𝐀𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐚. ⁽⁽⁽ᵐᵃᵗᵗʸ ʰᵉᵃˡʸ⁾⁾⁾

Bermondsey.

HNSCC

(Devonte Hynes - Palo Alto)

Milk

The taxi ride back to Streatham was a silent one; I only feigned sleep at first, but genuinely slipped off after ten minutes. Helen woke me with a gentle prod and guided me up the steps to the front door, tutting but with concern still discernible in her voice.

'Jesus, Jo, it's normally you carting me home and tucking me in. What on earth happened to you tonight?' She ran a finger along the purple stain that laced the neckline of my dress. 'And what's this, wine? You're not normally a messy drunk.'

I slumped down onto the front step miserably. 'I fucked up.'

'You never fuck up. Or if you think you have, it's always the tiniest, most insignificant slip-up. It's mountains out of molehills with you, honestly.' She sighed in exasperation as she fumbled with the keys. 'Come on, get up and help me with this bloody key.'

With one more try the door swung open, and I kicked my shoes off in the hallway, already feeling steadied by the familiar, comforting home smell. Helen waited to interrogate me until we were both in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil for the chamomile tea she insisted on making.

'Last time I saw you, you were having a right laugh with Matty. I really can't imagine what must have gone wrong, so please spill.'

I didn't bother with the build-up, and spoke bluntly. 'We made out in the kitchens. After eating hors d'oeuvres and drinking a bottle of wine.'

'You made out with Matty?' She spluttered with laughter, bending over double almost cartoonishly, and I glared at her, mortified. 'Honestly... on what planet is that a fuck up?'

'We were friends! We are friends. Meant to be. But that might be ruined now.' I leaned on the counter, pressing my face into my hands. 'It's really, really not a good idea to start anything more, because then I end up in that category, the one just for hook-ups and not really being respected, and I haven't even seen him in months so it's obviously just an impulse thing, especially because we were drinking so much -' I rambled, my voice becoming shrill. 'Helen, our tongues were in each other's mouths!'

'Okay, chill for a moment. I think I get it.' She laid a hand on my forearm. 'God, I won't lie Jo, I was rooting for you. How did you manage it?'

I recalled it all for her, hands clasped around the hot mug she placed in front of me. By the time I had finished, the tea was lukewarm and Helen had summoned a diplomatic expression onto her face.

'Alright, first, please stop saying you fucked up or did something wrong. You were both super into it, the feeling was clearly mutual... and you know,' she mused, 'plenty of good friends go through this. Hell, my brother even slept with his best mate on a drunken night out, but they agreed it hadn't been romantic. Not the right quality, or spark, or whatever. But they seem to adore and trust each other implicitly now.'

That didn't sound like my experience last night though. Afraid of hearing Helen's analysis on the subject, I held my tongue about the terrific, primal urge that had snowballed in the pit of my stomach, the heated exchange of breath. No way had that been devoid of the right quality.

I didn't sleep well. I'd been afraid of having a dream that reflected my preoccupations, and something about that fear must have prevented me from dropping off after that, because I tossed and turned constantly, replaying the scene over and over in my head and tracking exactly how the air between us had shifted. I imagined what might have happened differently, if he hadn't kissed me. Or if I hadn't stopped us, or walked away. The image and idea of the latter made me shiver, and I chastised myself at this transgression of thought. All the sensations were still so fresh in my memory and in my body, that they were truly disarming at times to recall. But the more I dwelled on them, the more I was aware that the specifics, the subtleties of realism would fade, until all I had in my mind's eye was a dreamlike caricature of Matty as he leaned in.

The last thing I remembered seeing was the LED clock on my bedside table glowing with the numbers 04:28, when I was woken just three hours later by my phone vibrating on my duvet next to me. I peered at the screen blearily, sitting up in horror when I registered the contact: Aspiring Film Maker. God. What reason could he have to call at this hour? Had he pulled an all-nighter after our tryst, drinking to forget how I'd left him hanging in that weird industrial kitchen? Should I be concerned? I let it ring four times, a weak attempt to appear nonchalant. And then I answered.

