She Chose Me

by Tracey Emerson

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It hasn’t been advertised yet and it’s a permanent position.’ Linda lowers her voice even though no one can overhear us. ‘They’ve got a new DOS there and he’s keen to get the post filled. You’d be in with an excellent chance, and I’d certainly put in a good word for you.’

  My stomach unwinds, my shoulders drop. ‘Thanks for thinking of me, but I’m happy here.’

  ‘You know permanent positions don’t come up that often.’

  I nod. ‘With things as they are, I can’t really commit to permanent.’ Nor do I want to. Temporary contracts have always suited me just fine.

  ‘How is your mum?’ Linda asks.

  ‘Up and down, you know how it is.’

  ‘I certainly do.’ Linda has told me before about losing her mother to Parkinson’s three years ago. ‘That’s why I would urge you not to put your life on hold for her,’ she says. ‘Harsh as that sounds.’

  ‘It’s not only because of her. I’d just rather teach than manage.’

  ‘There are days I think you might be right.’ Linda sighs. ‘I feel like a fraud supervising someone with your experience. Should be you behind this desk, not me.’

  ‘You’ve got the better outfit for it,’ I say, and Linda laughs.

  We chat for a few minutes—I update her on how my classes are going; she insists we need a staff night out soon.

  ‘Yes, let’s do that,’ I say, getting up.

  ‘Oh, hang on.’ Linda’s words stop me as I reach for the door handle. ‘I meant to say that your background check came through.’

  When I turn round she is already typing at speed, lost in whatever is on her screen.

  I clear my throat. ‘Is everything okay?’ Linda looks up, confused. ‘With the check,’ I add.

  ‘Of course. I’m satisfied I haven’t hired a master criminal.’ She smiles. ‘Either that or whatever you did you got away with it.’

  9

  Wednesday, 5 August 2015

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Quentin’s lined face loomed out from my laptop screen.

  ‘Hello,’ I replied. Harsh, white sunlight lit up the luxurious apartment he sat in. Bright blue sky filled the balcony doors behind him. ‘How’s Dubai?’ I asked.

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  Both of us displayed wide, fixed smiles, but the distance between us wasn’t only geographical.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Well. Very well.’ His gaunt widower’s cheeks contradicted him. His once thick silver hair looked thin and unkempt, his beard a matching straggle.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he insisted. ‘Just busy.’

  ‘How’s the… the project?’ I’d never paid much attention to Quentin’s work.

  ‘It’s going well. You wouldn’t think Dubai had room for another hotel, but there you are.’

  Quentin was an architect and the director of his own successful firm, a business he’d set up with his substantial inheritance. He’d told me his family history many times, but I remembered only that the money originally came from timber. Cutting it down, moving it around. Something like that.

  ‘We’re running ahead of schedule,’ he said, ‘which is a miracle and probably won’t last.’

  Better not, I thought. He was supposed to be away until March.

  ‘I doubt I’ll be coming back for Christmas,’ he said.

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘I thought you could come over here for the holidays?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  He sighed, and I knew what was coming. ‘It won’t be the same without her,’ he said. ‘Can you believe it’s been almost seven months?’

  It never took him long to mention Isobel. He rubbed his wedding ring, a habit he’d acquired since her death. Three rubs, as if summoning magic, as if the action might make his wife reappear.

  ‘I think about my mother too,’ I said, which was true. I thought about Grace every day. Isobel I’d managed to push aside, but now she barged back in, bringing guilt along with her. I pictured her as she was in healthier days, her plump body contained in one of her black, wrap-around dresses. Her wavy, ash-blonde hair clipped up, exposing long earrings of beaten silver.

  ‘She only ever wanted you to be happy,’ said Quentin.

  She’d wanted much more than that. She’d wanted me to love her in a way I never could.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ I said, ‘sorry to be such a disappointment.’

  I waited for Quentin to declare me no such thing, but instead he said, ‘Are you keeping busy?’ His sharp tone unnerved me. For a moment, I feared he knew what I’d been up to.

