The World at My Feet

by Catherine Isaac

  ‘How could you do that, Guy, when we were on a date together?’

  ‘I know, Ellie. I know. Urgh! I was so drunk. It was a big mistake.’

  ‘I don’t… I honestly don’t know what it is you’re phoning for.’

  He seems to take umbrage at this. ‘I phoned to see how you are,’ he says. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing. Clearly not.’

  ‘I caught you in flagrante with the mother of your child last night, Guy. I don’t know what it is you expect me to say. “Oh, never mind – what time are you coming over on Tuesday?”’

  ‘I’ve already explained I was drunk,’ he says, as if patiently addressing a slow-witted child. ‘It was a one-off. I can hardly believe it myself – the woman is an absolute dick. And I’ve said sorry. What more am I supposed to do?’

  ‘You were not supposed to do what you did in the first place.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. You don’t own me, Ellie,’ he says.

  ‘I never said I did!’ I protest.

  ‘But, Ellie,’ he says, gently again, ‘that’s exactly how you’re acting.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I reply indignantly. ‘I’ve never complained that you only come over here twice a week, as if you’re booked in for a chiropody appointment. I haven’t raised the fact that we’ve been seeing each other for months but you act like I’m just there for your convenience. But you can’t possibly believe it’s okay to do what you did last night. Surely?’

  ‘Can we just take One. Step. Back,’ he continues acidly. ‘Last night was a mistake. But could you just rewind and point to the bit at which we agreed we were exclusive?’

  A knot forms in my chest. ‘I… but I assumed—’

  ‘You assumed what? That I’m your boyfriend? That we’re going to start having Sunday lunch with my parents and cosying up on the sofa in our slippers on a Saturday night? I never signed up for that. So you assumed wrong.’

  The worst thing is that, on one level, he’s right. He never gave any indication that he was interested in me in any meaningful way whatsoever. But there is a hollow feeling in my stomach as I think about the implications of his words. ‘Does this mean you’ve been seeing other people at the same time as you’ve been seeing me?’

  He sighs. ‘Look, Ellie. I didn’t phone up to have this conversation this morning but it’s probably good we did. I think it would be better for both of us if I didn’t come and see you anymore. It’s not your fault, but you’ve been expecting too much from this. I like you, Ellie. I want you to know that. You have a good soul. But I can’t be in your life in the way you want me to.’

  I am momentarily stunned by the raging injustice of this – that he gets to dump me after last night. ‘But… I—’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything,’ he says, soothingly. ‘I want you to know that you are a beautiful person and your scars will heal. Sometimes we need to break before we shine. At times of trouble—’

  ‘Hang on. Is this a motivational quote?’

  ‘I’m simply saying, Ellie,’ he continues smoothly, ‘trust that an ending is followed by a beginning. Try to see the light beyond the storm. Feel your heart and—’

  ‘Oh, do shut up,’ I say and end the call.

  * * *

  When Lucy arrives, I fill her in on the whole night. She makes me an omelette. We drink tea. I do some crying.

  ‘You can tell me you told me so.’

  She tuts. ‘As if. I wish this hadn’t happened to you, Ellie, but at least you’ve seen him for what he is. I never met the guy but he comes across as a self-absorbed prick.’

  The word flashes in my head, a reminder of the row with Jamie.

  ‘The important thing is this: I know you’re upset but you mustn’t let this set you back on all the progress you’ve made with Colette. Please. I know this – he – was your motivation. But you’ve got a whole world to get out and discover with or without him.’

  I sniff and nod. ‘So… what is it you were talking about in your text last night? I’ve been so wound up I’d forgotten all about it.’

  Her demeanour changes. She puts her mug down on the table and clearly has something big to tell me.

  ‘Is this something to do with your lovely Norwegian?’ I ask. ‘I hope so. I need some news to cheer me up…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says.

  ‘What doesn’t?’ I frown.

  ‘We can talk about it another time.’

  ‘Talk about what? Lucy, what are you hiding?’

  She lowers her eyes and almost winces as the next words come out of her mouth. ‘I’ve been offered a job.’

