How to have a shit relat.., p.9
How to Have a SHIT Relationship, page 9
“No, not at all. Hampstead.”
“Oh nice. Is that where you live?”
“Yes.”
“Cor, lucky you. Whereabouts?”
It wasn’t that Martha was doing anything wrong, but Maya suddenly saw herself as spoilt rich girl. Maya had not had to work to buy her flat, it had been a gift from her parents—not even a birthday present, just a random gift of a home to have whilst she lived in London, though there was always an astute awareness of the investment element of any property they bought.
“Parliament Hill Fields?” Maya said with a rising inflection, as though they might not know where this was, yet knowing full well they would. Her voice went into upspeak when anxious, so she took another glug of wine.
“Man, I’d love to live there,” said Floyd followed by some warm laughter.
Maya was about to say, It’s all a bit white-middle-class, to put them at ease and let them know she was on their side, then thought better of it.
Nadia and Troy walked in, alleviating her anxieties.
Martha introduced herself to Troy, and Troy and Floyd greeted each other with a complex fist bump. Maya instantly elevated Troy to the higher echelons of urban credibility.
“Hey babe,” he said to Maya, which threw her—they were definitely not at the babe stage, nor would they ever be.
“Hey,” she said back.
The bullish contours of his frame protruded like balloons from beneath his T-shirt, stretched to the limit.
“Where do these go then?” he asked Nadia, holding out a four-pack of Special Brew.
Maya breathed more easily after Troy arrived, his temerity a welcome distraction from her misshapen, high-born guilt.
She’d never fully embraced her refined plummy accent, despite over the years attempting to conceal it behind a mockney twang—the H-dropping never came as naturally as she would have liked.
Being born of noble descent was more of an embarrassment than something welcomed. She enjoyed the rougher edges of the working class and their brazen, straightforward, no-thrills-attached ways, but black men were a rare phenomenon in her social circles.
There had been one black girl at school, but Maya had not known her.
Troy’s can hissed open with a spurt. He sucked the froth, preventing it from spilling onto the floor.
“So, what games we playing then? Better not be Scrabble, I’m shit at Scrabble,” said Troy.
This man had no sophistication. He was a lout shooting from the hip, but when he spoke, she was in altitude where the air was easier to breathe.
Nadia laughed. “Scrabble! You’re kidding me, right?” she said.
“No, seriously, I’m shit at it,” he reiterated.
“Troy, did you not read the text?” said Ian.
“Yeah, course I did, you knob!”
“It’s not a board game,” said Nadia. “It’s a game called The Into-Me-See game.”
The Into-Me-See game had been the buzzword around town for the last few months. Various people on the alternative personal growth scene had been raving about its life-changing effect. It had been created in a hippy community somewhere in the States and had found its way around the world via social media.
Maya had been invited to such an evening once before, but she’d managed to avoid it. It certainly hadn’t been mentioned in the text.
“Blimey,” said Maya. “That is so cool. Your text just said, Vietnamese games evening, I was a bit worried about Scrabble too.”
“What’s wrong with Scrabble?” said Floyd.
A clamour of disapproving jeers erupted.
“Vietnamese games evening?” said Nadia, confused.
Maya double-checked her phone, and there it was in clear Helvetica font: Vietnamese games evening. She showed it to Nadia.
“Oh no. Predictive text! It’s meant to say Into-me-see, not Vietnamese,” said Nadia.
Hello, Earth calling Nadia, how do you invite someone to a Vietnamese games evening but actually mean intense soul-bearing, skin-peeled-off-whilst-you’re-still-alive evening!
And how can someone who makes such a colossal error with the invite hold a safe space?
“Are you two going to be okay with it?” asked Asenka.
Maya was rattled. Of course she was okay with it. She could have invented the game herself, for fuck’s sake.
“Ooh, I think I’ll survive,” Maya responded, trying not to sneer.
“What about you, Troy?” Asenka asked.