  ‘Very busy.’

  ‘Have you signed up for your A-level retakes yet?’ I shook my head, and Quentin sighed again. He still believed I could achieve the four A grades predicted for me in my teens. Pity I wasn’t in a fit state to pass the exams at the time. ‘You are keeping up your therapy?’ he asked. ‘That’s very important.’

  ‘I am… Jesus… Get off my back.’ I wanted to remind him that none of this was my fault. My mother was to blame for my behaviour, not me.

  He looked so haggard with disappointment I couldn’t stand it. ‘I’ve got a boyfriend,’ I announced.

  ‘Really?’ His surprised tone shouldn’t have offended me. After all, I’d never had a boyfriend before.

  ‘He’s called Ryan and he’s from Sydney. He works in hospitality.’

  I expected Quentin to interrogate me, to show concern about my choice of company, but instead a relieved smile lit up his face.

  ‘It’s wonderful you’re connecting with people,’ he said. ‘Your mother would be proud.’

  Isobel would be amazed. No one will like you if you don’t like yourself, Cassie. That’s what she used to say when my brief flings with the opposite sex ended. The ones she knew about anyway.

  Quentin’s mobile rang in the background.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you,’ I said. He clearly didn’t care what was going on in my life as long as I stayed out of trouble.

  ‘It can wait.’ He asked if I was managing on my allowance. Did I need any more? Maybe he meant it in a nice way, but I felt he wanted to remind me of everything I owed him. As if I could forget. He and Isobel had adopted me when I was eight months old. After my first birthday, they moved to a village in Surrey, to the large white house I grew up in. Each summer they took me to another large white house near Aix-en-Provence. They gave me cats and dogs in place of siblings. Offered me riding, cello and ballet lessons, but they couldn’t give me what I needed most—my mother.

  ‘Have you settled into the flat okay?’ Quentin said. ‘Any problems?’

  ‘It’s fine.’ 33 Highbury Terrace was one of many London properties Isobel had owned and which now belonged to Quentin. Years ago, when Quentin set up his architecture firm, she’d started a rental agency to make use of all the flats and houses her father had left her.

  ‘What was wrong with the Notting Hill place?’ he asked.

  ‘The location wasn’t right.’ Too far from my mother. Much too far.

  ‘Highbury Terrace was one of Isobel’s favourites.’ Quentin’s bloodshot eyes filled with tears. ‘We lived in that flat for a year when we first got married.’

  ‘Yes, you told me.’ I didn’t feel unsympathetic for his loss, just aware that loss was nothing new to me. I’d lived without my mother since the age of seven, when Isobel and Quentin told me I was adopted.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry.’ He blew his nose. ‘I’m struggling a bit today.’

  His grief stirred nothing in me. Isobel’s death had left me numb and besides, I had my mother to focus on now.

  ‘Bye, Quentin,’ I said and banished him with a click of my mouse.

  In the silence of the flat, memories of Isobel gathered around me. I thought of the notes she would leave on my pillow after our frequent arguments.

  I love you, darling girl, nothing will change that.

  You
may not see me as your real mother, but I will love you until my dying breath, as any mother would.

  Emptiness filled me. I grabbed my phone and called Fastlane Chauffeurs. Quentin had set up an account for me there, supposedly only for night-time travel or emergencies.

  ‘I need a driver, please,’ I said when I got through. ‘Selfridges,’ I said when they requested a destination.

  ***

  Four hours later, I sat on the soft, beige carpet in my living room. Five Selfridges bags surrounded me, bulging with purchases. My latest binge had cost MasterCard over two thousand pounds. Quentin wouldn’t be happy when he got the bill, but I didn’t care. This lapse had only happened because of him.

  I thought shopping might rid me of Isobel, but she’d hounded me into the changing rooms, insisting that the black shift dress by Chloe did nothing for my pale complexion and that I had no chance of filling the Calvin Klein push-up bra I’d set my sights on. Ignoring her advice, I’d bought both.

