Little white rectangles fill the reflection of their irises. They’re all plugged in. All of them are unaware of what’s going on around them or who is in front of them, collectively yearning for acceptance from their phones.

Praise for Florence Given’s previous work:

‘a rallying call for women of her generation to feel f****** fabulous about themselves’
GLAMOUR

‘game-changing’
DIVA MAGAZINE

‘rallying, radical and pitched perfectly for her generation’
LIVING ETC

‘a fearless book’
COSMOPOLITAN

‘an urgent manifesto’
GRAZIA

‘call-to-arms tome’
IRISH TATLER

‘a deep dive into subjects like self-love, empowerment and patriarchy [that] aims to appeal to women (and men!) in all stages of their feminist journeys’
WONDERLAND MAGAZINE

Previous books by Florence Given:
Women Don’t Owe You Pretty (June 2020)
Women Don’t Owe You Pretty:
The Small Edition (September 2021)

To all the women
who live within us

September 2030

Hi, Wonderland.

It’s Eartha on a burner account.

The ‘real’ Eartha.

I am here to tell you all that I’m not insane. That I’m not a liar. But that I have been abused by the powerful. And that I want to raze Wonderland to the ground.

How am I going to do that? you must be asking yourself. With the only shred of power I have left: the truth.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Preventative Hand Jobs

Chapter 2: Wonky Women

Chapter 3: Phaedra

Chapter 4: The Tracey Emin Of Techno

Chapter 5: Landslide

Chapter 6: Fuckboys Know No Gender

Chapter 7: That Could Have Stayed in the Drafts

Chapter 8: Bright Shiny Thing

Chapter 9: Do I Have to Buy A Strap-on?

Chapter 10: Mona

Chapter 11: @Hailey3000 Can Fuck Off

Chapter 12: Engagement!

Chapter 13: To Be Living on the Cusp of Everything

Chapter 14: Slinky’s

Chapter 15: Kissing the Pink

Chapter 16: Sexist Marketing Schemes

Chapter 17: Daddy’s Home

Chapter 18: Contractual Obligations

Chapter 19: Morning Breath

Chapter 20: Problematic

Chapter 21: Two-faced Meat Lover

Chapter 22: A Temporary Death

Chapter 23: I’m Disappointed in You

Chapter 24: Voice of a Generation

Chapter 25: Dirty Knickers

Chapter 26: #Moretimeonline

Chapter 27: Tainted Love

Chapter 28: It’s Like There Are Two Sides of You

Chapter 29: Crawling Out of My Skin

Chapter 30: The Future Is Feminist Phallic

Chapter 31: Strange Young Woman

Chapter 32: All That I Was Became Yours

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER 1

PREVENTATIVE HAND JOBS

Wonderland followers: 1,303

I have an unshakeable sense that I was meant for something bigger than the life I’m currently inhabiting. What’s a girl to do when she wants to have sex, just not with her own boyfriend? Is this normal? Horny, but not for him. Craving something more, but not from him. I’m convinced that my relationship with Matt is not only draining my zest for life but that it’s also majorly contributing to the climate crisis. As an excuse to get away from him and the flat I’ve found myself taking the bins out when they’re barely half full. There are only so many cigarette breaks a girl can take before even the most naïve men start to notice you’re avoiding them. My vibrator is always plugged into the wall, recharging and spiking my electricity usage. I guiltily contemplate my water waste as I’ve also started to take extra-long showers before bed just to avoid having sex with him. If I’m lucky, by the time I get out of the shower he’s fast asleep. And if he’s still awake when I get out, I tell him I’m too tired. A simple ‘no’ is far too frightening, especially if he’s been drinking, which is almost always.

I’ve started hiding the bottles of booze we have in the flat. I put them away in a cupboard that I’ve told him is full of cleaning products. Unsurprisingly, he’s never once opened it. If he asks where they went I just say he drank them all. If we don’t have sex he’ll ignore me the next morning, or storm out without saying goodbye. Sometimes I give him a preventative hand job just to avoid any ugly scenes. I wonder how many other women have given their boyfriends preventative hand jobs to ‘keep him happy’?

