Chapter 2
My name is Jenny James, and I’m having a very bad day. In fact, it’s such a Very Bad Day that it probably deserves capital letters.
It started with my son, Charlie, screaming at me because the internet was down. Charlie is eighteen and, more often than not, the light of my life. He is a thoughtful and gentle soul, empathetic and emotionally intelligent beyond his years—unless something gets between him and the information superhighway. When that happens, he becomes a complete bastard.
Even though it’s not my fault, I somehow end up being the one who gets yelled at. I suggested sluggishly that he try calling the company that actually provides our broadband, but that had about as much effect as when I ask him to pick his own dirty socks up off the bathroom floor—i.e., zero. Isn’t it weird how this current generation is connected to the matrix twenty-four hours a day, but they’re scared of talking to an actual human being on the phone?
From that point on, nothing improved. I pulled a run in two pairs of tights trying to dress myself while exhausted, and had to patch the second pair up with nail varnish. Which wouldn’t have been so bad, but the tights were black and the nail varnish was neon pink.
After that, the fun really kicked in—the milk was sour, I broke a nail trying to hook breakfast out of our ancient toaster, and I discovered when it was too late to retreat that we’d run out of loo roll. There was definitely some there the night before, which meant it had disappeared into Charlie’s room—and that’s something that no sane mother likes to contemplate.
Welcome to my life—8:30 a.m. and already a complete disaster zone.
I open the front door and am greeted with torrential rain. This doesn’t come as a surprise, as I have been greeted by torrential rain every single morning for almost a month. It is early July, and the great British summer is probably leading to a rush on ark-building supplies. It’s the kind of weather that is so bad, it gets its own segment on the local news every evening—Freak Summer Storm Update, with nifty graphics and the weatherman finally getting his shot at the big time.
Up until now, it’s just been rain—but I have a vague memory of there being warnings about today reaching peak crappiness, with strong winds and scary weather symbols pinging up all over his little map.
As soon as I am outside, I feel it. My hair blows up around my face, and I have to hold my skirt down with my hands. The shrubs are shaking, the wind is whistling over the clifftops, and the sea is wild and angry. In fact, it’s furious—maybe because the internet is down again, who knows?
Our little cottage is on the coast in Norfolk, and on less disgusting days, emerging from it always lifts my spirits. It’s perched near the edge of a cliff, far enough away not to be scary, close enough to feel exhilarating. In front of the house, we have a long strip of garden that meanders down to join the coastal path, a cute little gate at the end. When the sun is shining, it’s breathtaking—endless views out over the sea, dazzling light and shade playing on the waves, the only sounds those of nature. And sometimes Charlie on his Xbox.
We’ve lived here for the last eleven years, and it is a haven. I grow my own strawberries and raspberries, and have giant sunflowers on the patio in terra-cotta pots, borders bursting with lupins and cosmos and nasturtiums. Beautiful purple-blue aubrieta is rooted in the rocks around us, cascading in a riot of glorious color. We have a vegetable patch, and harvest carrots and potatoes and onions and herbs. I can lose days to gardening and to sitting out on the patio at the little table, a cup of coffee and a good book on the go.
We’re tucked away at the end of a quiet lane, miles away from real traffic, our only neighbors a nearby farmer who keeps donkeys in his field and occasionally rents space to families on camping trips.
It’s a little slice of heaven, on a less disgusting day. Today is not one of those days, and everything looks gray and damp, my flowers flattened by the weight of the rain, the path outside mired in mud. The waves are crashing onto the shoreline so powerfully that spray is bouncing up over the clifftops, pirouetting into the air before it is lost in the downpour.
I glance over at the field next to us, glad to see that the donkeys have all been taken into their stables. I notice the solitary motorhome that’s been there for the last week and hope the man who lives in it has wellies. Actually, I kind of hope he’s knee-deep in mud—the first day I saw him, I waved and shouted good morning, because that’s what you do when you live in the middle of nowhere. He just returned my wave with a half-hearted nod and closed his van door, as though horrified at the thought of seeing me. I have this effect on men.
