Sammy had invited Manuela over for a drink. This made me uneasy, as the more time we spent together the more it became clear we disagreed on almost everything. Everything except the spirit to mixer ratio. The problem was, the more we drank, the more we disagreed.
She was always trying to be difficult. Climbing up on her high horse and refusing to get down. She and Sammy had been friends since university. They’d grown up together, spent their formative years protesting this and that. Sammy had more important things to focus on now. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by petty indulgences. I feel his arms wrap around me from behind, his warm beer-tinged breath against my ear.
‘Thanks for having Ela over tonight, I know you aren’t her biggest fan.’
‘That’s not true.’
I lean back into him.
‘She just has a problem with me. I don’t know why; maybe she thinks I stole you away.’
Sammy makes a noise, part incredulous, part pride. I press back further into him. When the doorbell rings, Tiger barks and bounds up to the door. As I open it, I let him jump up at her and pretend to forget that she’s allergic, and afraid of dogs. She looks flustered, and I half hope she’ll say she doesn’t want to come in. To say she never wants to come here again. But she smiles and the glow from the streetlight bounces off her uniformed teeth. Then Sammy appears, dragging Tiger into the kitchen and closing the door behind him.
‘Ah, mate I’m so sorry, the plan was to make sure he was in there by the time you got here. You alright?’
He pulls her into a hug, and she murmurs into his shoulder that it’s fine. Then she turns to me, offering a one-armed embrace, a tight-lipped smile and a bottle of red. I only drink white wine, and she knows this.
‘Oh, my favourite’, I say.
Sammy looks at me with his eyes peeled. I can tell he thinks the sarcasm was too heavy handed. Concern for where the conversation might go is pulling his eyelids open, he doesn’t want to miss a look or a gesture. Not like the morbid fascination of trying to catch a glimpse of a car crash, more that he’s the referee trying to keep score. He’s crouched, ready to intervene when there’s foul play.
‘Good to see you both.’
This is her first lie of the evening. I decide I’m going to keep track, make it a drinking game.
Sammy has a habit of delegating. Feigning incompetence so you’re forced to take over the task. One moment he’s asking you to try a bite to see if it needs more of something, the next you’re in charge of timings and flavours. Today, however, I didn’t mind. It’s an excuse to focus on anything other than Manuela. The way she throws her thick curls from one side to the other and they never look out of place. The way she peppers her sentences with words I don’t understand. Her pious observations. I turn on the TV in the kitchen to cover up the sound of them reminiscing. It’s like this every time they get together. It’s always the same show. They finish each other’s sentences. It starts with anecdotes from university accommodation, then the flat they shared in Glasgow and everything in-between. Who knew someone passing out across the DJ decks after inhaling a nos balloon could still be funny fifteen years later, but here we are again.
Manuela sticks her head around the door.
‘I won’t come in, I don’t want to get Tiger-fied, you need any help?’
‘How are you going to help from over there?’
She laughs,
‘Yeah, true. Shall I get Sammy?’
I tell her I’m fine, and she asks if I can pass her three wine glasses. I pass her two.
‘You don’t want wine?’
I shake my head and crush some pepper corns and fresh rosemary in the pestle and mortar a little too vigorously while she hovers. She lingers awkwardly in the doorway, pulling on the waistband of her baggy patterned trousers. On the TV screen, a woman runs her tongue across her teeth and says it’s the only toothpaste recommended by dentists, for that dentist clean feel. Manuela scoffs.
‘What a load of bullshit.’
‘Toothpaste is hardly bullshit, it’s kind of essential, no?’ I say, defiance prickling across my tongue. Manuela likes to play the contrarian. She questions the validity of everything. From toothpaste, to tap water, to traditional news outlets. Nothing is left alone; she has to pick and prod. She can’t seem to accept that things are the way they are, it’s so tiresome.
‘I just make my own, it’s cheaper, better ingredients. They’ll say anything to make you think you need to buy theirs.’
I look at her with an exaggerated grimace.
‘It works! Honestly! Well, I haven’t needed any fillings.’ She laughs.
‘Yet…’ I laugh back. A loud honking laugh that I don’t recognise and instantly regret. ‘Well. I use that one, and neither have I.’ I say, pointing to the screen feeling like I have something to prove.
I run my tongue across my restored back molars as Sammy walks in behind her.
‘We need bubbles!’ he says. ‘Ela’s smashing it. She’s got 50,000 followers on her Alt Media page. That’s HUGE Els.’ He says, shaking her by the shoulders.
I don’t ask for more details, knowing it’ll only result in one of her conspiracy monologues through dinner. Instead, I try to make a positive noise that comes out like a sing-song squeak, while Sammy stands on a chair and searches for prosecco among dusty bottles on top of the kitchen cupboards.
‘I’ve got friends on the ground there. I need to show what’s really going on. So, it’s not about me, really. I’m just using my platform to share anything that makes it past the data wall.’
Sammy is agreeing with her. Saying how important it is to get the truth out there.
‘Be careful though, Els.’ He adds.
He shoots me a sideways look, begging me to keep the peace. With Sammy, we no longer talked about it. We agreed to disagree. When it first started, we quickly realised we stood on opposite ends of the spectrum. We’d spend hours going back and forth. Him trying to convince me that there was more to the story, behind the surface. While I stayed firm on the fact that if they’d been identified on the system, chances are they’re guilty of something. Sammy said that wasn’t a fact. That was the only time he seemed unfamiliar to me. The venom in his voice. I’d tried to make a joke of it and saw the way he recoiled in disgust.
