“Thanks,” I muttered.
Miserable with embarrassment, I hoisted my broken suitcase up under one arm. Then, dragging the other behind me, I traipsed back through the slush and snow. God-damn tiny suitcase wheels. They just didn’t work on cobbled streets. I had a good mind to write to the manufacturer.
I found a cash machine and withdrew the maximum allowance, then reinserted my card to take out the rest. It took a second read for me to take in the displayed message. You have reached your daily limit. Please try again later.
Horror trickled through my already-frozen limbs. Now what? I sat on my larger suitcase.
Jinxed. That’s what I was: jinxed.
I took a great big shuddery breath, and another.
I’d have to beg. The proprietor wouldn’t be impressed, but what could I do? It wasn’t my fault the banks were closed.
I forced myself on and eventually hauled myself and my sodden baggage up the steps of Bellevue B&B. Handed over my cash to the sour-faced landlord.
“Sorry. That’s all the cash machine would give me.”
He licked his finger and counted out the notes, humpfed as he finished, then looked me in the eye.
“Okay. You look honest.” His hard stare dared me to be anything less. “I need the balance in the morning, mind, or you’ll be back up to full rate.” He handed me the key.
I nodded, feeling like a piece of scum under his boot, and headed for the stairs. He pointedly didn’t offer to help. I started the climb to my room. At the first landing I abandoned my intact suitcase; I’d have to come back for it.
Five flights later I reached my own floor and sagged against the wall. How many weeks was I locked in to this place for? Three? I’d be fit as a fiddle. Either that or dead.
And judging by that awful racket, ‘dead’ might come sooner than expected.
I unlocked my door and opened it with trepidation. The volume increased. I flicked on the light. Nothing happened so I stepped inside. Great. That hideous noise was coming from the heater. Now I had to choose between frostbite or deafness.
Ten seconds later I turned off the heater. I’d take my chances with frostbite.
I stood and surveyed the tiny room, waiting for the claustrophobic gremlins to hit. Phew. Nothing—yet.
I sat on the bed and tried it for bounce. Not much bounce, plenty of sag. I picked at the candlewick. Flicked the fluff into the air and watched it fall to the ground. Picked some more, flicked it.
It was just a nervous habit, but it annoyed me. I folded my arms so I wouldn’t be tempted to pick, then unfolded them and reached for my wallet. Pulled out the latest withdrawal slip and checked my bank balance, subtracting what I still owed on the room.
What?
I double-checked my maths. Rent money to Jim, the train ticket up here, three weeks in a B&B . . . I thought I’d been careful but, feck-it-all, half my savings were already committed; savings I’d earmarked for furniture. I crumpled the receipt into a ball and threw it at the bin. Then reconsidered, retrieved it, un-crumpled it and carefully replaced it in my wallet.
My stomach grumbled. If my maths was correct I shouldn’t even be buying takeaways, let alone pub meals. I glanced at my only cooking facility: a kettle. Two minute noodles? Cup-a-soups? I could barely wait. At least they wouldn’t take much preparation.
I bit a fingernail, then whipped my hand away. Dammit, I’d have no nails left if I wasn’t careful. Maybe I should take up smoking instead. No. Too smelly, too poisonous, too expensive.
I went over to the window and looked down at the street. Darkness had fully descended, and I felt a big wave of little-girl-alone. Edinburgh really was a whole different world.
My stomach grumbled again.
Okay, okay. Takeaways. Just for tonight. And tomorrow—tomorrow I needed to find work.
My spirits plummeted as I thought about the job I’d had; the job I’d walked away from.
Matt.
Devastation and loss hit me all over again. I drew the curtains then curled on my saggy bed and cried. Would I ever get through a day without feeling the sorrow?
I pulled back the covers, crawled into bed fully-clothed and, hunger forgotten, escaped into sleep.
* * *
A new day dawned, dammit, and with it came Matt. Not in the flesh, of course, but back in my thoughts, reminding me all over again how much I’d lost, how much I’d never really had.
