by Beth Thomas
‘Oh, hello again,’ he says. Bugger. ‘How’s it going? Good to see you upright today.’ He glances at my strong, confident stance. ‘Or almost!’ Today he’s in black Lycra shorts and black top with neon pink side panels. It’s a very becoming outfit – sets off his blond hair and chiselled jaw perfectly.
I ignore Abs’s scandalised expression next to me and find myself automatically performing the next move in the dance: a winning smile back to show that I have received his initial advance, found it agreeable, and am open to more. It’s like muscle memory. He’s turned right round now and is jogging backwards, grinning, the distance between us already extending. I can see the glutes moving beneath the skin of his thighs. ‘I’m much better today, thanks. Just pausing before we cross the bridge.’
‘What’s the problem with the bridge?’
‘She’s–’ Abby starts, but this is definitely my conversation.
‘I don’t like heights,’ I cut in. I see in my periphery that she’s put her hands on her hips.
‘Ah, is that all? Nothing to fear there, you know. This bridge has been here for over fifty years.’ He’s having to shout now, and keeps glancing over his shoulder to make sure he’s not about to crash into something.
‘All the more likely to crumble away then,’ I call back.
‘Ha ha!’ he says, not actually laughing. ‘See you again.’ He waves, then turns back to face front.
‘Only if I survive!’ I shout. Without turning he raises his arm again in acknowledgement, then disappears round the corner.
Abby has been staring at me open-mouthed the entire time. ‘What the fuck was that?’ she says now. ‘Were you … flirting? Come on, let’s not cross the bridge today, I want to hear about this. Walk and talk.’
We continue past the bridge and I relax with relief. Then I frown. ‘Oh, God, I wasn’t flirting was I? Looking like this? He’ll be in the pub tonight telling all his mates, “Hey, guess who flirted with me today? Only Nanny bloody McPhee.”’
‘He’ll probably keep that to himself, to be honest …’
‘Yeah, OK, thanks. Anyway, it wasn’t a proper interaction, I just saw him here a couple of days ago. He said hello, I said hello. No hidden meaning, just standard greetings.’ Abby knows as well as I do – better, probably – that the secret of successful flirting is hidden meaning. So if I’d said, ‘Ooh, what an absolutely gorgeous pair of shorts, where did you get those?’ the meaning would have been something else entirely and all three of us would have known exactly what was going on.
Oh bloody hell, why didn’t I say that?
‘Ooh-ooh. Well, nice work, Miss M. Almost seemed a bit more like your old self for a second there.’ I look at her for a few moments and can see that she’s reflecting on what just happened and seems pleased. She looks up and catches me staring.
‘Hey, don’t get carried away, Miss M, it was just a vague hello to a passing stranger. The MoonWalk literature advises to do that to reduce the risk of attack. Or something.’
She shrugs. ‘Fair enough. I’ll say no more.’ She grins at me. ‘He was pretty fit though, wasn’t he?’
I turn to her with a serious expression. ‘That, Madame, is a woefully gross understatement.’ We grin at each other, and as we walk, our shoulders knock together.
When we get home later she pours us a lemonade each and we drink it standing in the kitchen. Or at least she does. I daren’t drink for a few moments as my body is still completely occupied pulling in large volumes of oxygen as fast as it can. Introducing lemonade into the mix could result in disaster.
‘I’ve got a plan, Daze,’ Abby says suddenly.
‘Uh?’
‘Yeah. You know what I was saying about you needing to speed up? How about if someone goes walking with you?’
I shake my head emphatically. ‘No need.’
She juts her chin towards me. ‘Seriously, Daze. I know what you’re like. It’s not as if you’re physically incapable of walking faster, because you aren’t. You’ve improved so much these past three weeks. But I think you get so distracted, your steps slow down without you even realising it.’
‘Nah, I don’t think so.’
‘Yes, I know you don’t think so. That’s my point. The clue’s in the “without even realising it” part. No, just listen a minute. We started out at a good pace, you kept up with me all right. But then for some reason you slowed right down before we even got to the canal bank, and when I looked at you, you had that kind of glazed faraway look in your eyes.’
