by Lucy Vine
The final straw came when I was twenty-four. I’d fallen in love with a boy called Kit – my first big, overwhelming, all-consuming love. It felt like the first time in my life that Mum and Steven weren’t my priority. I liked it. He moved in with me after only six months. It was quick, but I liked that. I wanted it to be quick, I wanted him to save me from my family. I thought we were soulmates, I thought we were going to get married. I was sure of it, so certain, right up until the moment I came home early from work with the flu, and found him in bed with a woman from his office.
He didn’t even try to say sorry, just laughed awkwardly while she scrambled around for her clothes. She said sorry. She said she didn’t know about me. She was probably quite nice.
And, oh God, how I cried. I cried so much. I screamed at him to go and I lay on the floor of my living room, crying like I never had before. I wanted to die, and I wanted my mum. So much. I rang and rang, over and over. I left voicemails weeping down the line. I wanted her so much, I needed her. I’d never asked her to put me first before, I’d never asked her to drop everything and come to me, but I asked her to then. I was close to some kind of an edge and felt dizzy and sick and afraid. I needed my mother to save me.
She never called back. The next day, when I woke up passed out on the floor where I’d cried myself to sleep, there was a text from her. ‘Sorry to hear about your break up. Just in the middle of something with Steven. Maybe chat next week?’
I didn’t cry again after that – and I didn’t speak to my mum again.
I know it sounds selfish, and I know it might sound harsh, but something in me snapped. I just couldn’t do it any more. I couldn’t be second place, watching idly on as my mum hurt herself choosing a man like that over her children. She did love us, I knew that, but I also knew she would just keep choosing him over and over again.
She tried to ring me a few days later, and I blocked her number. She emailed and texted me, several messages, and I deleted them all unread. Hannah and Mark both tried to talk to me, begged me to speak to Mum, but I said no. I was always the closest to Mum, the nearest to the pain epicentre, and they both know I had reached the end of my tether. They kept saying Mum didn’t even understand what she’d done – which only made it worse. I couldn’t explain how she let me down when I needed her most. It seemed silly and trivial after everything we’d been through already, but it was my breaking point. I couldn’t articulate how it felt when she chose him, it was betrayal. I’d had my heart broken, first by Kit, then by my mum, all in the space of a day. It was too much. Every time I picked up the phone to call her, I thought again about what it must’ve taken for her to hear all my voicemails, crying like that, sobbing and talking about death – and still not come to me. I just couldn’t.
And horrible as it is to say, in those days, weeks and months afterwards, I only felt better being away. Clearer, freer. Like it was the right decision and I was putting myself first. Of course I felt terrible ignoring my mum and I missed her badly. It was painful in many ways, but I also couldn’t keep her in my life. Not while Steven was also in her life, wreaking his destruction everywhere he went. I had to save myself. Mum couldn’t walk away from him, so I had to walk away from them both.
A couple of years ago, she and Steven moved to Australia, where his family are from. It was yet another attempt at a ‘fresh start’, and I’d guess Mum couldn’t afford to keep our house any more. It was re-mortgaged a bunch of times to pay for his pointless rehab stints. But I knew the booze would follow them wherever they were. And at least them being so far away made things easier for me. Out of sight, out of mind, I told myself. I could at least pretend that was true. And I had an excuse when people asked me why I never saw my mum – she was on the other side of the world.
Mark is looking at me now, carefully, waiting. I feel my eyes watering.
‘I can’t,’ I say at last, looking away. ‘I’m not ready.’
He sighs and turns his body to the window to stare out. We don’t talk again for a while.
***
from: Mark Edwards
to: Alice Edwards
Here you go. You should just ask her if you can be allowed back on the mailing list!
---------- Forwarded message ----------
from: [email protected]
to: Hannah Edwards
cc: Hannah Edwards
date: 4 June at 23.26
subject: MAY FAMILY NEWSLETTER: TOP SECRET
mailed-by: ProtonMail
EDWARDS FAMILY NEWSLETTER/MAY RECAP
Welcome, truthers,
Hannah here. As ever, I identify myself to you all with this month’s code word so you know it’s really me and not the government co-opting my family newsletters.
SNOWFLAKE
I have had a very busy few weeks on my Flat Earther quest. I have spoken at length to my whistle-blowers from NASA and finally have proof of everything I have previously proposed re ‘the truth’. I have included links below to many very convincing videos showing definitively that Lorraine Kelly is secretly an alien who is running the country and is personally controlling the populace with chemtrails. Please watch them.
In other family news:
-Alice and Mark are now in Thailand, and they have seen many, many monkeys.
-Uncle Ned says to say thank you all for the links to hypnotherapy and Slimming World, but he says he would prefer the money please.
-Cousin Leon would like me to mention how disappointed he is that so few of the family made it along to Gertie’s 17th birthday, but that he is now considering breeding her, if any if the family have dogs they would like to get involved. I can confirm that Gertie is very sweet-looking, despite the hump and inbred blindness.
