Adults. Emma Jane Unsworth

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СКАЧАТЬ white dress with a giant turtleneck obscuring the bottom half of her face. She looks like a Victorian who just got back from space. Mia’s Boston terrier, Simone, is by her feet. Simone once shat my initials perfectly on the office floor. You can call me paranoid, but there was no denying it was a definite ‘J’ and an ‘M’. Another victory for meaning. My point is: you know someone judges you when their dog judges you. No language skills, but what a critic! Etc.

      ‘How’s my fave ginger whinger?’ says Mia, in a voice that cuts right through my face and straight into my being. She is holding a turmeric-coloured drink and a twisted copy of Vogue.

      ‘I really hate it when you call me that.’

      ‘Don’t be a hater, bébé. Buzz on the chans is there’s a new personal drone that doubles as a clutch bag. When you’re out you just fling it in the air and it captures your night from above from all angles.’

      I really think I could shoot Mia, possibly in the face, if her opinion of me wasn’t so important to me.

      ‘I don’t need an aerial reminder of how appalling my night was,’ says Vivienne, the features editor. Vivienne is six foot and wiry, with thick veins ribbing her arm muscles. She looks like the kind of woman who’s spent a lot of time smoking on Spanish beaches. I am certain she has killed. I don’t think I’ve once seen her smile and she isn’t on any social media – which only adds to her menace, and her valour. Vivienne and Mia are friends from fashion college. Anyone can see Mia’s always been the one with money and ambition and Vivienne is the cerebral sponger. Vivienne doesn’t give zero fucks; she gives minus fucks. Every time I am near her I want to whisper: Teach me how to eat an artichoke, Vivienne.

      ‘Are you completely sectionable, Viv?’ says Mia. ‘That’s the teenage-girl angle. Pictures from above make everyone look like a teenage girl. If you partook in popular culture I wouldn’t have to tell you this.’

      ‘I do not partake,’ says Vivienne. ‘I am a puppetmaster.’

      ‘Well, I’ve ordered a sample clutch drone,’ says Mia, ‘which I shall be trying out, in the name of investigative journalism.’

      Vivienne says: ‘Speaking of which, I’m going to patronise that new Israeli near Kings Cross at lunch. I may not be back for a few days.’

      ‘Jenny!’ says Mia, as though she has just remembered my name. ‘How was your weekend?’

      ‘Busy! A few drinks, a private view, you know.’

      ‘Yes, I saw your picture.’

      ‘Oh, did you? Great, thanks,’ I gush.

      ‘Are you not going to ask me what I got up to?’

      ‘What did you get up to?’

      She scrutinises my face. ‘I went … for a meal … which I know you know, because you liked other pictures around the same time mine went up, so why didn’t you like mine?’

      Vivienne adjusts her neck. She knows the score. She keeps the score.

      ‘I must have … missed it? You know how sometimes it randomly reorders things.’

      ‘Hmm.’

      The truth is, I like every fifth or sixth thing Mia posts – not always because I like them, but to sort of say hi and remind her of my existence. I don’t want to look rabid. I thought I was managing my affection well. Evidently not.

      ‘And how is Art?’ Mia asks.

      ‘He’s fine! Busy.’

      She clasps her hands. This again.

      Suffice to say that Art has a lot of hangers-on. A lot of women of a certain age. I know that’s unfeminist to say, but it’s a phenomenon that brings out the worst in me. At exhibitions, launches, shows … He’s the sexy, shaven-headed photographer. The hot thug. I can see it in their eyes: he’s a welcome, regular escape from their non-pussy-licking husbands.

      ‘Can he make drinks on Friday?’

      ‘I’m not sure.’

      ‘Not even one?’

      ‘One drink?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I’ll ask.’

      ‘Do that.’

      ‘I will.’

      ‘Appreciated.’

      ‘So,’ Mia continues. ‘What’s the column this week?’

      ‘Co-habitation with women versus co-habitation with men. A nostalgia piece, in part, about my uni days.’

      ‘Juicy anecdotes, searing insight, rounded off with everywoman wisdom?’

      ‘Check, check, check!’

      She hesitates.

      ‘Just, keep it on the hi-fi, rather than the low-fi.’

      ‘Spice it up,’ says Vivienne. ‘S’boring. You’re like someone in a Sunday supplement moaning about their shoes.’

      Mia says: ‘Now, now. But yes, Jenny, it’s true. We’re all bored stiff with your vulnerability. Save it for your therapist. We need bold voices, not weak cries for help. We want ferocity. Strength. A roar from the lady jungle, not a whimper. This is the frontline of feminism. We have work to do. Remember the name of your column: INTENSE MODERN WOMAN.’

      ‘I mean, it’s an oxymoron though, isn’t it, having a column in a feminist magazine.’

      Mia stares at me. ‘Do you mean a column as in an erection? Are we still doing phallus chat? COME ON. Brand too strong for some punk-ass bear to stop this wave. Make it gain traction.’

      I swallow. ‘I understand, Mia.’

      I do not.

      She starts to walk away and turns back to say: ‘The headline of this conversation is: don’t hold back. Explode everything about what living with other women is really like. Put a grenade up the arse of that female utopia.’

      ‘Got it.’

      Simone follows Mia, giving me a hefty side-eye.

      Vivienne walks to the kitchenette zone and starts wrenching at the coffee machine. ‘Why are you chewing your fingers?’ she asks me. ‘Anxiety?’

      ‘No, it’s because I think I’m fucking delicious.’

      I check my likes once more (forty-two, I should really kill myself) and start to write.

      I stop typing every two minutes or so and let my thumb and thoughts zip round in a fast, looping flight. This, this, this, this. Back to work for a few sentences. Back round again. This, this, this. My head teems.

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