I start every day the same. I have my routine off pat and if Mrs Humphreys could see me now, she’d be impressed – well, she would be with the routine part. When I finally realised what was happening and what I had to do to avoid sliding into a spiral of never-ending despair, I decided to be strict with myself. It was the only way I could avoid staying up till goodness knows when watching dodgy late-night television and reading pointless articles on the internet before collapsing into a coma. Then I’d stay in bed until after three – if I managed to extricate myself from my duvet at all. That way lies madness; I know what I’m like if I don’t keep a handle on my life.
My alarm goes off at 6.24am. I allow myself to hit the snooze button once so when it rings for a second time, it’s bang on half past six. The Chairman doesn’t enjoy my extra doze, even though he should be used to it by now. The moment the first alarm peals into the dark silence of my bedroom, he hops up next to my pillow and stares down at me, occasionally pawing at my face. I’m often tempted to forego the clock and see what he does next but habit is something I must maintain.
I brush my teeth, shower, get dressed and put on make-up. I know that it’s ridiculous to spend time and money on mascara and foundation when almost no one sees me but they help me to feel normal. Normal is important.
I feed the Chairman, who by this time is biting my toes to get me to move faster, then I eat my own breakfast. It’s usually fruit, or maybe a bowl of muesli if I’m feeling unusually hungry. I watch my diet. Junk food is something else I’ve trained myself to avoid; that was easier than I expected. I drink chamomile tea (no, it doesn’t make me any calmer, but I have to try) and check the news and my email. By eight o’clock I’ve started work.
I enjoy the mundanity of my existence. There are no surprises. I can take the time to appreciate subtleties, such as how one day my boss, Jerry, will sign off his email with Warm Regards which gives me an odd fuzzy feeling, despite its formality. The next day he might simply use Regards, and then I wonder if the new baby kept him up the previous night and he’s feeling grouchy. When he’s in a particularly genial mood, he uses Cheers. And today, because he’s asking for more than my contract generally allows, he’s used High Five From Down Low. I wrinkle my nose. I generally don’t enjoy cheese. Still, the task is vaguely interesting – sorting out bugs on a website a different contractor created – so I get down to it. By mid-morning, when the doorbell rings and the familiar terror attacks me, I’ve made considerable inroads.
When I say familiar terror, it really is that. Anyone who’s ever felt frightened will recognise the symptoms: the hairs on my arms stand up and my heart starts to quicken. I push back from the desk, gripping the arms of my ergonomically designed (and vastly overpriced) chair. My breaths are already fast and shallow so I peel one hand away from the armrest and place it above my belly button, reminding myself to exhale.
When I hear the voice calling from outside, my shoulders sag in relief. It’s only my mother.
‘Cooooeeee!’
I’m tempted, as always, not to answer but I can’t pretend that I’m out. She’d just get worried and do something stupid like call the police. She did that once before, in the early days when I refused to get out of bed. I spent the next five hours in my wardrobe and was only coaxed out when they threatened to section me. You’d think that would make her less likely to involve the police again but logic’s not my mother’s strong point. Not that I have it in spades either.
I sigh and stand up. I have special coping mechanisms for the times I need to open the front door. I ignore the rising nausea and lightly pinch the tip of each finger, alternating hands. Then I slowly walk out. I brace my palms on the walls of my narrow hallway to remind myself of their solidity. Fortunately, I already know who’s on the other side so I don’t get light-headed. It’s a small victory but one I still celebrate internally. Baby steps.
My front door takes a long time to open. It’s steel reinforced and has five separate locks. Frankly, if the inheritance I received from my grandfather had allowed, I would have gone the whole hog and ordered a retinal scanner too. Just because I live in a quiet cul-de-sac in a small Scottish town doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take security seriously.
When I finally open the door, I keep the chain on. There’s a spyhole but it doesn’t provide a clear path of vision because of the large oak tree in the front garden. I double-check there’s no one other than my exasperated-looking mother waiting on the doorstep before I fasten the chain. I can see the Chairman rolling around in a bolt of sunshine behind her. He has a special collar that allows him – and only him – through the cat flap. He blinks at me lazily and I smile.
‘Zoe, for heaven’s sake, is all this really necessary?’
My smile vanishes and I roll my eyes. The door was installed sixteen months ago; my mother visits at least once a week and she still goes on about it. At least she’s stopped asking for a key. It’s not that I don’t trust her but as I have carefully explained many times, if her bag was lost or stolen, anyone could get into my house. ‘I wasn’t expecting you today,’ I tell her sternly.
‘Well,’ she answers, pushing past me, ‘I agreed to join Madge and her cronies for bridge tomorrow so I can’t come as I promised.’
‘Is bridge really a good idea after the last time?’ I start to lock the door again.