I remember feeling short next to her, as though she was the tallest goddess in the world and then thinking it was probably the half a pill I had taken kicking in. But no, she really was like that. Like she was the tallest girl in the world. Then the memory fades and it’s replaced by a blackness that seeps through me. ‘Here.’ Dr Anthony passes me a tissue. I wave his hand away until I realise I’m crying. Again? What the hell is wrong with me?’
‘Don’t worry. Just carry on talking.’
‘I’ve got nothing else to say.’ I’m distracted, obsessed with getting back to real life. To get this meeting sorted quickly, face things head-on and pray Freya isn’t trying to destroy me, so I can rid myself of this noose around my neck.
‘Josephine? How about telling me more about your mother then?’
‘Oh, my mother? Well, I didn’t see her much. I didn’t want . . . or rather, don’t want, to become ill like her, put it that way.’
‘And have you ever thought you were?’
I think back to all those times at school, where I was paranoid, convinced my mind was turning, convinced other students were out to get me and then realising it was just my mind playing tricks but how would I know? How would I know if I was ill or just . . .
‘I have. Yes. All throughout my school years. I would have this image of my mother, screaming that the devil was in her. And when I was at school, I was always frightened that I would end up doing that unaware in class. I lived that fear, breathed it. It became alive in everything I touched and did.’
‘That must have been very exhausting for you,’ Dr Anthony says. ‘And yet you still managed to excel?’
‘I did. Although I was always fearful, in a strange way the school routine away from home gave me stability. But I guess I burned out. Then all this stuff with Freya happened. And that was it really.’
I can’t go on any longer. My voice has gone. It’s like all the speech has been sucked back inside me. All the ugliness. I’ve got too much to think about and, even though the lights are dim, they feel way too bright. I shake my head and Dr Anthony beckons for me to go. He looks up at the clock and says, ‘Only five minutes left anyway. Well done. You did well today.’
I didn’t do well, but I shut the door and, as I’m leaving, I hear Dr Anthony shouting after me. ‘You’ll have to think about what changed. What changed your relationship with Freya, I mean. For next week? OK?’
‘OK,’ I whisper. I walk away, as fast as I can. I’m going to do one better than that.
1996
We’ve all been sent back home – Verity, Sally and I.
Mrs Allen called us all in and told us that the school governors thought it best that we stay away until Freya is out of the hospital and all this has blown over.
‘It’s not a suspension, as such,’ she had said, looking at each of us. ‘Think of it as an enforced break until . . . well, until things calm down.’ She runs through the practicalities – how we will sit our mocks, who we may contact if we have academic queries. ‘And you can always get someone to collect anything you need.’
Sally and I had looked at each other. ‘Get someone?’ And then it hits me that we aren’t even allowed on the school grounds.
Home was both the best and worst place I could be. Amy is away until just after Christmas and without her the house is a heap of mess. None of Father’s shirts have been washed so I collect them and take them to the dry cleaner’s. There are half-drunk tumblers of whisky everywhere, which I collect and take to the kitchen. Nothing’s been washed up for long enough that the steak rind on one plate has shrivelled yellow.
But with no one around, I’m not reminded of Freya and, for some reason, with nothing or no one to live up to at school, the terror of Mother subsides. Instead, I can focus on working. But when night-time falls and the wind starts raging, I start to feel alone. Father often doesn’t get back until after midnight and I spend my time anticipating the click in the lock, the soft humming and the clattering of his keys on the mantelpiece.
There’s a constant noise in my head, but the sharp flashbacks of that night and the constant sense of threat and paranoia over this whole Freya business subside now I’m away from school. There’s still moments when I’m jolted into panic – triggered by things that I can’t often connect and, sometimes, I’m woken from a deep sleep either by Freya’s contorted face lunging at me, or from a time in the club just before everything goes black.
