I’d met Marcus last June at the opening of a new ‘nutritional experience’ in Shoreditch. Crammed into a venue which could have once been the shoebox for the ergonomically designed trainers the manager-owner had sent me as an inducement to attend, it made room for three tables, a ‘rejuvenation zone’, containing yoga mats, kettle bells and stretchy rope things, and the ‘rejuicination zone’, which to my professional eye looked like a bog-standard takeaway counter.
Lucy hadn’t come, seeing as she hated anything sports related. I’d intended to pop in for a quick taste of the menu samples, a slurp or two of their beet latte and cheese tea, which I fully anticipated would taste like liquidised toe-fluff, and as in-depth a conversation with the owner as I could manage without arousing suspicion. I hadn’t worn the trainers, as that would be a dead giveaway, but had splashed out on the kind of outfit I thought women who attended nutritional experiences at nine o’clock on a Monday evening would probably wear: black and silver leggings, a sleeveless running top artfully cutaway to reveal my sports bra, and Lucy’s smartest trainers.
I sidled in and began ambling around, feigning studious interest in the information posters and nodding appreciatively as the owner made his rambling speech about optimal performance and micronutrient replenishment, repeatedly interrupting himself by punching the air and shouting, ‘Fit don’t quit!’
‘Nora Sharp, I presume?’ Someone whispered in my ear, causing me to clutch my biodegradable juice carton so hard that the juice spurted out of the top and left a fluorescent green stain on the trainers.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I flicked my hair and smiled sweetly. Glancing to my left, I saw a man with a huge shock of prematurely grey hair framing dazzling blue eyes and a mischievous grin.
‘Come off it. No serious fitness freak would be caught dead in those trainers. And, no offence, but you’ve not got the physique of a woman who considers carbs to be nutritional cyanide.’
‘Maybe I carb-cycle!’ I tittered, still trying to act as un-Nora like as possible, while simultaneously resisting the urge to squirt my drink in his face.
‘No. You’ve got the look of a woman who knows how to actually enjoy food. A real woman, not a haggard cyborg held together with stringy tendons and overly sculpted muscle.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I mean, look at them.’ He nodded at a pair of women standing nearby, who I had to admit did appear semi-bionic beneath their tiny bralettes and cycling shorts.
‘Are you always this rude about people’s appearances?’ I hissed, while simultaneously feeling my shoulders de-hunch. I had felt more than a little overwhelmed by the rest of the guests, and it was a relief to know not everyone here was horrified by my clear lack of fitness finesse, or ‘fitnesse’, as Nora Sharp would call it in her review.
‘Compared to you, Nora, I’m an absolute gentleman.’ He winked, waiting a few seconds before adding, ‘I don’t mean it about the women, I’m just jealous and intimidated and wanted to crack your legendary iron shell.’
At that point, the speech was over, the crowd broke into a smattering of applause, more cheers of, ‘Fit don’t quit!’ and, in my case, a whoosh of relief.
‘Want to get out of here? Go and get some chips or something?’
Misinterpreting my hesitation as something other than nervousness and disbelief at a real-life man asking me to hang out with him, he held out one hand. ‘Marcus Donahue-Black. I’m only here because the owner is my cousin. I hate exercise and I love doughnuts. And I apologise for my demeaning comments. I use humour as a safety net when I’m out of my comfort zone, and I was trying to impress you by being mean. I also apologise for assuming that you in any way resemble your online persona. I can immediately see that you are far kinder and more lovely than the memes would suggest. Can we start again?’
Given how lonely and tired I was of pretending to be someone else, the thought of eating chips with someone who seemed to understand my predicament after just one brief interaction made it an offer impossible to resist.
A handful of dates later, Marcus was my boyfriend. He was someone else who could come to meals and events with me, and it turned out he moved in the kind of circles where he was often already invited, so I could go as his date and no one would be any the wiser.
He lived in a swanky chrome and white apartment near the river on the Southbank, although we spent far more time out and about than in either of our homes. His job seemed to involve a lot of networking, and long lunches, and offering to connect people with other people who knew people, but he was fun, and we had a good time, and if the conversation remained on the lighter side, the relief at being with someone else who knew the truth about me was priceless. He’d throw me secret winks at opportune moments, make cheeky comments about the food we were eating – ‘What do you think of the crab, darling?’ – and it created an intimacy between us that I’d been craving without realising it. I could almost be myself with Marcus, as long as that was London Eleanor – a few shades classier, more content and more confident than I really felt – and with him, like with Charlie, I believed I could be my best self. Or at least a better one.
