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But stop they did because I woke up one afternoon after a particularly bad late shift, and I couldn’t get out of bed. I tried, but I ended up crying and then I couldn’t stop that either. God knew what was wrong with me, but I hated everything. Hated the worried looks, the supportive comments, the hands on my shoulders, people telling me to take a break.
I didn’t need a break. I didn’t need support. I needed to understand what was going on in my head.
I cried the whole afternoon and then I couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t get the energy into my bones to turn up for work in the morning.
“You’re overworked,” Mark said when he picked up the phone to me wailing down the line. “You’ve had a lot on lately, and it’s no wonder your head has taken a bit of a knock.”
“I’ve not taken a bit of a knock,” I snivelled into the receiver, dabbing my face with a tea towel. I’d tried to make myself a cup of tea and ended up tipping water onto the work surface then crying over an empty cup. I’d luckily not scalded myself, but I had no doubt that if I tried anything else, it would require visits from Mark and probably stitches.
“Don’t touch anything,” he said knowingly. “I’ll be right there.”
I wanted to shout at him not to be stupid and for God’s sake not to leave Sarj in charge, though even in my current irrational state, I had to admit, Sarj was excellent. I’d just developed an irrational dislike for him, and I suddenly felt like sacking all of my staff and starting again.
See? Irrational.
Mark turned up carrying a box of sugary treats, still in his work suit. He took himself off to the shower and came back wearing my bathrobe, all while I sat on the chair in the kitchen clutching my tear-stained tea towel and my empty teacup and staring into the darkness that surrounded me.
“Put the light on, mate,” he said softly.
“I’m not your mate.”
“At least you’re still you. I would say snap out of it, but I have a feeling we’ve gone past that, haven’t we?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” I howled, suddenly back to this crying thing. I never cried. Well, I cried at movies, and when I almost chopped my thumb off. And I’d cried a lot, years ago, when I’d thought my life was over.
He made me a cup of tea and suggested a cuddle on the sofa, but I couldn’t even go in the living room because Hugo’s pillow was still there and his bag was on the floor, and I couldn’t make sense of any of that. Instead, we ended up in bed where Mark tucked me up against the headboard and hand-fed me soggy biscuits that dripped down my T-shirt and made me cry even more.
I still refused to talk to him because I had no idea what was wrong. He tried, I’d give him that. He asked simple questions that I could answer—did I want to watch a movie? Could I budge over a bit?—and put the laptop on my lap and made me watch cheesy sitcoms that would usually have made me laugh but didn’t today.
He stayed the night.
And the next night.
It became a habit that lasted almost a week. A stupid, stupid habit that I wanted to break. I wanted to get back to work, back to my life, and not feelso bloody grey. I wanted things to go back to normal. Most of all, I wanted to no longer see that terrified look in Mark’s eyes like he was frightened of what I’d become.
This wasn’t me. This would never be me.
“Babe,” he said one morning after he’d dragged me into and out of the shower. I’d apparently started to smell, and Finn had rung five times already. The strings holding me up were starting to break. “This can’t go on. You need to get a grip, and fast.”
“I know.” I tucked a towel around my waist and trudged after him, dripping everywhere like the sad, wet puppy I was. “My phone keeps blowing up with messages. My kitchen’s on the brink of mutiny, and Aaron is threatening to leave. He wants to take up that job offer at the Savoy. They tried to headhunt him again, and I know he’d jump if it wasn’t for… Well. I hold him back. He’s been with us for so long, and he’s bloody good. How am I going to train a new patisserie chef?”
Here they were again, the tears. Why they were so easy to spill was beyond me. I’d managed to reach adulthood more or less in one piece, but now it was slipping away from me.
“I don’t mean it like that,” Mark said, pulling out a chair at the table and motioned for me to sit down on the one opposite. There were two cups of tea already made. He’d planned this.
“You know I love you,” he said gently.
I did, so I nodded. We said it all the time.
“And I’ve tried all my usual tricks to get you to talk to me. We’ve been lying in the dark. We’ve cuddled. I’ve yelled at you. Suggested sexual favours.”
He hadn’t, but it did make me giggle.
“No sexual favours then.” He smirked. “I’ve tried to be patient here, waiting for you to tell me, but we’re running out of time. So we’re going to do what we do best.”
“Which is?” I snorted, but this was good. Straight talking. However much I felt nauseous at the thought of having to admit to something I didn’t really want to admit to, it had to be better in the long run.
“As you know, my dad was a shit dad,” Mark said. “And he still is in a way.”
