Page 37 of When We Were Young

Emily

‘So, you will come to dinner one evening?’ asks Magda as she puts on her jacket. I’ll finish cashing up then head home, too.

‘That’s very kind. I’d love to.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Er, let me think, I’m sure I was––’

‘You already told me you are not doing anything this evening.’

‘Ah yes, in that case, that would be lovely.’

Magda writes on the notepad, tears off the page, and hands it to me. In neat forward-slanting letters is her address and telephone number.

‘See you at seven,’ she says and heads to the door.

‘Looking forward to it.’

Magda’s flat is small, but tidy and clean. A little kitchenette sits behind the sofa where I’ve been invited to sit.

‘In my home, we drink vodka,’ Magda says, handing me a glass of red liquid. ‘You’ll like it.’

I can’t taste vodka, but I detect cranberry juice and something else, maybe pineapple. ‘It’s delicious.’

A teenage boy wanders into the room, his eyes fixed on his phone. He doesn’t know I’m there.

‘Say hello to Emily,’ says Magda.

His eyes don’t leave his phone. ‘Hello, Emily.’

‘Emily, this is Alfie. He is very rude.’

‘Hello, Alfie.’

He nods at me and goes straight back to his phone. ‘What’s for dinner?’

She says something in Polish. He tuts and leaves the room.

‘Are you still dating Dylan’s friend?’ she asks.

Jesus, straight in with the personal questions.

‘Sort of. How about you?’ I deflect. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

‘I have a date on Friday night with someone I met on Tinder.’

‘You’re on Tinder?’

‘You’re not?’

I shake my head.

‘What app do you use?’

‘I’ve never used a dating app.’

Magda blows out her cheeks. ‘How do you meet people?’

‘I don’t.’

She frowns. ‘How did you meet Dylan’s friend?’

‘I used to work at a primary school. His daughter goes there.’

‘You should go on Tinder.’

‘Ooh no!’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ve never even considered it.’

‘We will set up your profile after dinner.’

I’ve had three red vodka drinks before the food’s ready. Magda has cooked Thai green curry. She lets Alfie eat in his room.

‘Did you consider an abortion?’ she says, as I fork a mouthful of curry in. I almost choke.

As I chew, she leans in and whispers, ‘ I did.’

‘You did?’

She nods. ‘That’s the reason I came to the UK. I went to the clinic. I sat in the waiting room.’

‘What happened?’

‘I had paid for it. I was sure it was the right choice. Then, suddenly, I was not sure. I walked out. I walked for hours. And when I got back to the place where I was staying, I knew I would have a different life. Not the life I had planned but it was the right decision for me.’

‘What about Alfie’s dad? Is he involved?’

She shakes her head. ‘I never told him I was pregnant.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he was married.’

‘Did he have kids?’

She takes a big glug of her drink. ‘Two.’

‘Did you love him?’

‘I still do.’

It’s only when I stand up to go to the loo after dinner that I realise my legs aren’t working and all the furniture is trying to stop me reaching the bathroom.

‘This is the man I’m meeting on Friday,’ she says when I return.

She hands me her phone: he’s very hairy and built like a rugby player.

‘Ooh. What’s his name?’

‘Irvine.’

‘He looks… nice.’

I flick through the screenshots she’s taken of his profile while she gets us another drink. When she sits down, I hand back her phone.

‘I saw Dylan’s friend on Tinder yesterday,’ she says.

‘FHD?’

‘What?’

I’m not surprised he’s on Tinder but I’m curious to see his profile. ‘Show me.’

She takes a few minutes to find the screenshots. I drink almost the entire cocktail while I’m waiting. Damn, these things are easy to drink.

‘Will Harding, thirty-seven. That’s him, no?’

‘Yes, that’s him.’ I scoot closer.

FHD is tanned and happy eating seafood with palm trees behind him. In the next picture, he’s standing on a paddle board out in the middle of a flat, glassy ocean wearing low-slung board shorts.

‘He has a six-pack,’ observes Magda.

The next shows him paddle boarding along a tree-lined river wearing a wetsuit.

‘Too many clothes,’ she says and swipes to the last photo.

FHD is among a group of friends. They all have their glasses raised, and he’s cracking up about something.

He’s normal; he has friends; he has a six-pack.

But he’s on a dating app. He could be on a date right now. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

My tongue’s made of leather. Not smooth leather, but more like suede. It’s like the tongue of a shoe.

My eyelids are stuck together. I go to rub my eyes, but my arms are tied to my body. Shit . Where am I? Who tied me up? I squirm and writhe around until I free my arms from their bonds. I rub my eyes, creating just enough moisture for lids to slide over my arid eyeballs.

It’s bright. I sit up – I’m on a sofa. There’s a blanket over me. Whose sofa is this? I need water.

Behind me is a kitchenette. I go to the sink, turn on the tap, and scoop handfuls of water into my mouth. The moisture doesn’t penetrate the rough suede of my tongue. I open the cupboard above my head and find a mug. I fill it with water, drain it in long gulps, and gasp to catch my breath.

This is Magda’s flat.

I drank a lot of vodka.

But I’m okay, no headache – just thirsty and tired. My watch says 9:13 a.m. Shit. I was supposed to open the café at 7:30 a.m.

I bolt back to the sofa. On the coffee table tucked under my phone is a note.

Gone to open café – could not wake you. Make sure the door is shut when you leave. M x

I gather my stuff and leave. The moment I shut the door, I regret not checking a mirror – Christ knows what I look like. My car is waiting on the street outside, but with my head still fuzzy, I leave it there and walk instead.

I’ve got Madonna’s ‘Holiday’ playing in my head.

Why ‘Holiday’? I haven’t heard that song in years.

Oh God. Was I singing ‘Holiday’ in Magda’s kitchen?

Shit, yes. Into a fucking spoon . I have a mental image of us not only singing at the top of our voices, but doing the dance routine, too.

Jesus. That would have been my idea. That choreography has been taking up space in my brain since I was a kid.

At what point in the evening, did I lose my inhibitions – and my dignity?

Ah yes, that would be right after we created my Tinder profile.

Holy fuck. I stop in the middle of the street, pull out my phone, and scroll frantically through my apps until I find it hiding at the bottom of the last screen.

I delete it immediately and continue walking.

Was I crying at one point? Oh my God . I was properly wailing.

I told her about Will. I never talk about him.

That red vodka drink must have been some kind of truth serum.

She’s so bloody nosy she probably interrogated me with a lamp shining in my face.

As I walk on, events from the previous evening come back to me in disjointed little bursts. She had heard of Will. She had been a fan. She had the album and even travelled to some European city – Berlin? – to see him play. I was there that night, watching from the side of the stage.

As I turn the corner, the café comes into view. Inside, Magda’s busy serving a regular group of NCT mums. When I go behind the counter, she stops what she’s doing and envelopes me in a hug. Like we’re old friends. She might even know more about me than anyone.

‘How do you feel?’ she asks.

‘Not too bad,’ I say. ‘Why did you let me drink so much, Magda?’

‘You needed to let down your hairs.’