Page 66 of The Notecard
‘Yeah, they seem happy, but like you, I don’t want to hear the details.’
‘They say the devil is in the detail,’ says Meg.
‘I think they, whoever they are, are right. So limbo? That means your flexible?’
‘Very,’ says Meg with a salacious smile.
She smiles. Her eyes glisten. When she says this, I can’t help but get turned on. She’s so sexy, and I can’t stop thinking about what might happen later. It’s on the menu. But another part of me can’t stop thinking about the fact it’s only going to happen once. Well, perhaps twice if she stays the night. What if it’s amazing? What if we do it and the sex is so good that we have to do it again? And again. And again. But she’s going away and I’m going to Nottingham, and I’m back to square one again.
I wish I was one of ‘those blokes’. You know the sort. The blokes at university who could shag around without a care in the world. Proper blokes. The ones who played rugby and got drunk more nights than they didn’t during the first year of university. The sort of bloke who didn’t give a shit about feelings, and relationships, and all they wanted was sex because that’s what made them proper men. I would hear them bragging to their other bloke friends in the university bar about another girl they had ‘banged the fuck out of’. Shagged senseless. Destroyed. I have never in my life ‘shagged anyone senseless’ because I just don’t have that in me. I’m just happy if they vaguely enjoy it, and it’s not a complete disaster. Most of the time, I’m glad I’m not like those blokes, but sometimes I wish I was more like them. Why do I have to care so much about tomorrow and the next day and the day after that? Why can’t I just enjoy tonight, wish her well in the morning and get on with my life? It’s brilliant that Meg is flexible, and all the witty banter and sexual innuendo in the world won’t change the fact that tomorrow nothing will have changed. I don’t know if I can do that. If I can be ‘that bloke’.
We take another bite of pizza, sip our wine, then Meg’s phone buzzes.
‘Sorry,’ she says, and then looks down. ‘Oh god, it’s Laura.’
‘Crazy sister Laura?’
‘The same. Do you mind if I get it? She’s having a hard time after the hen weekend from hell.’
‘No, no, not at all.’
‘I’ll just pop back to my flat. Sorry. I’ll be as quick as I can. Promise.’
Meg smiles, then dashes across the hall to her flat. I sit, and then I look at the photo of Dad on the mantelpiece. I wish he was still here for advice. He would tell me what to do. Good, solid Dad advice. I don’t have that. I can’t ask Mum for advice because it’s Mum. The only person I have is Rob. I decide to call him. Perhaps he’ll have some wise words for me, or at the least he’ll tell me to stop overthinking it and just enjoy the moment, you idiot. She said she’s flexible. What more do you need? A written invitation? An Evite with a picture of a gymnast? A signed legal document with evidence that she is, as stated, as flexible as fuck?
Meg
I’m not sure what’s happened, but after the hen weekend disaster, I seem to have become Laura’s shoulder to cry on. It’s strange. It wasn’t that long ago I called her a ‘selfish fucking arsehole’ and Mum made me apologise. Sisters. We’ve never been the sort of sisters who have heart to hearts over the phone. We don’t talk every single day. We barely even text. We aren’t close. At least we weren’t. Now it seems that Laura thinks I’m her go-to person. Her shoulder to cry on. It’s unsettling. A part of me wants to help. I want to be there for her. I love her. But then she says something horrible and all the memories of her being ‘her’ come flooding back. I answer her FaceTime in my living room.
‘Oh my god, Megs. I literally can’t believe it,’ says a sniffling, teary Laura.
This has been my entire week. Literally. I’m thinking about Nick back in his flat. Why did I have to mention that I’m good at the limbo? One competition on holiday in Spain when I was eighteen. I beat a couple of middle-aged women from Newcastle, and a pissed bloke from Deptford who kept calling me Katie. I’m not sure this qualifies as ‘good at limbo’. Then to suggest that I’m flexible in the bedroom is laughable. He will expect an Olympic gymnast crossed with a porn star in the bedroom, and instead he’s going to get me, who to be honest, quite likes the good old-fashioned missionary position. I have done a few sessions of yoga, and by sessions I mean I watched a woman on YouTube, but I’m hardly flexible. There’s exaggerating the truth, and then there’s just plain lying. But it’s done now, and I can’t go back on my famous limbo claim. That Meg Fletcher sure can limbo #notgoodatlimbo
Laura is still crying. I ask her what happened.
‘I just… (sniffs, blows nose). I just can’t Megs. God, I literally can’t believe it,’ says Laura.
She’s saying nothing.
‘Can’t believe what?’
‘It’s Simon, he’s just… I’m so angry with him, Megs. It’s like he’s totally siding with Emma. Literally the last thing I need right now. I haven’t even told you about what’s happening with the flowers.’
‘What’s happening with the flowers?’
I really could use a cigarette. And more wine.
‘I can’t talk about the flowers at the moment, Megs, or I’m literally going to lose it. Safe to say, it’s a real horticultural fuck up. But it’s Simon. He’s being a twat. A total fucking twat.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘What’s he done? I’ll tell you what he’s done. He’s taken a sledgehammer to my heart. That’s what he’s done,’ says Laura, and she’s crying even harder. She gets a tissue and blows her nose. She comes back a snotty, hot mess. ‘Guess what he called me, Megs? Go on.’ I’m about to answer (a fucking nightmare?) but before I can she carries on. ‘A drama queen! Can you believe it? He said I feed off all of this stuff with Emma, and that I need to grow up. A drama queen! Me, Megs.’
‘That’s crazy,’ I say, even though he’s hit the nail directly on the head.
‘Thank you,’ says Laura, sniffing up yet more tears, like an actual drama queen. ‘I didn’t know what to say, Megs, and so I called him a wanker and walked out.’
‘Then what happened?’
