Chapter 14 One Box Ticked, One Escape Plan Hatched
“Do you want your beetroot juice?” Margie asks as I trudge toward her gate.
“Only if it’s actually whisky,” I reply.
“Oh. That bad?”
I let myself in, and Bill heads inside to lap noisily at his water bowl. Margie gestures toward one of her chairs, but I am not in the mood for comfort.
“I don’t know,” I say simply, shrugging. “Obviously it’s a bit of a strange thing to explain to someone, isn’t it? She was a bit . . . unsettled?”
“’Course she was—you’ve been mulling it over for ages, but it was all a shock to her, wasn’t it? She’s lovely, though, isn’t she? Erin, I mean.”
“Yeah, she’s really nice. We clicked as soon as we met. I liked her before I knew about Katie, and I still do. But maybe I’ve screwed that up now—I could totally get it if she never wanted to see me again. I’ll have to stop going to yoga. And the takeaways near hers. And—”
“Did she say that, love, that she didn’t ever want to see you again?”
“Well, no. She said she was going to talk to Katie in confidence and let it all brew.”
“That seems reasonable, don’t you think?”
I nod, because it is impossible to disagree. Of course it is reasonable.
“Then you’re just getting ahead of yourself now, aren’t you? Worrying about scenarios that haven’t even happened?”
I narrow my eyes at her and reply, “That’s what I do, Margie! It’s kind of my specialist subject!”
“I thought that was knowing something weird that happened on every single day of the year, and being able to quantify exactly how many tea bags you’ll need for a month.”
“Well, they’re also specialist subjects. God, I really am crap, aren’t I?”
“Sit down,” she says firmly, pushing me physically into one of her chairs. “You’re in a proper tizz, and I’ve never seen you like this before. Normally you’re Little Miss Calm, Cool, and Collected. Now take a chill pill, will you?”
“Take a chill pill?” I echo, the phrase so incongruous coming from her lips that it almost makes me smile.
“Yeah. You need to do some of your fancy breathing, or count some spoons or something. I can practically see steam coming out of your ears. Everything will be all right, hon. Have a bit of faith.”
“Ha! Faith . . . that’s definitely not one of my specialist subjects, but okay. I will indeed try to chill. I think this is my blind spot, Margie—anything to do with my baby, real or imagined, just seems to override all my usual factory settings.”
She leans forward, pats my hand briefly, then winces. She is in pain, and she is ignoring it to comfort me. That small fact, that small sacrifice on her part, works better than any technique I could have devised deliberately. It immediately diverts my attention away from the obstacle course that is my brain.
“Are you all right?” I ask. “Shall I get us a coffee?”
“I’m okay, Gem. Just need to go back to the doc, I think. Might ask him about acupuncture or something. I already take so many tablets that I rattle when I walk. Anyhow, that’s for another time. So, I think you need to give Erin a bit of space, and you need to give yourself a bit of a break. And I think you need to give me all the filthy details of what you got up to last night, madam! We heard you, Bill and me, getting home past nine o’clock, a man’s footsteps on your stairs, a mysterious Nissan still outside this morning . . .”
She is grinning like a demon on drugs, cackling and pointing at me as she sees my embarrassed expression.
“You’re a dirty old woman, Margie, did you know that?” I ask, finding it impossible not to grin back.
“I do. That’s one of my specialist subjects . . . so. Spill the beans!”
“Well, I’d not been well at the history club event, as you heard from Erin.”
“Poor anemic child that you are . . .”
“Yes, well. So Karim and I went for a drink, and then he drove me home, and he helped me bring all the stuff back upstairs, and then we stayed up all night binge-watching Bridgerton on Netflix.”
I announce this very seriously, and I can see from the disappointed look on her face that she completely believes me. Good to see my fibbing skills haven’t completely deserted me.
“Really?” she murmurs. “I mean, I do love Bridgerton, but . . . I was hoping for more!”
I wink at her, and she widens her eyes and laughs again.
“Oh, you! You got me there! So . . . there was more?”
“There was more.”
“And was it good more, bad more, or mediocre more?”
“It was excellent more. And that is all you’re getting—a lady should never kiss and tell.”
I can tell that she is delighted, both with my new romantic developments and at my apparent change of mood. While that lasts, while I can maintain the subterfuge, I get to my feet.
“Right, I’ve got stuff to do. Is there anything you need, Margie? I was thinking of a trip to town later, or to the shops, if you want to keep me company?”
I always have to phrase it like this, so she doesn’t think I am being too kind, that she is being a burden to me. She has her pride, and I have my need for solitude, and somehow we manage to dance around both.
“Well, I’d have to check my diary,” she replies, “but that sounds lovely! I’m surprised you’ve got the energy after all that more-ing.”
We make a loose arrangement to check in with each other later, and I make my farewells. I manage to keep the smile in place until I am back round at the front of the building and making my way up to my flat.
Once I’m inside I shut the door firmly behind me and lean back against it, closing my eyes and letting out what feels like a long-held breath.
Being with other people has been hard this morning, for all kinds of reasons. Being honest with Erin was draining; pretending with Margie was tense. Now I am alone again, and I feel the bubble burst—the bubble of having to care what other people think, what other people feel, how other people react.
I like them, these other people—Margie, Erin, Katie, Karim. I like them, but I know it will always be a struggle for me to be like them. To form easy relationships, to not overthink everything, to simply sit back and go along for the ride. To be myself around them, when part of me still doesn’t think I should take the risk. To have faith, as Margie puts it.
It is all so complicated, this simple stuff, and I am feeling the pressure build inside me.
I tell myself it is just that too much has happened in a short space of time. I can even calculate how many hours, if I really need to. Minutes, if I get extra fancy.
In that short space of time, over those minutes and hours and days, I have met someone who I became convinced was my biological daughter. I have discovered that I was wrong, and felt the pain of that discovery. By telling Erin about it, I have knowingly put myself in a vulnerable position, and I now have to deal with the consequences of it.
There are the personal consequences—that I may lose my budding friendship with Erin before it has even had a chance to grow. That it has roused all kinds of yearnings and secret hurts that I have been suppressing for years. But there are also professional issues, like facing a difficult situation with my star student at school, and making her life more complicated too. If Erin really wants to, she could make life difficult for me by making some kind of official complaint.
I have behaved recklessly with their feelings, with my own, and with my career. With hindsight I can see the mistakes I made, but I cannot change them. It is like watching a car crash happen in slow motion.
I also seem to have started something up with Karim, which was hard to resist last night, but in the cold light of day doesn’t seem quite so wise. The poor man has no idea what he’s letting himself in for.
I have, basically, become tangled up in a very messy web of life and emotions and potential disasters. Now I feel trapped, and like a giant spider is heading in my direction.
I splash some water on my face in the bathroom, make a mug of coffee, and walk over to my desk. It is, unsurprisingly, neat and tidy and well stocked. I usually spend at least a couple of hours a day here, so it’s got to be.
I open up my laptop and log in to my account at a recruitment agency I have used several times in the past. At the moment, I am marked as unavailable, so new job opportunities don’t get sent to me. I tick the box, indicate that I am once again looking for gainful employment, and log off.
I close the laptop lid, lean back in my chair, and feel an immediate sense of relief.
It is just a box on a form. It is just a net being cast. It does not mean that I am moving on. It does not mean that I am giving up. It does not mean that I will run.
It just means that I could.