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Every morning, the noise from the bus garage next door wakes me up as buses grind and rev their engines through a 25-point turn and remind me of how I failed. I’m not even sure how much I miss Andrew. Because it turns out I lost him long ago. For months and months, I’d apparently been single and now I have the bedsit to prove it.
The kettle boils and I make another coffee to go with my birthday rice; it’s plain which is my favourite because I can stir in a spoonful of honey. My grandfather is a beekeeper and when I was little and we still lived with him, he used to sell the most amazing honey. It might be just my nostalgia, but nothing has ever lived up to that.
After breakfast I push my arms into my coat while slipping my feet into my shoes, swallow the last of the coffee and open the door. My bedsit comes with only one door to save space. Even the bathroom has a curtain, and the shower cubicle is so small, if I put on another couple of pounds I wouldn’t fit.
Outside, I walk to the bus stop. Manchester is not my city, I only moved here for Andrew. I’ll never get used to the squat red-brick buildings or the ultra-modern new blocks full of metal and glass. There are very few parks. To someone like me, the absence of green is almost painful.No self-pity.I refuse to turn into a cry baby. Tonight, I’ll buy a couple of potted plants to put on my windowsill and make my room beautiful.
Today I’m back at the office which is a huge plus after my cramped bedsit. See? Thinking positive helps. What’s really exciting is my training course which starts today. Yay. This will be my best birthday present, my only birthday present, actually. Let’s face it. Andrew is unlikely to send me one, and I wouldn’t accept it even if he did.
A woman in a purple suit is the only other person waiting at the bus stop. I nod good morning and sit on the bench. My phone screen says 8.15 a.m. That’s 9.15 p.m. in New Zealand, so I’d better call Sophie now before she goes to bed. Strictly speaking, she should call me, it’s my birthday, but my darling sister, ideal wife, and helicopter mum is always busy.
“Elodie?” She says this like a question. As if she expects someone to have stolen my phone and, for some reason, decide to call her.
“Good morning-er-evening. How are you?”
“Fine.” My sister says this so fast and firm that I know she must be stressed. “You?”
“On my way to work. I thought I’d call you now while I wait for the bus.”
“You’re back at work already?”
“I have a training course.”
“Bummer.” She commiserates.
“Actually, I’m really excited about this course. It’ll mean a promotion to the marketing department. I’ll be able to work on something I love instead of covering up for my boss’ lies.”
The woman in purple half smiles without looking at me the way people do when they’re eavesdropping on your private phone call. Let her listen, I can’t do anything about that.
“I know I can be successful ifonly I’m given the chance. I was stuck in the ghost-writing department because, to my boss, I’m more useful as a lowly manuscript assistant. He never puts me forward for anything. I need to move into the publishing arm of the company, so I need the marketing course and they are very competitive. I meanvery,”I stress the word.
Purple woman at the bus stop is openly watching me now, clearly interested.
“Anyway.” I continue on the phone. “I asked to be considered for the course and gave them a five-star presentation on creating an eye-catching visual brand with a unified theme for all our book covers that people recognise.”
My sister is silent.
“Hello? Soph are you there?”
“Oh yes, yes. So, you’re at work?”
“Yes,” I start but she interrupts.
“Mum is fine. She’s managing much better.”
I hadn’t asked about our mother, because what with Andrew and the bedsit, I’m not sure I can handle mum’s depression. Since dad passed away, five years ago, she seems to have lost the will to live. Sophie who is much more capable than me or our brother, made mum move in with them and the endless green landscape, the horses, the beach, all of it seems to be helping.
“Did you get the presents we sent you?” Sophie asks
I haven’t got anything. From anyone. “When did you send it?”
“Ages ago, honestly your postal service is getting worse and worse – David could you make sure all the kids apply camomile lotion, I don’t like that red flush. Honestly, they were too long in the sun…”
David replies something I can’t quite hear.
“I can’t, I’m on the phone.” She tells him.
I let her shout at her husband. If she sent my Christmas present ages ago that means she sent it to the penthouse apartment where I used to live until last week.