  ‘Oh. How fab! I didn’t know you were looking. What is it?’

  ‘It’s… at the National University of Singapore.’

  I feel my wrist go limp and realise a moment later that tea is dripping on the floor.

  ‘It’s a really good opportunity.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘And…’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Ellie, I’ve said yes. I’ve taken it.’

  I try to keep my voice steady. ‘Right. Wow. Gosh, congratulations! What about Jakob?’

  ‘He’s… coming with me.’ Every word sounds like an apology.

  I let her announcement sink in, allowing it to filter through my brain long enough to plaster on a smile. ‘Lucy, that is just brilliant.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Ellie.’

  ‘You daft thing. Don’t be,’ I laugh. ‘You’ll be amazing! Come here, give me a hug.’

  As we stand in an embrace, I squeeze my eyes tight. When I open them and pull away, I have to quickly turn to the kitchen to hide the tear spilled on my cheek.

  ‘I thought about not going, just so you know. This hasn’t been an easy thing to decide.’

  ‘Not because of me, I hope?’ I manage to grin again. ‘Lucy. This is the chance of a lifetime. Think of the sun! And skyscrapers and cocktails!’

  She smiles uncertainly. ‘They’re putting me up in a swanky apartment for the first few months. It’s got a pool.’

  ‘And presumably you’ll be back every so often?’

  ‘Twice a year, maybe more. Perhaps you’ll feel able to come and visit one day.’

  ‘Well, there you go then! I’m unbelievably proud of you.’

  I repeat those words constantly over the course of the next hour. I reassure her, I congratulate her, I tell her she is doing the right thing.

  I save my crying for the moment I close the door behind her, when I leak tears and feel paralysed with despair. Eventually, I pad to the kitchen and remove a bin bag from the cupboard, before returning to my bedroom, where I stuff my dress and shoes inside the black plastic like I’m a forensics officer collecting evidence from a crime scene. I take the bundle to the front door, intending to put it in the outdoor bin. But as I click open the lock, and go to step out, I am engulfed by a feeling as hot and powerful as the backdraught from a burning building.

  I stand at the threshold, looking into the garden. The leaves of the snowy mespilus have turned scarlet and crimson. The asters have brought vibrant, light purple colour to the border. The forest pansy has turned yellow and the late summer crocuses have appeared in large, leafless blooms from the bare earth, their waterlily petals a striking pinkish purple.

  The thought of going out there makes my limbs begin to judder and shake, and sweat bead at my neckline. I place my foot on the patio outside and feel the air change. Then I step back, close the door and bolt the lock.

  Chapter 55

  ELLIE HEATHCOTE

  The temperature has dropped and the days of sitting outside in a T-shirt to watch the sun set with a G&T are pretty much gone. There’s no denying it, summer is well and truly over for one year * SOBS *. But it isn’t all bad! Today, I layered up, took myself outside and enjoyed the chill on my cheeks and the benefit of a warm drink after my hard toil. Despite the challenging conditions, the chrysanthemums are still blooming, the geraniums are in full flower and the begonias are working hard too. They don’t ha
ve much longer left, so I’m enjoying them while I can and filling my notebook with ideas for my autumn and winter garden. All, of course, with a fabulous, upbeat soundtrack (though ‘Walking On Sunshine’ was pushing it a little under today’s cloud cover). What jobs have you been doing since the weather turned? #EnglishCountryGardenista #thisgirldigs #englishcountrygardens #Octobergardens #gardener #gardening #garden #gardenlife #flowers #plants #gardens #nature #gardendesign #growyourown #gardeninspiration #instagarden #gardenlove #growyourownfood

  The relief of sleep is immense. So dense and warm that I don’t even dream. Dropping off last night felt like slipping into a silky bath, deep and comforting and safe. These days, I stay in bed not merely all night, but for hours beyond the point at which hazy light begins to blur into the gap in the curtains. When I wake it is reluctantly, peeling open an eyelid to register the glow of digits on my bedside cabinet. 12.43pm. I sink further under my quilt.

