Thirty-Six
The next day, I wake up curled up into a small ball on the sofa. I have a moment of blissful ignorance as to the events of the previous few hours before the hangover punches me in the stomach. Eventually Adam slinks in, sitting on the couch beside me and firing up his PlayStation.
“I am dead,” I tell him.
“When’s the funeral? I hope it’s not up to me to tell your mum.”
“No, I’ll tell her. It’s the least I can do. Oh Christ, my head,” I sigh.
“You ok?”
“Yes, just thinking.”
“Thinking… and with a hangover, too,” Adam looks alarmed. “What about?”
“The meaning of life,” I say, somewhat dramatically.
“That’s deep! Not surprising after Chris-gate. Want me to get you some breakfast?”
I’m tempted but want to get back for the full scoop on Sir John’s lunch with Ophelia. I can tell I’m a new Alex because I pause before summoning an Uber on my phone, remembering my penniless existence, and head for the Tube instead.
I head in as Sir John is having brunch, and he looks up hopefully before I say, “No. Ryan hasn’t forgiven me. I fell asleep at Adam’s.”
He looks momentarily subdued before excitedly filling in the gaps over his lunch with Ophelia yesterday.
I’m genuinely really happy for Sir John after his family reunion, but there’s a slightly sour bit of me that reckons the one thing more annoying than him stomping around in a grump is his sudden sunny and whistling phase.
Later that day, I grab some breakfast and almost choke on a strawberry, thanks to Sir John randomly slapping me on the back with a cheery, “Old bean. Did I mention Ophelia is coming down to spend the day? More to talk about. I’m afraid we’ll have to push writing back a bit.”
Back in the nanny flat, I’ve been able to construct a private den of misery away from any cheerful whistling or Mrs Jenkins’ endless cleaning. There’s a pizza box on the floor and several discarded piles of comfort clothes strewn across the living room. Sweatpants, Sir John’s dreaded nemesis – hoodies, my penguin pyjamas that have always been my go-to when I’ve been under the weather. None of these clothes would live up to the dress code of a motorway services McDonald’s, but their soft fabric and non-judgemental elasticated waistbands are the closest thing I can get to a hug and a bit of understanding. I’m not sure why a hovel is more comforting than order at times like this. But it definitely is, I think, as I push an old empty bottle of very bad chardonnay out of the way of the telly so that I can indulge in another four hours of mindless comfort TV.
After four hours spent in the company of the Gilmore Girls , sailing through lunch because I don’t have the emotional energy to get up from the sofa (I call this my self-pity diet), there’s a knock on my living room door.
I brace myself for a lecture on tidiness from Mrs Jenkins and call her in. But it’s not Mrs Jenkins. It’s Ophelia, holding two mugs of tea. I sit up in alarm, “Sorry. I thought you were Mrs Jenkins,” I mumble in confusion. Being interrupted during a four-hour self-pity orgy is like being woken suddenly from a nap – it takes you a while to begin interacting properly with fellow humans again.
Damn, this is a horrible first impression. She probably thinks I’m some sort of homeless hustler who’s tricked her way into her father’s home. I shake her hand and invite her to sit on the armchair after hastily removing the sheep pyjamas off its back. She sits down with the hesitancy of someone putting their arm in a badger’s set but is far too polite to say anything. I can hardly blame her.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt you,” she says, glancing about.
“Oh no,” I say, “I’m just doing some tidying.”
Tidying? That’s like Dr Frankenstein telling visitors they’re interrupting his medical ethics meeting. “You know how it sometimes has to get worse before it gets better,” I explain, elegantly nudging the pizza box under the coffee table with my foot.
“Oh yes, I’m just the same,” Ophelia nods too enthusiastically for it to be at all credible.
“Well, I won’t keep you from tidying (she gulps a little with the effort of making that sound sincere), but I just wanted to come and say thank you so much for encouraging my dad to get in touch with me. I really mean it. You seem to have changed his entire outlook on life. He brunches now, I hear.”
I feel a wave of relief that we’re not going down the ‘Why in God’s name have you moved in with my eighty-odd-year-old father’ route.
“Oh, I didn’t really do anything.”
She waves that aside. “I know my dad. Better than he thinks I do, for all the time we’ve not spent together. I know this didn’t come from him. But in the last twenty-four hours, I’ve learned things I didn’t know. That I probably never would have done.” She pauses, and I realise with horror that she’s fighting back tears. Doesn’t she know this is a Sanctuary of Heightened Emotion, and anyone else expressing a single emotion could tip me into the cavernous abyss at any time?
