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It was impossible to tell how long I cried for. Time quite simply ceased to exist, and my whole world narrowed down to the desperate sawing of air in and out of my lungs, each breath bringing with it an increase in the pain, until I felt as if my head would explode if I didn’t find a way to expel it somehow. The burning in my wrists became unbearable, and I ran my nails along them in a hopeless attempt at a placebo effect.
It wasn’t good enough. My sobs quietened as I considered my next moves.
Within arm’s reach was a pile of sharp objects. Broken things with sharp edges. It would be so easy to…
I lifted my head from where it had rested on my raised knees, and used the bottom of my dressing gown to wipe my eyes enough to see clearly. Then, without any conscious input from me, my hand was sifting gently through the pile until it found what it was looking for. The piece of porcelain was quite large, around a third of the mug. The bottom half of the handle was still attached, and I swung it on my finger for a moment as I contemplated it.
It would be so easy. And it would purge this pain. Release the tension. Just like it always had.
Here was something I could control. I couldn’t get a grip on what was going on under this skin, but I could control what was on it.
I mustered all my strength, and then, with another cry, hurled the porcelain over to the other side of the room. I needed it away from me. I needed to be away from temptation before I caved and broke my streak after all these years.
Somehow, I had enough strength to climb to my feet and bolt for the stairs. I made it up them and into the bathroom, then faced myself in the mirror.
“No,” I said through gritted teeth, not recognising the person staring back at me. “No. You’re going to figure this the fuck out. And you’re going to get your fucking life back. Come hell or high water.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
At work, I thought I was doing a pretty good impression of a woman whose life was absolutely not falling apart. Who had a fabulous, healthy, functioning marriage with her soulmate, who was entirely comfortable in herself, and who simply couldn’t be happier to be serving the many customers that passed through the automatic doors. After all, that was who I had been up until almost precisely four months ago.
It was getting harder and harder, but over the next few days I reached deep inside myself to make it work. I fussed over my appearance in front of the mirror before I left the house, and practiced my customer-service face and voice. “Good morning, Sir! What can I do for you? Twenty cigarillos? No problem!” At one point I even contemplated putting a pandemic face mask back on, and spending the next couple of weeks hiding behind it and pretending I had a virus. But I decided to save that for when things got really desperate.
While I was actually at work, I pretty much completely imagined myself out of my body. My brain lifted up out of the top of my head, leaving behind in my body the bare minimum required to do my job. Several times I’d wave goodbye to a customer, sit back down and think, What the fuck was I just chatting about? It certainly wasn’t me doing the job. It was simply autopilot. And once again, I wondered if I really was losing my mind.
Then on the Sunday – five days after Petra left, and my second nine-hour shift out of three in a row – something shifted. Legally we were only allowed to open for six hours – the other three of my shift was spent stacking shelves and doing other administrative tasks – but even six hours on the tills felt like too much for me. My mind kept thinking of Petra. What was she doing today? Was she rubbing along okay with Mabel, who from our few brief interactions I knew to be a very Marmite sort of character? How were things going to progress? Would I be the one to get in touch with her? Or should I wait for her to contact me?
“That’s not right.”
A customer’s voice cut through my reverie.
“Sorry?” My voice had its usual helpful inflection.
“You’ve given me the wrong change. I gave you a twenty, but you’ve given me change for a ten.”
With a monumental effort, I pulled my brain back down into my body, and looked properly at the customer. He was scowling, and showed me the coins I’d just placed into his hand.
“So I did,” I murmured. “I… let me just check what you gave me.”
“For fuck’s sake…” he grumbled under his breath as I opened up the till and looked at the last note I’d placed in the drawer. It was a ten. But that didn’t mean anything. Twenties, as a rule, were posted through into a secure cash box underneath the till as soon as we received them. I couldn’t remember putting one in there in the last thirty seconds, but equally I couldn’t remember putting a ten in the till either. Or giving the customer his change. Or indeed what he had bought in the first place. My mind was a complete blank, and I just stared at him numbly.
“Well?” he said impatiently. He gestured towards the till. “I just need another tenner to make it right.”
My mind see-sawed between calling my supervisor to check and just giving in, but procedure trumped everything.
“I… let me just call my supervisor,” I said, and asked for Laura to come to the tills on my radio.
“Your supervisor?” he spluttered, going puce. “Why do you need your fucking supervisor? It’s not rocket science! I gave you a twenty, you thought I gave you a ten, you gave me the wrong change, and now I need the right change. What part of that is so difficult to understand?”
“Jean, what’s going on?” Laura appeared beside me.
“I… I can’t remember,” I said, my chest going tight. “The gentleman says I gave him the wrong change, but I don’t remember what he actually gave me.”
“It was thirty fucking seconds ago!” the man bellowed. “Is she fucking losing it or something? Listen, you give me my change, or I’ll call the police.”
“Go out the back, Jean.” Laura’s voice was firm. “I’ll sort this out. Go and have a break.”
“I’ve had all my breaks…” I protested dumbly, but my legs were walking away from the till even as I said that. The rest of the queue gave me weird looks as I passed them, but I didn’t have it in me to wonder why. It took me two attempts to punch in the code for the warehouse door, but eventually I lurched through and headed straight for the ladies’. There, I braced my hands either side of the sink, trying desperately to draw air into my lungs. My face was deathly pale in the mirror – even paler than my usual colouring – and contorted in an expression I couldn’t bear to look at, so I dropped my eyes to the sink itself, trying to focus on the many nicks and scratches in it in an effort to put my mind back together again.
