I’m at the bar, want a drink? the text reads.
Yes, of course I want a drink. I just got completely soaked while getting lost finding this stupid place, despite the seven-foot plastic gorilla hanging off the entrance. Get me a big f-off drink right now.
Sarah’s just reminded me she’s moving out at the end of the month, after she gets back from her honeymoon in Vancouver, and there’s no way I can afford to pay the full rent myself. Of course, I’ve known this was coming for ages and have made only the most cursory attempts to find a new flatmate. But I’ve had other much more important things to do, like googling “do cats understand when you meow back to them” or “how old is the world’s oldest egg.”
So it’s fair to say I’m not in the most romantic frame of mind, but to be honest, the Jolly Jungle Crazy Golf is not one of Eastbourne’s most romantic attractions. Sure, I suppose it could potentially be a fun place for a date, if you were feeling particularly ironic, in an amazingly good mood, or bone dry. Reader, I am none of those things.
Tonight, Jolly Jungle Crazy Golf is full of people who are, and, after I push my way through them, I spot a man who looks, hmm, at least 80 percent like Josh Little.
“Josh?” I ask, sticking my head into his field of vision and giving a little wave.
“Gwen!” he says, a broad smile spreading across his face, which is considerably less ruddy and damp than mine. “Sorry, I just got served.”
He motions to a pint of lager sitting on the drip tray in front of him.
“Oh, right, okay, no problem,” I say, immediately trying to catch the server’s eye as she scuttles to the other end of the bar.
Please give me that pint right now! my brain is screaming. But my mouth says, “I’ll get myself one, no worries.”
Josh’s app profile had informed me he is thirty-four and works in recruitment. His hair is cropped close to the scalp, his skin is slightly shiny, and he has the thick, knitted eyebrows of a Gallagher brother. Tonight he is wearing what looks like a fresh-out-of-the-box dark-green shirt, smart trainers, and skinny jeans. I take a breath and compose myself. I need to chill out and have a good time, and not take my frustrations out on poor, dry Josh with his lovely big, full pint.
Eventually I manage to order a bottle of Corona and we squeeze our way through to the crazy golf course.
“So how was your day?” I ask, handing him one of the mini-sized clubs. “On a scale of one to ten?”
“Uh, five, I guess,” he says. “I sit in front of a computer all day, so it’s pretty much the same every day, to be honest.”
“How long have you been, um, recruiting people?” I say. “That’s right, isn’t it? Recruitment?”
“Shit, probably more than ten years now,” he says. “I started there straight out of school, actually. It’s not very exciting but the pay’s all right, and we get reduced gym membership.”
I place my Day-Glo orange golf ball on the marker at the start of the first hole. The aim seems to be to get it through the mouth of a large crocodile, which, if done accurately, would send the ball winding down its tail before depositing it neatly into the hole.
I knock my ball toward the crocodile, but it bounces off his jaw just as it closes, and trundles back toward me, ending up pretty much where it started.
“This place is cool,” I venture, watching my ball come to a stop at my feet. “Good choice.”
“Yeah, my office is just round the corner, so it’s really convenient for me,” he says.
“Oh, right, it’s actually quite far from me. I’m on the other side of town.”
“We come here after work on a Friday for a drink sometimes,” he continues. “Can get pretty messy!”
“Oh yeah? Like dancing on the tables and snogging the head of accounts kinda messy?” I ask.
“Oh, I wish,” he says. He takes a gulp of his beer, leaving a half-moon of foam across his upper lip, and smiles at me.
I look at Josh’s almost-full pint and sigh inwardly. Despite having at least ten minutes’ head start on me, it looks like he’s barely touched it till now. I wait to see if he will ask me about my day, or my job, or at least what my favorite pizza topping is. But he doesn’t, so we continue to sip our drinks in silence. I begin to think that this could turn into a very long night.
Josh picks up his club to take his turn against the grinning crocodile that has rocketed to number four on my list of all-time top nemeses. He waits until the crocodile’s mouth closes, pauses, then sends his ball straight through its jaws. The ball runs through the tail, pops out the other end, and plops straight into the hole.
“Hole in one!” he gloats.
“Wait, how did you do that?” I ask.
“There’s a trick to it,” Josh says. “It’s all about timing. I’ve played this hole a hundred times, and you can get a hole in one every time. You wait till the crocodile closes his mouth, count to three, and hit the ball.”
A hundred times? How many women has he taken here? I wonder.
“So is this how you impress all your dates?” I ask.
“Hey, don’t go telling everyone the secret,” he says.
“I’ll take it to my grave,” I assure him.
We move on to the next hole, which involves knocking the ball through the legs of a giant tarantula, and set our drinks down on the little table by the tee.
“Now, with this one you just have to bounce it off her back leg there—” he begins, lining up his shot.
“Have you always lived in Eastbourne?” I interrupt before he can continue his tutorial.
“Yes,” he says. “My parents are from here, and my grandparents too. I’d hate to grow up around here now though.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Too many immigrants these days.”
I study his face carefully for any micro-expressions that might indicate this is just a misguided joke. I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing, which turns out to be a mistake, as he takes that as a signal to carry on.
“It used to be quite a nice area until about five years ago,” he says. “But they began to settle a lot of refugees in the housing estate around the corner, and it all went downhill after that.”
