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  ADULTS

  Emma Jane Unsworth

  Copyright

  The Borough Press

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

  Copyright © Emma Jane Unsworth 2020

  Cover photograph © DEEPOL / PlainPicture

  Cover design by Ellie Game © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

  ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ © Paul Simon

  Emma Jane Unsworth asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008334598

  Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2020 ISBN: 9780008334611

  Version: 2019-11-27

  Dedication

  To my mum, Lorraine.

  Sail on, silvergirl

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: Soho Square

  A Few Months Earlier: Hello, World!

  Art Said

  I Walk

  They Say

  In the Wings

  They Say

  I Post

  They Say

  A Womb of One’s Own

  Therapy Session #1 (Dramatic Monologue)

  Like of Duty

  Picture the Scene

  I Said

  The Patatas Bravas

  Kelly had Said

  Sober Sexts

  Ablutions

  My Bathroom Said

  Tipping Point

  My Mother Said

  I Was Eighteen

  Art Said

  Someone Says

  A Really Bad Sign

  Mia Says

  I Walk

  Knockknock

  One-Liners

  I Say

  The Outrage

  Baby Elephant

  Art Said

  My Mother Says

  How I Met Kelly

  Art Said

  Art Said

  What Lasts?

  Bad Stand-Up

  Ghostess with the Mostest

  I Woke Up Like This

  The Mind Creates the Abyss

  I Adored

  Art Said

  You

  Terms of Endearment

  If

  Art’s Mother Said

  Full Desperate

  Miserable Pho

  Breathing for One

  Popular Problems

  On the Bus

  Tabs

  Granma Said

  All My Circus, All My Monkeys

  Burnout

  Therapy Session #2

  App Idea

  Look No Hands

  Hi Hi Hi

  Back at Home

  Exhibits A and B

  Good Famous People

  My Mother

  Still

  Life

  We’d Gone

  ‘Funny’

  Outgrown

  Art Said

  Bodies of Work

  Kelly Said

  Fake News

  Google Me

  Social Caterpillar

  Really Tho

  Deals with Strangers

  News Item

  Nicolette Says

  Half an Hour Later

  Ass Fizz

  That Night

  It Happened to Happen

  #Frotheh

  My Mother Says

  The Heart Crosses It

  Manchild

  Who Ya Gonna Call

  Naked Ambition

  Soho Square

  Chief Emotions

  She Says

  Kelly Says

  Genuine Question

  Life Drawing

  Relax

  We Lie

  Silent-Ish Night

  Thanks

  About the Author

  Also by Emma Jane Unsworth

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  SOHO SQUARE

  I sit and wait for her, my feet swinging under the bench. She’ll come soon, and she’ll know where.

  Adrenaline. I squeeze my own arms. Tap my toes. God, I hate waiting. Is that what I’ve been doing all these years? Waiting, for her? Maybe all those therapists were right. Maybe therapy isn’t just a bad stand-up show you don’t have the balls to take on the road.

  I look around, at the other people chatting and posing and repositioning themselves, whiling away this cold Friday. It’s a few weeks before Christmas and the city is all lit up. People are smiling too much, drinking too much, wanting too much, wearing too much tinsel. Nothing points to the ephemeral nature of life quite like tinsel.

  I look towards the north gate of the square and it’s then that I see her. Dishevelled, pulling on her coat. She scans the benches, spots me and freezes. I wave. She tilts her head to one side and bats her eyes, as though appealing to some ancient understanding between us; as though this has all been a scripted episode, some kind of brilliant shared joke. I stare at her emotionlessly. I am not playing. She stares back. It’s checkmate with the old queen.

  She starts to walk over. I almost don’t recognise her with her clothes on. Which is a strange thing to say about your mother.

  A FEW MONTHS EARLIER

  HELLO, WORLD!

  It is 10.05 a.m. and I am queuing at the breakfast counter of my co-working space in east London. The weather outside is autumnal but muggy and I have over-layered. I am damp at my armpits and wondering whether to nip out and buy a fresh T-shirt at lunch. I made dhal for dinner last night from a budget vegetarian cookbook I picked up in a charity shop, and let me tell you, it was astonishing. I am creating a social media post about a croissant that I am pretty sure will define me as a human.

  I stare at my phone. I am happy enough with the photo. I have applied the Clarendon filter to accentuate the photo’s ridges and depths, making the light bits lighter and the darker bits darker. I added a white frame for art. The picture looks – as much as pastry can – transcendental. However, the text is proving troublesome. I’ve tweaked it so many times that I can’t work out whether it makes sense any more. This often happens. I ponder the words so long, thinking how they might be received, wondering if they could be better, that they lose all their original momentum. I get stage fright. The rest of the world has fallen away around this small square of existence. It’s like that bit in Alien 3 where Ripley says to the alien: You’ve been in my life so long, I can’t remember anything else. I used to think it was about motherhood. Now I know it’s about social media.