-Little Jemima has requested that the family please stop sending her bras. She says her mum shouldn’t have mentioned it and she has plenty of bras from Primark. I told her she would be better off going to M&S but she told me to stop being embarrassing. Such a shame.
Until next month, fellow Truth Seekers.
Hannah xx
This email is not for public consumption and the Edwards family have specifically asked to be disassociated from any views expressed. Hannah Edwards encourages you to click on all links but does not accept responsibility for any damage whatsoever that is caused by viruses being passed. Be advised that any use, dissemination, forwarding, printing or copying of this email is strictly prohibited. ESPECIALLY BY YOU, LORRAINE KELLY.
22
AWOL.COM/Alice Edwards’ Travel Blog
7 June – 6.40 p.m.
Good evening, dream chasers,
How do you guys actually feel about the dream chasers thing? I’m not sure whether to keep it. I thought it would be a cool signature intro but I think it might be rubbish. How about fellow voyagers? Or wander-lusters? That’s a bit clunky, isn’t it?
Anyway, sorry I haven’t been very on it with this blog lately, I’m not sure what I’m doing with it. I have just posted a whole new bunch of monkey pictures though.
So this is just a quick update to say Mark, Joe and I have been island hopping in ‘water taxis’, and we’re now looking for investors for our genius water Uber company. We want to make a billion, then we never have to come home.
Send money,
Alice xx
#WaterTaxis #DreamChasersOrNoDreamChasers #TravelBlogger #GoneAWOL #AliceEdwardsBlog
13 Comments · 9 AWOLs · 52 Super Likes
COMMENTS:
Mark Edwards
| Water Uber was my idea, you thieving whore!
Alice Edwards
Replying to Mark Edwards
| Please don’t use that word, it is offensive. I am a thieving sex worker.
Jessica Sex4U
Replying to Alice Edwards and Mark
Edwards
| Give me a call some time ;) I have big dick and big tits for good price
Mark Edwards
Replying to Jessica Sex4U
| The sex bots have landed!
AWOL MODERATOR
Replying to Jessica Sex4U
| Please everyone, please stop this. I can’t keep doing this. It’s too much. I can’t. It’s too much. Luke
Jessica Sex4U
Replying to AWOL MODERATOR
| I tell no one. our secret. dm me
Karen Gill
| Um, guys, this is genuinely a great idea. Let’s get @Lord Sugar involved in this.
Mark Edwards
Replying to Karen Gill and Lord Sugar
| Hi Sir Alan! We need an initial billion-pound investment to get started and also then to live off and not do any work because it’s boring.
Guru Shaman Quam AKA Gary Porter
| This is another of my businesses! See my other AWOL account IslandHopWithAGuru
Piers Ned
| U r a hoe
AWOL MODERATOR
Replying to Piers Ned
| I don’t even know if this is an insult, do you mean a literal garden hoe? If not, please please be respectful to our users. Please please please. I can’t handle this any more. Do you know how little I get paid? My life is so empty. Luke
Hannah Edwards
| be careful water and mountains can be an edge
Joe Downe
| You are the cutest. Have you considered maybe just ‘hello human beings’? :)))
‘Have you ever noticed in straight people movies,’ Joe begins thoughtfully, laying down his iPad where we’ve been watching an illegally downloaded Adam Sandler comedy. ‘How missionary sex means love, and woman on top means one-night stand?’
I consider this. ‘Oh yeah, that’s true,’ I say.
‘Is it true in real life, though?’ he says, facing me.
I nod. ‘Oh absolutely. Anything other than missionary once you’re in a loving heteronormative relationship is considered something akin to a satanic ritual.’
‘Being straight sounds awful,’ he says, awed.
‘It is. But what about you, Joe?’ I continue, turning to him. ‘How is your love life these days? Have you had much on-top fun during this trip?’
He shakes his head and then turns to me, smiling slightly.
‘No darling, but I’m not interested in anything casual any more. I’ve done all that.’
I sit up a little. ‘You want to meet someone for real?’ I say carefully and Joe’s smile gets wider. ‘No,’ he replies simply, but there is more to it.
‘Because . . .’ I begin slowly. ‘You’ve already met someone real?’ I hold my breath.
‘Oh Alice,’ he says quietly. ‘You know full well I am madly in love with your brother. Truly, madly, deeply.’ We are still holding hands and I grip it tightly, tighter. He laughs a small laugh. ‘You know it and I know it – and Mark knows it. But he doesn’t see me like that, he never has.’
I bite my nail thinking of how hard my brother laughed when I mentioned the possibility. ‘But maybe . . .’ I try, ‘maybe if you talked to him . . .’
Joe smiles again. ‘I have. Many times. He is always kind about it but he’s sure. I’m just not that person for him. He can’t see me like that. I need to walk away really. I’ll never get over him if I keep spending every waking moment with him. But it is so hard when all I want is to be with him, always.’ His eyes are suddenly a little damp and we fall into a mournful silence.
I want to offer to speak to Mark for Joe. I want to shout at my stupid brother about how stupid he is not to love Joe. I want to hit him over and over until he agrees to love this man for ever. Who could fail to love Joe? He is so good and kind and handsome. How can Mark not see that?
