For a few moments I’m transfixed. I don’t feel right. Everything seems blurry. Blood is pumping in my ears. All the cars and buses sound like juggernauts. I should go home, I dimly think. But what’s home? A messy, disheveled, depressing flat. What’s my life? A messy, disheveled, depressing nothing.
I can’t do life. The stark truth lands in my brain with a thud. I can’t do life anymore. If I just acknowledged this one fact, everything would be easier. Life is too hard. I want to give up … what, exactly? Working? Being? No, not being. I like being alive. I think. I just can’t be alive like this.
My phone buzzes with a message, and out of habit I open it, to see a text from Joanne.
Sasha, where have you got to??
In a spasm of panic, I glance up at the office windows and move slightly down the street, out of sight. I should go home, but I don’t want to go home. I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know.
As I’m standing there, coughing on bus fumes, my eyes focus on the convent opposite, and through my brain fog, I feel a weird, creeping sensation. A kind of yearning.
What do nuns do all day, anyway? What’s the job spec? I bet all they do is pray and knit vests for the poor and go to bed at 6 P.M. every night in their nice basic cells. They have to sing hymns—but I could learn those, couldn’t I? And how to put on a wimple.
It would be a simple, healthy life. A manageable life. Why didn’t I think of this before? Maybe it was all meant to be. There’s a sudden, blissful release inside my mind, so intense I almost feel giddy. This is my calling. At last!
Feeling more serene and purposeful than I have for years, I cross the road. I head to the big wooden door, ring on the bell marked OFFICE, and wait for an answer.
“Hello,” I say simply to the elderly nun who opens the door. “I’d like to join.”
OK. Not to criticize the convent at all, but I will admit I’m disappointed by my reception. You’d think they’d want nuns. You’d think they would have welcomed me in with open arms and a chorus of “Hallelujah!” But instead, a senior sort of nun called Sister Agnes, wearing cords, a sweater, and a bright-blue veil, has sat me down in her office, made me an instant coffee (I was expecting a medieval herbal tincture), and started inquiring about my background. Who I am and where I work and how I found out about the convent.
Why does any of that matter? It should be like the French Foreign Legion. No questions asked, just put on your headdress and begin.
“So you work for Zoose,” she says now. “Are you not happy there?”
“I used to work for Zoose,” I correct her. “Until about half an hour ago.”
“Half an hour ago!” she exclaims. “What happened half an hour ago?”
“I realized I wanted this life.” I make a telling gesture around the plain little room. “A pared-back existence. Poverty. Celibacy. No emails, no phones, no sex. Especially no sex,” I clarify. “You don’t need to worry about that. I have zero libido right now. I probably have less libido than you do!” I break into a shrill laugh, before realizing that Sister Agnes isn’t joining in. Nor does she look amused.
It’s probably bad form to refer to a nun’s sex drive, I acknowledge belatedly. But never mind. I’ll learn these things.
“We have emails,” says Sister Agnes, giving me an odd look. “We have iPhones. Who’s your parish priest?”
“You have iPhones?” I stare at her, thrown. Nuns have iPhones? That doesn’t seem right.
“Who’s your parish priest?” she repeats. “Do you worship nearby?”
“Well.” I clear my throat awkwardly. “I don’t exactly have a parish priest, because I’m not exactly Catholic. As yet. But I totally can be. Will be,” I correct myself. “When I’m a nun. Obviously.”
Sister Agnes stares at me for so long I start to feel uncomfortable.
“So, when can I start?” I try to move the conversation on. “What’s the procedure?”
Sister Agnes sighs and picks up the landline phone on her desk. She dials a number and murmurs something into the handset which sounds like, We’ve got another one. Then she turns to me.
“If you want to explore the religious life, I suggest you start by going to church. You can find your local Catholic church online. Meanwhile, thank you for your interest and God bless.”
It takes me a moment to realize that this is a dismissal. She’s sending me away? Not even You can try it out for a day or two? Not even Fill out this application form?
“Please let me join.” To my horror, I feel a tear trickling down my cheek. “My life’s all gone a bit pear-shaped. I’ll knit vests. I’ll sing hymns. Sweep the floor.” I swallow hard and rub my face. “Whatever it takes. Please.”
For a minute Sister Agnes is silent. Then she sighs again, this time a bit more kindly.
“Perhaps you’d like to sit quietly in the chapel,” she suggests. “And then perhaps you could ask a friend to come and take you home? You seem a little … overwrought.”
“My friends are all at work,” I explain. “I don’t want to bother them. But maybe I will sit in the chapel, just for a little while. Thank you.”
I follow Sister Agnes tamely to the chapel, which is small and dark and silent, with a big silver cross. I sit on one of the benches, looking up at the stained-glass windows, feeling a bit surreal. If I don’t become a nun, what will I do with myself?
Apply for another job, obviously, says a lackluster voice in my head. Sort my life out.
But I’m so tired. I’m just so tired. I feel like I’m skating over life because I can’t get traction. If only I weren’t so tired all the time—
“… quite bizarre!” A strident voice makes me stiffen, and I swivel round on my bench, my skin prickling. No. I’m imagining things. That can’t be—
“I do appreciate you contacting us, Sister Agnes.”
It is. It’s Joanne. Her voice is getting nearer, and I can hear the sound of footsteps coming this way.
“At Zoose, I must assure you, we do prioritize well-being, so I am rather surprised that any of our employees should be distressed.…”
That nun is a traitor. This place was supposed to be a sanctuary! I’m already on my feet, looking desperately for an escape, but there’s no way out. In panic, I duck behind a wooden statue of Mary, just as Sister Agnes and Joanne appear at the door to the chapel, like a pair of prison wardens.
The chapel is quite dim. Maybe I’ll get away with it. I suck my stomach in, holding my breath.
“Sasha,” says Joanne after a pause. “We can see you quite clearly. Now, I know you’re in a bit of a state. But why don’t you come back to the office and we’ll have a little talk?”
“Don’t think so,” I say curtly, stepping out from behind the statue. “Thanks a lot,” I add sarcastically to Sister Agnes. And I’m striding past them both, out of the chapel, when Joanne grabs my arm.
“Sasha, you really must prioritize your own well-being,” she says sweetly, her fingers clamped round my flesh so tightly I know I’ll bruise. “You know we all care about you very much, but you need to look after yourself! I suggest you come back with me now and we’ll look at your aspirations mood board—”
“Get off!” I wrench my arm out of hers and walk briskly away down the wood-paneled corridor, then break into a run, suddenly desperate to get out of this place.
“Catch her! She’s unstable!” exclaims Joanne to a nearby nun, who looks startled, then makes a swipe for my sleeve but misses.
Seriously? OK, I am never taking refuge in a convent again. With a spurt of adrenaline, I hurtle to the front door, wrench it open, and make it out onto the street. I glance back as I run—and to my horror, Sister Agnes is hurrying after me in her cords and trainers, her blue veil fluttering behind her like some sort of miniature superhero cape.
“Stop!” she calls. “Dear, we only want to help you!”
“No, you don’t!” I yell back.
I’ve reached a group of people clogging up the pavement at the bus stop, and frantically I try to push past. “Sorry,” I say breathlessly, almost tripping on feet and bags. “Excuse me …”
“Stop!” calls Sister Agnes again, her voice like a clarion. “Come back!”
I look back again and feel a jolt of horror. She’s only a few feet behind me now, and gaining.