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Another mum, a lady called Debbie, chats to me as we walk behind the group. “How long have you been diagnosed?” she asks.
“About a week.” I feel like an imposter compared to some of the others. “My doctor referred me to the group.”
She smiles. “That’s good, they caught you early. They had to put me on medication straight away when I finally admitted how low I was. I’d kept it bottled up, I was so scared they were going to take Maisie away from me.” We both look down at her daughter, who is fast asleep in her pram. “I wish I’d gone sooner, it would have made all the difference.”
We reach the edge of a copse of trees. The path snakes through them, and we twist and turn to follow it. “My husband’s leaving for a few months,” I tell her. “I think that’s when I reached breaking point.”
“How come?”
I explain the situation to her, feeling more relaxed as she nods and consoles, never once judging either me or Alex for the way we’ve been behaving. By the time we get to the café, the others are already ordering from the hatch that serves the outside tables. I buy myself a latte, then join the rest of them as we sit at the metal tables, circling the buggies around us.
“Anybody want to tell us how their week went?” Diane, the support-worker asks.
Debbie starts, sharing that her medication is being reduced and that the doctor is happy with her progress. I sit back and listen, occasionally rocking Max’s buggy when he starts to rouse, and it feels good to know I’m not alone in this fog of depression. Though I know it’s a long road, and there are no easy answers, somehow it helps to understand that I don’t have to do this by myself.
By the time the hour is up, and Max and I are heading for home, it feels like I’m able to breathe again.
* * *
Two days before Alex is due to leave I'm in the kitchen, warming up some puréed vegetables for Max, who is sitting in his highchair and banging his spoon on the blue plastic tray in front of him. He looks delighted at the racket he's making, and every now and again he throws the spoon to the floor, squealing loudly until I pick it up again.
When the buzzer sounds, I frown and immediately look at my watch. It's almost six, too early for Alex who isn't due back from a meeting until half past seven, and David always knocks, living in the same building and all.
“Don't move,” I say to Max, who completely ignores me. Then I ping off the microwave and make my way to the intercom, half-tripping over a box full of music sheets. Our entire flat is full of equipment for the tour. The couriers are due to pick it up in the morning, ready to fly everything out to the States. Walking across the living room has turned into some kind of physical challenge.
“Stuart?” I'm surprised when he gets to the door after I've buzzed him in. What's he doing here? Surely he should be at the same meeting as Alex. He is, after all, the drummer. “Alex isn't here...” I make a face.
“I know.” He takes his cap off and runs his fingers through his hair, shifting uncomfortably. “I wondered if I could have a quick word.”
I've known Stuart as long as I've known Alex, though as an acquaintance more than anything else, yet he can’t bring himself to meet my eyes.
“Of course,” I clear my throat, feeling as out of place as he does. “Please come in. Mind the boxes and stuff.”
“Christ, I'm surprised it all fits.” He walks over to the huge black cases containing his drum kit. Runs his fingers down the thick plastic. “Make sure they take care of it when they pick it up.”
“I'll be at work.” That's Alex's job. I may have agreed to him going but that doesn't mean I'm going to make life easy.
“How is work?” Stuart tugs at his shirt, then shoves his hands into his pockets. “You enjoying being back there?”
I shrug. “It's fine.” I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to hear about my day. In fact I still can't work out why he's here at all. But being me, I'm not quite sure how to ask him. “Would you like a cuppa? I was about to feed Max.”
His eyes widen in alarm and I suppress a laugh.
“Not that sort of feeding. Vegetables.” I grab the bowl from the microwave and wiggle it about.
“He can eat food?”
I nod. Despite being Alex's friend and band mate, Stuart hasn't seen a lot of Max. The only time I remember him holding him was when Max was about two months old. He'd looked so uncomfortable I'd taken pity on him and scooped Max from his arms. As I recall, Stuart thanked me under his breath.
“Yeah. We'll have him on curry next.” It's no joke, either. I'm determined to introduce him to a variety of foods. I don't want him to be a fussy eater.
After I've fed Max and he's on the floor, I hand Stuart a mug of tea and we manage to find a spot to perch on the sofa. I take a sip while Stuart taps out a tune with his foot, and I not
ice him stealing glances at me.
Finally, he clears his throat.
“I... ah... Alex said you hadn't been well.”
