The Pupil

by Dawn Goodwin

  ‘I think I’m just coming down with something. Perhaps a lie-down would help.’

  I would go to bed early once the children were asleep and then wake in the early hours and start tapping away at the keyboard again. He didn’t need to know about the text messages or the pills and I hadn’t decided whether I should seek a repeat prescription or let writing be my therapy. Going cold turkey had its consequences, but now that I had started, I wanted to see it through.

  I started writing in my journal again too, resuming an old daily habit that I’d abandoned when I first moved to London all those years ago. Picking up the pen for the first time and opening the first page of a fresh, clean journal felt like coming home. I stashed the journal under the bed, behind the bags of thick winter jumpers that would be coming out again soon, along with the laptop. Within easy reach, but tucked far enough away that Paul wouldn’t come across them by accident. He didn’t need to read what I actually thought, often my darkest moments when I couldn’t escape the images in my head and the sounds that haunted both my waking and sleeping consciousness. Writing seemed to keep it all at bay more than the drugs had, although at the end of a writing session when I read back the words I’d regurgitated onto the page, the imagery I was using was very telling: flashes of yellow; a morbid overcoat thrown over the narrative; the central character’s fear of flying and of being trapped. It all hinted at what was always stalking my subconscious.

  What I was missing this week was a meeting with Sam. After Viola had been last Monday, Sam had been elusive, to say the least. He had sent a text to say that he would get in touch with a date for another meeting when he had more time, blaming his own deadline, but the WhatsApp and Snapchat banter had all but dried up, my messages going unanswered for days. I felt the rejection like a bruise and my paranoid brain wondered if Viola hadn’t liked what she’d seen and had discouraged him from seeing me or told him to put some distance between us. She had been acting strangely when she was here, but I was coming to realise that the woman was complex, full of sharp bends and difficult to predict. If that was the case, then I needed this manuscript to be the best it could be so that my writing impressed them, even if my personality didn’t.

  Still, I was hurt at how quickly he had blown cold on our friendship and it had unsettled me again just when my confidence – in myself and my manuscript – had been starting to grow. I found myself sometimes staring into space, crippled by self-doubt: what if they were all right? What if this book did get published and everyone hated it? I was nakedly putting myself in front of a firing line asking for a bullet of criticism. It could be a free-for-all, especially if details of my past came out. I would then pick up my phone, begin to type out a message to Sam, then delete the whole thing, chastising myself for being selfish when he had made it clear he wanted time to concentrate on his own work.

  When I was sleeping, I would have dreams about reading 1-star reviews from readers hiding behind their anonymous avatars, telling me they thought it was ‘garbage’ and ‘not worth the paper it’s written on’ or ‘there’s five hours of my life I won’t get back’. I would wake in a cold sweat, the duvet sticking to my legs and cold tears on my cheeks. But instead of putting my head under the pillow, I would get up quietly, make a strong cup of tea and sit down in front of the keyboard again, writing word after word, even if they were the wrong ones or in the wrong order, and the fear would slowly dissipate into the night air.

  After all, I’d come this far, risked upsetting Paul with my lies and deceit, and pushed myself out of my medicated comfort zone, so I wasn’t going to let it all get the better of me just yet.

  That was exactly what I was reminding myself tonight as I sat in front of the screen, my fingers tapping quietly, the sky dark beyond the window. I hardly noticed the shriek of a fox in the back garden as I tried to focus my scrambling, fearful thoughts into a coherent stream of words. Slowly but surely, the panic ebbed and flowed into the letters and I could feel myself calming as I submerged myself into the characters’ heads.

  And then, out of nowhere, it was done.

  I wrote ‘The End’.

  I sat back in the chair, feeling numb. I’d done it quicker than I’d expected. When I had dreamed about this moment, I had hoped to be elated, relieved, maybe shed a few tears of joy at reaching the end of such a mammoth task, but now that it was here, I felt leaden.