“Anyway, I don’t know why I’m beating about the bush. I wondered, why did you push my dad to do it? I’m curious. Is it for the book? A better story?”
In my current state of self-involvement, I hadn’t even thought of that. “It would be a better story,” I admit. “And an honest one. But I’m not writing a biography; I’m just helping Sir John write what he wants to include. I don’t think he’ll want to put in anything that would hurt you or your mother’s memory.”
She tears up at that, smiling with relief. “Thank you. I’m not ashamed of her. But I’m still adjusting. I never really knew my mum, and now she feels even further…” She trails off, and I find myself welling up, too. Damn this Sanctuary of Emotion.
“Don’t worry,” I reassure her, fighting back tears, “I didn’t do it for a good story. I did it because Sir John was missing you, and I’ve become very fond of him.”
She smiles gratefully, “Well, I can tell you that’s mutual, even if he has the emotional dexterity of a teaspoon at times and can’t express it. But whatever comes of this book – I’m glad he met you. You’re a very good person.”
At that, the damn breaks, and I suddenly go from polite and professional ghostwriter to sobbing snot monster.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ophelia leaps up in alarm, “Are you OK? Did I say something…”
“No, no,” I try to regain composure, dabbing my eyes frantically with something off the back of my chair, which I realise mid-dab is a sock from last week. “I’m just not such a great person after all.”
It turns out that Ophelia, for all her intimidating elegance, is a good listener who makes a solid cup of tea. She hands me a Kleenex to sub in for the sock that I’m still clutching like a rag from a comfort blanket. I tell her all about the Ryan fiasco and what a terrible person I am.
She listens intently, her emerald-green Karen Millen dress and L.K. Bennett shoes contrasting with the chaos strewn all around us. Each item she’s wearing is probably individually more expensive than anything I own.
When I finish, she takes a deep breath, “Well, I’m not going to lie to you. It looks like you have a very singular talent for getting into a mess. And some creative skills to make that mess ten times worse. BUT none of this takes away from what I said earlier. I think you are a kind person. You just happen to be a chaos magnet. And yes, you could have told him earlier (she sounded like a slightly less stern Sir John here), but ultimately, we all go along with the scenarios that seem easiest. It’s human nature. Dad and I know that well. I don’t think you should give up just yet. Give him time, continue to be honest. If he doesn’t come round, then maybe he wasn’t right for you anyway.”
I sniffle, “You should take over my column.”
Ophelia frowns, “I’m not sure how much good that’s doing for you anymore, either. Anyway, I’m an excellent judge of character. Criminal lawyers have to be, you know, and I can tell that you’re a keeper, faked Russian ancestry and dodgy advice columns notwithstanding. I do not doubt that.”
She stands up, “I better go and see what mischief Dad’s getting into. He’s dusted off the old family album. Thank you, once again.”
“Sorry for keeping you from him; I know you have lots of time to make up.”
“Not at all,” she dismisses me with a wave of her hand.
She smiles and hugs me.
It’s like a shot in the arm, the sudden injection of self-belief that I’m not the most wretched and unlovable creature on the planet. It spurs me on to spend the rest of the day tidying the flat (or making a valiant stab at it) under the logic of a tidy home, a tidy mind. With my renewed energy, I determine to make some solid decisions to get life back on track.
I quickly draft an email to Stephen at Ladditude as Step One of The Plan.
Dear Stephen,
A huge thank you once again for giving me the opportunity to write for Ladditude . I’m really sorry to do this; I’ve been mulling over my column and all those wise words I’m dishing out to our lovely readers. I’ve realised I can’t do justice to the responsibility of handing out advice every week, and people deserve a lot more wisdom than the teaspoonful I’ve accrued over the last twenty-nine years. Besides, I’ve already tripped on the crazy paving my good intentions have laid down. So, respectfully, while I’m still on my probation period, I’d like to resign.
While I’m heading out the door, I should also mention that I am a woman, so I don’t even qualify. I’m afraid I bullied my housemate into doing the interview and going along with the charade because I really needed the money. Of course, I’ll stick to our confidentiality agreement, and I hope you will accept this resignation and my apologies for misleading you, as the end of the matter.
Best wishes,
Alex