I smile and thank him. I want to tell him that I know exactly what he means about limitless ideas when you’ve got a pen and notebook. It’s just the way my brain seems to work; I’m able to write things down that I’d never, ever dare say. Sometimes I read back what I’ve written and can’t believe that was me. Can’t believe those words are mine, can’t believe the feelings are mine. Often, I don’t even realise what I’m feeling at all until I sit down and write it all out. It’s my favourite way to communicate, just me and the page. The page that always listens, the page that never judges. The page that can be folded up and kept for decades, the page that can be torn and tossed in an instant. I’m beginning to wonder if Christopher is the same, I see ink marks all over his fingers. I’d bet he’s a head-to-page kind of writer too. Maybe he realises himself on the paper just like me.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to see that it’s Jasmine. ‘Where have you been? We’re dying of thirst over here! You’ve been gone ages!’
Christopher holds up his hands and dips his head slightly. ‘Entirely my fault, please, excuse me. I didn’t want to hold you up. Back to the drawing board it is. Forgive my intrusion, I didn’t mean to take you away from your friends; have a lovely night.’
Jasmine opens her mouth to say something, but I shoot her a look. I’m afraid it’s going to be a) we’re not friends but work colleagues, which will let Christopher know that he was the only one in the office I didn’t invite, or b) an invite to come and join us, which would just be the worst, because he’d see all of us in our full inebriated state and that would make Monday morning’s staff meeting a very awkward affair. Thankfully, Jasmine gets the message and grabs the drinks tray. I say my goodbyes and wish Christopher a lovely night too, apologising again for spilling the drink on him and refusing the skydive. Bloody hell, how much more could I have done to sabotage myself in the first instance?
‘Ping me anytime if you have any other ideas,’ he calls out as he offers me his card with all his numbers and contacts. ‘Otherwise, enjoy the weekend and see you on Monday.’
I head over to the corner table, where Mark and Dylan are arm-wrestling topless, Amy’s asleep in the corner and Jasmine is begging Denise for a lock-in. And karaoke. And baskets of chicken and chips. Everyone’s now on Rusty Nails.
Did I make a huge mistake not inviting Christopher out with us tonight? Maybe he would have loved this? Maybe it would have been the perfect introduction to everyone at the Gazette? I know Mark has reason to believe he’s not trustworthy, but I’ve not seen him be anything other than kind and committed. I guess this is what it’s going to be like for the foreseeable future as Editor in Chief, always wondering if I’m doing the right thing, always second-guessing, always reviewing and wondering what I can do better. So maybe, next time, I will invite him out with us. Because the way this staff night out is going, it looks like there’ll be many more next times. And I think that once my colleagues get to know Christopher, they’re going to really like him, just as much as I do. I steal a glance over to the bar stool where Christopher was sitting earlier. I watch him drain his drink, gather his things and wave his thanks to Denise as he exits through the side door.
Jasmine takes my hand and we both stand up on the seats, clapping and swinging our hips together. The lights go down and the volume goes up. I think the coast is clear and it’s safe to presume that Christopher has turned in for the night and we needn’t worry about disgracing ourselves any further.
I knock back a Rusty Nail. Sometimes, you’ve just got to take one for the team.
Six
I wake to the soft, rough tongue of Chaplin licking my ear. How can it already be so bright? I feel like I just closed my eyes ten minutes ago. The sunlight streams through the crack between my wonky home-made curtains and I thank God it’s Saturday. I stretch out like a starfish in my bed and decide that straight after I get up to feed Chaplin, I’m going to slip right back in under these soft, warm blankets. With a big cup of tea. Endless cups of sugary tea will be required today. And some cheesy toast with marmite. That’s the beauty of living by yourself. You can do whatever you want, whenever you want, for as long as you want. And you can do it all in your pyjamas.
