Page 92 of The Gin Lover's Guide to Dating

Agonisingly conflicted, I eventually realise it’s for the best if I’m honest. I also note that Graham hasn’t stepped in and recused me from my discomfort this time. He wants me to open up. I agitatedly tap my finger on the edge of the keyboard, trying to figure out the best way of approaching this, and realise there isn’t one. Taking a deep faltering breath, I rapidly compose a similarly summarised version of my own ‘story’ and hit send before I have a chance to change my mind.

MissGinFizz:OK, here goes… like you, I grew up on an estate with very little, but unlike you, I had useless parents. My mum lived on benefits, drank herself silly daily and barely ever left the house. My dad was a violent waste of space who spent more time in jail than out, and blamed the world for his problems. The cupboards were always bare, and the flat was always freezing – I basically had to fend for myself. So, unlike you, I don’t have a story I can be proud of. Only one that makes me feel shame.

As I read back what I’ve written, I feel a sudden, desperate urge to delete it and pretend it never happened. But I know there’s no point. He’s seen it now. I can’t undo it. I wait anxiously for his response, almost unable to bear it. After what feels like an eternity, a message pops up on the screen.

GrahamLeeton:Why does your story bring you shame, MissGinFizz?

I blink at the screen. Is he for real? What part of what I’ve just told him isn’t a reason to be ashamed? Who would want to admit that they grew up being regarded as the vermin of their neighbourhood? His parents were loving grafters. They created a home out of so little. Mine created little more than a doss house.

I can feel my stress levels rising. Why did I bring this up? I should have kept my bloody mouth shut. Or spun the same line I’ve used for the last ten-plus years, about having had a rather ordinary upbringing in a three-bed semi in the burbs. Nobody ever questioned that. It wasn’t an interesting enough story to pursue. And it was my safety blanket. Things were going so well, and now I’m on the verge of ruining them. He’s going to want to know more; I just want to shut the whole conversation down.

Just respond as if it’s a difficult PR question, Liv. You know the drill: take a step back. I let my mind tick over for several seconds, fingers poised on the keypad, then tap out my response. Unfortunately, on reading it back once I’ve hit send, it isn’t nearly as balanced and impersonal as I had intended.

MissGinFizz:Because families like my mine are seen as the scourge of our society. Looked down upon by so many. Some people would rather we didn’t exist, or were shipped off somewhere out of sight and mind. I can’t be proud of any of that. My story is completely different to yours.

Annoyed with myself for such a personal and emotional response, I lean back on the couch, clasp my hands across my midriff and wait resignedly for Graham to start to make his excuses. Chances are he’s now got an image of me in his head that’s not quite so desirable.

I wait for several minutes. Just when I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s not even going to bother with the pleasantries, my laptop pings with a message from him.

GrahamLeeton:Your story is sad, no doubt about that. But it is not one of shame. I understand that you can’t be proud of your family’s story, but you can be proud of yours. It’s clear to me that you are quite an extraordinary woman. On the limited information you have given me, this is how I see it: You have, against all the odds, defied the statistics and not followed in either of your parents’ footsteps. Not only have you committed to creating an honest and hard-grafting living for yourself, you also have a genuine writing talent. You have had the courage to branch into something new and I hope you are already reaping the rewards. You were not accountable or responsible for any of the failings in your early life. You were a child. An innocent child who depended on her parents, and they let her down. Society may judge your parents, but I will not. As we’ve discussed, there is so much inequality in this world. Your parents are probably to blame to some extent, but if all the disadvantage and postcode lotteries, and all the great imbalances in our country didn’t exist, then maybe they might have had more of a chance in life. Consider your circumstances within the parameters of the many discussions we have had about the wrongs of the world. You were strong enough to fight through; not everyone is. By allowing the leech of shame to suck you dry, all you will bring yourself is a lifetime of unnecessary pain and suffering or running away from the truth – when you could simply face it and put it to bed. I can’t say this strongly enough: do not ever carry the shame of anything you had no influence or control over.

I drink in his words, reading them over and over. As I do, I feel an eruption of questions, thoughts and emotions. He thinks I should be proud? Of what I just shared? But my life was a car crash. A humiliating blot on the early pages of my copybook. Though he does say I should be proud ofmyself, not my family. I contemplate this for a moment and consider how much this man’s views mean to me. In many ways I don’t really know him at all, but when it comes to perspectives and intellectual and emotional depth, I know him well. Not just that, I have the absolute highest respect for him. His opinion means more to me than anyone’s.

