Chapter Twenty-Four
As I step off the train, I breathe in the current of sea air that washes over me. It’s salty, sharp and damp – just the way I like it. It’s been raining here too. Although the sky is clear above me, there are dark patches of cloud far off in the distance, the wind is thick with humidity. It coats my face, my hair, my forearms.
The walk to Mum’s is only a short distance up a gradual hill. Seaford is mostly comprised of apartment blocks overlooking the sea, or else Edwardian semi-detached houses. Mum lives in a red-brick, three bed with a charming bay window downstairs. There’s a willow tree on her driveway, the roots fighting an unrelenting battle with the concrete. Her front door is bright blue, and although it isn’t the house I grew up in, they sold that shortly after their divorce, it’s still the place I’ve been coming back to every birthday, Christmas and long weekend. It certainly feels more like home than my horrible room in London.
I exhale slowly as it comes into view. Some of the stress dissipates, as my shoulders instinctively relax.
I don’t have to knock on the door, I have a key. I let myself in and call for Mum. She knew I was coming. It’s Doris who finds me first, Mum’s rescue collie, bursting down the wooden stairs, her claws clacking loudly as her wriggly body wiggles around me. I bend down to pat her as she licks my legs and hands.
“Oh, Flissity,” Mum says fondly, following closely behind, pulling me in for a hug. She’s so like me in physicality. Now that she’s gone back to dyeing her hair the same colour as mine it’s merely a few more wrinkles she has to contend with. I’m only about an inch taller than her, despite my dad being somewhat of a giant.
“So, you did it,” she says, walking through the house to the kitchen at the back and putting the kettle on.
“I did. It was the right thing to do,” I say, as I follow her, feeling a little defensive.
She has her back to me, her long grey cardigan falling to her knees. Using her spoon to squeeze the teabag against the side of the mug, she makes a sniffy sound before turning to face me with a frown.
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“What makes you say it like that?”
“Well, it’s hard to know with you sometimes. You always manage to avoid talking about yourself. I don’t want to intrude. It’s just that I thought you liked the job.”
I almost laugh. She can’t be serious. The reason I rarely talk about me is because she’s so busy talking about herself and her own problems. She can complain for hours on end about the men in the town, or lack thereof. I’ve heard her ramble on about slugs eating her tomato plants for a whole hour before. I don’t get a chance.
“I think you have enough of your own problems without mine to worry about on top.”
Mum sighs. “You think I don’t know you have stuff going on?”
“I’m honestly not sure.”
“I know how it must be for you. I just assumed you had someone else to talk to about it all.”
“Like who?”
“Your housemates?”
“They’re all busy with their own lives. To be honest, Mum, I’ve been pretty lonely in London. And if I’m being honest,” I say, “it hasn’t turned out like I thought it would.”
“You’ve been there six years. You’ve been lonely the whole time?”
“I’m not sure, really. It’s not all bad memories. Actually, it’s something I’ve been trying to figure out. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve sleepwalked through it all. Worked myself so hard, pushing through long hours and full weekends with no rest in between because I was actually just lonely. It was a distraction, I guess. And all the time I thought I was doing this amazing job. Like I was somehow irreplaceable. But that’s just not true, is it? Some sorry sod will probably step into my shoes next week and be suckered into doing the same tricks as me.”
“You’re not a sorry sod. You enjoyed your job, even if only a little. And you’ll be able to use that experience to get another, won’t you? Do you have a plan, darling?”
I massage my eyebrows slowly. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll look at new jobs later. I have some savings.”
“I think the fresh air will do you good. Give you a chance to think.”
I nod, staring at the milky tea. “I’ve been set on one path, one plan, for so long, not expecting to deviate from that plan, that this all feels a bit… disorientating.”
“Then take a few weeks,” she says, with a warm smile. “Have a think about what comes next. Where you see yourself in a few years. Reassess. And whilst you’re here, Susie’s son is back from America. You should pop in and see him.”
I frown. Is she really trying to set me up right now?
“No, thanks. What I need right now is space.”
“Well, fine, but no one’s getting any younger.” She winks.
I give Mum a look that says, don’t you dare try that line on me . She presses her lips together in surrender. “Anyway, did you tell the boy at work you were leaving?”
“He’s hardly a boy, Mum. He’s thirty-two.”
She shrugs. “That’s still sort of a boy to me.”
“No, I didn’t. I just packed my bag and left. I didn’t want to make a scene.”
“That’s very like you,” she says. “Won’t he be a bit upset you didn’t say goodbye?”
“I doubt it. He’s trouble, Mum. Honestly, I should never have gone there. It was as if I was under some sort of spell.”
“That’s a good sign though.”
“How can that be a good sign?”
“Well, if he was a dullard, you’d have been very aware of it. Clearly, if you were enchanted, you were happy and relaxed with him. Isn’t that right?”
I pull a face wondering if I want to get into the intimate details about this with my mother. It’s not very like us. In fact, it’s strange to have her asking me questions at all. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do hold back or come across as closed off.