I struggle over to my car, an ancient Nissan Micra. It starts on the third try, which I take as a good sign. It really should be chugging off to its final resting place in the heavenly scrapyard, but, as ever, I can’t afford a new one. I can never afford much, to be honest—which is fine. I’ve never been especially bothered about stuff, about things—but it would be nice to shed some of the stress.
It takes me about half an hour to get to the small town where I work. I’m an office manager for a company that makes carpets. Have to be honest, it’s about as interesting as it sounds, but the people are nice and it’s steady work.
I was only eighteen when I had Charlie, and soon discovered that my clutch of GCSEs and one year of A levels weren’t going to get me very far in the workplace. In the Olden Days—the days before I became the me I am today—I had dreams of being a writer. Maybe a journalist or a novelist—something creative and important and fulfilling. Now I dream of other things. Things like loo roll and still having some money in the bank at the end of the month.
When Charlie was two, his dad left us to go “find himself.” Apparently he thought he’d find himself somewhere in Europe and took off with a backpack and the last of our money, leaving me a note saying he’d be back when he was a “better version of himself.” That was sixteen years ago, and he still seems to be a work in progress.
I am past the stage where I harbor any resentment or anger about it—in fact, it was probably for the best. Sometimes, being on your own is easier than being with the wrong person. If you live with someone and expect them to help you, it stings when they don’t. When they’re gone, you know you have to do everything yourself, so you just get on with it.
One of the things I got on with was doing a course on office basics—how to use computers and spreadsheets and software, that kind of thing. It was a bit different than going to some fancy uni and lounging around discussing philosophy and Shakespeare, but it was definitely more useful at that stage of my life. It meant I could work, and earn money, and eventually find a job that paid enough for me and Charlie to move here. To this soaking wet corner of paradise.
There is never much spare cash after I’ve paid the rent and the bills, but it is enough. Charlie has had a stable life, if not a wealthy one. He’s been rich in love, I like to tell myself. School trips have been tough, and I’ve become an expert at hunting down acceptable clothes in charity shops, and, okay, I do cut my own hair—but it’s a nice enough life. We have each other, and the cottage, and Netflix. I mean, what more could a girl want?
Well , I think, as I arrive at work— maybe an umbrella.
There is a strange silence in the office as I enter, and at first I think the Big Boss is in, which always makes everyone go quiet. There are eight of us working here, which is just about enough to make the tea round challenging, but it’s generally a pleasant atmosphere. The business had been run by the same family for donkeys’ years, but they recently sold it to a big national company. Mr. and Mrs. Hedges, the previous owners, are now living in a villa with a pool in Lanzarote, and getting more and more orange every day. They eat out every night, start drinking at lunchtime, and send us all pictures of them singing in karaoke bars on a regular basis. As retirements go, they are living the dream.
It’s been an adjustment for us, being owned by The Man. We have things like Performance Reviews and Targets and HR Assessments now. We also have a regional manager, a thirtysomething man called Tim who likes to have us all sit in the meeting room and give us inspirational pep talks about the carpet business. Two things you would never expect to hear in the same sentence. We’re all supposed to tweet about carpets as well, but so far none of us have bothered—one reason to be grateful for the dodgy Wi-Fi at least. I am hanging my wet coat up on the rack, wondering why it’s so quiet, when my colleague Barb walks over to me. She looks pale, and her mascara is smudged. For me, this would not be a big deal—I try to make my makeup last a few days, if humanly possible. For Barb, though, it is a sure sign of impending disaster. She’s one of those perfectly tidy women who always has healthy food in clean Tupperware boxes for lunch.
“Are you okay?” I ask, wringing out my hair. “Is Tim here?” I whisper the last bit, looking around as though I might find him hiding behind a potted plant.
“Haven’t you seen the memo?” she asks, her eyes swimming with tears. Now that I look at her more closely, I see that the pink combs in her hair are also slightly askew. The end of the world is nigh.
“Erm... no. I’ve only just walked in.”
“Oh. I thought you might have checked your emails at home.”
