Charlie
Ben answers the door to me with a kiss and a glass of wine.
“Hiya, honey, it’s nearly ready.” He wipes his hands on his apron to gather me up into a hug. “I made you pigs-in-blankets. I know you like them.”
I do. In fact, I had a sneaking suspicion those buggers were the deciding factor in me coming over.
He ushers me into the living room where he has the table set with nice little napkins and sauces.
I slump onto the sofa, stomach churning in anticipation. Ben is an excellent cook. It’s one of the reasons we work well together.
“Voila!” He emerges from the kitchen carrying two gigantic plates of yummy, stodgy food. Yet another night of lying on my back and groaning for the wrong reasons.
“This looks delicious.” I smile happily at the feast.
He leans forward to kiss me. As his tongue enters my mouth, I close my eyes and try to focus on the moment.
My tongue responds, but my head isn’t behaving.
I imagine I’m in another mouth.
The mouth of an obnoxious, arrogant Scot.
I’m a terrible person. Damn you, Charlie, focus!
When we emerge, I look at Ben and see our relationship clearly for the first time.
My chest tightens. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t just go through the motions. Don’t get me wrong, the guy is one in a million. He is one of the warmest, kindest boyfriends I’ve ever had.
But not for me. I want to have the fear of wanting someone so badly that my heart rate spikes when I see them. Fear that makes my throat clam up, so I forget how to take in air when they speak to me.
Julie says this is typical of me. I stay in relationships far longer than I should because I feel guilty about ending them.
“Ben,” I start in a small voice.
“Yes, honey.” He smiles back between forkfuls of mashed potatoes.
Oh hell, it’s pointless to waste good pigs-in-blankets. I’ll try again after dinner. “This is delicious.”
I shovel the food into my mouth as if the government had just announced a shortage.
After dinner, we settle into the couch to watch a movie. Ben bought my favourite dessert, a sticky toffee pudding with whipped cream.
My stomach gurgles in protest as more food is shoved into it than it can handle.
He snuggles into me, either ignoring or not caring about the noise.
I sit upright. I can’t procrastinate anymore.
Do it, do it, do it.
“Ben, we need to talk,” I frantically say while taking a big swig of wine.
He puts down his plate. “Damn, that’s a serious statement. Why am I hoping that you just want to talk about the plot?”
I smile sadly. “No, it’s not about the film. It’s us. I just don’t think—”
“What?” He stares at me blankly.
“That it’s working anymore.” I gulp mouthfuls of air. “I think we’d be better off as friends.”
There. I said it.
“What?” He rubs his face. “I don’t understand. Why?”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my eyes on the carpet. “I still love you, but it’s more sisterly or motherly now if you get my drift.”
Small whimpering sounds come from him as he puts his head in his hands. I can’t stand this. I wish I could retract my painful words now.
“I don’t want to hurt you. We can still be friends, of course, but—”
Yes, perhaps we can be good friends! Without sex, we are more like friends now anyway. He can still cook for me if he wants. I’ll even let him cook the pigs-in-blankets.
“You have to work at a relationship, Charlie,” he replies in a clipped voice. “You can’t just magically keep the spark without trying.”
“I know. I should have shaved my legs more. I stopped putting in effort. This is my fault.” I watch in despair as his face contorts with threatening tears.
“Eight months, Charlie. Did it not mean anything?”
“Of course, it did! But sometimes relationships just run their course,” I say, rubbing his shoulder.
He shakes his head. “This is so unexpected.”
Is it? If I’m honest with myself, the relationship was over months ago. I just didn’t read the signs.
He sits up. “Is there someone else?”
“No!”
“Is it Stevie?”
“No,” I reply, taken aback. “You know Stevie is a mate. He’s seeing Cat, for Christ’s sake!”