“Well… It felt… right, I guess. At the time at least.”
Mum hums, nodding, as if she is proving a point.
“What?” I demand.
“And you decided not to pursue it with him? Why is that?”
“Because…” We never got on before, so why would one intense week change that? We would both end up hurting each other. And I was right. He was made director this morning. And he knew the whole time. He let things get heated knowing he would inevitably hurt me, and that I would be working for him. We would have been at each other’s throats constantly.
I shake my head. No, it was right to leave it the way I did. To give him the space to do what he wants to do with Starr. If that place turns into a giant money-making machine, then it’s what Michael has recruited him to do.
Then there’s the anger and hurt still lingering right below the surface of my skin. How could he let things happen whilst hiding something the whole time? Where is his conscience? Such a prick! Honestly. How could I be so stupid to fall for him?
I look at Mum. “Turns out he was a lying prick.”
She rolls her eyes. “Aren’t they all.”
And just like that we’re back to Mum’s world of dating men in their fifties. It’s a horror show, and quite frankly not something I want to listen to. I finish my tea and excuse myself to get settled in the guest room.
“What do you fancy for dinner?” Mum calls as I walk up the stairs, Doris on my heels, click-clack-clicking against the varnished wood.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“I’ll pop to Morrisons. You’ll eat me out of the house if I don’t.”
“I’ll chip in for groceries!” I call.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says as she walks to the front door, reusable bags in hand.
*
My bedroom, or I should say the guest bedroom I regularly assume as my own, is light and airy with a window that twinkles thanks to the damp leaves shimmering outside. I place my bags down as Doris makes herself comfortable on the end of the bed. She tends to hang out with the guests whenever there’s a visitor. Drives Mum potty.
I take a deep shuddering breath as my body wilts into the bee-embroidered pillows, my head resting against the headboard. The pastel-pink walls have a surprisingly calming effect. One by one, I feel my muscles softening, my heart and lungs slowing. I’m finally alone. Except for Doris that is, but she won’t judge me. I’m safe where I can feel all the feelings that have been trying to swamp me these past few hours. For some reason my cheeks are getting damp, as if I’m uncontrollably crying.
And when I reach up to touch them, I realise I am. A sob escapes too. My chest feels tight, the pressure expanding across my abdomen, my arms and up to my throat.
It’s a familiar feeling, the feeling you get when you’ve done something wrong. The only issue is I can’t pinpoint what, exactly. It’s not the job, I’m happy with my decision. I can do all the things I loved there somewhere else, somewhere willing to pay me what I’m owed, somewhere I have a sense of work-life balance.
Maybe I’m just overwhelmed? This time last week I was packing for a team-building trip to Scotland. It’s all been so much. So very much. And in such a short space of time. It’s the image of James that’s welling me up. I keep picturing him sitting in the stream the morning after the tent incident. The way his hair had gone all flat and messy. How his smile was warm, yet tired. How he’d gone out of his way on so many occasions to keep me cosy, safe and even patched up when needed.
Was any of it real? Because a lot of it felt real. Am I really so incapable of reading people, I somehow got it all wrong? The truth is that I’m angry with James. There’s no way he didn’t know about the director role. It was probably discussed on their way over. I suck in a breath. He was looking for the note after I read it out loud right at the start and he didn’t say anything. He could’ve told me then. But he chose not to.
And yet, the unmistakeable heat between us. It spurs on the urge for me to call him and fight it out.
I push the heels of my hands into my eyes. Even if he hadn’t withheld that information, it was never going to work. We were suffering severely from last-two-people-at-the-end-of-the-world disease. Even he admitted it, too. He agreed. He’s probably going to go back to his serial dating again.
What if he already has?
Doris’s wet nose nudges into my chin where she’s crept up alongside my body. I roll over to cuddle her as more tears wet my pillow.
I can’t actually be missing him, can I?
This is a trauma response, surely. Why would I be crying over missing Gloatman? Is that really what I’m doing? Something painful rips through the core of me. I feel myself coming undone. I’m no longer Fliss Rainer, Head of Marketing, and I’m no longer James’ Felicity. It’s all vanished in a matter of days.
I gasp air like I’m going to run out of the stuff.
It will fade, I tell myself. It has to fade.
I’m about to close my eyes, let myself fall into a tearful slumber for a while when my phone vibrates. I take it out my pocket and squint as I unlock the screen. A text has come through.
Where did you go? Can we talk? James has written.
Biting my lip, I ponder on how to respond or whether to respond at all. He’s gotten everything I always wanted. He knew he was going to get it but didn’t tell me. I’m so mad with him I don’t even know what to say back. I’m hurt. Deceived. And yet, not entirely surprised.
Would I have told him if the tables were turned? I decide to reply but only to get him to leave me alone.
I left.
When you back? he types back instantly.
My pulse quickens, I can feel it hard in my throat when I swallow. I write never but then delete it. I put my phone on silent, close my eyes and wallow into my pillow. No good will come of speaking to him right now. He’ll ask too many questions, questions I don’t have the answers to.