Virgin(51)

 “. . . So we just sat there chatting normally, as though he’d been out his entire life. Then I went home and had to listen to my mum going on about how glad she was to see Paul and I getting on so well.” I finally finished recounting last night’s escapades to Emma, who had been forced to sit through a one-hour phone call. “Now I’m a total mess and have no idea what to do.”

“Wow,” she said. “That’s . . . that’s pretty big. God, this is way out of my expertise range, Ellie. Brazilians I can handle, but turning a guy gay? Can’t say I’ve done that yet.”

“I didn’t turn him!” I wailed, then finished lamely, “He promised me I didn’t.”

“I know—sorry, babe. That came out wrong. Obviously you didn’t turn him, per se, you just, um, helped him. You know what? Fuck it. You’re a modern cosmopolitan woman who snogged a twenty-four-year-old virgin and helped him figure out he was gay. You’re every man’s dream.”

“Ha, I don’t think so,” I snorted. “I’m a fucking mess.”

“A fucking feminist mess.”

“Really?” I asked doubtfully. “Is it feminist to try to use a guy to make you feel better about yourself, then realize he was using you to figure out if he was gay or not?”

“Probably,” she said. “Everything is feminist. You tried to use him, so that’s totally feminist.”

“He used me too,” I reminded her.

“Exactly! Feminism is just men and women being equal. So you, a woman, used him, and he, a man, used you too. This is feminism and I should be writing my dissertation on this instead of Charles Dickens,” she said triumphantly.

“Please don’t mention dissertations,” I groaned. “Thank God we did our biggest exams last year and only really have to do our dissertation this year, because I have barely opened a book.”

“Me too. Why don’t we meet up in the library and force ourselves to work? Then we can have consolatory coffee breaks,” she suggested.

“Done. I’m going back to Camden soon anyway,” I said. “I’m getting nothing done at home, and I cannot face my mum asking me about Paul. If I say it’s so I can be near the library, she’ll be ecstatic.”

“Yeah, come back. I’m getting bored of just hanging out with my housemates . . . Oooh, wait, does this sudden desire to have your own place again mean you want to be able to entertain guests without any parents around?” she teased.

I sighed dramatically. “It would, but Jack still hasn’t replied to me. I feel so shitty about it. I think that’s partly why I kissed Paul—I felt like Jack was rejecting me post-dry-humping.”

“Hmm, when did you last speak to him?” she asked.

“He texted me straight after the DH to say he had a good time, then we made weekend plans but he canceled. Also he asked me to email him my column entry for the UCL magazine because he said he wanted to read it. So I did, but then he never replied to that either.”

“Babe, he will. He’s probably just thinking what to say. It’s not a casual text situation—he needs to read the column and then think of something amazing to say to convince you to give him your V-card.”

“Meh, I guess . . . Anyway, Em, my phone’s beeping at me so I’d better go. If you need me I’ll be drowning myself in self-pity somewhere.”

“Okay, don’t overdo it. Let me know when Jack messages. Ciao!”

I hung up and collapsed onto my bed. Why didn’t Jack want to see me? Had I done something wrong? Telling Emma the facts was depressing—it made me realize how long it had been since I had heard from him. I felt so rejected and alone. Then I remembered my phone had beeped—maybe it was from Jack? I felt a wave of hope wash over me and grabbed the phone. It was a new email.

Subject: You are not alone.

Oh my fucking God. I bolted upright and stared at the ceiling. Was it . . . Jack? Or Lara? I looked down eagerly to see the sender and felt the smile plummet from my face as I saw the email address it had come from: subscriptions@islamicmarriages.com. Typical. The only people who wanted to save me from eternal solitude were religious matchmakers.

I was about to exit my emails in resignation when I noticed a second unopened email. It was from jack.brown@gmail.com. I let out a bark of surprise and my fingers raced to open it.


Ellie—sorry it took me so long to reply. Was too intimidated by your superior writing skills to message you in case you’d already realized you’re so much more talented than me.

But, if you aren’t too busy writing witty columns, then please can we go out this Saturday evening? Really want to see you—sorry for canceling last weekend. Obviously would have had way more fun with you than at Aunt Gwen’s 60th.