But I am selfishly afraid. On the surface of it, my brother and I have been totally fine since our little moment on the bus. We woke up the next day in our dorm room and pretended nothing had happened. We laughed and joked like normal. We planned our adventures. We spent our evenings exploring street stalls and visiting temples in the day. And it was brilliant. You have to take off your shoes in the temples because they’re sacred places – even the loos, which is hard to get my head round, having seen the way most men piss. Anyway the guides give you flip-flops to wear inside and it made me laugh long and hard thinking back to just a few weeks before when I was wearing those lurid green flip-flops in very different circumstances.
LA and pedicures feel like so long ago already.
Mark and Joe also went off for an elephant ride yesterday, but I felt ethically ambiguous about it and worried I might try and orchestrate a large-scale elephant-nap if I saw any of them in chains, so Mark made a unilateral decision that I wasn’t welcome. Then we went on this mind-blowingly incredible hike up to a waterfall and we all stood there for close to an hour, colourful butterflies circling us, just silently marvelling at how magical the whole thing was.
Then it rained a lot and felt less magical, but still, I will never forget the feeling of standing there, under that waterfall.
But, if I’m honest, wonderful as it all was, our bus conversation has been there between Mark and me that whole time. Underneath everything. Underpinning the joy.
Maybe that’s why I’m feeling so disconnected and . . . unfinished?
I haven’t even really written my blog properly. Actually, to be honest, I’m starting to feel like it’s all a bit silly and pointless. I’ve been trying to do this glossy shiny thing online, like Constance Beaumont does, and it is not working. I’m trying to make all of this travelling stuff sound so glorious and perfect, which it hasn’t always been. It’s been fun at times, but also messy and complicated. But people don’t want to hear about the insect bites and the petty bickering, do they? Oh, I don’t know.
We’re going to spend another week here, and then we’re heading up to north Thailand for the final week. And then . . . I still don’t know. I just don’t know where to spend my third month. I’ve been looking at a whole range of places but I haven’t booked anything just yet. I’m considering India because – no disrespect to Shaman Gary – it would be nice to meet some proper gurus. Except I am worried that I will end up asking them for advice on my crappy love life, instead of bigger picture stuff about the world. I feel like that might not be cool and I don’t want anyone who may or may not be in contact with a higher being to know how shallow a person I really am.
Constance Beaumont’s latest post had her in Indonesia, which sounds incredible and isn’t too far from here, in a global context. I’m very into that idea. I’m also really tempted by Brazil, Argentina – that area of the world. I could even attend a proper Ayahuasca retreat if I made it to Peru. But maybe I’ve had enough deep, intense looks into my being for now.
The idea originally was fun in LA, soul-searching in Thailand, and then maybe a physically arduous adventure for the third part? But now my deadline is fast approaching and I’m realising you probably kind of need to be fit or do some training to climb a mountain. Right? I could get on a boat and sail about, I guess, but again, I think you need to know, like, stuff. There are, I don’t know, ropes and wheels and shit on boats, aren’t there? Unless I got on a cruise? But that feels maybe forty years premature.
A minute passes as we silently watch Adam Sandler playing Adam Sandler.
‘Look Joe,’ I begin urgently. ‘I—’
A voice in the doorway interrupts our moment.
‘Hello you two,’ Mark says, his voice giving nothing away. Joe and I exchange a look. How long has he been standing there?
He wanders in, passing the sink and absent-mindedly picks up my hairbrush. He twirls it in his hands. There is an expectant tension in the air.
‘Al, have you decided what you’re going to do next, yet?’ he says, sud
denly sounding a bit serious. ‘You know, after Thailand.’
I sigh, glancing at Joe. ‘No. Still no.’ I pause. ‘I was thinking maybe I could go do something super healthy? Some kind of fitness retreat. It’ll be like going to jail – I’ll get so fit and glow-y. I’ll have a bunch of colonic irrigations, detox and return to the UK looking like a Pussycat Doll.’
‘Just like prison,’ Joe nods.
‘That sounds like a reasonable goal,’ Mark adds, but he seems distracted, fiddling with the brush. He turns to face me then, a determined look on his face.
‘Look,’ he takes a deep breath. ‘I know you don’t want me to do this, but I need to try one more time to convince you to change your mind about Mum. The last time I tried on the bus, I came in too hot, I know I did. I was angry, and I shouldn’t have been, because this isn’t about guilting you into forgiving her, this is about helping you. I want to help you.’
He stops and I look straight down. He’s talking nonsense. Help me? I am helping me. Staying away from our family is all about helping me. That’s what this whole estrangement thing is about. He sits down in the chair opposite and takes a deep breath.
Joe pulls the cover back and slips out of the bed. ‘I’ll give you guys a minute,’ he murmurs, slipping out of the room.
For a moment Mark sits there quietly.
‘Please listen to me,’ he says suddenly, in a pleading voice. ‘Forget about Mum for a minute, and forget about Steven lying in hospital. This is about you. You’re holding in all this anger and resentment and it’s making you into something you’re not.’