The World at My Feet

by Catherine Isaac

  Thoughts such as these are often in my mind lately, especially when I’m flicking through his paintings. Every time I look at his book, I see some new detail, a ruffle of peonies or the silky ivory petals of the lilies that stood in pots by my front door back in June. On Friday night as I was doing just that, I felt compelled to order a raft of gardening equipment that I really don’t need, paying extra for Saturday delivery. Then Green Fingers had the audacity to send a replacement delivery driver because Jamie hadn’t been on the rota for that day.

  * * *

  We arrive at Colette’s office, where Dad takes a seat in the waiting room with the Guardian crossword, as she invites me in. ‘How was your journey?’ she asks, closing the door.

  This is before she’s taken out her folder, so I know it is polite conversation, not a subject she wants to explore as part of the session.

  ‘Well, I didn’t throw up, so definitely a success.’

  ‘You’re looking a lot more relaxed than the first time you came to see me.’

  ‘I am. Some days still feel easier than others though.’

  ‘That’s normal, Ellie.’ I catch a glimpse of a spider plant on her window sill that looks yellowing and limp.

  ‘You’re overwatering that,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That plant. It doesn’t need much liquid and would be better in a slightly less bright position.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replies. ‘How is your medication working for you at the moment?’

  I’m back on a low dose of antidepressants, prescribed at my first GP visit in years, during which Dr Zacharia also took the opportunity to check my blood pressure, quiz me on my weekly alcohol intake and book me in for an overdue smear test.

  ‘It’s fine. I’m not convinced it’s this that’s worked miracles, but then I’m here so I can’t really argue with it. I still think the CBT is the most effective thing. And the walks. I’ve been taking the dog out every day.’

  ‘With your delivery man?’

  ‘It tends to be Mum these days. Jamie’s book looks like it’s about to really take off, so he’s busy. I still listen to his playlists though. They’re kind of… comforting.’

  ‘You imagine him being there with you?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ I force out a laugh, though the truth is that I have started a little ritual every time I go out and it hasn’t failed yet. I close my eyes and try to conjure up the precise feeling of my hand in his the first time we stood at the gate. The pressure of his fingers, the warmth of his skin. It leaves me fortified, with a sense of self-belief and calm. Then I press play and step outside.

  ‘And how are you feeling about your past at the moment? You told me last time that you’d read the piece your mother had written about Romania and said we’d come back to it. Do you feel ready to talk yet?’

  She clearly thinks it’s significant, a step forward, that I am confronting my past rather than running away from it. She was so impressed by the whole thing that by the end of that session I wished I’d never mentioned it at all.

  ‘I really don’t think it’s necessary,’ I say. ‘The CBT is working well, isn’t it?’

  A long pause follows. I’m determined not to fill it. This time, I decide to let it run and run until it’s her who has to break it. It goes on so long I become convinced that I could sing all three verses of the national anthem and she still wouldn’t have cracked.

  ‘I don’t regret reading the article,’ I hear myself saying. ‘But I do really wish my mum had found out something about Tabitha. The fact that she went to all that effort and came up with nothing makes it almost worse. I’m not saying I thought… there’s just no closure, you know?’

  ‘Of course,’ she says carefully.

  ‘Not knowing is the worst thing. Your head fills the vacuum with theories, good and bad. And I know the fact that I’m in the dark doesn’t necessarily mean the worst. But her chances were awful.’ I lift up my chin and look at her. ‘It must be your turn to speak now?’

  ‘Closure is a difficult thing when you have so many unanswered questions. By the sound of it the only option might be to try to gain some acceptance that you may never know what happened to her. As hard as that is. Ellie, I think you need to find a way of saying goodbye to Tabitha – somehow.’

  I find myself examining the spider plant again, my gaze drifting over the long tendrils that curl down from the window sill.

  ‘Do you think you’d ever consider going back to Romania?’ she asks and my head snaps back to her.

