Mum was so bloody brilliant at telling me what I needed to do, how to run my life, how to raise my daughter. The list went on.
‘Tell you what, why don’t I just take myself off home?’ she said tersely, standing up and snatching her handbag. ‘I know where I’m not wanted. Bye, Evie, darling, Nanny will call you tomorrow.’
She blew a kiss across the room but Evie didn’t respond.
‘Mum, please, I didn’t mean to—’
She stalked by me and slammed the door on her way out.
My neck ached and I felt queasy and hot.
I looked longingly at my handbag a few times, imagining the relief that awaited me, tucked away in the zipped inside pocket.
It was the weekend. I’d had one hell of a week, in all the wrong ways, but I didn’t have to drive tonight and I didn’t have to keep my wits about me at work. Now, I could finally relax.
I was so pent up, I could do with a little help. What was the harm?
Something about it being still the afternoon felt prohibitive, like having a drink mid-morning. Only alcoholics did that. Maureen, the ex-manager at the estate agency where I used to work, would disappear into the back office like clockwork every morning.
The mints didn’t cover the smell of alcohol on her breath when she came back out, but she was so much more chilled out after her first few swigs of the day. It was a secret standing joke amongst the rest of us and I hadn’t really understood back then why Maureen did it.
But I understood well enough now.
When Maureen retired, I had been successful in applying for her job. I wondered where Maureen was now and if she still had her mid-morning tipple.
Sometimes it felt like I might be turning into her.
At the same time, I also knew I was a million miles away from having a serious problem, like Maureen obviously did. The odd pill was neither here nor there. It wasn’t as if I was addicted or anything. In the end, they’d had Andrew dosed up with so much medication he didn’t even know what day it was most of the time. A blessing, as it turned out, for the short, painful time he had left.
The pharmacists had always shelled out his tablets like sweeties, no questions asked. There was no reason to believe it would be any different here in Nottingham, if I wanted to continue to submit his prescriptions.
I often wondered if the government wanted people like Andrew to just disappear from public view and quietly fade away in their own private, medicated bubble. At the time, I’d almost envied Andrew his invisible chemical shield. That buffer from the pain and trauma of the real world.
I could really do with a pill now.
I looked down at my fingers and saw that I’d bitten my nails so low that a couple of them were actually bleeding. This level of anxiety was no good. If I didn’t do something, it would get a hold of me and I’d find it difficult to function.
I unzipped the small compartment in my handbag and took a tablet to calm my frayed nerves. Just the one.
It was no shame to admit I needed help coping at the moment. Even the most sorted person needed a helping hand now and again. But I didn’t want it documented at the GP surgery, have gossipy clerical staff knowing all my business. I didn’t want anti-depressants. I’d heard all the horror stories about how easy it was to get hooked and become a zombie.
On the face of it, society seemed to be getting more open and tolerant towards mental illness, but privately, words like ‘nutter’ and ‘freak’ were still whispered behind the backs of those who suffered.
I knew for sure the stigma was still alive and well in the workplace. Anxiety or depression on a medical certificate was still widely regarded by some employers as skiving, and it was this hidden loathing that would always stop me seeking legitimate help.
I watched Evie, now half-heartedly slotting her bricks together. The savagery had gone from her play since Mum had left, but there was no denying she was far quieter than usual.
The pain of Evie’s suffering felt sharp, like fine needles sticking in my skin. I couldn’t bear to acknowledge she was so desperately unhappy. That hadn’t been the plan in moving here.
On a whim, I picked up my phone and fished out Tara’s letter from my handbag. I tapped in the number and waited. She picked up on the third ring.
‘I’m so happy you called me, I could cry,’ she gasped, and we laughed at her being so corny. Within five minutes, the years had melted away and we were just us again.
I told her about my bad day.
‘You know, Toni, we’ve been through enough that things like disagreements at work really don’t mean anything. Just ignore your bitch boss.’
It was good advice . . . when I was feeling this brave.
I tried to discuss her illness, the multiple sclerosis.
‘Don’t want to talk about it,’ she said firmly. ‘This call is about you and Evie, I want to know all about your fresh start.’
So I told her all about our crappy house and how Mum was driving me up the wall and how I was just making such a mess of everything and we laughed some more. Twenty minutes later, I finished the call and felt like I’d been on a spa break after all the stuff I’d offloaded to Tara. My heart rate had steadied somewhat, I felt lighter inside and I was beginning to think a little more logically.
Evie was happy in her own little world for the time being, so I climbed the stairs and headed for my bedroom. If I could begin to make inroads into getting the house organised, it would give me a sense of achievement instead of the sense of foreboding I got every time I put the key in the door.
I opened the bedroom door and stared at the piles of bin bags in there. Immediately, I felt like turning round and going back downstairs, but I didn’t. That would get me precisely nowhere. I took a few steps forward, trying to cultivate a non-existent feeling of determination from somewhere. I stopped dead and looked all around me, my eyes scanning every inch of the floor space.
Something felt different about my bedroom.
It had looked just the same at first glance but . . . I don’t know, the air just felt different in here, somehow.
When I’d packed up our stuff, I’d tied the tops of the bin bags in loose knots. A few of them were untied now. The hairs on my arms prickled.
I walked over and peered inside. As far as I could tell, everything seemed to be there. It was difficult to determine amongst such chaos. All manner of stuff had spilled out when the bags were transported upstairs from the living room.
I shook my head, smiling ruefully at my imagination. Maybe this was how the descent into madness began. When you became utterly convinced of a certain reality and the people around you nodded and smiled indulgently but threw concerned glances at each other the second you turned away.
I closed the door and walked back downstairs, holding on to the handrail as the bottom step looked a bit fuzzy from up here.
I felt nothing but relief that Evie’s first week at school was finished. Hopefully, over the weekend, we’d be able to spend some time together, and once Evie felt more relaxed, I would gently broach the subject of school again. I felt sure I could coax her to reveal what was troubling her. The first few weeks in any new situation were bound to be difficult, everyone knew that. Evie was no exception and I was probably worrying too much.
That was my trouble: I worried too much about everything.
Just as I picked up my barely touched crime novel to read while Evie played, the phone began to ring.
I snatched up the cordless handset. ‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Cotter? Harriet Watson here, from St Saviour’s. I’m just calling to discuss how Evie’s first week went at school.’
‘Oh, hello there.’ I stood up and walked into the kitchen, pushing the door closed behind me. Although a part of me wondered why Evie’s teacher was calling, the tablet was already working its magic. I felt relaxed and able to deal with the conversation. ‘I hope everything is OK, Miss Watson?’