Chapter Twenty-One
At the end, I released a lungful of breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding.
Clicked on Esme’s EKArts Instagram profile and saw the numbers had increased.
Ordered a bottle of champagne to be sent to Cali.
Then Pebble stuck her claws in my arm and I tried to interest her in a fake mouse on a stick.
I left her toying with it and sent a message to Esme.
LIZZY: The article’s great. I particularly liked her ref to you as having a lightning quick mind in a pre-Raphaelite body.
ESME: thanks babe. I accept I look fire in the pictures too. Next stop Venice!!!
She added enough heart emojis to sink a gondola.
My phone buzzed.
OLLY: Are you happy with it?
I stared at the words on the screen. I should have been relieved that our messages were now free of banter, slightly stilted and wholly professional. And yet, I felt unsettled; maybe even faintly disappointed.
LIZZY: Yes, happy. You?
OLLY: Fair to moderate.
LIZZY: No chance of rain.
OLLY: There’ll be water enough in Venice.
LIZZY: Have you been before?
OLLY: No. You?
LIZZY: Yes.
OLLY: The unsinkable Lizzy Brinks. Are you going to the Architectural Open Day?
The Architectural Open Day had been scheduled a year in advance as part of a local festival.
There would be tours for members of the public, with some extra perks for friends and family of staff – a buffet lunch in the covered courtyard.
Resilience Needs staff had been invited, at the insistence of Esme who was, worryingly, starting to describe the two companies as ‘a family’.
This was a very big red flag for me. The moment a manager started describing their team as a family you knew some toxic shit was about to go down.
LIZZY: Yes, I’m going. Are you?
OLLY: Yes. Got to go now. Have a good Sunday.
I lobbed a string ball at Pebble and she dived on it triumphantly.
Outside the window it was a reasonably bright day for February.
I could go out for a walk. Do some shopping.
Read a book in the bath. Instead, I sat, in itchy indecision, wanting very much to message Olly again.
It was like trying to resist dessert when you were really, really hungry.
Things had changed in the last few weeks.
Before, I’d been a model of efficiency, even if my serene appearance was skin deep.
I’d been even. So why did I now feel so…
empty? So bored? So antsy? Why, even now, was my hand hovering over the phone, threatening to type a sarky quip in an attempt to draw Olly in, seemingly against my own free will?
Pebble had returned to me, bored of her toys. I picked her up and put her in my lap. She gazed up at me, a low purr emanating from her depths.
‘You’re very affectionate today,’ I said. ‘What should I do about Olly?’
She looked at me and I read no Olly-related insights there. Instead, she was definitely saying ‘set up my indoor water fountain for further playing’. So I did.
I abandoned the idea of going out, putting a ‘luxury’ ready meal in the microwave (roast dinner for one), then steamed some broccoli, and settled down to work on one of my inspiration scrapbooks.
The scrapbooks were stuffed full, now: one for the house, one for the garden.
By which I mean, of course, my imaginary house and garden.
In truth, the garden one had taken over a bit in the last year.
If I saw something I liked online, or in the monthly gardening magazine I subscribed to, I cut it out and pasted it in.
I also had an online vision board on the go.
I dreamed, really dreamed, of having an outside space one day: even if it was a tiny courtyard.
I imagined somewhere where I could grow flowers for the house and herbs for the kitchen.
It would be a kind of paradise, after years of living in a studio which mainly smelt of plug-in air freshener (currently on the go: Sea Minerals).
I noted how I could make a herb shelf using a discarded pallet, or create my own bee hotel.
By now I had enough scraps of inspiration to furnish a garden the size of a National Trust property.
Meanwhile, on my city windowsill, a pot of basil wilted and an African violet screamed please God, not more fumes.
The magazine also came with a free pack of seeds each month, and I popped the seeds into a shoebox under my bed.
Each January I would discard the ones that had passed their ‘plant by’ date, bidding farewell to California poppies, Nigella, and Foxgloves.
I’d always look through the ones left behind: the ones which I might plant, if something amazing happened.
Like if that premium bond my godmother had bought me came up trumps, or my occasional lottery ticket purchase delivered the goods.
I busied myself cutting out an image of a border peopled with Baby’s Breath and Alliums while Pebble splashed cheerfully in her water fountain.
The microwave pinged, and I dished out the food and settled down on the sofa.
When my phone buzzed, I paused, a forkful of broccoli mid-air.
It was Elena, another friend who I’d been close to in our twenties, and who was now happily coupled up with three kids.
ELENA: It’s Sunday and the kids are screaming and Derry has gone to play football and I am cleaning, actually cleaning, can you believe this is my life? Please tell me you are doing something exciting, L. I miss miss miss my single days. Tell me you are drinking champagne.
I put my fork down and approved her message with a heart.
LIZZY: That’s absolutely what I’m doing.
ELENA: Thank God, please drink more for me. Hang on, the chicken is burning.
I carried on eating, messaging app open beside me as I flicked through the magazines. She didn’t return to the phone.
I made a cup of coffee then opened a document I was working on, thoughts on how the policies of EKArts and Resilience Needs could interconnect. I had shared it with Olly and, as I started to type, I saw his initials appear on the screen. He was working on it, too.
I sat there, adding a sentence here and there, watching as our initials danced around each other, every small change, every new sentence, heartening me.
The document was like an embroidery we were each adding colours to.
I found myself wondering what he thought when I added a bullet point; smiled when he mistyped a word and deleted it.
Teams was open but we didn’t message each other.
We just kept working, quietly, in parallel.
Until finally, there was nothing to add.
I sat there for a minute or two, reading it all through.
Saw Olly’s initials disappear as he closed the document.
Then I closed it, too. My cup of coffee sat cold, on the table beside me.
It was the calmest I’d felt all weekend.