by Deborah Bee
She snaps her gloves back on.
‘I’m leptin resistant,’ says Sarah. ‘You don’t understand the biology, you nasty little freak. I’ve been seeing specialists for years. I don’t get how you think it’s OK to speak to me like this. I’ve run the entire HR department of a large British retail—’
‘IF ANYONE IS IN ANY DOUBT AT ALL ABOUT WHETHER OR NOT SARAH HAD A SAUSAGE AND EGG MCMUFFIN THIS MORNING, PLEASE CHECK OUT THE BIN IN ROSE, WHERE SARAH PUT THE WRAPPERS TWO HOURS AGO!’ shouts Kitty.
She switches on the tap full blast.
The water hits the stainless steel with a roar.
She couldn’t care less what Sarah has to say.
‘That’s not even mine,’ says Sarah, running from the room. OK, waddling. ‘It’s not mine!’
‘Now what?’ says Mrs Henry, flying in.
‘I’m doing a deep-clean,’ shouts Kitty from the sink.
‘Turn the water off, Kitty,’ says Mrs Henry, flicking off the tap for her. ‘Clare, what are you doing?’ she says, turning her attention to me.
Like I’ve done something.
I can tell she hates me too.
‘I’m hoping to get some granola but without interfering with Kitty’s deep-clean,’ I say.
‘Thaaaank yooooou . . .’ sings Kitty in an American-diner waitress accent.
She snaps her gloves again and winks at me.
‘We have a group session today that I’d like you all to attend,’ says Mrs Henry.
Abigail and Sian are standing at the counter in the kitchen, spoons hovering midway between their bowls of muesli and their mouths. Sian has an old copy of Vogue open on the counter at an article about Oprah Winfrey.
‘Another one!’ says Abigail.
She puts the spoon in her mouth.
She’s got that look on her face.
‘I’ve got an appointment,’ says Sian. ‘Unchangeable. Moved it three times already.’
‘Beautiful day,’ says Sally, arriving in full war paint as usual. ‘Anyone fancy a walk in the park in the sunshine? I mean, it’s beautiful out there, right?’
She sees us all staring.
‘I’m doing a deep-clean,’ says Kitty.
‘Good that you’ve got a free day, Sally, and since you’re on lock down, you’ll be able to come along to the group session that we have arranged for this afternoon. And I think you would also benefit, Kitty. Today we are covering Mindful Eating.’
‘I think—’ Kitty gets interrupted.
‘I think you would find it useful to learn some empathy,’ says Mrs Henry, before Kitty can start.
‘You are actually kidding,’ says Sally. ‘What in God’s name is mindful eating?’
‘You’ll find out all about it at two. In the workout room at the back. With Mr Bulsara,’ she says and whisks out like a headteacher.
‘CAN YOU NOT PUT YOUR BOWL ON THE SIDE,’ shouts Kitty, at Sian.
‘What are you supposed to wear?’ I say to Sally.
‘I don’t know. It’s utter nonsense. But I guess it’s something to do,’ she says.
‘Do you think we have to hum?’ I say.
‘Have you called Sue?’ she asks.
‘Sue who?’ I say.
‘You know, DS Clarke. I think you ought to tell her about the money. You were going to tell her about the money, weren’t you? It could explain why he’s disappeared, right? He’s just done a runner with the cash.’
‘DS Clarke. Yeah, I could call her.’
‘You want the money back, right? I mean, don’t ya?’ she says.
Like she’s amazed.
‘I don’t expect to get anything back,’ I say.
I kind of wish I hadn’t told her about the money. Everyone will think I’m a total moron.
‘Seems like a small price to pay . . .’ I say.
‘True,’ she says, and gives me a hug.
‘Can’t remember the last time someone gave me a proper hug,’ I say.
‘Here, wear your dressing gown to the session. I washed it. It’s got this massive hole in the hem – I mean, it’s not that massive, but you did know about it, right? Tell me I didn’t do it?’
‘Oh yeah, I did know about it. It smells back to normal,’ I say, smiling and taking in a big breath.