And of course, once I feel human enough, I’ll spend the rest of the day tucking into a book from my towering TBR pile which looks like a little paperback city on either side of my bookcase since I ran out of space on the shelves. I tried to have a clear-out a few months back but just ended up rediscovering favourites and, in the end, I threw out nothing. I couldn’t bear to. My books were there for me when I had no one else. They didn’t force me to open up or pressure me to pull myself together. They calmed me down, kept me sane, helped me clarify my thoughts and most importantly, did so with infinite patience. And sometimes a little solitary reading is all the therapy a person needs. It’s one of the many things that annoys my mother about me – she can’t understand how I love nothing more than snuggling up all by myself with a novel. She says it’s ‘closing myself off to the world’. I say it’s entering a new one.
When I was a teen, she’d throw her hands up in despair, screeching whilst banging on the table and opening the door, pointing out into the darkness to the lights of Newbridge twinkling in the distance. ‘Where the hell did I get you from, Lily! Go out, get drunk, get a tattoo, sneak out to a concert, throw a party, shoplift! For God’s sake, live a little, you’re only young once, you’re supposed to be reckless and crazy at your age. Not bloody hiding behind a book and baking cakes. That’s not normal! It is not living!’
But I’ve become used to my quiet little life and it suits me well. I throw back my duvet, open my windows and breathe in the glorious early autumnal smells, colours and views of rolling hills and trees. I scoop up Chaplin and we pad our way to the kitchen for a lazy breakfast for both of us. I’m weirdly not feeling half as hung-over as I deserve.
My phone rings on the kitchen counter. I glance at the screen and brace myself. Speak of the devil. Here comes the headache after all.
‘Morning, darling!’ my mother sings into the phone. In her time zone, it’s just before 2 a.m. on Friday night. This is her witching hour, when she’s still buzzing from a gig and can’t wind down. It’s too late to drink but too early to do anything else. Except call me. ‘Just calling to catch up! Keep you in the loop, you won’t believe the week I’ve had, sweetheart…’
And she’s off.
In many ways, once you accept that she’s calling to talk at you and not to you, you stop treating it like a conversation and it’s a lot less frustrating. I’ve learnt to make timely ‘ohs’ and ‘wows’, so I can just let her chat away while I get on with other jobs.
‘…So I’ve just moved in to a brand-new apartment, Half Moon Bay. You should see it, Lily – stunning! Right this second, I’m standing on the balcony, I’ve got views of the whole city, there’s an indoor pool, an outdoor pool, a shared terrace for parties…’
‘Wow… oh, wow… unbelievable…’ I reply as I open a tin of chicken liver for Chaplin and slide the jellied meat block into a bowl (just what I need to smell to help my hangover), while I stick on the kettle and toaster for myself.
‘The rent is outrageous, but you wouldn’t expect anything less for this neighbourhood. And besides, it’s not like I’m paying for it all by myself, right?’
‘Wo—’ I stop in my tracks. ‘What do you mean? Are you sharing?’
My mother is not the sharing sort. When she’s not being loud, she’s asleep and then everybody has to be pin-drop silent or she’ll lose her head and start wailing with fatigue like a small child. She is also bad when she’s hungry. Or hangry. Which is tricky because she’s always on a diet. In her industry, she feels the pressure to look young and skinny and stylish at all times. High-protein, low-carb, high-fat, no-sugar, vegan, Atkins, South Beach, Ketogenic, Paleo, Zone, Dukan, 5:2. She does them on a loop. I can’t remember a time in my life when my mum has not been on a diet.
I hit the fridge
closed with my foot, slump on the couch and bite into the block of red cheddar in my hand.
‘Do you listen to me at all, sweetie? I’ve moved in with Maxwell remember?’
‘Maxwell? I thought Maxwell was your therapist?’
‘And so much more, baby. So much more,’ she purrs.
This is going to be a long call.
‘He’s the one, Lily. I know you’ll think it’s premature to say that, but I don’t care. I can feel it. He’s my angel. My rock. My soulmate.’
‘Oh.’ My mother has even less faith in the illusory promise of ‘The One’ than I do.
‘I found him through my agent’s dog walker’s therapist.’
Only living in California makes crazy sentences like this possible.
