I also have no idea if it’s suitable, but I’m too tired to continue this. I need to sit down. My back hurts almost as much as my feet.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
I lean over and kiss the top of her head, unashamedly sniffing her beautiful brown hair. She smells of apple conditioner and the burned toast she made earlier. But most of all she smells of something that I can’t describe with words. It’s a smell only my heart can define.
I make my way into the living room and sink into the couch, determined to have an hour to myself before bed. Just me, the television and the half a glass of wine that remains in this bottle. It’s not even that good, but it will help me sleep.
The living room is my favourite room in the flat, mainly due to the fake flame-effect fire which gives off a most delightful glow. The walls are entirely white, interrupted by splashes of colour from the artwork hanging there, the floor is wooden beneath a large patchwork rug and the couch is midnight blue. I’m surrounded by books and photos and odd knick-knacks I’ve collected over the years; things that remind me of where I’ve been and who I used to be. The cat postcard on the mantelpiece reminds me that I was once eighteen and on holiday in Greece. The large silver candlestick reminds me that I was once twenty-four and in a bazaar in Tunisia and the blue-framed photo of Charlie as a baby reminds me that I was once twenty-six and part of a ‘we.’
It’s not often I think about what life would have been like if Stuart and I hadn’t split up – if we’d simply muddled through for the sake of Charlie. But on days like today when I’m feeling a bit weary, the thought makes its presence known, like an unwelcome whisper in my ear. Thankfully, it creeps back out just as quickly because, well, screw him. He’d been clever enough to hide an affair for three long years, then suddenly stupid enough to get caught. Stuart Jamieson let me plan my entire life around him. A life that he didn’t want to be part of but didn’t have the balls to tell me himself.
That was his mistake. Mine was staying with him, thinking I could carry on, even when it was clear that his love for Julia resulted in nothing but contempt for me. It was like he thought I had intentionally gotten pregnant just to trap him and prevent him from living his best life. I mean, really? I rarely plan what I’m having for lunch, let alone the systematic destruction of someone else’s happiness. I have no doubt that if we were all still under the same roof, Charlie would be stuck in the middle of two people who couldn’t love each other less if they tried. And I would have tried.
So, ten years on, we chat politely in front of her, she stays at his house a few nights per month and goes on holiday with him and Julia once a year. She knows her parents as two, separate happy people and that’s how it will remain. He’s not a bad father, he’s just not a particularly good man.
Sometimes I picture what it would be like to have someone else, someone new… and then ninety-nine percent of my brain rejects the idea within seconds. After a decade, would I really be able to play nicely with another grown-up? One who takes up half of my bed, uses my toilet and notices when I don’t shave my legs for weeks at a time? It’s doubtful. I don’t want to share my home with anyone else except Charlie, and I don’t expect her to make room for someone new either. She doesn’t need an additional father and she doesn’t need a mother who moves some guy in because she’s fed up watching the telly alone.
However, there is still that one percent that believes life might be better with someone to laugh with. I don’t laugh nearly as much as I used to. The truth is, I have no idea if I’m truly content on my own or if I’ve become so used to it that I've become numb to it.
Maybe Faith is right, perhaps I have given up? If I have, it certainly wasn’t intentional. When I was younger, the fairy-tale, knight-in-shining-armour,someday my prince will comebullshit was still conceivable and even the prospect of meeting someone felt like a bright light inside of me, bursting to get out. But every failed relationship or unlit spark caused that light to slowly fade. All I know is that after years of dating and kissing frogs, there were never any princes. Only frogs.
I turn on the television and pour the last of my wine.
CHAPTER2
Friday mornings are always hectic and this one is no different. I usually start at ten, but employee of the year Tracey has a dental appointment so I’m going in earlier than normal to give Victoria a hand.
‘Have you seen my gloves?’ I shout through the bathroom door, but my question goes unanswered due to the music blasting from Charlie’s Bluetooth speaker. I mum-dance my way through the house to Billie Eilish, continuing my glove search, eventually finding them on top of the fridge.
Five minutes later, a wild Charlie zips past me from the bathroom, looking as dishevelled as she did when she went in twenty minutes ago. Quite the achievement.
‘The hairbrush is your friend, sweetheart!’ I inform her as I grab my bag. ‘There’s some serum in my room if you need it. It’s the good stuff from—’
‘I’ve already brushed it!’ she interrupts, irritated. ‘It’s just frizzy, Mum, it’s fine. No one cares, except you.’
I feel a jolt of shame in my chest. She’s right. This is the kind of garbage my mum used to frequently say to me, when she became exasperated that I was not as groomed as she’d like.
‘Would it kill you to put some makeup on, Eleanora? You might not care but you’re not the one who has to look at you all day.’
‘You’re right,’ I reply, angry that my mother’s bullshit has left a great big dirty smear on my psyche. ‘Ignore me, you’re perfect exactly as you are.’
Charlie looks a little surprised that she’s won this battle so quickly. ‘You OK?’
I laugh. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Tired but I’m good. I love you very much.’
She pulls on her blazer and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Do something fun while I’m at Dad’s, will you? You work too hard.’
‘I have to work hard,’ I tell her, ‘Someone has to pay for this mansion we’ve grown so accustomed to living in. Those ponies won’t feed themselves…’
She rolls her eyes, but I give her a hug to reassure her that I’m not dismissing her suggestion entirely. ‘I will,’ I say softly, ‘In fact, by the time you come back tomorrow, I’ll be known across Edinburgh asFun Mum.’
‘God, I hope not. That’s terrifying.’
‘Gotta run!’
I kiss her on the head and dash out the door, making the bus with seconds to spare. Unsurprisingly there are no seats, so I’m forced to make a power stance in the aisle, like some filthy upright manspreader. As we trundle along, I begin to feel a little uncomfortable about Charlie’s request. The fact that she might even be a smidgen concerned about me, makes me uneasy. That’s not her job – her job is to be a kid, not to worry about her mum. It gnaws away at me for the rest of the journey, only dissipating when I reach the café and see Vic mouthing along to whatever she has playing on the radio. She looks nice today, her curly hair pulled into two puffs on top of her head.
‘Morning!’ she chirps, opening the door for me. ‘Cuppa?’