‘Do you have a needle and thread so I can mend it?’ she says.
I was hiding the locket in the hem.
Took it out yesterday.
I’m not going to put the locket back in the hem, though.
It’s safer where it is.
No one would ever think of looking there.
‘I must have caught it on the door.’
‘That’s funny. It looks as though it was cut.’
‘No, it was definitely the door. Do you think we have to hum?’ I say again.
*
Mr Bulsara is a small, wiry man with olive skin and a thick black moustache.
It’s mysteriously straight.
Like it doesn’t follow the contours of his face.
Not at all.
I don’t know if he’s Indian or not but he looks like he’s Indian.
He has Freddie Mercury’s accent.
British.
Clipped.
With a hint of Indian.
‘Thank you, ladies, for attending,’ he says, quietly.
So, you have to listen really hard to hear.
‘We are coming now to sit,’ he says.
He’s cross-legged on a blue yoga mat.
He extends his arms slowly, as though in an invisible embrace with someone very large.
‘We are coming now to sit,’ he says again.
Seriously slowly.
‘Coming now to sit,’ he says.
We all look for somewhere to sit.
‘Making ourselves comfortable. On a cushion. On a mat. On a stool. On a chair.’
Sally is mouthing at me, ‘On a toilet . . .’
‘Is this Mindfulness McDonald’s?’ shouts Big Debbie from the door. ‘Kitty just said it was Mindfulness McDonald’s in here and that we all had to come in.’
Mrs Henry shuts her eyes and points at a chair by the window.
Big Debbie marches over bodies on cushions and mats.
‘We’ll be sitting for two hours in this session,’ he says.
‘Kin’ell,’ says Big Debbie.
‘So, making yourself comfortable,’ he whispers.
Big Debbie slumps back in her chair and folds her arms.
‘And if you’re sitting on a chair . . . coming away from the back of the chair . . . so that your spine can be self-supporting . . . so that your baaaack and neeeeck and head are in liiiiinne . . . in an erect posture . . . in toooouch with this mommmment . . . and letting your eyes close . . .’
‘Fuck a duck,’ says Big Debbie.
Mr Bulsara suddenly stands up. In that way that incredibly bendy people stand up without putting their hands out.
‘Today we are going to be looking at Mindful Eating,’ he begins, looking at his spiral notepad. ‘Mind-ful ea-ting,’ he says, annunciating each syllable as if we are foreign students.
We all look at Big Debbie out of the corner of our eyes.
Her eyes widen.
‘Fuckin’ Kitty . . .’ she growls.
‘The structure of these sessions is as follows: firstly, we will welcome each other,’ he says, looking at his pad. ‘Then we will discuss the session structure. Then we will do a homework review, though of course, not this week as this is our first session. Then we will conduct some mindfulness exercises, followed by a group exercise. Then we will set some homework.’
Sally is in one of the armchairs by the door.
‘Get me out of here,’ she whispers.
‘Let us be welcoming of each other,’ says Mr Bulsara.
He sinks back down to his mat, cross-legged in one movement.
‘We are now getting in touch with this moment . . . Letting our eyes close . . .’ he
whispers.
We all pretend to close our eyes.
Mr Bulsara takes a lime green plastic lunchbox out of a Tesco Express bag.
We’re all thinking he’s about to have his lunch.
Inside is a miniature glockenspiel – with eight rainbow-coloured bars, and a wooden stick with rubber balls on each end.
He places it before him.
He straightens it.
By now everyone has given up pretending to shut their eyes, apart from Big Debbie who looks like she’s having a snooze.
He closes his eyes and strikes the red bar with the wooden stick.
PING, it goes.
Someone’s phone buzzes.
‘We’re coming now to focus on your breathing . . . focusing on feeling your breath coming innnnnn and ouuuuut of your bodddddy.’
There’s a long pause in which, I guess, we are supposed to be noticing sensations.
I think I need to pee.
‘Allowing the breath to anchor you in the present moment . . . and bringing your mind baaaaack to the breath and baaaaack to the present moment . . . whenever you notice it has waaaaandered away.’
