Page 13 of Statistically Speaking
“Yeah. Well. What’s done is done. My bodily functions have shamed me. I’m Erin, by the way. Or Farty McFartFace, if you prefer.”
“I’m Gemma,” I reply, as we make our way out. “Nice to meet you.”
“Gemma... would you fancy a coffee? No pressure. I know I’m now a social pariah and you might not want to be seen with me, but—well, I’m new here, and I feel a bit shaken up, and I really feel like I need a mocha to calm my nerves.”
She has a point. Nothing quite says, “Everything will be fine,” like chocolaty coffee. I glance at my watch and then wonder why. It’s a Saturday, and I have nowhere else to be. My social diary is less than packed.
I agree, and we find seats in the café. Most of the yoga class has dispersed, but there are still plenty of people—mums and grandparents watching their kids do swimming classes through the big glass window, a group of older ladies wearing varying shades of Lycra, a muscle-bound man with no visible neck reading a battered paperback copy ofWuthering Heights.
Erin goes to the counter and returns with two big mugs and a wad of napkins.
“I am a disaster zone,” she announces as she lowers them all to the table. “I have never once in my life not spilled coffee. It’s like it’s in my DNA.”
Sure enough, she sloshes the drinks over the side of the mugs and quickly soaks it all up with the napkins.
“But you have adapted,” I reply. “You have evolved into a person who not only spills coffee but is always prepared to clean it up.”
“Yes. I’m a miracle of nature. Anyway, isn’t it weird that the gym bunny is readingWuthering Heights?”
She says the last part in a whisper, leaning toward me, her pixie eyes wide. I find it impossible to guess an age for her—she could be anywhere between twenty and fifty.
“It is weird, but maybe that says more about us than him? Making assumptions based on the way he looks?”
“You’re totally right!”
She stands up and walks briskly over to the man in question. I see her chat with him, radiating friendly energy, and wonder how it must feel to be her—to be so open and confident and willing to engage with the world.
“It’s his daughter’s,” she announces when she returns. “She read it while she was doing her A levels, and he’s trying to stay close to her. Isn’t that sweet?”
It really is, and I find myself smiling. At her, at him, at this pleasant discovery.
“So,” Erin says, after a sip of her coffee, “do you come here often?”
I laugh and reply, “This was my first time at the class, but I do come to the leisure center quite a lot. I live nearby. I can walk here.”
I don’t add in how many steps it takes—we’ve only just met, and she’s probably not ready for that level of weird.
“Right. Nice. Like I said, I’ve only recently moved up here. I don’t have little kids or anything, which always seems to be a way to meet people in a community, so I thought I’d sneak in this way—though I think I’ve farted myself out of any chances there. What about you—do you have kids? Actually, no, forget I asked—I’m annoyed with myself. Why do women always get asked that?”
I’ve had this internal dialogue with myself quite a few times, and there are no easy answers. They range from “lotsof women do have kids and it gives them a shared experience to bond over” through to “because we haven’t as yet smashed the patriarchy.” For me, of course, it’s always a slightly loaded question—loaded with regret, with a faint edge of pain, with the smooth lie that it always procures.
“I don’t, no,” I say, smiling to let her know I’m not offended. I don’t add “yet,” like I’ve heard a lot of women do, because I don’t really think it’s in the stars for me. Another of Margie’s “roles in life” that feels out of reach. “I do have part shares in a rescue dog, though.”
“Ha! I have a teenager, and sometimes a rescue dog sounds very appealing in comparison! She’s meeting me here in a bit, actually. So have you always lived in Liverpool? You don’t sound like it...”
“No,” I reply, “I’ve only been here for just over a year. I was born down south but I’ve moved around a lot, and my accent’s just got a bit mashed up.”
I am used to obfuscating, to clouding the truth, to hiding behind a mist of omissions. But as I look at Erin, at her somehow-innocent face, I feel an urge to dash out into the sunlight.
“London,” I say quickly, before I can change my mind. “I’m from London originally. I left after I got my teaching qualification and moved to Scotland. Then there were lots of other places—York, Sheffield, Bath, Cornwall, Essex, the Midlands—doing supply teaching mainly, and now here.”
Erin nods and replies, “That sounds really interesting. Have you ever taken your wanderlust abroad?”
I’ve never thought of it as “interesting,” and I have never called it “wanderlust.” I find that I like it—wanderlustsoundssparkly and fun, as opposed to “too dysfunctional to lay down roots.” Wanderlust feels better; it makes me seem mysterious and adventurous rather than a bit broken. Even thinking of myself like that gives me a little boost deep inside. Maybe all that visualization the yoga teacher was talking about works after all.
“Not so far,” I answer. “But I suppose it’s always an option.”
“It is! I know people who’ve moved all over the world to teach—Japan, Europe, Canada, Australia. You could spend the rest of your life having coffee in different places!”
