It sounds bad. Really really bad. I get out of bed and shrug into a T-shirt and knickers. “I’m here,” I call out. “Hang on. I’m coming.”

  Joshua is still, watching me, eyebrows drawn up in confusion. What was he about to say?

  “I think she’s upset,” I tell him needlessly. “I’m just going to check she’s all right.” I skid out of the door, closing it behind me, but it doesn’t quite catch. No time to worry about it though, as Megan is right outside my room. She’s fallen to the ground, bag exploding at her feet, and she’s gone into full-on child’s pose, her back heaving as she cries.

  “Megan? What’s happened?”

  Worst-case scenarios ricochet through my head. She’s been raped. She’s been mugged. She’s just been fired even though it’s Saturday. She’s just been diagnosed with incurable brain cancer.

  She raises her blubbering face, shot through with red-raw emotion. I brace myself for the impact. “It’s...it’s...him.”

  I close my eyes for a second. Malcolm. I allow myself a moment’s relief. This is a problem we have overcome many times before. I should’ve known, really, the moment she got into the fetal position. “Oh hon, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry,” I say, even though I’m not sure what he’s done yet. I drop to the floor. Pat her back. Tug her armpits. Encourage her to come and sit on the sofa to tell me what happened.

  “He...he...” She leans forward onto her knees and starts crying again. All I can do is keep rubbing her back, waiting for her to get the words out. I glance at my door. I can feel Joshua’s getting-ready movements. Is he going to stay in there? Or come out? How do I explain any of this? But Megan howls again and snaps my attention back.

  “Tell me,” I urge. “Tell me what happened.”

  “It’s stupid. I’m so so stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid.”

  “Yes I am. So fucking stupid. I’m pathetic. I’m JUST SO PATHETIC.” She lurches up and she looks like a possessed demon. Snot smeared over her, hair matted from tears, last night’s makeup streaming down her face. It’s at this exact moment that Joshua decides to make his sheepish entrance. Megan jumps. “Who the fuck are you?”

  I leap up, step between them and grab Joshua’s wrist. “This is Joshua.” I don’t know what else to say. Megan’s mouth is open. She shakes her head.

  “Joshua?”

  “Hi,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you guys to it.”

  The shock’s at least snapped Megan out of her hysterics. She watches as I lead him to the door. We step into the corridor, just as I hear her sobs start up again.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Umm. Boy trouble.”

  “I could hear.”

  “I think it’s going to be a while.”

  “And there I was, looking forward to making you eggs.”

  “I don’t have any eggs.”

  He does the smile again. “And there I was looking forward to going out and buying eggs and then making them for you.” There’s a twinge in his voice. The smile is covering something. But Megan’s pain echoes through the ajar door and I have no time to contemplate it.

  “I’ll see you soon,” I promise. “Have a good Saturday.”

  “Call me.”

  We kiss goodbye. He wraps both arms around the small of my back and mashes his lips against mine more angrily than I’m expecting him to. I look up to see that he’s kissing me with his eyes open, staring vacantly over the top of my head.

  “Um, bye then,” I say.

  “Bye.”

  There’s no time for psychoanalysis. Not with the sounds coming from inside. I go back in and find Megan sprawled across the sofa, face down in a cushion, convulsing with grief.

  “Hey, hey, it’s OK.” I bend down, balancing on the balls of my toes as I comfort her. “Please tell me what happened.”

  “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. What happened?”

  “I’m so stupid. I’m so crazy and fucking stupid!”

  “You’re not. What’s going on?”

  She flips over and pushes herself up, her knees bent. She hiccups and can’t look at me she’s still crying so hard.

  I try humor. “You look like Dawson in that meme.”

  It lands. She snorts and wipes her face in a useless attempt to get rid of all the snot, but instead just turns it into a paste. “Don’t.”

  “Sorry Dawson.”

