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Pacing my room, I replay the events again from last night, analysing my behaviour, his behaviour; my reactions, his reactions, trying to see where it all went wrong. I must have done something to put him off,but what? Perhaps I appeared too desperate and he decided to jump ship before things got too intense.
Suddenly, I stop pacing and slap my hand across my forehead.
Oh, God. What if something bad happened to him? What if he got hit by a car? A hundred terrible images flash through my mind: the ambulance, flashing lights, Nick on a life-support machine.
Tears collect in my eyes, and I’m just about to lose it when I hear a low vibrating noise.
My phone’s ringing!
In a frenzy of delight, I race around the room looking for it. Finally, with a sob of relief, I pounce on my handbag, wrestle out the phone and answer it without checking the ID.
“Nick?”
“No, darling, it’s Mum. Who’s Nick?”
I sink down on the bed and try to keep my voice steady. “Oh, he’s just a friend. So, um, how are you, Mum?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart. How are you?”
“Great. I’ve quit smoking. Apart from that, nothing new to report.” I try to sound cheerful but inside I’m dying.
Mum squeals with delight. “Oh, well done about the smoking. I’m so glad you’re taking your health more seriously these days.”
“Well, you know what they say: once you hit thirty, it’s all downhill from there. I can’t get away with what I used to.”
“Whatever the reason, I’m just glad you quit. Smoking’s a horrible, nasty habit.”
I narrow my eyes.It’s no worse than your drink problem.At least I don’t have Bloody Marys for breakfast.
“Dad told me about Christmas,” I say, trying to keep the atmosphere light. “So, it’s all set. We’re coming up to yours?”
“Yes, for Christmas and Boxing Day. I’m pulling out all the stops to make it our best ever.”
“Great. Can’t wait.”
“Do you think I should make roast chicken or turkey this year?”
“Definitely turkey. It’s more festive.”
“Yes, but I’ve found a wonderful Heston Blumenthal recipe for chicken, so I’m sort of on the fence.”
I press my fingers to my temples; this is starting to give me a headache. “Do whatever makes you happy, Mum. If you prefer the chicken, then that’s fine with me. Whatever you do will taste wonderful, I’m sure.”
She hesitates. “Darling, I have to admit I am a little cross with you.”
“What have I done now?”
Her tone softens into a whine. “You don’t call me like you used to. Oh, I know you’re busy with work and stuff, but is a chat with your mother once a week really too much to ask? You’re still my baby, and it hurts that you don’t seem to have time for me.”
I give a hollow laugh. “Oh, come on. You know I’m not really a phone person. You know I love you to bits, but I’ve just been so busy lately, I haven’t had time to call anyone. It’s nothing personal. I know that’s no excuse, but …” I falter. “Look, I promise I’ll make more time for you, okay? It will be one of my New Year’s resolutions.”
“Make sure that you do. And if you don’t, I’ll give you a bloody-good thrashing.”
We both laugh and for a second, my mood temporarily lightens. We talk for a while about inconsequential stuff—items in the news, what her next-door neighbour’s up to—before I make my excuses and go.
I’m nauseous, faint and on the verge of tears for the rest of the evening. I want so badly to call Nick, just to check that he’s okay, but my pride prevents me. At the end of the day, it was he who said he’d call me, so as far as I’m concerned, the ball’s in his court.
I pace up and down round my room for what seems like hours, standing outside myself, trying to assess the situation from every angle possible. Something’s not right, I can feel it. I must have done something to scare him off,but what?