No , I think— I did not have the kind of morning that lent itself to a calm checking of emails. I was too busy ignoring Charlie’s meltdown and managing my own chaos and using the last strip of paper towels in the loo, even though I know I shouldn’t because it might block it, and then I’ll have to get the landlord out. Again.
“The internet was down,” I say, because Barb doesn’t need to know any of that. “What is it?”
“They’re thinking of closing us down,” she says, each word laden with disbelief. “Too many overheads and not enough productivity apparently. It’s between us and a branch in Kidderminster!”
“Kidderminster?” I echo, frowning. “Where the f—flip is Kidderminster?”
Barb doesn’t like swearing, and I am a respectful human being, so I try to keep my foulmouthed tendencies in check around her.
“I don’t know... I think the Midlands? Does it really matter? It means we could all be out of a job, Jenny!”
She’s right, of course. It doesn’t matter. Kidderminster could be in Nepal, or on a hellmouth, or at the bottom of the Grand Canyon—it makes no difference. I am still pondering it, though, because questioning the geography of small towns in the United Kingdom is easier for me to handle than the panic that I know will soon engulf me if I let it.
I have made some poor choices in my life, and I have taken some wrong turns. All of them led me to Charlie, which I can never regret, but it has not been easy. Leaving my own family wasn’t easy. Raising a child on my own wasn’t easy. Finding stability in the wreckage wasn’t easy, nor was being both mum and dad to a growing boy. Bringing up another human being when you barely feel capable of looking after yourself is tough; you have to make so many decisions all alone, accept consequences all alone, budget and plan and cry all alone.
The only way I’ve gotten through all that is by employing a coping mechanism I call Just Don’t Think About It. I should probably write a self-help book: “Life getting you down? Just don’t think about it! Facing a divorce, bankruptcy, or an existential crisis? Just don’t think about it!” Of course, I have to think about something else instead—this time, the precise location of Kidderminster. Our rivals in the cutthroat world of carpets.
“I need to get a coffee,” I say, patting Barb on the arm. I haven’t had any, due to time constraints and the lack of viable milk in my own home. I bet that never happens to Barb. “Then I’ll read the memo. Don’t worry, Barb. It’ll be all right.”
“Do you think so?”
She asks me this with such sincerity, such hope, that I am momentarily taken aback. I know my life is a whirling dervish of insanity, but she doesn’t—she believes the calm and positive front I put on when I am around other people. I am Jenny James, Office Manager—the woman who always knows where the spare staples are and makes sure the printer doesn’t run out of ink and checks everybody else’s paperwork for them.
“Yes, I do,” I reply, putting as much oomph into the claim as I can. If Barb disintegrates right now, I’ll join in, and we’ll both end up crying. It will be a decision that will work out badly for both of us.
I nod at the rest of the staff but stay silent as I make my coffee, drinking it out of a World’s Best Granddad mug simply because it is the biggest one in the cupboard. If there’d been a bucket handy, I’d have used that instead. I settle down in the small office that is my domain and log on to my computer. First things first, because I have a clear sense of my priorities right now, I google Kidderminster. It turns out to be a market town in Worcestershire. Clearly a hotbed of evil.
Next, I check my emails and open the dreaded memo. I scan through it but learn little more than what Barb has told me. It is couched in corporate terminology to soften the blow and make it all seem more reasonable—benchmarking, economies of scale, blah blah blah, but the cold fact remains: the axe is hovering over our heads, and Tim is wielding it. A decision will be made next week, it explains, and all staff contacted in person.
I am scared, and I am worried, and I am starting to feel a little tremble in my hands. I have worked so hard for the small life we have, and I sense it starting to crumble around me. It’s not like this is my dream existence, but the thought of starting again makes me feel weak.
I tell myself to stay calm. That I am not the same person I was all those years ago. That I have skills, experience, a decent résumé, references. That I will be able to find another job.
Except... well, times are tough, aren’t they? It always feels like times are tough, but right now it’s true. You can’t watch the news without there being some story about layoffs or factory closures or the soaring cost of living. There was a piece in the local newspaper—the free one that comes through the door—recently about there being 120 applications for one job at a McDonald’s.
