if she wants a man to put up with her. From the passive princesses winning princes in fairy tales to the magazines I read as a teenager, telling me what hairstyles boys liked, what their body language meant, if our star signs were compatible, and how to talk to them at parties, to every film I’ve ever watched, where the girl has to chill out and get over herself and give up what she really wants in order to win his heart. I mean, if Grease taught me anything, it’s that you need to get the ratio of Madonna:Whore perfectly right before you’re allowed to float off into the clouds with some jerk who tried to date-rape you in a car park. The books all confirm my suspicion: in order to be loved by a heterosexual man, you must not need or want to be loved by a heterosexual man.
As I turn the page of each one, I feel more and more alive. It’s like I’ve finally taken the red pill and woken up in some pod that reveals just how ludicrous it all is. If these books are to be believed, all men are the same and none of them want a woman who is real in any way. It makes my past dating nightmares become so much clearer. No wonder I’ve been so ‘unlucky’ – I’ve been too honest, too myself, not seeing it as a game to win.
It gets dark but the heat doesn’t relent. Megan puts the last of the ice under her armpits around eleven o’clock and calls ‘goodnight’ before heading for her room. The city around me is hushed – the neighbours quiet and sleeping or getting ready for the week ahead. Even with my windows wide open to try to keep cool, it is tranquil. I feel like the only person awake, which is ridiculous because it’s London and if I got up and put some clothes on I could probably find some open club nearby, snort coke and jump into an adult ball pit or something.
I put my last book down and try to prepare myself for the unattainable idea of a good night’s sleep. A fantasy comes into my head, clear as a drawing scratched in sharp pencil. I’m sitting across from a faceless man, at some nice little place somewhere. There are candles on the table. I can sense his nervousness. There’s sweat on his forehead. His hands tremble on his knife and fork as he cuts into an artichoke.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask, serene and peaceful and radiating a glow that you just cannot bottle. ‘You’re being weird.’
He laughs, all bahaha. ‘Am I? Sorry, there’s just … just … something I want to say.’
‘What’s that?’ I look over at this man, struggling to eat his artichoke, and make it as easy for him as I can. ‘You can tell me,’ I say. ‘Whatever it is, you know you can tell me.’
The man sighs and puts his fork down, and reaches over to clasp my hand. ‘I know I can. Sorry. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. The truth is …’ he looks up into my eyes, so wide and open and vulnerable, ‘I … I … I love you, Gretel.’ He gets it out. He squeezes my hand tighter. His voice is thick with emotion, eyes wet, vulnerability bleeding out all over the table.
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘Look, you don’t have to say it back. It may be too soon for you.’
I reach out and take his other hand. ‘It’s not that, it’s just …’
‘What?’ he asks desperately. ‘What? What is it?’
I look over at this man, who stands for every man who has ever broken me. Who has ever told me I’m not this enough or that enough. Who has made me feel defective for wanting to love them, for wanting anything from men at all in exchange for my body and my thoughtfulness and my energy and time. He’s taking the hit for them all. Like Jesus – the Jesus of Tinder. I let go of his hand and I tilt my head. I say his name.
He’s on the edge of his chair, his artichoke forgotten. He’s waiting for the ‘I love you’ back, for his life to finally begin with this unicorn of a woman he’s found.
‘Yes?’
‘My name is not fucking Gretel.’
Then I stand up, and I leave him with his confused broken heart and his unfinished artichoke and I never see him again. How powerful I