My grandma used to say those very words with a forced smile on her face as she served us spoonful after spoonful of roast potatoes when I asked where Grandpa was during Sunday dinner. He’d invariably come back later from the pub pissed out of his face, and she’d immediately prepare a plate for him. The words ‘Silly me!’ were always on the tip of her tongue, ready to apologise or assume the blame for anything he wasn’t happy with. Apologies fell out of that woman’s mouth far more frequently than laughter. Women in my family are well trained to act as PR representatives for the men in our lives who’ve let us down. We lie on behalf of them, we lie about where they are, to ourselves and even to the people we care for the most, to preserve and protect our reputation. To protect him.

This afternoon I’ve cocooned myself in my best friend Rose’s flat in an attempt to stay away from my own. It’s an ex-council flat turned cosy jungle with plants on every surface, whitewashed floors and a bunch of furniture Rose found on the side of streets and put back together themself. Recently I’ve felt so separate from myself. I’ve started to watch myself on auto-pilot, witnessing my body act incongruently to what I think, feel and desire. I’m living instead to please him – absorbing any uncomfortable emotions so that he doesn’t have to feel them or face the pain of self-reflection. I do all of the emotional work and reasoning for him, like a mother bird regurgitating its food before it gives it to its young. Matt’s not done any chores for a few days? Well, he is busy and I have a spare half-hour. He shouted at me when he was drunk? Well, I guess he was tired and I can be sensitive. I wear this life and my relationship like an ill-fitting sweater you used to love but that’s since shrunk in the wash. It no longer fits and is abrasive on my skin, but I can’t give it up. It’s as if I’m almost attached to this uncomfortable way of life. I fear I’d be allergic to the sensations of something, or someone, new.

Even his touch has begun to feel like a stranger’s. When I roll over at night, feeling his hand on my shoulder or his cock pressing against my back, my entire body closes up at his touch, like an anemone. I feel like I’m living a double life: one as an assertive feminist and another as a shell of a woman, playing the role of both mother and girlfriend to a failing DJ with no hygiene routine, who once confidently called himself ‘The Tracey Emin of Techno’. He jerks his head to the beat during his sets at such a horrendous speed I think it might fall off one of these days. I want to blame romantic movies as the reasons I’ve chosen to stick by this embarrassment of a man – but it’s the women in my family who remain my blueprint for how and who to love.

It feels like I’m splitting when I’m with him, as I shrink and hold myself back. It’s only with friends like Rose that I feel I really get to be Eartha. Maybe these days they’re the only person I can be myself with. It’s Rose who disrupts me from my thoughts now to ask me if we should keep watching whatever we are watching. I just nod. Please, keep it going all bloody night just so I can stay away from the man that I chose to live with. I wonder how much longer I can drown out my reality.

‘These girls should all just start shagging each other!’ Rose says in their charming Irish chatter, shaking their head and sweeping the few black strands of hair from their eyes as they watch TV from the huge sofa that takes over the tiny sitting room.

‘If you want?’ I say, realising I haven’t been listening to them, but heard enough to register they expect a response.

‘What do you mean, if you want? Have you not been paying attention?’

They scoff and pause the show with the remote.

‘Right, these girls ...’ They point with a beer bottle in their tattooed hand at the screen. Their fingers are covered in silver rings, mostly collected from women they’ve slept with; one simply says Dad. A single silver hoop sits in their left ear and a ribbed white tank top cups their perky boobs tenderly. Rose has refused to wear a bra or shave ever since I’ve known them because they want to ‘let nature take its course’. I have to remind them occasionally that deodorant is still important. Everything Rose does has intention, even now as they angrily explain the show to me with a dribble of beer running down their chin …

‘They’re all competing with each other to win a date with this …’ gesticulating at the suited man. ‘The most boring, ugly man. It makes me so fucking sad. The girls are so mean to each other to get his attention. It’s so primal. They collectively sniff out the one girl who’s the threat and slowly wear her down, bit by bit, to reduce her chances.’