  I stare at the screen.

  PASTRIES, WOO! #PASTRIES

  Is this the absolute best depiction of my present experience?

  I cross out the WOO, and the comma.

  PASTRIES! #PASTRIES

  I stare at it again. I try and recall the original inspiration; t
o be guided by that. It’s the least I can do. I interrogate myself. That’s what the mid-thirties should be about, after all: constant self-interrogation. Acquiring the courage to change what you can, and the therapist to accept what you can’t. What is it I really want to say about pastries? How do pastries truly make me feel? Why is it important right now that I share this?

  I delete the exclamation mark and stare at the remaining two words. They are the same word. The only difference is that one is hashtagged. Do they mean the same, or something different? Is there added value in the repetition? Is it worth leaving one un-hashtagged, so that the original sentiment exists, unfettered by digital accoutrements? It’s so important to get all this right. I want people to know instantly, at a glance, that this post is about pastries in their purest form. This is Platonic Pastry.

  I delete the hashtag so that the post simply says:

  PASTRIES.

  Full stop or no full stop? A full stop always looks decisive and commanding, but it can also look more cool and casual if you just leave the sentence hanging there, like, Oh I’m so busy in my dazzling life I don’t even have time to punctuate. The squalid truth is I over-punctuate when I’m stressed/excited. I can go four exclamation marks on a good/bad day. Exclamation marks are the people-pleaser’s punctuation of choice. It makes us seem eager and pliable. Excited to talk to you! You!!!! I always notice other people’s punctuation. When someone sends me a message with no exclamation marks or kisses, I respect them. I also think: are they depressed? Did I do something to offend them?

  Sometimes, I see people using whole rows of emojis, and I just want to hold them.

  PASTRIES

  Perfect.

  Yes, I think that probably says it all.

  Hm.

  Is it enough, though, really?

  Oh god. I just. Don’t. Know.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I look up in fright. It is my turn at the counter.

  ‘Uh …’

  I look at the croissants on the rough stone plinth. I see now that there is a problem. I’m pretty sure – and I am very observant – that one of them is from yesterday. It looks stiffer than the rest, the way it’s hunched at the front, like it’s all uptight. It is a decidedly different texture and colour to the rest. I don’t know whether this suggests age, or some kind of bacterial contamination, or what. How did I miss this? I know that I am definitely going to get that croissant if I ask for a croissant.

  I am paralysed. I do not know what to do. I do not feel able to ask for a specific croissant, although I certainly feel I deserve one. I do a quick calculation. There are eight croissants there and the defective one is on my side rather than the server’s, so really it’s unlikely I’ll get lumped with it. I exhale. I decide to go for it. I need this experience, to fulfil my … planned experience.

  I speak. ‘One croissant, please.’

  The server nods, but then for some reason known only to herself, goes to take the CROISSANT OF CALAMITY from the front. I shout: ‘Oh, hey! Excuse me! Could I please not have that croissant?’

  I say it with fear and also with absolute rectitude.

  The server’s tongs twitch. She says, slowly: ‘They’re … all the same.’

  I say: ‘Could I just have one from the back please? Thank you!’

  Everyone is looking at me.

  She speaks slower still, as though I am an idiot. ‘But … they are all the same.’

  ‘That one is a slightly different hue, I believe,’ I say, quieter.

  She peers at the croissants. The person behind me in the queue comes forward for a look, too. The barista abandons the Gaggia and comes over. The cashier. They all look, and then they all stare at me.

  ‘It was a preference really,’ I whisper. ‘Please, just put any croissant in a bag.’

  She puts the croissant in a paper bag. It hits the bottom with a ding. I press my card on the reader and will it to bleep. Bleep for Chrissakes, bleep fucking fuckbud fucker.

  It bleeps. I pelt.

  I run into the Ladies, sling the croissant in the bin and have a short cry. It’s fine, though. People cry in WerkHaus all the time. They have these little soundproofed booths near reception for private calls, but mostly people just use them for crying in.

  When I’m done crying I take a piss. As I wipe, I check for blood, as always.

  I look at my phone.

  PASTRIES

  The sentiment remains the same, even if the truth has turned out differently. And it’s the sentiment that counts.

  PASTRIES

  In a way, it’s perfect. Factual. But I’m still not 100 per cent. I recall something Suzy Brambles once said in her ‘Incontrovertible Gram Tips’. She said: ‘Go with your first draft.’

  I change the words back to:

  PASTRIES, WOO! #PASTRIES

  Right. I feel almost ready to go on this. As a final check, I text Kelly.

  Kelly is my oldest friend and most trusted social media editor.

  Pls will you check one thing for me before I post

  No no I said no more of this

  Please

  No, you’re driving me mad with this daily bombardment

  It’s not every day!