I pulled the covers over my head and hid. But it didn’t work. Everything stayed exactly the same. Daylight, life, Matt.
My body ached with grief. Like a bad dose of flu, I felt it in every muscle. It was a heavy weight in my chest, a painful swelling in my throat, a relentless throbbing in my head. Matt. Matt. Matt. Tears burned my eyes.
Matt at the pool, saving my life.
Matt at work, scrambling my brain, stealing my heart.
Matt at conference, claiming my body, sharing my joy, fulfilling my dreams.
A band of steel tightened around my chest, squeezing, squeezing, until I was sure my next breath would be impossible.
Matt in the foyer, rejecting my love, crippling my soul.
I lay motionless, absorbing the pain, knowing I deserved it. Waited for oblivion or death to take me. Wished it would just hurry up.
Eventually, mentally exhausted, I slept.
I woke much later when some miserable bastard repeatedly revved his motorbike outside my window. Across the way, someone belted out Here Comes The Sun. A hoard of over-cocky teens walked by, bins clattering and bottles smashing in their wake. A guy yelled obscenities at them. They yelled better ones back.
My phone rang, over-loud in the confines of my room. I groaned, and heaved myself into a sitting position. Why couldn’t everyone shut up and let me sleep, dammit?
The phone shrilled again. I rubbed my eyes. Swung my feet out of bed. Fan-bleeding-tastic. I was awake, okay? Was everyone satisfied?
I reached for the phone.
“Hello stranger,” said a way too cheery voice.
My brain ricocheted into full wakefulness. Of all the people to ring, it had to be Charlie.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
Where did I even begin?
I decided not to. “Fine. You?”
“Well, it would be better if you were lying next to me, but—”
Quickfire rage rocketed through my veins.
“Stop it, Charlie.” My voice rose an octave. “Just stop.”
My hands shook. My chest tightened. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I . . . woke you up?”
I forced myself to take a measured breath. And another. “You don’t remember a thing, do you? You visited me in Dublin? Made a scene at the hotel? Got into a fight? Ringing any bells?”
“I did drink rather a lot that night,” he admitted.
“How about Buxom Becky?”
“Buxom . . .” He cleared his throat. “I think I might owe you an apology.”
I wanted to let rip with a good old yelling match. I wanted to say screw him. I wanted to tell him just how badly he’d ruined my life. But I couldn’t. Somewhere in the deep dark recesses of my mind, I knew I couldn’t blame my crappy life on Charlie.
The blame lay squarely with me.
So, instead of berating him, I told him goodbye—something I should’ve done ages ago. I explained I’d left London, wished him well with his life, and we parted on reasonable terms. See? I’d learned something in the past seventeen years.
And now, in the absence of a decent life, I at least needed a decent coffee. But the only way I’d get that was if I pulled on my clothes and headed downstairs. All five flights of them.
Down at reception the landlord was sucking on his cigarette as if nicotine was the secret to immortality. A smoky cloud hung around him.
I stayed well back. “Excuse me.”
He didn’t look up.
I held my breath and stepped closer. “Excuse me.”
His eyes continued
to pore over—oh, lovely, porn.
Rude bastard. I banged the desk-bell, coughing as smoke attacked my lungs. “Oi. Is it too late for breakfast?”
He turned his head a couple of degrees, checked his watch, then went back to his covergirls. “It’s too late for lunch.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Yeah, sorry for bothering him in his excruciatingly important work. “Is there a supermarket nearby?”
“On the corner, four blocks that way.” He pointed without lifting his eyes from the magazine.
I stopped at a café for a muffin and coffee, then made my way to the supermarket. Basket in hand, I meandered down the aisles. What did I need?
My old life, that’s what. And it wasn’t on any of these shelves so looking was pointless. Everything was just pointless.
“Stop it,” I muttered. “Stop it.”
A toddler regarded me with solemn eyes. “Dop it,” she mimicked.
“What are you looking at?” I snapped.
Her eyes filled with big gloopy tears and she began to wail.