“I dunno. What the fuck is it?”
“Into-me-see is a play on words for intimacy,” said Martha. “It’s a game where we all get intimate.”
“You’re ’aving a laugh! What, like spin the bottle?”
“Oh Troy, you’ve not heard of the Into-me-see game? You haven’t lived, honey. You are in for a treat,” said Nadia.
Maya poured herself some more Merlot. From what she’d heard, the game could be quite gruelling. It was more like an intense therapy group than recreation.
“It’s a game where you show others who you really are deep down,” said Asenka.
“Fuck me! I think I’d prefer Scrabble?”
“Yeah, I’m up for that,” said Floyd, bouncing up and down on the sofa with a big grin on his face.
“Typical men can’t deal with showing their hearts,” said Martha.
“Excuse me, I’m a man and I’m definitely up for it,” Ian protested.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” said Troy.
“Ouch! Troy honey, put away the claws. It’s a game of trust and vulnerability.”
Why on earth did you invite Troy then? mused Maya.
“Don’t worry, I recon Troy’s a big softy underneath all his bravado,” said Ian.
The banter continued and the wine slowly began blotting out Maya’s anxiety.
Everyone was handed a piece of paper and told to write down a question for each person in the room. The question had to be one they imagined the person being asked would avoid asking themselves.
“For example,” said Nadia, “you might imagine that I’m quite shy...”
“Nah, that I can’t imagine,” said Troy.
“Well, say I am. So, you might write down, What do I need to do to be more socially confident?”
“Get pissed,” said Troy.
“You can answer however you like, but the idea is to be open,” said Nadia.
Nadia handled Troy’s subversive ways well. There was a constant chuckle in her voice, like nothing got to her.
“Let’s start. Oh, and everything that’s said stays in the room. Agreed?”
“It depends, if Ian says he’s into some weird paedo shit.”
“Troy, this is a sensitive game, honey, and the rules are we need to respect each other. Can you do that?”
The evening was already starting to be more fun for Maya. Troy, rules? Pfft.
Troy drew a zip across his mouth.
The scrutinising began, with eyes narrowed as they pondered the deluded blind spots each player held onto in order to avoid some feared annihilation.
Ian’s brow knitted into cold concentration, his tongue peeping through his teeth as he jotted down his question, eyeballing Maya.
Each question was then folded up and given to the appropriate person, then jumbled up so no one knew who the question came from.
It was a stupid game. Why would anyone want to hang their dirty knickers on the line for everyone to glare at? As a boarder, years were spent learning that the worst thing to do was let your guard down. Suzy, the school counsellor and the Swami Gandalih were the only people she trusted; everyone else had a hidden agenda.
“So, who’s going to go first?” asked Nadia.
“I’ll go first,” said Troy, rolling up his sleeves like a jumped-up knight about to prove how brave he was.
It brought back the time she’d been told what delightful fun she’d have at boarding school as she walked naïvely beneath the stone lintel into the dreary darkness. Her back straight and her heart steadfast until turning around and realising Mummy and Daddy were gone, then she crumbled.
Troy was instructed to pick up a folded piece of paper from his pile, without opening it, and to pass it to someone else to read to him so that handwriting couldn’t be identified.
“Here you go, mate, do the honours,” said Troy, passing his question to Floyd.
“Troy, why do you act so tough?” read Floyd.
Ian raised an eyebrow and was looking pleased with himself. It was an obvious question, but Maya had decided not to ask it. She had thought of asking, Why do you hit women, or What actually happened to those ribs your friend mentioned? But that would be unfair; maybe his inebriated friend, Gazza, had been talking twaddle. Maya had written down, What was your relationship to your mother like? That was a good way to find out more about someone.
All eyes were on Troy.
“And what am I meant to do now?” asked Troy.
“Answer the question,” said Nadia.
“Why am I so tough?”
“Why do you need to act so tough?” said Ian.
“Isn’t it a bit unfair, Troy going first if he’s never played before?” asked Asenka.
