Chapter 37
JOSIE
I set off next morning straight after breakfast, with the hopefully non-controversial cuddly llama in my bag. Realising it’s too early to visit, I take an indirect route, dawdling with a takeaway coffee and watching the ducks on the lake in the park.
Yesterday – my first day home – was a bit of a write-off.
Post-cleaning and mustering the courage to call the bookshop, I’d spent most of it alternating between Shane’s Instagram and our Polaroids, and was determined that, from now on, I’d structure my days and be purposeful.
And this had seemed like a great idea, when I’d set off.
However, as I near Cora’s flat, it occurs to me that I’m not thinking straight.
I haven’t been, really, since I came back to London.
Is it the Shane business, or the lingering effects of coming off the pills?
See another GP, my friends keep telling me.
See someone who’ll listen and understand.
But perhaps this is just me now? Impetuously calling the shop when Rupert sacked me (I think), and about to turn up at Cora’s with no prior warning, with an unapproved cuddly toy? Better message her, I decide.
Josie
Hi love, back from trip. What are you up to today?
Cora
Hi Mum! Just hanging out at home.
I study it for a moment. A quick visit won’t hurt, I tell myself.
To show them that I come in peace, I take a small detour to a fancy little deli I’ve been to before.
But as it’s closed, I have to make do with an ordinary mini-market where there’s nothing terribly posh – nothing of Cora and Zack’s standards anyway.
Gripped by indecision, I roam the two short aisles and select a small box of milk chocolates and a bunch of tulips, streaked like raspberry ripple ice cream.
And then, because I think my offerings look a bit cheap, I do that thing of piling on more items – a packet of salty crackers, a tin of olives and for some reason a pineapple – in a quantity-over-quality approach.
As I arrive at Cora’s smart, leafy street, I remember that I haven’t actually told her I’m coming. Wondered if I could pop over? I message her. Just for a quick hello?
I stand, waiting, pressed up against the brick wall.
You mean now? I can sense the agitation radiating off her.
Yes, just in the area, love. What would I be doing ‘in the area’ other than coming to see her? Promise I won’t stay long! I add.
I wait. Minutes pass and then: Mum, we’re a bit caught up at the moment. Poppy v colicky. See you soon, I promise!
I stare at the message and then look down the street, towards Cora’s place. I check the time – 12.04 p.m. – and wonder how I’m going to fill the day. Then something catches my eye.
The main door to Cora’s building has opened.
A cluster of people are chattering jovially as they descend the short flight of steps to the street.
All booming voices and hugs, these four adults are clearly at ease with one another.
‘Thanks so much!’ That’s Zack, addressing the older couple.
They are his parents, I realise now – whom I’ve only met a handful of times.
Martine and Douglas Bleasdale who have an enormous house on the Kent coast.
‘Any time, darling!’ his mother calls back. ‘You know we love staying over. It’s such a wonderful change for us.’
‘You’ve really helped us out,’ Cora announces, and I can see her beaming smile, even from here.
I shrink backwards, wishing that the brick wall would suck me in, along with my flimsy carrier bag of cheap crackers and flowers and a stupid pineapple.
A car door closes. ‘Bye!’ Zack calls out, and the engine starts and off they go. Zack and Cora, with the baby in a front-loading carrier, disappear back inside.
I turn and walk towards the Tube, my heart thumping and my eyes flooding ridiculously.
Outside the station I toss the carrier bag into a bin where it lands with a thud.
I’m crying silently as I stand there on the pavement.
Crying like an idiot who’s lost all control of herself.
What am I doing? I want a cigarette – and I gave up smoking nearly thirty years ago!
Christ, no wonder they don’t want me around the baby.
No wonder they’ve never asked me to stay over and look after Poppy, although I’ve offered.
Did they think I’d ransack their booze cupboard and break their rain shower?
‘We just feel she’s still a bit young, Mum,’ Cora explained, ‘to be left with someone else.’ Someone else!
Someone who turns up with a cuddly llama from a market stall.
It’s probably not even made from natural fibres.
I should have checked. Peering into my shoulder bag, I glimpse its fur, aware of a sharp pang as I remember Shane being there when I bought it.
What is he doing now? Why hasn’t he messaged me?
I’m gripping my phone, trying to calm myself down as I scroll through my contacts. I need to talk to someone – Shane, really! – and stop when I see my local surgery’s number. Without thinking, I call it.
The holding music has changed since last time.
Someone must have thought that a banging beat, distorted by feedback, would be more soothing than the classical music they used to have.
You are number 8,627 in the queue… That’s what I’m expecting, all revved up for a fight.
The sudden human voice startles me. My God – an actual person!
‘I’d like to make an appointment with a doctor,’ I say quickly.
‘We have nothing left for today,’ the woman says.
Of course, I expected that too. You have to call, on the nail, at 8.
30 a.m. One second over and you have no hope.
In a splurge, it comes out: how I stopped taking my pills and don’t know whether to go back on them.
How that doctor I saw last time, I’m not sure he was the right person for me – at least, if there’s someone else I could see—
‘Oh, we have a dedicated weekly clinic now,’ she cuts in smoothly, ‘with a specially trained female doctor.’
I blink as a fat pigeon lands on top of the bin. ‘Oh!’
‘If you go on our website,’ she continues, ‘you can book yourself in.’
I thank her, still a little taken aback, and head down into the station.
The train approaches and something switches in me.
I don’t want to go home. What would I do there?
Sit and stare at my new shelves? Take a hammer to them and smash them to bits?
Or, more likely, arrange my numerous trinkets on them? (No, Cora, I do not like clean lines!)
No, I decide, I won’t do that. Instead, I cross to the opposite platform and take a train to Holborn.
From there, I march along the street, feeling somehow lighter, towards a specialist shop I’ve never been to before.
I know it, of course – everyone does. Established 1830, the sign says.
Umbrellas * Walking Canes * Shooting Sticks.
For a minute or so, I hover outside, wondering if this is the right thing to do. Then a smartly dressed woman comes out and holds the door open for me. ‘Thanks.’ I smile and step inside and gaze around at the display-cases, bewildered by the array of patterns and styles.
‘Can I help you?’ asks a wiry young man with a slick moustache.
I clear my throat and try to stand a little taller. ‘I just wondered,’ I say, ‘if you have a man’s umbrella in a burgundy tartan, with a maple handle?’