Kavita listens, her dark brows furrowing at key moments.
‘I think I’m still in shock,’ says Kate. ‘He was giving such mixed signals. To be honest I’m in a bit of a mess about it all.’
‘Toast?’ says Kavita, offering up her own thickly peanut-buttered slice with a cautious smile.
Kate shakes her head dismally.
‘Oh no, this is bad. Look, Nick’s behaving like a colossal idiot. But . . . Dom and I love him, and we’re decent judges of character. Nick deserves a second chance. Just the one, mind you. And you probably do need to ask yourself, if he’s doing this before you move in, how reliable will he be if you end up having a kid together, because life doesn’t get easier . . .’
Kate can’t even begin to think that far down the line – she just needs to get back to where she was one week ago, as soon as possible.
*
Kate lies on her bed, staring out at the beautiful summer’s night. She knows she should see a friend, but right now she’s terrible company and, besides, she’s so drained from obsessing about Nick, all she has the energy for is lying down and obsessing some more. It’s like some weird addiction but with no highs, only lows and lower lows. Every time she looks at a photo of them on her iPhone it feels like an act of self-harm. Perhaps she should delete them. How could she possibly delete a single one?
Kate hears Rita screaming her name and drags herself up. In the living room Rita is sitting on the sofa with Geraldine Marks from flat fourteen and two large gin and tonics.
‘You remember Gerry?’ says Rita, waving her glass at Kate.
‘You poor dear,’ says Gerry as Kate stoops to kiss her. ‘And while you were on holibobs . . .’
Kate gives Rita a stern look. Rita shrugs. ‘Gerry merely asked why you’ve moved back in at your age.’
‘Nothing wrong with living with Mummy,’ says Gerry. ‘Jeremy’s fifty-one next month and he lives with his mummy. We couldn’t be happier. Ooh, Rita, did I tell you he’s just signed that huge Norwegian crime writer?’
‘Tell him to pop over,’ says Rita, smiling. ‘Jeremy and Kate can talk books. And perhaps other things . . .’
Rita and Gerry exchange hopeful glances.
Yes, Mother, please do set me up with Heathview’s answer to Norman Bates as soon as possible, thinks Kate.
‘Darling,’ says Rita, ‘we’ve got the residents committee here in five. Be a good girl and take notes, you’re such a good writer. And you can hand out the nibbles.’
Kate shakes her head. ‘Sorry, I’ve got stuff to do in my room.’
Rita sighs as Kate retreats. ‘Kate’s gone on hunger strike, terribly oversensitive, my daughter . . .’
With her bedroom door firmly closed, Kate takes out her diary and flicks back to July. ‘Feeling funny for a week . . .’ OK: the night before France, Nick had made spaghetti carbonara for her; all was well. The night before that, at the cinema, Nick had held her hand continuously, to the point where it had interfered with her relationship with her chocolate raisins. All week long he’d been his usual affectionate self. She tracks back another week, then another, doing full forensics.
She hears the front door open, followed by an amused shriek, increasingly loud giggling, then the pop of a champagne cork – it sounds more like a key party than a residents meeting.
She takes out her iPod to drown out the noise of her mother having substantially more fun than her, but every song reminds her of Nick, of dancing round the living room at 2 a.m. to ‘Faith’, of singing ‘Fairy Tale Of New York’ at the top of their lungs last Christmas Eve, of the time he managed to get tickets to that amazing sold-out Phoenix gig at the Empire. Oh, wait. Was that it? At the Patti Smith gig in June? When Nick turned up at the Roundhouse bar, and after kissing her hello he’d sat reading his iPad. She’d assumed it was job-related but when she’d asked, he’d told her it was an article in New Scientist on dark matter. He’d announced it with such delight that she’d then felt petulant explaining that it made her feel invisible if he continued reading an essay during their date. He’d jokingly called her a diva, and she’d jokingly called him a dick, and then they’d laughed because they had both been joking, hadn’t they? She can’t have hurt his feelings fatally by calling him a dick, surely? He was being a bit of a dick . . .