'Matty? Are you alright?'

'Oh, thank fuck. I thought you might not pick up.' His tone alarmed me - it seemed sober, but stressed out.

'Why wouldn't I pick up?'

'I don't know, I wondered... you know, since you didn't say goodbye last night. I think we left things a bit... unresolved. Or, I don't know the word. In limbo. Maybe this is a terrible idea, shit, I'm sorry I called-'

'It's fine!' I squeaked, acutely aware that the hand holding my phone was growing clammy. 'I mean, it's a surprise. But I'm glad you did.'

'You're glad?' Matty asked doubtfully. 'Somehow that sounds ominous.'

'It's not. You're right. The way I left-'

'Yeah, why did you? What was on your mind?' The way he asked was confused, almost pained, and I felt a dreadful pang of guilt.

'I'm sorry... I freaked out. Wouldn't it have made things kind of messy? Think about it, Matty. Anything in that sphere, it might make all of this a bit weird afterwards.' It was hard to express myself accurately - to explain how much I loved the rapport we had. 'We're good friends, right, and I don't know if I made it clear how much I value that. I'd hate to just drop out of contact all over again, simply because we hooked up, or... or messed around once.'

'Messy? Not necessarily. We're talking now, see? Talking it through and making sure it's not weird,' he replied hopefully.

'Yeah, but I don't want to get carried away. I don't want to just be a conquest to you... does that make sense?' I took a deep breath, aware I was simultaneously admitting vulnerability and trying not to sound wanky. 'I worried that it would devalue me, I guess, in your eyes,' I admitted.

'Devalue you?' He echoed my words in dismay. 'That's impossible. And besides, if I really wanted to get my rocks off, I wouldn't just grab my nearest mate, no matter how much I fancy them.'

'I like that,' my grin seeped into my voice as I relaxed. 'Did you always?'

'Fancy you? Yeah, as soon as I saw you in that crazy suit at the party.'

I giggled. 'Thank you. For checking in.'

'Don't thank me, I'm sure I woke you. It was a bit of a risk, I guess, but it paid off in the end, didn't it? I mean, you seemed to enjoy yourself.'

He spoke in a knowing tone, and I felt my cheeks burning. 'Oh. Yes, I did.'

'There you go. So no harm done. Did you sleep alright, after all that wine?'

'Barely. A lot on my mind.' My bedroom door creaked open, making me jump. Helen's face appeared in the doorway, shining with interest. 'Matty?' she mouthed. Typical; she was only a light sleeper, and must have eavesdropped on me. Motioning to her frantically to leave me in peace, I brought the phone back to my ear. 'Hm? Sorry, I didn't catch that.'

'I said you should get some rest now. I shouldn't keep you on the phone, you must be knackered.'

'No! Don't worry about that. I'm kind of hyped up now, I can't imagine going back to sleep. What time did you leave in the end?'

'Like... three? Adam and I had a bit more to drink and then ordered pizza to the lobby. I didn't quite get shitfaced but I was pretty much drowning my temporary sorrows. Quite a theatrical place to do it, on a positive note - that hotel was gorgeous.'

'Well, that's Soho for you, isn't it? I used to imagine how glamorous it would be to live there, in barely half a square mile of debauchery.'

'You never know. You might be able to afford a place there soon, if everything goes to plan.'

I snorted with laughter. 'It's a bit past it, isn't it? Hasn't been a hub for artists since the millennium.'

'What's the equivalent now? Mile End?'

'Not that shithole,' I shuddered. 'Helen hates it and I'm too used to having her around. In fact I worry sometimes, about losing the organic free time for us to write.'