I need to find a needle and thread.
I wonder why D S Clarke doesn’t like me.
I wonder where Gareth is.
‘And this may happen maaaaany, maaaaany times. And just as often as it happens, then very gently, bringing it back . . . because sometimes the mind waaaaanders, for a few moments . . .’
This is bullshit.
Jesus Christ.
‘And it’s possible to find yourself, judging and criticising, criticising and judging . . .’
Can he actually hear my thoughts?
You’re dragging me down, babe.
Holding me back now.
I didn’t know what Gareth meant back then.
Started on about a month ago.
Right after he got me to remortgage the house.
I don’t want to hear your voice right now, Coco.
You just stay in here.
Don’t put your fingers inside the door babe, or they’ll get trapped again.
I think I knew for a while he was planning to go.
But I just couldn’t think what to do.
The signs were all there.
I just didn’t want to believe it.
Didn’t want to be left alone again.
Like after Dad.
I felt so ill.
The whole time.
I can’t even remember stuff.
‘PING.’
‘Coming back to being aware of the body as a whole . . . sitting here, in this moment . . . and in this moment . . . and in this moment.’
PING.
Can’t remember half of the last year.
‘And nooooow . . . letting go of all particular intentions to focus on anything at all, the breeeeeath or the bodddddy . . . and allow yourself to sit here . . . resting in awareness itself . . . and taking this sense of spaciousness . . .’
Please don’t cry, babe.
Please don’t make that noise.
Babe.
You know what will happen.
Babe.
I can’t hear myself think.
SHUT UP YOUR FUCKING NOISE.
‘. . . Awareness of this present moment . . . into the next activities of your day . . . and remembering that this sense of being present is available to you at any moment of your day. Day by day. And moment by moment . . .’
PING.
SHUT UP YOUR FUCKING NOISE, YOU FUCKING WHORE.
Slap.
Crunch.
WELL, OF COURSE YOU ARE GOING TO HURT YOUR FUCKING HEAD IF YOU PUT IT IN THE FUCKING DOOR.
Thirty-Five
Sally
I don’t mind telling you, if Clare hadn’t got up and left, I’d have gone myself, right off, I would’ve. I’d have feigned something. She got a phone call, she had an excuse. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Excuse me, but seriously, I don’t know who Mahatma Gandhi thinks he is, but if he whips out a loincloth and a turban I won’t bat an eyelid, not for one second I won’t.
I didn’t watch her go because, guess why, I have my eyes shut because I am allowing myself to be ‘resting in awareness itself’ . . . not forgetting to be ‘acknowledging this sense of spaciousness’ . . .
Why does everything end in ing? That gets on my nerves and that’s before we even start to talk about the Australasian query inflection. Does my head in at the best of times.
I see Kitty hasn’t bothered, or Sarah, for that matter – not that I’m in the least bit surprised about Sarah, because she’s probably crapping herself that Kitty’s gonna bring up the whole McDonald’s thing again, which I for one didn’t think was true, but then Kitty showed Clare the wrappers and I honestly don’t know who else would have gone out at 7 a.m. to do anything at all, let alone get a Sausage and Egg McMuffin, apart from Sarah, who, let’s face it doesn’t have a resistance to leptin any more than I’ve got a resistance to bacon sandwiches. I don’t even know what leptin is, but I’m delighted – no, honoured – to tell you that I do know what a raisin is, and I am being asked to take one off a small tea plate with yellow flowers on, being held out by Mr Mahatma.
‘I want us to start by placing the raisin in the palm of your hand.’ He’s speaking slowly again, like preachers in churches do who are only preachers in churches cos they like the sounds of their own voices.
Big Debbie’s head nearly swivels off her neck she’s so busy trying to see if everybody is doing exactly as instructed and laying a single sodding raisin in the palm of their hand.
‘Now I would like you to set your intention to bring a non-judgmental attitude to your moment-to-moment awareness of the raisin.’
‘Could you say that again?’ goes Sian, looking suspicious under her fringe.