  Mate, it’s most days

  Please I’m having the worst day already!!!! I was just served a defective pastry

  No

  I beg of you

  I am not endorsing this behaviour

  What behaviour???

  This lunacy. I don’t think it’s healthy. Or authentic

  Authentic???

  You said that we ‘grew up together’ in a post the other day. We were 22 when we met

  It made a better story! Anyway we almost did, in that we both grew up in the North!

  WTF

  Charlie Chaplin once lost a Charlie Chaplin lookalike competition

  DOUBLE WTF

  Well we inevitably put a filter on ourselves, don’t we? Even as honest people moving through society

  Stop intellectualising your problem. Life is not a lookalike competition

  Just sent you the post, pls review and feed back

  FFS

  She’ll read it. I know she will. She doesn’t do much while she’s waiting for her receptionist shift to start – other than watching blackhead-removal videos, which I think somehow give her a sense of universal equilibrium being restored.

  She replies after a few seconds:

  It’s fine. Really don’t know what you were concerned about

  Thank you x

  I bestow a kiss! I hope she really feels that ‘thank you’. My politeness-verging-on-grace. Then after a few seconds I send:

  I hope you took time to really consider it and didn’t just rush off an answer?

  She doesn’t reply.

  She does that sometimes, Kelly. Shuts down. She did a much bigger version when I was getting together with my ex, Art – back in those heady days of hard wooing – and I asked her to check the things I was sending him. Sometimes you just need a second opinion, you know? What are friends for?

  Kelly’s from the North, too. She’s Yorkshire. The white rose to my red. She’s an angel in my lifetime but she has started to publicly undermine me and to be honest it’s starting to grate. Example: last week I posted a photo of a leaf-covered bench in the park with the words:

  Autumn, you’ve always been my favourite

  and she commented:

  Do you think liking autumn makes you a more complex person?

  A few days later I posted a charming vista of a field and she wrote,

  Mate, there’s nothing in this picture

  It’s not the kind of thing you expect from a beloved friend. BUT – if you had to ask me who knew me best, who loved me best, who I loved best – well, I do know what the answer would be. Kelly thrills me, it’s as simple as that. She thrills me. We might have drifted apart a bit of late, but we have the kind of friendship that can weather emotional distance. It’s very easy-come, easy-go. Like an open marr
iage.

  Kelly has a son, Sonny. I’ve known them twelve years, although technically I met Sonny first. He’s fourteen now. Kelly got pregnant with her university ex, whom she told me she swiftly outgrew. He now has a baby with another woman and is a proper truck-blocking activist. He and Kelly once stayed up a tree for six weeks, while she was pregnant, and I think it was during that time she realised the relationship was really over. It’s going to be a make-or-break holiday when you’re crapping in a carrier bag and arguing about who has more snacks left because there’s no electronic entertainment. Kelly still has a star tattoo on her wrist from when she used to be an anarchist. (She never turned down a cheeseboard, though. I think you often find that with anarchists – they still like the small comforts.)

  The last time I saw Sonny, a couple of months ago, I told him to stop looking at girls with long fake nails on Instagram because they were emulating porn stars. He said I was nail-shaming them. He told me his friend pressed the wrong button on a vending machine in America and got the morning-after pill instead of a drink, so what did I have to teach him? People are depressed about the totalitarian state we’re heading towards – a world where our internet use will be restricted to viewing the shiny, ham-like faces of our unelected leaders – but at least it will save the kids from porn. Every cloud.

  I’ve told Kelly that we have to respect social media more than the younger generations because we’re not digital natives. We were raised in print. This shift has been a major cultural and psychological upheaval in our lifetimes. We didn’t get email until we were at university. The internet can throw some curveballs. I once ordered a bureau off eBay and when it arrived it was a miniature one, for a doll’s house. I thought it was a bargain at £1.99. Plus, we weren’t brought up natural broadcasters. We’ve had to catch up, and too quickly. I remember that move towards daily (hourly; constant) documentation. Years ago a friend drove me mad on a hike, stopping to take photos all the time for her Facebook. I was very frustrated, as I wanted to keep walking. It was like being in a constantly stalling car. Now, I’d be the one scrambling to the nearest cliff face for a signal.

  Speaking of which.

  It’s time to bite the bullet. I add a last-minute impulse hashtag. Really going now!

  #shameabouttheservice

  I post the picture. The waiting begins. It’s like that conundrum of the tree falling in the empty forest. Does it make a sound if there’s no one there? If you put something on social media and no one likes it, do you even exist? I have calculated that with my number of followers I can measure a successful post on the basis of approximately ten likes per minute. Still, there’s no formula for it – I’ve tried everything. One time I even arranged a day trip to Heptonstall to photograph Sylvia Plath’s grave (literary, tragic, it ticked so many boxes!) and so many people lit their little hearts for it that it was worth the £100 train fare. I used to do things for their own sake, but now grammability is a defining factor.