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‘Well… are you sure?’
‘Will you just go, please?’
He jumps up as if I’ve cut his leash.
‘Right. I’ll give you a ring later, OK?’
I want to tell him not to bother, but instead I groan. ‘Right.’
*
It isn’t about the attack. Or perhaps not only that. Lately, I’ve been thinking about my parents. I have so few memories of them, or of a happy childhood. They never really loved me. But then I’d met Stephen at my job interview, with his proper manners and etiquette. He was kind and had a way with him. There had been three other equally qualified candidates. But perhaps that’s just my innate insecurity playing up again. Because Stephen, with his social graces, impromptu dinners and Sunday brunches, had won me over immediately. I guess that I’m in a moment of my life when I not only want a man in my life, but also actuallyneedhim. What a rut to fall into.
I’d always thought of him as my rock. My knight in shining armour. The one who would ditch everything to help me if I needed. I thought I was his priority, or at least his second. I wanted to share this Cornish experience with him, tell him about my newly discovered grandmother and my dashed hopes for a real family. I wanted to provide some information on my family. I almost wanted to justify my existence to him and his mother.
Because not having met my grandmother despite having been to Cornwall, I’m still no closer to knowing what happened between my parents and my grandparents. Had they perhaps not approved of Mum’s choice? I didn’t see how that could have been even remotely possible. Dad had been a university professor with an impeccable reputation. And they’d been in love. Everyone around me was in love. Even Maisie, who didn’t believe in love until yesterday. And now I sense that the entire world, fuelled by this Christmas spirit, is high on the feeling. Everyone is either in love or wants to fall in love. What is there for me?
That evening, I pick up the house phone and dial Stephen’s mobile. The minute he says hello, I can tell he’s harried.
‘Oh, hello, Emily,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘How are you feeling?’
Lonely. Derelict. Abandoned.
I sniff, rubbing my forehead. ‘Can you come over, Stephen?’ I whisper.
‘What’s happened? Are you OK?’
‘Yeah. I’m just… uhm, feeling a little off.’
‘Are you sick? Do we need to cover for you tomorrow?’
I huff. ‘No, I just need to chat a bit.’
‘It’s late, Emmie, and I’ve still got to go through a mountain of paperwork for my 7 a.m. meeting tomorrow. We’ll chat tomorrow, OK?’
When? I wonder. During break time?
‘Are you sure everything’s alright?’
I cough. Suddenly I’ve lost the will to speak. About anything.
‘Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Emily, is this going to come back to haunt me during our next argument?’
Our next argument? I can’t even bear the thought. I just don’t have the energy or the will. Why does he always manage to make me feel like everything is my fault?
‘No,’ I assure.
‘OK then, Emily. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Right,’ I say, a sudden weariness washing over me.
I ring off, curled up on the sofa, and think about my trip to Cornwall – the moment I’d first driven over the hill and had my first glimpse ever of paradise. I think about all the breathtaking views I’d seen and all the people I’d met. I think about every single moment, from beginning to end.
But it’s no use. I can’t relax either my body or my mind, just waiting for my attacker to grab my throat again. I need to get away from all this – my life, London, the MIL. And for now, Stephen’s indifference. Maybe if he actually had a chance to miss me, he’d appreciate me. So I make up my mind. I’m going to call my doctor and tell him about my attack and take a leave of absence due to mental health problems. Not so much to put Stephen to the test as to sort myself out. I’ll stay at The Old Bell Inn. I don’t have to see my grandmother other than the funeral service. In fact, she doesn’t know me, so she wouldn’t even recognise me. Unless Nettie gives me away.
*
