The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch

CHAPTER 2

A disadvantage of being best friends with someone who has kids is the fact that emergency catch-ups can only occur when and where the children dictate. Which is why I am now sitting on a sad wooden bench in the middle of a children’s playground having a mini breakdown in front of the only person on this planet who can handle it. Sara. I’m not typically much of a talker. Most of my actual thoughts and feelings are for me and only me, but Sara is the only other person who occasionally gets an insight. I’m not sure it’s a privilege.

On the flipside, a benefit of being best friends with someone who has kids is that they are more likely to be prepared for any situation. She has tissues to wipe away any potential tears (even though they won’t come, no matter how much she thinks I need to shed them), snacks to reenergize and distract me and a change of clothes in case someone shits themselves. Hopefully, this last scenario is unlikely to involve me, but it could still happen to someone here.

The only other thing I could really use is more oxygen. I’m not a crier, but when I get worried about things, I tend to talk without breaking for breath.

And today, I’ve been talking so much that I’ve lost track of time. Sara has been nodding and sympathizing and letting me talk, like the good friend she is.

‘But the thing is, I’m totally OK with it. I really am.’ Truthfully, I’m not even sure I know what ‘it’ is referring to. ‘I just wasn’t expecting to see him.’

‘I know.’ Sara is a really good listener friend; she only offers an opinion when I ask for one. ‘But I don’t think you should do his cake.’

I hang my head. ‘I know, but I could really do with the money.’ Over the last year I have started to pivot. My offering has changed. My designs have changed. And my price points have changed along with them. It’s great and it’s exciting, and I want to pivot. But it’s also scary and expensive and uncertain. And I’m at a crunch point. I need to make money, I need to have a win if I am going to keep my business afloat. It’s not the ideal situation to be in. It causes me constant low-level anxiety. ‘I just wish I had known that he was coming. That way I could have decided whether or not to take the meeting. And I could have known to spray some perfume.’

‘I am sure you smelt wonderful.’

‘You know I’m really worried about how I smell.’ I have recently swapped to an eco-friendly deodorant and I feel better about the environment, but I’m unsure if they can combat my sweatisodes.

‘I know, but you don’t need to be. Honestly, I smell you all the time, and I have never known you to smell bad.’

I nod and blow my nose. When I talk so much and don’t breathe properly, my nostrils tend to get really bunged up. It’s like my nose cries because my eyes can’t.

‘Ugh, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to dump on you, but I really appreciate you listening.’

Along with my scent, I also worry that one day Sara will get annoyed at the fact I only talk about me. I do ask her questions about her own life, but somehow her answers are always more succinct than mine. Even though her worries are a lot more legitimate. She has children. She has an important job. She has purpose.

‘Nonsense. You know that I love to hear what’s going on with you. It livens up my own life.’

‘Your life is plenty exciting.’ At this I gesture towards her kids. Or at least I gesture vaguely in the direction I think they have gone. As I don’t have children myself, I don’t have that ability mums seem to have to know where their kids are. Looking up makes me come out of the deepest depths of my self-involved spiral.

‘My life is busy, but it’s not exciting.’ At this moment the younger one of her kids, Henry, comes up to her.

He’s standing by Sara, but he’s staring at me. His silent stare is too much for me to handle, and I break, almost immediately.

‘What can I get for you, buddy?’

He’s been speaking for a while now, but I still rarely understand what he’s saying. Like we’re on two different radio waves. It must be so frustrating when nobody but your parents can understand what you’re trying to say.

He points in my direction. ‘Boobies.’

I look down at my boobs. I don’t find them an easy topic to talk about, especially with a five-year-old.

‘Not here, little guy.’ I wave my hands in front of them like a presenter would do on a TV shopping channel. ‘We save these for special occasions.’ I even add in a wink.

Sara laughs. ‘No, he wants blueberries. Rs are not his strength. Nor are Ls.’

She reaches for the bag which I had absentmindedly been hugging for comfort. I let go a bit reluctantly. My lap immediately feels cold, but at least I have finally stopped talking uncontrollably.

As soon as the Tupperware is open, he takes a handful of the fruit pellets and starts shovelling them into his mouth.

‘Not so many, otherwise you’ll choke.’ Sara is very wise, and sure enough, as soon as she says the words, he’s struggling to swallow. His eyes go a little wide and tears form, but eventually he manages to get them down. When he does, the tears are blinked away and we all start to breathe again. Henry seems relieved too, smiles a happy smile, with bits of blueberries still stuck in his teeth, and runs away.

‘He’s cute.’ And he is cute, but even his dimples aren’t enough to tempt me into having children. I prefer having freedom. And what little money I have. And my unique identity. And bladder control.