  I closed the laptop lid and listened to the silence screaming at me. I knew I needed to read over what I had written and changed over the last few nights, but instead I walked over to the couch in the lounge and flung myself into the carefully arranged pillows, burying myself among the scratchy textiles. Exhaustion crept up the back of my legs and stroked my back.

  When I opened my eyes again, it was to bright sunlight streaming into the lounge and the sight of Jack sitting in the armchair across the room with his iPad.

  ‘Hey Mom,’ he said.

  I pushed up onto my elbows, disorientation clouding my vision. I rubbed my eyes. How long had I been lying here?

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Seven.’

  I must’ve fallen into a deep sleep. I could hear a radio station blaring upstairs and realised that my alarm had gone off and I wasn’t there to turn it off. It was one of those alarms that was set to increase in volume until it was silenced.

  Shit. Paul.

  I launched from the couch and took the stairs two at a time. Bursting through our bedroom door, I threw myself at the alarm clock and turned it off. The bed was empty.

  ‘I was wondering when you were going to turn that off,’ Paul said from the bathroom doorway. His hair was on end and his pyjamas were wrinkled.

  ‘Sorry, I woke up before it this morning and forget to turn it off. Did it wake you?’

  ‘No matter. I had to get up anyway. Are you okay? You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.’

  He frowned. ‘I’m worried about you, Katie. I think you should see the doctor and maybe we need to address your diet – or you could go for a run or a swim this morning? Get you out of the house and into the fresh air.’ He approached me with his arms outstretched and a look of concern wrinkling his brow. Giving me a kiss on my forehead, he said, ‘You must look after yourself.’

  ‘I’m fine, really. Now, to get those kids ready for school!’ I put on a bright smile and went to wake Lily from her pre-teen slumber.

  Once I had dragged her from her bed with a kiss and a cuddle, I trod back downstairs in my slouchy socks and the tracksuit I had sat up all night in. My eyes felt thick and swollen in their sockets and I needed caffeine to give me a strong shake.

  I went straight to the kitchen and began to make a cup of tea.

  ‘Katherine.’

  My hand paused over the mug, a teabag gripped between my fingers.

  I turned to see Paul standing over my laptop. Ice crackled down my back.

  ‘What is this?’ He was staring at it like someone had left something unmentionable on his table.

  My mind went blank. ‘I… er…’

  He raised his eyebrows and glared at me with folded arms, as though he had caught me smoking behind the bike shed during school. ‘Well?’

  I decided to go with honesty. ‘It was a gift from Sam and Viola. Mine wasn’t working properly and they gave me this one so that I could finish my manuscript. Which I did – this morning, actually.’

  He ran a hand over his face. ‘Katherine, we’ve talked about this.’

  ‘No, you told me what you thought – and I disagree with you.’ I kept my voice calm, despite how I felt internally.

  His eye twitched and he took a step towards me. ‘And I have good reason to think it would be too much. We have been here before. I’ve had to—’

  ‘I know what you have had to do and what has happened before. You do not need to remind me every single day. I am grateful to you for everything, but this is nothing like that. This is me picking myself up and putting myself back togethe
r again. Like you wanted. And I’m good at this. I know I am. But your faith and support would be appreciated. Did you hear me? I finished the manuscript.’ My voice had a shrill edge now.

  ‘Mum? Can you make me an egg on toast?’ Lily called as she glided down the stairs.

  Paul pulled himself up and said in a brittle tone, ‘We will talk about this again later, but that –’ he pointed a wavering finger at the laptop – ‘will be returned today.’ And he turned and left the room.

  I dropped my head and scrunched my eyes shut, feeling the anger and frustration pulsate through my body, tears welling up behind my clamped eyelids. He was being unreasonable, but I had given him licence to. I took a deep breath before taking my place in the kitchen at the stove. Ten minutes later I heard the front door slam and he was gone without a word to any of us.

  *

  I sat on the couch, listening to nothing in particular except my heartbeat pulsing in my ears, but I kept my breathing calm. I had spent all morning since the children had left rereading what I had written and now it was ready. The laptop sat next to me on the cushion, cursor flashing, email window open and waiting. I pulled it onto my knee.