What is her mother up to next door? A series of dull thuds, then more raucous laughter. What is Nick up to? Sitting on his sofa, realising he can’t live without Kate? No, it’s 8.30 p.m.: he’ll be watching Only Connect on his beloved TV.
Kate would give anything if he’d turn off his TV and pick up the phone to her right this minute.
‘Darling!’ Rita screams. ‘We need you!’
Kate trudges back into the living room.
‘You remember Marco and Rodney? And John Pring from twenty-five, and Lizzette from thirty-three. Lizzette’s hurt her ankle, so I’ve told her you’ll walk Cookie.’
‘Isn’t she pretty?’ says Lizzette, taking out her phone and showing Kate her screensaver of a demented-looking Welsh terrier with huge brown eyes and curly gingery-blond fur not dissimilar to Lizzette’s hair. ‘She’s the dearest little thing.’
‘Except there has been a report of fouling in the gardens!’ says John Pring.
‘Cookie would never do that. It’s Lorna Bleecher’s schnauzer, pooping after dark, and she blames poor Cookie – Lorna has a borderline personality disorder, Rita told me so.’
Kate finds herself dragged into a conspiracy theory about whose dog is stealth-crapping in the garden, who in the block is a sociopath (Lorna, and possibly Mikhail, the night porter), and who on the first floor is leaving rubbish in the hallway, exposing them all to risk of mice, rats and bubonic plague. Gerry then makes everyone watch Abbott and Costello’s Who’s On First?, and it is only when John and Lizzette start bickering about the increased service charge that Kate sees a window and excuses herself.
And there it is! The reward for her patience, her suffering and being vaguely polite to her mother’s neighbours: a text from Nick.
Her heart lurches as she clutches her phone tenderly.
I really miss you. I told my friends about France, they think I’m an utter idiot.
Huh. What is she supposed to do with this? Was he sharing this information by way of an apology? Because apologies normally contained the word ‘sorry’. Kate’s thumb twitches as she tries to formulate the perfect response – a text that could undo the past week, make him realise what he’s lost, hell, cure cancer too . . .
It doesn’t matter what your friends think, it matters what you think. Of course you miss me. We were happy; if you had doubts about your doubts, you should have kept them to yourself!
She doesn’t press send. It’s not good enough – her response isn’t – but that’s because neither is Nick’s text. It’s hardly a man struck low on his knees or bent down on one of them.
She’s going to wait, and sit with this horrible painful ache in her chest, and hope that in the next seven weeks, two days and three and a half hours he’ll make a more impressive move – because anything less will no longer do.
Chapter Eight
KATE HAS BLU-TACKED a piece of A4 to the wall by her bed and every night she marks a cross with a red pen, another day endured. It feels like she’s counting off the days in prison, albeit a rather plush prison decorated with soft lilac throws. Today is only day fifteen, and every one of the last fourteen has felt like she’s coming off a drug. Still, she has not relapsed and contacted Nick, which is her main source of pride. This strikes her as a larger problem about her life, but not one she’s ready to address yet.
Most nights Kate falls asleep and dreams she’s living with Nick in cohabitational bliss. This belief lingers for several moments every morning until she remembers, and the truth causes a wide band of pain to spread across her ribs.
When she used to wake up with Nick, she’d open her eyes and when she saw his sweet face she’d feel safe. When he opene
d his eyes his smile would widen, and she’d feel a solid surge of joy that she got to sleep next to this gentle soul nearly every night.
Kate lies in bed at the weekends, hugging the duvet. She rests one palm over the other and interlocks her fingers. She tries to pretend she isn’t really holding her own hand, wishing it were his.
Come on: out of bed. She draws back the curtains and her heart sinks. Another achingly beautiful summer Sunday. To stay inside and not take full advantage of it would be like wasting her youth, and Kate’s already done that. She could go to the farmers’ market; nothing’s stopping her except that every sight and scent will remind her of his absence. She’d never known she could laugh so hard buying an apple as that time last autumn when they sampled a dozen varieties and Nick made up different silly voices for each; you had to be there, but it really was hilarious. Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick . . . She is sick of thinking about Nick, of talking about him but not to him.