  Death had made Isobel much easier to disregard. She’d never believed I would find my real mother. In the past, she’d discouraged me from trying. Said I’d only bring myself more pain.

  As I surveyed the bags, the emptiness returned, even stronger than before. Only one thing to do. I called Ryan, who answered on the third ring.

  ‘Hey, Cass,’ he said, trying to sound casual. As if he hadn’t rung again at lunchtime and left another message.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ I said in a parody of his accent, ‘I’ve been crook. Sick as a bloody dog. That’s how come I didn’t call you back.’

  He burst out laughing. ‘That’s not a bad impression.’

  I wanted to hang up, but the thought of Quentin stopped me. He hadn’t asked about Ryan because he’d assumed it wouldn’t last. I thought about my mother too, about us meeting and her asking me questions, sussing me out. She would ask if I had a boyfriend and I’d say, of course. We’ve been together a while now.

  ‘You still there, Cass?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘How soon can you come over?’ I said.

  10

  Sunday, 4 October 2015

  Aroma is packed. I rushed here after my Sunday morning yoga class and managed to grab the last table. All around me, the bleary-eyed and hung-over sip coffees and smoothies. Some read newspapers, while others stare at phones and laptops. Modern jazz plinks away beneath the whirr of the juicer and the hiss of the coffee machine.

  ‘Hi there.’ Ryan appears with my order. ‘How you going?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’

  He lays a mismatched china cup and saucer and a glass teapot on the table. ‘Here’s your Sencha green tea,’ he says in a flat, tired voice.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask.

  He shrugs. ‘Been better.’

  ‘Late night?’ The dark pouches beneath his eyes hint at one.

  ‘Nah. Girlfriend trouble.’

  ‘That’s easily solved. Whatever happened was your fault and you should apologise.’

  ‘Funny. I reckon she’d agree with you though.’ He smiles. ‘She’s a high-maintenance girl, that’s for sure.’

  The way he says this suggests he’s not ready to give up maintaining this girl yet. He’s sweet, Ryan. Seems like the kind of boy who likes being in a relationship. The kind of boy I dismissed in my youth as not exciting enough.

  ‘Bet you wish you were back in Singapore today?’ He nods at the window and the damp, dismal morning beyond it.

  ‘Not half.’ My navy trench coat hangs on the back of my seat. I bought it yesterday in preparation for the winter ahead.

  We talk for a bit longer, about Sydney mostly. I know the city well from numerous visits there and always enjoy reminiscing about it.

  ‘Cool nails by the way,’ Ryan says before heading back to the counter.

  I spread out my fingers and admire Emma’s handiwork. She insisted the aqua blue varnish would suit me, and she was right. She spent ages yesterday on the manicure, dismissing my concerns about keeping her from her duties. Any excuse for a skive, she joked. With Mum busy tutting at a news special about the migrant crisis, Emma and I chatted away like we were in a beauty salon. Emma asked if I had a boyfriend, and I told her no. She shook her head when I asked her the same question. Said she used to have one, but he was too needy. Got on her nerves.

  I pour my first cup of tea. As I sip the hot, fragrant brew, I cringe at the memory of asking Emma if she still lived with her parents.

  ‘I lost my mum a long time ago,’ she said, which made sense of why she’d never argued with her. ‘I was very young so I never knew her.’

  I apologised for my tactlessness and then made it worse by asking if she lived with her dad.

  ‘He died last year,’ Emma said. ‘It’s fine though,’ she added, bright and defensive. I wanted to place an arm around her narrow shoulders. Reassure her she wasn’t alone.

  After I empty the last of the tea into my cup, a tingling starts at the base of my neck. It spreads out across my shoulders and down my spine. The sensation of being watched.

  Outside, low dark clouds bruise the sky. I scan the faces of the people strolling past the window. Looking for what?

  Twisting in my seat, I spy a baby strapped into a buggy a few tables away. The baby’s dark, solemn eyes observe me without pity and refuse to blink when I stare back.

  In the end, I look away first.