I’d glided along in the bliss of considering myself a girlfriend, one of a pair, half of a whole, and had quite begun to convince myself that I loved this uncomplicated man. I even mentioned him to my parents, and started thinking about bringing him home to the Tufted Duck (although I’d have to ask for a guest room, given that Grandma was still snoring strong in my bedroom at ninety-three). I spent time with his friends, on boats, and in country houses and at D-list celebrity weddings. And if these new friends seemed to spend more time passed out, scrapping over someone’s so-called partner or crying in the toilets than they did enjoying themselves, well, who was I to judge? I felt honoured to be included.
And then, New Year’s Day, while we were eating breakfast only hours after that beautiful evening in the castle, Marcus’s phone bleeped with a message while he was chatting to a new contact on the other side of the dining room, his phone left sitting on the table between us.
It was a photograph.
In the time it took me to figure it out, several more popped up. To be honest, they would have made me feel sick even if they hadn’t featured my boyfriend. A woman was also in the photos, but it was impossible to make out her face. A written message soon followed:
Best night of my life. Hope to do it again soon xx
Marcus knew a lot of women. They often messaged him. A certain level of flirting and schmoozing, he had assured me, was part of his job. I hadn’t realised that naked gymnastics counted as flirting. The contact was saved in his phone as ‘FireStarter’.
I said nothing, downing my coffee in one mouthful, grabbing the as yet untouched cinnamon swirl from his plate and hotfooting it out of there. The psychological advantage garnered from standing at reception already checking out when he finally noticed my absence and came looking, gave me the courage to speak.
‘Who’s FireStarter?’
The slightly confused smile dropped off his face for a second, before he remembered that appearing to be confused might be the best way to play it. ‘Excuse me, darling?’
Ugh. I was too tired and angry and humiliated to faff about. There were times when being able to channel an alter ego superbitch came in handy. ‘She’s just sent you a pictorial recap of the other night.’
‘You were snooping on my phone?’ He stepped closer, ducking his head in an attempt to avoid a scene.
I took a step back. ‘You left it on the table. No snooping required.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Can we talk about this somewhere else, please? Several of my associates are here.’
‘No. Who is she?’
‘No one,’ he snapped, rolling his eyes in contempt.
‘No one? No one, as in, you don’t even know the name of the woman you cheated on me with?’
‘Oh, come off it, Eleanor,’ he muttered. ‘What are you talking about, cheating? Please don’t start getting all possessive on me, it doesn’t suit you.’
‘What?’ I was the one to look confused, now. ‘What else do you call it if you sleep with someone behind your girlfriend’s back?’
‘I call it perfectly acceptable, if they aren’t exclusive.’
‘You specifically asked me to be exclusive! In August, before I went on the Italian Nonna’s food retreat!’
‘Well,’ he shrugged, glancing about the reception foyer, because it was apparently far more important that he maintained his reputation with his associates than with me. ‘You didn’t ask me back.’
So, I broke up with my non-exclusive boyfriend. Thankfully, he’d proven himself to be a total arse, so I wasn’t too heartbroken about it. Just a little bit lonely – Marcus had made me feel like a grown-up, who knew what she was doing, and had a semblance of a future up ahead. He’d validated my job, laughing off my concerns with comments like, ‘Lighten up, darling – you write humorous food reviews, you aren’t testifying in court.’ He made me feel a tiny bit less like an arse. Or, at least stopped me having so much time to worry about it.
But all that newfound empty time, the time that mattered, in between the fluff and the frippery of my increasingly ghastly job, was now time spent gradually facing up to the fact that I couldn’t keep going any more. The further Nora slipped down this one-way slope to Bitchiness Abyss, the more I loathed what I did. And it wasn’t ‘only a job’, it was my life, and if I had even the slightest modicum of self-worth, I had to acknowledge that how I spent my one precious life mattered.
Here’s a useful tip when deciding whether your chosen career is destroying you one torturous meme at a time: if you are too ashamed to allow your family to read the words you write, then for goodness’ sake, what the hell are you thinking?
I was free now though, wasn’t I? Here in the strong, ancient embrace of Damson Farm? Tucked away in between the gently rolling East Midland hills, amongst the bees and the sheep, the lights of Ferrington glinting through the orchard? After all, I’d had no more messages from the stalker since I’d left. Sure, I’d blocked them, but if they were that determined they’d have simply got another number.
Surely that must mean I was safe.
Mustn’t it?