It’s rare to see Rose, an old soul, get so passionate about something they’d usually describe as ‘hideously modern’ and ‘frighteningly heterosexual’. I’d point out the irony to them but they’ll only make some quip about my relationship. I hold it in.

‘She’s so fake. Who does she think she is? She thinks she’s all that,’ Rose says, impersonating the girls on the screen. ‘What does “all that” even mean, anyway? And then BAM,’ they smack their hand onto the crate pallet coffee table, their rings clanging, ‘they decide to get rid of her, spread rumours about her, stop inviting her to things. It reminds me of school.’ They swirl the bottom of the beer in their hand; a sad expression falls across their face before they swig it again.

Rose and I met in school, when they joined as the new pupil who’d moved from Ireland to England to live with their dad, who ‘was living in sin’. I’d always been friends with the girls that laughed at people like Rose. Sitting with these girls in class afforded me the protection I didn’t have at home. Until one day, for no good reason, I too became one of their victims. That’s when Rose and I decided to pair up. They are one of the toughest people I know. They never even had to come out as gay or non-binary – the way they would recline into chairs with their legs wide open did that for them. They couldn’t give a fuck what people thought of them. The girls at our school avoided them like the plague as though being queer was contagious, but they didn’t care what anyone thought.

Rose soon became impossible for me to stay away from. Everything about them drew me in. I still kick myself to this day thinking of the years I wasted trying to fit in with anyone else when the real deal was right in front of me. Well, behind me: the queer misfit at the back of class who didn’t give two shits about anyone’s reaction to their choice to wear the boys’ blazer-and-tie combo instead of the cardigan and skirt for uniform. I was, and remain to this very day, mesmerised by them. And I have never told them – or anyone – the other reason for our delayed friendship: I also distanced myself from Rose because I couldn’t admit the secret crush I had on them. I’m still unsure of what this meant, I never had long to think about it. I’ve only ever been with Matt since I was nineteen.

Rose hits the play button and continues their commentary. ‘Why are they being so mean to each other? I just don’t get it!’ they say as two girls on the show whisper in the corner of a party about another girl.

I watch the screen fill with women and my eyes glaze over. I zoom out and look at the cracked glass console the TV is sitting on and the white walls of the room.

‘Well, what would happen if the producers actually encouraged the girls to work together? The girls would soon figure everything out, wouldn’t they? The whole point is that they’re taught to compete because women aren’t as exploitable when they form bonds together. They’d figure out that male attention is not only worthless, but abundant. The girls would realise that, actually, the man isn’t that great, women aren’t so terrible, and that yeah, they’d be better off turning each other on, than turning on each other,’ I reply, surprising myself.

‘We’re still talking about the show, right?’ Rose says, suggestively raising their eyebrows. I redirect the conversation.

‘So what then, you really can’t see why women compete? You’re really saying you’ve never felt in competition with another person?’ I ask them.

‘If I’m being honest ... no.’

They run their fingers through their short dark hair, rest their arm above their head and turn to look at me. I call this Rose’s ‘pose’, it’s dangerously hot. It radiates levels of charisma so potent that it has melted the toughest of women into smooth pools of butter.

‘I think I’m too gay to compete. I don’t see the point in passive-aggressive fights with a girl, when I’d rather just, you know, kiss her.’ They shrug their shoulders with the moral authority of someone who has never dated men. I break eye contact and look down at the neck of my beer, caressing my fingers around its edge.

‘I think you’ve not felt in competition with anyone before because you’re the one people compete for. You’re this guy!’ I say, reaching over to grab the remote and pause the TV. ‘You get to have your pick of the bunch, so you can always just relax. The women come to you because you’re … well, you’re Rose!’

They smirk, absorbing the compliment and filing it alongside the thousands they receive a year, then snatch the remote from me to press play.

‘Right!’ I exclaim as I stand up readying myself to leave, when I’m cut off by a loud thud, followed by a deep, prolonged wailing noise coming from Rose’s flatmate’s bedroom.

‘What’s that?’

I turn around, looking over my shoulder suspiciously into the corridor with both of the bedroom doors on.

