Chapter 7
After assuring Bronte that I was a professional ‘fixer’, I could absolutely sort my own life out, I then proceeded to spend the rest of the week sliding further into a complete mess.
I did go to the doctor on Tuesday. She reassured me the lump was most likely nothing but would refer me to the clinic at the Nottingham Breast Institute just in case.
Thankfully, the early appointment meant I avoided a busy waiting room, and with a self-check-in machine, the hood pulled up on my sweatshirt and a mask left over from the pandemic, I managed to escape any unwanted attention.
Dr Bashak asked me what my job was, clearly oblivious to my TV award scandal, so I simply said I ran a consultancy firm and left it at that.
I was irrationally disappointed that Will wasn’t there, but put that down to my unnervingly fragile state.
Not wanting to risk being seen anywhere else, I ordered a food shop using my online app and supplemented this with the one takeaway outlet prepared to deliver this far out.
The only time I dressed and left the house was to walk Ernest, and one morning I did that wearing pyjamas under my raincoat.
I kept my phone and laptop turned on but at a distance, and after a couple of days, the once-constant ping of messages petered out, leaving a silence that was both wonderful and merciless.
What am I going to do?
I tried to think what I’d tell a client in this situation. This question covered both the vastness of an empty future and whether I had the energy to find the TV remote, which had bounced beneath the sofa.
Give it time.
I knew I needed to grieve, process, recalibrate. To rest.
And it turned out that once I’d followed up with my current clients, formally releasing them from our contracts, time was now something I had bucketloads of.
What do you want to do? Fixer Alex asked Broken Alex.
I thought about this.
Don’t overthink it! Go with what comes straight into your head.
I wanted to sleep, I decided. To read straightforward, predictable, gorgeous stories about happy-ever-afters with no hint of guilt about ‘wasting’ a whole day. I wanted to make soup and maybe even teach myself to bake bread. To sip peppermint tea while watching squirrels out of the window.
To reply to every silly meme or acrylic nails photo Bronte sent me with a proper message, not a rushed laughing emoji or a heart. To send her a picture back.
To learn to embrace the silence, the stillness and simplicity. To find the courage to consider who I was going to be, now, and how to do that.
Alongside all this, I felt a powerful urge to walk.
My ‘expert’ brain knew that moving forwards boosted brain activity, creativity and problem-solving.
Instead of the gym treadmill, Broken Alex craved the crunch of fallen leaves beneath my feet.
I wanted to breathe in the scent of damp trees and distant bonfires while the November breeze pinched at my nose and ears, making my eyes water.
I couldn’t get enough of the autumn palette of orange and gold, umber earth and scarlet berries.
Tipping back my head to gaze at the pale sky and drenching myself in crisp, cold air became my daily prescription.
Walking somewhere I didn’t have to be, with no nagging pressure that something, someone, was waiting for me, that there were other, important things needing my attention, was a revelation.
I had always thought that time off work would be my downfall. As if it would turn out that having nothing constructive to do, nothing to prove, no one to prove it to would reveal me to be worthless. As if all my value was in my business.
To my surprise and delight, it turned out I didn’t especially care.
Having ruined it all with one mistimed speech didn’t take away from everything that had gone before it, all I had achieved. And, at the end of the day, I’d survived a whole lot worse.
I concluded that Broken Alex would mend. Losing my clients, my boyfriend, potentially my health, did not mean I was losing at life, as I’d declared to millions of people.
However, it didn’t mean I wasn’t excruciatingly lonely.
A grim realisation when I’d just become national news fodder.
Given my lifelong issues, how could I possibly trust anyone’s motives for wanting to be my friend, now?
I was still pondering that problem when Ernest and I were caught in a rainstorm.
It was a Thursday, almost two weeks since my infamous award speech, and on our morning dog walk I’d taken a turn-off through the forest that led towards Bigley, the large village bordering the country park.
I usually crossed paths with a few other dog walkers or the occasional jogger, but with my hat and scarf on, unwashed hair and no make-up, no one seemed to recognise me – or if they had, they didn’t care.
