Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
I run out of the house in my bare feet, the tiny gravel stones of the courtyard digging into my soles. I don’t care. I just need out.
As soon as I’m safe in my car, I lock all the doors and take a couple of deep breaths.
I’m reacting like I’m being chased. My pulse is racing and my skin feels hot to the touch.
My stomach is tied up in knots, and I feel like I might vomit.
I can’t let him see me like this. It wouldn’t be good for either of us.
Once I’m calm enough and my heartbeat has stopped thundering in my own ears, I put on my shoes and drive away.
The countryside lanes are awash with rain and the sky is threatening. There was sunshine first thing this morning, but now there seems to be nothing but grey clouds. Pathetic fallacy, I think, but then remind myself that the weather has better things to do than reflect my moods.
I realise I’m driving too fast when a pheasant whooshes out from a hedgerow, a blur of golden brown and green, flapping its wings and swerving to avoid me. It steals my breath again and I slam on my brakes.
I keep the car still in the middle of the road while I recover.
It’s unlikely anybody else will be driving these roads at this time of day.
At least I hope so. Once I feel calmer, I restart the engine and this time I take it easy.
I force my mind to stay in the here and the now, rather than skittering off back to Hazelwell and the look on Aidan’s face as I walked out on him.
I need to concentrate, because it won’t help anybody if I crash the car.
Or maybe it will, I think darkly, instantly ashamed of myself.
Ashamed of my weakness, my vulnerability. My constant battle to not be me .
It takes me twice as long to get back to the village as it normally does, and when I finally park up, my hands are shaking on the steering wheel.
I rest my head against it for a moment, then get out.
I glance around me, checking for signs of life, but see nothing.
They must all be sleeping off their hangovers.
I’m glad; I couldn’t handle small talk right now.
I do my traditional battle with the key, and as I let myself into the house, Tinkerbell appears and winds himself in and out of my legs.
I crouch down and plunge my fingers into his thick, soft fur.
He purrs and gives me the cat equivalent of a hug.
Then he runs out of the door, leaving me alone again.
The house is silent and cold, and seeing the remnants of Sally’s stay makes me even more sad.
She drove me crazy, but I wish she was here now.
I wish I had her to talk to. I’d tell her everything, from beginning to end.
All the things I’ve hidden over the years, all the pain I’ve hoarded.
Then maybe we’d get drunk, or break out the Ben & Jerry’s, and everything would feel better.
I pick up one of her abandoned hair bobbles from the floor, and smile at the curly blond strand twisted around it. I hope she’s had a good night with Ollie and has woken up full of resolve to make her marriage work. At least one of us should have a tick in the relationship box.
I climb up the stairs, bone weary, and force myself to take a shower.
I throw the Morticia dress in the bin, and scrub at my face under the jets.
I’m way too old for play-acting, for pretending to be somebody that I’m not.
I’m not Morticia and he is not Gomez. I’m not good for him.
I can’t move at his speed. I don’t have his certainty.
I’m basically rubbish, and am starting to think that I always will be.
After I towel dry my hair and pull on some comfy clothes, I do a little yoga to try and recalibrate.
It doesn’t really work, but I’m sure my hips will thank me for it anyway.
I’m achy and sore in places I didn’t know I had, because last night and this morning my body got a very new kind of workout.
I close that train of thought off straight away and head into the kitchen to forage for food.
Huh, I think, standing in front of the fridge and staring at it.
If I stare for long enough, maybe something will magically appear.
Sally ate me out of house and home, and today is a day when I should really re-stock.
All I have is sliced lime for her vodka, and the crusts of the loaf because she doesn’t like them.
The freezer is filled with sensible items like frozen broccoli, but this really does not feel like a frozen broccoli kind of day.
In fact, this feels like a giant cake and a hot chocolate kind of day. Now, where could I possibly find those things? I grab my coat and head out into the sleeting rain.
The Comfort Food Café is technically closed today, for Halloween Ball related reasons, but I’m pretty sure that Cherie will be at home and that she will not mind me turning up and scrounging from her.
I could, of course, just drive to the big supermarket on the retail park a few miles away, but frankly I don’t want to.
