It makes my mouth small straight away
That is the first thing. Not the maths. Not the card. My mouth.
Someone says they will get this one, or the cab, or the Tesco shop because I am waiting on payday, and my whole face does this polite little freeze. I hear myself say I am fine. I am not fine. I would rather stay in than do that dance.
Pride is expensive. So is pretending you are fine.
The sentence I cannot get out clean
Can you cover me.
Four words. I have said worse in a kitchen at 1am. I have said worse at work into a radio. I have asked a man to slow down and mean it. And still, asking a mate for a tenner feels like I have turned up to my own life underdressed.
British people are terrible at money talk. We will discuss a one night stand before we discuss an overdraft. We will moan about rent for twenty minutes and then go quiet the second someone has to actually move cash. I am not above that. I am that.
On the floor I can talk numbers. Rotas. Units. What is late and what is not. Give me a clipboard and I am useful. Give me a pub table and a mate looking at me kindly and I become twelve again, smiling too hard, saying it is fine when the pint in front of me is already a decision I cannot afford.
What cover me actually means
It is rarely a fortune. That is the joke of it. It is a round. A chicken shop. The extra fiver on a split bill because someone ordered the dirty fries and then went to the loo when the machine came out. It is the Uber that felt necessary at midnight and looks disgusting at 8am on a warehouse floor.
Cover me means I am short in front of people I like. Cover me means I have been clocked. Cover me means there is now a little tab in someone else’s head with my name on it, even if they swear there is not.
I know how I get when I am the one who paid. I do not chase people. I am not that girl. I also do not forget. I will be making tea three days later and think, oh yeah, she still owes me nine quid. Then I hate myself for thinking it. Then I still think it.
So when I am on the other side, I can feel that thought landing on me. I would rather miss the night.
The nights I just do not go
This is the bit people do not see. They see the version of me with lipstick on, saying I am knackered, early shift, next time. Sometimes that is true. Sometimes I am sitting on my bed doing the sum in notes on my phone like a woman with a degree who still cannot make Friday stretch to Sunday.
Pint. Second pint if I am not careful. Card fee. Travel. Maybe food because I went out hungry like an idiot. I can add a night up in seconds. That is the maths brain showing up at the worst time, usually after I have already said I might pop in.
Staying home is cheaper than asking. Staying home is also lonelier than I admit. I put something on the telly. I do my face anyway, out of habit, then wipe it off and feel stupid. The group chat keeps moving. Photos. A voice note of someone screaming laughing. I type haha and put the phone face down.
People think pride looks like arrogance. Sometimes pride looks like you in yesterday’s joggers, telling yourself you never liked that bar anyway.
The dance
If I do go, and I am short, there is a whole performance.
I go to the bar first so nobody has to offer. I say I am only staying for one. I pay for myself like it is a personality. I laugh too loud. I do not order food. I drink slower than I want to. If someone says they will get it, I do the little wrestle with my bag, the no no I have it, the thanks babe that comes out too bright.
Then I spend the rest of the night clocking what I owe. Not because they asked. Because my brain will not put it down.
I have transferred people at 7am from the work toilets so I did not have to carry it around the warehouse all day. I have sent a message that said legend, just sent it, with a kiss, like that cancelled the fact I needed them in the first place.
Paying someone back fast is how I try to stay clean. It does not undo the ask. It just lets me breathe again.
Flatmates make it worse and better
Living with two friends means money is already in the room. Who got the bin bags. Who did the shop. Whose name is on the council tax. You cannot pretend you are all equally flush when one of you is eating toast and the other just got Deliveroo for the third time this week.
I would rather buy the milk than ask someone to get it. I would rather skip a night than say I cannot do my bit on a takeaway. Shared houses run on tiny debts. They also run on people pretending those debts are nothing.
One of them would cover me without blinking. I know that. That is almost worse. Kindness makes my throat tight. I can do filthy and funny. I struggle with being looked after. It feels like I have handed someone a bit of me I did not mean to give.
Why my mouth goes small
I grew up learning that quiet houses are dangerous and being useful is safer than being needy. I do not need to make a speech about it. You can see it in the way I joke first. In the way I would rather be the girl who gets her own round than the girl who has to explain.
Asking for cover is not just money. It is admitting I did not manage it. I manage a warehouse. I can add a night in my head before the drinks even land. And I still end the month doing that little swallow when the app opens.
There is a version of me I sell. Smug. Sorted. Lip on. Ready. That girl does not ask. That girl gets the first round so nobody wonders. That girl is exhausting to keep alive on a warehouse wage in London.
The real one checks her balance like it might have changed since lunch. It has not.
What I say instead of the truth
I am not drinking much tonight.
I have an early one.
I already ate.
I will meet you after, I might be late.
Next week, I get paid Thursday.
All of those can be true. All of those have also been a cover for I cannot do this one without someone floating me and I would rather die a bit than say it.
The worst is when a mate offers before I have even looked at the menu. They think they are being kind. They are. I still feel clocked. I smile. I say you are a star. I spend the meal tasting metal.
The promotion fantasy does not fix the mouth thing
I tell myself the raise will sort it. More on the payslip, less of this. And yes, more money would help. A cab would not need a committee meeting in my head. A bra I like would not feel like a row with myself.
It will not fix the reflex. I have been skint enough times that the shame has a muscle memory. Even on a decent week I still do the sum. I still hesitate over the second drink. I still hate the idea of being the mate who needs catching.
Money would make me steadier. It would not automatically make me honest.
What I am trying to do instead
I am not about to become the girl who announces her overdraft in the group chat. That is not me. I am trying to stop lying in the pretty way.
If I cannot do the night, I say I cannot do the night. Not I am knackered, not I have a thing. Just I am sitting this one out. People survive that sentence. The chat keeps going. I am not as important as my pride thinks I am.
If I go, I buy my own and I leave when the money is gone. I do not hover hoping someone else will make it easy. I also do not do the hero round I cannot afford just so I look like the sorted one.
And if I ever do ask, I ask small, I ask once, and I send it back the second I can, with no story attached. No I will get you next time, babe, that drifts for three weeks. Next time is how little debts go rotten.
The bit I hate admitting
I want people to think I am easy to have around. Fun. No fuss. The opposite of a problem. Asking to be covered makes me feel like a problem with eyeliner on.
I know my mates are not sitting there scoring me. I know a tenner is not a character reference. I know I have covered people and not thought they were pathetic. I give other people a softness I will not give myself.
That is the whole thing, really. I can be generous. I struggle to be the one who needs it.
So yes. I hate asking mates to cover me. It makes my mouth small. I would rather stay in than do the dance. Pride costs nights out, cheap takeaways I talk myself out of, and a version of friendship where I only show up when I can pay in full.
Pretending I am fine costs more. I just look better doing it.