‘Meanwhile, they’re distracting us with this rubbish.’ Manuela says gesturing to the TV with a piece of bread in her hand. She goes off on a tangent about advertising being capitalism’s trojan horse. Pieces of half chewed bread fly out of her mouth through phrases like state-controlled media, cognitive dissonance and arbitrary truths. I can feel my cheeks flush. I want to shout over her, tell her to stop. The prosecco cork pops, breaking the tension, and Sammy hands us each a glass of warm fizz.
‘They’re so sneaky with how they try to get you. Fundamentally, it’s divide and conquer. Selling whatever story, to maintain their narrative and ensure the illusion isn’t shattered. Someone is always the scapegoat. If you aren’t sceptical, you’re a fool.’ She talks quickly, pushing the hard F between her teeth and bottom lip. There’s an urgency in her voice that’s tinged with fear. She looks at me. I decide to include words and phrases I don’t understand in my drinking game and take several large gulps of the warm prosecco.
‘It’s like that toothpaste Jen, isn’t it, the way they try and tell us what’s right, what’s good.’
‘But that toothpaste is good. I use it.’ I retort.
‘Alright fine. But you get my point.’ She laughs. I don’t but I decide to shrug it off.
‘Well, let’s toast to… truth?’ Says Sammy as he raises his glass. I don’t raise my glass, I down the remaining liquid in one and Sammy tops it straight back up. Manuela lets out a theatrical sigh, then laughs as she takes a sip that partly misses her mouth. She wipes the droplets on her chin with her sleeve. I busy myself seasoning the potatoes, salt crystals pierce the half-cooked skin. I let their words wash over my ears, none of it was worth tuning in to, except if the word was unfamiliar. In which case, it was worth another sip. Axiom, Dictum, Injunction, Aphorism. I don’t like being lectured. Their voices carry through the hallway as they settle back in the living room. I top up my empty glass with a large measure of gin and a dash of tonic. I lean against the counter, scrolling through pictures of strangers while the alcohol creates a buoyant fuzz around me.
In the living room, Sammy and Manuela are dancing to the Karaoke version of “Running Up That Hill”, their arms flailing.
‘We used to love this song!’ She shouts across the music, then continues singing along holding her hand like an imaginary microphone.
‘Used to?!’ says Sammy.
I busy myself arranging placemats and cutlery. Sammy shoots me a grin and blows me a kiss.
‘How’s it looking chef?’
I tell him it’s nearly ready and he makes a point of saying mine are the best roast potatoes he’s ever had, hands down. I retrieve a cold white wine from the fridge, swigging from the bottle before topping up their glasses and throwing the empty bottle into the recycling. The heat continues to prick my eyeballs as I busy myself opening more wine, refilling glasses and periodically opening the oven to check on the food. I sit on the sofa, sinking into the cushions as they make their way through songs and memories. By the time the timer goes off, I’m no longer hungry. We sit around the table with a fresh bottle of wine in the middle, that hasn’t had enough time to chill. The table is small, and Sammy is sandwiched between us grazing our elbows. He picks up a potato from the serving dish and juggles it between his hands blowing on it. There’s a different satisfaction that comes from eating potatoes when you’re drunk. We eat in contented silence, Sammy making noises of appreciation while he chews.
Manuela’s ringtone is the Mission Impossible theme. She excuses herself and stands in the corridor speaking in hushed tones. It’s hard to tell if she sounds excited or upset.
‘Do you have a charger I can borrow?’ She asks, a couple of curls sticking to her forehead. She follows me into the kitchen. The TV is still on and there’s a preview of the news at ten, showing footage of police with riot shields. It feels distant and alien. Like a video game simulation, from behind the safety and warmth of the oven and wine.
Tensions continue to rise amid escalating concerns…
Manuela grabs the remote and the screen goes black.
‘I can’t listen to this shit. I’ll just be a minute.’ She says, furiously typing on her phone.
In the living room, Sammy is piling more food onto his plate. In his other hand, he’s holding a leg and pulling chicken from the bone with his teeth. When she comes back, she seems heavier, devoid of the playfulness from before.
‘Apparently, they’ve been targeting anyone that’s posted opposition online. Alt Media’s been flagged in the system as inciting terrorism and there’s a criminal investigation underway.’ Her voice is flat without the usual strength of her convictions.
Sammy’s mouth is full of potato, and he absentmindedly adds another forkful before trying to swallow. His eyes are watering, and redness creeps from his ears to his cheeks. He starts to sputter and thumps himself on the chest.
‘There isn’t anything to link it back to me, luckily I’ve been using a private server.’
Manuela says while slapping Sammy on the back until he manages to swallow.
‘Another drink?’ She asks, holding up her glass towards me.
I prickle with annoyance. It feels like her and Sammy are on their own team. Her entitlement, coming into my house and undermining me. Peddling her lies like a fortune teller. Then treating me like the help when I don’t hang on her every word. I want to slap the glass away, feel the satisfaction of it breaking.
‘I’ll make a G&T. I know how you like it.’ I say. Carrying our glasses to the kitchen.
Her phone sits illuminated on the counter, glowing through the bottle of gin. On closer inspection it’s unlocked, displaying a string of messages with an unknown number on an unfamiliar messaging app. I scan through the messages. There’s a distinct lack of specifics and it’s hard to make out what exactly they’re talking about. I swipe the screen and the Alt Media logo flashes followed by an encryption symbol and a message: your connection is secure. In the bottom left-hand corner is a compose button. I tap the plus icon and type:
Say no to toothpaste. through the cavities, the truth will prevail!!
I tag Manuela’s personal social profile and a moving avatar with her bouncy curls dances across the screen.