by Lucy Diamond
‘Oh no,’ said Eve sympathetically. ‘That’s all you need.’
‘It’s his ex, too,’ Jo said in a low voice. ‘I haven’t met her, it’s just . . .’ She shrugged unhappily. ‘Maisie’s always going on about how amazing she is, compared to me. I’ve seen photos and she’s like super-glam and super-beautiful, worst luck. I can’t help feeling intimidated. What with that, and Maisie playing up – there’s all this baggage. I keep wondering if I’m . . . good enough.’
Laura should have known. Jo had always had a bit of a downer on herself about the way she looked. There had been some girls who’d called her Ginger Biscuit for the entire five years of secondary school, even when Jo dyed her hair black in an attempt to shut them up. (A terrible mistake; not only did the shade leave her skin looking positively vampiric, but the girls had switched to calling her Ginger Pubes instead, which wasn’t exactly something she could disprove.) Maybe this was the reason behind all the posh new clothes and make-up, Laura thought now with a pang. ‘Yeah, but so what? He’s binned his ex, she’s in the past. She can’t have been that great,’ she said hotly. ‘And you’re lovely. You’re fabulous.’
‘You are loyal and funny and kind and gorgeous,’ India added without pausing for breath.
‘And he wants to be with you,’ Eve put in. ‘That’s got to count for something.’
‘You can always stay at mine, if you need space,’ Laura reminded her, wondering if Jo was regretting having moved in with Rick so quickly. It had been so out of character for her sister to make such a blind, reckless leap in the first place. I just want to be with someone though, she had confessed to Laura in a moment of self-doubt. Is it wrong, that I just want to be with someone?
‘I’m being silly, it’s fine,’ Jo said, smiling brightly at them all just then. ‘I’m glad you like him, anyway. Who wants another drink?’
It was only later on, when Laura was back home and in her pyjamas, spooning mint-choc-chip ice cream from the tub in front of the telly that she realized she’d forgotten to ask her sister about the dizzy spells. Being related to a nurse came in very handy if you ever had a funny little health quirk, especially when Jo was usually so solidly reassuring about everything.
The weird dizziness had happened twice now: once on the tram home from work, where Laura was standing in the usual crush of people, and once – bizarrely – in her own shower. On the tram, the sensation had come over her with terrifying speed: this strong, frightening certainty that she was about to faint, right there amidst the crowd. Her knees had buckled. Her vision kept going in and out of focus, with black spots flickering before her eyes. She’d broken out into a sweat, her mouth dry, her brain flooded with panic, and had had to get off a stop early, hoping that fresh air would make her feel better. She’d sat down on a bench for about fifteen minutes, scared that she was about to pass out or vomit or both, wishing she could just call Matt to come and get her, until at last the feeling started to fade and she was able to walk slowly home. Then, in the shower the other morning, it had happened again, and she must have blacked out for a second that time, because suddenly she was crumpled at the bottom of the cubicle in a pool of water with no memory of getting there, the showerhead still spraying down on her like rain, her coccyx one painful ache where she’d jarred it in the fall.
It was unnerving, having your body flake out on you like that. Alarming. Was it just the stress of her husband leaving her, or was something badly wrong? You heard such awful stories about people walking around with undiagnosed brain tumours like ticking time-bombs, who then collapsed and died, completely out of the blue. She couldn’t stop thinking about what would have happened if she’d banged her head and fallen unconscious in the shower – or even died, with that massive brain tumour she was now obsessing about – and just how long her body would have lain there, naked and numb, the water gently pattering down. Of all the ways to go, it would be typical Laura to have such an embarrassing end to her life. As it was, she’d crawled out of the cubicle onto the bathmat and had curled up there for a moment or two, feeling shaken and scared. Oh, Matt, she’d thought, her heart pounding, feeling the sadness grip her all over again. He’d always looked after her when she felt ill; he’d have sent her back to bed and brought her a cup of tea if she’d told him she’d just fainted, he’d have worn that concerned expression that always made her feel so cosily cared for. Curled foetally on a bathmat, shivering alone and wondering what the hell just happened, was really not the same.
