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

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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

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