I looked down at her, stricken. What kind of monster was I? I dropped to my knees in front of the wee girl. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
But when I reached out to hug her, she shrank back, crying louder.
A woman raced up and, giving me a look that would’ve shrivelled Darth Vader, whisked the toddler away.
I stared down at the linoleum tiles, ridden with self-loathing. That wee girl was scared of me, her mother thought I was some kind of kiddie predator, and as for me, I now felt like a freak. An over-emotional, out-of-control, gotta-take-a-chill-pill freak.
Maybe I really was going mad. I’d had better days, certainly. But did wanting to cry for a week make me mad? If I could just let rip and have a good old losing-it moment, I might be able to get it all out of my system—but only a madwoman would want to lose it. Only a complete nutter would consider the pros and cons before they had their moment. The more I considered it, the glummer I grew. It was true: I’d gone to the dark side. The mad side.
I straightened, staring sightlessly at the shelves. Maybe I really was mad. I felt perfectly normal—but that’s probably what all the crazies said. Well, I didn’t want to be whipped away by any men in white coats, so I’d better make like normal.
I took a rallying breath and pasted a shopping-and-loving-it expression on my face. Then focused properly on my surroundings and saw I was in the confectionary aisle. My eyes locked on a familiar red packet. Maltezers. I felt a pang of homesickness. What I’d give for a Maltezer-tossing competition with Jim right now. We could be mad together.
I picked up a pack and jiggled it wistfully, dropped it in my basket. Kept walking. Then turned back and grabbed two more packs. I’d send them to Jim for Christmas. They were personal and funny; he’d love them. But I’d better post them today or he wouldn’t get them in time.
I emerged from the shop some twenty minutes later with two bulging supermarket bags. Looked down at my hands, surprised. How strange. Had I bought that much?
“Hey! That’s shoplifting, lady!”
I turned for a glimpse of the thief and screamed as a burly guy in uniform grabbed my arm, twisting it painfully behind my back. I dropped a bag. The contents splattered on the footpath.
“Don’t even think about it,” he snarled.
I blinked. Think about what? Thinking wasn’t my strong-point today.
“Either you pay or we prosecute. Let’s go.” He frog-marched me back inside.
“But—my groceries,” I wailed, struggling. They’d be gone in five seconds if I left them out there.
“You mean our groceries.”
Panic gurgled in my gut. “I—”
Realisation, a heavy gavel-strike, left me winded. He was right. I hadn’t paid.
I started to speak, to apologise, to sort out the misunderstanding, but the security guard wasn’t programmed to listen.
Into the shop we went, watched avidly by a crowd of shoppers. I hung my head, mortified. The guard marched me up a rickety set of stairs to the manager’s office, knocked on the door and shoved me in.
“Shoplifter,” he barked then shut the door and stood behind me, his very presence threatening.
The manager looked up at me across his desk and narrowed his eyes.
My lip trembled. “I’m not a shoplifter.”
“Did you pay?”
“Well, no. But . . .” I stammered to a halt under the manager’s steely gaze. Shifted uncomfortably.
“I didn’t intend to not pay,” I said miserably.
“Do you know how many times I’ve heard that excuse, Miss?”
Tears banked up, ready to spill. My chin trembled. “I’m not a criminal. Please. It was a simple mistake. Just let me pay and let me go.”
His eyes bored into mine. “We are within our rights to prosecute, you know.”
Prosecution? I broke out in a sweat. My pulse accelerated. Prison? Suddenly I needed to pee.
“W-why? I’ve said I’ll pay. I’m happy to pay. I want to pay.” My voice rose. “My life’s bad enough without you adding your ten p’ into the mix.”
I turned to go and banged into Burly Boy. Tears burst forth.
“Let me pay!” I shrieked, feeling like I was drowning.
Oh God. Here it came. The full-throttled, freaking-madwoman psychotic moment, and now it was here I really, really, really didn’t want to have it. I blundered past him and shot down the stairs, sobbing loudly. Returned to my checkout counter, pushed in front of the other shoppers, gesticulated wildly in front of the operator. “How much do I owe?”
