Page 44 of Stella is Starting Over

‘Which one’s Richard? The rich one?’

‘Yes. I went over for dinner and he lives in like, a penthouse, and he cooked me a steak and then asked me to be exclusive—’

Lou sighs. ‘If you’re going to ring me late at night to tell me things, they need to be gossip or drama, not things that are going to make me jealous of your life.’

‘My life is still a disaster,’ I counter. ‘After he told me he wanted to be exclusive, he then refused to have sex with me because he didn’t want to rush me.’

‘Did you find this man from some kind of magical wishing tree?’

‘Lou! No, look, I know this sounds insane and, when I say it out loud, I get how it sounds, but I actually. . . I feel a bit weird about it? Like why does he want to be exclusive? Why doesn’t he want to shag me?’

‘Because he likes you and he wants to snap you up.’

‘But why?’ I whine.

I can hear Lou rolling her eyes at me. ‘Look, you’re being insane – this is good news. Not all men are scabby losers like Gavin. And you can just take it slow and enjoy him.’

‘He said he wouldn’t want his wife to have to work after she had kids.’

‘Oh my god, he’s a monster, we should call some kind of hotline.’

I sense I’m losing my audience. ‘I’m just saying, isn’t that a red flag? It’s old-fashioned?’

‘You have a handsome, rich boyfriend who can cook and wants to provide for his future family. That is the dream. Stop being ungrateful. Goodnight.’

Lou hangs up. I stare at the phone for a while. Then I do something that feels surprisingly disloyal. I voice note Dom.

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘I realise that you’re not employed officially as my dating spirit guide but I need your wisdom. I had dinner with Richard, and it was great, but he asked me to be exclusive. And then he didn’t want to shag me because he doesn’t want to rush. What the fuck is going on?’

I send it.

He’s not online. Probably out having a nice time with someone prettier and less needy than me. I hope so. He deserves that.

Dominic

Earlier this week, Florrie asked me to come to a poetry reading. We were lying in bed together and she looked up at me, the pillows stacked under her chest, her hair a curtain on either side of her face, and adopted an expression I hadn’t seen before – something akin to being bashful. ‘I’m doing this reading thing,’ she said, not meeting my eye. ‘It’s in Peckham, and I was thinking you might come?’

I’d have gone however she asked me, but something about the way she asked – perhaps coupled with a recent conversation about her parents never turning up for anything her entire childhood – meant that I answered with an enthusiasm I couldn’t usually muster for a poetry event.

She is, in fairness, actually really very good at writing poetry. And songs, and blog posts about things that are wrong with the world. Unfortunately, a lot of the people who are ahead of her in the queue to read at this thing are dramatically less talented. I arrived on the dot of 7.30 p.m. – before Florrie herself had even showed up – which meant sitting through an acknowledgement of privilege (we were all invited to close our eyes – or do whatever felt safe as an equivalent – and reflect on the factors that might have prevented someone from being able to attend the event). Around this point I started to wonder if that thing about getting more right-wing as you age was true.

Around 8.30 p.m., after I’ve checked four times that she told me this time and this date at this venue (as if there would be another poetry open-mic night going on), Florrie arrives. She’s perfection, in a white sundress that she probably found in some French market or an estate sale at a dead Hollywood icon’s house. Literally half the heads in the room turn to look when she pushes through the pub doors, which isn’t ideal because the person on the stage is doing a rhyming thing (I want to say rap but he’s so white it really doesn’t feel accurate) about being bullied in primary school. Apparently unbothered by interrupting, Florrie stands and watches the poet finish, then claps with an enthusiasm I don’t think anyone could fake. Then she makes her way to my table, where I’m relieved to finally no longer look like a weird freak who came to a poetry thing full of students on his own.

‘You look beautiful,’ I tell her. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Just water,’ she says. ‘I want to be sharp.’

We sit through several more acts, Florrie’s attention rapt on the tiny stage, mine wandering to whether I can walk home via the chip shop and trying to work out which neighbour’s hand is in the picture that Amazon sent me of my delivery earlier. Eventually it’s Florrie’s turn.

She goes to the stage, her legs long and brown between her cowboy boots and her white skirt.

‘This piece is called Getting Fucked,’ she says, her voice husky and delicious.

She reads. And it’s clearly about someone she’s slept with, and the desire to be fucked in a way that made her feel like she didn’t exist. And I listen, because she’s brilliant and the only person here who should ever be trusted with a pen again. But also, I can’t help wondering when she wrote it. Who’s it about? I watch her eye line to see whether she’s looking at anyone else in this room, whether she’s reading it for the direct benefit of a man – or a woman – who’s listening right now.

She finishes and everyone claps. I’m irritated that they only clap at the same level as they did for the previous guy, when she’s dramatically more talented.

Eventually, just as I’ve fully lost feeling in my left arse cheek, the whole poetry thing is over. Despite my moderately well-disguised horror at some of what I’ve just seen (including a guy with a cut-glass Eton accent doing a spoken word performance about being misjudged and knowing what prejudice is) there were a couple of quite moving pieces. I’m sort of excited at the prospect of walking home with Florrie and quizzing her about her piece, and her thoughts on the rest of them. Hopefully we can have a laugh at the stupider ones and she can explain the ones that I’m too thick to have understood.