It's Not You, It's Them. Portia MacIntosh
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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, our vape-stinking flat was all we could afford, but we were happy there. Still, I’m sure my parents were wondering about what my life intentions were, given that I was living like a student with a forty-something gay guy, so when I moved in with Mark they were delighted. It’s not that I can’t look after myself, but I think they worried about me less, knowing I had Mark taking care of me, rather than a wild-child Peter Pan who would convince me to go out drinking with him several nights a week.
Moving in with Mark was a change, and one that I quickly adapted to. I’ve always been a pop culture junkie, whether I was lusting after the celebrity lifestyles I saw in Starstruck magazine, or just trying to keep up with whatever the Kardashians were telling me to smear all over my face to stay ‘on fleek’. Moving in with Mark, who is in charge of public relations for a huge children’s charity, meant moving into the lifestyle I had dreamed of. I’d finally been promoted to staff writer the year before I met Mark, but I’d kept living where I was – mostly because life with Gil was just such a great source of material for my lifestyle column. This meant lots of extra income for all the silly stuff I was certain I needed to be happy. Moving into a big, flashy apartment with my devastatingly sexy boyfriend made my life complete; so, yes, I guess you could say I’m materialistic. I know that the most important things in life cannot be bought, but I acknowledge just how happy ‘things’ make me.
I would say that Mark is less materialistic than I am, but he’s always had more material. From his comfy furnishings to his cinema screen to the BMW with the matte black finish that we’re currently travelling to my parents’ house in, Mark has it all. And yet, I don’t think he’d care if he lost it. He doesn’t love his car like many men do; he just thinks it’s cool. When I jokily asked if I could learn to drive in it, he said yes, whereas most men would’ve uttered a two-word reply and the second word would have definitely been ‘off’.
I do like to be stylish, but I don’t necessarily have to spend a lot of money to do that. I could when I lived in my cheap flat with Gil, but now that I’m living with Mark, my contribution to the bills costs me way more, which means less to spend on lip kits and manicures, but I’m OK with that. I am so happy and so in love with Mark, and as much as he tells me I don’t need to contribute as much to our bills, I do. I couldn’t not; it wouldn’t sit right with me. Lucky for me, I bought most of my expensive clothing, shoes and accessories when I had a lot of spare cash, and this stuff lasts a lifetime. Unlucky for me, the overnight bag that Mark panic-bought for me is significantly smaller than its predecessor, so I’ve had to pack less than I intended to take with me – plus my laptop. I know I’m only going to be away a couple of days, but I figured I’d be able to make notes if an idea came to me, or I can work in the car… I just need to make sure I have something to turn in. Something so good, my editor won’t miss an exposé piece on the Wright family.
‘God, I’m bored,’ I whine, like a petulant child. ‘I hate long car journeys.’
Mark laughs.
‘We’re five minutes from home, Roxie,’ he reminds me. ‘And fifteen minutes from your parents’ house. Still nervous?’
‘Still nervous,’ I reply.
It just feels so strange to be meeting the parents after getting engaged, like we’re doing things in the wrong order.
‘They’ll love you,’ Mark tells me for the millionth time. ‘It’s a long journey; you can’t spend it worrying.’
‘I know, I know. At least we’re making a stop to see my parents, then we can get a nice, warm coffee in us. It’s freezing!’
‘Oh, no, I know how this goes,’ Mark laughs. ‘You’ll drink too much, and we’ll have to stop so you can use the loo every ten miles…’
‘Oi,’ I laugh. ‘I’m a grown-ass woman. I’ll be thirty next year. I’m fully in control of my bladder, thank you.’
I shudder a little, at the thought of turning thirty. ‘Next year’ makes it sound like it’s a long way away, but it’s December now, and my birthday is in February. Mark doesn’t think it’s a big deal – he’s thirty-two, and assures me that nothing changes when you hit the big 3-0. He’s promised me that my face won’t instantly wrinkle, that I won’t become boring overnight, and that I won’t suddenly be turned away from night clubs for looking too old. While I fear that, as I grow older, things are only going to go downhill for me looks-wise, Mark only gets better with age. Mark is the very definition of tall, dark and handsome, and even though a few grey hairs are starting to creep in on the sides of his head – my God – it looks so sexy. My newly cut blonde lob might have a few greys in there, maybe, but I wouldn’t know because I have my hair routinely highlighted. If I did have grey hair showing, though, it would not look good. On Mark it looks hot and this is beyond unfair. Like he’s not already out of my league; as we grow older, the fact we’re in different leagues is only going to seem more obvious. Can’t wait for the day he’s walking around all George Clooney and I’m looking like Mrs Doubtfire.
‘Here we are,’ Mark announces, pulling up outside my mum and dad’s house. ‘So, how are you going to play this?’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘How are you going to announce it to them? Have you got some big thing planned?’
‘I already told them,’ I reply. ‘I called them the same day while you were in the shower. I told you that they said congratulations when… oh, my God, you were ignoring me because you were playing Call of Duty, weren’t you?’
‘Woman, have you ever tried doing two things at once?’ he jokes. ‘It’s hard work.’
I roll my eyes. How can he be so annoying and so cute at the same time?
As Mark makes a move to get out of the car, I put a hand on his arm to stop him.
‘Wait. You’ve told your family, right?’
‘Erm, no,’ he replies with a cheeky laugh. ‘I thought we’d surprise them.’
‘But they’ve never even met me,’ I squeak. ‘You can’t just turn up with me and be like: OK, we’re here, meet my girlfriend for the first time – by the way, we’re engaged.’
‘Why not?’ he laughs.
‘Oh, God.’ My stomach churns as I somehow find a way to feel even more nervous. ‘At least they know they’re finally going to meet me.’
As I go to get out of the car, it’s Mark’s turn to stop me.
‘Except…’ he starts.
‘Mark Wright, please tell me that you told your parents that you’re taking me to meet them. Please tell me you’re not just going to turn up with me and be like: ta-da, this is my bird…’
‘I thought it might be a nice surprise,’ he laughs awkwardly, except I can tell he’s