What Goes Around...

‘I'm sorry.’

I don't want her to be sorry, I don't want her to have to be sorry and it just makes me more cross that she is.

She's turning into spoiled brat – and I'm a word away from telling her that. I’m a moment away from pulling the car over and telling her what a selfish cow she can be at times. I’m a second away from slapping her cheek and I’m gripping on to the steering wheel for dear life.

‘I'm sorry, Mum,’ she says it again and I don't know if it's anger or tears that are choking me but I swallow them down and we make it home. Charlotte flounces off to the computer and she’s straight onto Skype.

‘I've got a headache. I'm going to lie down.’

Things were getting better.

They were supposed to be getting better but it lasted for all of five minutes.

It’s all falling apart again now.

I’m so tired from working.

I shouldn’t have to be working. I should be taking care of myself and taking care of Charlotte.

I am just so tired.

I haven't even made the bed and the curtains are still drawn. I can hear her on Skype and they’re making plans for the summer holidays. I’ll have her home for six weeks soon and I just want to close my eyes and never wake up. I don't seem to be able to stay out of bed for more than a couple of hours these days. There’s just too much to deal with. It's more than I can deal with and I just want it all to go away. I just want to close my eyes and sleep and then wake up and everything be sorted.

Or not wake up, I don’t care.

I just don't care.

It's his birthday tomorrow.

I would have been out buying a dress today - I've already got his present, it’s in the wardrobe in the spare room. He wanted these golf clubs. I know nothing about golf but Jess and Luke play and in January, Jess had told me that the clubs he wanted were on sale.

Tomorrow, I'd have been going to the hairdresser’s and to get my nails done. Then, in the evening, we would have gone out to the same restaurant that we always went to on his birthdays, one of those restaurants where you’re seen. We’d have held hands and then we’d go out to the car and have a kiss before going home.

Then he’d head up to bed and I’d set up the conservatory.

The holding hands, the kissing, the PDAs, were all for the benefit of others.

Or were they?

They benefitted us too, added to the illusion we created.

I don't know what part of us was real.

Do I miss him?

I don’t know.

Is he missing me?

I don’t know that either.

Did he love me?

I have no idea.

Charlotte wakes me up at six and I go out and get dinner.

I spend ten pounds on takeaway.

That’s two hours of work.

It doesn’t make sense.

If I was home I could have cooked dinner.

I’d have some time.

It doesn’t make sense.

My mind feels all flickery.

It’s the best word I can come up with, even if it doesn’t exist.

He doesn’t exist.

It’s his birthday tomorrow.

I think of the poster on Dr Patel’s wall and I wonder if he looks like that now.

We eat pizza from the box and we drink our bonus bottle of cola. ‘Can we have salad tomorrow?’ Charlotte asks. ‘And, can you get some fruit for my lunch box. I don’t like going to the tuck shop.’

I look at the empty pizza box.

She’s only had one slice.

I’m disgusting.

She disappears for a little while and I remember it’s bin night. I should get up and drag them out but I just don’t have the energy and then Charlotte calls me upstairs.

‘I've run you a bath…’I walk into the bathroom and Charlotte's been busy - there are bubbles and candles and towels have been put out. There is even a little glass of sparkling wine. She did this for me on Mother's Day, just before it all happened.

I used to love my baths.

It's the one place where I really relaxed. I used to have a quick shower in the morning after we'd sorted out Noodle, but in the evenings, after Charlotte was in bed and he was on the computer, or on the phone, I would head up to the bathroom to do my routines.

Exfoliate, face mask, hair mask… you know what I mean.

Now, I take off my blue supermarket blouse and black trousers. I look at my bra-it should be white but it's grey, I’ve been sleeping in it.

I’m bloated.

I look down to my feet. My nail varnish on my toes is there at the end of long nails, a blood red that went with my lovely red dress. I really should get the clippers and find a fresh razor. I peer in the mirror and I look at my face. My horrible, puffy face, that sits on top of my horrible, puffy body. I open the bathroom cupboard and there's my exfoliating cream and those little glove things that you pull on. They’ll be bald by the time I’ve finished tackling my lizard skin. I line them all up on the edge of the bath.