She spooned another lump of ice cream onto her tongue, cool and minty, wondering what he was doing tonight, all those miles north in his new start. Was it pathetic of her that she missed him more than ever at this sort of moment, when she was worried about herself and feeling a bit needy? She’d phoned him to tell him about the tram incident, just wanting to talk through the experience as much as anything because it had been so peculiar, but he’d been quite short with her. Uninterested, in fact. He’d actually said, ‘Laura . . . you can’t keep doing this’ as if she was constantly badgering him about trivial things, when she’d only rung him a few times since he’d moved. (Well, all right. Maybe slightly more than a few times. Drunk, occasionally. Also, quite late at night. But she was trying not to, okay? She was trying her hardest. He didn’t have to sound quite so off hand with her, just because she was a human being and had feelings!) ‘I think we need to move on with our own lives,’ he had said at the end, all curt and – yes! – even quite exasperated too, and she’d felt so hurt, so told-off by him, that she’d hung up and burst into tears.
She hadn’t rung him once since then. Not even a text when she couldn’t remember where he’d put the house-insurance details, when the account came up for renewal. She had deleted his mobile number from her phone so that she wouldn’t be tempted, in a weak moment. If silence was what he wanted, then fine, she’d give him silence. If all those years of marriage meant nothing to him, then he could jog on. All the same, it wasn’t easy.
Still, apart from the fainting and the over-eating – she put the lid on the ice cream and moved it away from her, along the coffee table – Laura was just about keeping her head above water in this new single way of life, all things considered. The key seemed to be setting her own expectations very, very low, as if she were an invalid, weak and feeble, who could barely do a thing for herself. Well done, Me, she praised herself as she made it into work on time each morning, rewarding herself with a frothy latte from the coffee bar downstairs for her effort. Good going, Me, she thought as she forced herself out to Pilates with India, rather than sloping off straight home to her sofa. Great work, Me, she congratulated herself as she dredged up her most professional, smiling face in order to endure another focus-group session, this time with a bunch of exhausted new mums, even though the jealousy she felt was enough to make her want to double over and howl.
She was coping, hauling herself grimly through every hour, every day, despite the occasional blip. It had been a nightmare trying to cancel the summer holiday she and Matt had booked, way back in the new year, for example, and Laura had ended up actually swearing at the poor travel agent over the phone, before bursting into tears and sobbing out the whole story of their split. There had also been a couple of occasions when she’d got very drunk, all alone, and had felt the need for some angry revenge. She’d smashed one of their big framed wedding photos by hurling it against the wall, watching in furious satisfaction as the glass shattered like crystal raindrops. Another time she’d found a favourite shirt of Matt’s that he’d accidentally left behind, and had taken to it with a pair of pinking shears, hacking off the arms and collar as if she were taking part in some kind of crazed sewing-bee challenge. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, red-faced and completely deranged-looking, had not been a proud moment.
But still. Whatever gets you through, as the magazine articles on break-ups advised. Find small things that give you comfort, they said, although admittedly going on a rampage with the pinking shears was not in the list of
recommendations. Try to look to the future, rather than the past. You will find happiness again, they kept assuring her. You will, Laura, we promise.
God, she really hoped so. She really, really, desperately hoped so. Because otherwise how long could she go on like this, feeling so dead inside, so devastated?
The next time she had a dizzy spell was the most embarrassing of all. It was Gayle from the office’s fortieth birthday and she’d press-ganged everyone – even reluctant, I-vant-to-be-alone Laura – to come along for drinks at The Turtle after work. The bar was crowded and noisy; it was hot in there as well – too hot – and maybe it was just having been on her feet all afternoon, giving a presentation to some of their retailers, or maybe it was the fact that she’d had a really quick lunch and nothing to eat since, but Laura suddenly felt the weirdness descending all over again, causing her to sway on her heels like a sapling in the wind. Oh no, not here, she thought in desperation. Not in front of all her colleagues.