“Is it to do with my Mum? I know she is full-on, Charlie, but she only wants—”
“No!” I interrupt sharply. Although his Mum did act like …
“I don’t know what else to say,” I add softly. “I’m sorry, Ben.” I fixate on the carpet. “You’re right. I’m a terrible girlfriend. I put work before us. I’m always tired. I can’t stop farting. And you, you are amazing—”
“Don’t tell me I’m a nice guy,” he cuts in gruffly. “Just leave it.”
“I’ll get a cab home,” I offer.
He nods, a trickle of tears dripping down his chin.
There is something niggling at me, though. The thought of going back to a room full of Ben’s sweaters and underwear. Before I leave, I have to dot the I’s and cross the T’s.
“Ben,” I start. “I’ll return your sweaters and underwear.”
He stares at the floor without responding.
“I can separate the clean ones from the dirty ones if you like?” I add helpfully.
“For God’s sake, Charlie, as if I bloody care about my pants!”
“I really am sorry, Ben.”
He responds with a strained smile. “I know. It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not?” I ask hopefully.
“What do you want me to say? That I understand and you shouldn’t blame yourself?” He wipes his tears, a hardness in his eyes. “Fine, don’t blame yourself. Don’t feel guilty. Go home.”
“I do feel guilty,” I protest. “But we can’t keep going out of guilt. It’s not a very good basis for a relationship.”
He nods and touches my cheek gently. “I just need some time.”
I shuffle around the flat, hoovering up my belongings in a daze. My fluffy slippers, my elasticated trousers, my pink hot water bottle.
All evidence of the rut we have fallen into.
Tomorrow I’ll go out and buy some saucy hold-ups and lacy knickers. I’m 28, when did I start acting 78? It’s time to reclaim my sex life.
***
It’s Friday morning, so I should be in a good mood.
I would be, if I wasn’t standing in the rain outside a Bikram Yoga studio at 6:15 a.m.
I’m already panting from belting across London on my bicycle to get there on time.
Suze chose the lazy option, the underground. When she sees me, she exhales heavily.
I look at my phone. “Where’s Cat?”
“She couldn’t make it. She’s snowed under at work.”
“Cat?” I ask in disbelief. “Do you realize Cat spent three hours on Monday rearranging her knicker drawer by colour because she was ‘so on top of things’? The little bitch, if I have to go through this, she bloody well has to also.”
“You’re right!” Suze becomes indignant. “All I asked her to do was stay in one class for ninety minutes. That’s not too much to ask.”
“Come on.” I fling open the door to the reception and am hit by the smell of sweat. “Let’s get this over and done with.”
After registering, we walk to the studio and peer inside the glass window while waiting for the last class to end. As I glance around the room, I begin to wonder if Suze and I misunderstood the dress code. There are girls wearing bras and shorts so tiny, I’m sure you can see internal organs when they bend over. There is more muffin top on Kate Moss than in this studio.
As the door opens to the studio, I’m greeted by a heatwave that rivals a cremation.
Suze stares at me wide-eyed, a bead of sweat forming over her eyebrows.
We trudge hesitantly into the studio and find an area to stand as near the door as possible.
About twenty people are already lying on their backs on yoga mats with their palms facing the ceiling, taking long deep breaths. At least ten more people pile into the room.
What the hell? How are we all going to fit in here?
I open my mouth but no oxygen goes in. It’s hard to breathe in this heat.
My feet start to cook on the ground, and I hop from foot to foot.
This isn’t pleasant heat, like my juicing retreat in Sardinia. Or standing on a beach in Jordan.
It’s way hotter. Boiling. Record-setting extreme climate conditions. A room unfit for human habitation.
It’s taking all my strength not to bolt out of the door.
“Are they fucking serious?” Suze hisses at me, becoming more frazzled by the second. “This isn’t right! It’s inhumane!”
Usually, I dismiss Suze’s dramatised accounts of sporting activities, but I couldn’t argue with this one. I wouldn’t heat a hen house to this temperature.
The door closes, and I feel my heartbeat accelerate as waves of panic wash over me. There is no way I can stay in this room for ninety minutes. But there are so many people between me and the door.
Beside me, Suzy moans softly.