‘Shhh!’ Rose says, silencing me with a finger and turning up the TV. The noise becomes louder, deeper and more consistent. Realising that the wailing sounds are bursts of sexual pleasure, I politely sit back down.

‘Did Billy bring someone home? I didn’t see anyone come in.’

I scrunch up my face. Rose doesn’t reply and gives the TV programme they proclaim to hate undivided attention. I turn back to look into the corridor and Rose tilts their head at me, raising their eyebrows.

‘Oh,’ I say as it finally clicks. ‘That reminds me, I need to whack my vibrator on charge when I get home.’

I pat the cream cotton sofa with my hand, looking for my phone to add a memo to my notes.

‘How come? What about the penis you keep attached to a body? Is that not doing it for ya?’ Rose says with a smirk.

‘My “penis” is playing a set later,’ I say, taking a sip of the warm, bitter dregs of my beer.

‘How is … everything? I wanted to ask earlier but … you know,’ Rose says in the way a friend does when they know you don’t want to talk about something. Tepidly. Very tepidly.

‘Good. It’s good. Everything’s a bit different, though, since we moved in together, but we’re doing okay,’ I say, nodding my head at a speed that must look like I’m trying to convince even myself that my answer is affirmative.

Rose half smiles and returns to watch the TV. I can feel the silence between us, when finally Billy’s moaning from the bedroom stops. The bedroom door swings open behind us. Out comes Billy, wrapped inside her duvet with the button-side dragging on the floor behind her, like ancient lesbian royalty. She walks towards us on the sofa.

‘Hey, Earthy-wurthy!’ She reaches down with the hand she just used to pleasure herself in her bedroom to scruff my hair, leaving it messy over my face.

‘Rooooose, you got any spare batteries?’ Billy says in a whiney voice.

Rose turns around and says, ‘No, and I’m watching this show now, so shhh!’ Then turns to continue watching the TV.

‘All right, stroppy,’ Billy mutters and then she whispers to me with a wink, ‘Eartha, pass us the remote, will ya, love?’

Billy is still clutching her duvet, joining it in the middle with her hands to just about protect her modesty.

‘Oh, sure,’ I say and reach over Rose’s lap to get the remote. Rose swats it away from me.

‘She’s going to take out the batteries,’ Rose says, turning to glare at Billy.

‘BILLY!’ I say, staring up at her with a look of disapproval.

‘A girl’s got to finish!’ she replies with a casual shrug.

‘What? You didn’t finish?! Just get one of them rechargeable dildos like Eartha’s,’ Rose says snarkily.

‘Whatever, I’ll just go analogue,’ Billy mumbles. She turns around, shunning Rose and me with the back of the duvet that’s formed over her head like a giant white traffic cone with her tight afro curls popping out at the top as she retreats back into her sweaty lair of pleasure, pouting her lips melodramatically.

‘Wait,’ Rose says resentfully.

The cone stops shuffling.

‘You can have them. But! You MUST bring them back.’ Rose removes the batteries from the remote. Billy turns to collect them.

‘Yes, I will, don’t worry.’ She nods obediently.

‘And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been nicking them out of the clocks.’ Rose points to an orange alarm clock turned on its side on the pallet table with its battery seal open.

‘I don’t know how you two do it,’ I say as Billy disappears off, getting her duvet stuck in the door before managing to shut it behind her.

I’m struck by the comfortable and easy interaction I just witnessed between two people I once watched finger the shit out of each other on the edge of a pool table.

‘Do what? It’s called a compromise, Eartha.’ Rose’s tone suggests that’s something I know nothing about.

‘No, living with your ex! You make it seem like an easier living arrangement than what I have with my actual boyfriend.’

‘That’s because you live with a man, Eartha. A man. A fucking man! You have nothing in common with him.’

‘I do; we like the same music,’ I say, looking down and burying my face from view.

‘No, not stuff like that. I mean, how cis men are, it’s completely different. Different communication skills, different expectations about what they’re supposed to do around the house, different—’

‘Okay, I get it! Anyway, speaking of men I should get home.’

