at that. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Just about to hit the road,’ I reply. ‘I’m going away with Mark for a few days.’
Just in case Kath was thinking of asking me to head into work for something, I pretend to shout to Mark in the next room.
‘What’s that, babe?’ I call – and, no, I don’t ever call him babe. ‘Sure, I’m ready to go.’ I turn my attention back to Kath. ‘Sorry, Kath, Mark is nagging me to hit the road; apparently we’re going to be late to meet his parents.’
‘That’s why I’m calling you,’ Kath tells me.
‘Oh?’
‘Oh, indeed. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to meet your fiancé’s parents for the first time?’ she asks.
I think for a moment. Why would I tell her?
‘I…’ I start, but no more words come out. Luckily for me, Kath makes her point clear.
‘I want you to write an article about it,’ she tells me.
‘About meeting Mark’s family?’ I ask.
‘Yeah,’ she replies casually. ‘This is a golden opportunity. You need to make the most of it.’
Writing about my personal life is something I do all the time, and I’m happy to do it, but when it comes to writing about my love life, I’m very careful. I would never mention Mark by name, or just straight up write about him. I will often mention ‘my boyfriend’ in relation to things that I am saying and doing, but that’s it. He’s just a nameless, faceless character in my life that people don’t really think too much about when they read the articles, because they’re not reading to find out about my life, they’re reading to work out how to learn from my mistakes to make their life better. Writing about meeting Mark’s family, though – that’s a completely different thing. He might be able to forgive me for writing about our bedroom antics, but dragging his family into my work isn’t something he is going to be OK with – well, who would?
‘Well, I just finished a piece on things to consider before you meet your boyfriend’s parents for the first time – I don’t want my readers to think I’m rehashing old material, or bragging about how engaged I am, you know?’
‘Who is your editor?’ she asks me pointlessly.
‘You are,’ I reply. ‘But…’
‘But you’ll do it?’ she asks. Well, it sounds like a question, but we both know it isn’t. ‘I’m thinking we can cover the whole engagement, wedding – beyond that, even. “How to choose your bridesmaids” to “Thoughts you’ll have while walking down the aisle” – there’s just so much material here.’
I think for a second. Appealing to Kath’s better nature might be a long shot, but it’s worth a try, right?
‘Mark has been pretty cool when it comes to what I write about, but I think writing about his family will be a step too far, Kath,’ I tell her frankly.
‘It’s too good an opportunity to waste, Roxie. Readers will love this. You’re a smart girl; find a way and turn it in next week – no excuses, OK?’
‘But Kath…’
‘I said no excuses,’ she snaps. ‘Have a wonderful few days.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘See you soon.’
I hang up and lie back on my bed, completely unable to relax now. There’s just no way I can write about something like this. Endless silly things, yes. But I can’t review his family and then tell people how to ‘cope’ with such an ordeal. That’s so disrespectful.
When I started working at Viralist, I knew how lucky I was to land a job there, and when I finally bagged my own virtual column, I really couldn’t believe my luck. But my success has come at a cost, like Kath thinking my private life is public property. Sometimes it feels a little like I’ve sold my soul to the devil, but I couldn’t imagine being happy in any other job. In situations like this, I usually find that I can compromise my way out of having to reveal too much about my real life. My only real option is to write a completely different article – but an even better one; that way, when Kath reads it and thinks it’s the best thing I’ve ever written, she won’t even care about the fact I went off topic and completely ignored her orders.
I know I’m only going to be away for a day/night, but I’ll be travelling back on Christmas Eve, and with this being mine and Mark’s first proper Christmas together, I promised him I wouldn’t work. I’m going to have to take my laptop with me and write either in the car, or through the night, when I’ll most likely not be able to sleep for worrying about this.
‘I’m back,’ Mark calls to me from the living room.
‘Hey,’ I call back to him.
‘Here we are, one new overnight bag, and in the lady’s favourite colour, too: black.’
‘Like my heart,’ I tease.
‘So, we’re good to go? Nothing else to stress about?’
‘Nothing,’ I lie.
‘OK, then,’ Mark says excitedly with a clap of his hands. ‘Let’s hit the road.’
I’ve been thinking about the answer to a pretty straightforward question recently: would I describe myself as a materialistic person? I’d like to say that the answer is no, but I’m not so sure. My parents didn’t raise me with a taste for the finer things in life; they’re a very easygoing couple. Joseph and Juliet met at stage school when they were in their teens, and if I had to describe their relationship in one word, if would be ‘easy’. Realising they had everything in common, they started dating and fell hard and fast for each other. They had a small, simple wedding. They had one (probably perfect and impossible to better – although I am biased) child and that was enough for them. They have both always worked in theatre, whether they were acting, teaching, directing or composing, which gave me the most culturally diverse upbringing I could’ve hoped for. I have met people from all different backgrounds, in front of the backdrop of an industry that embraces diversity, and for that I am thankful. They brought me up to be accepting, tolerant, and to embrace what I loved, even if what I loved was dressing as a cat for the eight months that followed my watching Cats for the first time when I was a child. But being materialistic is one thing they didn’t encourage, so I guess any bad habits I’ve picked up along those lines, I only have myself to blame for.
Before I met Mark, I lived in a pretty small flat above a shop that sells e-cigarettes, which I shared with my friend Gilgamesh who I met through my parents’ theatre company. I have always suspected Gil chose himself a stage name before we met, because when I quizzed him about having such an unusual name he went on to insist his parents named him that, and I feel like, from that moment on, he made a conscious effort to hide all forms of identification from me. Still, it is possible; my parents did name me Roxie, after all.
Back when I was a struggling writer – still just an office junior at Viralist – and Gil was a struggling actor,
