Is This It? Read online

  Author’s Note

  Dear reader,

  Diolch yn fawr/ thank you very much for picking up my book, which I’m so excited to be sharing with you. Is This It? is the story of Ivy Edwards, our frank, funny and often filthy heroine. It is a novel about big dreams and big love and refusing to settle for a half-lived life.

  At the beginning of the novel, Ivy feels like something’s missing. She dreams of a better job, a better life, a better Ivy. The story touches upon themes of loneliness and the never-ending pressure on women to self-improve, which have never felt more timely.

  The novel also explores the power of family and is a celebration of the humour and romance of Welsh people, as well as the importance of making a pros and cons list when it comes to life’s biggest decisions. You can find a translation of all the Welsh words and phrases used in Is This It? by flipping to the Glossary at the end of the book.

  This novel means the world to me, and I really hope you enjoy it. I can’t wait to hear what you think. If you want to get in touch, you can find me on Instagram @hannahclaretovey.

  Cofion gorau/ Best wishes,

  Hannah

  x

  Praise for Hannah Tovey

  ‘Hannah is a truly gifted comic writer. Extremely funny, so perceptive and REAL’

  Daisy Buchanan, author of Insatiable

  ‘I wolfed it down in two days because I was totally hooked. Ivy [is] my personal hero and new fictional BFF.’

  Helly Acton, author of The Shelf

  ‘I LOVED IT. It’s incredibly relatable, so horribly funny and clever, and just so good in all kinds of ways.’

  Lucy Vine, author of Hot Mess

  ‘Honest, gritty, surprising and confronting … there’s an

  Ivy in all of us!’

  Laura Jane Williams, author of Our Stop

  ‘Tovey hits that sweet spot of sharp dialogue and authentic characters that are well-rounded, real, and messy.’

  Abigail Mann, author of The Lonely Fajita

  ‘Bloody brilliant. Grab a copy and some vodka.’

  Melanie Blake, author of The Thunder Girls

  ‘Raw, unapologetic and pretty damn relatable.’

  Heat

  ‘Funny, very frank, filthy … will delight fans of Fleabag’

  Yorkshire Times

  Copyright

  Published by Piatkus

  ISBN: 978-0-349-42472-9

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Hannah Tovey 2021

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Piatkus

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Praise for Hannah Tovey

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Acknowledgements

  Glossary

  About the Author

  To Mami, for everything.

  I drank my hot lemon water and sank back into the sofa. There were fireworks going off in my head, and my stomach was hurling abuse at me.

  I can’t possibly look for a job today, I think. I should ring a doctor. I might have a severe underlying health condition that requires urgent medical attention. Maybe it’s hereditary? Some class of rare genetic disorder?

  Or, maybe, and much more plausibly, I drank too much last night to escape the fact that I have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life.

  I looked over to the kitchen and saw the boxes of Domino’s – a cold, stark reminder that I drunk-bought £45 worth of pizza last night. When I woke up this morning, I had stacked the boxes in a neat pile, hoping the art of organisation would make me feel better. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. Over my breakfast of pizza, I looked at the receipt. It seems I was swayed by the 3-for-2 offer, which included extra garlic bread and BBQ Big Dip, which was now turned on its side, oozing brown goo onto the kitchen table.

  ‘That’s it,’ I said, leaping up from the sofa. ‘I can’t do this any more.’

  ‘You’ve said this before,’ Dilys said.

  Dilys was a new acquaintance of mine. The sort of acquaintance that makes you loathe yourself.

  ‘This time is different, Dilys.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I want a better life. A better job. A better Ivy.’ I looked over at the pizza boxes. ‘Or at least I want to live like an adult.’

  ‘You don’t even have a job, so … ’

  I raised my hand in defiance.

  ‘I’m not listening to you today, Dilys.’

  When you’re in sixth form, and your guidance counsellor asks you where you see yourself at thirty-two, you wouldn’t say unemployed, recently dumped by your fiancé, living in your brother-in-law’s sexist uncle’s one-bed flat. I try to forget that Mark’s uncle is a misogynist, because the rent is cheap and he’s never in the country to check up on me, but Dilys likes to remind me that at my age most women wouldn’t be living alone – they’d be with their partner, have a stable income, and use fabric softener. Dilys likes to tell me a lot of things, most of which I try to ignore. She is blunt and unsympathetic.

  She’s also not a real person.

  Last week, as I waited to see the hygienist – the true hallmark of being an adult – I read an article in a glossy women’s magazine about the importance of naming the voice in your head – the voice that creeps up on you in the middle of the night and tells you that your worst nightmare is about to become reality. According to the article, if we recognise that the voice exists, we can acknowledge that it isn’t us, and learn to rise above it. By the colourful language I display every time I speak to Dilys, it’s evident that I haven’t yet mastered how to rise above her niggling, incessant criticism. But then again, I am my mother’s daughter, which means I can be childish, oversensitive, and like to bear a grudge.

