A Mother’s Sacrifice

by Gemma Metcalfe

  ‘Lana,’ he often barks, while looming over my desk with his Armani tie swinging in my face and his beer breath wafting up my nostrils. ‘If looking through that window doesn’t inspire you to sell holidays, you might as well go and look in the job centre window instead.’ Then he laughs hysterically before giving way to a smoke-induced coughing fit, like the wit he possesses needs to splutter out before he spontaneously combusts.

  So anyway, the first rule of sales is to not believe a word the client on the other end of the telephone says. Obviously I know this but I wouldn’t give Damien the satisfaction of answering. He is right, though; they all lie to you from the second you say hello. One lady, a Mrs Chilton, aged seventy-two, from Brighton, once told me she couldn’t possibly take up my offer of a beautiful, luxurious holiday because her parrot had separation anxiety. Apparently he had taken to pulling out his own feathers and hanging upside down while singing Lionel Richie songs whenever she left the house. Perhaps this one was true – either that or Mrs Chilton is an absolute legend!

  ‘The first rule of sales is to never believe the client,’ declares my colleague Terry smugly, like Jeremy Kyle revealing his lie detector results. Damien almost whoops, ecstatic that somebody has actually paid attention. He then screeches a decibel louder than is necessary.

  ‘Listen up! I’m going to announce the star of the week.’

  He breathes in deeply, psyching himself up for the grand revelation as if we were finalists on The X Factor.

  I look around to see if anyone’s actually listening. Over in the far corner, next to the fire extinguisher and overflowing bin, I see Louise playing on her iPhone. Next to her, Max is looking intensely at what looks like a piece of chewing gum on the floor, and Holly is giving the wanker sign to Martin. Mel, who is sitting next to me, seems to be concentrating extremely hard on not vomiting all over her new flip-flops

  ‘Are you all right?’ I whisper into her ear, careful to keep my voice low so that Damien doesn’t acknowledge my existence.

  As she responds with a dry heave, I can’t help but smile at the slightly faded admission stamp on her hand, which advertises ‘a free shot with every drink’.

  The people who work with me are all British expats. They’re a harmless mismatch of eighteen-year-old party animals, bored housewives and young suits who fancy themselves as the next Wolf of Wall Street.

  Well, I’m definitely no Jordan Belfort! Five months I’ve been working here and I haven’t sold one single holiday. I’m that skint I can’t even afford mayonnaise to mix in with my dry tuna pasta, which is currently sitting in a Tupperware container on my desk, sweating in the sticky morning heat.

  But now things have become serious. Damien pulled me to one side yesterday and placed his skinny, moist palm on my arm. I dodged the spittle flying at me as he spoke in his whiny Scouse accent.

  ‘No sale tomorrow and you gotta go… sorry, girl.’

  Speaking of Damien, I see he’s finally sat down. Who won star of the week? I half wonder. Oh well, I suppose it’s time to pick up the telephone and annoy some people. A huge poster looms above me: ‘smile while you dial’.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Lana? I said do you want a brew?’ Mel nudges me on my arm, her Katie Price perfume billowing above our heads like a cloud of lemon sherbet.

  ‘If you can manage it without puking.’ I wink at her, letting her know my banter is well intended. She sticks her fingers up at me in classic Mel fashion, before turning on her heel and sauntering off.

  As I fire up my computer, I unfortunately catch my reflection in the monitor. God! I desperately need a good night’s sleep and a bit of TLC. I’m twenty-six and I look about forty; dark-brown circles have started to form under my eyes and unruly, coarse eyebrow hair is sprouting out in all directions like the roots on an old potato. My limp, blonde hair is pulled back lazily into a ponytail with Amber’s butterfly clip shoved in as an afterthought. Oh yeah, I have a daughter, by the way: Amber. She’s six. It’s because of her I had to leave our home in Manchester.

  It’s because of her I’m on the run.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PRESENT DAY

  Liam, Manchester, 1.45 p.m.

  Don’t mistake my relief for happiness. It’s vital that you understand the difference.