What if I end up being one of those people, fighting for a minimum-wage job? What if I can’t afford the rent, or petrol, or, heaven forbid, Charlie’s Spotify account? I already shop at the cheapest places I can tolerate, and there just isn’t much slack—there are very few ways I can cut back without making life a complete misery. I budget for one bottle of wine a week as my own luxurious treat, and right now I feel like I could do with increasing that, not cutting it out.
When Charlie was little and his dad left, we lived in a series of one-room flats that have left me haunted. Most of the people who lived in the same buildings were nice, just down on their luck—but some of them were not so nice. Some of them were scary, and aggressive, and intimidating. Looking back, I understand that many of them had problems with addiction or their mental health, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying.
It was a horrible period of my life, and I can’t contemplate going back to it. It took me years of hard work and many missteps to get to where I am today, to our cozy cottage and a sense of security that now feels threatened. Even if Charlie is now eighteen and thinks he’s all grown up, he’s still my baby, and it’s my job to give him the very best I can.
I bloody hate Kidderminster. And Tim. And carpets.
And the whole damn world.
The rain is crashing against the windows, and a crisp bag flies up in the wind and splatters across the glass. I stare at it—cheese and onion flavor. My least favorite crisps. A bad omen.
I see Barb looking in at me, a questioning expression on her face. I force a smile onto mine and give her a little wave. I hope it is a wave that says, “Look how calm I am—it’s all fine!” not a wave that says, “The end of the world is nigh!”
My phone pings and I pick it up, fighting the urge to throw it through the window. It is rarely good news. I find a smile when I see it is a message from Charlie. “Sorry I was a dick this morning,” it reads. “PS—the internet is back. And the milk is off. And we need bog roll.”
I reply with a series of random emojis that have no meaning whatsoever. My mood is complicated, in the way that only a stream of small cartoon faces can ever express.
As soon as I’ve finished my reply, the phone pings again. This time, it’s not so pleasant. It’s from the bank, informing me that I am seventy-two pence past my overdraft limit, and that if I don’t pay in this grievous amount by midnight, I’ll be charged twenty-five pounds. I consider replying, but there are no emojis that fully convey the way I feel about this. Now I’ll have to go to the bank later and put a pound in, one of the last twenty of them in my purse—but it’s payday soon, I remind myself. Though how many more paydays I’ll have is a matter of some conjecture right now.
The day moves slowly, all of us quiet and gently downtrodden, flattened like my lupins in the rain. We are kind to one another, there are more teas and coffees than normal, and we all get on with our work. Heaven forbid our productivity rates should slump at a time like this.
It is hard to concentrate, and I have to redo several pieces of work because my mind has suddenly taken on the characteristics of one of those baboons that tries to pull your windshield wipers off at a safari park. Leaping all over the place, loud, smelly, nimble, bare-arsed.
I keep finding myself dragged back to those one-room apartments, and each time I do, it gets worse and worse. I imagine Charlie falling in with drug dealers or gangs, and myself becoming an alcoholic, and before long we are both just toothless drudges, like the poor people in those Hogarth paintings of gin mills.
My resilience is low, and I am glad to be working in an office full of other people. While I am around other people, I will be able to hold it together. While I am around other people, I will be able to smile and joke and fully inhabit my Brave Face. I will be able to stay strong for their sake, if not my own. I am aware, of course, that eventually I will be alone—that I will be back in my little cottage on the edge of the world, with a glass of wine and a luxurious new multipack of bargain-basement toilet tissue.
Then I will have to face up to this. I will have to think about the future, and finances, and all those sorts of grown-up things that make me want to run screaming into the hills. My life might not be a party, but it is solid—Charlie is solid, and that’s what matters. Keeping his life on an even keel, where all he has to worry about is the occasional internet break, is the most important thing in my universe. He might think his life is boring, but he has no idea how lucky he is—boring is a luxury, a privilege. Boring takes effort.
After what feels like at least ten days, my shift is over. We all troop out of the building, Barb staying behind to lock up, with promises to take care and stay cheerful and not think the worst. I have a weird vision of a group of strangers, somewhere in Kidderminster, doing exactly the same.
