of Burberry models, and my arch-nemesis, Hannah Fielding, was working as a writer for Tatler. Ugh, she was even tagged in a picture with Kate Moss. That was just so bloody typical.
I looked around my tiny room, where the mould was growing over the landlord’s cheap paint, and I felt an urge to start crying. Instead, I decided to tech-harm.
I reached out slowly for my iPhone, knowing I would regret what I was about to do. I tapped open the screen and, feeling pre-emptively sick, opened up Instagram. The sepia-filtered world burst into life and I scrolled down the feed to see photos of my uni friends dating beautiful people, working for high-powered companies and sunbathing on the rooftop of Shoreditch House in white bikinis with retro sunglasses. I could feel self-pitying tears pricking my eyelids when the door burst open.
‘Ellie, we’re having a major crisis,’ gasped Will. He was standing in my doorway wearing red boxers patterned with tiny yellow cars. Were those mini Noddys sitting in the yellow cars? I craned my head forward. ‘Stop staring at my penis and help me,’ he snapped.
‘Oh, right, sorry. What’s up?’
‘No one in the house has any lube,’ he declared.
I snorted. ‘Oh, right, and you think me, the single flatmate with the single bedroom, is going to be the one to help you out with that?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Please, I’m not that deluded. But I just wondered if you have any more of that Aussie miracle conditioner you use.’
I stared at him. ‘Um, no? I need to go to the supermarket. Why do you want to wash your hair now anyway?’
‘It’s not going on my hair, babe. At least, not for the hair you can see.’ He smirked.
‘I literally have no clue what you’re talking—OH MY GOD. You want to use my £4.49 conditioner for lube?!’
‘Well, that’s what I’ve been using for the past week until you ran out. You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I bloody mind,’ I cried. ‘I can’t believe that’s why I’ve had to buy double the amount I normally buy. I thought I just had really … knotty hair lately,’ I finished lamely.
He rolled his eyes at me. ‘I’ll go and ask Emma.’ His Noddy boxers retreated down the hallway until he paused to face me.
‘Hey, were you crying?’ he asked.
‘No, ‘course not,’ I cried. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘You have Facebook open on your computer and Instagram on your phone. You only do that when you’re miserable, Ellie.’
‘Will, you’ve lived with me for less than a week and only known me for a few months. That doesn’t mean anything,’ I replied tartly.
‘How about the fact you have mascara running down your face, then?’
Bugger.
‘Oh, fuck off, Will,’ I yelled, as he laughed and walked off.
I pulled the duvet over me. I felt as single as my bed. It wasn’t that I wanted a boyfriend per se, it was more that everyone else was so ahead of me in the romantic—well, sexual—stages of life. Hell, they were shagging with conditioner while I was watching them on Instagram.
The problem was that everyone I’d grown up with had lost their virginities aged fifteen to seventeen. At school, all my girlfriends had gone out with the boys at the school next door, and after a year of climbing up the bases, they’d eventually ‘done it’.
But because I was the frizzy-haired Greek girl with thick eyebrows and ill-fitting jeans, no one had been particularly interested. My only sexual encounter during my school years happened when I was seventeen and it was so bad that my friends nicknamed it a ‘bite job’. So, while I was still recovering from the humiliation of biting James Martell’s penis, they were sharing sex stories in the sixth-form common room. Even my best and oldest friend, Lara, had got involved.
It was worse at uni. By then, everyone had already had a couple of relationships, peppering the gaps with drunken one-night stands and the odd inappropriate fling. They carried on shagging throughout uni, boasting about it in drinking games. Only, as always, I either had to listen with a fake smile on my face or—the less awkward option—make up a sexual past of my own. Because I’d been a virgin until the ripe old age of twenty-one.
It wasn’t out of choice. All I’d wanted to do was break my hymen, but no one vaguely attractive had offered. In my final year of uni, I’d been so desperate to lose my V-plates that when freckly, twenty-six-year-old graphic designer Jack Brown asked me out, I practically threw myself at him. He didn’t protest, and after a few dates, he deflowered me. I thought my happiness would never end.
Until a week later, when he abandoned me on the streets of Shoreditch with chlamydia.
It had been a shit end to a shit year, but I’d spent the summer getting pissed and taking my anti-chlamydia pills, so I was now well and truly over my STD and Jack Brown. The only problem was that he was still the only person I’d had sex with, and I hadn’t even orgasmed the one time we’d shagged. The only orgasms I’d ever had happened solo in my bedroom with my £14.99 bullet vibrator.
No one really played sex drinking games any more, but I still couldn’t join in when Emma and Lara discussed anal and sixty-nines. It just meant I felt left out. I’d spent all summer batting my eyelids at every average-looking male—aged under thirty, naturally—in sight, but none of them had done anything but snog me. I had become officially unfuckable. Now being shoved into this single room and labelled the sexually inactive housemate was just like being a virgin again. No matter what I did to try to keep up, everyone was always ten steps ahead of me. It wasn’t even for want of trying.
I lowered my head into my hands and let out a pathetic moan. I was twenty per cent of my way through my twenties. I had only eighty per cent left before I’d be at a child-bearing age and seriously in want of a husband. I should be out having wild, passionate no-strings-attached sex with dreadlocked men on motorbikes before meeting The One, but instead I was lying alone in my mouldy bedroom.
It wasn’t fair. Emma had slept with about thirty people. Lara had shagged about nine. Why hadn’t I managed to get anywhere near that? I was average-looking and just as fun as them. I’d always thought that my virginity was the obstacle and, as soon as I lost it, it would be easy and I could start having casual sex.
But that hadn’t happened. Maybe it was because I hadn’t tried hard enough. Or because I was just doomed to be different—the podgy girl with dark body hair destined to have below-average sex and bite jobs. I’d always felt like the awkward teenage Greek girl who didn’t really fit in anywhere.
I wasn’t anything like my cousins or family friends—the thought of getting married to someone ‘from the community’ made my skin crawl. I’d die of claustrophobia and boredom, and that’s if any guy ever agreed. I wasn’t exactly the pretty, tanned girl they dreamt of. All my cousins loved dressing up and wearing lip gloss, while I’d rather kick about in Chucks and old leggings. Dream daughter I was not.
And I wasn’t like anyone at school either. I didn’t have the natural confidence that the girls had—that came from knowing they were beautiful, privileged and loved. I hadn’t exactly had a tough background, but I never saw my dad and my mum was pretty overbearing.