  I typed a brief message, saying that the manuscript was finished and ready for Sam and Viola to read, but that I was not looking to pursue publication any longer. I was merely sending it to them for closure and so that they could see how much they had helped me. I attached the huge, 94,000-word file at the end.

  But I couldn’t press ‘send’. My finger hovered over the touchpad, twitching, but I couldn’t command it to click.

  Frustrated, I pushed the laptop to the side and grabbed my phone from the coffee table.

  ‘Helen? Hi, how are you?’

  ‘Katherine, fine thanks. How are you?’ I could hear the pissy undertone to her words. It had been days since we last spoke, but I couldn’t bring myself to call her after our conversation about the text messages, as though deep down I really did irrationally suspect her of something.

  ‘Yes, sorry, I’ve been… it’s been a funny week. Um, listen, would you like to meet up for a coffee this afternoon?’

  ‘I have stuff to be getting on with here. Why don’t you come here?’

  ‘Okay, are you busy now?’

  ‘That’s fine. See you soon.’

  I checked my reflection in the large mirror over the fireplace, making sure my hair was smooth and in place. Then I found Bo’s lead in the basket by the front door, threw on my Converses and grabbed my handbag before heading out.

  It was a short, five-minute walk between my house and Helen’s. She was only a few streets away, close to the park gates. I felt safer with Bo with me, less exposed, and the feeling of being watched didn’t follow me today. Bo became increasingly boisterous as we neared Helen’s house, clearly recognising where we were going and excited about the prospect of a play with Molly. I felt a little guilty as I’d been cutting Bo’s walks short this week too, rushing through them so that I could get back to the safety of my home, behind closed doors and away from prying eyes, not taking as much time to stop in the park for a throw of the ball or to let him run and explore.

  The front of Helen’s house was beautifully maintained, set back from the road with a wide paved driveway and neatly shaped bay trees in bright pots. It was a tall, three-storey house that she and Ed had spent years renovating.

  Helen opened the door with Molly at her feet, barking excitedly.

  ‘Hi,’ I said sheepishly, suddenly aware of the awkwardness between us. I reached down and unclipped Bo’s lead and the two dogs ran off down the wide hallway in delight.

  ‘Hi, come on in. I’ve just brewed some coffee.’

  I followed her down the immaculate hallway and marvelled as always at how neat and minimalist her house was. No abandoned shoes in the doorway or coats tossed aside; no books lying around or dirty socks on the stairs; every surface protected with coasters and cloths. My own home felt like a never-ending stream of tidying and shuffling that didn’t seem to diminish. Helen did have a cleaner twice a week, but even on the days in between, the place was like a hotel suite.

  The back of her house was open plan, with French doors framing a landscaped garden, a modern kitchen with steel worktops and a brushed concrete floor, and a long, dark blue couch covered with bright orange cushions that I coveted for their pop of colour. Paul wasn’t one for bright colours and preferred beiges and creams, but I often yearned for a bold splash of colour in our otherwise drab decor.

  I pulled out a metallic rose gold bar stool from the expansive kitchen island as Helen poured coffee into her posh Orla Kiely mugs. She hadn’t said much to me yet.

  ‘So how’s things?’ I asked brightly.

  She sniffed. ‘Okay, the usual. Bit stressed actually.’

  ‘Oh, why?’

  She shrugged, her full lips drawn down like a petulant child.

  ‘Look, Hels, I’m so sorry about snapping at you the other day. I’ve just… I’ve been so focused on my writing that I haven’t really had time for anything else and I’m distracted and worried about the texts and everything. It feels like I have eyes on me every time I leave my house and it’s making me jumpy. But that’s no excuse. I haven’t been a very good friend and I’m sorry. I know you’re just looking out for me.’

  ‘No, you haven’t been, but that is exactly what I’m trying to do.’ When Helen felt like speaking her mind, she took no prisoners. ‘If you’re scared, do something about it instead of keeping it to yourself. Talk to Paul. You can’t just push us all aside when you don’t have time or when we’re telling you what you don’t want to hear.’

