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I like to think Mark is used to this now, but it’s not something he’d ever considered before he met me and it took him a little getting used to. It’s not so bad when I’m writing about places we visit or things we do for fun, but I will often write about things I’ve experienced in my personal life and what I learned from it all. I can justify this, of course, because if sharing my relationship mistakes can prevent someone else from making the same error, then I’m making a difference. The same cannot be said for my other avenue of inspiration, where I do things in real life just so I can write about them. That’s actually what I’m writing about today.
Sitting at my desk at work, I crack open a packet of chocolate buttons, stretch out my fingers and get ready to write.
‘You look like you mean business,’ my friend Polly, who sits at the desk opposite me, says. ‘What are you writing about today?’
I met Polly when I started working here; we were both hired by the news website we write for in the same week, so we were newbies together. Well, I say news website, but don’t think you’re getting the hard-hitting journalism of the Guardian. We write for one of those contemporary online news sources that present news, lifestyle advice and other miscellaneous content in a humorous and relevant format. My focus, here at Viralist, is on all things dating, romance, relationships and love. I told Mark what my job was on our first date, but I don’t think he realised when he started dating me just how honest I was in my articles, and just how heavily he would feature in them.
‘“10 things I did to see if my boyfriend noticed”,’ I tell her.
‘Ooh, tell me more,’ Polly demands, leaning over to grab a handful of chocolate. She drops them into her mouth all at once before sitting comfortably, ready for all the details.
‘Well,’ I start, laughing to myself as I consider everything I’ve done over the past couple of weeks in the name of journalism. ‘I just made a few subtle changes to our day-to-day life to see how he’d react – or if he’d even notice. First up, I didn’t wear make-up for a day.’
My original idea was to do it for a week, but then I realised I desperately need make-up to look like a living human female. If I’d gone without any slap for an entire week, people might’ve worried I was seriously ill.
‘And did he notice?’ Polly asks, completely into the idea.
‘Well, he didn’t say anything at the time, but the day after, when I was winging my eyeliner in the bathroom mirror, he hovered behind me. I could tell he was thinking about saying something; the anguish on his face was impossible for him to hide. Eventually he blurted out: “You know, you look better when you don’t put all that… stuff on your eyes.” I asked him if he meant eyeliner and he nodded.’
Polly pulls a thoughtful face.
‘Well, that’s almost a compliment,’ she reasons. ‘What next?’
‘I bought a skirt that was not me at all – it was floor-length,’ I say, stressing the last three words for emphasis. I’m what you might call a follower of fashion, always keeping on top of the latest trends and wearing whatever is cool at the time, even if others might find it questionable. My mum, however, would tease that my wardrobe is far too revealing. Today I’m wearing a short black skirt, with one of Mark’s white shirts, tied in a Daisy Duke-style knot at the stomach – low down enough to ensure full coverage for work. ‘Well, he told me he liked it – he rarely comments on my clothes. But he still didn’t really twig that much was different.’
‘Another compliment,’ Polly laughs. ‘Next?’
‘I started deep-cleaning the flat every day. The kitchen was spotless, there was never a dirty dish, I would clean the bathroom each day without fail.’
‘And?’
‘Of course he didn’t notice,’ I laugh. ‘Next up: I didn’t shave my legs for, like, two weeks – not a word from him on the matter.’
‘So did he actually notice anything?’ Polly enquires.
‘I stopped wearing knickers.’
‘And he noticed that?’ she asks sarcastically, faking shock.
I wiggle my eyebrows.
‘You better believe he did,’ I giggle. ‘The first time he was like: “You’ve no knickers on!” and it made him pounce on me even quicker than he usually does. On the third day I came in from work and I was getting changed, and he just let out a casual observation: “You don’t wear knickers any more.”’
Polly grabs more chocolate, eagerly listening to my story with the level of attention and volume of snacking you’d usually reserve for the cinema.
‘Should’ve known he’d notice that one – you guys are like horny teenagers.’