Her phone and her fags have become her dual crutches. She has come to hate herself for being addicted to both. Every time she presses the button on her phone it feels like she’s putting her finger on the pulse-point of a corpse in the desperate hope that it will come back to life.
She is stuck, her life on hold, waiting for any further communication from Nick. Of course she could accept he’s a shit, and that this is the end – but that doesn’t fit with the Nick she knows, so why would she do that?
Kate is determined not to waste the entire summer obsessing further – which is a bit like deciding not to let gravity bring you down.
She has written Nick a dozen letters, in her head, in her lunch break. Some are kind, some are furious; fortunately, none are sent.
August drags itself over an interminable bank holiday into September. There are still another thirty days until the deadline she’s given him.
Kate is desperate for something else to occupy her head, but it’s so full of Nick-white-noise that there’s no space left to think. Rita keeps telling her she’s in charge of her own thoughts, but that’s preposterous. It’s like saying Kate’s in charge of her own appetite – as if she could stop eating a delicious cake after just one bite. It simply can’t be done.
She would give a kidney, she really doesn’t need both. Let him call, please just let him call.
Chapter Nine
TODAY IS A PARTICULARLY painful Friday. Devron, her boss, is at their team meeting. He only ever shows up to announce good news (he’s heading off on another exotic TV shoot) – or terrible (no more staff discount at Christmas – buy your turkey in July and freeze it, or pay full whack).
Kate is so stuck in her head re-crafting another email she won’t send Nick she barely registers the mood in the room, only tuning back in when she hears the familiar euphemism maximising shareholder value.
She sits bolt upright and listens with a horrible sinking feeling as Devron explains that cuts are being made across marketing. Either Kate or Annalex will be made redundant this November, along with three other team members – or they can choose voluntary redundancy at any time.
No. Not again. Not now.
It’s the fourth restructure in the last ten years; she’s survived the other three, but every time it causes a miserable few months of low-level fear tracking her like a shadow. And what if she doesn’t survive this one?
Devron is currently ‘formulating the methodography parameters’ of the process and will get back to them next week with an update.
It’s irrelevant that Kate has won a dozen copywriting awards, whereas Annalex nicks all her ideas from a creativity manual she stole from her ex-employer, Pharmacore, where she worked for five entire years on a single anti-gingivitis mouthwash campaign.
It’s irrelevant that Kate works on forty-six more products than Annalex because Annalex recently played the staunch vegan card to avoid working on the summer barbecue range even though Kate saw her scoff a sausage-and-egg breakfast sandwich the very next day.
It’s even irrelevant that Devron makes up words such as methodography and is in no position to be anyone’s boss.
Kate’s work future will be decided by a man who doesn’t yet know what he wants, and doesn’t yet know when he’ll know. Wasn’t one indecisive man in her life already one too many?
As they’re traipsing out of the conference room she feels a throb of unhappiness pulsing in her stomach. Dave, the head of production, whispers his commiserations. ‘You’re too good for Fletchers, Kate. If I were you, I’d take redundancy and run for the hills.’
Kate can’t remember what the hills even look like, let alone where they are.
Kate’s mood is not noticeably improved when she returns home to find another to-do list from Rita on the kitchen counter:
Water Marco and Rodney’s plants – the boys are off in Barcelona. Key with porter.
Read Healthy Boundaries: How to Create Them; How to Enforce Them – on my shelf.
Lizzette needs Cookie walked before 9 p.m.
Kate loves animals, so in theory she’s been OK with her mother pimping her out as dog walker. Besides, recently she’s read online that Spending time with a furry friend can help lower stress hormones.