  I hugged the mug in both hands, suitably chastised, feeling the heat of the coffee through my skin.

  ‘I could’ve done with some company this week as it is. Ed has been completely engrossed in work and I’ve been tearing my hair out with the plans for the basement project. The architect can’t get his head around what I want and the plans are still not right,’ Helen continued.

  Trying to make amends, I said, ‘Show them to me now. Maybe I can help?’ But I couldn’t have cared less about her project to build a basement below their already spacious house. Hers were petty issues compared to living as though under a microscope every day.

  She pulled open a drawer at her feet and produced a roll of architectural plans. Unrolling them with a flourish, she explained what she wanted to do with the space and how her architect had told her what was feasible and what wasn’t.

  ‘He’s being very close-minded for an architect, but we used him on the loft conversion and he was very accommodating on the whole.’

  ‘Maybe it works differently with basements because you have to factor in the foundations and things – although I have no idea how these things work, to be honest,’ I added quickly when her eyes narrowed at me.

  I gave her what I hoped were constructive ideas on how to position the room differently, but she wasn’t happy with any of my suggestions.

  ‘Perhaps I could talk to Sam about it. I think he said they have a basement at their country house. From the sounds of it, it’s a beautiful house,’ I added.

  Helen rolled the plans up with a snap. ‘Him again. Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you?’

  I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s all you talk about.’

  ‘That’s not true. And it’s only to you because I can’t talk to Paul about him.’

  ‘Of course, because you’re still lying to your husband, who deserves the truth in my opinion.’

  ‘Since when have you been on Paul’s side? You don’t even like each other.’

  Helen held a hand to her chest in mock indignation. ‘That is not true. I just think he can be a bit… stuffy and old-fashioned sometimes. And controlling. But maybe I think he’s right this time around. You’re not the same. You’ve changed and I feel like you’re pulling away from me, from him. How do I know you’re not lying to me too?’

  ‘Hels, I was just tr
ying to do something for me for once. Not about the kids or trying to please Paul, but for me. I was given an opportunity to do something that I have dreamed about since I was a kid and I wanted to give it my best shot. Why is that so wrong?’ My voice was rising in parallel with the heat in my cheeks.

  ‘It is wrong if it means you push everything else aside. I’ve never known you to not be there when the kids finish school or to not have a snack ready in your bag, to be rushing back to school because you forgot to take their PE kit in, to ask me to cover for you as much as I have done of late.’

  ‘So, I’ve been distracted and forgotten a few things or haven’t had time to bake flapjacks for them. For goodness’ sake, I’m looking over my shoulder every time I leave the house! But they’re oblivious and as happy as ever regardless of my distractions. When I was Lily’s age, I walked home, let myself in and ate tinned rice pudding for my after-school snack in front of Blue Peter because my mother was in bed with her face turned to the wall. My two are doing just fine.’

  ‘Oh, here we go – the “my childhood was awful” card! Let’s talk about Katherine’s terrible mother again!’

  My mouth dropped open.

  ‘We all had difficult childhoods, Katherine, but you insist on bringing yours up all the time. My parents weren’t even around. I had nannies instead of a mother and a matron at boarding school.’

  ‘And a pony and a holiday home. Poor you,’ I mumbled into my cooling mug.

  ‘We all have baggage. It doesn’t mean yours was any worse than mine, is what I’m saying. And Paul deserves the truth. I wouldn’t dream of doing something that Ed was adamantly against me doing.’

  ‘But Ed supports you in everything and he always has.’

  ‘Are you trying to say that Paul hasn’t? We both know he has had your back for years.’

  ‘I know that, but I think he’s being unreasonable this time.’ My voice was now like a thin sheet of ice.

  ‘And what happens when – or if, which is more the case – you get this big publishing deal? Do you have any idea how much time it will take up? Not just the writing, but the promotions, the editing and changes, maybe book tours and launches, festivals, that kind of thing. Then there is the fact that you have to put yourself out there in the public, which is dangerous considering what’s going on. And yet you’re stubbornly doing it anyway. Maybe you deserve whatever comes your way.’