It’s only after three days that I realise I haven’t left my bedroom. I’ve been down to the kitchen once or twice to bring up some supplies – a few apples and some leftover curry that Father’s brought home from the night before, but aside from that, I feel embraced by the four walls that separate me from the rest of the house. It’s the day before Christmas that Father shouts from outside my door. ‘J, your mother’s back tomorrow.’ Just like that. I can’t remember the last time we’ve been home together.
When she arrives, I can hear her downstairs. There’s what I think is the thump of her suitcase then Father saying in a loud, falsely cheerful voice that ‘Josephine’s upstairs and I know she’d love to see you.’
I don’t hear anything in response. Just some shuffling and then the crash of china and Father saying, ‘Please, please don’t worry it’s only a vase.’ It takes me nearly two hours to go to her. When I go down, she’s curled up on the sofa. She looks well. She’s filled out a bit, enough that there’s a line of flesh under her chin that was never there before. Her cheeks have become softer and fuller and she’s wearing big, red apples of blusher. Her hair’s brushed over one shoulder and she’s wearing a coral-pink T-shirt with a large beaded necklace that looks like it’s been made in an arts and crafts class and she’s holding a magazine. When she sees me, she leans over to put it back on the table. It’s the Radio Times and she’s folded over different pages.
‘Darling.’ She opens her arms, barely wide enough for a three-year-old to squeeze into, but I lean down into her anyway. Father comes back with a tray of tea, the first time I’ve seen him make any in years. ‘Your mother was saying how excited she was to see you.’ He looks at Mother, who has put her feet up on the sofa. She’s wearing a large pair of trainers that make her look like a teenager. ‘Please,’ he says, pushing them off. ‘Not on the furniture.’
‘Shall I turn on the television?’ Mother asks.
‘Sure,’ says Father, handing her the remote control. ‘Not sure how it works but do go ahead.’ Mother spends the next hour flicking through channels until she settles on a programme that makes her gasp. ‘I love this one,’ she says. By the time the credits roll, she’s asleep. When Christmas comes around, we open our presents on the sofa. Our family have never been very good at getting gifts but, this time, Father excels himself, buying me a set of first edition history books that I love. Mother gives me a little address book. When I open it, I find random scribbles inside.
Mother has a few moments when the torpor clears but generally we sit in silence and, although I try to be awake, I can feel my energy sapping and anxiety kicking in about the quality of work that I’m doing now that Mother’s here.
I haven’t been able to sit and study properly for days now and I’m beginning to feel resentful. I’m unable to conjure up any desire to read or make notes and even Father’s telling me that I have to get to work. I make half-hearted attempts at highlighting pages in my textbooks but it’s nothing compared to the usual flash cards, mind maps, books of notes and quotes that are usually filed in crisp new folders, ready for the term ahead. I don’t even seem to have the energy to wonder when I’m going to get back to normal.
It’s not long after Christmas when Father tells me I won’t get into Oxford if I carry on staring into space. I’m sitting a few feet away from Mother, watching the same daytime programme that’s been on loop for days. ‘Josephine, what’s wrong with you?’ My father pulls me out of the room and points back inside towards the sofa. ‘You are turning into her. She’s ill, Josephine. You are
n’t. Get back to work. Get to Oxford. Get your life back on track. You need to do the best you can so you don’t . . . so you have as many opportunities as you can.’
I look through the doorway to the sofa where Mother’s lying and I am overcome with a fear so great that I’m catapulted into doing something drastic. Something unlike me. Something to take me out of myself before I have to face all this crap back at school and before we find out our fate. I go back inside, tell Mother that it’s been lovely having her around and then I go upstairs and sit with the house telephone on my lap, ready to make the phone call.
2014
I don’t last long enough to make Dr Anthony’s next session. The decision to see Freya is like a magnetic pull that almost throws me out the front door. I leave the clinic two days later, after I’ve had enough yoga and breathing lessons to feel I might combust. Gracie’s nowhere to be found, but I leave her a note.