‘He is. Most of the time.’ She puts the blueberries away after I shake my head at her offer. I’ve seen where his hands go; nothing could induce me to eat something they have come in contact with. ‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t meet you straight after. Nick’s current project is in Germany, and his flight leaves on Sunday evening, making it all a bit hectic.’ Nick, her husband, is frequently out of town. Secretly, I think they both quite like a bit of distance. She can have cereal for dinner and watch trashy TV, and he can sleep uninterrupted.

‘It’s fine.’ And it really is. ‘It was probably good that nobody saw me after they left. I ended up going to bed early so the day could be over.’

‘Well, I still wish I could have popped over with wine. Having them to myself is exhausting.’ I met Sara after she had already sprogged one of her children, Orla, but I get the impression that having kids has significantly increased her alcohol intake. Sara sighs. ‘You need to hang out with people your own age though. You can’t just hang out with me.’

‘I can. I like hanging out with you.’ I look at her. ‘How are things between you and Nick?’

‘Fine. Good. Great.’ She gazes towards the general direction of her children. ‘The same as the last time you asked.’ There is an element of resignation in her voice, and I know not to press her on the subject. Besides, I would have absolutely no advice for her, never having been married myself.

I follow her gaze and can see Orla running towards the children’s zipline. Last time she went on it she fell off spectacularly quickly. She didn’t realize she had to physically hold on, rather than rely solely on sheer determination of mind. I would have thought preservation of life was a natural instinct, but apparently not in her case. I shout a reminder. ‘Both hands, Orla! Use both hands!’ My outburst causes many people to stare, including a weird wandering child. I turn my attention back to Sara and lower my voice to a more acceptable volume. ‘Besides, you aren’t that much older than me.’ Although there is a bit of an age gap: my sexual awakening came with Wentworth Miller; hers with Keanu Reeves. ‘And I do hang out with other people on occasion. I have another date with the comedian tomorrow. I think he might even be younger than me.’ I can feel Sara’s weighted stare. I shrug it off. ‘I thought it would be distracting after yesterday.’ Her silence is deafening. I crack under the pressure. ‘Out with it.’

‘Do you even like him?’

‘Of course not. Why?’

Sara waits a while before responding.

‘I totally understand and support you going on a date with the comedian, both because he is your age’ – she pauses – ‘or younger, and also because he is a bit of fun, but I don’t know why you never go out with people you actually like.’

I give Sara my version of a teacher face. ‘I have explained this many times.’

‘Remind me.’

My reasoning is cumulative. I exhale a sigh of mild frustration and explain. Again. ‘Fine, but don’t share this with anyone.’ I look at her. ‘I mean it. Especially Nick. I don’t want him to think I’m crazy.’ Even though I’m pretty sure that ship sailed a long time ago, and not because of my stance on relationships. I think it was the patterned poncho I used to wear.

She crosses her heart.

I take a deep inhale before I launch. ‘I like being alone.’ You rarely hear people say this. And even though Sara is one of the least judgemental people I know, I can tell she thinks I am wrong. ‘I prefer it. It is so much easier, particularly logistically. But, I recognize the health benefits, both physical and also mental, of having sex. And I like sex. And although I’m very capable of pleasing myself’ – a phrase I accompany with an eyebrow wiggle – ‘sometimes it’s nice to have a dance partner. It’s more exciting than going for a run, and,’ I add, holding up a finger, ‘it works a wider range of muscles. At least if you’re doing it right.’

I use my hands to show that I’m about to move on to the next part of the thought process. ‘But’ – and it is a very ironic but – ‘I’m a great date.’ At least whilst things are still light and fun and we can pretend that nothing bad has ever happened to us, and that we are made up entirely of laughs and smiles and jokes. ‘So if I let them, people frequently think they want more from me. But I know that they don’t. Which is good, as I don’t want more from them either. So I’ve found that it’s best if I go out with people who are not at all suited to me, so we can have a fun time for as long as it lasts, and then go our separate ways when things start to go bad. Like a best-before date.’ As I say this, I’m very aware that I’m nearing timeout with the comedian, but I think I’m safe for one more night.

Sara gives me some serious side eye and I know she is dubious about my reasoning. I don’t know why. I’ve said all of this with a smile on my face in an effort to reassure her, and I’ve never been more sure of anything. Except maybe Pippa and her stance on a semi-naked cake. But I can’t blame her for being dubious. Even though she’s my closest friend, there are some thoughts that I can’t share, even with her; especially with her. She will try to fix me or tell me otherwise or build me up, and that would break me even more.

Eventually she sighs. A sign that she has given up, at least for now.

‘You are the most upbeat pessimist I know.’

I continue smiling and nudge her with my shoulder. I fully recognize that I am dead inside, but that doesn’t mean I have to be sad about it.