Chapter Eight
Eight
I’m still feeling positive when I arrive home that evening.
I don’t bother to remove my shoes in the hallway—more dirt from outside is hardly going to make a difference, and I don’t like the thought of my socks touching the floor.
I go straight through to the kitchen in search of something to eat.
I’m ravenous. This part always makes me hungry: the thrill of the chase, the first flicker of interest, the adrenaline that pounds through my veins. It was just like this with Freddie.
Freddie suggested our first date so casually I thought I’d misheard him. It was just over a week after I’d started, and we were in the kitchen together, discussing plans for the next month’s edition of the magazine.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“Drinks at the pub round the corner on Friday. Only if you’re free and keen, obviously,” he repeated. I noticed that he lowered his voice slightly, as though he was aware that he was crossing a professional boundary. As though he did not want our colleagues to overhear.
I touched the lobe of my ear, tried—and failed—to hide my grin. I didn’t need to refer to any checklist for this. This was it. A sign he felt the same.
“I’d love to,” I said, and I didn’t have to feign the breathiness to my voice. The slight catch of anxiety.
I’d never been on a date before, and it sent me into a spin of worry. I practiced hard. Responses to possible questions he might ask, trawling through my memories of Marcie to ensure I said the right thing, maintained the correct tone. She was always so good at knowing exactly what to say.
Freddie and I had limited contact for the rest of the week, as though he was trying to throw our colleagues off the scent of any untoward relationship between us.
We kept it strictly professional—our meetings brief and functional.
But I kindled the knowledge of our date and grew ever more anxious as Friday drew nearer.
I spent hours blow-drying my hair that morning, tonging it into the soft waves that Marcie had favored. I could barely do my job that day, less so when I received a message from Freddie: We still on for later?
I risked a glance at him across the office, and—seeming to sense my gaze—he looked up, the question still on his face. I put my thumbs up over the bank of desks. I was sure I saw his face redden, just a little.
I don’t have high hopes for the selection in the fridge.
Usually, I try to eat out of the house—God knows what I might contract from the kitchen—but tonight I want to be here in case Jack messages.
So that I can give him my full attention, when it comes.
He must have finished his meeting by now.
I allow myself a brief, glorious moment of remembering the intensity of his gaze, the way it made me feel.
Like I was the only person who mattered in that tiny café.
I picture him walking home, crafting a message in his head, waiting the appropriate length of time to send it.
Games we must all play when in pursuit of something special.
It’s so dim in the kitchen that at first I don’t notice Mum in her usual seat at the table. Only when she speaks do I jump and swing round to face her. Her hair is greasy and unwashed, her face pallid. More pressingly, she looks enraged.
“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”
I’m taken aback. The last couple of days have seen a fragile armistice settle between us, and I’ve grown used to the overly polite, stiff interactions we have whenever we accidentally encounter each other.
“What are you talking about?”
“What have you done to yourself?”
Her eyes sweep upward. My hair. I’ve been so caught up with thoughts of Jack, I’d forgotten my fabulous new look.
Whoops. I could’ve played this one better, eased her into it by softening the blow with news of Dad.
I’ve shocked her, and—with her lifestyle—a heart attack is not beyond the realm of possibility.
I’d rather not have her death on my conscience as well.
I hold out my hands in a conciliatory gesture.
If there was ever a time for subservience, it is now.
“I just thought I’d try something new.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing.” This is not good. Her voice has taken on that quiet fury that always spells danger.
“I spoke to Dad earlier,” I say quickly, and her mouth—open and ready to spew vicious vitriol—closes again. It takes her a while to collect herself. When she speaks, the words sound strangled.
“Sorry. It looks lovely.”
I bestow on her a kind, appreciative smile. “Thanks, Mum.”
A pause as she wrestles with herself.
“So…your father?”
“Just a quick chat,” I say cheerfully. “Mainly just complaining about the wife, you know how it is.” I lower my voice like I am letting her in on a big secret, knowing full well that my faux pas with the hair requires a grand gesture. “Between you and me, I think they might be having problems.”
And there it is. A hungry flare in her eyes. If I’d been concerned that any leverage I had with Mum was waning, I’m not anymore. She’s still just as invested. Just as in love.
“It could just be a bad patch, of course.” Important to cover my back. Just in case.
“Of course,” she echoes. She sits, staring into space, as she processes this new information, then stands, mutters something about a shower—probably a good idea—and leaves the room.
I wait for her bedroom door to close before rummaging in the fridge for something to eat.
—
The encyclopedia is waiting for me on my bed when I go upstairs. My good mood, which has been dissipating rapidly since I tried and failed to overcome my fear of the bacteria on Mum’s disgusting kitchen surfaces, dips further. I’m starving, Jack hasn’t messaged yet, and now this.
I recognize it instantly. Another reminder, placed right in the center of the bed, where she’s sure I’ll see it. Punishment for my new hairstyle, I’m sure of it. Underhand tactics from her, but effective nonetheless.
The encyclopedia is showing its age. The cover is faded, the paper thinner and more delicate than I remember. I pull my sleeve over my hand again and flip it open. There it is. Dad’s messy scrawl across the flyleaf.
To my favorite little explorer. Stay curious.
I recall, with startling clarity, how his large finger would hover over a word as I struggled to pronounce it. None of us knew what was coming for us. We should have made the most of those times, but they slipped away, as everything does.
This book was the prelude to change. If only we’d known it then. Perhaps things would have been different.