  ***

  I return to the flat on edge, restless. Wishing I could shove some clothes in my rucksack and take off for a break somewhere exotic, like I used to do on a regular basis. Instead I have to settle for housework as a distraction. Just as I’m wrestling the hoover out of the hall cupboard, the doorbell rings.

  ‘All right?’ Trish, the woman who lives in the flat opposite, is lurking next to the rubber plant. A small, hunched woman, Trish is probably not that much older than me, but her worn face suggests otherwise.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, my stomach lurching at the sight of the white envelope in her hands.

  ‘That postman’s a cock,’ Trish says. ‘He delivered me your stuff yesterday, only I didn’t notice at first and then you wasn’t in so I thought I’d better hold onto it and then I was babysitting for my Shelley last night and I stayed over, so…’ She holds out the envelope.

  That familiar tremor at my core.

  ‘He’s always messin’ up my post,’ she says. ‘I don’t see why he should get away with it.’ Trish, who will tell anyone willing to listen about her violent drunk of an ex-husband, doesn’t put up with any man’s failings. As she rants on about bringing up the postman’s incompetence at the next block committee meeting, I grab the envelope and rip it open.

  ‘And if Wendy from number four comes to the meeting, I’ll be telling her to get her kids in line,’ adds Trish, who doesn’t tolerate many women either. ‘They leave their toys all over the bloody place. I nearly fell over Buzz Lightyear on the stairs the other day.’

  Another card. Cluster of pink balloons on the front and a message in thick silver letters.

  BEST MUM EVER

  Inside, the card is blank.

  ‘Are you going to the next committee meeting?’ she asks.

  ‘Have you had anything like this in the post?’ I hold up the card, gripped by an irrational fear that it might not be real and that Trish will insist she can’t see it.

  ‘Nope,’ she says. ‘Not had nothing like that.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘It’s not Mother’s Day, darlin’.’ She shrugs. ‘Probably a bloody marketing thing. I spoke to one of those call centre people one time and got tons of crap in the post afterwards.’

  I remember the Indian woman with the warm voice and the extensive list of questions. ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Just a marketing thing.’

  When Trish leaves, I lock the door. My hands shake as I add the card to its predecessor in the recycling box, smothering them both with a copy of Red magazine and an empty soya milk carton.

  ***

  Later, after hooverin
g the entire flat, I settle on a stool at the breakfast bar with my laptop, determined to catch up with overdue e-mails. I reply to one from Zoe and another from Rosabelle, a former student from Taiwan now studying at Cambridge. I also send lighthearted, newsy messages to several friends from Singapore. It feels good to remember who I am and the life I have lived. The life I will return to one day.

  E-mails done, I indulge in some random surfing—the weather forecast for Singapore, the screening timetable at the Soho Curzon, the website for the Capital School of English.

  My name is listed on the staff page along with everyone else, and a recent picture accompanies my short biography. I hate having my details out there, where anyone can find them. I tried to get out of it. Surely temporary staff shouldn’t feature, I said to Linda, but she insisted. Up until now I’ve avoided any Internet presence. Networking sites hold no appeal for me. I’ve no desire to get in touch with anyone from school or university. No desire to relive the past.

  I exit the site and distract myself with the state of various celebrities’ marriages.

  Dan Thorne

  I’m not aware of having typed his name, but I must have done. There it is, in the search engine, daring me to hit return.

  I’ve never looked him up. Not once. My index finger jabs at the keyboard.

  Dan Thorne Dan Thor Dan Th Dan D

  All gone.

  The new lilies in the vase next to me are all closed apart from one. Armed with a piece of kitchen towel, I delve into the open bloom and rip off the stamens, the rusty pollen staining the white paper like an exotic powdered paint.

  ***

  At night in bed, black words float behind my eyes.

  BEST MUM EVER

  The words hover there, demanding attention. Surely if ignored long enough, they will go away and let me sleep?

  No such luck.

  I get out of bed and pad across the cold floorboards to the hallway. Opening the cupboard, I retrieve the cards. After tearing them up, I push the shreds to the bottom of the red box.