Charlie has messaged me to say he is in town, and he will meet me for a lift home. We make our arrangements, and I go about my very pressing business—the bank, the shops, and a luxury spa with full-body massage, detoxifying facial, and a glass of cucumber water. That last one was a lie—the closest I’m getting to a spa anytime soon is standing in the rain and looking upward.
Our small town is nice enough, a strange mix of the usual soulless modern high-street shops and a few rows of old Tudor buildings that have survived from days of yore. Of course, these are the buildings that feature on all the postcards and on the websites of the people here who boost their income by hosting tourists.
There are a few tourists around today, and my heart aches for them. Families with young children mostly, toddlers jumping in puddles, soaking-wet parents looking exhausted and bedraggled as they wander around the shops and the one amusement arcade. This is probably not the holiday they’d hoped for. This is not what England in July should be like.
By the time I get back to the car, Charlie is already there. He is leaning against the hood looking at his phone, shielding it from the worst of the downpour with his hands. As ever, I feel a little jolt of surprise when I see him.
I know this isn’t an uncommon feeling among parents, but it feels like only yesterday that he was a baby. Then, the day after that, he was starting primary school. Maybe a week after he started losing his first teeth, and calling me Mum instead of Mummy, and making new friends at high school. Now he is huge, hairy, and hungry—all three, all the time.
I am a person of averages—average height, average build, average attractiveness. I have long brown hair and blue eyes, and the only thing about me that ever gets commented upon is my smile. I’m told it’s a cracker, and was once offered a job as a croupier in a casino purely on the basis of it. I should probably consider a new career as a smile model, as it seems like I might be needing one soon.
Charlie, though, is very much his father’s son—at least when it comes to appearances. He is already over six foot tall, still slender from the terrifying growth spurt he had last year, with wild dark curls that make him look like a young Heathcliff. His eyes are deep brown, like his dad’s, and he has that half-man, half-boy vibe that kids of his age always seem to display. Keeping up with his need for new clothes and new shoes has been a fun time recently, and I will be financially relieved when he stops doing this growing-up thing.
I still can’t believe that this gorgeous young dude came out of my body, and I am flooded with love as I approach him.
“Did you get the bog roll?” he asks, barely tearing his eyes away from the screen. Ah, the magic of parenthood.
“I’m fine, son, thanks for asking. My day was good, nice of you to inquire.”
He pulls a face and rolls his eyes in patented teenage fashion but doesn’t fight me off when I give him a hug. My coat is a shabby affair, frayed at the cuffs and repaired at the hem. I am wet and hot and probably look terrible. He is wearing a really nice Regatta jacket that I picked up in the sales that seems to be keeping him toasty. Mama’s Little Soldier.
We climb into the car, and I ask him how his day was—because it was definitely better than mine.
“All right,” he answers, twisting his long legs to get comfortable. “Met some of the gang. Did some hard drugs, drank ten pints, hooked up with some exotic dancers...”
“Ah. The usual stuff then?”
“Yeah. Plus, I was looking for a job.”
I pause as he says this, biting my lip. He is eighteen, and it would be good for him to have a job. He wanted one earlier, but I was keen for him to do well on his exams. To be able to go to uni—to build the kind of life he deserves; the kind I turned my back on. It has been a touchy subject between us—we don’t disagree about much, but this is one of those things. We had a spectacular row about it, where I pointed out he needed to concentrate on his studies, and he pointed out that I was “an emotional vampire trying to live my life through his.” It blew over, as these things do, but the fact that he is looking for work pretty much straightaway after his exams tells me it has not been forgotten. Now, though, I have to accept that it would be good for him—both as a human and as a person who lives with me, the possibly soon-to-be-unemployed mum. Things are different now—and he might not be able to rely on me forever. It hurts to even think that, but it’s true.
I hide all of this from him, and simply ask: “Find anything?”
“Not yet. There was a kitchen porter job in the hotel, but I wasn’t keen on that. Dangerous.”
“Really? How? I mean, I know there are sharp knives and stuff...”
