A loud groan went up.
Annie hadn’t been able to get a seat on the packed train from Edinburgh, so she sat on her case near the loo as far as Doncaster, sniffing bleach and wee with every breath, people stepping over her. And what did she have to go back to? Costas and George were going to stay on in Scotland for a few days, because “Buster is so happy here.” So she’d be going back to her empty, damp flat—all those nights she’d longed for Costas to be miles away, and now she would miss him singing to himself in the room next door. Alone, it would be just her, a frozen pizza, a boxset, and back into the hospital to visit her mother again. She’d have to start staggering her visit times with Polly’s—although everyone in the damn place loved her so much, it would be hard to avoid her name. It wasn’t fair. Polly was doing a better job of dying than Annie ever had of living—popular, cool, making the world a better place with every day she had left. Whereas Annie just ruined it. She’d lost her best friend and husband and son, and now a father and a half sister, too. Her mother would go soon, as well, and then where would she be? Anchorless. Orphaned. Divorced. Annie felt it rise up in her, a wave of sadness, of hopelessness.
“Are you okay, dear?” An old lady peered over her Take a Break at Annie.
Annie stared hard at the grimy train floor. Make something up. Allergies. Peeling an onion. But there were no onions there, and so she let it go, a sob ripping out of her stomach. “I’m so sad. I’m just so sad.”
“Oh, pet! Whatever’s the matter?”
How could she explain all of it? Her mother, Mike, Jacob? “My...my best friend is dying,” she whispered, and then she was lost in an incoherent sobbing mess, snot running down her face.
Everyone was so kind. The old lady—Patricia—said her best friend had died the year before—“Bless her, she made eighty-four, though she was furious she missed Wimbledon”—and that she understood how alone it made you feel. A squaddie with arm tattoos gave Annie his seat, and a student with dreadlocked hair fetched her tea from the buffet cart. She couldn’t drink it, she was crying so hard, but the gesture made her sob even more. “You’re all so niiccce. Thank. You,” she hiccupped.
She didn’t understand what that woman in that play had been on about. Sometimes, you could hold it together in front of everyone you knew, but it was the kindness of strangers that cut you right to the bone.
DAY 60
Take some downtime
Costas did not come back for several days. So, alone, Annie’s first day went like this: 11:00 a.m.–1:38 p.m.—lying in bed staring at the damp patch on the ceiling, replaying the conversation with Polly.
1:38–2:07 p.m.—replaying the conversation with Dr. Max. Bashing her head into the pillows, groaning loudly.
2:07–3:45 p.m.—thinking about going to shops for food. Not actually going.
3:45–3:59 p.m.—rooting about in the kitchen cupboards, tearing off bits of bread and shoving them into her mouth, wolfing down an entire bag of Costas’s pistachios. Throwing the shells all over floor. Crying more because he’d probably move out soon and she’d always been mean to him.
4:00–6:00 p.m.—crying, lying on the cold kitchen floor. Finding one of Buster’s disgusting chewed-up dog toys, sticky with drool, and crying because she’d always been mean to him, too.
6:00–8:45 p.m.—running a bath in an effort to cheer up but lying there crying some more until the water went cold. Rummaging in the dirty fridge, past moldy peppers, for a bottle of rosé wine. Drinking the lot lying in tepid bathwater, weeping.
8:45 p.m.–3:00 a.m.—watching old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, crying afresh any time something sad happened (approximately every three minutes).
DAY 61
Start a new healthy habit The next day: same except for one quick trip to the corner shop—the horrible estate one where the milk was always out of date—for rosé wine, crisps and Ben and Jerry’s. Wishing Costas had left Buster with her so she could at least have something to cuddle. She’d gladly have cleaned up his wee if it meant a bit of nonjudgmental company. Thinking about calling Polly, clearing the air, then remembering her words—wasting your life, feeling sorry for yourself—and realizing she couldn’t face it.
DAY 62
Shop local
“Sorry, love. Ain’t got none left. You ’ad the last tub yesterday.”
“What?” Annie looked around the grimy shop in a panic, past the trashy magazines and off-the-back-of-a-truck beer. “You must have something. Chunky Monkey? Phish Food?”
“Ain’t got no Ben and Jerry’s left, told you. Could do you a Carte D’Or?”
“What flavor?” Annie’s voice wavered.
He peered into his freezer. “Vanilla?”
She bit her lip hard to keep from crying in the middle of the shop. On her way out—ice cream–less, because she still had some pride—she caught sight of herself in the security monitor. Crazy, unbrushed hair, with what looked like a pistachio shell caught in it. Greasy, open-pored skin. Mad, swollen eyes. She’d have crossed the road to avoid herself. She went home, and got back into bed, where she stared at her phone for almost an hour without doing anything. Polly wouldn’t want to speak to her, anyway. She’d have called if she did. Wasting your life. Feeling sorry for yourself. Who would want to be friends with someone like that?
DAY 63
Learn a new skill
“It will be fun!” Costas pleaded. He’d finally come back, staggering under the weight of shortbread and haggis (apparently he now loved it) and tartan throw pillows. Buster leaped and pawed at Annie’s legs, and she was so grateful he was pleased to see her she almost cried. Even though Buster would be pleased to see a cardboard box. “Come on, Annie. You have not left the flat in all this time?”
“I have,” she muttered. “I’ve been seeing friends...local friends. I don’t need Polly. Um, is she okay?”
He shrugged. “Same, I think.”
“Did she say whether she might... Whatever. I don’t care.”
He gave her a pitying look. “Please, I would like for you to come with me tonight.”
“It sounds horrific. Isn’t it full of hipsters?”
“What is hipsters?”
“You know. Trendy middle-class types with beards and checked shirts?”
His eyes lit up. “You have been!”
“No, no, I... Never mind. But seriously. I don’t want to go to ukulele class. I can’t even play the recorder. That’s a sort of flute, by the way.”
“It’s fun! We learn tunes, and we play along, and we sing, and it’s nice. Nice people. Nice pub. Nice music. Nice glass of wine.”
She glared at him. “Stop enabling me. I can’t go out. I haven’t even showered in three days.”
“No kidding,” Costas said, wrinkling his nose. He’d been spending too much time with George. “Come on, come on. One hour only. I will buy you much wine, I promise.”