This lemonade is quite delicious. I’ve taken a tentative sip and have successfully managed to get it down my throat to my stomach, completely bypassing my windpipe and lungs, even though they are still sucking in air hard. I sip again. It’s luscious. Sweet, with a strong tartness, making the glands in my jaw throb. Which surprises me because Abby and Tom usually go for the value stuff, with the white label, which is always a bit tasteless. But this stuff is completely different. I hold up the glass and notice for the first time that it’s cloudy and greenish-yellow, and actually seems to have bits of lemon floating around in it. If I didn’t know better I’d have said this was home-made lemonade. It’s not even fizzy. I look up at Abby and try to imagine her squeezing lemons, mixing in the sugar, adding it to all the other mysterious ingredients, whatever they are, and producing this yummy concoction like some kind of domestic goddess. Today she’s in extremely short shorts made of black spandex, a very tight pink crop top and long pink fingernails. She’s wearing full make-up – mascara, lipstick, eyeliner – even for walking, and her hair is, as always, immaculate. Her idea of home-made is to use one of her fingernails to slit the cellophane on a microwave meal. No way did she make this.
‘Yeah, that’s the one, right there,’ she says now, incomprehensibly. She puts her hands on her hips and nods at me.
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t matter. The point is, I want you to walk with someone during the week. It can’t be me, I’ve got work. So I’ve got this friend who has agreed to walk with you. To speed you up and help you focus. It will be … What? What’s the matter?’
I’m already shaking my head. ‘No, no, no, I do not need to walk with any of your lame, nerdy driving school mates, thank you very much.’
‘I wasn’t talking about them …’
I put my hand up. ‘No. Seriously, Abs. I won’t walk with some stranger. Oh my God, that would be so unbelievably embarrassing. I’m not a child, I don’t need a supervising adult with me to hold my hand when I cross the road.’
‘I’m not talking about the Green Cross Code man. I just mean someone to keep you on track. Literally. Not doddering off blithely into the path of an oncoming post office van without looking.’
I roll my eyes. I don’t know how many times over the next fifty years she’s likely to bring this up, but I bet it’s more than fifty. She’s mentioned it at least twice a day for the past week already. It’s not even as if I was in any real danger. The van managed to swerve and skid into the hedgerow behind me in plenty of time. ‘Can’t you let that go now? It must be at least a week ago.’
She glares at me for a moment, then relaxes. ‘OK, yeah, you’re right, sorry, Daze. I don’t know why I got so worked up really. It wasn’t anything major, was it, just one element of our walk last weekend.’
‘Exactly.’
‘It was a good walk, wasn’t it? Really lovely.’ She holds out her hand and extends the fingers one at a time. ‘That sweet dog on the canal bank; the ducks on the lake in the park; a yummy ice cream; standing helpless at the roadside screaming my best friend’s name repeatedly while she totters into the road straight in front of a giant, red, fast approaching vehicle.’ She nods thoughtfully. ‘Yep. That walk had it all.’
I don’t remember it being like that at all. I reckon she’s over-reacting. Probably having one of those adrenalin rush things that makes you see everything in slow motion or bigger or yellow or whatever it is.
‘All right, you’ve made your point.
Several times. So I was stupid that one time …’
‘No, I’m not saying you were stupid, Daze. You’re just a bit … unaware at the moment. No, that’s not the right word. You’re not unaware. You’re more … off the fucking planet. Come on, face it. You’ve got horribly lost a couple of times. You nearly got killed on the road. You got propositioned by a weirdo. You’ve been scratched, stung, bitten, burnt …’
‘Burnt?’
‘All right, that was an exaggeration. But all the others are true and I worry about you.’
‘You don’t need to …’
‘Yes I do, you witless fathead, because if I don’t you will get stabbed, or abducted, or fall off a bridge, or drown in the canal, or go under the wheels of a bus and die.’ She glowers at me a moment. ‘Or, you know, get a nasty shock.’
