Chapter 21
I stand on the street outside Angie’s house trying not to cry. I tell myself that she’s not right, that she’s got everything twisted. I fire off a message to Max looking for validation.
You won’t believe what Angie just said to me
I pause, wondering how much of the conversation I can relay without including any of the stuff about him.
She implied that I am jealous of her lasagna dish
Not exactly, but close enough.
She is dead to me
DEAD
We are over. Finished. We will never speak again!!
. . . Please reply soon because I am quickly running out of friends
I’m not sure why, but I get on the tube. I have no idea where I’m going. Without thinking, I head to the Piccadilly line. Maybe I’ll finally ride it all the way to the end and learn what’s in Cockfosters.
As I sit aimlessly on the train, watching people get on and off around me, all with places to go and jobs to do and people to meet, my argument with Angie plays on a loop in my mind. Each time I find some new part of it to obsess over.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been on the train staring into space when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Max. I’m desperately relieved at the sight of his name. I get off at the next station so I can have consistent Wi-Fi, press the green button, and cradle the phone to my ear.
“Becks?”
“Max.” I lean against a wall.
“Where are you?”
“Uhhh . . .” I open my eyes and look around. “Arnos Grove?”
“Where the fuck is that?”
“Uhh . . .”
“Why don’t you go back to the flat?”
“Because Fran’s around today and I really didn’t want to impose. Honestly, it’s OK, thank you so much for everything, but I’ll find somewhere else.”
I expect him to tell me to go back to his place, that I’m being ridiculous, that Fran doesn’t mind, that it’s no imposition. But he says, “Come here.”
I close my eyes. Am I dreaming? Being at a random station in the middle of North London makes this conversation feel even more surreal. “Come here? You mean . . . Paris?”
“Yeah.”
I splutter. “I mean. I don’t really have the money . . .”
“I’ll get you a ticket.”
“Max, that’s generous but . . . I can’t accept that.”
“Ngeggggh. Sure you can. Work is paying for my accommodations and food, so everything else is free. You can stay with me. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
Max is such a good friend. The best. He’s always there when I’m having a shit time, distracting me and looking after me. But can I really just . . . go to Paris?
“It sounds like you’ve had a rough day,” he carries on when I don’t say anything. “Come on. We’ll have fun. Bitch about Angie over some snails.”
I laugh. My gut instinct is no, this is wild, who does this?
I have next-to-zero funds and no job and I’m hopping on a train to France?
It’s irresponsible, it’s reckless. I can practically feel my mother’s judgment breathing down my neck.
But then the freeing thought hits me . .
. She won’t know where I am. No one will.
No one else except Max cares where I am.
“I don’t know . . . ,” I say. “I was finally going to see Cockfosters.”
Max laughs. “No one sees Cockfosters unless they live in Cockfosters. You can’t just go around flouting sacred London rules.”
I smile. “OK,” I say. “OK. Yeah. I’ll be there.” There’s nowhere I should be, nothing I need to do, no one I owe anything to.
“I’ll send you the tickets and the directions to the hotel. Keep an eye on your emails.”
Max hangs up and I stare at my phone. Did we really just have that conversation? Is this really happening?
I can’t help the little voice whispering at the back of my mind. Is he asking me purely as a friend or is this a romantic invitation? A little part of me dares to hope the letter has made him see the light and he’s broken up with Fran.
My head is spinning with logistics. I don’t even have my clothes . . . or my passport?
Shit. My passport. Definitely going to need that. But everything is at Mum’s. There’s no way she’ll let me be so irresponsible . . .
Then I shake myself. What sort of self-respecting adult turns down a free trip to Paris with the love of their life because they’re too afraid to ask their mum for their passport?
I don’t have to have her permission. Even if I’m not dying tomorrow, I am not going to cower in a corner and let my life pass me by anymore. I begin the journey home.
When I arrive outside, I wonder about the etiquette here. Can I let myself in? I have my keys, but technically I don’t live here anymore. I guess I have to ring the bell?
I ring the bell. I already know Mum will be startled. She thinks anyone arriving after five p.m. is a burglar.
“Hello?” Her suspicious voice sounds over the intercom. “Who is it?”
“Mum, don’t worry . . . it’s me.”
There’s a shuffling. The intercom clicks off. For a moment I think she’s going to ignore me and leave me on the doorstep but then I see her big black boot and crutches appear through the window. She slowly makes her way to the front door and opens it.
I step inside. The familiar smell of home hits me like a comforting blanket and I breathe in deeply. I can hardly believe that just over a week ago I still lived here.
We both don’t say anything for a moment. Mum’s got her arms folded to keep her big cardigan wrapped around her.
“Well,” she says eventually. “I’m not happy with you, but there are clean towels in the bathroom and crumpets in the freezer. Why don’t we talk in the morning?”
It takes me a second to compute what she’s talking about, then I realize . . . She thinks I’ve come back.
“Oh, no, Mum,” I say quickly. “I’m just here for my stuff.”
Her face drops. She looks crestfallen, but she pulls it back. “Oh,” she says. “Fine.”
“I thought I wasn’t allowed to stay here?” I remind her. Only Mum would say I couldn’t come home and then get annoyed with me for not coming home.
“Well, I’m not going to leave my only child on the street, am I?” She tuts.
No. I guess not. I suppose I knew on some level that if it really came to it, Mum would let me back in. I knew deep down that I was the one staying away.
“I need my passport too,” I say, knowing it’s back in the safekeeping drawer after instructing Dami and Ang to replace it.
“Whatever for?” Mum raises her eyebrows.
“I . . .” I start panicking, scrabbling for an explanation.
Then I remind myself I don’t have to tell her anything.
I don’t live here anymore. And even if I did, I’m a grown woman, and really, we both know Mum needs to stop tracking my every move.
“I just want it,” I finish. It feels so wrong, but so good.
Mum’s face tightens but she doesn’t say anything else. She goes to the drawer where we store all our important bits and pieces and I take my cue to head upstairs.
My bedroom is just as I left it a few days ago. I take a moment to look around the room. My garish yellow walls, my Labyrinth poster, my albums, my fluffy toys. Every relic of Becky through the ages stares back at me and I can’t work out if they’re drawing me in or warding me away.
It’s quite convenient that I’ve got a suitcase ready and waiting to go. I pull it out from under the bed and think fondly of Dami and Angie shoving it under here for me to hide it from my mum.
Not wanting to linger too long in my room, I pull the suitcase to the door. I turn around for one last look and stare longingly at my bed. I mean, I don’t have to go. I could tell Max it’s too late, I changed my mind . . . Maybe I could even go tomorrow? I could just tuck up in my bed and . . .
My phone beeps. It’s Max with my tickets. My train leaves in three hours.
That’s that, then.
Downstairs Mum is waiting by the door. I know it’s killing her to not ask where I’m heading. As I leave I pull her into a big, deep hug. She’s stiff at first but then she softens and pats my back.
“I love you, Mum,” I say. Then, still half regretting leaving my bed behind, I step out into the night and begin my journey to King’s Cross.