‘Why? I thought your “penis” was out playing tonight.’

The word penis seems so funny coming from Rose’s mouth, probably because one never has.

‘Yeah, he is later, but he’s been working in his mate’s studio all day, so he’ll want some food when he gets in.’ I stand to leave for the second time, collecting my bags.

‘Food for when he gets … Sorry, since when did you have a child?’ I shrug and start off down the hall to the front door. ‘Have fun with your man baby!’ Rose shouts down the hallway after me.

Billy’s muffled moaning starts up from her bedroom again. ‘Speaking of odd living arrangements, have fun listening to your ex fuck herself!’ I reply.

I set off back to my flat to look after my ‘penis’.

CHAPTER 2

WONKY WOMEN

Wonderland followers: 1,302

I take a deep breath before turning the key in the lock and slap on a smile as I push the door open.

‘Hello,’ I say as I enter.

No answer. Relief washes over me. I check the digital clock on the oven: 7.38 p.m. I’m a bit late. He was supposed to be home from work by now too. I throw my tote bag onto one of the two chairs at the kitchen table and walk over to the sink to fix myself a glass of water. I spot a bottle of red wine without a cap on the kitchen surface and hold it up to the light. Another empty. I drop it into the swivel-top bin. How did he find it?

Our place is tiny. He moved in a couple of months ago because Mr Dahku put up my rent and Matt suggested it would be cheaper and easier to live together. But all it did was put our existing problems into a pressure cooker. The price for rent has just moved out of my bank balance and into my headspace.

We cohabit a studio flat but the kitchen and bedroom are separated by a flimsy nothing of a wall, so it’s technically a one-bed. Which of course is exactly what I tell people so they think I’m doing exceptionally well for myself. My boyfriend and I share a balcony one-bed in central Olympia! He’s a DJ, I’m an artist! I leave out our lived reality from this marketing pitch – that Matt is yet to be paid for a set. The fact that our central heating is so dodgy that turning on the oven full blast and opening it up is our most reliable source of heat, or that the ‘balcony’ is actually the roof of the building below, and we share it with the couple next door who have a routine of arguing, then blasting ‘Tainted Love’ by Soft Cell as a precursor to aggressive make-up sex.

I walk into the bedroom and turn on my fringed bedside lamp. It’s hard to do any feng shui in a tight studio flat but I’ve still managed to fit in a nightstand on each side of my bed to balance out the shifty energy of cooking in practically the same room that we shag in. Well, used to shag in. Our bed’s smothered in Mongolian fur and velvet pinwheel cushions, and the crumbs that keep appearing from my no-boundaries approach to working from home. At the foot of the bed stands a floor-length mirror: it leans against the wall and has a neon-pink flyer I designed for one of Matt’s free sets tucked into the side of the frame. I pull out the pink velvet chair from my desk that sits adjacent to the bed and gaze up at my collages, all tacked to the wall with a strip of Sellotape, gently pressed, so as not to aggravate my landlord. Some of the collages are completed, some are half-finished, but they all feature women. I’ve tried to make little adjustments to the décor since he moved in, but he hasn’t complained much. Though he has on occasion ‘accidentally’ left his laptop screen open on his ‘futuristic Berlin interiors’ Pinterest board before his bar shift.

My hand starts to draw a line on the page in pencil, connecting the link between the curve of a woman’s hip and her thigh on a multimedia piece I started this morning. I look over at the paints, magazine scraps, glitter, fabric swatches and typefaces on my desk. I want this one to become a moving video made up of layers of texture, but first I need to draw this woman before giving her flesh and bones. I hear the clash of keys in the front door and the line I’m drawing swerves. I quickly erase my mistake on the page, brushing away the rubber scraps. The front door slams and I shudder. He’s home. Shit. I’ve completely forgotten to prepare the pasta and sauce I bought on my way back.

‘Hey, babe, you’re back late,’ I shout, leaning my body to project my voice through the doorway.

‘Hey,’ he says.

This is followed by the dull thud of his bag on the floor. I roll my eyes. Another thing that I will have to put away later. There’s a coat rack for a fucking reason.