Isn’t Abby just the best friend ever? Looking at her now, standing across the kitchen from me holding her drink, I notice that her face is a little bit pinched and grey. I don’t mean she’s pinched and grey. I mean she’s moved one notch towards being pinched and grey. There are still hundreds of notches ahead of her. She’ll probably never be pinched, or grey, even when she’s a hundred and four. But she’s obviously genuinely worried about me, which surprises me. No, it doesn’t surprise me. That’s not what I mean. Of course she’s worried about me. I’m a mess. I would worry about me, if I were her. What surprises me is not that she’s worried, but that I’ve never really noticed it there before. I’ve been aware of her worrying, and taking care of me, and sorting out aspects of my life for me, but I’ve never seen it on her face before. Now her expression looks like she’s in actual physical pain. Not excruciating torture. Not searing, white hot agony. Just pain. An ache. A chronic, depressing, exhausting ache that she just wants to be free of.
‘Oh Abby. I’m sorry.’ I feel a huge surge of affection for her at this moment, and cross the kitchen to give her a hug. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
She hugs me tightly and we stand together like that for a few seconds before she pulls back and looks into my face. Her eyes are shiny and she blinks a couple of times and rubs them. Well, she does the mascara-ed up version of rubbing her eyes, which is to very carefully push the side of her index finger up along her lower eyeline on each eye in turn.
‘So, this friend of mine has agreed to walk with you, to watch out for you when you zone out, and to help you keep your speed up. Like a … I don’t know what the correct expression is. Someone who sets the pace. You know?’
‘A pacemaker,’ Tom says now, walking suddenly into the kitchen. He strides easily over to where Abs is standing and embraces her tightly, then they pull apart a little and kiss.
‘Isn’t that something that controls your heart?’ Abs says softly, gazing up into his face. Looks like everything is fine between them now. The hallway woman flashes briefly into my mind, but whoever she was, it seems she was nothing to do with Tom and Abby’s relationship. Some kind of sweat band crisis, I expect. They probably all fell off the display onto the floor, and she couldn’t be bothered to pick them up. ‘Don’t leave it like that,’ Tom would have said. Which explains everything perfectly. Time for me to make myself scarce, I think. And I’m more than happy to leave the subject of a walking companion unresolved.
When I get into my room, the first thing I see, as I always do, is the letter from Owen and Lake, Mum’s solicitors, that arrived last weekend. Well, actually it’s the second thing I see. The first thing is always the giant poster-sized note that Abby has stuck to the wall directly opposite the door, with a ‘TO DO’ list on it in giant, poster-sized thick black marker pen letters. I know things like ‘Call Naomi’, ‘Get a job’, ‘Find a flat’ are all on there, as well as one or two others (mostly relating to smiling and being more positive), but I’ve decided not to look at it just yet. I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment with my rigorous training programme. I am intensely focused, like a top athlete before an event, using visualisation techniques, deep breathing, yoga and meditation to prepare myself physically and mentally for the challenge ahead. If I allow myself no distractions at all and concentrate one hundred percent on my training, I will have a much better chance of succeeding.
I fling myself down onto my bed and flick onto Facebook on my phone.
Abby Marcus
is wondering if anything ever stays the same. Answers on a postcard …
Suzanne Allen Hey Abs. Wanna give me a call?
Ha. Maybe subconsciously she actually wants me to stay here in her flat forever. No, that can’t be right. I’m pretty sure that ‘Find a flat’ is actually the first thing on the giant ‘TO DO’ list that she’s created for me.
Daisy Mack You’re right, Abs, it doesn’t. Which means, on the plus side, that I won’t be in your spare room forever.
Suzanne Allen Does this mean that you’ve found a flat, Daisy?
