The Show Must Go On

Chapter Forty-Two: Consolation Prize

Chapter Forty-Two Soundtrack: Consolation Prize by Ken Yates

Ben proposed to me a few weeks after my university graduation. I'd spent the between-time on two- and three-day runner jobs, darting between film sets and buying everyone coffee on my minimum wage salary. I crawled into Ben's bed late every night and slept dreamlessly. Without the security of a structured degree, or the certainty of a salaried job, I'd felt like I was floating through the hours, untethered from myself. I didn't know who Ellie was or who she might become.

So getting engaged was such a relief. I didn't have to be Ellie: I got to be Ben's fiancée. His flat became our flat. His friends became our friends. His job, for a while, let me produce independent films and take on freelance gigs, and then he gave me an excuse to find a permanent job when his PhD became our new goal. It was so easy.

Even the ring was simple: his mum picked it and he paid for it. I wore it uncomplainingly and, within a month or two, convinced myself that I liked it. Never mind that I didn't wear gold. It made it a statement piece.

That ring bumps against my collarbone now. I'm on the tube to dinner, acutely conscious that I've been crying and, despite liberal concealer application, I can't hide that. My dress is creased and my thighs rub together beneath the skirt. I feel, though I may be paranoid, that I smell like sadness.

And the ring rubs and rubs.

Was it right to keep in on the necklace? Obviously it was the right choice for me, but perhaps it feels cruel to display it at eyeline.

Then again, I got enough comments about keeping it on. Gaudy, his relatives called it at his funeral. Never mind that his mother had picked it.

They have never really liked me. Or they liked me when I brought Ben home and encouraged him to call, and they disliked me when I was anything beyond his accessory. Perhaps the Ellie they would approve of has never really existed.

Yet as long as I'm invited, I feel that I should come to their events. To rebuff them seems unnecessarily cruel. Plus, Mei will be there too. Thank God for Mei.

A string of messages from her arrive as I emerge from the tube, all at once, and my phone dings so loudly that I attract attention. Sorry, I mouth as I silence it.

What should she wear? What am I wearing? What if we're wearing the same thing? Have I been to this restaurant before? Am I allergic to anything? Oh shit, pineapple. Does Korean food use pineapple?

Another question lands before I can type out a reply: do you think orange is back in fashion? wait is pink going to clash with orange? xoxoxoxo

breathe babe, I tell her.

It's a relief that she's just as stressed as I am. Clearly, the problem isn't me.

That reminder buoys me across the street and under the restaurant awning. It glows from the long, warped windows against the grey London weather. Another couple huddles under the awning, too, clearly expecting the looming rain.

I would normally go on, but with Ben's family, it's best to be on my feet. Easier to keep my balance that way.

And as though I've summoned her with my thoughts, Ben's mother jogs across the street with a giant cotton ball in her arms. She splashes through a puddle and drenches the couple beside me.

'Ellie!' she coos. When she drops the cotton ball and it squeaks, I realise that it's actually a very, very fluffy dog. 'Darling, have you met Javier?'

I glance around as though she'll pull a man out of her bag. But, of course, she means the dog.

'No,' I tell her, and after an awkward pause, I crouch down to greet the fluff. 'Hi, Javier,' I awkwardly tell it. Javier doesn't care. He sniffs my shoes and lifts his leg to pee. I scurry back.