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She holds up a bag. I stare at it for a second, then realization sinks in. "Yes, exactly. I forgot my handbag." I take it from her and hook it over my shoulder.
"You ready to leave?"
* * *
"You’re no longer training to be a chef?" Mira takes a sip of the hot chocolate, then places the mug on the tiny breakfast counter which demarcates the living room from the kitchenette. We shared a ride here and decided to have a drink and decompress. Neither of us wanted to go out, so we opted to come back to Mira’s tiny apartment. When my last landlord asked me to leave with less than a month’s notice, Mira—who’d been looking for a flat mate—asked me to move in, and I agreed.
"Turns out, the hours are too long, the pay is shit when you’re starting out, and not much better later, and you don’t even get weekends free." I glance down into the depths of my herbal tea. Why the hell did I choose chamomile? I hate the taste, but it’s supposed to be soothing, and I could do with a little of that right now. I squirm around on the bar stool, trying to find a more comfortable space.
Mira looks at me with curiosity. "You okay?"
"Why wouldn’t I be?"
"You look a little peaked."
"It’s the changing weather. Summer into autumn, the days drawing to an end earlier. I mean, I do like the turning of the leaves, but I much prefer when it’s warm and sunny."
"Hmm…" She taps her fingers on the table. "You’re a shit liar."
"I’m not lying. I do prefer when it's warm and sunny. " I take a sip of the chamomile tea and almost gag.
She looks at me skeptically. "You don’t have to drink that, you know."
"I do." I hunch my shoulder. "My ma always used to say there was nothing chamomile tea couldn’t make better."
Her gaze softens. "How is she doing?"
"Well, she recognized me the last time I saw her, so it was a good day." The slippery sensation of chamomile fills my mouth, and I force myself to swallow it. Maybe the more I do the things I don’t like, the more God will reward me with the things I want. It’s a strange logic, but one that has been drilled into me, thanks to the nuns who ran the school I attended. The same nuns who forbid swearing and thinking about sex and boys. It was a strict upbringing, but a happy one.
For all the singing of religious hymns at morning assembly, and the talk of sacrifice, it was an innocent, carefree childhood. My father passed when I was fifteen, and my mother picked up a second job. She ensured I never wanted for anything and was my best friend. Growing up, I remember my mom always keeping lists so she wouldn't forget things. She'd say, "I have a lot on my mind. I can't be expected to remember everything."
After my father’s passing, she became more absent-minded, forgetting where she left her lists, sometimes forgetting to even make one. On occasion, I’d notice her hands shaking as she made dinner, but she always had a ready explanation. She was too tired. She was missing my father and coming to grips with it. Work had been stressful, etcetera, etcetera. I never pushed her for an explanation, as involved as I’d been with my own changing body and hormones, and then the race to get accepted into college. Then, I came home one day to find her searching for something she'd given away long ago. Concerned, I persuaded her to see a doctor, just for a general check-up, and she was diagnosed with early-stage dementia.
I was eighteen and had won a scholarship to study drama at UCLA. I wanted to put off going to university so I could support her, but she insisted I go. By the time I completed my degree, her dementia was advanced. I’d been offered a role in a play in London. She refused to let me turn it down. Instead, she spent her lifesavings moving from America to be with me.
I managed to get help from our local council—something I don't think we'd have been able to get in the States—and was able to admit her to a home where she’s been the last three years. Her condition has been deteriorating, and at the same time, the council underwent budget cuts and can’t cover her costs anymore. So, I need money. Fast. And here I am, unable to hold down a single job. I wasn’t even able to continue my acting career—because I found it wasn’t for me, after all. All that sacrifice of being away from her was in vain.
"I’m sorry, Penny." Mira reaches forward and grips my hand. "I wish there was something I could do to help you."
"You’re allowing me to stay here and pay a fraction of the money I should be paying in rent. I think you’re doing a lot already."
"I have a job. I can support us." She raises a shoulder. "Besides, if I’d refused to accept any money from you, would you have moved in here?"
I begin to object when she stops me with a raised brow.
"That’s what I thought." She lifts her mug of hot chocolate and slurps it up. "You make a mean hot cocoa. Also, I'm the beneficiary of your cooking experiments, so I’d say I got the better end of the deal."
"That’s you being generous. I’d hardly qualify my little cooking forays as sufficient to afford this apartment in London." I glance around the tiny flat. What it lacks in space, it makes up for in light. It's on the top floor of a two-story block, with skylights that allow the sunshine to stream in. And it's in the heart of Soho, which is as prime as you can get, in terms of real estate locations.
"You don’t give yourself enough credit."
I laugh. "If you mean the cooking, I really do like it. But I prefer it as a hobby. I like to cook at my own pace, rather than being packed into the pressure-cooker environment of a kitchen run by a professional chef."
"That bad, huh?" Her tone is sympathetic.
"It took the joy out of cooking. I realized, very quickly, it's not for me."
"It’s good you realized it early, huh? This way, you can move on, instead of investing your life in a career you don’t like."