  ‘No. Never. If that’s what you mean by saying goodbye, then no. That’s not a good idea.’

  ‘Why is that, Ellie?’

  I shift position in my seat. ‘Well, it’s obvious.’

  ‘Because you are afraid?’ she asks gently.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But nobody is going to take you to an orphanage and lock you away there now,’ she says. ‘Perhaps that could be a way not merely to say goodbye to Tabitha, but to your past as a whole.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so. I’m not going to do that.’ I decide to change the subject. ‘Have I told you I’m going to a wedding?’

  She smiles. ‘You have. How are you feeling about that?’

  ‘Excited. I’m still worried about having a panic attack, of course. Which is annoying because I’ll only have one if I’m worrying about it and… well, I’m worrying about it.’

  ‘Actually, I had a thought about that,’ she continues. ‘All your tasks have been in daytime hours so far, haven’t they? You haven’t been out in the evening.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then I think that should be this week’s homework. Before you go to this wedding, make some kind of social engagement one night. It doesn’t need to be fancy – just a drink in a pub with your boyfriend.’

  ‘You mean Guy?’ I say stupidly, because of course she does.

  ‘It can be anyone you like, as long as it’s a practice run and you take someone with you. Someone who makes you feel safe.’

  Chapter 46

  Sharply crisp autumn sunlight greets me the following morning, shining on the berried trees and illuminating the shrubbery. I wake up and start work early, clearing the leaves gathered in the corners of the garden and filling a Tupperware box with conkers that have dropped under the horse chestnut branch drooping over my hedge. I work all the way through lunch, forgetting to eat, and by mid-afternoon the light is so perfect that although I hadn’t planned a photo shoot, I can’t let the opportunity pass.

  I set up my tripod in front of the Michaelmas daisies and the katsura trees, wishing their burnt-sugar aroma was somehow broadcastable through social media. I know before I’ve even downloaded them onto my computer that the photos are some of my best this year, a splash of reds, yellows and oranges that will need minimal alteration on Photoshop. I’m heading inside, when I hear the thrum of Jamie’s van.

  ‘Hello!’ I say, as he opens the gate. ‘Gosh, it’s good to see you. We’ve been like ships in the night lately. I hope you’ve got time for a cuppa?’

  He hesitates and pushes his hair back.

  ‘Oh go on,’ I urge him. ‘Or I could make it a cocktail?’

  He laughs and the dimples in his cheeks suddenly appear. ‘It’s a bit tricky at the moment, Ellie. I’ve just had another commission for a children’s book.’

  ‘Oh wow! Jamie, that’s brilliant.’

  ‘Same publisher, but the deadline is tight so I’m working flat out. Probably why you haven’t seen much of me lately.’

  ‘I did wonder,’ I reply, feeling relieved that there is a plausible explanation. ‘Then you surely need a break?’

  ‘Wish I could,’ he replies. Only now, as he hands over the signature machine, there’s something about his demeanour that makes me not believe him.

  ‘How about coming for a drink with me tonight then?’ I blurt it out, entirely unplanned. And yet, I realise straight afterwards how much I want him to say yes
. ‘Oh, come on. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the pub with anyone. I’m buying!’

  He breathes in. Smiles. ‘Okay, why not. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.’

  * * *

  I’m tonging my hair later that afternoon, when I have the most infuriating conversation with my sister during a video call. ‘I’m not convinced you should have asked him out,’ she says. ‘Not if you’re seeing Guy.’

  ‘I haven’t asked him out. Jamie is my friend.’

  ‘He’s not your friend. He’s a very decent human being who has feelings for you that clearly diverge wildly from your own about him. You’re stringing him along.’

  ‘I am not! I never would!’ I realise I am squeaking now. ‘Lucy, you’re wrong about his feelings. He’s never shown the slightest interest in me beyond anything platonic. And if he did…’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Well, he’d have no right to. I’ve made it clear that I’m already seeing someone.’

