As expected, my appointments all run over and it’s gone six thirty by the time I lock up the office. I’m about to ask Leon if he fancies getting a takeaway, but he’s already dishing up meatloaf. The one I’d started last night and hastily abandoned when Jacob called me in a panic. I can’t remember where I got to before leaving—had I already put the eggs in? The sage?
I know, for sure, that I must have left an almighty mess behind me; there would have been breadcrumbs all over the worktop and ground mince coated in the gloopy slime of an egg white. I hadn’t even noticed that it had all been put away when I got in last night. If I had, I would have realized a lot sooner that Leon was home and saved myself untold stress. Unless, of course, my overactive imagination would have had Vanessa putting the meatloaf in the oven and tidying the kitchen before she killed me.
“Well, this is nice,” I say, smiling, trying to deflect what I know is coming next. “It’s not quite my mom’s, but it’s not half bad.”
“You’d already done most of it,” he says, looking at me. I’ve walked straight into this one. “Though it looked like a crime scene when I got in.”
I go to tell him that’s too near the truth to be funny, but think better of it.
“So what was the rush to go out for a drive?” he says as he puts a loaded fork into his mouth.
I’ve suddenly lost my appetite, but refrain from pushing my plate away.
I wonder how he would react if I told him that I’d dropped everything to go and meet Jacob. I’d like to be able to tell him, and perhaps even laugh about the turn of events that had left me feeling horribly exposed yesterday.
“I’m probably not going to do myself any favors here,” I say, still undecided where I’m going with this.
Leon’s face clouds over, as if he’s got an inkling of what’s coming, but is holding back until he’s proven right. It tells me all I need to know. We don’t need to have a row over something not worth rowing about.
“So…” I go on, racking my brain to come up with something feasible. “So, I was halfway through preparing the meatloaf and I started thinking about Mom…” It’s a cheap shot, but it’s all that I’ve got right now.
Leon’s expression changes to one of sympathy, making me feel even worse.
“It’s the little things that take me back,” I say. “Meatloaf Mondays were my favorite day of the week, before…”
Leon nods, negating the need for me to finish the sentence.
“Mom would pick me and Jennifer up from school and we’d go to Arthur’s store on the corner to get a candy bar.” I smile at the memory. “Jen would shove hers in her mouth before Mom had even paid for it, but I was mature enough, at ten, to know that it needed to be savored. So it took me until we were almost home, just to unwrap it.” I laugh as I picture myself, slowly peeling back the foil of that Hershey’s bar like Charlie Bucket—half expecting a golden ticket to shine out of it.
Leon smiles tightly.
“And then I’d walk through the front door, smell that meatloaf in the oven and feel the house wrap itself around me. I was home and safe.” I resist the urge to add, “Or so I thought.”
“So you just went out for some breathing space?” asks Leon.
I look at him, wondering what he’s talking about.
“When you were in the middle of making the meatloaf,” he says, bringing me back to why I started this trip down memory lane.
“Exactly!” I say, thankful for the prompt.
Leon puts his knife and fork down and looks at me.
“Do you not think you’re due a proper break?” he says.
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
“Because that filing cabinet of yours is definitely overloaded,” he says, referring to the metaphorical system that I so often call my brain. Every now and again, the drawers get so full that I struggle to withhold the simplest piece of information, and when that happens, I need to take a break and declutter.
“You’ve not taken any time off for months,” he goes on. “You seem super anxious, you’re losing things, you’re taking yourself back to your mum…”
“I like thinking about her,” I say defensively.
“Yes, I know—I didn’t mean that you shouldn’t, but when you start to do it more often and walk out like you did, it’s often an indication of burnout.”
I wish I could tell him that actually wasn’t the case yesterday. Or perhaps it was?
“You give so much of yourself to everyone else that there’s rarely much left in the tank for you.”
“I’m doing OK,” I offer.
“But making yourself available to your clients twenty-four-seven isn’t helping.”
He doesn’t know the half of it.
“You go above and beyond,” he continues. “You always have; it’s what got you in trouble last time.”
I throw him a warning glance.
“But this is your own practice now,” he goes on. “You have responsibilities. You can’t go making rash decisions anymore.”
“I get that it’s hard for you to understand how it feels to have no one to talk to. You’ve got me, your parents, the football team, the lads down the pub. We all serve a purpose and without you even realizing, we help you navigate your daily life. But imagine not having that support network and struggling with your mental health? If I’m the only person they can talk to honestly, what am I supposed to say? Sorry, but if you’re feeling low and suicidal outside office hours, don’t bother me?”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” he says, taking a sip of his beer. “I’m just saying—”
The doorbell rings and we both freeze momentarily, looking at each other as if to say, “Who’s that going to be?”
“I’ll get it,” says Leon, wiping his mouth on a napkin and standing up.
I watch him walk through to the hall and listen out for the intonation in his voice to give me a clue as to who it might be. It’s not yet late enough to rule out a delivery, but I can’t remember ordering anything. It’s also not too late for one of the site team to be needing Leon, but his curt and clipped voice doesn’t suggest either of those.
“Wait here,” I hear him say. “I’ll go and fetch her.”
It’s someone for me? Who’s being held at the door? So it’s not Shelley or anyone else who’d automatically be invited in.
My breath quickens as I dare to imagine it being Jacob. Not that that in itself would be a problem. But by being dishonest about last night, I’ve potentially opened a whole can of worms. Even if it’s Shelley, I’m aware of the myriad ways this could all go pear-shaped.
As Leon comes back into the dining room, with his mouth pulled tight and his nostrils flared, I know that whoever it is, he’s not happy.
“Someone here to see you,” he says without giving anything more away.
I walk to the front door like a cat on a hot tin roof, trying to prepare both my expression and my brain for every eventuality. The irony that I might be about to create more suspicion than if I’d just come out and told the truth is not lost on me. I vow never to lie again, while crossing my fingers that my dishonesty isn’t all about to blow up in my face.
“Anna!” I cry out, in genuine and relieved surprise.
“Hi,” she says, her eyes darting manically from side to side. “I’m really sorry, I know I shouldn’t be here—it’s your free time—but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Why don’t you come in?” I say, beckoning her in from the drive.
“No, I couldn’t, it’d be too much of an imposition.”
“Come in,” I coax gently. “It’s fine.”
She stands in the hallway, nervously looking around and biting on her lip. I can’t help but notice that her normally coiffed blonde bob looks disheveled.
“Is everything OK?” I ask as calmly as I can.
Her face instantly crumples. “I just can’t go on like this any longer. We’re destroying each other and I’m scared of what might happen if I stay. I have to get away. I have to get the children away—for all our sakes.”
I wonder how much of this Leon can hear, quickly followed by whether it really matters.
He can’t fail to see that here is a woman who is desperately in need of help, my help. How can he begrudge the half-hour it’s going to take to give it to her?
“Come through,” I say, turning to walk down the hall. “I’ll put the kettle on and we can talk about it.”
“I can’t…” she says, still rooted to the spot.