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“No, I live with my dad.”
“Any children?”
“No.”For goodness sake, why does everyone keep asking me that?
“And your mother?”
“My parents are divorced. My mother remarried and now lives in Purley with her new husband.”
“How do you feel about that?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It happened such a long time ago, I’m pretty much over it.”
Nick studies me closely, his eyes warm and inquisitive. He’s trying to read me, work me out. “Tell me three of your favourite things.”
“What?” The change in direction catches me off guard.
“Tell me three things you like.”
I scratch the side of my neck. My mind has gone totally blank and all of my nerves are jangled. “Three things? Um … cream-coloured ponies and crisp apple strudels, doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles.”
“The Sound of Music,” Nick chuckles. “Great film. But I asked for three and you gave me five.”
Heat creeps up my neck and colours my cheeks. “Sorry, I don’t know where that came from. The song just popped into my head and I … that is, Julie Andrews—”
“Let’s try that again,” he interjects smoothly. “This time I want you to relax. I can tell you’re nervous, but there’s really no need to be. I don’t bite, Carly. We have all the time in the world, so just take it easy, okay?”
“Okay.” I giggle hysterically; for some reason, I’m behaving like a complete moron. I take a couple of breaths. “Right, three things I like are:fruit salads, Mickey Mouse and sunny days.”
“And three things you hate?”
“Mushrooms, spiders, politicians.”
“Do you like your job at the media company?”
“Yes.”
“And why do you want to quit smoking?”
“Because I don’t like it.”
“Why don’t you like it?”
“Because … because it’s bad for me, and it makes my clothes stink and I think it will give me lung cancer. And … and it makes me feel weak.”
“Do you like being in control?”
I blink at him with a stupefied expression. “What do you mean?”
“You said smoking makes you feel weak, so does that mean you like being in control?”
“Um, I suppose so. All I know is when I smoke a cigarette, I feel terrible afterward. I don’t enjoy it and I’ve tried everything to quit but so far nothing has worked and there’s something else, too. Eight months ago, my father was diagnosed with high blood pressure and the doctor told him to quit smoking or die. I’ve been trying to support him, but I feel like a bit of a hypocrite, given I can’t even control my own addiction. I was thinking that maybe if I can do this for myself, quit smoking I mean, and then I’ll be in a better position to help him, you know? That’s another reason I’m here.” I say the last part in a whisper.
There’s a long, dark silence. I take in a lot of air to calm my racing heart.
Nick resumes, “When did you first start smoking? How old were you?”
“I don’t remember.”