  What rouses me eventually is a craving, a visceral need to reach under my bed for the cigarettes and ashtray. A dusty, decaying aroma rises as I lift them onto my bedside cabinet, but I fall short of finding it offensive. Others might, though nobody has been inside my annexe for weeks except Gertie, to whom I cling like she’s a lifebuoy, and Mum and Dad, who I don’t allow near my bedroom. I keep the door firmly shut, awaiting their departure, so I can return to bed. I sometimes have a long wait.

  They come over as often as their ability to create flimsy excuses allows. Mum hovers in the living room, saying everything too casually: Could I tempt you for a walk today, Ellie? How about you pop over for dinner tonight? or – more directly – If you need to talk, we’re here. Not that I’m pressurising you.

  All of which translates as: What the fuck is happening here? AGAIN?

  She brings home-baked bread and fancy deli items, hearty soups and sweet things, food designed to fortify, nourish and encourage a failing appetite. Most end up being chucked out, though she must never know that. Dad also arrives to walk Gertie every day and of the two of them, it’s his expression that’s hardest to handle.

  I sit up, plump my pillows and light a cigarette, inhaling as deeply as my lungs allow before they begin to object, brushing a greasy strand of hair out of my face. There’s something deeply luxurious about smoking in bed, I think. Prunella Scales used to do it in Fawlty Towers, with a box of Milk Tray in the other hand. If that’s not living I don’t know what is. I place the filter in my mouth and pull out my iPad to check how last night’s Instagram post is performing.

  The answer is, beautifully. Which is gratifying given that my process has altered slightly of late. This image of the Cotinus coggygria was not taken yesterday morning as it says in the caption. It was rooted out from the archives of my computer and selected from the images I took this time last year. I always end up with hundreds more photos than I can use and it fills me with a certain satisfaction to know that I’m now putting them to good purpose. It seems thrifty and rather practical, like Kirstie Allsopp making a nifty pomander from dried lavender and an old pair of tights.

  I sink into my bed again and reply to some comments.

  @ontariogardener

  Have you had any snow there Ellie?

  @EnglishCountryGardenista

  Not yet! Plenty of rain though. No chance of a drought in my garden right now.

  @Lauramanners

  I love your shrubs. Are there any I could plant at this time of year?

  @EnglishCountryGardenista

  Absolutely! Lots of shrubs need to be left until spring (ornamental grasses or borderline hardy plants such as cistus or salvias, for example). But go with something like witch hazel or hydrangeas and make sure you dig over the whole border at least a spade’s depth, then work in lots of well-rotted compost and you’re ready to go!

  It’s nice to stay in touch. It reminds me that I’m human. That I might be sitting here surrounded by fags and Diet Coke cans, having not faced anyone from the outside world for… I hardly remember now. But, on Instagram, everything remains the same. On Instagram, I am still @EnglishCountryGardenista. I still advise you how to handle tender perennials and prune a pear tree. I can still tell you how to deal with acid soil and the best position to plant nasturtiums. I can still dig and mow and cultivate and grow and do it all with a pin-sharp eyeliner flick and bubblegum-pink Hunter wellies. Or at least do all this in the pictures.

  Maintaining my social media presence without moving from my bed might seem cynical, but I have a living to make and the money I got from selling my 1900 edition of The Gardens of Gertrude Jekyll will only last so long. I have not taken up any offers of new work, but most of the sponsorship campaigns that I was contracted for have gone ahead as scheduled, using pictures I’d already taken. I’ve had to make my excuses on at least two that were due to run next month because I simply haven’t done the photo shoot. But this is the best I can do right now. Given I’m in the throes of what I’m fully aware is an episode (nothing as dramatic as a breakdown, whatever Lucy calls it), it is surely to be commended that I’m still vaguely functioning enough to continue with self-employment for now.

  I click through my computer and find another contender for tomorrow’s photo. I’m in this one. My hair is wanded into lustrous waves, I have a face full of make-up and look every bit Instagram Me. A woman with no flashbacks or nightmares or the insidious sense of threat that lives constantly between the thudding in her ears.