“That sounds a little, um, racist, Josh,” I say.
“No, it’s not like that,” he says, putting his club down. “I’m not saying they’re bad people. We’ve got one at work right now. Weird little geezer. I just think it’s a mistake to let too many foreigners into the country, especially if they can’t contribute.”
“What do you mean ‘can’t contribute’?” I say. “They get jobs and they pay their tax.”
“Yes, they do get jobs—they get our jobs.”
“I didn’t picture you as a Russian Twitter bot,” I say, trying to force a laugh.
“Don’t be facetious,” he says, looking a bit pissed off. “I’m just saying we need to protect our borders.”
“Protect our borders?” I snort. “They’re not invading. These people need our help.”
“We need to look after our own people first. British people who live in tiny council flats in run-down estates. British people who are struggling to survive on Universal Credit and food banks. We can’t all grow up in a nice middle-class, three-bedroom semi-detached with nice parents and a nice school,” he says. “That’s you, right? Am I close?”
Annoyingly, he’s actually not far off. Before Dad died, pretty much everything about my childhood had been “nice.” My own bedroom. Two overprotective older sisters. One cat (okay, he didn’t last long, but that was an accident). Happily married parents who’d enjoyed the sort of benign, suburban romance that belonged to the last generation to marry young and stay together for the sake of the kids. As grateful as I was to them for providing such a stable home life, I did sometimes wonder if they were ever bored out of their minds. But none of this means I don’t care about people who had a less advantageous start than I did.
“It’s funny that you presume to know everything about me,” I say, “even though you haven’t asked me a single question all night.”
“Oh, here we go,” he says. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those women.”
“Those women?” I spit. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean,” he says, taking a deep breath like he’s had to explain this a thousand times, “every woman I meet on Connector, you’re all the same: privileged snobs with plenty of opinions, putting the world to rights while Daddy pays your rent.”
Those words cut through me, tearing open an old wound.
“I forked out a lot of money for these matches, and all of you think you’re too good for the likes of me. I should ask for my money back,” he mutters.
“What are you talking about? It’s a free app,” I tell him.
“Yeah, right,” he snorts. “Free for you, maybe. I bet you can get as many matches as you like, no problem. Some of us aren’t so fortunate.”
I can feel the heat rising through my damp cardigan as all the blood in my body rushes to my cheeks.
“I just thought we could have a nice chat and a round of golf, rather than you giving me a lecture on my own life,” I say. “Look, let’s just go back to knocking tiny balls past plastic animals, okay? I mean, you went to all the trouble of planning such a glamorous evening for us, I’d hate for us not to make the most of it.”
“Here we go again,” he says, almost under his breath, but deliberately loud enough for me to hear. “Little Miss Better than Everyone Else.”
“Excuse me?” I snap.
I’m about to be evicted, my business is hanging on by a thread, and this prick is telling me I’m Eastbourne’s answer to Kendall Jenner.
“Calm down,” Josh says. “We’re just having a conversation, like you wanted, right? It’s people like you who make it so hard for guys like me to get a date in this town.”
“This is what you call a conversation?” I say. “Because the last time I checked, conversations usually involve two people.”
I take a breath. I am actually about to lose my shit, and in danger of giving him all the evidence he needs to tell his mates I’m an overemotional woman who can’t handle a little robust debate.
“Sorry, Josh,” I say calmly. “I’ve had a really long, bad day and I don’t think I’m in the mood for this. I’m going to go. Thank you for the drink.”
Then I remember.
“Oh, that’s right, you didn’t get me a drink,” I say. “Have a nice night.”
I pick up his pint of beer, drain the last of it into my mouth, and turn to leave.
“Hey, wait,” he says. “Don’t be stupid, we just got here.”
I don’t answer. Is this guy nuts? Has he just wiped the last ten minutes from his memory? I start walking.
“I’m going home,” I say sharply.
“Jeez, you’re so hormonal,” he says, placing a hand on my waist. “We haven’t even finished the hole yet. No wonder you’re single.”
“Get off me,” I say, loudly this time. The place goes quiet as stunned faces turn to look at us.
“Jen, will you just sit down and discuss this,” he says, as if he’s speaking to a child. “If you disagree with me, that’s fine, but at least let’s debate it like adults, instead of having a tantrum.”
“It’s Gwen,” I say. “And no.”
“Stop making a scene. You’re embarrassing me,” he hisses.
Before I know it, I feel his hand on my wrist, grabbing me—not tightly, but firmly enough to make a fiery rush of adrenaline shoot through me. It’s like his fingers burn my skin. I spin round, shaking him off.
Maybe it’s because I’ve just downed the best part of a pint of overly strong pale ale, or maybe it’s because I’m tired and cold and fed the fuck up, but in that moment, something breaks.
“I said get off me.” I lift the golf club above my head and swing it down hard. I see his mouth drop open in fear as the club collides with his forearm with a dull thud.
“Fuck!” he screams.
I turn around and walk out without looking back. The fresh air cools me down, and by the time I’ve stomped to the bus stop, my heart rate has just about returned to normal. Predictably, before I even reach my front door, he’s already messaged me.
Josh: You broke my hand, you crazy bitch
I let him know exactly where he’ll be bleeding from next if he ever messages me again, block him, and go to bed.