‘You know how much I’ve tried to find peace, sweetheart! I’ve tried Xanax, Prozac, Zyprexa, Chinese herbs, hypnosis, leafy greens, fish oil, vitamin B12, St John’s wort, group therapy, light therapy, cognitive behavioural therapy, eye movement desensitisation and reprocessing, but none of it really did the trick, you know? But Maxwell… I feel the difference. The energy… He’s a self-qualified art therapist, which was not necessarily what I was looking for, but after a lifetime of people nodding and smiling at me and suggesting I try breathing in different gears, the fact that this Adonis in dark-denim cut-offs offered me a hot glue gun and a vision board seemed like it could only be a good thing.’
‘Right. Okay, I see…’ But I don’t. This completely erratic, whirlwind infatuation with a virtual stranger already sounds like it’s going to end in tears. I hope not, but this does sound like everything has moved very fast.Too fast.
‘This time a month ago, when I first met him, how could I ever have guessed the change he would bring? I didn’t know he believed in spirit guides or that he would give me hand-drawn tarot cards as a birthday present. I didn’t know we would go night swimming together naked in Lake Tahoe or that he would hold me for hours while I cried as I wrote the words of all my burdens and regrets on rocks and then slung them away, freeing myself from the past and all the heaviness weighing me down. How could I ever have known last night when I was on stage singing in front of five hundred people he would stand up and call out to me, “I love you so fucking much, you have no idea!”’
‘Wow.’
‘I know. WOW, right? Lily, he’s the one. I’ve found him. You know when you just know?’
Well, no, I don’t actually. You might remember the day I got it all wrong? It was quite a scene. You were wearing purple.
I make some high-pitched noises – encouraging ones. I think… I hope. I’m hardly an expert in this area.
‘And the timing couldn’t be more perfect because I’m working with a new producer, remastering all my greatest hits. She’s young, she’s cool, she’s going to take me to new audiences and I’m thinking to myself – you know what? For once in my life, I’m going to get my happy ending!’
I’m speechless. And I’ve got a mouthful of cheese.
‘So, what have you been up to, darling? I’m guessing same old, same old in Newbridge? You know I’ve offered to pay half your flight over here. You’d love this place, you could try writing for a paper over here? Or what about a complete change? Be my PA, God knows I need the help, come work for me, honey! Please!’
She’s made me this offer before. And I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but it is exactly what it says on the tin. I’d be moving over as her PA. I’d be working around the clock, attending to her endless needs – one minute I could be rescheduling a flight, the next I could be giving her a foot massage. So thanks but absolutely no thanks.
‘Well, there has been some news actually,’ I say.
‘Really?’ She sounds more than a little surprised.
‘Yes, we had a shake-up at work, I’m now Editor in Chief and I’ve got to write a full-length feature for our print and new online editions. So that’s exciting.’
Finished with his breakfast, Chaplin scampers over to me and folds himself in to my lap.
‘Oh-kay, not bad! What’s the feature? Are you interviewing famous people? I could put you in touch with so many, darling… Arts and culture or inspiration? You just tell me the angle and I’ll pull in some favours. You could do me of course – rags to riches kind of thing – small-town girl makes it big stateside. I had some new headshots done recently, so I’m happy to send them through. Actually I’ll send you some pics right now…’
A feature on my mother would absolutely be the last thing I’d want to do. For three reasons. Firstly, it would take forever to write and edit because she loves to tell her life story in a rather long-winded way. Secondly, I’d then have to re-write and re-edit the whole damn thing over and over until she was satisfied. And thirdly, it would mean telling everyone she’s my mother and be ambushed with all the unwanted attention that would spring from that. ‘Thanks, but there’s no need, they’ve already decided. It’s a bucket list.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘A bucket list; you know, things you’ve always wanted to do but you were too scared or didn’t have the time or money, that kind of thing. Extraordinary experiences.’
I hear her make her characteristic retching sound, as if the mere idea of something so banal is so distasteful it makes her gag. ‘Whose idiotic idea was that? It’s so morbid! Trust the puny-minded Newbridge Gazette to come up with something as boring and overdone as that. You’re too young to be thinking of bucket lists. Hell, I’m too young to be thinking of bucket lists. Tell them no, Lil, tell them where to shove it.’