‘Excuse me, can I get another raisin?’ says Big Debbie. ‘I’ve been that non-judgmental, I ate it.’
We all start to snigger until Mrs H tuts and looks away.
‘Whenever you lose sight of your intention to bring a non-judgmental attitude to your moment-to-moment awareness of the raisin, see if you can recommit to paying mindful attention to the raisin.’
‘Fuuuuuuuu,’ says Big Debbie.
Abigail drops her raisin on the floor.
‘Excuse me,’ she says, from her cushion. ‘EXCUSE ME!’ She puts her hand up. ‘Are we going to have to eat these raisins at some point, because, you see, I just dropped mine and I know this floor isn’t clean because they had Zumba in here yesterday and everyone apart from me was barefoot,’ she says, without taking a breath.
‘Now, focusing on seeing the raisin as if you’ve never seen one before, using your beginner’s mind, noticing the shape, size, and colour of the raisin, turning it around in your fingers, noticing the folds and where the surface reflects light, bringing an attitude of curiosity to seeing all aspects of the raisin.’
He’s ignoring all of us and Mrs H catches me winking at Prashi.
‘Whenever you are yourself thinking about anything other than the raisin, or you are noticing thoughts about the raisin, such as “It’s so wrinkly or I wish I had a bigger one,” you are gently redirecting your attention to seeing the raisin, allowing your experience to be, exactly as it is, in this moment.’
‘I’ve never met a man who didn’t wish he ’ad a bigger one,’ stage-whispers Big Debbie.
Abigail explodes and Sian snorts and Prashi clamps her hand over her nose and mouth and Mr Mahatma is holding his raisin high in his right hand and is fondling it between his fingers.
‘Nah,’ says Big Debbie, scraping the legs of her chair as she stands up, freed from the eagle eye of Mrs H. ‘Nah, it’s no good. This is crazy, so I’m going to fuck right off now. Goodbye, Mr Mercury. It’s nice to see you’ve been reincarnated into a mumbo-jumbo gym-teacher, and thank you so much for a fascinating insight into how people waste their fucking lives more than I co
uld ever have thought possible.’ And off she goes, picking her way across the bodies on the floor, just missing Sian who is falling off her cushion.
And just as we are all wondering how on earth a mindfulness mood can be rediscovered, the fire alarm goes off. Nick of time, that’s what I’d call it.
There’s a massive alarm system behind the glass in the lobby by reception where security sit, and when something sets off the fire alarm it shows where it is so they can sort it out faster and direct the police and fire brigade. It rings the fire brigade at the same time as it goes off, state-of-the-art, so just as we all start filing out of the workout room, the sirens from the fire engines start mixing in with the wailing of the alarm in the hallway. The alarm system shows it’s coming from the third floor, my floor, which means I’ve probably gone and left my curling tongs on again and they’ll have set fire to that cheap-shite chest of drawers by the mirror. Then Kitty and Clare come clattering down the stairs like they’d been set upon by a pack of starving wolves.
‘It was my aerosol, that’s all,’ says Kitty, laughing.
‘It’s not funny, Kitty,’ Mrs H shouts down the hall. ‘The Fire Brigade is on its way, because of your hairspray.’
‘Didn’t say hairspray. Said aerosol.’ Kitty shrugs. Clare looks like she’s trying to distance herself from the whole thing.
‘Clare, what do you have to say for yourself?’ says Mrs H.
‘I don’t need to say anything, Mrs H, because it wasn’t my aerosol,’ she says, and goes and sits in one of the meeting rooms on her own, even though everyone else is standing around trying to work out what to do while all the time the bleeding alarm is going off and Mr Mahatma is still sitting on his mat with a plate of raisins.
‘What’s up with you?’ I say to Clare, cos it’s not like her to be rude to people.
‘Nothing,’ she goes. ‘I’m not going to lie, though.’
‘Lie about what?’
‘We were smoking. Out the window. My bedroom window. I don’t see what’s so bad about that. It’s not like we’re underage.’
