we all have to take turns with, or you may want to go home and just shower there?’
I lift my bag away from its giraffe home. It’s filled with Gretel gear for tonight. A nice outfit to meet Josh’s friends in, but one that doesn’t look like I’ve tried too hard. And overnight stuff to take to his house later. I reach into my bag and retrieve my phone.
Joshua: The countdown to poppadoms begins! See you at eight x
The time at the top of my phone says six thirty, and it’s a thirty-minute journey at least to the restaurant.
‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone, but I can be a bit late.’
‘Great. The pub is only around the corner. Come on, let me show you the terrible shower.’
The shower’s a tiny trickle in a gross, grey bathroom that must’ve once had white tiles. I let the water fill my cupped hands and splash it over myself. It’s way too weak to wash my hair, so I just wet the front of it to dilute the sweat and figure it won’t look too awful. Even if it does, I don’t give the flyingest of fucks right now.
About five women wait for me when I emerge, including Charlotte. ‘Hey everyone, this is April,’ she says, giving me their names, which I instantly forget. They all wave hi. Ask how I found the class. They laugh when I rave about how good it is. We call goodbye to the instructor, asking if she wants help with the punching bags, but she doesn’t. The fans have been turned off and the hall’s eerily quiet. I can taste the salt of our sweat on my tongue, and the air isn’t much better when we get outside. Heavy and unforgiving with a sallow, grey cloud-coverage.
I shuffle at the back of the group, feeling new and nervous as I’m steered towards the pub, listening to their conversations.
‘How did your presentation go?’
‘Did you see Jane at the weekend? Is she OK? Oh my God. A three-bedroom detached? This is why I need to leave London.’
The pub they pick is too busy with Friday. You can hardly get through the door with so many office workers standing outside, seal-laughing and gesticulating. It’s empty inside though, apart from the throng at the bar.
‘Shall we just sit in here, rather than stand around outside?’ Charlotte asks. ‘My legs are dying.’
‘Yes, let’s.’ A woman with long black hair strides forward to claim a tucked-away table in the corner.
Charlotte points at the table. ‘Wine? White? Two bottles?’
Everyone choruses yes.
‘Do you want some money?’ I ask, digging for my purse.
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘Need help carrying anything?’
‘Nope. Just save me a seat.’
I’m left with the group and grin at them. The power from the class is fading out here in the real world, without Gwen Stefani and a giant punching bag for company. But the lady with black hair turns to me and saves me from my feelings of social inadequacy. ‘April, was it?’
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘And you?’
‘My name’s Anya.’ She holds out her hand and then introduces the others once more, giving me a chance to get their names this time: ‘And this is Hazel, Steph, and Jenny.’ They all wave hello and I wave back self-consciously.
‘So, how did you guys all find out about this class?’ I ask.
Anya replies first. ‘My GP recommended it after the NHS couldn’t continue my therapy any more,’ she says. ‘They keep refusing to acknowledge complex PTSD as a thing.’
Steph nods knowingly. ‘Oh, yes, we’ve all been there …’
‘Complex PTSD?’
‘It’s basically the same as PTSD,’ Hazel answers, ‘except it’s caused by long-term exposure to trauma rather than a one-off one.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘In my case, my abusive prick of an ex-boyfriend.’
Charlotte arrives just in time to overhear, brandishing two bottles of wine and multiple glasses wedged on a tray.
‘Snap!’ she cheers, squatting to unload her spoils. She high-fives Hazel while the table laughs and they start handing out the glasses and tipping wine into them like a production line.
Charlotte sloshes a generous amount of wine into my glass, winking like we’ve known each other forever. ‘You all right?’ she asks.
‘I guess I’m a bit surprised by what you just said,’ I admit, taking a cool sip, already embracing the inevitable headache it will bring after sweating so much.
‘God. Sorry! We’re not very good at stiff upper lipping here,’ she smiles. ‘We all feel so safe with each other that it just kind of spills out.’