache necessary to impress someone of her calibre. I was once taken for a Valentine's Day meal at McDonald's, bitter disappointment flavouring an otherwise tasteless fish burger, while I reflected gratefully that at least I didn't know anyone in Kilburn. So I can at least admire her for having standards.

‘I don't think I've met Cosmo, what's he like?'

Stacy has shown no sign of leaving, so I resign myself to the verbal one-upmanship that her conversations usually consist of. Luckily, she rarely wants to speak to me, preferring instead to float about, wandering in and out of various classes. She takes ballet, spinning, yoga and Pilates. I've yet to see her leave for an audition and suspect that ‘acting' is something she pretends to do until she finds a husband.

‘He's new. An investment banker, very tall and dashing. He stopped me as I was getting out of a taxi and insisted on taking my number. He said I look just like Julie Christie in
Doctor Zhivago
and that if he didn't find out my name, he would regret it for the rest of his life. So attractive when men are confident, don't you think? Gianpiero is still in Milan, but I'm visiting him next weekend. I've chucked Lucas. He was trying my patience – always wanting reassurance that I would stop seeing other men. And you know how I can't stand lying.'