I’d had a sudden craving for carrot cake.
Until a fortnight ago, I hadn’t eaten cake in years and in the new era of me spontaneously doing what I wanted, partly prompted by a letter arriving from the Nottingham City Hospital Breast Institute, I decided to brave the bakery in Bigley’s small shopping precinct.
However, as we approached the edge of the village, the ominous black clouds I’d been ignoring for the past mile or so swiftly whooshed in over our heads. The sky went dark, the air crackling with pre-storm energy. As the first fat drops plopped on the leaves above us, Ernest let out a whimper.
Within seconds, the downpour was torrential. A wind appeared out of nowhere, whipping up the leaves and fallen branches, causing the trees to howl in protest.
Ernest stopped dead, his tiny body trembling, and when the first peal of thunder boomed, he tried to bolt.
Thankfully, I’d put his lead on a few moments earlier, but the poor dog was beside himself.
I quickly assessed my options. The forest might offer some shelter from the rain, but it was risky to be under a tree if there was any lightning.
Besides, it was almost an hour to get home even if I wasn’t carrying a dog.
The bakery was only a few minutes away; we could loiter in there until the worst of the weather passed.
Plus, then I got my cake. I’d buy Ernest a sausage roll to cheer him up.
Decision made, I picked up the dog and hurried out of the treeline and down the footpath leading past the first row of cottages towards the centre of Bigley.
The rain was now angled straight into my face, making it impossible to see properly.
I lost my hat in a particularly strong gust and felt the first ripple of panic that this might be the kind of country storm that proved dangerous.
Another crack of thunder bellowed what felt like mere metres above our heads, immediately accompanied by a flash of lightning.
Ernest squealed in protest, trying frantically to scrabble inside my coat.
I’d have happily zipped him up in there if he could fit.
A huge branch clattered past, swiftly followed by a plastic crate and some smaller pieces of debris.
The main street was completely deserted, all sounds drowned out by the moaning wind and rain beating down. It felt like Armageddon.
I tried to swallow back my fear, leant into the gale and pressed on, determined to get my dog safely inside the shop.
When a wheelie bin crashed into the parked car I was battling past, adrenaline took over, and I virtually threw us through the door of the nearest establishment.
It was like entering a new dimension, as the door slammed shut behind me, instantly muffling the storm’s scream. I had to squint against the electric lights, dropping Ernest as he fought to get free now we were safely indoors.
‘Ay up,’ a woman with a strong Nottinghamshire accent said, handing me a napkin, which I hastily used to mop my face. ‘I’m guessing you could do with a mug of summat steamy and a slice of summat sweet.’
As my vision cleared, I took in the small café. A couple of the tables had been pushed together in the middle, and a large counter displaying an array of baked goods was on one side and two battered, ugly armchairs on the other.
Sitting around the pushed-together tables were three more people, all of whom were ogling me with such delight I felt instantly on guard.
The one who’d spoken – a short woman with a buzz cut who wore an apron over leggings and a horrible pink jumper that made her look uncannily like a doughnut – scooped up my dog with an ‘oof’ and started rubbing him with a towel.
Ernest’s tongue lolled out as he gave me a look that appeared to say, ‘why have you never done this?’
‘Oh my, come and sit down, get out of that coat,’ another woman, maybe in her forties, said, waving me over.
Deciding this was the only reasonable option until the storm subsided, I peeled off my sopping-wet raincoat and draped it over a nearby chair.
‘Here, take a seat,’ the woman entreated in an accent I couldn’t place. Maybe Russian, or somewhere close to it. ‘We’re so pleased to have someone new join us.’
My first question was why someone new coming into the café was worth commenting upon. Bigley wasn’t that small a village. Then I noticed the large plates, one bearing a few chunks of tiffin, the other slices of fruit loaf. There was also a giant teapot and jug of water.
These people were here as a group.
I hesitated, reluctant to get drawn into whatever this was. Did I have the option to sit by myself, as if this was a normal café? The last thing I wanted was a conversation – revealing my name could be enough for someone to make the connection.