Gayle was holding court to the group, recounting a funny story, her little bird-like head bobbing as she spoke, but Laura could no longer focus on the anecdote because her legs were starting to go from under her and she had to clutch at the nearest table for support. She wanted to say something, make an excuse and get away, but her mouth felt weird, as if she could no longer move it properly. Gayle had become very distant, as if Laura was looking at her through a telescope and – oh help, those black dots were clouding in front of her eyes again, she had to get out of here, she had to go outside . . .
‘Are you okay?’ Perhaps she’d let out some kind of despairing sound or perhaps he was just super-observant, because Jim, standing next to her, had taken her by the elbow and was looking concerned. ‘Laura?’
‘I’m just . . .’ Oh, Christ, now Mel and Julie were staring at her too, and still her voice wouldn’t work. Gayle had even stopped talking, head on one side, eyes beady. Laura licked her lips and made a valiant attempt to keep it together. ‘I . . . I need some air,’ she managed to say weakly. ‘I . . .’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jim, still holding on to her – thank goodness, because otherwise she might well have crumpled and folded in on herself, all the way down to the sticky tiled floor – and he forged a way for them through the crush. ‘Excuse me. Could we just . . . ? Excuse me. Cheers.’
‘State of her already,’ she dimly registered somebody sniggering as Jim steered her towards the exit.
‘I think I’m going to faint,’ she managed to say to him, feeing limp and wobbly. Her shirt was sticking to her back, her head was heavy and the floor seemed to be lurching vertiginously towards her, like a bad fairground ride.
‘You’re very pale. Let’s just get outside for a minute – it’s boiling in here,’ he said, supporting her with an arm around her back. She leaned against it, never gladder to feel daylight on her face as they made it through the door.
Outside the bar there was a knot of people with cigarettes and drinks, but Jim guided her past them and to an empty stretch of pavement. Leaning against the wall, Laura tried to catch her breath, but she was no longer able to support her own weight and sank down into a squatting position. Don’t faint. Don’t faint. ‘I’m so sorry about this,’ she mumbled, her tongue feeling thick in her mouth as she closed her eyes, balancing her head on her knees.
‘You’re okay. Just keep breathing, that’s it. Excuse me, mate, you couldn’t get this lady a glass of water, could you, please? Cheers. Thanks.’ Jim crouched next to her companionably. ‘Now, come on,’ he said reprovingly. ‘Gayle’s stories aren’t that boring that you need to go all dramatic on us.’
Despite still feeling fuzzy and strange, Laura snorted a small laugh through her nose.
‘I’m not sure you’ll be invited to the forty-first birthday drinks now, you and your diva-like attitude,’ he went on, ‘but we all have our crosses to bear, I suppose . . .’ He peered at her. ‘How are you doing? Do you feel sick? Because I would like to take this opportunity to point out I’ve got my favourite shirt on here and some expensive new shoes. So if you could try to aim in the other direction . . . Oh, brilliant, that was quick – thanks, mate. Nice one.’ Laura registered him standing up briefly and then he was crouching beside her again, passing her a plastic glass of iced water. ‘Here. Get this down you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, sipping from it gratefully. Her head was starting to clear ever so slightly, the feeling of nausea beginning to subside. She took another sip, leaned back against the brick wall and breathed slowly, in and out. ‘God. Sorry. That was completely embarrassing,’ she said, rubbing a hand across her face. ‘What a dick.’
‘Maybe you’re coming down with something,’ he said, eyeing her. Then he nudged her. ‘Or maybe you just really, really don’t like Gayle,’ he teased, ‘and this is all a massive act because you don’t want to be dragged on to a karaoke bar to see her murdering Alanis Morissette songs later. Am I right?’
‘No!’ she protested, although having experienced Gayle’s karaoke benders in the past, this was, in truth, not a part of the evening she’d been particularly looking forward to. ‘Well,’ she managed to joke, ‘now that I think about it, you’ve got a point.’
He laughed. ‘Whichever it is, I’d better order you a cab,’ he said. ‘Because these shoes were, like, eighty quid, and you’re still looking a bit queasy. I’m not saying I don’t trust you, but . . . Yeah. Cab. Doing it now.’
