Page 13 of Am I Allergic to Men?
I can see what he’s trying to do. Rescue me. Yeah, mate, if you watched the film, you’ll see that Elsa does not need saving. She needs a sister.
‘Well, good luck,’ he replies, puzzled.
I tuck the sides of my skirt into my knickers and take off my cape and stuff it in my rucksack. We all know that capes can be disastrous. The trainers will help. Hell, I may even take a selfie because this is the stuff that makes Instagram stories interesting. #elsawithherlegsout. Done. Right, time to ride this bad boy out of here.
My sister Grace taught me how to ride a bike. It was along our street on a hand-me-down bike where the plastic basket had been eaten away by the fact that we sisters had often tried to sit in it to catch rides on the handlebars. I remember her pushing me down our road and her shouting at me to pedal.Your legs have to go round super quickly!I pedalled for my shitting life. I still remember that grimace on my face, having to make my legs work that quickly. I remember crashing right into the neighbour’s Astra and leaving a scratch down the side that we blamed on the bin men.
That memory is brought to the fore as I pedal like a maniac now. Five minutes ago, I was completely romanticising this image. I thought I’d be floating over the bridge like romantic heroines do when they’re cycling through fields of French sunflowers in well-fitting sundresses with no bras. I’d wave at tourists, have my breath taken away by the iconic London skyline and make someone on a bus laugh. However, the reality is that this is a bloody slog in this heat and I’m grimacing. And sweating. A black cab toots his horn and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m revealing a lot of thigh or because my cycling’s a bit wobbly. He can bite me. Oh, I know why. It’s because I’m not in the cycle lane. I’m cycling along with the actual traffic. That’s brave, if stupid, as the cycle lane is empty. I won’t get over that barrier.
Double pay, Luce. Focus on the money. This will be a great anecdote to tell the nieces. They will love this story. I stop next to a bus where a young child kneels up on a seat to gaze at me. The eye contact is completely unnerving. They tug on their mum’s sleeve, who turns to stare at me too. She looks worried for me but she’s not completely perturbed as this is London so there are crazier things one can see in this mad city. I once saw a man walking a pig. But you can tell she’s also trying to come up with a feasible explanation for what I’m doing.You see, in the summer, she needs to get around on a bike. A sled is useless. As are crystal slippers when you have to get around town and be practical. I wave. The child waves back. Please be one of those little girls who imprints this vision into your mind. That time you saw a real-life princess towing her own arse around town and doing the work, under her own bloody steam.
I put my feet back on the pedals and push off to a start again. The traffic starts to crawl, which makes my job a bit easier, and I see a gap, manoeuvring my bike along a stretch of clear road, the sun on my face. This is the part where I’m supposed to close my eyes, put my arms out and freewheel my way into freedom and a better life, isn’t it?
‘Oi! Oi!’
Oh god, it’s some sports-loving tribe of men crossing the bridge, possibly on a stag do. I’d like to think I’m cycling fast enough for them not to notice me but I’m now weaving around cars at a standstill and using my feet as brakes.
‘Mate, is she your stripper? Thought she was showing up later.’
I slow down. I shouldn’t as I need to get to a party and have a quick tidy and wipe-down before I appear in front of the children but certain things get my back up, casual misogyny in the street, for example.
‘You wish, you doucheface.’
I turn to face him and give him the bird, which shows incredible feats of balance from me. He and his rubbish hipster beard don’t look impressed as, naturally, he’s lost his alpha status because I dared to answer back so now some of the group laugh.
‘Oooh, she’s a feisty one… What you doing later, love? Say ten-ish?’
Oh, you can eff off too. ‘I’ll be at home laughing about you and your needle dicks. Toodle-oo.’
And with that, a gap in the traffic appears and I ride off at a moderate speed without having to worry about men in loafers chasing me, just leaving words in the breeze as my legacy. I really hope they’re not chasing me.
I pedal a little harder. I cross lanes thinking I’m some sort of cycling ninja. Look at me like I’m in the Tour de France. A male tourist, possibly European because there’s double denim involved, screams something in a foreign language at me.
‘Elsa, ACHTUNG!VORSICHTIG SEIN!’
‘And to you too, my friend!’ I reply, laughing jovially.
But before I can work out what he means, it just appears out of nowhere. That’s an actual bus. And I panic. The side of my dress to my right thigh falls out, I can’t grab it and brake at the same time. It gets tangled in the wheel. Oh, you fricking idiot. No, no, no. Boof. And then air. All this air beneath me. Like I’m flying. Does Elsa fly? I don’t think she’s that sort of princess.
3
‘LUCY! IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, SQUEEZE MY HAND! IT’S EMMA! LUCY!’
Why is Ems shouting? Like, you’re right there, stop shouting at me. Did I not set an alarm again? What day is it? If she’s woken me up to make her a cup of tea then she can naff right off. Why do I have to squeeze her hand? I’ll squeeze it all right. Maybe I should dig a nail in. I feel my thumb clasp around her fingers gently. Why don’t my hands work? Squeeze, Lucy. I must bereallyhungover if I can’t even attempt a minor physical assault on my sister.
I open my eyes and look at a strange perforated ceiling divided up into a grid like a giant noughts and crosses board. I’m not at home, am I? And why does it feel like my eyes are being stabbed by the light?
‘Ems? It’s bright. I can’t. Turn off the lights.’
‘Oh my god… oh my…’
I feel her throw her body over mine and envelop me. I don’t think she’s hugged me like this in her whole entire life. Has she? Maybe when Lexie and Mark died inGrey’s Anatomy. God, is she crying? What the hell has happened? The lights dim and I open one eye again to try and make sense of things, to take in the sounds.
‘Ems, why are you crying?’
‘Ring everyone. Tess is downstairs in the cafeteria, tell her to send her parents back. They were just about to jump on a train. Mum and Dad went home. Oh my… page Dr Elliott because she’ll need to do tests and arrange for an MRI.’
They’ll have to do a what? Who? Emma’s tears run onto my skin and dampen my shirt. Wait, not a shirt. I seem to be wearing paper. I’m in a hospital? Emma gallops through giving instructions to a man next to the bed who could be a doctor but he’s also got a hand on Emma’s back like he’s comforting her. Is he crying too? Why is he crying? Who is he?