I realise he’s right. I did defy the statistics. I did exactly what I always encouraged Dylan to do – but I never allowed myself to appreciate that I had done it myself. I just saw it as my only chance of survival. Icanbe proud of that. But it doesn’t stop me being ashamed of, and embarrassed by my upbringing. Iwasthe kind of human vermin people looked down on, wrinkled their noses at, even took a wide berth from when they passed me in the street. But was that my fault? Iwasjust a child. A harmless, innocent child. I chose none of it. So why should I be ashamed?

I let out a splutter of emotion as it dawns on me that I’ve been carrying this burden all my life. My parents – and in some ways, the rest of society – were the ones who more or less abandoned me to become almost feral. And who was it that dug and dug, and eventually climbed out of that hole? Me. With no help from anyone else – except maybe Dylan and Mrs Patterson.

Tears begin to roll down my cheeks for the first time since I was a small child. And this time, I let them. For years I’ve hidden away from this. I’ve batted back Dylan’s criticisms of my refusal to acknowledge my background and past, because it was just too painful, too humiliating. I realise Graham is right. I need to face this, and allow myself to be OK with it. And I need to find a way to feel the pride he describes.

Wiping the splatter from a few rogue tears off my keyboard, I thoughtfully type out a reasonably short, but heartfelt message of gratitude.

MissGinFizz:You may not know me that well, but somehow, you’ve reached into the very core of my soul. I’ve spent years running and hiding, unable to grasp at logic because it was just too raw. Somehow, you’ve picked the lock; now, finally I feel like I can start to undo the chains. I honestly can’t thank you enough. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed now. I suddenly feel exhausted, like I’ve scaled a mountain. But I would very much like to chat again tomorrow, if you would too?

He responds almost immediately.

GrahamLeeton:Absolutely, MissGinFizz. I completely understand. And I look forward to it. I’m glad you feel you can start to move on. Goodnight.

Chapter 26

I’ve seen a lot of forward people in my time: men and women.

The pushy guy who relentlessly propositions his disinterested target (and I say target because that’s all she is to him), firing out one cringeworthy line after the next. And on finally admitting defeat, he moves straight on to the next ‘most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his life’.

Then there’s the determined female who’s decided that this is the man she simply must have: the perfect accessory to drape over her arm, alongside her Michael Kors handbags and her Gucci watch. They’d have the most beautiful children ever – of course!

I’ve seen all that. But I’ve never seen anything quite like this.

The unassuming datee innocently sips at a classic gin martini (a simple, laid-back combination of dry gin, dry vermouth and a lemon twist to garnish), while grazing on a complimentary bowl of cashews, peacefully scrolling through his phone. His wait is relaxed, unanticipatory.

She enters the bar, scanning the room hungrily, and quickly spots her prey (aka this poor unassuming man). For a moment she simply stands there, sizing him up. I swear I even see her lick her chops (sorry, lips!). Then, slowly and calculatedly, she stalks her way across the bar towards him.

He doesn’t hear her coming. His defences are down. This is his fatal error. She’s just two feet away when he finally looks up, but it’s too late. She takes her opportunity and pounces. If this were the jungle or wilderness, a brutal, cruel assassination would immediately follow, blood and body parts on full display as the more sinister side of nature took its course.

This is far more terrifying.

‘Oh, you are just delicious,’ I hear her purr. ‘I will so be having you for dessert.’ The man gulps as the realisation dawns. He’s not getting out of this with his pride.

What follows is a game of cat and mouse so painful to watch, I almost feel the need to intervene. She toys with her victim: physically and psychologically bats him around like a bit of meat. To her, he is nothing more than a chew toy for her to poke, prod and paw at. She pauses only briefly to order a rather fitting Hanky Panky (a mischievous mix of gin, sweet vermouth, a double dash of Fernet-Branca, and a strip of orange peel to serve). At one point, I become concerned that she might actually swallow him whole. And the man, dazed and disoriented, just lets it happen. He has no defence against this perplexing ‘assault’.

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