  After I’ve replied to everyone, I answer the call of my bladder and empty my ashtray, watching as the swirl of toilet water struggles to flush the mountain of butts and leaves a residue of nicotine tide marks. My loo really has earned its keep lately. I’ve thrown all sorts down there in a bid to avoid putting the bins out. I could ask Mum or Dad, but so far I’ve tried to maintain the impression that I’m still going into the garden and they’re pretending not to notice evidence to the contrary. I realise I’m going to have to either broach that subject soon or actually open the door and put the bin out, but for the moment, the thought makes me feel ill. I head back into the kitchen to make coffee. As I fill up the machine with water, I lift my eyes to the window and look outside.

  So this is what happens when you don’t weed the beds or deadhead your roses.

  There’s a strange and wild beauty in what I see – Miss Havisham’s house in horticultural form. The unseasonably warm weather has led a mass of new shoots to pop up from the cracks in the flags. The borders are a tangle of browning, overgrown stems and anything that was blooming in late summer – the phlox and foxgloves – lies dead and decaying. Sludgy water spills from stacks of pots and overflows from the wheelbarrow. Of the flowers, only a few cling on, roses with wilted heads and pansies battered by rain that lie like muddy handkerchiefs. And at the far end of the garden is Oscar’s sunflower, withered and brown, but still standing.

  I realise I’m scratching my forearms and decide it’s time to drag myself into the shower. As I head to the bathroom, I hear the thrum of an engine and thoughts of Jamie hit me like a flash flood.

  I am gripped by the thought that this could be him, even though I have nothing on order. It’s feasible, though I haven’t heard a word from him since our argument. I’m continually torn about whether I want to see him or not. For the most part, I simply cannot face him – yet I’ve still managed to place four orders with Green Fingers in the past weeks for items I don’t even vaguely need. They sent a replacement delivery man every time, which makes me suspect Jamie has actively requested to be put on another route. That’s how much he doesn’t want to see me.

  Obviously, there hasn’t been the slightest clue on social media as to what he’s up to. He’s still not on Instagram or Twitter, and only has his half-hearted Facebook account for which he still hasn’t even uploaded a profile picture. In this vacuum, my imagination has run wild. I’ve considered the possibility that he’s had a shotgun wedding with the nice cancer nurse-cum-primary school teacher I’d partnered him off with and is now toasting their nuptials on
a balcony in Alicante. Or, and I suspect this really is the case, he’s just quietly getting on with his life, exactly as before, and wants nothing more to do with me ever again. For different reasons than Guy.

  I’ve seen plenty of him on social media. He’s been pictured repeatedly with @KellieYogini in a variety of local beauty spots, often with his ankles twisted round her neck, and always accompanied by some quote about making a connection or being someone’s earth. The frequency and nature of these pictures is starting to give the impression that they are designed to make someone jealous. Someone other than me, of course. I do wonder sometimes what Stella must make of it all.

  I creep to the window and peer out. When I see it’s a Green Fingers van, my brain puddles with the possibility that this – finally – could be him. The van door opens. Two boots crunch on the ground under the door. I look down at my crumpled, fetid PJs and dash to the bedroom to pull on some clean jeans. When I return to find a brush, it occurs to me that Mum and Dad might have ordered something. But they’re out, so he’ll either just drop off the delivery and leave or come over here.

  I’m dousing myself in dry shampoo and deodorant when there’s a knock. I walk to the door before I can change my mind and turn the lock. Opening it feels like a rush of cold air sweeping through my body, chilling my bones.

  But it is not Jamie. The man at the door must be in his mid-seventies, with a thin face framed by steel-rimmed glasses that make him look like Postman Pat. He smiles cheerfully. ‘Hello! Can you take a parcel for the main house?’

  I taste bile in my mouth. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  A gust of wind from behind him reminds me that I am facing the outside world and the moment I have the parcel in my hand, I want to shut the door. It’s addressed to Dad.

  ‘You need to sign for it,’ he says, handing me the signature machine. I scrawl my name, and thrust it back at him. I’m about to close the door, but hesitate.