Portia MacIntosh - It's Not You, It's Them

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.