She seemed keen on a boy called Thom, who was pictured behind the wheel of a small blue car that he’d obviously spent time and money trying to make look sporty. In another, he’d sent Effie his photo, lifting his T-shirt and revealing his bare belly. I remembered when Tony’s stomach had been as flat and smooth as that. I’d watched him in his swimming shorts from the shallow end of the school pool, imagining how it might feel to run my fingertips across him. Like velvet. When he caught me staring, he grinned and I swiftly turned my head to hide my reddening face. But the way he looked at me . . . the way he tilted his head, the way his eyes widened, the way the corners of his lips unfurled when he smiled . . . I knew that if I remained patient, he’d approach me and eventually he’d be mine. I always get what I set my sights on.
Effie had matched Thom’s picture like for like, only with her bra poking out from under her rolled-up T-shirt. I bristled.
The door to the third bedroom was the only one I left closed. One day I might venture in there, but not yet. I wasn’t ready yet.
I changed from my skirt and blouse into a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. I’d only bought them recently and I was struggling to button them up. And when I finally managed it, I looked down in dismay at my paunchy stomach perched upon the waistband like a fat pigeon bowing the branch of a tree. My thrice-weekly hot yoga classes and two swims weren’t doing to my figure what the posters on the gym wall promised. I wondered if there was any part of my body that Tony still found attractive. If there was, he’d never thought to mention it.
I glanced in the mirror at the prematurely ageing woman looking back at me. My dark roots were beginning to show through my honey-blonde highlights, and my once-prominent cheekbones appeared to have slipped down my face to create an avalanche of jowls. My light brown eyes with their youthful shine didn’t belong to this face.
I’d hoped the stress of ovarian cancer and chemotherapy had only damaged where people couldn’t see, but I’d been kidding myself. I was dead on the inside and decaying on the outside. Even now, over a year later, the impact was still revealing itself through my face. It wouldn’t be long before I’d be forced to ask one of the plastic school-gate mums for the number of their Botox and fillers clinic. The injections plus tooth veneers and the contact lenses for my nearsightedness meant there’d be very little left of the original me soon. Maybe Tony would prefer that.
I poured my third and fourth tablets of the day from the bottle of aspirin I kept in the bathroom cabinet, and swallowed them without water. Tony had no idea what the bottle actually contained – slimming tablets not approved for sale in the UK by the Medicines and Healthcare products Regulatory Agency. I’d ordered them from an online Eastern European pharmacy instead. They bound my fat and helped me lose weight quickly, but the side effects were crippling stomach cramps and oily diarrhoea. It was a small price to pay if it meant Tony might look at me again like he’d done that day in the swimming pool.
By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, the paperboy was cramming the local newspaper through the letterbox. I hurried my way through it, past the news and the property pull-outs until I found the pages I was searching for.
The hairs on my arms prickled into life when I saw Chantelle’s face for the first time. She was close to how I’d pictured her – plain, gaunt, angular, with a scrunchie keeping her scraped-back hair in place. I tore out the page, made a mental note of the date and placed it inside my bag. Then I waited patiently with another glass of wine for the time to pass until the conversation of three people I barely knew returned.
CHAPTER FOUR
FOUR MONTHS, TWO WEEKS AFTER DAVID
I removed the Kindle from my bag and placed it on the desk in my booth.
I flicked through the library to choose from one of a dozen eBooks I’d downloaded but had yet to start reading. As a rule, novels bore me. The concentration it takes to remember what you’ve read and who is who as you swipe from one page to the next is arduous. I much prefer downloading a television programme and watching it on my phone instead. But Janine, our branch manager, frowned upon us doing that, one of many petty little dislikes she’d made us aware of since she’d taken charge seven months earlier.
I’d barely made it past the prologue of a psychological thriller before the first call of my evening arrived. I cleared my throat and slipped into character like an actor preparing to take to the stage.
So much can be won or lost in the first words a caller hears. Appear overenthusiastic and they’ll think you’re too upbeat to empathise with them. Sound too matter-of-fact and you risk appearing like an authoritarian about to berate them. I like to think I keep the right balance.
It was a teenage girl who spoke; she’d found herself pregnant and had no idea how to tell her parents. I listened sympathetically, asked my open-ended questions in all the correct places and quietly wondered how I’d react if Effie ever found herself in that kind of trouble. I’d insist on a termination, but she’d probably keep the baby just to be awkward. The girl on the phone cried a little. I pretended to care and by the end of our chat she decided she would test the family waters by telling an aunty she was close to of her predicament.
Next, it was my turn to get ‘the masturbator’. Once a week, usually on a Thursday, he was compelled to call us and audibly pleasure himself. He wasn’t bothered if it was a man or woman who answered, because by the time we answered, he wouldn’t be far from climaxing. We were supposed to hang up as soon as we were aware of what he was doing, but tonight I was feeling generous, so I told him how horny it made me feel and let him complete the task in hand before wishing him a good evening.
After two immediate hang-ups, I was approaching the end of my shift and anticipating a gruelling hot yoga class. I contemplated ignoring the call at first as I didn’t want to be late, but I picked up.
‘I’ve not called somewhere like this before. I don’t know where to begin,’ a male voice began.
‘Well, let’s start with a name. What shall I call you?’
‘Steven,’ he replied. It came to him too quickly for it to be a pseudonym. I made a note of it.
I placed him in his twenties; he was softly spoken and his accent was local. He did little to disguise his nerves.
‘It’s nice to talk to you, Steven. Can I ask what made you decide to call us this evening?’
‘I’m not sure. I – I feel like I haven’t got . . . anyone. I don’t think I want to be . . . here . . . anymore.’
He ticked box number one all by himself, which made my job a little easier. ‘Well, it’s great that you’ve called,’ I said. I’d allow my instinct the usual five minutes to decide whether he was genuine or seeking attention. ‘Tell me about the people who love and care about you. Who do you have in your life who falls into that category?’
He paused for a moment to think. ‘Nobody really,’ he replied and let out a deep breath. Saying it aloud was clearly a pivotal moment for him. ‘I’ve got no one at all.’
‘Do you have anyone you’d call a friend?’
‘No.’
That was box number two ticked.
‘I’m sure it’s difficult when you are completely alone in the world.’
‘It’s shit.’
‘Are you working at the moment? Are there any opportunities to build up personal relationships in your career?’
‘Not really. Sometimes days can pass and I realise I haven’t had a proper conversation in almost a week.’