I was not impressed with my driving skills earlier today and I’m not keen to get behind the wheel again.
Besides, I can admit to myself that I’m looking for more than food.
I’m looking for comfort. This, at least, is some kind of progress I suppose.
By the time I fight my way up the path to the café, leaning into the wind like I’m drunk, I’m soaking wet and my hair is scarier than last night’s fright wig.
The door is closed but not locked, in typical café style, and I let myself in, shouting her name as I go.
I hear a little woof from upstairs, then the scampering of tiny paws on the steps.
Luna comes shooting out of the kitchens to greet me, followed not long after by Cherie herself.
I do a double take when I see her, because although she is wearing a full-length hot-pink silk kimono, she hasn’t taken her clown face paint off yet.
Her cheeks are covered in patches of white, her lips are massive smeared red smudges, and her eyes are multi-coloured bruises. At least she’s wearing her own hair.
‘Good morning, my precious!’ she says, sounding way too chipper. ‘How are you this morning?’
I take my coat off and hang it up to drip dry on the hooks in the corner. ‘I’m hungry and I’m sad.’
‘Oh dear,’ she says, frowning. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. Upstairs or down?’
‘Where is the cake?’
‘Definitely down.’
‘That’s where I’ll stay, then, if that’s okay?’
She walks over and wraps her arms around me. Even with the scary clown face, she still gives the world’s best hugs. I let myself cling on to her for a few moments, blinking back tears.
‘Of course it’s okay,’ she answers. ‘Look in the fridge and see what you fancy, I’ll be down in a minute.’
I walk through into the kitchen, past the huge old coffee machine.
It’s a temperamental beast that regularly breaks down and has to be bashed with hammers.
It obviously needs replacing, but for some reason she keeps it.
I suspect that it has meaning to her, some sentimental value that makes it more than a coffee machine.
I glance at it with curiosity, wondering how many hot drinks it’s dispensed over the years, how much warmth and comfort it has shared.
I stare into the huge fridge and whistle at the sheer amount of food in there.
This is definitely the place to be after those solar flares and the collapse of society.
After a bit of poking around and the rearranging of plates and bowls, I emerge with an apple and blackberry crumble and a jug of custard.
I pop them in the microwave and the smell of cinnamon and cream fills the room.
Cherie emerges from the stairs, bearing fleecy blankets and a packet of face wipes. ‘You go and get snuggled on the sofa,’ she says, ‘and I’ll bring over the hot chocolate. I’m assuming it’s a hot chocolate occasion?’
I nod and do as I’m told, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders.
The sofas are in the corner of the room, surrounded by bookshelves that are overflowing with paperbacks, guides, board games and colouring pads.
I idly pick one up, along with a carton of crayons.
I find a picture I like– a giant teapot made of squares like a patchwork quilt– and start to colour it in.
Within a few minutes Cherie is over with a tray holding bowls of steaming crumble and tall glasses of chocolate with cream, marshmallows and crumbled up Flake.
Perfect. She sits down opposite me, the sofa slumping under her weight, and starts to dab at her face with the wipes.
Scary clown starts to disappear bit by bit.
‘Can’t believe I slept in this,’ she says regretfully. ‘I suspect drink might have been taken… So, what’s going on, my lover? I didn’t see you sneak away last night. What happened to upset you like this? You’re normally an even keel kind of girl.’
‘I’m not, actually,’ I say, abandoning my colouring and scooping up some cream with my spoon. ‘I’ve just perfected looking like it on the surface. Underneath, I’m a mess.’
‘Aren’t we all, darling? Some people are just better at hiding it than others. Go on, spill. Tell your Auntie Cherie everything– you’re safe here.’
I nod, and against the odds I believe her. She has shown me nothing but kindness, and I suppose I’ve come to trust her.
‘I… Uh, I spent the night with Aidan.’
Her eyes pop open in surprise, and then a huge smile creases her face. ‘About bloody time. So why the sadness? Was it that bad?’
I gaze out of the window, looking down at the moody and magnificent sea crashing onto the sand. ‘No. It was… wonderful. Amazing. Perfect. Right up until the moment he told me he loves me.’