Chapter 26
I spend a restless night tormenting myself about the way Zach looked in the lift, convinced in the cold, lonely hours between 3am to 5am that this cannot be normal at my age, HRT or not. Aren’t I supposed to be drying up, thinning out and starting to find the idea of sex repellent? Maybe if I spent more time focusing on being a Mother – capital M – then perhaps I wouldn’t be having this much trouble with my 15-year-old . . .
Even accounting for the dark places to where insomnia can lead your thoughts, I realise that if I were counselling a friend I’d say this was a harsh assessment; that my fancying Zach has nothing to do with what goes on at home. Part of me already knows that a woman can wear many hats in her life – Mother, Daughter, TV executive, Friend, Ex-wife (x 2), PTA Communications Secretary – and suspects that adding, ‘Snogger of the Office Hottie’ to that list is neither here nor there.
But I’m not counselling someone else – only me . And the gloves are off.
I decide to give up on the idea of sleep at 5am, so turn on the bedside lamp and remember the link Rose sent me – to Philippa Perry’s The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read . I suddenly feel slightly ashamed that I’ve been devouring Reese Witherspoon’s book recommendations, instead of this sort of thing. I’ve never thought of myself as a ‘bad parent’ per se but maybe that’s because I’ve never truly been tested. My failings are certainly apparent now.
The book promises to ‘break negative cycles and patterns’, ‘handle your own child’s feelings’ and ‘learn what you can do about your own mistakes’. I can think of so many of the latter that something must shut down in my brain because after an hour or so I finally start to drift off. At which point, the alarm goes off, like the insertion of a knitting needle in my ear. And another morning unfolds in which Leo is late and ill-tempered, which consequently makes me late and ill-tempered. Above all, I feel as if I need to get my priorities straight.
PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
Dear Zach,
This is an excruciating email to have to write, but here goes. Could I please ask that you keep what happened on Friday night strictly between you and me? At the risk of sounding precious, I’ve worked for this company for a long time and take my reputation seriously. What happened was unprecedented and not something I plan to make a habit of.
I don’t know you well, but I very much hope that you feel the same way as me on this subject. I’d like to reassure you that, from my point of view, it will go no further. As far as I’m concerned, the matter is confidential – and now closed.
Best wishes,
Lisa
I hit send and think about it at random times throughout the day. As Andrea and I are waiting to meet a production company about a TV flower-arranging competition show – floristry’s take on The Great British Bake-Off – I find myself scrolling through my email sent box to reread what I’ve written, praying that he’ll respond and put me out of my misery.
But, for hours, there’s nothing.
I wonder briefly if this is what it means to be ghosted, then realise I’m not sure that’s possible when I’ve aimed to give the impression I wish to never set eyes on him again. An email only finally arrives at the end of the day, as I’m prodding my eyebrow in front of the mirror of the ladies’, pondering whether my conflagration with Leo – and rush of blood to the head – will result in any major facial disfigurement.
Hi Darling,
Okay, I get it. I’m not the kind of guy who needs to be told twice. I wouldn’t dream of spilling this, but, for the record, that’s not because I think we did anything wrong. Consenting adults and all that. Plus, it was just a kiss. A damn good one too, as far as I’m concerned. Nevertheless, message received, loud and clear. Confidential – and closed – it is.
See you at work tomorrow.
Zach
I feel a twist of something in my stomach which I want to be relief. Oddly, though, it feels closer to disappointment.