Still sitting at my desk chair, I attempt to take a bow. It’s only as I wave my hand theatrically in front of my face that my friend finally notices the engagement ring on my finger. Getting Polly to notice my ring without me telling her has taken three hours of constantly reaching for things from her desk, gesticulating wildly when I speak and hammering the keys on my computer as hard as possible to try and draw attention to my hands. I thought that letting Polly notice my ring on her own would be a much cooler way for her to find out, rather than me just telling her, but as the hours have ticked away, my patience has been growing thin. It’s almost a relief she’s finally spotted it. I thought I was going to have to give in and just tell her.
‘Oh, my God,’ she squeaks. ‘Is that an engagement ring? Are you and Mark getting married?’
I nod my head, unable to contain my smile for a second longer.
‘Oh, my God,’ she squeaks again, climbing on her desk chair. ‘Everyone, listen up: Roxie is engaged!’
Applause fills the Viralist office.
‘Thank you,’ I say with an awkward wave. My relationship with self-confidence is a strange one because, while completely happy with who I am, I am uncomfortable being the centre of attention and will do anything to avoid the spotlight. That’s why I like being a writer; I can get my message to people while still hiding behind my words. Writing about lifestyle and relationships isn’t so bad, but when I was reporting on celebrity stuff, and I would dare to say something that wasn’t entirely complimentary about Justin Bieber’s hair, that would be it: war would be declared in the comments on my posts, death threats would be issued – the works. One time I jokily referred to Liam Payne as the fifth sexiest member of One Direction, and one girl threatened to hit me in the face with a sledgehammer. So, yeah, hiding behind a computer is not only preferable when it comes to dealing with, shall we say, constructive criticism, but it also protects me from the crazies.
Kath, our editor, pokes her head out from her office door.
‘You’re engaged, Roxie?’
‘I am,’ I reply, my smile stretching from one side of the office to the other.
‘That’s great, there’s got to be an article in that.’ She pauses thoughtfully. ‘We’ll figure it out.’
‘OK,’ I laugh. That’s Kath for you; everything is an article. She’s probably already working out what GIFs I should use to accompany my words.
As the buzz from Polly’s announcement dies down, and everyone gets back to their work, we resume our conversation.
‘God, that’s not an engagement ring, that’s a deposit on a house,’ she jokes, admiring my bling. ‘Hey, maybe Mark will finally introduce you to his parents,’ she adds cheekily.
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ I say, nervously. ‘I was on top of the world when he asked me; then, as soon as he mentioned me meeting them, I freaked out.’
‘Just be on your best behaviour,’ Polly reminds me. ‘If you have a “best behaviour”,’ she adds with a giggle.
I widen my eyes with horror. My friend doesn’t take this as her cue to go easy on me; instead she persists with her teasing.
‘Maybe he hasn’t let you meet them because he’s worried they won’t like you. So it’s just safer to keep you from them. Except, now he’s popped the question, it’s forced his hand.’
Mark is not purposefully keeping me from his family, but it is true that I haven’t met any of them yet. His family all live in the middle of nowhere, in the Yorkshire Dales. He’s been to visit them a few times while I’ve known him but at first it was too early in our relationship, and then, when he did start inviting me, I wasn’t able to get the time off work. He hasn’t been to visit them since, but they do know I exist, so that’s encouraging.
‘Oh, my God, stop, have mercy. I’m already freaking out as it is,’ I remind her.
‘Do you know much about them?’ Polly enquires.
‘Erm, not really,’ I tell her, honestly. ‘I know that they live kind of out of the way of civilisation – and from what Mark has told me about their house, it sounds amazing. It’s just his mum and dad living there now, but he has two sisters, one older and one younger. I know their names and stuff, but not really much about them. I’ve seen the occasional photo of his siblings on Facebook, but his parents don’t use it.’
‘That’s weird, I think,’ Polly says, pondering the issue.
‘It is and it isn’t,’ I laugh. ‘I suppose almost everyone is on there now, so it seems weird when people don’t use it, but it’s probably not that weird…’
‘Well, I think it’s weird,’ she laughs. ‘Like they’re dinosaurs who haven’t embraced modern technology.’
‘Maybe,’ I laugh.
I am of the generation where we rely too heavily on being able to cyber-stalk people we’ve just met, or are yet to meet, to try and figure out what kind of personality they have. It sure would make my life easier if I knew what his parents were like – what kind of people they were, how they dressed, what their interests were. You can tell a lot about a person from stuff like that.