“Troy, you can change your mind if you don’t want to go first,” offered Nadia.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll go later, if that’s alright,” said Troy.
“Of course. Who do you choose to go next? The person who goes first gets to choose who goes next,” asked Nadia.
“But he didn’t have his go, he bottled out,” said Floyd.
“Floyd, I choose Floyd,” said Troy, laughing.
“Your tripping, man, I wanted to play Scrabble,” said Floyd, holding up his arms as though warding off a lynch mob.
Nadia was giggling wildly. “There are no winners or losers. The only thing you lose is a bit of your ego,” she said.
Guru Swami Gandalih had said that the ego is like a soldier trying to protect us from pain, but instead, we become a prison with our pain pacing us up and down, festering, longing for the light. To escape the ego, we need to set the pain free. Let the soldier go home to his family and burn his uniform on a bonfire.
Well, that’s all very well and good, but what about the level of pain?
No one could comprehend how shit Maya had had it, how could they? Privileged, little white girl never had to worry about money, as though money was the antidote to all problems. She bet Nadia had a big, fat, cuddly, warm mamma, not a bony, pinched-faced one who saw you as a burden. Who’s to say that a council estate is any worse than the estate she grew up on, along with being sent away at eight to board, strict rules of inane etiquette, parents who were emotionally inept and being brought up by a nannie, though thank God for the nannie—she might not have survived without the warmth of her nannie.
“It’s just I’d prefer it if someone else went before me,” said Floyd.
“Maybe Floyd should have his go later, too?” Asenka suggested.
Martha playfully punched him on the arm. “Floyd! It’s not about being tortured.”
Floyd sheepishly retreated into his shoulders like a tortoise.
“That’s fine. Floyd, who do you want to pass it on to?” asked Nadia.
“I’m happy to start,” said Ian. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
There was an all-round cheer, at which point Ian cocked his head a little higher, his chin jutted out that little bit more and a victorious glint entered his eye. Who’s acting tough now?
Ian passed the paper to Martha on his left to read out.
“Ian, when was the last time you secretly felt competitive with someone?” asked Martha.
“Hmm, good question,” said Ian, pondering the words. “I like it. Difficult though as I’m not really a competitive person.”
There were a couple of barely audible groans from around the room.
This had been Maya’s question because she knew Ian was probably the most competitive man there, only his competitiveness was more sophisticated. If Ian scored a point, he wouldn’t jump up and down shouting loser to the opposition, he’d sympathise with them, rubbing their nose in how pathetic he felt they were. His sympathy had a toxicity to it.
“Maybe you’re the least competitive person in the room, Ian,” said Maya with more than a twist of irony. “Would you agree?”
“I can’t help it, it’s just not in my nature.”
“Is that ’cos you’re crap at everything?” Troy threw in.
“Troy, Troy, Troy. Stop it with the put-downs, otherwise the game doesn’t work. It needs to feel safe,” said Nadia.
“He can’t help it, Nadia. Don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me,” said the egoless Ian.
“Maybe you’re more competitive than you realise but can’t admit it, even to yourself?” Martha suggested.
“There’s nothing wrong with being competitive, mate,” said Floyd.
“I think it can be quite unhealthy. One man trying to put another man down can’t be good,” said Ian.
“Or woman,” said Nadia.
“Well, I find women less competitive than men.”
“Bollox,” said Troy. “They’re just better at hiding it.”
“Not as good as Ian, though, he’s got it down to a fine art,” said Maya.
“Okay. Maybe leave it there. If Ian says he’s not competitive then that’s what we have to accept,” said Nadia.
“Maybe you could ask me some questions,” suggested Ian, in order to be helpful.
“Nah. Let’s move on,” said Asenka, yawning.
The game didn’t seem to be going that well.
“Sorry,” said Ian, wide-eyed, wrinkling his brow, teeth clenched in a not-guilty demeanour.
