Chapter Eleven
Eleven
Mother
‘How are you, Lindy-Lou-Lou?’
‘Terrific,’ I say, breezily. So breezily that I possibly sound a bit unhinged.
‘You sound stressed,’ she observes, and I can tell how hard she’s trying to keep the note of judgement out of her voice. She worries about me, I know that, and she has good reason, but I also wish she was better at hiding it.
She and my dad have often asked if I’ve any plans to marry Max, which has always been depressing, but I really don’t think I could take it now.
Don’t ask, I think, closing my eyes in silent prayer.
‘I just had a bad day at work.’
‘Scotty still being a dickhead?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t suppose he can help it. It’s probably deeply encoded in his DNA.’
‘It’s my fault. I’m a terrible assistant.’
‘Resign. It’s a bad fit. Go somewhere else. New job, fresh start. What’s this thing Henny texted me about – you’re designing jewellery?’
‘Why are you texting Henny? You met her once.’
‘We like each other. I’m allowed to have friends.’
‘Not when they’re my colleagues.’
‘You should become a jewellery designer. It’s creative. You’re a creative person. Hand your notice in and follow your passion.’
‘Because jewellery design is such a stable, lucrative career?’
‘It was for Mr Tiffany,’ she says, quite seriously, as if my efforts will be a rival to Tiffany Co’s near two-hundred-year dominance of the fine jewellery market.
‘And I bet it’s emotionally enriching,’ she goes on. ‘Seeing things that you made with your own two hands. We’ll help you out if you need money.’
It’s a nice offer, except for the fact that they don’t have any money, either. Nobody in my family has money. It arrives in our left hand and leaves via our right hand, usually within the day. My parents live in a rented house, have no savings and live month to month. I appreciate the sentiment, but unless they’ve won the lottery and haven’t mentioned it, I won’t be accepting their charity.
Anyway, I can’t bear the thought of more change, not when my romantic life has just been rear-ended by a snow plough. A mud plough? A cheetah.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m okay,’ I say. ‘I can handle Scotty. I’m tougher than I look.’
I’m not tough. I’m just faulty. My brain is a ball of tangled wires and my thoughts leap from one point to another without ever connecting with anything. I probably need to be taking medication of some sort to normalise my brainwaves. No wonder Max thinks I don’t have a plan for my life. I don’t know what I want. I don’t even know where to start. In the dark hours of the night, I’ve begun to wonder if I’m experiencing derealisation, because nothing feels real to me anymore. I’m just a brain in a jar, thinking.
‘You know, there’s a perfect job for you going down here,’ my mum says. ‘There’s an advert in The Voice. Someone’s put up a flyer in the corner shop, too. It would be lovely to have you close by again.’
Her words catch me off guard and jolt me back into the moment. I was sure she’d start talking about Max. Asking me how he is, how his work is going, if we’re going to get married.
‘I can’t come back to Cornwall, Mum. I have a life here.’
I don’t mention Max. She can assume I mean him. I’m not lying – I’m just withholding.
‘Not just any old part of Cornwall. I’m talking about Loor. You’d be close, but we wouldn’t be able to just stop by on a whim. We know how much that annoys you.’
‘They have publishing jobs on Loor Island, do they?’
My voice drips with scepticism.
‘Not publishing exactly, but in that sort of wheelhouse. To do with literature, anyway. Very much so.’
‘It’s a bookshop, isn’t it?’
She clears her throat, as if I’ve offended her.
‘Managing the bookshop, which is a position of authority! You love bookshops! Your first ever job was in a bookshop! You’re only an assistant now but you’d be the boss.’
‘Mum.’
‘What? You’d actually get to work with books there, not just photocopying contracts and printing orders for stationery or whatever. You could read in your lunch break. When was the last time you actually read a book for fun, Lindy?’
I can’t remember. Then I snap my fingers.
‘Last week. I read Nigella’s new one.’
‘That’s cheating. Recipe books don’t count.’
‘They do count. Recipe books come with little stories now.’
‘Yes, and it’s dreadful,’ she says, venomously. ‘I don’t want to hear about the childhood raspberry-picking expeditions that inspired this pesto pasta dish. Just give me the recipe already.’
I smile. I can tell from her voice that my mother knows I’m upset, which could go either way. Sometimes she’ll back off and try to soothe me, and other times she’ll strike while I’m at my most vulnerable in the hope that I’ll crack down the middle and do what she wants.
‘I don’t have time to read for pleasure,’ I say. ‘I have to read so much for work. The last thing I feel like doing on my downtime is reading some more.’