  She rolls her eyes, as if she’s dealing with an incompetent customer services assistant. ‘I know you’re out of practice, but falling for someone doesn’t work like that, Ellie.’

  ‘Oh, I give up,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe you should be straight with him then. It’d be the nice thing to do. Leave him to get on with his life.’

  ‘What, and not see him at all?’ I’m squeaking again. I can’t help it. I’m horrified by the thought. ‘I didn’t say I had no feelings for him. I have lots of feelings for him. I just don’t want to have sex with him.’

  The sentence rolls off my tongue like a steam train and, as soon as I’ve said it, I am not merely questioning the assertion, but – worse – thinking about having sex with him. I feel a bolt of hot adrenalin, first between my legs then right up to my cheeks.

  ‘Oh fine,’ she says. ‘You’ve convinced me. Go on your date. See if I care. Just do me a favour and let me know if you end up shagging him, won’t you?’

  I decide to end the call.

  * * *

  He arrives at 7.32pm in jeans and a pressed cotton shirt that leaves wisps of hair just visible above the top button, kissing a tiny, raised mole that I’ve never noticed before. He is standing straighter than usual, his shoulders pulled back in a vaguely unnatural posture.

  ‘You look lovely.’ There is a shy note in his voice, as though he has something hot in the back of his throat.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply with a this-old-thing shrug. I’m wearing my favourite boots with jeans and a cashmere jumper that I bought in the Hush sale a year ago and which has languished in my wardrobe since. It feels like a solid combination: the familiarity of my footwear and the almost-newness of the sweater, finally freed from its prison.

  After dropping Gertie with my parents in the main house, we walk to the village. It takes ten minutes, at a brisk, downhill pace, and when we reach the car park, my steps slow. It’s been nearly three years since I walked into this pub. Or indeed any pub. A place that, on a Friday night, will be full of people, possibly two-deep at the bar. If I let myself dwell on this fact it has the potential to end badly, so instead I turn to Jamie, taking a moment to drink in the sheer height and breadth of him, the strength of him.

  ‘Well, here goes,’ I say.

  He responds with a look that says you’ll be fine and opens the door. ‘After you.’

  I step in, half-expecting everyone to turn and look, like that scene in An American Werewolf in London. But nobody even registers us. Conversations continue. Card games are played. Pints are pulled. Not a single gaze is cast in our direction. We find a spot by the fire and Jamie offers me the seat facing out.

  It is a proper country bolthole of a pub, with a rabbit warren of bar rooms, low, beamed ceilings and eccentric flourishes such as a huge jar full of cricket balls on the bar and a mural of ordnance survey maps papering one wall. There is also a laissez-faire approach to taxidermy, with various stiff, ancient-looking creatures peering out from shelves, and soft woollen blankets scattered on leather seats.

  I wrestle off my coat as Jamie goes to the bar and scans a chalkboard menu of ales with names like Crop Circle and Grumpy Bastard. A staff member comes over to feed a log into the fire, which crackles and roars.

  An old man sitting alone strikes up conversation with Jamie. He looks as much a part of the furniture as the creaky bar stools and woven rugs, and once he’s started talking it’s clear he’s not keen to stop any time soon. But if Jamie minds, he doesn’t act like it. He listens and nods, and occasionally laughs, even beyond the point when the barman has completed the order and he’s paid for the drinks. As the man slaps Jamie on the shoulder, it occurs to me what it is that everyone likes about him. If he comes across an old man who’s slightly the worse for wear, he doesn’t try to avoid him. He takes the time to chat, to treat him with consideration and kindness, even if he’d rather be somewhere else.

  And I know he’d rather be here with me. I do know that. He finally gives the man a gentle buddy slap on the back and returns, setting down a glass of wine and a pint on the table.

  ‘Sorry about the delay,’ he says.

  ‘Do you know him?’ I ask.

  ‘The old guy? No, he just wanted someone to talk to. He was telling me about his daughter. She lives in Chicago and has just had a baby. She’s offered to pay for the flight and he’s desperate to go, but is terrified of flying. He’s seventy-seven and has only been on a plane once, more than thirty years ago.’

