The Trust Exercise

I’m sitting on a plastic chair that has, over time and through sheer compliance, moulded itself perfectly to my arse. It hugs me in a way no chair should. Too intimate. Too knowing. Slightly predatory. There’s a circle of us. A support group. Quit smoking. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t smoke. Haven’t flirted with a cigarette since the noughties — and even then, it was more of a brief, toxic situationship I romanticised more than it deserved. I was one of those deeply irritating social smokers. Four drinks in, suddenly I’m outside, squinting into the night like a coal-miner, hacking up half a lung for the aesthetic. But this? This is hardcore recovery energy. Patches. Plans. Emotional breakthroughs lying in wait, ready to ambush you mid-sentence. I don’t belong here. And neither does she. Amy. My arch nemesis, seated directly opposite me like the universe has personally orchestrated this moment for its own amusement, complete with digestive biscuits and lukewarm tea. She’s been firing daggers at me since I sat down. Razor-edged daggers, delivered with intent — the kind that cut just a little too deep. I shift in my chair, and it sighs beneath me — an unsettling realisation that we are one now. At the front stands the counsellor. Nigel. Of course he’s a Nigel. He looks like he was born wearing a fleece gilet and dispensing reassurance in soft, honeyed tones. “And now,” he says, clapping his hands with the unnerving enthusiasm of a man who genuinely believes in group bonding, “we’re going to pair up for a little trust exercise.” Oh fantastic. Because what this deeply unnecessary situation needs… is forced intimacy with an audience. It was bad enough sitting through the smoking aids. I didn’t know there were so many. Gum. Patches. Inhalers. Lozenges. Something that looked suspiciously like a kazoo. And then — whistles. Actual whistles. Nothing says I’ve got my life together like panic-tooting your way through a craving in public. “Find a partner,” Nigel beams. And of course — of course — I’m paired with Amy. The universe doesn’t just hate me. It enjoys the follow-through. We stand facing each other. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to. Her eyes say everything. A full monologue of silent hostility. And none of it is kind. “Right,” Nigel continues, glowing with catastrophic confidence, “Partner One will close their eyes… and trust that Partner Two will catch them.” Oh brilliant. An interactive lesson in misplaced faith. Amy’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More… the opening note of something darker. “Close your eyes.” I do. Reluctantly. Like a woman signing off her own skull fracture. “And… fall.” There’s a moment — just a flicker — where I consider not committing. Where I hover in that thin space between control and chaos, dignity and impending injury. And then I go for it. THUD. The floor greets me with all the warmth of a stone wall. There’s a sharp, hollow crack — the unmistakable sound of poor judgment meeting laminate. My skull curses my body for being so weak-spirited. Somewhere above me — “Oh,” Amy says lightly, far too lightly. “I thought it was on the count of three.” Liar. Not even a creative one. I stare at the ceiling, blinking through the stars now aggressively forming in my vision, each one pulsing like its got something to prove. Nigel rushes over, all concern and knitted brows, hovering with the helpless energy of a man trained exclusively in encouragement, but who clearly skipped first aid. But I can feel it. Amy’s delight. She thrives on this. Honestly, I consider shoving a smoking aid up her arse. The whistle feels poetic. The rest of the session passes in a disgruntled haze. My head throbs in rhythm with my simmering resentment — a dull percussion of my own incompetence. Nigel tells us we’ve done “great work today,” which feels wildly optimistic given I’ve essentially been concussed by a trust fall. “Remember,” he chirps, “keep it smoke-free.” I will not, Nigel. In fact, I may take it up professionally. Mat greets me outside. “How was it?” he asks. “I’m dying for a fag,” I say. He laughs. I don’t. We walk hand in hand down the promenade, the sea air doing absolutely nothing to soothe my wounded dignity. If anything, it sharpens it. Gives it edges. People pass in blurs of normalcy — upright, coordinated, blissfully unbothered. And then — A face. Familiar. Andre. Mat’s old hairstylist. Old being the operative word. The man who once wielded scissors like a humble craftsman and now charges roughly the monthly mortgage for a short back and sides. He abandoned us. Ascended to a London salon. Became… spiritually unavailable. Mat stiffens beside me. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Please don’t bring attention to us.” He says it like we’re in witness protection. Too late. “Hey, Andre!” I call, waving animately. Mat physically recoils, folding slightly into himself. Andre stops. Slowly turns. Removes his sunglasses. And then — “Don’t even speak to me,” he says, pulling his cap down and quickening his pace. “You betrayed me!” he calls back. Mat blinks. “What?” “I know you’ve been getting your hair cut elsewhere! Your hair screams traitor!” Mat attempts a defence, but Andre is already spiralling. “I can’t believe you did me dirty like that!” And then — Chaos. A stampede. Hundreds of people surge forwards, screaming his name, arms flailing in hysteria. “What the fuck—” “He’s a rapper now,” someone shouts, as if that explains everything. Which… somehow it does. Andre glances back, weary. Haunted. Burdened by both fame and follicular betrayal. “Better go… before I get mobbed again,” he says, before disappearing down an alley like a man cursed by his own success. We stand there, slightly windblown. “What just happened?” I ask. Mat shakes his head. “I think I owe him an apology.” Back home, I’m waiting. Apparently — it’s my birthday. Not in real life. But here? Undeniably. Officially. Inescapably. Forty. A milestone. One year closer to the finish line. I’m expecting… something. Balloons. A sad banner. At the very least, a reluctant cupcake with a lone candle leaning slightly to one side like it's lost the will. There is nothing. Not even a crumb. Not even the suggestion of effort. “You forgot,” I say, deflating into the sofa. Mat looks horrified. “No—of course I didn’t. Wait right there.” He disappears. I sink deeper into the cushions, already rehearsing my quiet disappointment. The kind that says you’ve fundamentally misunderstood me as a person. And then — He returns. With… A butler. Not just any butler. A Butler in the buff. Completely starkers. Aside from a tea towel, which — mid-entrance — slides gently from its ‘post’ like it too has given up. “Ta-dah!” Mat says, arms wide, beaming like he’s just nailed it. I stare. There are no words. None. My brain briefly powers down in self-defence. Eventually, something crawls out. “Does he… clean?” The butler clears his throat, professional despite everything. “Well… that’s not part of my job description. I dance. Naked. Half an hour only.” Of course you do. My shoulders sink, slow and inevitable, like a puncture. Mat sees it instantly. That look. The one that says: you have absolutely fucked this. He pivots. “Tell you what, mate—extra fifty if you throw in some light housework.” The butler nods solemnly, takes the money… …and tucks it somewhere deeply inappropriate. A place where no legal tender should ever visit. Right. He begins to dance. And dust. There is something profoundly unsettling about a naked man polishing a coffee table while maintaining eye contact. I watch. Numb. And slowly — very slowly — it dawns on me. The chair. Amy. The fall. Andre. The birthday. This. All of it. It’s not random. It’s… curated. A highlight reel of mild indignities and misplaced belonging. A series of moments where I don’t belong. Where I’m misplaced. Misunderstood. Slightly humiliated. Always performing. Always adjusting. Always… trying to make it work anyway. Trying to land somewhere that never quite holds. Even here. Even now. Waiting for something to feel right. To feel like mine. The butler spins. A feather duster arcs dramatically through the air, catching the light like it’s part of a show I didn’t buy tickets for. And I think — Maybe it’s not about the situation. Maybe it’s about how long I sit in the wrong chair… before I realise I can just get up. Before I realise no one is actually asking me to stay. I glance down. The imprint is still there. Perfectly shaped. Proof I stayed longer than I needed to. Ready to take me back. I don’t move. The butler bows. Mat smiles, hopeful. And somewhere in the back of my mind — Nigel’s voice echoes softly. “Trust the process.” I laugh. Because clearly… I’ve been trusting the wrong things.