  Another burp of giggles. “Stop it.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She whimpers and clutches her knees further into herself. “It’s all my fault anyway,” she starts. “I shouldn’t have said anything, but I really honestly thought we were on the same page. Argh.” She shakes her head. “We were having such a good night. I was feeling proper loved up. Malcolm took me out for cocktails, he got us such a good table. He kept staring into my eyes, putting his hand on my back, telling me I was gorgeous every five minutes. We got back to his and things were still great. We ordered in Deliveroo and ate it in our underwear. We felt like a proper couple, you know? I wouldn’t have said anything if I hadn’t... ARGH!” She clutches her head in her hands.

  “What did you say?” I’m rubbing a figure eight into her back with one hand, and patting her foot with another.

  “We were lying there, and he was staring at me, and playing with my hair. You know how you can just tell when a man is really into you? Well that was the vibe I was reading, and I said... I said... I said, ‘So, are we exclusive?”’ Her bottom lip trembles, cheeks flushing at the memory. She looks up at me with her wide tear-glazed eyes. “The mood changed right away. Oh my God, April. He honestly flinched like I’d just revealed I had fucking herpes or something. The first thing he did was take his arm away and didn’t look at me. And I started fucking backpedaling, saying shit I didn’t mean, like ‘Don’t worry, I don’t mind if we label it or not.’ Even though of course I fucking want to label it. That’s why I asked.”

  “What did he say?”

  Her head sways like a pacing elephant in a zoo. “He said...he said...” Her voice is on the cusp of breaking again. “He said what he liked about me was that I wasn’t that type of woman. Well, that he thought I wasn’t. And that now he’s thrown that I was.”

  “What does he mean? What type?”

  “He said the insecure type. The type that needs to label it like that.”

  I let out a sigh of exasperation. Honest to God, if we were able to put together all the air exhaled by the sighs of exasperated straight woman dealing with useless straight men then we could send an air balloon into fucking outer space. “What?”

  “I know, I know. So, of course, instantly I’m all like ‘Oh yeah, I’m not like that at all.’ Even though I am, THAT’S WHY I WAS HAVING THE CONVERSATION. And I fucking apologize. And he says ‘good,’ and then goes back to acting all couply like it’s all sorted. I lasted two whole episodes of Breaking Bad before I broke. For two hours, April, I managed to contain it.”

  “That’s real progress.”

  “I know. I just sat there, trying to squash down all the questions and protests. Like, ‘Does this mean you’re still sleeping with other people? And, what the hell am I supposed to do now? And who are these types of women who don’t want to know where things are going? Are they real? Because if they are I want to hunt them down and fucking slap them for ruining it for the rest of us.’ And it was that really boring fly episode that so many Breaking Bad twats are obsessed with, which didn’t help. Anyway... I lost it. I burst into tears and started attacking him with the questions.”

  I can picture the scene. Even though I’ve not met Malcolm since Calculus, I can see the bulge of his freaking-out eyes, his eyebrows furrowing in distaste, the calm snarl of his voice as he rationally explains why all of Megan’s emotional responses are, in fact, incorrect.

  “He just kept shaking his head, like I’d let the side down. He said I’d read too much into everything. When I pointed out that we’d spent almost all our time together, that I was practically living there, that we message every day, he had his mouth wide open like that was all nothing. He came back with all this stuff like, ‘Yeah, but you’ve not met my friends’ and ‘I thought this was just fun’ and ‘I never said I was signing up for anything serious.’ Oh, April, what’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing!”

  “I just hallucinated a relationship.”

  “You didn’t! Anyone would’ve thought the same.”

  Her crying starts up again. “Why did I do this to myself? I knew it was trouble when I started getting anxious. My instinct was spot on, and yet I hoped so much this time was different, that maybe because I wasn’t looking...because I didn’t think I cared... But I was just tricking myself. Because I do care, I DO.”