‘I’m just in here …’ I shout from the bedroom.

I begin to reconnect the line between the hip and thigh on the paper in front of me. No response. I hear the sound of cupboards slamming and opening, followed by passive-aggressive grunts and moans at the sight of ingredients that he’ll have to prepare for himself. I curl my toes in my shoes. Don’t bite, Eartha, I tell myself. I refuse to ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ and continue drawing. If he wants to say something, he can come and tell me.

Buzz

Buzz

My phone is vibrating somewhere. I pat my pockets to find it. My face lights up from the glare of the phone.

Text message from Rose to Eartha

20.01

Hey love, I’m sorry for being harsh about Matt earlier.

I know he’s a great guy really. I just want what’s best for ya, so I’m always gonna be honest with how I feel. Love you.

20.01

Also, two of the girls in The Bachelor kissed!!

I smile at my phone and start to type.

Text message from Eartha to Rose

20.02

Hey babe, don’t worry about it. Matt’s great to me, it’s …

My typing is interrupted by something that flashes past me, landing on the floor by my feet. I glance down to inspect the missile and discover a pair of faded black holey boxers. I hear the screech of the shower knob, followed by the hiss of water that gets louder as its pressure slowly builds. Mine threatens to overtake it as his entire outfit is flung like cannonballs of garments through the door.

Belt.

Clunk.

Jeans.

Thud.

Shoes.

Thud. Thud.

Loose change.

Clatter.

I delete the last sentence to Rose.

Text message from Eartha to Rose

20.02

Hey babe, don’t worry about it. I know you’ll have my back always. Also, send me a pic of those girls…

20.04

… so I can use it for one of my collages!

I continue with my drawing while he’s in the shower and feel happy about where I’ve got to with it. I hold it out in front of my face and squint, using my eyes as a spirit level to see where it should hang among the sea of collages and pieces of coloured paper, spewed with words and faces on them. This one deserves to be front and centre. Just as I’m about to press it on to the wall, a large wet hand reaches out and snatches it from me. I turn to face it.

‘Excuse me?’ I say sarcastically.

He leans into the door frame, which his head almost touches, with a white towel wrapped around his hips, his hair jet black and wet from the shower. He tousles it with his free hand, revealing his little dangly cross earring. He looks down at the drawing. I wait for his feedback.

‘She’s a bit wonky, isn’t she?’ he says, passing it back to me without looking at my face.

The drawing is crumpled and wet from his hands. It has large wet fingerprints imprinted on its side. I shake my head at his entitlement and wonder if it would be more effective to articulate my anger into my next collage.

‘Well, she’s supposed to look that way, because that’s how I drew her. Women deserve to be viewed through a wonky non-sexual lens!’ I say a bit too defensively.

Don’t let him know he’s got to you, Eartha.

‘Looks pretty sexual to me,’ he retorts.

I want to remind him that boobs aren’t sexual. That there are actual life-giving uses for them other than tit wanks. But I swallow my real thoughts back down.

‘How was work?’ I ask, as he opens the wardrobe with his back to me. I cringe at the irony of the yin and yang symbol etched permanently into the shoulder of a man who’s never shown balance in his life – but once wrote a terrible poem about it.

‘It was good … What have you been up to?’ he replies dispassionately.

‘Posted a few birthday collage commissions, then just got back from hanging out at Rose’s.’

‘Cool, cool …’ he says, nodding his head. ‘So, uh … no dinner?’

‘I just got back myself, not even five minutes before you did.’

I fold my arms.

‘But I’ve been working all day.’

‘So have I,’ I say, death staring the wall.

‘Riiiiight.’ He turns around to look at the wall above my desk. ‘You’ve been doing your little collages or whatever.’ He rolls his eyes.

He turns back round to continue inspecting the contents of the wardrobe we share. We’ve split it into two sections on one rack. My clothes on the left, his on the right.

‘Right … and I suppose you’ve been doing your silly little mixes, or whatever,’ I say as I hoist myself up to sit on top of the desk with my legs dangling off.