  I got showered and dressed, checked outside my front door to make sure the coast was clear, and ran downstairs to the comm
unal rubbish bin to get rid of the pizza boxes. Then I went back upstairs and decided to make a pros and cons list.

  REASONS WHY I AM A DREAM EMPLOYEE

  Creative

  Good with people

  Have a lot of patience

  REASONS WHY THINGS ARE A BIT SHIT

  I don’t know what I want to be

  ‘This is useless,’ said Dilys. ‘You’re directionless and you’ve put on at least five pounds. It’s not even Christmas yet and look at your back fat.’

  ‘I’m off to Spain soon. At least I’ll be tanned.’

  ‘Fuck tanned, you’re unemployed.’

  Over several cigarettes and a multipack of salt and vinegar McCoy’s, it dawned on me that the last time I felt fulfilled at work was over a decade ago, at a summer job at a local school in Bristol, during my university years. The children loved me – we were all fond of penny sweets and toilet humour – and I think I even loved myself.

  I saw a slice of salami from the pizza embedded into the carpet and I knew: the time was now. Was I swayed by the long summer holidays? Yes, I like a European jaunt just as much as the next person. But more than that, I wanted to be valued. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted meaning in my life. I wasn’t going to win a Nobel Prize, or an Oscar – I’d never fit into a size-zero red-carpet dress anyway – but I was going to do something significant with my life. No, not something significant … something out-of-this-world explosive-knock-your-socks-off phenomenal.

  I threw my dressing gown on the floor and channelled those gifs you see of Mariah Carey draped in diamonds the size of her face. I got up onto my footstool, fell off my footstool, got up again and threw my hands in the air. I was at Wembley Stadium, playing to a crowd of thousands. I grabbed my microphone (a personalised reusable water bottle) and shouted, ‘I am Ivy Edwards, and I have arrived!’

  ‘You’re pathetic.’

  ‘Pipe down, Dilys.’

  I had to sit down before doing anything else, as prancing around after smoking had made me feel light-headed. Once I recovered from my over-zealous dancing, I googled the school and called the number listed on the website.

  ‘Hi, my name’s Ivy. I wonder if you can point me in the right direction? I used to help run your arts workshops. Do you think anyone might be able to speak to me about teaching?’

  ‘Teaching?’

  ‘Yes. I want to become a teacher.’

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t have anyone available to speak right now. Can I take your number and ask someone to call you back?’

  Nobody called me back. So instead I called every school in London I could get hold of and asked if I could come in and meet with someone – anyone – to pick their brains about routes into teaching. Mr Reid was the first to say yes.

  ‘This is never going to work,’ Dilys said.

  I put on my best Mariah Carey face and told her to fuck off.

  1

  Twenty-four wide-eyed children stared at me. It would have been twenty-five, but Nora had put her hand in the toaster and had to be taken to A&E.

  Mr Reid clapped his hands.

  ‘Everybody, eyes and ears to me, please. I’d like to introduce you to Miss Edwards. She’ll be supporting us in class this week.’

  Nobody spoke. I started to chip at my nail polish.

  ‘Come on, everyone!’ Mr Reid said. ‘That’s not the warm welcome we give our visitors.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Edwards,’ they said, in unison. ‘Good morning,’ I said, ‘I’m so excited to be here.’

  A hand shot up from the back of the room. It belonged to a small, rotund boy with curly jet-black hair.

  ‘Yes, Max?’

  ‘Why is she here?’

  Good question, I thought.

  ‘Well, Max,’ Mr Reid said, ‘Miss Edwards wants to become a primary school teacher, so she’s come here this week to listen and learn from us. I want you all to be on your best behaviour, OK?’

  Mr Reid resembled the older brother of my school friend Glyn, who used to sneak me cigarettes and let me listen to Alanis Morissette on his MP3 player. I thought this boded well for us. I put him at mid-forties, but his outfit made him look much older. He was wearing navy trousers with a matching waistcoat, and a navy and red striped tie. He also wore a waistcoat when he’d taken me on a tour of the school a couple of weeks ago, so waistcoats must be his thing. I made a mental note to get myself a thing.

  ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ Mr Reid said.

  ‘Beside the children?’

  ‘Yes, this is an immersive experience. Observe, listen, ask questions.’

  I nodded my head, hoping the enthusiasm would conceal my mounting anxiety.

  ‘Don’t be afraid to jump right in,’ he said.

  Mr Reid directed me to the spare seat beside Max. I didn’t want to sit next to him – he clearly had it in for me with his aggressive line of questioning at the start of the class – but I was determined to show them that I was flexible, easy-going and approachable. As I found on most recent encounters with members of the opposite sex, I knew Max could sense my fear and desperation for him to love me. I put on a smile and took up the seat next to him. They all giggled as I struggled to fit my adult derrière in the world’s smallest chair.