  She cries and talks, cries and talks. Tea is made multiple times, and left unsipped, what with all the crying. Sometimes she’ll say, “Sorry, I’ve not even drunk any of that tea,” and I make more, but then she’s crying too much when I get back with the fresh cup that it goes cold once more. The heat permeates the flat. We stay in our underwear and T-shirts. I feel Joshua all over my body, inside my body. I want a shower but I can’t leave her when she’s like this. We psychoanalyze every minute interaction between her and Malcolm, looking for red flags she ignored, signals she could’ve picked up on. We pore over every detail she managed to glean about him in their time together. His parental blueprint, past girlfriend history, the ethos of the boarding school he went to.

  “He’s right. I never did meet his friends,” Megan ponders, finally managing to take a sip of tea. “And he never called me. It was always me calling him. I thought I was being all modern and proactive. But actually I was just shoving my heart and vagina on a plate for him to rub into his ego and ejaculate inside.”

  “That’s quite a descriptive metaphor, Megs.”

  “Sorry. It’s true though. That’s all I was, wasn’t it? God knows what lies he’s telling himself about what just happened to make him ‘the good guy’ in this situation, but it’s clear enough, isn’t it? I was obviously developing feelings for him, and he was eking out how long he could get away with fucking me and having me cook him dinner before I mentioned it, so he could argue we’d never even talked about it.” She looks up at me. “I feel so worthless, April.” The fact that she is no longer crying almost makes me sadder. “What’s wrong with me, that I get myself into these situations time and time again?”

  I shake my head. It’s not like I know the answers. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “Maybe I am just crazy.”

  “You’re not! Who is this cool girl who just totally goes with the flow and doesn’t want to label it, and is really easy-going, and doesn’t worry about having children before her eggs run out, or where a relationship is going, and wants to feel safe she’s not wasting her time with an arse? Show me to her. Because she doesn’t exist.”

  Even though I’m pretending to be her, so maybe she does exist. Is every woman who is doing well romantically just pretending to be Gretel?

  “I miss him.” The tears start up again.

  “You will for a while.”

  “Why did I do this? I was so happy a month ago.”

  I squeeze her into a hug. “It’s a normal and natural thing to want a relationship,” I tell her. “There’s nothing wrong with you for hoping this was it. He’s just an overgrown man-child.”

  “He is. Why did I pretend he wasn’t?”

  “Because you wanted to believe.”

  * * *

  It’s getting dark by the time she’s fully calmed down again. Late. We open the windows to try to let in some cooler air. I made her delete his number because we know what she’s like. We’ve agreed she needs to focus on making her jewelry launch the best thing that’s ever happened. I tell her about the boxing class and she perks up. “That’s great, April. Oh my God, I’m so glad you’ve finally found something that helps.”

  “Well, it’s only been one session, but still.”

  She hugs me, then starts setting up Dawson’s Creek. It’s only when we’re sitting back down, her head resting on a cushion in my lap, that she remembers. “Hang the fuck on.” She twists up to look at me. “I was in blackout mode so almost forgot. Who the hell was that actual man in your bedroom?”

  My fingers pause in her hair. “Oh,” I say. “Him.”

  “Him? Him? How the hell did I not know there was a him?”

  I don’t know what to tell her about Joshua. I’ve not had time to think through Joshua and last night yet.

  “I just...er...brought him home last night. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But you always want to talk about it.”

  “Please, not tonight.”

  And she must be really upset because she doesn’t push me on it. “OK then.”

  The night turns inky outside, and we watch a teenager with a prominent forehead cry so that we can better forget our own problems.

  April: Do you think Joshua is like all the others?

  Gretel: Yes.

  April: But what if he’s different?

  Gretel: None of them are different.

  April: But he might actually be different. He’s kind, he talks about his feelings, he calls when he says he’s going to call...

  Gretel: Because you’re pretending to be me! The fact that he’s falling for it is proof that he’s like the others.

  April: But I stormed out of that dinner. I was difficult and not easy-going, and he came over and didn’t seem to mind.

  Gretel: Yeah, about that. Don’t fuck up like that again, OK? You really showed me up, bitch. Don’t let your pathetic trauma rub off on me like that again, OK? You really could’ve messed things up.