‘Thank you,’ she said meekly, shutting her eyes again. It was probably some weird virus, she told herself as the taxi roared her home. Nothing to worry about. Right?
Chapter Twenty-Three
A text message had appeared on Jo’s phone from Bill Kerwin. Hello, love, hope you’re okay. Thought you might like to know that Miriam is back at home and we’re all adjusting. Bill.
A nice bit of news for a Friday afternoon, Jo thought as she stood in the entrance to Rick’s apartment block, waiting for the lift to descend. So pleased for you both, she typed in reply. Give Miriam my love. x
Bill and Miriam – what an inspiration for anyone stressing about their relationship, she thought, watching the numbers change in the electronic panel as the lift approached: 9, 8, 7. Her own parents might not have been a shining example of a partnership, but the Kerwins were holding together through thick and thin, life-changing events and all. Surely she herself could see off some doubt and envy, in comparison?
When she’d gone out for drinks with them the night before, her friends had assured her, as one, that she was worrying too much about Polly and Maisie. ‘Chill!’ India had instructed. ‘He’s great, you’re great – just forget everyone else!’
It was good advice, thought Jo to herself now, as the whirring of the lift became louder; 3, 2, 1, the panel counted down. Because she was going out with Rick, not the rest of his family, and it was high time she stopped measuring herself against them so critically. ‘Doors opening,’ announced the electronic voice in the next moment.
The doors were opening: and out came Maisie in her school uniform, all dramatic make-up and hitched-up skirt. ‘Oh!’ said Jo, trying not to show her dismay. ‘Hello. I wasn’t expecting . . . Aren’t you at your mum’s this weekend?’
Maisie snorted. ‘In other words: fuck off, Maisie, you’re not welcome here. That’s nice. When it’s my dad’s flat.’
‘I didn’t say—’
‘Yeah, anyway I’m going, so whatever.’ And with a whip of her long hair, she was off, nose in the air, and out through the main doors of the building into the street.
Jo sighed, feeling her optimism leaking away. Forget everyone else, she recited to herself like a mantra, stepping into the lift and letting it sweep her away. If only it were that easy.
Jo didn’t usually dare set foot in Maisie’s bedroom – knowing her, the girl would have rigged up a tripwire or some security camera in order to catch trespassers on film – but today she braved a peep, curious to know why Maisie had made a detour to the flat that afternoon. The bed was
a tangle of clothes, some still with price tags on, and the small white dressing table was cluttered with a vast assortment of cosmetics and toiletries. Jo raised an eyebrow as she took in the Chanel perfume, the Space NK eyeshadow palettes, the Jo Malone body cream. Blimey, this girl had expensive tastes, all right. Back in her own day, she and her friends had only been able to afford Rimmel or Superdrug own-brand stuff, with a liberal spraying of Body Shop White Musk, if you were really pushing the boat out. It was hardly surprising that Maisie looked down on her, with her Nivea moisturizer and Poundland shower gel. Not that Jo could care less, frankly.
She closed the door again, frowning to herself. Something seemed odd, she thought, although she wasn’t able to put her finger on exactly what. And was it her imagination or had Maisie seemed kind of manic, bristling with a wild sort of energy as she emerged from the lift? Maybe she was just being her usual unpleasant self, though. Oh, Jo had her work cut out for her with this one, and no mistake.
‘Hello?’
Her spirits lifted at once at Rick’s voice. ‘Hi!’ she called, turning and heading for the living room, where he was just walking in with a bag of groceries.
‘Hello! Come here.’
They kissed each other, and he folded her into his arms in that lovely crushing way he had, where she felt truly enveloped.
‘Good day?’ he asked, nuzzling at her hair.
‘All the better for seeing you again,’ she replied happily. ‘How about you?’
‘Excellent in every way,’ he replied. She loved that about him, his unremitting optimism and that ability of his to sweep you up in his enthusiasm until you felt the same way. He released her, indicating the bag he’d dumped on the worktop. ‘And now I’m going to cook us both an amazing dinner. I hope that’s all right with you.’