‘I remember a time when you’d be messaging me excitedly with book recommendations. What happened to that girl? You lived for stories. You said it made you a time traveller. You could go anywhere you wanted, experience everything the world had to offer. Not only just this world, either. Do you remember that year you read nothing but sci-fi? I’ve never seen you so energised. You wanted to be an astronaut and go to Mars.’
‘I was nine.’
‘Even so, you were very mature for your age. You had passion. You had a very rich inner life.’
‘And now I have a very busy outer life. There’s been a lot going on. It’s not like I have endless hours to fill by hiding away in my room and avoiding talking to people.’
‘You could listen to audiobooks on the commute back from the office. It would take your mind off Scotty.’
She’s still not asked me about Max. She always asks about Max. Does she somehow know we’ve split up? He wouldn’t have texted her, would he? Could Henny know already? Has she texted my mother? Is that what’s happening here? Is my mother trying to soothe me by pretending she doesn’t know anything while simultaneously trying to get me to move to Cornwall?
Of course that’s what’s happening.
‘I could listen to audiobooks, but I don’t want to,’ I say.
Because that would feel like work. For the past three years, all my waking hours have been dominated by books, their agents, editors, publicists and crucially, their authors. The lucky authors who get to see the stories of their imaginations come to life, instead of daydreaming over a concept that will never see the light of day.
‘Then write your own book,’ she says. ‘Write your book during the day and make your jewellery in the evenings.’
I have so many empty notebooks, given to me by friends who know how much I’ve always dreamed of writing my own stories. But I could never get past the sense that I was doing it all wrong. Could never even get past the first page before the fright set in.
The truth is that I’ve come to dislike books. In those same dark hours of the night, I’ve started to wonder if I’ve come to hate books. And most of all, I resent the little girl who sincerely believed that books were at the root of all happiness. Who thought she could dream her way to a better life.
‘Are you listening to me, Lindy? You’ve gone quiet. You’re worrying me.’
‘I lost my earbuds, but I’ll buy some new ones and listen to an audiobook. I promise.’
‘Try Jane Eyre. It’s free, you know, because it’s out of copyright.’
‘I know it’s out of copyright, Mum. Charlotte Bront? died over a hundred and fifty years ago. And no thanks. Rochester sets off my creep-o-meter and I can’t stand the school scenes – they’re like how Enid Blyton would’ve written her boarding-school books if she hadn’t had an editor badgering her to make them more upbeat and aspirational. How’s Dad?’
‘He’s fine. Busy in the garden. He sends his love. How are you and Max?’ she asks, at last. Her voice is airy, and I can’t tell if the airiness is genuine or manufactured.
‘Well, we’re not getting married, if that’s what you’re hinting at.’
Since, as of just a few minutes ago, Max and I are apparently no longer even together.
I can’t talk about this with her. If I try, I’ll get choked up and Mum will get on the next train to Paddington and then I’ll have to put her up on a camp-bed in my room until she deems me sufficiently soothed. Plus, the thought of saying the words ‘Gothic Girl Greta’ to my own mother makes me want to stick my head in an ice-fishing hole. She has a smart phone now. She’ll look her up. She’ll see the glamour shots. All the baroque buttons.
‘When will you next come down to visit us, do you think? You know you’re always welcome.’
‘I’ll come and visit as soon as I can.’
This should placate her. I haven’t given her a time frame, but it’ll buy me some time until I figure out what I’m going to do.
‘You won’t mind if I send you the job application for the island bookshop?’ she says. ‘I took a photo of the advert. I know how to send photos now. Your dad thinks he might even know the owner of the bookshop from his school days. He’s not sure, but he might have an “in” for you.’
‘Mum, I do not want to work in a bloody bookshop. I’ve done it before, and I cannot think of anything I’d like to do less at this precise juncture of my life. Please drop it.’
‘It was just an idea… How do you feel about petsitting?’
‘What?’ I say, thoroughly exasperated now and wishing the call was over.
‘It’s just… there was another advert in there about someone who wants a responsible sitter to watch their pets and water their plants for six months. You’re responsible.’
‘Am I, Mum?’
‘Very. The pay’s probably rubbish, but you’d have no rent to worry about and the house has a sea view. It would give you time to concentrate on your jewellery making. I think it’s a jolly good opportunity for someone at your stage of life.’
‘Okay, Mum. I’ll be a petsitter on Loor.’
‘Just give it a ponder. You could follow your passions.’
‘I have to go now.’
She sighs, sounding defeated. ‘Send our best to Max.’
I pause. This would be the time to come clean. ‘Will do.’
‘We love you, Lindy. You know that, right? Whatever happens, we love you and are so proud of you.’
She loves me and is so proud of me? She never says stuff like this.
She knows. Somehow, she knows.