Chapter 1 #3
I need to not cry, because if I start, I might not be able to stop. I scrunch my eyelids up, and unclench the tense fists my hands have clawed into. I take a few deep breaths, and think about Ross Poldark scything in the sunshine. Don’t judge – everyone has their happy place.
I suppose I must drift off. I certainly don’t hear my daughter talking to me until her voice is reaching levels of righteous indignation that suggest she’s been saying the word ‘Mum!’ for a while.
I drag myself back into reality, groggy and hot. The book of sonnets is on the floor, and my eyelashes are wet against my cheeks. I seem to have been sleep-crying, which is one of the most tragic things I have ever heard.
‘Mum, for fuck’s sake!’ Beth growls as I rouse myself.
I open my mouth to reprimand her for her language, but before I can speak she stands up, hands on hips, eyes glittering in the dimly lit room.
She’s even more upset than she was earlier, and I have no idea what’s going on.
To be fair, I also have drool on my chin. I’m not at my most astute.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, rubbing at my eyes.
‘You’re what’s wrong!’ she yells, so agitated she’s almost jogging on the spot. ‘I needed to talk to you, and you just fell asleep! For ages!’
‘You needed to talk to me?’ I echo. She’d shown no sign at all of wanting that, and I suspect this little drama is just the latest of her attempts to blame me for the way she is feeling.
Her dad has kicked her in the teeth, emotionally speaking, and now that’s rolling right downhill in my direction.
Just as she’s mid-tirade about what a terrible mother I am, my phone starts ringing.
I glance down at it on the table, skittering with the vibrations, and see John Marshall’s name flashing up on the screen. My boss. It stops momentarily, but then starts again straight away, as does Beth. Everyone is yelling at me, and my head hurts, and I’m sad, and I hate the whole bloody world.
‘Enough!’ I say firmly to my daughter. ‘Stop shouting at me, okay? It’s not fair!’
‘It’s not fair?’ she repeats, parodying my tone. ‘What are you, twelve? It’s not fair that I’m stuck here with you, instead of in New York! It’s not fair that neither of my parents wants me around!’
‘That’s not true, Beth, and you know it. Your dad loves you. I love you. I love spending time with you!’
Right now, that’s a colossal lie – and she knows it. She shakes her head, tears of anger and frustration pouring down her cheeks. She points at the still ringing phone and says: ‘Yeah? Then why are you still working, when we’re supposed to be on holiday?’
‘I’m still working because this was last minute. I’m still working because it’s my job, and it’s important, and I have responsibilities. And besides, I’ve been doing most of it while you’ve been asleep…’
This is true, and it’s one of the reasons I’m so very tired right now.
It doesn’t wash with Earthquake Beth, who is escalating to ten on the Richter scale.
She picks up one of the books – The Real World of Macbeth – and throws it with all her force.
It pirouettes in the air, then slams down onto the table, bounces, and thuds to the floor.
It’s a hefty book, and it takes my phone with it.
We both stare as the phone somersaults, slams down, a huge crack spreading across the screen.
Beth is horrified, all the colour fading from her cheeks.
She has injured a phone, which is pretty much a religious icon in her world.
Her eyes go wide, and she whispers: ‘Oh my God… oh Mum, I’m so sorry!
’ She scampers to the floor and picks it up, examining the damage. It looks terminal, and my heart sinks.
‘It’s okay,’ I tell her. ‘It’s just a phone.’
She glances up at me, devastated. ‘I’ll… uh, I’ll buy you a new one?’
I bite back a laugh. Beth is constantly strapped for cash, blowing her allowance on eyeliner and Y2K tops from Vinted every month. But still, it’s a peace offering. She sits down next to me, and I pat her hand to comfort her. ‘All right. It’s a deal. But I should mention that phone cost ￡860…’
That’s not true, but it’s worth the fib to see her shock. ‘It didn’t,’ I add, putting her out of her misery. ‘And I’m not angry…’ Another fib, but the insurance will cover it if needed. ‘All right? Now, what did you want to talk to me about?’
She sinks back into the sofa, all the fight drained from her. It’s like she’s a balloon that’s been popped. She stares at her knees for a while, obviously embarrassed as well as sorry, and my brain immediately sees her as a five-year-old again.
‘It really is okay,’ I reassure her. ‘And I really do love you.’
‘Yeah?’ she asks, a flicker of a smile finding its way onto her lips. ‘So does that mean you’re not going to call the cops on me?’
‘Not this time. I’ll let you off with a caution. Reset, okay? For both of us. Let’s start over.’
‘Second chance?’ she asks, looking hopeful. Huh, I think – more like seventeenth today, but I nod and go with it.