I am what my mum sometimes describes as an ‘acquired taste’. I am the very definition of a millennial – although that might have a lot to do with my job, too. Sometimes my parents think I’m speaking a second language – because they don’t know their YOLO from their FOMO – and my passion for fashion often leaves them scratching their heads. But I think it’s important to be current, and move with the times. Take my hair, for example. In the summer I had it longer and lighter, but now that we’re in December, in the midst of winter, I’ve opted for a honey-coloured lob – because that’s what is in fashion right now. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to be cool, even if people don’t really get it, but it would be nice to get a heads-up on whether or not his parents are more on the conservative side of the spectrum, because even though I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not, I do really want to impress them. I care what they think, but only because I love Mark so much, and I want his family to see that and want me to be a part of their family because they like me, not just because I’m marrying into it. You hear all these stories and watch all these movies about evil in-laws, but that’s not the reality, is it? Mums who think no woman is good enough for their son – that’s just a clichéd character.
Still, it’s not like I have to worry about that right now, is it? I only got engaged yesterday. As fast as we’ve been flying through the motions so far, I’m just taking this engagement a day at a time.
I think to myself for a moment. That’s it! The idea for my next article: ‘10 Things to Consider Before You Meet Your Boyfriend’s Parents for the First Time’.
Chapter Three
What is the quickest way to get back in a man’s good books? I know the fastest way to a man’s heart is via his stomach, but I’ll bet the quickest way to his good books is via his pants. To make sure I have all bases covered, my plan of attack involves both. You see, my article went live this afternoon, and judging by the number of times it’s been shared already, and the number of comments it’s had on Facebook, it’s only a matter of time before Mark sees it. You know what they say: it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission – that’s my strategy with Mark because, if I told him what I was planning on writing, I don’t think he’d be down for it, but once I’ve finished the article and it’s live, he always tells me what a great job I did.
Mark has never once been mad at me for writing about our relationship, and yet I always have this little mini panic between hitting the ‘publish’ button and him reading it and telling me that he still loves me, even though I share our most personal relationship details (arguments, sexual malfunctions, etc.) with everyone who has an internet connection. This article is a little different, though, because I’ve been messing with him for weeks, testing him, and that does sometimes feel just a little dishonest, even if it is all in the name of journalism. That’s why I stopped at Ann Summers on my way home and bought myself the most alarmingly intimidating set of underwear I could find, in an attempt to disarm and confuse him, so that by the time I’m done with him, and I tell him what my latest article is about, he’ll be too happy and tired to care.
I walk up to my full-length mirror to admire my new underwear, but for some reason it doesn’t compliment my body quite as well as it did the mannequin in the window. I imagine that’s because she was made of hard plastic, whereas my normal, slightly squishy body is harder to contain with all these peepholes. Trying to wrangle my natural boobs in this cupless bra is proving more difficult than I thought it would, but if I make sure I’m lying down when Mark gets home, he won’t notice the fighting battle I’m losing with gravity. It doesn’t matter than I’m only twenty-nine years old; real boobs are a law unto themselves.
That’s the plan of attack on his boxers sorted; now all I need to do is dash to the kitchen and grab a can of whipped cream so I can carefully apply it to my body and then wait on the bed for him to come home and devour me.
I open the fridge and glance around a few times, but I can’t find the whipped cream anywhere. I only bought it last week, and I know I haven’t used it. Dammit, what can I use instead? So long as it’s something I can spread on my body that Mark loves the taste of, it’ll be fine, right?
Hmm, somehow I don’t think a tub of Philadelphia is the best option, even if it is Mark’s favourite kind of cheese. Ditto that jar of passata. Spying another jar on the shelf, I grab it, reading the nutritional information, as though that has some baring on whether or not I’m going to smother it all over my nipples – I’m just trying to think of a better idea. That’s when I spy another jar on the worktop and, with no alternative options popping into my head, I take them both to the bedroom with me.