  ‘Oh, so you had his life story?’ I smile.

  ‘Most of it, yes,’ he laughs.

  ‘What did you advise?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ He shrugs. ‘Sometimes it’s better just to listen.’

  ‘Your listening certainly helped me,’ I say.

  ‘Good.’ He smiles and raises his glass. ‘Cheers to that. And to you.’

  I lift my glass and gently chink it against his, before taking a sip. ‘You know… I’ve never really said thank you, Jamie.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You know for what. I honestly think that if you hadn’t taken my hand on that first day, I’d still be sat at home in a cloud of Marlboro Lights.’

  ‘No, you’d have got there in the end,’ he says confidently. ‘Well done for quitting those things though.’

  ‘Yeah. They’re shit, aren’t they?’ I look up at him. ‘I think what I’m really thanking you for is… not writing me off as a complete fuck-up.’

  He chuckles into his beer and shakes his head. ‘Sorry. Ellie, you do make me laugh sometimes though.’

  ‘And not in a good way…’ I say, joining in.

  ‘Always in a good way.’ He places his drink on a beer mat. ‘You know, you’re just your own worst enemy. You’re not a fuck-up. On the contrary. You’re amazing.’

  He says the words so lightly that you’d think he was stating, not an opinion, but a fact so irrefutable that it was on a par with you’re a human. Then he smiles and takes another sip of his Crop Circle.

  Chapter 47

  We talk till closing time, as the fire crackles and my belly warms with just enough but not too much booze. Every so often, I’m struck by how wonderful it is to be cosy in a country pub, in the company of someone I feel completely comfortable with but never bored. Someone with whom I can be entirely myself, my faintly ridiculous and definitely screwed-up self, and know for certain he doesn’t look at me in anything other than pools of flattering light.

  It’s one of those evenings in which three hours disappears in minutes, the kind I haven’t had for years. I have that same childlike feeling I got at birthday parties in the first years after arriving in the UK. That aching happiness, the desperation for it not to end.

  The conversation rolls into memories from school and I ask him whether he was bullied, saying I remembered seeing him outside the head’s office one day with his mum.

  ‘I had a tough time in the last year of primary school, yeah. There were two kids – Graham Parry and James Bent – who’d steal my lunch
, call me names. I got a new pair of trainers and they threw one on the flat roof. Nothing major but enough to make a kid miserable,’ he confesses. ‘My mum found out about the shoes and was straight in, but it didn’t really end until I went to seniors.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I reinvented myself,’ he grins. ‘Developed a bit of a swagger. It was all a front, obviously – I’m about as much of a hard man as Fozzie Bear. But it’s surprisingly easy to look tough when you’re thirteen years old and nearly six foot tall. I never attracted that kind of attention again.’

  ‘You were a big softie disguised as a tough guy, then.’ I can’t help smiling.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Well, good for you. I’m sorry you had to go through that though.’

  ‘Ah, it was a long time ago. I bumped into Graham last year, as it happens, working in a mobile phone shop.’

  ‘Did he say anything about what he’d done when he was younger?’

  ‘No, he just tried to flog me an iPhone X. I declined, but filled out a customer service form on the way out, rating him two out of ten and suggesting that the company should do something urgently about his halitosis.’

  Later, I discover that he’d kissed my old friend Helen at Jeremy Harding’s seventeenth birthday party. He refuses to reveal a single detail on the grounds that ‘a gentleman never tells’.

  ‘Oh, come on. I need the gory details,’ I say. ‘I mean… did you?’

  ‘Did I what?’

  ‘Consummate it?’

  ‘Under the stairs of Jeremy Harding’s house? What kind of slag do you take me for?’

  Soon, last orders have been and gone and the landlady is beginning to clear the tables.

  ‘I think this is a hint,’ he says, nodding to her as she liberally applies antibacterial spray on the table next to us.