THIRTY-ONE
Reilly
When I was a child, I spent countless hours searching for the end of the rainbow.
I wanted that pot of gold. It would make all my troubles go away.
I would dream of spending it on a big house with a swimming pool and a slide that went directly from my bedroom into the garden.
As I grew older, I dreamed of spending my pot of gold on tickets to see the Backstreet Boys, and my dream house also included my own personal McDonalds, like in Richie Rich.
As an adult, that magic pot of gold would buy Mum’s retirement and set myself up for the rest of my life.
Now, here I stand in my own pot of gold.
Reilly’s Bakes. As I paint the rainbow on the back wall, behind the counter of my bakery, I can feel life finally settling into place.
Everything I have worked towards, every burned cake and ruined pastry tart.
Every late night perfecting my craft, between business studies at university and evening baking courses, and scraping every extra penny I could earn.
I built my own rainbow to my pot of gold, but it wasn’t a perfect arch in the sky.
It’s been a long climb of dips and dives along the way. But every time, I clawed my way back.
“Sweetie, this is amazing. I am thrilled for you. You deserve all of this!” Mum gushes as she squeezes me tightly in a hug.
I am proud of myself. I truly am. I’m not so humble to admit it.
I have worked for this and owe everything I have achieved to myself.
My hard work, my time, my effort. And the unwavering support of my friends and family.
Who all insisted on spending their weekend painting with me.
Sarah cracks the wine open, but I refuse to partake until I’ve at least perfected the niggly bits.
Behind the counter, I have painted a huge rainbow that starts at the top left-hand corner and extends all the way across, ending at the other end of the wall, directly in front of my cupcake display.
The counter will be adorned in simmering gold and will hold my weekly cupcake special.
Dorothy is on her third glass of wine and sitting on a chair in the corner with Chip on her lap. She’s done next to no painting but did bring snacks, so she has been graciously forgiven.
“And not a man in sight. Perfection.” Dorothy gets slightly posh when she is drunk, but considering she was born and bred here in Bournemouth, she manages to hide her South West accent.
“You girls have it made these days! So much potential and freedom. I love it! Hold on to your choices, ladies. It’s the most important power you own.
No one, especially not men, should be able to tell you how to rule your time.
” Sarah cheers her glass, and Thea laughs with us all.
“Your dear mother raised you alone, with my expert help, obviously. She put everything into you, and that was her choice to do so. She could have thrown that bastard father of yours under the bus and demand that he be involved, but she chose freedom. Freedom to raise you as she saw fit. And what a mighty fine job she did.”
“Hear hear,” Mum agrees and they clink their glasses.
“You will find love one day, my darling. A love like I had with Trevor. But the fact that you girls put yourselves first before a love life. Well, it fills the feminist in me with sparkles.” Dorothy’s first husband, Trevor, died when her boys were young, and she caught her second husband cheating on her with their neighbour.
She threw his arse out and has sworn off men since.
She hiccups as she tops her glass up. It might be time to cut Dorothy off. Mum agrees as she scoops her up and kisses me gently on the cheek. She waves at Thea and Sarah, and they saunter off down the road to go home.
I thought I had found a great love. Yes, I had fallen in love with Elton.
And he shattered me. But I refuse to be held back by the foolishness of that man.
Do I feel lonely and let down? Yes. Do I feel unwanted and unworthy?
Absolutely. But I will not allow those feelings to rule me.
I will not let a man determine my self-worth.
These negative feelings are strong and keep trying to break through, but I am stronger, and I will fight them.
My subconscious is trying to drag me back to the dark place where my worth is established by outside forces instead of who I am deep down as a person.
When this happens, I have to stop. Catch my thought, dissect it, find where it has come from and find my alternative reality. Okay, yes. I may have been doing CBT therapy online recently.
I am more than a man, just as Mum was and just as my friends are. Dorothy is right. We have choices. I can choose to be sad and heartbroken. I can choose to let myself be dragged into a self-hatred spiral. Or I can choose to surge forward and put myself first.
But all that strength and self-love can quickly tumble as soon as his name is mentioned.
“Jeeves says Elton hasn’t been himself since that day,” Thea practically whispers to me, despite Mum now having left the premises.
Thea knew better than to bring him up in front of her; Mum would pitch a fit at Thea’s blatant attempts to get me to discuss what happened.
Thea is keen to get us together to try and work it out.
“She doesn’t care!” Sarah cuts in. “And why should she? He ended it. It’s his own fault if he’s all sad and gloomy.” I do care. I care every time I think of him. He’s not doing well, Neive tells me. She also tells me I shouldn’t care.
I tape my favourite picture of the three of us from our uni days onto the cupboard behind the counter, a reminder of who I can truly rely on in my life.
“Wow, look at us. So young and full of hope. When was that?” Thea asks, as she snaps a picture of the old Polaroid and saves it as her phone background.
“Second year, 2010 maybe?”
“We were so innocent,” she says, wistfully.
“None of us have ever been innocent,” Sarah reminds us.
“I say we were in 2010,” Thea protests. There’s a part of Thea that still is.
“I was dick deep in 2010,” Sarah tells us. She’s always been proud of her free sexual ways, but there’s something in her voice which shows a slight undercurrent of shame. Even the strongest of us aren’t immune to societal pressures.
“You can be innocent and chasing dick at the same time,” I tell her, squishing her little whorish cheeks. Sarah would never judge anyone for how they choose to spend their time, so she doesn’t get to demonise herself.
“Says who?” she scoffs.
“Feminism.”
She swats my hands away and carries on tidying now that we’ve finally finished sloshing paint on walls.
Thea mainly gets in the way as she goes into a tirade about double standards and how it all links back to the Salem witch trials and the phasing out of pockets in women’s clothes.
I don’t know what I’d do without these two.
As we lock up for the night, I take in my surroundings. This is the perfect place for my bakery, right on the high street between the posh dress agency and the funny little antique shop. High foot traffic and the right customer base.
The road is a constant stream of traffic, so I want to make sure the front of the shop stands out. It should be light blue. Between the burgundy of the dress agency and the black of the antique shop, it will pop.
I hug the girls and head left towards my parked car, but I’m frozen in my tracks as I spot the familiar shape of the Range Rover sitting idle in a parking bay near the shop.
Eyes forward, Reilly, head high, stride strong and with purpose.
I make it past but a door slams behind me. My eyes close in response. If I can’t see him, he can’t see me, right?
“Reilly?” His voice is strained, hoarse. A shiver runs down me, it’s just the cold wind. I pull my coat around me tighter.
I can’t turn, I’ll break. All my strength will crumble apart. He’ll be able to drag me back and ruin me all over again.
“Reilly, please.” I can feel him now, his presence behind me.
I am silent. What does he want me to say?
He remains behind me, which I am grateful for. If I see him right now, I’ll crack. I would beg for him to take me back. And I can’t do that.
“Can we talk, Reilly? Can I explain?”
I don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. I choose not to respond to this situation. I walk away and don’t look back. My choice. I will stay strong.