The Bail
This short story was submitted to the The Sunday Times AAGill Awards by Eloise.
Thursday, 7.09am: pillow bliss.
Oh my gosh can’t be arsed. It’s school ‘girls monthly dins’ tonight after work, but I wish I could just come back and sleep. Ergh I am so tired, should I text them now and plant the seed that I may need to work late, or spring it on them at 4.40pm so there’s no opportunity for them to doubt the legitimacy of my excuse? Then there’s a chance for me to slip up and post something that may offer evidence that my day’s events are contrary to the excuse I give...
Thursday, 3.35pm: arse sitting comfortably on desk chair.
Hmmm slightly bored now and a little bit hungry. My Tupperware lunch feels a distant memory. Maybe I’ll just look at the menu for tonight… Oh no the sashimi look soooo good. It is safer to stick to the vegetarian strict ploy and avoid confrontation to justify why I eat fish BUT not meat. Wow, the padron peppers would be good, but I would selfishly want them all to myself. I don’t want to have to be forced to share them with the whole table and pretend not to be annoyed that we have to pay one fifth of the extortionately expensive £8.95, when really, we only eat 1 and a sixth of a pepper each. Enough moaning. Be a nice friend, it’ll be fab and you love these girls.
Besides, humans need to eat. I know what I’ll do, I’ll be late just to remind them how lucky they are to have my time because I am awfully grand and important in my job (yes they are all too). Or maybe I’m just up myself.
Thursday, 6.48pm: toilet cubicle in office.
I have actually finished work now and getting rather peckish. I really don’t have the energy for a robust argument that may slightly resemble the truth that my day is too busy to end with dinner out with 5 girls I have loved forever and will always be friends with. About whether I bail or not. I might still though.
I’m a seven minute walk from where we are meant to meet, but don’t want to be first one there as it is novel to be the exciting middle ‘arriver’...who doesn’t miss out on the welcoming gossip and also isn’t so late that they’re actually late. Something I never am.
Thursday 10.42pm: dirty tube carriage.
As the Northern Line trundles beneath me, I reflect on the night that was. The evening had, of course, inevitably ended up being a fascinatingly enjoyable array of updates on what we have all welcomed into our lives since our last monthly dinner. What we have tackled and hurdled or are still struggling to overcome. Some of these struggles prompt empathy, some advice and some laughter. Sasha’s dog died, Hettie’s job is getting tough, and Alice’s sister may be getting engaged (but it’s not exciting because we have been conditioned for 10 years as loyal friends that we do NOT like this sister). Someone else’s break up is getting super tricky this month because it’s the ex’s birthday (the ex that we all think is a knob). So, should she text him – no clearly not…but our advice is going to be ignored regardless as they decide that they know the situation and person better than any of us anyway but like to discuss so the limelight is on their problem. Food is ordered, yes, I went with the sashimi - cuff me. Feminist debate about work, arguing or not arguing, with misogynistic male team members. We took it in turns to fail at being subtle about proving that we are succeeding at being 26-year-old professional women in London to an onlooker. All the while pretending we don’t find it exhausting. This all reminds us of the power and reminiscing impact of the short company of those which you have 15-year-old friendships. The friendships that were built in a blissfully domestic suburban land far, far, away where we grew up and now all moved (not so independently) to the same city, the same borough, even the same road in some cases. The impact such a gathering can have on the week of each of your new lives, remind us of the city we grew up in and left to move to this new city, where we are together but not together. What this sisterhood can do to ground me in the middle of my week has an infinite power. It lets me know that I must keep going as you each independently try. If ‘the meal’ hadn’t even existed as an option for something to fill today’s diary, then none of the above would remind me of why this eternal sisterhood can be the omnipotent foundation of happiness, when we all turn up. The trouble is, you need everyone to turn up. All because of ‘the meal’(the girls dins) the conversation has been set free and allowed to grow and twist and turn into the beautiful monster it became, and is. Around a stage the shape of a table and five chairs (with a tap water for the table, obvs) we chatted, and will chat, in ways we know best, about things we love best, and all come back down to earth. Each of us working as the collective microcosm of other girls’ dinners to fight the patriarchy. As if I almost denied myself one of these because I was ‘tired’. Of course, after having a glass and a half of a Pinot Grigio and a bite of Alice’s chicken Satay, I’m glad I didn’t bail.
All that angst, over the prospect of having maybe had the meal and ended up being complimented by 1.8 pardon peppers (score) lucky me. As if I nearly ducked out of tonight, thinking I could ‘do without’ this interaction when it is just what is necessary to be brought back down to earth as the modern spirals around me faster and faster.
Thursday 10.49pm: rising from the itchy blue carpet seat.
I swing onto the red pole of questionable hygiene to my right as the doors open and I sigh out of them. Euphoric, high on the love of these nearest and dearest. Not even really that tired, I would have stayed up this late regardless scrolling through Instagram, ignoring the Desperate Housewives Season 3 episode 4 still happening on one screen, beyond my screen. I smile contently…this must be enjoyment. The meal can say: mission accomplished.
Friday 7.11am: pillow bliss.
So tired, wish I’d bailed. But not really.
