Working a comb through my hair, I slipped on a pair of old jeans, wrapping a chunky knitted cardigan around me. I had barely eaten today and my stomach grumbled at the deprivation. I welcomed the discomfort. It made me feel grounded, alive.
Heat pumped from our Aga in the kitchen and I grudgingly sipped my tea, imagining the sugar-laden liquid infiltrating my system. Full-fat cow’s milk and at least three spoonfuls of sugar, judging by the taste. I wanted to pull a face but Alex was watching me closely, his expression wrinkled with concern. For once it was justified. My old habits were rearing their head and I felt helpless to stop them.
‘I think I know what’s wrong with you,’ he said, his fingers tracing the deep grooves of our thick oak kitchen table.
My heart skipped a beat. Had he followed me? Had I been talking in my sleep? Another emotion rose up inside me. Relief. I had carried this burden for such a long time. Perhaps Alex would be able to help. The fact that he was still sitting here with me spoke volumes. Maybe I should have trusted him with the truth all along.
‘It’s your mother, isn’t it? You’re worried that if we move she won’t be able to find you.’ He reached across the table, his fingers touching mine. His wedding ring glinted beneath the last rays of dying sun flooding through our kitchen window. I felt my bottom lip tremble. Tears welled in my eyes as he spoke, and he gave my hand a squeeze, the warmth of his flesh providing fleeting comfort.
‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘we could hire a private detective to try to find her. There’s Jamie to consider too. He has another grandma. Wouldn’t it be nice if he could get to know her?’
My lips parted as I exhaled a sharp breath of disbelief. It was the last thing I had expected him to say. The realisation that I was alone with my problems hit me all over again. Alone to deal with the consequences of what I had done. Disappointment fuelled my bitterness. Weren’t we in enough of a mess, without bringing my mother into the mix as well? I took a deep breath as I tried to explain. ‘I was devastated after Mum left. Sure, she wasn’t perfect. She was temperamental and moody, and when she drank, she took her anger out on me. I still loved her though.’ I lowered my head as two fat tears rolled down my face and plopped on to my cardigan. Withdrawing my hand, I dabbed my eyes with a tissue. ‘But I don’t want to see her again. I couldn’t bear the pain of her walking out a second time. I won’t do that to Jamie.’
‘I can’t begin to imagine what that must have been like,’ Alex said. As he spoke, I could see my own hurt reflected in his eyes. They were dark, like mine, but open and honest. How could I ever tell him about Luke, knowing how easily he felt my pain?
Rain tapped on the window like tiny frozen arrows, the light from the sun now withdrawn. I stood up and switched on the lamp. I wanted to go to Jamie. I needed to cuddle him, to inhale his little-boy smell. But Alex was looking as lost as any child and I felt a sudden rush of love.
Standing behind him, I squeezed his shoulder. ‘I know you’re trying fix things, and that’s what I love about you. But Jamie has a lovely grandmother already. Let’s just leave it at that, eh?’
The mention of his mother brought a brief smile to Alex’s face. ‘Mum can’t wait for us to move. But I don’t want to bring our problems with us. If it’s not Isobel holding you back, then what is it?’
Silence fell, ominous and awful as I wrestled with my thoughts. This was my opportunity. I had to tell him now or not at all. I felt my throat tighten as I shrugged a response. ‘Nothing. I just wanted to say goodbye to the land. It’s been a while since I rode the quad bike and I was a bit out of practice. I won’t be doing it again.’ Despite my reassuring words, I could feel a layer of dread building up inside me. How much longer could I keep this all in?
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Alex said, looking up at me as he touched my hand.
I wasn’t.
‘Yes,’ I murmured, forcing the corners of my mouth into a tight smile. ‘Are you going to show me these houses?’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EMMA
2017
As I crept through the hall, I listened for the slightest sounds. Creaking through the rafters, the rising wind made itself known, rattling our wooden front door. I wondered what it would be like to live in the new house that my husband had shown me. The weather would definitely be more forgiving. Our current home was often battered by the rising storms, standing desolate on the landscape. Tightening my dressing gown, I padded into our kitchen and turned on the lamp. It was more intimate than the accusing glare of the light bulb overhead. Just a slice, I told myself, knowing deep down that it was my compulsion that drove me, rather than the need for cake.
My eating disorder was my constant companion, surfacing in times of stress. A chubby child, I was berated by my mother, which in turn led me to find comfort in food. Now I gained control via the starving–bingeing–purging cycle whenever stress re-emerged. It was difficult to label what I carried inside me. Bulimia seemed too small a word to cover it.