'I know, me too. You do end up just squeezing it in when you can, which always feels like a shame, considering it's the core purpose of your career. Fuck, your life. I don't like to categorise it as a career, it makes it sound oddly businesslike. And sitting like a lemon in the studio, forcing your ideas. That's not a nice feeling.'

'Does the imposter syndrome ever go away?'

Matty went quiet for a second, apparently thinking carefully about the next thing he would say. 'Eventually, yes, it does. But... think of yourself as an imposter in a slightly thrilling way. A spy for the so-called other side - completely unique, idiosyncratic, an us versus them sort of thing. You can end up wearing it like a badge of honour, and then you actually miss it when it does leave you. Because then you almost worry that you're paling into the crowd. Does that make sense?'

'It does. And it makes me feel better about it.' I hugged my knees to my chest, cupping my phone between my shoulder and my chin as I pulled the duvet around me. 'You know, when you talk about being useful, this is what it is, to me. You give the best advice.'

'Do I? I feel like I talk absolute bollocks half the time. Everyone tells me so.'

'Yeah. If anything I should have asked you more, before everything happened for me and Helen. Could have done with these pearls of wisdom.'

'Oh, stop. That time... what was it, like six months? At least four - where we hardly spoke. That fucking sucked,' Matty laughed, playing it off casually. 'I'm out in Australia in two weeks, okay? And we are keeping up this time.'

Helen poked her head around the door again, waving a mug and mouthing 'coffee?' - I nodded. 'Are you busy today?'

'In the studio again. I keep getting ideas, and at this rate, the next record will take another year, but it's the proudest I've felt of anything so far.'

'Tell me about it.'

I sank back into the pillows and listened to Matty talk. Even just the intonation of his voice was intensely comforting, and as the time ticked slowly by I felt the familiar dynamic returning, all concern or tension over the previous evening forgotten, but with the rather flattering addition of having admitted our mutual attraction.

Helen brought me my coffee, and I could see a burning curiosity in her face about the conversation, but merely raised my eyebrows smugly, and indicated that she would have to wait.

***

Poor Helen did have to wait a long time. Matty and I spoke on the phone for nearly three hours, at the end of which he had quite entirely convinced me that there was no point worrying about ruining things, and indeed, no point in us staying away from each other. We agreed to carry on much as we had before, with the addition of whatever felt natural. And yet, I didn't know when I would see him next; nothing had been confirmed, simply because our own routines were non-existent and up in the air.

The rest of the day was spent doing dull chores, brightened somewhat by blasting New Order loud enough to be heard over the vacuum cleaner. Helen and I had let the flat turn into a pigsty; when we were recording and on a roll, all other responsibilities went out the window. I asked her to stop me from over-analysing my current predicament out loud, something I knew I would be tempted to do now it was undeniably more complex.

It was funny, I thought, how actually nothing had changed, but I perceived our friendship (or whatever it was now) differently, simply because of one drunken fumble. And by differently, I meant I allowed my mind to dwell on him even more, to wonder what had been going on inside his head for the last six months. Despite having supposedly been told this already during our phone call, it was mildly entertaining to imagine for myself what his first impression might have been, his thoughts as we messaged back and forth. Shit, I'd even sent a selfie in my pyjamas once (solely to advertise their resemblance to a certain Australian kids' TV show). 

It boded well, I reasoned. It bypassed the insecurity I had felt in the past with boys (guys? men? there was a variety), whether they would change their minds once they had glimpsed your relaxed, carefree self, putting no effort whatsoever into appearing cute. I couldn't say I had really held back any part of myself in the time I had spent with Matty, and vice versa - the likelihood of being surprised was low.

Before going to bed, I borrowed a face mask from Helen, in a concession to preparing for a shoot for Noisey that Dean had lined up the next day. This was something I had very limited experience with, and I remembered how much I had hated being primped and poked at before. The last thing I wanted was a make-up artist tutting over the state of my skin before pinching me with an eyelash curler, so a few efforts the day before felt necessary. On the other hand, Helen was utterly unconcerned, and was in bed, snoring softly, by the time I had washed and blow-dried my hair around midnight.