I hope you make things up with your husband. You were very kind to tell me the things you did about Freya. I’m going to find her myself. If she contacts you again, please don’t tell her we met. I want to try and start afresh with her. Make yourself a good life.
When I discharge myself from the clinic, I tell them I’ll come in as an outpatient for a few sessions a month, even though I’m sure I’ll be back in Jordan before then. The thought of seeing Freya fills me with strength now, instead of the terror that came with the idea of us meeting and the outside world stops feeling so frightening. I even notice the grey, naked trees, clawing at the sky, and the lake next to the hospital that manages to look beautiful, despite the sludge. I still wonder about how Freya managed to get my email address after I had changed it but instead of being fearful, I resolve to ask her myself.
When I get home, Father is back. He’s sitting on the sofa, watching television. The same sofa where Mother used to sit all those years ago. The room he refused to go into unless she was at home. He wouldn’t even go in there when he wanted to watch a film; instead he had bought a small television that he put at the end of his bed.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘J, you’re home?’ He beckons me to the sofa. ‘I didn’t know you were coming back. It’s good to see you. How are you feeling?’
The television is coated in dust and I go and get a hanky and give it a wipe. ‘You’re watching telly?’
‘I know. I just felt like, well, relaxing. Want to join?’
I hover in the doorway, not knowing where I would sit, so I tell him no, that I’m going upstairs.
‘Wait,’ he says, patting the sofa again. I move towards him, perching myself on a small stool next to the coffee table. ‘How come you are back so soon? I thought you might have stayed a bit longer? What did they say? The doctors, I mean.’
‘Well, it’s a long story. But everything’s fine. Good, even.’ Father’s looking at me, unsure, so I tell him, in brief, about my breakthrough with Dr Anthony and about decisions I’ve made. I don’t go into detail but the idea that I’ll be rid of Freya hunting me down makes me chattier and more open with Father than I can ever remember. In turn, he is smiling at me and leaning forward, totally engaged with what I’m saying. I stop, half embarrassed when I realise how much I’ve divulged but he doesn’t seem to care. Just tells me that if I feel unsteady again, I’m to come to him and he’ll do what he can.
‘I’m going to go and sort my stuff out and rest,’ I say, walking to the door.
We both give a shy, half-wave. When I look back, he’s still smiling, lifting his feet onto the plump, cream cushions.
I walk slowly up the stairs back to my room and open my computer. There’s nothing there. No emails from a single person. It makes me feel sad, which takes me by surprise. Then I start crying for real, thinking about Mother and the lack of friends she had.
I start typing quickly, before I change my mind:
Freya, I don’t know how you got this email address but since you have, here goes: I’ve been thinking about seeing you. About what it might be like. I know a lot has happened since we last saw each other and I’ve managed to shed some light on a few things. Let’s meet. I’m in London at the moment and due to get back to Jordan soon; in the next couple of days or so, so let me know where and when. Best, Josephine.’
I manage to press send before I chicken out.
A whole day goes by and I’m still waiting for her to reply. I keep opening my computer, checking my phone. Nothing. All this time she’s been waiting to see me and now she hasn’t even responded. What is she waiting for? What more does she want from me? In an effort to distract myself, I spend the time reading, walking aimlessly around the house and emailing work to find out what’s been going on. ‘I’ll be back in three days,’ I tell Jeremy decisively. If Freya hasn’t got back to me by then, she’ll have missed her chance.
‘Brilliant. We’ve all missed you,’ he replies.
I stay awake all night, reading the same page of a book, over and over. I haven’t had so little concentration for years. I’m furious for ceding control, for allowing Freya to make me feel like this again, especially when I had felt so much better in the past few days.