He ignores me but pushes the clothes slightly harder back on the rack. I can’t stand the blatant resentment brewing between the two of us so I walk over to stand behind him.

‘At least I actually have an audience,’ I joke, trying to employ some playful sarcasm to break the tension.

I place my hands on his hips and kiss his back with a small peck. He turns around to face me and grabs my head, kissing the top of it.

‘Well, I actually have a set to get ready for tonight, so you’re not the only one,’ he says.

‘It was a joke. Where is it again?’ I ask as I sit at the end of my bed, watching his hand flick the garments to the right and his fingers creeping closer to my side of the wardrobe.

‘Sam got this one sorted for me just from chatting up one of the bartenders. Think she wants to fuck him, so she got me a set at her pub in South Olympia to impress him.’

‘Oh, are they dating?’

He shakes his head and chuckles.

‘Nah, Sam’s just gonna keep letting her think they will.’

‘Well, don’t you think that’s a bit fucking awful?’ I laugh, in disbelief.

‘Not really, no.’

He relaxes his shoulders and lets out a big exhale, turning around to crouch down to my height.

‘Look, babes, I know it’s a man’s world and all that, yeah. Come on, I’m a feminist! But like, she’s a barmaid and she makes more money than I do, so technically …who really has more power here?’

An interesting thought from the man who thinks it’s ‘odd’ that my mum wants to get a better-paid job rather taking stipends from my dad. He gives me his smouldering eyes and then raises an eyebrow. In this moment I am sure that I have never been so repulsed by anyone as I am by him.

‘Matt, you’re both in hospitality. You probably make the same money as her; that has nothing to do with the power dynamic. Shut up.’

‘You wouldn’t get it. You’re not in the music industry, you have to do these things every now and then …’ he says through strained vocal chords as he stands up, stretches his arms up to the ceiling and returns to the wardrobe.

I mock him behind his back, mouthing the words ‘you’re not in the music industry’ over and over while I screw up my face like a piece of paper. He’s flicking through my clothes now. I watch each top and dress get disregarded until he lands on something he wants. He pulls one of my T-shirts from its hanger.

‘Woah, can I borrow this?’ He yells this, even though I’m sitting right behind him. He positions himself in front of our mirror at the end of the bed and yanks it over him. The rest of his tattoos peek out of the caps of the black sleeves.

‘Wait, which one is it? I can’t see.’

‘This Fleetwood Mac one,’ he says, turning his head from side to side, as he checks himself out in it from every angle. He turns his body around to face me and I see the T-shirt.

‘Ugh, that one’s my favourite!’ I sigh and wrinkle my nose.

I screen-printed this T-shirt in college for an art project. I made up the venue: Fleetwood Mac, live at The Titty Twister. It’s one of my favourites because it reminds me of Mum. She always imitated Stevie Nicks when I was growing up. In the mirror, singing in the car, cooking dinner and floating around in a shawl when she had guests over for dinner. She’s always prided herself on being the perfect host. Parties were the only time when Dad let her shine. He was often wiped out with his ME and would then turn to the bottle even more, causing a downwards spiral. Mum loves to get out the fancy glassware that she saved up for months to buy, the fringed shawls passed on to her from Grandma to cover the table tops and a patchouli-scented candle lit in every corner. None of that cheap vanilla-scented crap you like, it smells sickly! she’d yell. My mum, like me, lives to please. If everyone else is happy, she can be too. She can’t rest if there is something that feels a fraction ‘off’ about the energy in the room. I’d be mad at her for it, growing up, but after getting older and consuming my fair share of psychology, I realised she probably learned to be aware of everything around her because she had to be. Grandpa was a drunk. She would go on to marry, divorce and (semi) reconcile with one, too.

Matt brushes the loose strands of hair behind my ears. He thinks he’s being romantic. I shake my face to remove his hand.

‘Pleeease let me borrow it. I promise I’ll bring it back in one piece.’

I look at his stupid little dangly earring waggling around while he talks, as though just like me it aches to be free of him, hanging on reluctantly by a thread.

‘Fine. But that T-shirt is one of a kind. Be careful with it.’