  April: So Joshua is just like Malcolm and Simon and all the others?

  Gretel: Yes!

  April: It’s just, with him, it feels...

  Gretel: Feels what? Different?

  April: Yeah.

  Gretel: April, sweetie, how many times have you given your heart away to some pathetic useless man-child because you convinced yourself it felt different?

  April: Err...

  Gretel: That’s what I thought. And, let me guess, the more you got to know them, the more evident it became that they weren’t different at all? You came away feeling lesser and scared and like you were crazy for wanting normal things? And yet, because you’d decided they were different, you hung on and got more and more hurt.

  April: Stop it!

  Gretel: What? Telling the truth?

  April: Yes.

  Gretel: Nope, babes. Sorry. You need to hear this. Stop thinking a man will be different for you when you are so messed up. Your damage is unlovable. You are unlovable.

  April: Please, stop... This isn’t fair.

  Gretel: I know hon, but this is why you have to carry on being me. This is the only way you’ll feel you have any power at all.

  April: I don’t want power, I want to be loved.

  Gretel: People love people with power. Anyway, I thought you let go of love? I thought you’d freed yourself of that?

  April: I thought so too, but then... He’s so nice.

  Gretel: Because you’re not being yourself.

  April: I am a little bit.

  Gretel: Go on then! Tell him about Ryan. Tell him about the rape. Get out your dilators. Cry on him and tell him all the horrible things you’ve been through. Sob and weep and cling to him, like you secretly want to. Vomit up all your pain and trauma. Beg him to make you feel safe. Beg him to write down a schedule of all the big promises of commitment he’s going to make to you and when he’s going to make them, to the minute, and get him to sign it with his blood. Show every inch of your needy, gross self. Do it all and then demand he love you forever. See how that works for you.

  April: Surely maybe—

  Gretel: And have you forgotten the hugely important fact that YOU HAVE LIED TO THIS MAN ABOUT EVERYTHING?! How can you explain that to him? Men don’t want anything real. Joshua only likes you because you’re not real. Megan was real with Malcolm, and look what’s happened to her. And she’s a million times less broken than you.

  April: But...

  Gretel: Haven’t you been enjoying the power of being me? Hasn’t it felt nice?

  April: It felt nice the other night, when I was me and he seemed to like it.

  Gretel: You’re actually kidding yourself, you know that, right?

  April: Maybe I’m not.

  Gretel: Think of everything you’ve hidden from him. Think about all you’ve not told him. Think about how you’ve pretended to be compared to what you’re really like. Do you honestly believe he’ll stay if you reveal who you really are?

  April: But it’s not my fault I’m like this.

  Gretel: Yeah, so? Doesn’t make it any more sexy though, does it?

  April:...

  Gretel: Break his heart. Make him love you then break his heart. Stop being a sap and enjoy having some power for the first time in your life. Why on earth would you want to let that go?

  April: You sound crazy.

  Gretel: Honey, with all due respect, I’m not the one talking to myself in the mirror right now.

  Joshua: Hey. Is your roommate OK? Free any point tomorrow? We could go for a roast?

  Gretel: Aww how sweet of you to ask after her. She’s not, but she will be. Think I need to be on duty the rest of the weekend though.

  Joshua: OK. She’s lucky to have a good friend like you.

  Gretel: Thank you.

  Joshua: How about Monday?

  After several hours...

  Gretel: Monday I can do I think.

  I hate men.

  I hate how you fall for them. I hate how weak that makes you. I hate having feelings that you can’t stop and how hard they are to put back in their box. I hate how they make you feel like you’re always slightly wrong somehow, and how that makes you change who you are so they can love you. Then I hate how disempowering it feels to know you’re only loved because you’ve locked parts of yourself away to be acceptable. I hate how, once you’ve fallen for one, it feels so physically insurmountable to sever yourself from them, even if you’re fading away by being with them. I hate the fear you carry that they’ll find out what you’re really like and not want you anymore.