I close my eyes and tell myself I won’t die from spontaneous combustion.
“Good morning, ladies. Welcome to Bikram Yoga.” A short lady with an Eastern European accent smiles around the room. “This is going to be an intense session. You may experience discomfort, panic, nausea and the feeling that you want to run out of the room. It’s a challenging class. Regulars will already be familiar with the great benefits this class offers. For new starters, I ask you to bear with it. Do not overexert yourself for the first few sessions.”
Suze nods her head feverishly, either in agreement or as part of a fit.
The instructor paces up and down the front of the room. “Your main aim this morning is to stay in the room for the entire ninety minutes. If you do that, you’ll do extremely well.”
“Stay in the room,” I repeat to myself quietly. “Just stay inside the room.”
I’ve never been one for confined spaces. If someone tells me the toilets are out of order, I immediately have to go. If someone tells me to be silent, I’ll get a parched throat and be choking to cough. Bikram lady is telling me I need to stay in this Saharan heat for ninety minutes? My brain is ordering me to get the hell out.
“We have a few new starters this morning. Where is Melissa?”
A lithe girl in a catsuit wiggles her hand in the air.
“And Charlotte and Suzanne?”
“Oh, that’s us!” I rasp, raising my arm in the air. Hearing my voice is strange, it’s dry and breaking.
“OK, ladies, take it easy. If you feel nauseous, just stop the exercises, sit down on the mat and breathe through your nose.”
She clasps her hands together. “Right, let’s begin the first posture!” Her hands stretch above her head. “Bums up to the ceiling. Follow the ceiling to the back wall with your eyes.”
“How many postures are there?” I throw Suze a desperate look.
She can barely answer me. “Two, I hope.”
We watch as the instructor and most of the class stretch and bend in the heat. I tentatively follow, trying to work as little as possible. Beads of sweat gush down my arms and soak through my shorts and underwear. On my feet, sweat droplets collect in the vein grooves.
“Keep pushing through, ladies. This is the final warm-up posture.” The instructor bends to the right and my classmates obediently follow. “Well done! That’s the warm-up over.”
“Warm-up.” I scratch the beads of sweat tickling my arm. “Can you believe it?”
I turn to Suze and watch open-mouthed as she picks up her soaking towel and trundles towards the door stepping over the sea of sweaty bodies.
Ignoring the instructor’s call, she flings the doors open, letting in a gush of glorious cold air, and with that, she is gone.
The instructor watches in bewilderment. “OK.” She laughs. “Hopefully, the rest of you will attempt to stay in longer than the warm-up. Bikram’s not for everyone, as we can see.”
Sniggers reverberate around the room, and the girl next to me shoots me a sidelong glance.
I bend over into the frog position and hope that Suze has passed out from the heat, because if she hasn’t, I’m going to knock her out when I get out of here.
“Just enjoy the deliciousness of this pose, ease your back into the beautiful arch that your body is craving.”
I snort as sweat rolls up my nose from behind my ears.
“Let your eyes follow the line in the ceiling and breathe out and smile. Hold it … Hold it,” her voice trails off. “And relax.”
I fall onto the floor in a heap, flinging sweat at the girl beside me.
“Now down into the toad position. And release. Be taken by the breath filling your lungs …”
Sweat gushes down between my breasts like a dam breaking. I’m sliding in my own damn sweat.
I see the crack of the door and feel pangs of despair.
But most of all, I’m angry.
Angry at the instructor who is prancing around like a mad woman practicing labour breathing techniques, who won’t let me leave the room.
Angry at Suze for giving up on everything she has ever attempted because she’s spineless.
And angry at myself for having a less elasticated bum than the pensioner springing about in front of me.
The instructor’s voice drills into my brain. “Lock your knees. Reach down, fingers under your feet, push and LOCK your knees. Elbows straight, forehead to the floor, LOCK YOUR KNEES.” She walks past me pushing my knees out.
“They don’t bend any more than that,” I growl at her, and she smiles serenely.