After reading – and not deigning to respond to – Suze’s comment, my gaze is inexorably drawn to the ‘TO DO’ list again, so I quickly avert my eyes. Unfortunately they land automatically on the letter from Owen and Lake, which is propped up against the mirror on the dressing table. To start with I left it folded in half and stuffed it in my underwear drawer (no one ever looks in there, ha ha), but after a couple of days of trying not to think about it and failing, I faced up to the fact that I couldn’t ignore it forever and forced myself to deal with it. I yanked open the drawer, pulled out the letter and propped it up on the dressing table. Now my eyes land on it every time I look away from Abby’s list. I could avert my eyes from it quickly now, but they’d only end up looking at the ‘TO DO’ list again, and I could potentially end up stuck here forever, like a ball bearing in a pinball machine. Instead I get up, move slowly over to the dressing table and pick the letter up, holding it lightly at arm’s length, just with my fingertips. It’s a kind of desensitisation process, to bring me nearer and nearer to the moment when I’ll actually have to open it. Like that girl who had to get nearer and nearer to a box with a spider in it, until eventually she was able to let the spider crawl over her hand. I’m not quite ready to do that, yet, but I’m getting nearer. The spider’s still in the box but I can hold the box now. No need to open it anyway; I know it’s a spider in there. My eyes sting a little and my throat aches, but it’s better than the first time I held it. As I eye it nervously, I can’t help but be reminded of a certain other letter I received recently, containing similar information to what I know is going to be in this one. I had no idea at all what was going to be in that first one, though.
It was about two weeks after Graham died, back in February. I was on the sofa, of course, and Hugh was on the telly. I think it was ‘Two Weeks Notice’ – that one with Sandra Bullock. I’m fairly sure it’s not a Richard Curtis, but still good. Although she’s annoying, as usual. I can never decide whether it’s the writer or the director that makes her so annoying, or whether it’s just her. It’s probably just her.
Anyway, Abs arrived. She was by my side practically all day, every day then. She had her own key to the house. She let herself in, scooped up the post that was lying on the mat, then waded through the McVitie’s-box sea that surrounded my sofa island, and sat down next to me. I quickly pressed ‘pause’.
‘Post,’ she said, by way of a greeting. We’d established a routine by this time. She didn’t move out of my view of the television screen until after I’d opened and read all the post. ‘Only two things, Daze. Come on.’
I wriggled myself into a semi-upright position and opened the first one. It was a sympathy card from someone or other. I handed it back to Abs and she stood it up on the mantelshelf with the others. The second envelope contained a letter, but it may as well have been a giant, eight-hairy-legged spider jumping suddenly onto my hand. It was a single sheet of paper with handwriting in black biro on one side. I looked immediately at the bottom to see who it was from and, finding it was Darren, my stepbrother, I felt momentarily relieved. Nothing bad was likely to be here, I thought. I was wrong.
Daisy,
It will come as no surprise to you I’m sure to learn that my late father’s wishes regarding the proceeds from the estate do not include you. I remember only too clearly the distress and upset you caused your mother over the years, something my father never forgot for the rest of his life.
The house is already on the market and we will expect you to move out before it’s sold. You are not permitted to take anything with you other than your own belongings that you brought with you. We also expect you to leave it in a clean and presentable condition. God knows what sort of state it’s in now. I suggest you make a start on the cleaning straight away.
They say that if you wait long enough people will get what they deserve. My father waited a long time for this but finally his wishes will be executed and you will get what you deserve.
Regards,
Darren
‘Everything OK?’ Abs had said, peering at my face.
I had nodded and forced a smile. ‘Yeah, fine.’ I waved the letter feebly. ‘Darren.’
‘Oh. What’s he want?’
‘House is on the market. Gotta move out.’
Abs nodded slowly, then rubbed the back of my hand and smiled kindly. ‘Well, we knew this would be coming, didn’t we? It’s good news in a way – it means you’ll get the money your mum was so desperate for you to have. That’ll make her happy, wherever she is.’
My eyes had filled with tears at this point, but that was OK, I was tearful nearly all the time anyway. Abby leaned forward and gave me a cuddle, not realising I had just been told my mum’s wishes were going to be ignored, which felt like losing her all over again. I knew she had taken some comfort from the fact that her death would ultimately result in Naomi and me inheriting quite a large amount of money. ‘You’re both going to be quite well off,’ she had said, over and over, during her final weeks. ‘You’ll be set up for life.’ It was the only good thing to come out of her illness. I would gladly have given it all up to have one more day with her. Looks like I was giving it all up anyway.