Okay – here we go. My mother hates Newbridge and everything it represents. She insists that Newbridge stifled her creativity, repressed her independence as an artist and as a young woman and branded her a troublemaker for ‘simply living her life her way’ i.e. indulging in all varieties of intoxicants, being a bad influence on other less rebellious and experimental peers (whom she now calls The Beige Brigade, living without colour or depth) and getting pregnant with me at the tender age of sixteen. She would have left the second it was legal for her to finish school except she had me to care for. But a decade in, she’d had enough of that (parenting being stifling also, I imagine) and left me to live with my granny to build her career in America. So, Mum hating Newbridge and calling it puny-minded is exactly what I expect to hear from her. But what she sees as small-town banality, I see as security, as community, as the people who were there for me when she chose not to be.
‘It’s not morbid,’ I tell her, with a heavy touch of defensiveness in my voice. Who does she think she is telling me what to do from her loved-up luxury apartment in LA? She’s not here, she’s not really part of my life now beyond texts and calls, so why should I even listen to what she has to say? ‘It’s brilliant. It’s positive; exploring exciting life goals.’ I’m trying to think of how Mags McArthur put it… ‘Things that push you out of your comfort zone, so you feel fully alive.’
‘Right. So what are you going to do then?’
I scramble for an example. I still can’t think of anything that I want to do. How very Beige Brigade. I’m going to have to tell her something that at least sounds exciting. But what? My first three ideas went down like a lead balloon, and I can’t risk that happening here with my mum on the phone. It will just confirm all the other notions she has about me living too small, too safe and, well, not really living at all. Well, maybe I am boring and dull and backward, but all the sensational, circus act stuff that other people do just fills me with dread. And I don’t think that’s really the spirit of a bucket list. Surely, you’re supposed to want to fulfil a goal or ambition, not torture yourself.
‘Lily? Don’t tell me it’s swimming with dolphins or I’ll puke. They should call it “pass the bucket list”. You should tell them you want to do a “Fuck-it” list. All glamourous, high-end things and let them pay for it. At least that sounds promising. For Newbridge, I mean.’
‘Skydiving,’ I blurt out, louder than I intended and I think even Chapli
n flinches when I say it. I wink at him. I’m only feeding her Christopher’s idea to get her off my case. Surely, if it’s good enough for a high-flying media consultant from London, it’s got to be good enough for my mum.
My mother’s laugh crackles loud and clear in my ear despite the five and a half thousand miles that separate us. ‘Oh, this just gets better and better. You and heights! Jumping out of a plane! Crashing through the sky nose first! Remember when you were eight, you wet yourself on the rock-climbing wall, you were that scared of falling. Is this supposed to be a comedic piece?’ She’s wheezing with cynical laughter now. ‘Go on, tell me what they really have planned.’
Again, I am bone dry in terms of ideas, I cannot think of one thing I want to do for myself. And she’s not making matters any better. Why can’t she just support me for once? Why does she always have to undermine me, make me feel I’ve been foolish or naïve? I’ve had enough. I’m sorry I even mentioned it now. ‘That’s it. No joke. I’ve got to do it for work.’
A sharp intake of breath from my mother passes through the phone line. ‘You don’t have to do anything, Lily. Is this really how I brought you up? To be pushed around by some small-town big-balls who thinks he’s editor of the New York Times? Is this from that runt Gareth again? Is some sick sadist making you do this? Whatever you choose to do with this silly list, fine, do it, but only on your own terms. Of course I’d love you to push yourself and live a little, but not if some idiot is exploiting you to shift a few extra copies of his crummy paper. Nobody can make you do…’
‘Nobody is making me…’ I cut in. I actually thought she may be pleased about this. I actually thought this might be a nice conversation. How on earth can she accuse me of being stuck in my own comfort zone when I endure listening to this crap from her… with a hangover.
But she’s not listening. ‘We need to get you out of this. Scare them off. Tell them you have a broken rib. It’s impossible to verify medically. Inconclusive on an X-Ray. I used it to get out of touring Canada last winter, too cold. Worked a treat.’
For Once In My Life: An absolutely perfect laugh-out-loud romantic comedy Page 8