Cookie, like Rita, is affectionate half the time, psychotic the other. Cookie’s a jumper and a biter and has already chewed significant holes in several of Kate’s most useful cotton skirts. Even though she’s only knee high, the other night she was in a particularly playful mood and launched her strong wiry body high in the air, aiming at Kate’s elbow and taking a large chunk out of Kate’s favourite stripy T-shirt. Also Lizzette is clearly feeding Cookie suspect vitamins and Kate now finds herself crouched in the middle of Highgate High Street, scooping up warm green liquid poo. It’s not helping Kate’s stress hormones in the slightest.
On her return home, Kate assumes she has the flat to herself and is standing in the kitchen in pants and an old Top Shop vest when she hears the front door open. Kate barely manages to fling on an apron before Rita enters the kitchen closely followed by a respectable-looking fifty-something man dressed in chinos and a pink shirt.
‘You’re meant to be walking Cookie,’ says Rita, sounding annoyed.
‘Done that,’ says Kate curtly. ‘And for the record, Lizzette’s ankle is fine, she was in heels earlier. I didn’t know you’d have company,’ she says in mild distress, then whispers, ‘I’m not wearing a skirt, you said you were out for the night!’
‘Patrick, this is my teenage daughter Kate. She’s not normally an exhibitionist but let me show you through to the living room while she puts more clothes on.’
Kate hurriedly crab-steps from the room, praying this man won’t realise he can see half her bottom reflected in the toaster. Her face burns with shame. This is all Nick’s fault – she would never be in this humiliating situation if it weren’t for him and his imbecilic, selfish wobble. She climbs into bed and composes another furious email to not send:
Nick – one day you’ll realise I’m the one that got away, but it’ll be too late. You don’t get a second chance for asking someone to move in, then backing out after they’ve given notice on their flat, thus forcing them to live with their narcissistic, slutty mother. Watch your big fat telly – I’m getting myself a better life.
This is possibly the most bonkers of all her crazy emails – partly because Nick hasn’t asked her for a second chance, and also because ‘a better life’ does not involve throwing a tantrum worthy of a toddler, then retiring to bed at 8.40 p.m. on a Friday night while your mother’s in the next room enjoying a raunchy first-date snog.
Kate is too agitated to sleep. She’s resisted going near her mother’s bookshelves until now, but she’s desperate to understand Nick, to figure out what’s going on and hence learn how to fix him. Perhaps these books might hold the answers.
Chapter Ten
‘DARLING, IT’S 10.15 A.M., you need to water those plants,’ says Rita, knocking, then opening Kate’s bedroom door to find Kate only now waking up. Strewn ove
r the bed are copies of Attachment Theory, Narcissistic Personality Disorder and Why Won’t You Apologize?.
‘So you’ve finally decided I’m not so foolish after all,’ says Rita, sitting on the bed and gathering the books back. She picks one out and holds it up to Kate’s face.
Kate glances at it, confused. ‘Me? Apologise for what? Anyway, I read some good stuff about love-avoidants – it’s totally Nick.’
‘Heaven forbid you’d listen to my professional opinion, but Nick is an extreme anorexic.’
Kate squints out of the window and shakes her head. ‘Are we talking about the same Nick? Because my Nick sometimes eats a sausage sandwich before breakfast.’
‘It’s not about sausages. Nick’s an intimacy anorexic, they can be quite fat. Anorexics starve other people but ultimately themselves of emotional intimacy. They’re terrified of closeness, they withdraw when people get too near.’
Kate shrugs. ‘Nick obviously has some issues, but you know people can be fixed.’
‘Sometimes – but not by other people.’
‘Apart from people like you . . .’
‘They have to fix themselves. On which note, have you thought about your issues, given you’re enmeshed with an anorexic?’
‘Enmeshed?’
‘You don’t have healthy boundaries, yours are loose. Nick’s are too rigid.’
‘Oh, here we go. You know what? Thank you for letting me read your books, thanks for letting me stay, but I don’t need an attack on my loose boundaries first thing on a Saturday morning.’
‘It’s not an attack. You have weak boundaries like your father: you’re too soft, you’re—’
‘Sounds like an attack to me,’ says Kate, covering her ears.
‘You’re totally codependent.’
‘Not listening . . .’
The Woman Who Wanted More Page 4