I lie back on the bed, strategically positioning my body in just the right way so that my boobs don’t disappear under my arms and my thong at least covers something, because I’m suddenly a little dubious about whether or not crotchless underwear looks sexy or terrifying. Then I grab my two jars. Well, peanut butter and jam sandwiches are Mark’s favourite… so I can’t go wrong, can I? I don’t imagine mixing them together to make a kind of sticky, cloudy paste is going to look all that great, so I do what any sensible, sound-minded, sexy woman would do and smear strawberry jam all over one boob and peanut butter all over the other. Glancing down at my handiwork I can confirm that – as delicious I smell – this doesn’t look as sexy as I had imagined. I wanted to swirl big dollops of whipped cream straight from the can that my lover could wrap his lips around as he devoured it – instead, he’s going to be alternating trying to eat crunchy peanut butter from around one nipple, and picking strawberry seeds from his teeth after having a go at the other. Well, this doesn’t look sexy or appetising, so I guess I’ll wash it off and just hope the sexy underwear does the trick, except…
‘Hello,’ I hear Mark call, closing the front door behind him.
Fuck.
‘Hi,’ I call back. ‘I’ll be out in a second.’
‘It’s OK, I’m coming to get changed,’ he calls back.
Double fuck. I’ve got about thirty seconds, during which I decide that, as awful as this looks, the only way I could make it look worse would be for Mark to see this vertically. Probably best I just stay lying down and hope for the best.
‘You had a good… oh, my God,’ Mark exclaims, dumbstruck as he walks through the bedroom door. ‘What… er… what is that all over you?’
‘Peanut butter and strawberry jam,’ I say, owning it.
‘Of course it is,’ he replies, laughing at me with his eyes. God, I love it when he does that. His deep-brown eyes just light up and I can tell exactly what he’s thinking – it’s usually: ‘what the hell is going on in this girl’s head?’ But it isn’t a judgemental laugh; it’s warm and eternally forgiving, and I just know that, no matter how daft I am, Mark isn’t going anywhere.
Mark unbuttons his shirt and kicks off his trousers before jumping on the bed.
‘Well, I am starving,’ he laughs, kissing his way from my ankle to my thigh.
I gasp and wiggle involuntarily, the way I always do the second I feel his lips on my body.
‘OK, seriously, this was misjudged, I look ridiculous, and I do not expect you to have sex with me while I look like this,’ I tell him.
‘Have you seen that underwear you’ve got on?’ he asks me, gently kissing his way up my body until he’s on top of me. ‘You could’ve smeared mud all over yourself and I’d still have sex with you. You look sexy as fuck.’
‘Even with the jam?’ I laugh.
‘Especially with the jam,’ he replies, kissing my chest, covering his face in it. As he looks into my eyes, he smiles, and even though it’s sticky with strawberry jam, it still takes my breath away how handsome he is. I run my hand through his hair and sigh.
‘I love you,’ I blurt out.
‘I love you, too,’ he laughs. ‘But I hope this isn’t my tea…’
I laugh and roll my eyes.
‘I bought stuff for dinner, too,’ I assure him. ‘The plan was to cover myself in whipped cream, but we didn’t have any – I thought we did.’
‘We did, I ate it,’ he tells me casually. I feel his body tense up as he presses down on me harder – Mark’s tell that he’s too turned on to think straight.
‘Oh, OK,’ I reply. ‘Wait, when did you eat it?’ I ask. ‘With what?’
‘Just on its own,’ he tells me breathlessly, grinding his body against mine.
‘What, like straight from the can?’ I persist with my questioning.
‘Yeah.’
‘You ate the entire can?’
‘Yeah,’ he laughs. ‘While I was watching Match of the Day. Now will you just shut up and kiss me, please?’ he demands impatiently.
I laugh quietly to myself at the image of my sexy boyfriend sitting on the sofa, squirting whipped cream straight into his mouth as he yells at the TV in protest at an unjustly given yellow card.
As he passionately kisses me on the lips, I feel jam transfer from his face to mine. As sticky as it is, I’m too turned on to care right now. Our white bed sheets be damned.
Mark jumps to his feet, offering me his hand to pull me up.
‘Stand up. I want to get a proper look at this underwear,’ he demands.
As self-conscious as I feel in my awkward undies, I own it, and stand up proudly.
‘Wow,’ Mark exclaims as he takes it all in. ‘OK, no more snacking. I’ve got to have you.’
Grabbing me by the hips, Mark pushes me up against the wall. I lock my legs around his waist. Suddenly I can appreciate the plus points of crotchless, peephole underwear – I can keep it on and still have sex, and it does just enough to hide my small body hang-ups.
