Chapter 9
9
GEMMA
‘I’m glad you’ve got your mum to help you. Support you. That must be a comfort,’ Crystal said as she stirred her lemon and ginger tea. We were back at our usual lunchtime pub; without either of us having to say anything, it had become a routine for us to meet there for lunch on Mondays and Tuesdays.
I nodded, putting a hand on hers sympathetically. I knew why she was sounding sad about it. She’d told me her own mum had passed away only a few years earlier.
‘You must miss her terribly,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without my mum.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Poor Mum – the diagnosis came completely out of the blue, but she went downhill quickly afterwards. Up till then she’d hardly ever been ill, in fact. She was really healthy, always down the gym…’
‘How awful for you.’
‘It was.’
We were both silent for a moment, contemplating the sandwiches in front of us and the unfairness of life. Then she suddenly went on in a rush, ‘Especially given the circumstances. She died soon after my ex walked out on me.’
‘Oh, no, you poor thing. Two awful shocks to contend with at the same time.’
‘I didn’t cope very well,’ she admitted. ‘Fell apart, to be honest.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ I looked at her, now picking up her hummus and carrot sandwich and taking a huge enthusiastic bite out of it before slurping some more of her drink. ‘How did you manage to recover so well?’
‘Oh, don’t be fooled.’ She laughed. ‘The pain is still there, probably always will be. But someone suggested I should try a self-help group. I didn’t really like the idea at first: talking about my problems to complete strangers – it didn’t feel right. But I knew I had to do something; I was… sinking into a black hole. The doctor had given me antidepressants but I wanted to get off them. I didn’t even feel like they were helping.’
‘And did the group help?’
‘Yes. The first one I joined was for bereavement support, and it did help me to face the fact that Mum had gone and she wouldn’t have wanted me to be unhappy forever. But it didn’t address the other issue.’
‘Your ex. What was his name, by the way?’
‘Simon,’ she said, waving this aside as if it didn’t really matter. I supposed it didn’t, any more. ‘So, someone else recommended another group, for people with depression. Then I tried one specifically for lonely people. And someone there gave me details of a group who based their philosophy on meditation and spiritual awareness.’
‘And did that one help?’
It all sounded a bit mumbo-jumbo to me, but then, I’m an accountant. I’ve always been more likely to address my problems by making a spreadsheet than to go in for anything like spiritual awareness, and more likely to put on a smart suit and a brave face than to wear a kaftan, beads, smoke a spliff and chant. But somehow it all seemed right for Crystal, and I liked her for it.
‘You worked your way through several groups to find the right one?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I kept going to them all for a while,’ she said, smiling. ‘But yes, I liked the meditation. It calmed me. I still belong to the group. It’s run by a therapist, but I like the way we all listen to each other and offer support. It’s given me a better understanding of other people, I think. I can feel other people’s suffering. I felt yours. I was drawn to you, to try to help you, when I heard you crying in the loos.’
‘I’m really grateful,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very kind.’ There was a pause, before I blurted out, ‘But I don’t think I’m up for… the meditation and stuff. Sorry.’
‘Oh God, no, I’m not recruiting for the group, don’t worry!’ She chuckled. ‘It wouldn’t work for everyone, we’re all different. You’ll find your own new happy in time, Gemma.’
‘Will I?’
I doubted it.
‘Yes, you will. Things won’t ever be the same, but there’ll be a different kind of happy for you. Trust me.’
And for some reason – I did. I didn’t know why; after all, I still hardly knew her. But I trusted her, completely. Far more than I could ever imagine trusting any man , ever again.
Fortunately for me, Poppy at this time was still at an age where she lived mostly in the moment, and didn’t often ask about Jack. In fact, as time passed since he’d left for Australia, she’d asked after him less and less. But I still had a photo of him in a frame on my bedside table. I’d actually thrown it on the floor since I’d had the fatal message from his brother, three times in fact, and I was amazed the glass hadn’t broken. Why had I put it back by my bed after that, despite everything? I don’t know. Habit? Reluctance, even then, to face the truth? But the next time I was at home all day with Poppy, she was watching me making the bed when she pointed at the picture and, with her head on one side, asked plaintively:
‘Where Daddy gone?’
I froze for a moment. I obviously should have anticipated this, but it was the first time she’d asked since everything had changed. Up until then, of course, I’d been able to answer her quite calmly, reminding her that Daddy had gone to find us a nice new house in a new country and we’d soon be going to join him there. She would nod, remembering being told this before, and she’d say, for reassurance, ‘Mummy and Poppy go?’
‘Yes, of course! We’ll go together.’
‘And Nanny?’
‘Yes, Nanny’s coming too.’
I’d make it sound like a fun outing, something exciting to look forward to, rather than going into detail about the long flight to the other side of the world, uprooting her from everything she knew; she was young enough anyway to cope with the change, probably much better than I would.
