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Authors: Rachel Elliott
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that frightens them both.
10
GET WITH THE PROGRAMME
J oe Schwartz was the first guest to arrive. He was early, nervous, drenched in aftershave.
Stanley answered the door.
“You look amazing,” said Joe.
“Thanks,” said Stanley, his nose twitching. He hoped he wasn’t allergic to Joe. It was too early in their relationship for hypersensitivity, aversion, turning into his parents. “Come in.”
Joe began to take off his shoes.
“Oh no, you don’t need to do that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Can I get you a drink?”
“That’d be great.”
“Lager?”
Joe grimaced. “I’ve tried to like lager, but I can’t get into it. It tastes old to me, and not in a good way.” He adjusted his black glasses, pushed his fringe away from his eyes. “I know it’s lame. Everyone likes lager don’t they?”
“So what do you like?” asked Stanley, trying not to smirk,trying not to make it sound like he knew exactly what Joe liked because he had done it to him eight times last week.
“Black tea, milky coffee, diet Coke, apple juice, Vimto.”
Joe Schwartz was weird. He looked like a model and was always serious, even when he was joking. He remembered things, unusual things, like the name of every character in a film, like the local cafe’s entire lunch menu, like everything Stanley told him. He spoke in lists. He was a walking archive. He was earnest, immaculate, Canadian.
“I think we have most of those things,” said Stanley.
“Great,” said Joe.
Two weeks ago, Sadie had written another letter to Suzie the agony aunt. She slipped it in the cardboard box while Suzie bent down to pick up a tray of rhubarb muffins.
Dear Suzie,
Thanks for reading this. I don’t know why I feel the need to write to you. I’m an intelligent, self-aware woman, Suzie. But sometimes even the smartest of women need advice don’t they?
I think I’m in love. In love with my best friend. I sound like a teenager. I feel like one too. “Do you love your husband?” I hear you ask. Well yes I do. But I also hate him and I don’t know why. I’m flummoxed. He’s done nothing to evoke this so where did it come from? I’m not a hateful person, Suzie. I’m not aggressive. But there I’ve said it. Sometimes I hate him.
One of my sons is so angry and I worry that it’s all my fault. Can he be carrying my anger? And to be perfectly honest, I’ve stopped liking people. I’m a people person and I find people tedious. Where does that leave me? It’slike saying you’re an adrenaline junkie who doesn’t want to leave your sofa, or a painter who loathes the smell of paint. Where does that leave me, Suzie?
My husband is a psychotherapist and I can’t talk to him about anything. Ironic, hey? I blog, Suzie. You’ll probably have read my blog. I have a high number of followers. I keep track of these things. You have to, don’t you? It’s the new kind of watching your figure. Companies send me products and I rave about how good they are. So what with the blog and Twitter, I rarely get much time off. I love it, I really do, but you should read some of the shitty comments people write. People are so mean when you can’t see their faces. They suck up to you, make sure you direct your hard-earned traffic their way, then slap you in the face. So now I’m a people person who’s starting to hate other people. My husband doesn’t know about the blog—he thinks I win a lot of competitions and that’s why all these products keep arriving in the post. I kind of like that. I like the fact that he sees me as lucky. Luck is contagious, isn’t it? If I’m lucky then he’s lucky. Why burst his bubble? It’s nice to give him something.
Anyway, this wasn’t supposed to be an essay. Let me get to the point. If I tell my friend how I feel and she happens to feel the same, my small corner of the world is about to go up in smoke. If you see smoke rising, Suzie, you know where it’s coming from. She and her partner are like
10
GET WITH THE PROGRAMME
J oe Schwartz was the first guest to arrive. He was early, nervous, drenched in aftershave.
Stanley answered the door.
“You look amazing,” said Joe.
“Thanks,” said Stanley, his nose twitching. He hoped he wasn’t allergic to Joe. It was too early in their relationship for hypersensitivity, aversion, turning into his parents. “Come in.”
Joe began to take off his shoes.
“Oh no, you don’t need to do that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Can I get you a drink?”
“That’d be great.”
“Lager?”
Joe grimaced. “I’ve tried to like lager, but I can’t get into it. It tastes old to me, and not in a good way.” He adjusted his black glasses, pushed his fringe away from his eyes. “I know it’s lame. Everyone likes lager don’t they?”
“So what do you like?” asked Stanley, trying not to smirk,trying not to make it sound like he knew exactly what Joe liked because he had done it to him eight times last week.
“Black tea, milky coffee, diet Coke, apple juice, Vimto.”
Joe Schwartz was weird. He looked like a model and was always serious, even when he was joking. He remembered things, unusual things, like the name of every character in a film, like the local cafe’s entire lunch menu, like everything Stanley told him. He spoke in lists. He was a walking archive. He was earnest, immaculate, Canadian.
“I think we have most of those things,” said Stanley.
“Great,” said Joe.
Two weeks ago, Sadie had written another letter to Suzie the agony aunt. She slipped it in the cardboard box while Suzie bent down to pick up a tray of rhubarb muffins.
Dear Suzie,
Thanks for reading this. I don’t know why I feel the need to write to you. I’m an intelligent, self-aware woman, Suzie. But sometimes even the smartest of women need advice don’t they?
I think I’m in love. In love with my best friend. I sound like a teenager. I feel like one too. “Do you love your husband?” I hear you ask. Well yes I do. But I also hate him and I don’t know why. I’m flummoxed. He’s done nothing to evoke this so where did it come from? I’m not a hateful person, Suzie. I’m not aggressive. But there I’ve said it. Sometimes I hate him.
One of my sons is so angry and I worry that it’s all my fault. Can he be carrying my anger? And to be perfectly honest, I’ve stopped liking people. I’m a people person and I find people tedious. Where does that leave me? It’slike saying you’re an adrenaline junkie who doesn’t want to leave your sofa, or a painter who loathes the smell of paint. Where does that leave me, Suzie?
My husband is a psychotherapist and I can’t talk to him about anything. Ironic, hey? I blog, Suzie. You’ll probably have read my blog. I have a high number of followers. I keep track of these things. You have to, don’t you? It’s the new kind of watching your figure. Companies send me products and I rave about how good they are. So what with the blog and Twitter, I rarely get much time off. I love it, I really do, but you should read some of the shitty comments people write. People are so mean when you can’t see their faces. They suck up to you, make sure you direct your hard-earned traffic their way, then slap you in the face. So now I’m a people person who’s starting to hate other people. My husband doesn’t know about the blog—he thinks I win a lot of competitions and that’s why all these products keep arriving in the post. I kind of like that. I like the fact that he sees me as lucky. Luck is contagious, isn’t it? If I’m lucky then he’s lucky. Why burst his bubble? It’s nice to give him something.
Anyway, this wasn’t supposed to be an essay. Let me get to the point. If I tell my friend how I feel and she happens to feel the same, my small corner of the world is about to go up in smoke. If you see smoke rising, Suzie, you know where it’s coming from. She and her partner are like
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