The studio was in Bermondsey, an easy journey from home the following morning. Spring was out in full force, and by nine, London was bathed in pale white sunshine; even the trail of impatient traffic through the streets couldn't detract from its prettiness. The address Dean had given me turned out to be one of the beautiful old warehouses on Bermondsey Street that I had always longed to peek inside.

'These are great eyebrows, love, have you ever plucked them?' A young woman with a strong Scottish accent fussed over me, making me blink at a rate of about fifty times a minute. Thus far the experience was already starkly different to the last shoot I had been on; that one had consisted of me posing in various stances on and around a saggy armchair of questionable provenance. But I was heartened to realise when I got to the studio that this photographer (Nia, a friendly, open-faced woman with a perfectly teased afro and expensive looking, minimalist jewellery) had decided we should venture outside to her preferred outdoors location.

For now, I was receiving the final touch-ups to my hair, artfully tousled by Karen, who had by this point confirmed for me that she was Glaswegian. I shifted restlessly on the hard stool I was perched on, and admired Karen's skill in the mirror. She had shaded my eyelids all the way up to my brows with a pale, powder-puff blue that fanned out to my temples and made my green eyes seem less swamp-like, more a tasteful mossy colour. Normally I hated people touching my eyes, but if the result was always this good, it would be well worth putting up with.

Unoccupied, my mind wandered to Matty, and what his experience must be of these things. He must have been on hundreds of shoots before, and I knew he wasn't averse to being made up, considering the eyeliner-streaked editorials I had glimpsed over the years. He probably quite enjoyed the process, flailing around and being so photogenic, and never having to worry about them getting a bad shot. I was vaguely aware of my own anxiety that they would catch me mid-snort or with resting bitch-face, and for some unfathomable reason, decide to include the offending shot in the shortlist.

They let me pick out a couple of items I liked, before styling everything else around it; I selected a pair of petrol-blue cotton shorts that might make me look like a sailor, and equally would be difficult to pair with flouncy, 'sexy' things. Not that I minded appearing feminine, but preferably in the Anne of Green Gables, rough-and-tumble girlish vein - like I'd just been kicked out of the sandpit for being too boisterous. The stylist, Frances, found a capacious white shirt and bolo tie to complement them, but she let me keep my shoes on, a battered pair of penny loafers.

Dean chose to stay inside, chain-drinking coffee from a machine and glued to his laptop, but he nodded approvingly at our final sartorial choices.

'You look fantastic, Jo. What are stylists for, anyway?'

The young man who had been assisting Karen raised his eyebrows cynically, hoisting her bag of tricks over his shoulder. Nia led me outside and down the street to a small park with a Victorian memorial garden, complete with ornate railings.

'I love this place, no preparation needed. And it suits your image, quite playful, innocent... I'm thinking we can set up under this tree here, you see?' She directed her own assistant to help her set up, and I watched from the sidelines as reflective screens were unfolded, angled just so, in order to catch the late morning's pure, white light.

The stylist's assistant, the one with the slightly sarcastic expression who had raised his eyebrows at Dean's comment, sidled over to where I waited patiently. He was tall, with a rather pinched face; something about him reminded me of a squirrel, and I immediately felt guilty for making such an unflattering comparison. But no, there was no getting around it - I couldn't unsee it. It didn't help that he spoke with a nasal voice, and what he said grated at me.

'I think I saw you out, just the other day. At the Q Awards?'

'Oh, really?' I tried to reply casually, but my pulse surged.

'Yeah... was it you in the cream coloured dress? Kind of a silky one. Frances has been on the lookout for one like it for weeks now, caught my eye.'

'Liberty's - you're welcome.' I conceded a tight smile, glancing to Nia to watch for her cue when I was needed.

He leaned towards me conspiratorially. 'So, Matty Healy, eh? Didn't know that was a thing.'