At four in the morning, I go downstairs. It’s totally dark in the kitchen bar the winking blue lights of the Wi-Fi. I can’t even find it in myself to switch the side lamps on, so I find my way around the counter towards the kettle, using my hands. I make some coffee, which seems like a stupid thing to do, but then I’m too wired to sleep and I don’t feel physically awake enough to do anything useful. I’m wearing one of Mother’s old silk dressing gowns that’s a bit moth-eaten and smells of make-up, but I’m pleased I can wear it now without freaking out. I wonder how old the gown is, whether Mother wore it before she got ill, and then I remember that it was my fault, my birth that triggered the worst of her schizophrenia. Would the same happen to me if I were to have children? Then I remember a conversation Freya and I had, one night in the woods at school.
‘I want four kids,’ she had said, pressing her hand against her stomach. ‘Two girls and two boys.’ She said it in the bold, confident manner that only a teen could have. She had looked so luminous in the dark, her hand circling her belly.
‘What about you?’
‘I’m not sure I would be a very good mother, you know,’ I replied.
‘Balls,’ Freya had snorted. ‘You are the best friend anyone could ever have. In the entire world. That means you’ll be an incredible mother.’
At six in the morning, I get her reply. I’ve been watching a history documentary on my computer and an email from her pings right up on my screen. For five minutes, I can’t read it then I calm myself using the breathing techniques Dr Anthony taught me.
Josephine, thanks so much for getting back to me. I’ve been wondering if you would change your mind. I’m pleased you did. There’s so much I need to talk to you about. Let’s go for a walk and then, depending on how things go, lunch?
Depending on how things go? I think. What the hell is she thinking will happen? My gut begins to swoop.
Let’s meet Tuesday morning, Hyde Park at twelve? I work not far from there and I’ll take a long lunch. See you at the Kensington Gardens exit – the one where we used to meet up on our school holidays. Freya.
I stay in bed until 1 p.m. the next day. Then I go and get my hair cut. I’ve spent the past sixteen years trimming my own hair with a pair of nail scissors so I’m shocked when I’m charged fifty-five pounds for the pleasure. This time only a month ago, I would have found the whole experience intrusive, ugly – all the reasons I stopped going to the hairdresser in the first place. Now, though, I let the young man with the tight black jeans and crazy black hair go to work. He massages my head, shampoos my hair and then cuts, holding up my brown locks before decisively snipping off huge hunks which land all over my hands. I keep sneezing and he’s laughing, asking me when I last came to the hairdresser. When I tell him, he puts down his scissors and goes and gets me a glass of champagne. ‘Here. You need this.�
� I drink it and laugh with him about how my hairstyle is actually in style now. ‘You’re so out of fashion, you’ve come full circle,’ he laughs.
When I get up, my whole head feels light. I can feel a breeze on my ears and my fringe has been swept to the side so I can see my forehead properly for the first time in years.
‘Stop looking at yourself,’ the hairdresser says. It’s true, I can’t stop staring. My whole face looks totally different and my hair doesn’t hang like stringy rope either side of my face. I don’t stop there. I go and buy some new make-up from Boots. I don’t want Freya to think I’ve been revelling in my own misery all this time. I spend an hour at the Chanel counter, spending the last of my pay cheque from before I left Jordan. Having bought only two or three items of make-up in the past few years, it feels justified. The saleswoman behind the counter offers to do my eyes and I let her. ‘The green in them. Wow,’ she says. ‘This colour looks fantastic on you. Brings them out. Hasn’t any one ever told you that before?’
‘Not for a long time,’ I reply, smiling.
I’m tempted to meet up with Toby, to see his reaction and then, as I sit down for another coffee, I realise how bloody stupid I’ve been. Behaving as though this is a first date? God knows what Freya has in store for me, and I don’t know why I’m acting as though I’m a love-struck teen. The full force of what is about to happen hits me and then I get an odd feeling that something bad is afoot. I try to shake it, blame it on too much coffee, but it’s there, and my make-up feels really garish and my haircut ridiculous. Freya’s email plays through my mind: ‘and then, depending on how things go, lunch?’ Rationally, I know that, of course, Freya is hedging her bets that we might not want to spend much time together. But what if . . . what if she has something else up her sleeve?
Freya, I wish I could still read you, I think.
The Exclusives Page 25