I don't really know what happened then.

I look back at that moment sometimes and I find it hard to believe what I did. I still find it difficult to make sense of it, even now.

I don't know what I was thinking.

Okay, I know a little of what I was thinking.

That it all just seemed too hard.

Too big.

Too impossible.

Insurmountable.

I can’t do this.

I pick up his razor, one of those old-fashioned ones where you change the blade. Charlotte bought it for him one Fathers Day. I find the little rectangular packet. I can hear Charlotte outside; she must have got up to use the loo.

‘Night, Mum!’ She calls.

‘Night.’

Just go to bed.

‘I love you.’

‘Love you too.’

Please, just go to bed - I can't do normal tonight.

‘Nice bath?’

‘Wonderful.’ I call out. ‘Come on now Charlotte, it's time for bed –you’ve got school tomorrow.’

I sit on the edge of the bath and it takes all my energy to just answer, because we have to start the love you, love you too thing all over again if I miss out a part. Then there’s the, see you in the morning thing too. They're supposed to reassure her but if I miss a beat, if I miss one word, panic grips and we have to start all over again.

‘See you in the morning,’ she says for maybe the third time.

I can’t do this.

I just can't keep on doing this.

‘Go to bed, Charlotte.’

She doesn't say anything, I just feel the tension in her silence and I have nothing left to comfort her with tonight.

I really don't know what I was thinking.

I looked at the bath and the bubbles and the jars and the lotions and the razors and I can't explain what happened next.

Even now it doesn't make sense.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Gloria

‘We’ll go somewhere nice,’ Paul says. ‘You deserve spoiling and I might not get to take you out for a while.’

‘I'm not sure if I can get a babysitter for Daisy.’ I try to get out of it that way, but he says that he doesn’t mind a bit if we bring Daisy along. Paul’s nice like that and so I tell him that I'll be ready by seven.

I don't want to go.

It doesn't seem right.

Paul starting a stint on night duty and it's nice that he wanted to take me out but, the thing is, it’s his birthday.

Not Paul's.

It just seems wrong to be going out when he's lying cold in the ground.

I had the most terrible dream last night.

About him.

About him in the ground. I don’t like my thoughts sometimes. I don’t like the horrible images that flash in my mind sometimes and I can’t tell anyone.

I can't really discuss it with Paul.

It's the only thing we can't talk about.

Well, it’s not the only thing, but it’s a big thing.

He gets awkward when I bring him up. I suppose it's understandable really. Given that we’ve been divorced for years, I should be well and truly over my ex. I am but it just feels different knowing that he's dead.

I’m obsessed about his last minutes. Did he talk about me, did he think about me for even a moment, did he suffer, did he know he was going to die?

There’s no one I can talk about it to.

Were so close in everything else. I can tell Paul anything.

Well, not anything.

There are some things I could never tell him, some things I could never tell anyone.

I let him talk about his ex though, but as soon as I bring up mine, or talk about Lucy, Paul just clams right up.

It's a problem really.

A deal breaker perhaps - because when I started dating again, I made a promise to myself that if I ever got serious again, then good or bad I’d be myself and, today, my self is sad.

I'm about to ring him, to tell him that I don't want to go out, that today is a hard day for me, but the phone goes again and I’m saved from cancelling, saved from speaking my truth. His work has rang and asked if he can go in tonight.

‘Honestly,’ I say. ‘It's fine.’

‘Are you okay, Gloria?’

I’m about to say yes, but I change my mind, I keep that promise to myself. ‘Actually no,’ I admit. ‘It’s his birthday today. He’d have been sixty.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Paul answers. ‘You should have said.’

‘How?’ I ask. ‘You don’t like it when I talk about him.’

‘No, Gloria…’

‘Yes.’ I interrupt.

‘Gloria, it’s not him, it’s…’ then, as always, he just stops. There’s just this mumble of sympathy and I hang up on him.

I know he’ll ring back.

Or come over.

I know I’m important to him.

But I’m important to me too.