I must have whipped my head around in a flash, with a face to match, because he looked vaguely satisfied at my scandalised reaction. 'Oh, Matty. Yes, we're good mates. He's been so helpful,' - I could hear myself, the aggression, the defensiveness that screamed through my cool words and feigned manners - 'just the sweetest guy really, I haven't known him long. It's not a thing. Really, it isn't.'

The assistant shrugged, turning to pull a box of grapes from a Tesco bag. He started snacking on them, obnoxiously rolling them around his mouth after popping each one in. 'You want to be careful, mind, hanging out with him. Before you know it, Mail Online are airing your dirty laundry to the world.'

'I don't have any dirty laundry,' I snapped, instantly regretting it. Don't be a bitch, you idiot, I internally scolded myself, you can't afford to make enemies. 'I'm not bothered. Everyone knows what the media is like.' Except I had never been the subject of it on a mass scale. I seriously doubted I was on that sort of radar though. What was a few stylists' assistants, in all honesty?

He flashed a sickly sort of smile. 'Yeah, they do. It's a shame, but I guess that carousel is just part of the whole game. And it's all publicity, right?'

I nodded dismissively, but cringed to myself - I hoped nobody would think I was associating with Matty for publicity. Nia waved me over at that moment, and I gratefully cut off the conversation. I was rattled nonetheless, and all it had taken was one snarky stylist's assistant. A thicker skin would be required, I knew, and quickly.

***

The photos came out beautifully; Nia had given everything a soft focus in editing, so that the pale, fresh quality of the light remained, but not its blinding crispness - hard to describe, admittedly, but very flattering overall. My favourite image was shot slightly from below, making me look particularly self-possessed and quite proud, the wind lifting strands of hair off my forehead. The sun was behind me, the light reflected gently back into my face so that there were no stark shadows to distort anything. It even captured the pastel blue eye makeup that Karen had carefully applied.

'Do you think people will think I'm leeching off Matty?' I asked Helen abruptly after dumping my stuff down at five, just after getting back to the flat. She was messing about with a new Minimoog we had clubbed together to buy (one of the latest indie bands from the noughties that had broken up due to fading careers and burgeoning families, auctioning off old gear).

'What? No. Why?'

'You know. We're only just starting out, hanging around someone with a certifiably flourishing career.'

'Who's got into your head, Jo?' Helen frowned, prising the headphones away from her ears.

'Just some prick on the shoot today, stylist's assistant,' I replied irritably. 'Telling me he saw us at the awards the other day, and that I should be careful or I'll end up on Mail Online.'

'He's bitter. Got to be. Look at Robin - same job, running around like a puppy after a stylist, a failed indie frontman with a side gig walking the runway for mid-level fashion shows. Stands to reason that this guy is in the same vein.'

'I suppose,' I slumped on the sofa opposite where she had set up the Moog, tossing my phone from hand to hand and intermittently glancing at the screen. I didn't like feeling dependent on contact with one person. Traditionally, Helen and I were around each other almost constantly, in a companionable, sisterly manner, and that worked due to our careers and living situation. In this weird, are-we-aren't-we limbo, I had no idea what to expect from Matty.

'Put your phone down, Jo, for god's sake. Let's go out, watch a film or something,' Helen suggested, but her voice was stern, scolding me slightly for my introspection.

'Alright. But I'm not doing one of your psychological horror things again. I didn't sleep a wink after we saw Us.'

We went to the Ritzy, and bought tickets for a foreign film that had received acclaim at Sundance. It was difficult to lose myself in it though, and by the time we were an hour and half and a tub of popcorn in, I was starting to wish we had gone for a psychological horror. I would rather have been scared shitless than left to my noisy thoughts. With Helen's elbow touching mine though, and her occasional glance over to me at the interesting bits to watch for a reaction, I was struck with gratitude towards her, and her borderline telepathic sensitivity to my moods.