She looked nervous. “I’ll just check.”
I took fifty quid out of my wallet and threw it on the counter.
White-faced and trembling, she took the notes, rang up the transaction and gave me my change. “Have a nice day,” she whispered.
I stared at her, stupefied. Have a nice day?
I rearranged my features into a quasi-dignified expression, did the walk of shame out of the shop, retrieved my miraculously untouched shopping bags and escaped the scene of my crime.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Christmas Day.
I woke in a foul mood. For a while I tossed and turned, but sleep eluded me. So I lay there, scowling at the ceiling and resenting the day, my mood, life.
I’d lost my man, my career, and my dignity. And, as if that wasn’t enough, now I had to face Christmas alone.
I didn’t want to be missing my family, but I did. Mum, Dad, even Dani. This would be the first Christmas I’d spent without them.
Not that I’d ever enjoyed our Christmas Day Eating-fests. Stuffing our faces as if we hadn’t eaten in a month. Eating like we had no off-switch, here’s to Santa, have another chocolate; eat-eat-eating until I felt like a big blubbery ball of misappropriated gastro-waste.
But Christmas was Christmas. Somehow, it just didn’t seem right to spend it alone. Perhaps if I just heard their voices . . .
I sat up, reached for my mobile and dialled home.
“Mer-ry Christmas! Ho ho ho!” The voice chimed.
My knees went weak. I sat abruptly on the bed. Maybe not that voice. “Dani. Hi.”
There was an audible sucking-in of breath.
“Um . . .” I floundered. “Merry Christmas.”
Why had I rung? Why?
Dani hesitated one, two, three long seconds before saying, “I’ll get Mum.”
Which was about the shortest sentence she’d ever said to me since coming out of the womb. Clearly my popularity hadn’t increased.
“Darling?”
“Hi Mum,” I said, trying to sound jolly. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too, darling.” She blew a kiss down the phone. “What a shame you’re not here. You should see the tree. It’s our best ever.”
I smiled in spite of myself. She said that every year.
“But I think I over-fed the Christmas cake.” Then, “No, George, not that
plate. Use the good one, with the gilt edging.” She tut-tutted. “Your father doesn’t have a clue. Honestly, if I died he would be at a complete loss.”
She said that every year, too. I felt suddenly tearful.
“If only you were here, darling. You know which plates to use. Oh dear.” She raised her voice. “Not that one, George. The other one. For goodness sake.” She exhaled. “Here, talk to your father while I sort out the plates.”
Dad’s voice came down the line. “Hello, love.”
“Hi, Dad. Merry Christmas.” I choked on the last word.
“Is it?” He chuckled. “I’m just keeping out of everyone’s way. You know me. Now, what’s this nonsense with you and your sister?”
“Um . . .” A bad liar at the best of times, I couldn’t even attempt it with Dad.
“B, a word of advice. This too will blow over.”
I wiped away a tear.
“Your sister’s very . . . dramatic.”
In the background Mum shrilled, “George! The meat needs carving.”
Suddenly desperate for the call to be over, I said, “You’d better go. I love you.”
“Love you, too, dear. Here’s your mother.”
“No, Dad, I—”
“Rebecca, we so miss not having you here at Christmas. Why don’t you catch a pla—”
“Mum,” I interrupted. “I’ve got to go. Sorry. My phone’s about to die.” I rushed my words. “Love you. ’Bye.”
I ended the call and ran a weary hand over my face.
For a moment I stood statue-still, taking in my room. My silent, cheerless room. No presents, no tree, no tinsel and baubles, no cute little Santas.
A thread of icy air whistled through a gap in the window, catching my solitary Christmas card. It fluttered from the sill and landed face-down on the floor. I went and picked it up, re-read it.
To Becky, Love from Becky, xx
And how pathetic was that? I carefully set it back on the windowsill, then furiously snatched it up and shoved it in the bin.
I powered off the phone. Forget Christmas. Forget the bloody Christmas calls. Let the world celebrate without me. I was over it.
* * *
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