It's Not You, It's Them. Portia MacIntosh

my London accent having never sounded stronger.

      Mark laughs.

      ‘I’m going to assume you’re saying that in disbelief and not as a firm “no”,’ he says with a nervous laugh.

      I don’t know why, but I crouch down on the floor in front of him, so we’re at eye level again.

      ‘Of course it’s not a “no”, it’s a “yes” – it’s a “fuck yes”,’ I babble.

      ‘You haven’t even looked at your ring,’ he tells me.

      I take the box from him and place it to one side.

      ‘Whatever it is will be perfect, I’m sure. But all I want is you,’ I tell him sincerely. Sure, it would be nice to have a pretty rock on my finger, but if there’s one thing I am always telling people, it’s that Mark is way too good for me, and I don’t mean that because I don’t think much of myself. I just cannot believe my luck. How did I wind up with a man this perfect?

      ‘The plan was to wait until Christmas Day and ask you then, but I’ve been carrying this ring around for two days and the thought of waiting a few more weeks seemed liked torture. I did have this big romantic thing planned out, but… sorry,’ he laughs awkwardly.

      Tears of happiness fall from my eyes, ruining the perfectly applied make-up I spent a chunk of the morning on.

      ‘No, don’t cry, how will you take a selfie?’ he teases.

      I wipe my eyes with my hands.

      ‘We’ll just have to take one later and pretend we took it now,’ I half joke.

      Mark jumps to his feet and offers me a hand.

      ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more gorgeous,’ he tells me, despite the sniffling noises I’m making. ‘Now, sorry to ruin the moment, but sex was briefly mentioned about five minutes ago and I’ve been desperate to get my hands on you since.’

      I laugh as Mark lifts me up from the floor before pinning me down on the sofa.

      ‘Ooh,’ I squeak. ‘Something is going in my butt.’

      ‘Well, if you insist,’ Mark replies as he kisses his way down from my neck to my stomach, tugging at my dress with urgency until I’m down to my underwear.

      ‘That wasn’t a demand,’ I laugh. ‘There’s something under me on the sofa.’

      An explosion booms through the surround sound, causing us both to jump in fright.

      ‘Oh, shit, you must be on the controller. You’ve started a new game,’ he laughs.

      ‘Oops,’ I giggle. ‘Quick, turn it off, you’ve still got your headset on.’

      Mark grabs me by the thighs and pulls my body closer to his, laying me flat on my back.

      ‘Let the nerds listen.’

      I gasp as he presses down on top of me.

      ‘You are a bad boy,’ I whisper into his ear.

      ‘I’m just trying to change your opinion of Sundays,’ he tells me. ‘And while I’m around, I promise you, all of your Sundays are going to be this amazing.’

      Another explosion booms through the living-room speakers.

      I close my eyes and bite my lip in sheer pleasure.

      ‘Don’t you want to pause your game?’ I ask him.

      ‘Why?’

      I glance at the screen.

      ‘Someone keeps blowing you up,’ I half say, half moan.

      ‘Roxie, I could be on fire in real life and I wouldn’t stop having sex with you,’ he laughs. ‘We’ll just have to drown out their explosions with a few of our own.’

      ‘My kind of video game,’ I reply breathlessly.

      ‘There’s only one thing left to do now,’ he begins, struggling to form sentences as he gets ready to focus on the mission at hand. ‘You need to finally meet my parents.’

       Chapter Two

      Being in a relationship with a lifestyle writer must be absolute hell, because everything we do is for an article – and even if it isn’t, we’ll most often realise we can get an article out of it anyway.

      I am as guilty of this as the next writer, plagiarising my real life for my work. From the very first time I picked up a pen (or a Macbook, as I started taking my career more seriously), I was dipping into my real life for my work, and I found that’s when I wrote my best material. If you’ve ever tried to do anything creative, whether it’s writing a story or painting a picture, you’ll often find people drawing upon what they already know, because what better way to create something genuine than to inspire yourself with genuine experience?

      I like to think Mark is used to this now, but it’s not something he’d ever considered before he met me and it took him a little getting used to. It’s not so bad when I’m writing about places we visit or things we do for fun, but I will often write about things I’ve experienced in my personal life and what I learned from it all. I can justify this, of course, because if sharing my relationship mistakes can prevent someone else from making the same error, then I’m making a difference. The same cannot be said for my other avenue of inspiration, where I do things in real life just so I can write about them. That’s actually what I’m writing about today.

      Sitting at my desk at work, I crack open a packet of chocolate buttons, stretch out my fingers and get ready to write.

      ‘You look like you mean business,’ my friend Polly, who sits at the desk opposite me, says. ‘What are you writing about today?’

      I met Polly when I started working here; we were both hired by the news website we write for in the same week, so we were newbies together. Well, I say news website, but don’t think you’re getting the hard-hitting journalism of the Guardian. We write for one of those contemporary online news sources that present news, lifestyle advice and other miscellaneous content in a humorous and relevant format. My focus, here at Viralist, is on all things dating, romance, relationships and love. I told Mark what my job was on our first date, but I don’t think he realised when he started dating me just how honest I was in my articles, and just how heavily he would feature in them.

      ‘“10 things I did to see if my boyfriend noticed”,’ I tell her.

      ‘Ooh, tell me more,’ Polly demands, leaning over to grab a handful of chocolate. She drops them into her mouth all at once before sitting comfortably, ready for all the details.

      ‘Well,’ I start, laughing to myself as I consider everything I’ve done over the past couple of weeks in the name of journalism. ‘I just made a few subtle changes to our day-to-day life to see how he’d react – or if he’d even notice. First up, I didn’t wear make-up for a day.’

      My original idea was to do it for a week, but then I realised I desperately need make-up to look like a living human female. If I’d gone without any slap for an entire week, people might’ve worried I was seriously ill.

      ‘And did he notice?’ Polly asks, completely into the idea.

      ‘Well, he didn’t say anything at the time, but the day after, when I was winging my eyeliner in the bathroom mirror, he hovered behind me. I could tell he was thinking about saying something; the anguish on his face was impossible for him to hide. Eventually he blurted out: “You know, you look better when you don’t put all that… stuff on your eyes.” I asked him if he meant eyeliner and he nodded.’

      Polly pulls a thoughtful face.

      ‘Well, that’s almost a compliment,’ she reasons. ‘What next?’

      ‘I