***
Lying on the bed, exhausted, elated and covered in a gross mixture of strawberry jam, peanut butter and sweat, I exhale deeply.
‘That was amazing,’ I tell him. ‘You’re amazing.’
‘You weren’t so bad yourself,’ he tells me. ‘And you shaved your legs for the occasion.’
‘I did… wait, you notice stuff like that?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ he laughs. ‘You really think I didn’t feel how prickly your legs were every time I ran my hands up and down them for the past two weeks?’
‘I really did think that,’ I tell him.
‘I know you did,’ he laughs, rolling onto his side, resting his head on his hand as he faces me. ‘I read your article.’
I sit up straight.
‘Oh, you’ve already seen it?’ I ask, pointlessly. ‘Erm… what did you think?’
‘That I’m more observant than you give me credit for,’ he replies.
‘So you’re not mad?’
‘Am I ever?’ he laughs. ‘So is that what all this was in aid of?’
‘Kind of,’ I reply. That’s what the extra effort was for, but it’s not exactly out of character for me to jump on him the second he walks through the door after work of an evening. I think I’m freaking out today more than usual, though, because I can’t get the thought of meeting his parents out of my head. I’m scared to put a foot wrong – although somehow I don’t think my seducing their son by smothering my body with spreads usually reserved for toast would buy me much favour with them, do you?
‘You’re too good for me,’ I tell him. ‘Right, I suppose I’d better make you some dinner.’
As I make the grand gesture of pulling myself to my feet, Mark grabs my wrist and pulls me close, squeezing me tightly.
‘Before you go, I spoke to my mum today – she’s invited the family to visit for Christmas. I figured we could go see your mum and dad, then head up to the Dales, spend the night there – give everyone the good news about us getting engaged!’
‘That would be awesome,’ I tell him, smiling widely like I do every time I remember we’re engaged.
‘We’d be travelling back on Christmas Eve, but we’re all prepared for Christmas anyway, right?
‘We are indeed.’
I glance at my engagement ring, only to realise it’s covered in jam.
‘OK,’ I laugh, ‘I really need a shower. Then I’ll make dinner.’
Wriggling free of Mark’s grasp, I slip my expensive, spread-covered underwear off, throwing my bra and kicking my knickers to one side.
‘I could do with a shower, too. I feel dirty,’ he calls after me. ‘Whack it up to full, I’ll be right behind you.’
Chapter Four
‘You’re not going to need… all that this weekend,’ Mark tells me as he carefully places balled-up pairs of socks into his overnight bag.
I glance up from clipping my stocking to my suspenders.
‘Erm, I do need “all this” because I have to wear stockings on my super-white legs, because someone won’t let me use fake tan any more.’
‘To take a leaf out of your book, here’s a list of three reasons I won’t let my girlfriend use fake tan any more… Number one: it smells so bad – like you ate a spice rack and then threw it up on your legs. Number two: our white sheets and towels are no longer white. Number three: you…’
‘All right, all right.’ I wave a pair of Mark’s white boxers in the air to show surrender. ‘I get it, you think I’m gross.’
‘If you’ll allow me to finish,’ Mark starts, sitting down on the bed behind me. ‘Number three: you’re perfect as you are.’
‘Even with my ghostly white, white legs?’ I ask, a huge grin spreading across my face.
‘Yes,’ he replies, taking my chin between his thumb and finger as he kisses me gently.
My grin dissolves into a sigh.
‘Come on, what’s up?’ Mark asks me as he gets back to packing.
I sit down on the bed and cross my legs, running a hand through my hair as I try to find the right words.
‘I… I’m nervous about meeting your family,’ I admit.
‘What? Why?’ he asks, surprised. ‘They’re going to love you.’
I know he’s right. It is his family, after all, so he knows them better than anyone. I guess I’ve just watched too many movies.
‘That said…’ he starts, ‘are you sure you’re packing the right kind of clothing? They keep saying it’s going to snow. Shouldn’t you pack some flat boots of some kind?’
‘I haven’t weather-proofed my new Uggs yet, so I can’t wear those’.
‘So you’re just going to wear heels?’
I shrug casually. He knows I am. But I only need to get to the car and back, it’s no big deal.