“Nah, Mum, it’s not that. You know when you watch a film or a TV show, and there’s a bad guy being chased? They always run out through the kitchens, don’t they? And the cops chase them, and all the poor staff get knocked over or hit with frying pans or flying bullets... dangerous.”
He winks at me to show he is joking, and I reply: “Yeah. You’re right. Lots of brutal gun chases in small towns in Norfolk. What’s the real reason?”
“Pay was rubbish and the nights were late. Like, after the bus late.”
“I’d always come and get you, you know that!”
“Mum, you’re usually in bed by ten!”
“I know... but I’d wait up for you, Charlie. You know I would.”
He pats my hand and nods. “I do know, Mum. Thanks. And once I get a job, I can pay for driving lessons, and that will be cool. Can we go home now? I’m really soggy.”
I turn the key in the ignition, realizing that it is that weird temperature where it’s too warm to put the heat on but too wet to feel warm enough. It’ll be a jiggle with the buttons all the way home, balancing tropical heat against a steamed-up windscreen. Life, eh? Full of challenges.
Except, I soon find out, getting the air right won’t be one challenge I need to face today—because the car doesn’t start. I try again, and again, and again. I swear a bit, and remind myself that I filled it up only a week or so ago, and wonder if I’ve somehow got a flat battery. This is, unfortunately, the extent of my mechanical knowledge.
“The car isn’t starting,” says Charlie, frowning.
“Really? You think?”
“Um... is there enough petrol in it?”
“Of course!” I say, a bit too sharply.
He raises his eyebrows and wisely remains silent. He is, I know, thinking about a time a few years ago when I was trying to budget a bit too carefully and driving on fumes for a day. We ended up stuck at the side of a country lane in weather very similar to this while I walked to the nearest garage—which was four miles away. Happy times.
I try the key again, but nothing happens. No sound, no gas, nothing at all. I sit still and feel my fake sense of “everything’s okay” float away from me. My hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles are white, and I have bitten my lip so hard that I taste blood.
“Do we have... I don’t know... like, roadside assistance or something?” asks Charlie quietly.
I shake my head, feeling tears start to sting. No, of course we don’t. That would be an unnecessary expense. I’m sure that’s what everyone thinks until they’re stuck in a parking lot in torrential rain with a broken-down car.
“It’s okay,” I say, shaking my head to clear away the impending panic. “I’ll sort it tomorrow. Or the day after when I get paid. For now, my darling child, we will have to get the bus!”
He makes a gagging noise, but laughs as he gets out of the car again. I grab the shopping, button up my wet coat, and join him.
He stares at the car—Nina—and pulls a face. “It’s a bit of a crap car, isn’t it, Mum?”
“Don’t say that, you’ll hurt her feelings!”
I stare at Nina, with her dents and scratches and muddy undercarriage. With her complete lack of cooperation. I feel annoyed now—I mean, what use is Nina if she can’t fulfill her primary function?
“You’re right,” I say, giving one of her tires a kick, “it is a crap car. Come on, let’s go.”
I start to think my luck has changed when we manage to get the bus with a minute to spare. The route that goes the nearest to our house only leaves once an hour, so it feels like a better omen than cheese and onion crisps. I don’t usually believe in things like omens, but it’s been that kind of day. I wouldn’t be surprised if a giant crow flies through my window tonight and drops dead at my feet.
I embarrass Charlie by getting him a child’s ticket, and we snag a couple of seats, settling in for what I know will be a bumpy ride. It takes ages to get out of town, then we go up and down winding country roads that often present many exciting entertainments—small floods, maverick sheep, overgrown hedgerows that block the path, passengers who get on and try to pay their entire fare with small change and bubble gum.
It’s not especially comfortable, especially as every human being on the bus is wet and steaming. It’s like being in a grimy sauna. I use my hand to wipe a patch of window clear, but all I can see is rain.
“So, did anything else happen today?” I ask, keen to distract myself from my own thoughts.
“Kind of. You know Eric?”
“Yes. You’ve been friends with him since year five—of course I know him.”
“That was rhetorical. Anyway, he came out on Snapchat.”