“So, who you going to select to go next?” asked Nadia.
Ian looked around the room, deliberating, but Maya knew who he’d choose. Ian’s biggest delusion was that he was an enigma.
“Maya. Is that okay?” he asked, smiling with feigned consideration, as if genuinely checking it was okay with her, knowing she couldn’t say no. How could Maya—the one who runs groups encouraging openness—not be okay with being open herself?
Looking at him, she saw a weasel as she picked up a folded question from the pile and handed it to Nadia. Warm Nadia, with the cushiony, warm bust and sunshiny, soft tones.
“Be gentle with me,” she half joked.
“Oh, honey. Don’t worry. No one’s judging,” reassured Nadia.
Maya looked around the room, and the faces around her did mostly appear sensitive. Except Ian’s—she couldn’t quite tell what it was, but there was something behind his eyes, something that betrayed the earnest way his bottom lip pouted as though he was reassuring a two-year-old.
“Maya, when was the last time someone broke your heart?” read Nadia.
The gauntlet had been thrown down. She polished off her wine, slamming her glass down on the table, a bit too forcefully. She was hamming things up, which was an indication she needed to slow down a bit on the wine.
The question perplexed her.
“I don’t wish to sound like Ian, but my heart has never been broken,” said Maya.
“What makes you think my heart has never been broken?” said Ian.
“I meant it’s a crap answer, like yours.”
“Has a lover never broken your heart?” asked Martha.
“Personally, I don’t believe in all that romantic bullshit,” said Maya. “Hearts are just organs that pump blood around the body.”
“Have you never been in love?” asked Martha.
Maya squirmed inside. Not having had a long-term relationship at thirty-two was a touchy subject. Even her friendships tended to burn out quite quickly. And yet in her classes and workshops, she endlessly talked about intimacy, the heart, love, commitment and connection, but it was a case of teach what you need to know.
Maya was happier with more than one lover at a time, and most men found this impossible to deal with. Too many men were enslaved to the archaic idea that once they’d stuck their lingam into her yoni, they could assume ownership, but she wasn’t the kind of woman to submit to the domestic servitude commonly seen in monogamy. She saw herself as a modern-day Simone de Beauvoir. She belonged to no one and nor did her heart, therefore it would never be broken.
She cherished her freedom over the false promises of love made by deluded, romantic, adolescent men and their till-death-us-do-part kind of happiness which included having sex with no one else. How can that be good for you? She wanted her partners to enjoy their sexuality, even if that meant with other women. She, too, wanted to enjoy her sexuality with more than one man. It was nature’s way. You can’t stick blinkers on your libido.
Had she ever been in love? She wasn’t opposed to love, in fact life was all about love. Love is what gave life meaning. But the word love has been abused: people use it to justify all kinds of insanity—particularly control freaks.
She’d tried monogamy in a couple of relationships, but it was never too long before the men became possessive, telling her to wear a bra, accusing her of flirting with other men, asking why she hadn’t texted when she disappeared for a couple of days.
Whereas she’d now been in a few poly relationships, and they suited her personality.
“I don’t go for the whole monogamy thing, maybe that’s why my heart’s still in good order.”
Troy flashed her a look, his face scrunched as though she’d just declared she was into bestiality.
“Why put all your eggs in one basket? Your heart’s bound to get broken then, and all you’re left with is scrambled eggs,” she said, pleased with her metaphor.
“Maybe someone broke your heart in the past and you don’t trust men anymore?” said Asenka. “Like when you were a kid?”
Asenka and Ian were quite the pair, equally nauseating.
“Are you suggesting my heart’s closed?”
“No, no. Aw, I’m sorry Maya, I wasn’t attacking you,” said Asenka.
“What was your relationship with your dad like?” asked Ian.
The room was getting stuffy with a lack of air.
“I want to know more about the three-in-bed thing,” said Floyd.
“Is there any more wine,” asked Maya.
“Having open relationships must be tricky,” said Martha.