  They had a practice sheet in front of them where they had to link the fish to the penguin to equal the number ten. I looked at the paper, baffled. I looked down at my black jeans and saw a small stain from this morning’s cereal spillage. Maybe that’s why I could smell sour milk. I licked my finger and rubbed it off. I looked up and saw that they were all staring at me.

  ‘Does anyone want any help?’ I asked.

  ‘Can you count?’ Max said.

  I hated Max.

  ‘You sound funny,’ another child said.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.

  ‘Bum Head.’

  ‘Is that your real name?’

  ‘No, it’s Joey.’

  I hated Joey.

  ‘I’m from Wales,’ I said.

  ‘Whales are fish.’

  ‘They’re actually marine mammals.’

  ‘You’re a mammal!’

  They found this hysterical. I did not.

  ‘No, Wales is a country,’ I said. ‘Within Great Britain.’

  ‘My daddy says Wales isn’t a real country.’

  ‘Your daddy is gravely mistaken.’

  ‘You said gravy!’

  Another child pointed to the pin on my dress.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s the national flower of Wales. It was St David’s Day recently, and we like to wear this flower to mark the day.’

  ‘Why are you always talking about whales?’

  I took a deep breath and focused my attention on the only girl who hadn’t laughed at me. She had a perfectly symmetrical bob and neatly cut fringe; she looked like Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction, only without the class A drug habit. She was wearing a colourful beaded bracelet, and I asked her where she got such a pretty piece of jewellery from.

  ‘My boyfriend,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s your boyfriend?’

  ‘Joey.’

  ‘Wow, that’s kind of Joey,’ I said, looking at Bum Head.

  Unbelievable that a four-year-old gets jewellery when the last thing I got off a man was a failed engagement. Oh no, wait, there was also the UTI.

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I said.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

  I looked at Mr Reid, who was at the opposite end of the room, helping another child.

  ‘I’m alone right now,’ I said. ‘It comes down to a variety of factors. I’m using this time to figure out what I want.’

  She stared at me and scrunched her nose up.

  ‘How old are you?’

  I paused. ‘I’m twenty-one.’

  ‘That’s old.’

  Everyone laughed.

  Thank God I didn’t tell them my real age.r />
  ‘Society might tell you that someone of my age should be in a romantic relationship, but we shouldn’t listen to such patriarchal expectations. It’s toxic.’

  I looked up and saw Mr Reid standing by the table next to us. He gave me a curious look and I changed the subject.

  ‘So, does anyone have any pets? A puppy, rabbit, perhaps a small bird?’

  One of the boys started crying. He had dinosaur stickers stuck to his jumper, shoes and glasses. His hands were trembling. I reached over to touch them, but he snatched them away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked him.

  ‘My hamster died.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘He was small and old and had hair on his face and was my best friend.’

  The hamster sounded very familiar.

  ‘I lost my best friend, too,’ I said.

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Ivan, Ivan Thomas.’

  Again, with the laughter.

  ‘OK then, we can call him Gramps, or Grandad,’ I said.

  ‘Why’s your best friend old?’

  ‘I have friends my own age – Mia and Dan.’

  ‘I’m bored.’

  Brilliant, that’s just brilliant.

  ‘Why don’t we get back to our numbers?’ Mr Reid said.

  I didn’t realise he was standing behind me. I smiled at him and he turned around and walked to another table. It might have been my overwhelming self-doubt, but he looked at me like I was wasting his time.

  I took another deep breath and looked down at the worksheet. I started to give myself a little internal pep talk, but in the time it took me to tell myself to get a grip, a child had drawn all over my new white trainers with a permanent marker. It wasn’t the best start to the day, but, as D:Ream taught me, things can only get better.

  Despite the shaky start, the next hour was rather enjoyable. I remembered basic arithmetic, and the girls warmed to me when I told them that Frozen II was one of the best films I’d ever seen. I’d never seen Frozen II, but I was in desperate need of some allies.

  Things took a rapid downward turn just before lunch, when Mr Reid left the classroom for an emergency phone call. He asked me three times if I could handle the room for a couple of minutes. I said yes, of course I could.

  The speed of it was extraordinary. Within sixty seconds, someone had got out a pair of scissors and was stabbing the desk like Chucky, but with better-conditioned hair. Another child had pulled out the stationery drawer and was hurling the contents across the room – I caught the ruler seconds before it hit a girl in the eye. In the corner of the room was Max, sitting on someone’s head. The same child who drew on my shoe was now drawing on the wall. I begged her to hand the marker over to me. She looked at me with sheer disdain and hurled it across the room in protest. I wanted to hurl her across the room in protest, but we can’t always get what we want.