“Oh. But hasn’t Eric always been gay? I mean, didn’t most people already know that? What difference does saying it on social media make?”
Charlie gives me a disgusted look and replies frostily: “Yes, we knew, Mum—but now it’s official. It’s not just something his friends and family know about; it’s something he’s proud of. And I think it’s a pretty brave thing to do.”
“Okay, love,” I say quickly. “I suppose I still think of Eric as the kid who ate all the doughnuts at your tenth birthday party and threw up inside the bouncy castle, so I struggle to engage with his sexuality. Or coming out on Snapchat.”
I am only thirty-six myself, but I often feel the generational gap between me and Charlie’s pals. The way they live a lot of their lives on social media, their obsessions and passions and the fact they have a whole new language. It’s not that I’m right and they’re wrong—I just don’t quite understand it.
“Well, it’s a big deal, Mum. It’s not easy to be different, is it?”
“I don’t know, love. I’m very boring myself. But look, that’s great—I’m all for whatever makes him happy. Should we send him a card or something?”
I’m not quite sure if I’m joking or not—I don’t really know the protocol for Charlie’s era—but he assumes I am.
“People have been oppressed for hundreds of years, Mum, just for being who they are, and it’s important that we all try to change that—you don’t have to make a joke out of everything, you know? Some of us actually give a shit about other people.” With this, he inserts his earbuds with an element of fury that surprises me.
Wow. I’ve somehow managed to alienate my beloved son in about three sentences, without even trying. I know from experience that once the earbuds are in, the arms are crossed, and he is looking in the opposite direction, there is no point in trying to converse with him.
Anyway , I think, closing my eyes and leaning back, maybe he’s right . Maybe I do make a joke out of everything, even when it’s the wrong thing to do—even when there is absolutely nothing funny going on at all. In fact, that’s what I’ve been doing all day. It’s another coping mechanism, and sometimes it even annoys me, never mind the people around me. But Charlie isn’t quite old enough or experienced enough to understand that sometimes, if you don’t laugh, you cry—and if I start crying now, I might never stop.
Charlie blanks me for the whole journey, and I take it. No point arguing with a sulky teen—they have a way of dragging you down to their level anyway. Before long I’d be snapping, “Whatever!” and sticking my tongue out at him. My phone is out of charge, so I amuse myself by making up fictional life stories about my fellow passengers. Absolutely scandalous what some of them get up to, I tell you.
We get off the bus, Charlie still quiet, walking the regulation five paces behind me to show me he’s still at battle stations.
The bus stop is almost a mile from our house even with shortcuts, and the weather is still as delightful as it has been for the whole of the day. For weeks and weeks on end. I can’t even remember what sunshine feels like—it’s a vague memory, like a flashback in a film, the way your skin glows and the light lifts your mood. Plus the exotic way your hair actually stays dry all day.
My work shoes aren’t ideal for this kind of trek, some of it down a muddy footpath craggy with tree roots, but I’ve done it enough times to know it passes quicker than you expect as long as you don’t think about it too hard.
I put my head down, into the rain and the howling wind, and tell myself that it will all be okay soon. Before long, we will arrive at our little cottage. It will be cozy and welcoming and safe and dry. We will hang our coats up over the bath, and I will make us beans on toast for dinner, and I will have my glass of wine. I will look up what it means to be pansexual, and I will talk to Charlie about it in an open and curious way that shows that I am, deep down, an empathetic and emotionally evolved human being—not just an old lady in a tatty coat who makes inappropriate jokes all the time.
He is a good lad, and he will accept that, and it will also be true. We will be friends again, and all will be right with the world. I’ll start looking at other jobs, just in case, and we will find a way out of this mess.
It will all be okay once I am home, I know. Once we’re inside the walls of the cottage, our refuge from the weather and the worry and reality.
Except, of course, for one small fact. As we emerge from the end of the footpath and into the field, my sense of relief almost palpable as I visualize kicking off my shoes and unhooking my bra and pouring that wine, I see one very strange thing.
My little cottage, or at least the version of it I left this morning, simply isn’t there anymore.