Page 58 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘Obviously.’
‘Farah, I have a question… We kept in touch, yeah? We are still good mates?’
She pauses for a moment and I don’t know if I’ve insulted her.
‘Luce, I wouldn’t call in favours for anyone else. What we have… our love, friendship, is crazy like that. I won’t lie, we go months without seeing each other sometimes or even talking and that’s mainly because real life, distance, gets in the way. But we’re still mates. I should say that’s mainly because of you though. You’re the one who keeps in touch with all of us. You’re a gift of a mate.’
While I like the compliment, there are words there that hurt. That at times we drifted away from each other. She’s the sort of person I imagined would be there forever, just on the sidelines, someone I’d see every day, for which I blame nineties sitcoms with their coffee shops and in vogue haircuts. But I guess real life doesn’t work like that.
‘When we adopted Zeke, you were the first person we rang. You were on a bike at the gym. You literally screamed with happiness and then called us pricks for having kept it all a secret.’
‘I screamed at the gym?’
‘During a spin class… I believe someone fell off a bike in shock. You then hugged everyone in the room and then got banned from that establishment,’ she says, laughing.
‘You sound so happy…’ I tell her.
‘I’m happy because my mate is still alive but in general? I’m good, babe. We’re all good.’
‘Do you still have a tongue piercing?’ I ask her.
I love hearing her laugh. That thing used to clink against her teeth when she talked and I was there when she had it done. She had to eat soup for a week and her parents freaked out and took away her phone for a month.
‘I do. Some things haven’t changed. Promise me you’ll give this a go, yes?’
‘Does this fella wear a waistcoat? I will mock him if he has a waistcoat.’
‘He doesn’t. I love you, let me know how it goes.’
She hangs up on me and I sit in the reception area, leaning around to see what’s happening in this place. It’s a therapy centre of sorts and they like them a motivational quote, house plant and primary colour to lift the mood. The room opposite me seems to be dedicated to some sort of arts and crafts. There’s some basket weaving, clay sculpture and there’s a man painting a canvas in red and black, throwing paint on in quite a haphazard fashion. Crumbs, who hurt you, honey? Someone takes his brushes. I studied this (apparently): therapy through the power of dance. Maybe that is what I need? Maybe we need to go into the deepest recesses of my mind and beckon all of my memories out via a bit of tap dancing. Do we dare go there though? What brilliant horrors lie under my surface?
‘Lucy?’
I look up. Christ on a bleeding bike.
‘Yes. Are you Cosmo?’
He puts his palms together to bow and acknowledge his name. I don’t really know how to describe Cosmo but he’s wearing all white, which is always a sign in a person that they lack any practicality but also that they may want you to join their cult. He completes the look with grey felt clogs, a lot of hair, a big Bob Ross bushel to the head and sprouts of it like weeds escaping out the top of his shirt and cuffs. For the love of Etsy hell, that’s a dreamcatcher pendant.
‘You are most welcome today,’ he tells me in a soft melodic accent. ‘Farah has told me so much about you.’
‘All my best bits, I hope…’
He smiles. That’s not a reply though, which makes me think Farah didn’t give him the PG version.
‘Please come with me,’ he says, his hands ushering the way through the centre. I am dubious, I can’t lie. Peering into the rooms, it seems like a lot of people sitting in circles, talking, listening, crying, hugging and holding hands as they chant to the ceilings, a wall of tantric whale music, tai chi and positive healing vibes in the very brickwork. The cynic in me wants to run. This is not what Lucy does. I’m led to believe I solve problems with terrible jokes, alcohol and by hitting stuff. Hard. I am starting to wonder what sort of friend Farah actually is that she’s led me here.
‘So you and Farah went to university together?’ I ask him, trying to get more of an idea of Cosmo. I bet he drinks a shedload of fennel tea and has a pet alpaca whose wool he farms for the socks.
‘We did. We lived together for a while in Manchester. Isn’t she just the best soul?’
We probably have very different experiences of Farah. The Farah I know and love used to get super drunk with me, entertain people on the night bus with singalongs and flash her boobs out of the bus window.
‘She’s pretty awesome. And you’ve worked here long?’
‘I set up Sanctum with a friend: it’s a combination here of traditional psychotherapies and alternative methods of inner healing.’
I saw a film calledSanctumon that Netflix the other day. They took that woman’s brain and gave it to aliens. I should have put my phone tracking on before I came here. Don’t look at his pendant. Or the fact he has what looks like granola in his hair.