Except that now it wasn’t going to happen. And I hadn’t had the sense, with everything else I’d had to worry about, to think what I was going to tell her instead.
‘Oh, Daddy’s gone away for a while, to work,’ I said as breezily as I could manage. ‘Why don’t we get your new book out and read a story?—’
But the distraction tactic wasn’t going to work so easily.
‘Daddy gone ’way?’ she repeated, still looking at the picture. It was my favourite photo of him, taken on the beach during the previous summer, on a warm sunny day. His hair was shining copper-red in the sunshine, the way Poppy’s does, his bright blue-green eyes reflecting the colour of his emerald T-shirt, his mouth wide in a smile as he watched our little daughter playing, just out of sight of the camera.
I hurriedly choked back the tears that were threatening and told myself that photo had to be thrown away.
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Poppy and Mummy go too?’
What the hell could I say? I didn’t want to lie to her, but… was I still, without even admitting it to myself, secretly hoping there was just a chance Jack might change his mind, finish with the new girlfriend, and send for us after all? Was I secretly thinking, despite everything I’d said to the contrary, that I might give in and take him back? Surely not. And yet…
‘One day, sweetie. One day, we’ll go,’ I said.
Well, we might, of course, go to Australia one day – even though the thought of it made me feel physically sick at that moment.
‘Nanny go?’ Poppy persisted. But by now, fortunately, she was beginning to lose interest in the conversation; the idea of having her new book read to her suddenly took hold, and without even waiting for me to reply, she trotted off to her own room to look for it.
I grabbed the photo, stuffed it in my knicker drawer and swore to myself that I’d take it out of the frame and put it through the shredder as soon as Poppy was asleep. I knew there would be plenty of difficult questions to answer over the coming weeks, months, and years. But I wasn’t ready yet. I’d keep the questions at bay for a little while longer.
By now, I’d spoken to my dad about the situation; in fact, I’d had several lengthy conversations with him about it. It was taking time for him to calm down. He was even angrier than Mum was, and not good at hiding it.
‘Dad, I’m just as angry with Jack as you are,’ I had to keep reminding him, but he ignored me, continuing with his rants, which usually went along the lines of Jack being a complete and total bastard, a despicable coward, a waste of space, a pathetic excuse for a human being who’d never deserved to set eyes on his daughter, and if Dad ever saw him again Jack would wish he’d never been born. I couldn’t disagree with any of it so I didn’t argue, but it did make me cry, because I hated hearing my normally mild-mannered, calm and rational father reduced to this seething spouting of hatred. It also had the effect of causing me, against my will, to imagine myself one day finding out that someone had treated my own daughter as badly as Jack had treated me, so I had to admit I understood my dad’s passionate – and impotent – fury.
He’d offered to come down from Manchester to help me sort everything out, and it was only because I insisted I didn’t want him around if he was going to make me feel worse with his uncontrolled anger, that he didn’t actually turn up on my doorstep as soon as I’d told him what had happened. And for that reason, he eventually started to calm down. By the time we’d agreed that he could come for the bank holiday weekend at the end of August, I was so pleased to see him that I burst into tears anyway. But he did help me; his normal manner – when he wasn’t consumed by such uncharacteristic rage – was to discuss things calmly and logically. I’d inherited my love of numbers and logic from him, but I wasn’t in a logical frame of mind right then, so I really needed his help.
‘Right!’ he said in a business-like manner. ‘Your mum and I have already talked about all this. And you’re not going to have to worry about a thing, OK?’
‘That sounds great, Dad, but unfortunately I am worried. The mortgage?—’
‘—is going to be taken care of. We’re taking care of it, between us.’
‘No. You can’t do that!’
‘We can. We’ve sat down together and worked it out, and there’s no argument about it, we’re taking over the payments. It’s what we’re going to do, until you’ve got yourself back on your feet – OK?’
In response, I just hugged him and started crying again. A few weeks had passed by then, since I’d had the news about Jack, but I still felt too weak with conflicting emotions to even attempt to argue about it. And in any case, I knew it was going to save me from going under.
‘We’d do anything to help you, Gemma, we both would. You’d do the same for Poppy, wouldn’t you?’ he said, grasping my hand and sounding choked himself. ‘If, God forbid, she ever found herself in trouble when she’s grown up.’
But I couldn’t bear to even think about that. The very idea of my precious little daughter ever being in any kind of trouble or pain was enough to start the tears flowing all over again.
I was still a long way from being OK; still, I suppose, very fragile, very needy. And most of my friends, sympathetic and kind though they all were, were too busy with their own families – children, partners, husbands – to listen to me constantly going over everything, trying to make sense of it. Looking back, it’s obvious: Crystal was giving me exactly what I needed. A sympathetic ear. Understanding, from someone outside my family, someone who’d been through the same thing. A friend who listened and didn’t judge.
No wonder we became so close, so quickly.