  I suffer with asthma, but when I was younger it literally consumed me; probably down to my father’s forty-a-day habit and the fact we lived right next to the Mancunian Way. When an attack took hold I felt like fifteen rugby players were in a scrum around my windpipe. You never get used to that crushing feeling; desperately trying to drag in air that evaporates the moment it reaches your lips. Then my foster mum would appear, as if by magic, with a reassuring smile and an inhaler tucked inside her pinny.

  ‘You’re always losing them, Liam,’ she would say soothingly. A quick press of the nozzle and the deadly grip loosened. For a blissful moment I felt free… but definitely not happy. How could I be happy when I knew all too well that the feeling would return… and the next time it could be fatal?

  Today I have pressed down the nozzle, figuratively speaking, of course. I’ve struggled through the denial, fought against the sadness, given in to the anger. But I know the relief will soon evaporate, leaving cold droplets of fear in its place… it always does.

  I sit down tentatively in my easy chair, light up an Embassy No 1 and draw in deeply. I need a minute to think. I know I shouldn’t be smoking, by the way, so you don’t need to lecture me. I close my eyes lightly, inhale the finality of the situation along with the tar. It is there that I see her, floating just behind my eyelids, her face just slightly out of reach: Alice, my beautiful, darling Alice.

  Snapping my eyes wide open, I cast them onto the front-room door, just slightly ajar, my heart hammering so fast I feel almost giddy. I look and wait, not daring to take another breath. But Alice isn’t there. Of course she isn’t.

  Looking over towards the huge bay window, I notice that the curtains are closed. I realise only then what a blessing that is. It’s nice to feel hidden; cocooned against the torrential rain that’s bouncing off the windowpanes and the howling of the wind as it smashes against the door knocker.

  Elliott is eyeing me suspiciously, like he knows I shouldn’t really be smoking in the house. I bring my finger up to my lip.

  ‘Shhh.’

  He smiles. I wink.

  It’s then the situation really hits me, as I look into my boy’s open, trusting face. The brief freedom of a few seconds earlier disintegrates in front of my bloodshot eyes, just like I knew it would. I begin to feel a stirring in my stomach, an acidic cocktail of panic and regret thrashing around, desperate to erupt. I take another drag of my cigarette, this time more harshly than I should, deep into the lungs. I pray the nicotine will banish any feelings of doubt. I’ve no room for doubt. ‘Smoking kills’ reads the label on my half-smoked packet. I realise I’m crying.

  Elliott whines from across the room. ‘Sorry, pal,’ I whisper, while rubbing my eyes with the cuff of my sleeve. I rake my free hand through my thick, chestnut hair, greying just slightly at the sides. At thirty-six I have what you would call a ‘lived-in’ face: rugged around the edges, with emerald green eyes and naturally tanned skin. I suppose I used to be handsome, before all of this happened of course. Now, every time I look into a mirror, I can’t help but notice that my cheeks are a little too hollow and my eyes have lost their spark. Still, there’s worse things in life to worry about than your own appearance, isn’t there?

  As I lay my head on the squashy headrest of my chair and close my eyes, the salty tears run freely down my cheeks. ‘It will be okay,’ I protest; to myself, or maybe to Elliott? I’m not too sure.

  He continues to look at me strangely, which makes me feel even worse.

  ‘Just the smoke making my eyes water,’ I offer, while wafting the cigarette in his general direction. It’s pointless really as I know Elliott doesn’t understand. I then notice Bob the Builder is on the television, his absolute favou
rite. Balancing the half-smoked cigarette on the side of the ashtray, I walk over to where he’s sitting, crouch down so we’re eye to eye. As he looks up at me I focus on his dark-blue eyes, eyes that draw you straight to him, mesmerise you.

  ‘I love you, mister. Everything I have done, and everything I am about to do, is for you. You know that, don’t you?’

  In response, Elliott cranes his head around me, transfixed instead with Scoop the digger and Jess the cat. Or am I getting confused with Postman Pat? What’s Bob’s cat called? Pilchard, that’s it. I laugh; fancy thinking of such trivial things at a moment like this.

  ‘You’re a little sod, you are, pal,’ I laugh through my tears, while ruffling his soft, milky-bar curls. ‘It’s all right, son, I’ll let you off. Watch your programme.’

  God! I adore that little boy so much.

  And yet I’ve no choice but to leave him behind.

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