He leans further into my body and smiles.

‘I promise,’ he says as he kisses me on the top of my head and I close my eyes.

Hopefully this generosity will bank me some points … though I’m not entirely sure what I can expect from a man with holes in his boxers, sixty quid into his overdraft and one weekly pub gig contingent on the romantic manipulation of a bartender.

I walk over to sit back at my desk while he stands in front of the wardrobe choosing his trousers and I begin to upload my latest collage on to Wonderland. I take a picture of it with the wet fingerprints indented into the side and type in the caption Matt inspired:

The fingerprints are a metaphor for men whose CaReLeSs WoRds leave marks on women and their art, ruining their self-perception forever. Why must men leave their mark on everything?

I play around with the image and hashtags, pretty sure that he won’t bother to check my Wonderland page. There’s already a comment from one of my followers.

@VeronicaEscher so cool! illustration

I started my profile on Wonderland around a year ago and used it as a portfolio to share the collages that stores told me were too ‘feminist’ to put on their shelves. It’s seen some engagement – I have 1,300-odd followers and if I imagine all of those people in a room it’s quite frightening. I’m not as plugged in as everyone else, though. Rose uses it to flirt with girls and save vegan recipes, hoping to open their own café one day; Matt uses it to promote his mixes on Noisecloud and upload squinted-eye selfies of him and his dangly earring; Mum uses it to escape her real life and pretend that she and Dad are happy and well despite the divorce, uploading pictures of her smiling next to him, sat in a chair, drunk and miserable. I don’t know how the big influencers on Wonderland do it, talking to all their followers and sharing their information with billions of people. I don’t really use Wonderland for that. I have one selfie on there, you know, to humanise it a bit. But no pictures of Matt. I don’t think my boyfriend would be good for my feminist ‘brand’.

‘Ooo OOoooo, girl power!’ Matt shouts condescendingly, forming his hand into a fist and pumping it up and down as he looks over my shoulder at my phone. I decide to go and sit on the loo until he leaves. As I walk past the bed, he gives me a pat on the bum. My arsehole clenches.

‘See you later.’

I turn to look accusingly at him – he does look very handsome. He might be the worst man I’ve ever met, but he’s the first I’ve ever loved. We met when I was hanging out in the town centre after college on a summer evening, downing an enormous bottle of corner-shop cider with Rose. He was wearing a Portishead T-shirt, so obviously, he was the one and I kissed him immediately. We’ve been together six years. That’s got to count for something. There must be something keeping me here, right?

‘What time will you be home tonight?’ I ask.

‘Around midnight, I reckon.’

‘Okay, love you!’ I say, out of habit. Not intention.

‘Love you too!’ he replies as he shuts the door, and I reach for my phone to text Rose.

Text message from Eartha to Rose

21.53

My penis has finally left.

21.53

Did Billy return the batteries for hers, in the end?

Text message from Rose to Eartha

21.55

Nope. The girl’s been playing a game of operation with every device she can find.

21.55

(image of Billy scaling the kitchen counter to remove the batteries from the smoke alarm)

21.56

If I die in a fire, you know who to blame …

I laugh into my phone remembering Billy’s little waddle to her bedroom in her duvet.

Ping

Someone has messaged me on Wonderland. My face lights up and my heartbeat quickens.

@sallylovesthesea Hi Eartha, just got the birthday card for my friend in the post today. OB-SESSED! She’s going to love the dolphin coming out of the vagina! (Thanks for not asking any questions, it’s an inside joke ...) I’ll ask her to tag you if she posts! Your shit deserves to be seen by EVERYONE.

I reply with lots of lip motifs, thank her and plug my phone in to charge on top of the bedside table. I notice my nails are looking a little chipped and reach into the drawer of my nightstand, rustling my fingers through an assortment of hairbands, outdated vibrators and nail varnish to find a shade I like. I pull out two small bottles. Liquorice Black and Bubblegum Pink. I can’t decide which I prefer. I flex my hand in front of my face, envisioning each colour on the tips of my fingers.

Why should I have to compromise when I like both? I decide to paint each hand a different colour.