by Talli Roland
I gulp. “What did you tell her?”
Peter waves a hand in the air. “I made up a story about how we like to keep in touch with what the media are saying. She’s thick as a plank, so it wasn’t exactly difficult to fool her. But it could have been someone else. It only takes one person to ruin a clinic’s reputation on patient confidentiality.”
“I know that now,” I say. “I’m so sorry, Peter.”
He keeps pacing as if he hasn’t heard my words. “Christ! I even brought you into the hospital. That stunt with the OR – that wasn’t because you wanted to know more about the surgeries, was it?”
“No.” I shake my head as shame seeps in.
“Here I was telling the hospital board there was no way anyone in my employ could be involved, when all this time my own girlfriend was doing it behind my back.” He stops pacing and turns to face me, and I jerk back from the venom in his eyes. “I can’t even stand to look at you right now.”
“Peter, I’m so sorry. I–”
“Just go,” he spits out. “We’re through. Get your things from the flat tomorrow when I’m at work. I don’t want to see you again.”
“Let me explain,” I sputter. “I didn’t realise . . .” My voice trails away as he spins on his heels, and a few seconds later, I hear the slam of his office door.
I stand as still as a statue for a moment. I did something terrible – I know that now – by not telling Peter what I was writing. I knew he’d be furious, but I had to be honest, to see if our relationship was based on more than chicken fillet and convenience; to find out if it had the strength to survive something tough. Well, now I know. And even though I’m slightly stunned at how quickly we’ve folded, I’m not surprised.
“Goodbye, Peter,” I say softly. Turning, I force myself to walk at a normal speed to the door. I heave it open then stand in the mews, gulping in air.
With just one word, I’ve chucked away a job, a boyfriend, and a home – my so-called perfect London life, gone in a heartbeat. But the really funny thing?
I don’t think I’ll miss it at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Morning.”
Kirsty’s voice drifts into my consciousness and I crack open an eye, squinting against the brilliant sun slanting into her guest room. Sitting up slowly, the events of yesterday replay in my head and I wince, recalling the hardened expression on Peter’s face when I told him the truth.
I keep waiting for a tsunami of emotions to hit, for a sense of loss to sink in . . . but it just doesn’t. Those months with Peter seem like a life lived by someone else, not me. And I can’t mourn something I don’t feel connected to.
“What are you doing home?” I rub my eyes, trying to focus.
“Called in sick.” Kirsty grins mischievously at me.
“Really?” The old Kirsty would have gone to the office even if she had dengue fever.
Kirsty shrugs. “Yeah. I figured, what’s the point of being labelled a ‘delicate pregnant woman’ if you can’t capitalise on it every once in a while? Anyway, I want to hang out with you today.”
My eyes fill with tears. “Thanks, Kirst.”
I lean back and look at her properly. A faint swell bulges from under her heavy cable-knit sweater, and her eyes are sparkling. I give her a quick hug, pleased to see my friend looking so happy and healthy.
“Shower, get dressed, and we’ll head over to Peter’s. We can grab all your stuff and dump it back here. Then” – Kirsty glances outside, where the sun is almost blinding in the November sky – “I dunno, we’ll get some fresh air. Celebrate your freedom.” She pumps a fist in the air. “Sound good?”
“Yeah. Sounds good.” I slide out of bed and into the shower as Kirsty thumps downstairs.
An hour later, after scrubbing myself senseless and downing some very strong coffee, Kirsty and I are standing in Peter’s flat. It’s strange being back – already, I feel like I’m invading his personal space. Not that it’s much different to how I felt when I was living here, really. It never seemed like my home, too.
My small, battered suitcase rests almost exactly in the middle of the parquet floor. It’s the same one I stuffed full of my favourite clothes when I left Maine for London, eight months ago now. I stare at the garish Feed the Hungry sticker Mom stuck on it, feeling a tiny thread of connection to the person I was before all this began.
“That’s everything?” Kirsty asks in disbelief, eying the tiny suitcase with its jumble of clothing. In my own little rebellion, I’ve left behind my hideous clinic wardrobe for Peter to dispose of.
“That’s it.” God, I can’t believe after several months in London, this is all I have to show for my life here – exactly what I came with. I’m surprisingly okay with that, though.
“Hang on, what’s this?” Kirsty picks up something from the sideboard. “It’s got your name on it, Ser.” She hands me a slim white envelope and I tear it open, fingers trembling. What could it say? Has Peter changed his mind? Maybe he wants me to stay? No matter what’s inside, though, I know we’re not right for each other. We never were, despite my efforts.
“Oh my God.” My hollow laugh bounces off the polished floor as I examine the envelope’s contents.
“What?” Kirsty leans closer.
“It’s a cheque,” I say, still unable to believe my eyes. “A cheque for five thousand pounds” – I scan the accompanying note, written in Peter’s tight, neat script – “to ensure non-disclosure of any event that occurred during my time of employment.” I meet Kirsty’s eyes. “In other words, he’s paying me to keep my mouth shut about the clinic and my connection to Jeremy.” I shake my head. Does Peter really think he needs to give me money to keep quiet? Then, guilt hits full force. Can I blame him? Although I never mean to hurt his business, I did risk his career and livelihood, and all behind his back. No wonder he doesn’t trust me now.
“Well, maybe you should take it,” Kirsty says, shrugging. “God knows, he certainly didn’t pay you enough for working at that awful place.”
I stuff the cheque back in the envelope and prop it up on the sideboard. “No. No way. I can’t start over living on Peter’s money. And taking it feels like admitting I do need a pay-off to keep my mouth closed.”
Kirsty pats my arm. “I understand. Tim and I can loan you whatever you need until you get back on your feet.” Shuddering, she scans the flat. “Now, can we go? Honestly, I don’t know how you managed to live here. It’s like a funeral parlour.”
I can’t help smiling as I glance around. Now that Kirsty’s pointed it out, I notice it does have the still, solemn air of funeral homes.
“Peter loved antiques,” I say, then realise I’ve spoken about him in the past tense. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” I feel like I’m struggling to breathe.
“Bye, Smitty,” I call out to wherever he’s scuttled off to. I’m certainly not going to miss him and his catty ways.
“And goodbye, Peter,” I say under my breath. I look around the room a final time, then close the door.
“I never understood what you saw in him,” Kirsty says as we leave the building and walk to her house, where we dump my suitcase before heading into Regent’s Park. The sky is a deep blue, but the late-November air is freezing and our breath makes clouds. “I never pictured you with a guy like that.”
We stroll in silence for a few minutes as I ponder why I did stick with Peter, despite all the signs that we weren’t a good match. “I guess I thought that’s the kind of man I should be with. You know, to be in a grown-up relationship.”
Kirsty turns to face me. “Rigid and boring?”
“Peter’s not rigid and boring!” I say automatically, then laugh. “Well, okay, he was. He liked everything just so, and he never wanted to do anything but work and watch TV.”
Kirsty raises an eyebrow. “Exactly. I see you with a man who’s down-to-earth. Who can laugh and joke around, and not take himself too seriously. You know, someone like Jeremy.”
My
head swivels toward her at the mention of his name. “Like Jeremy?” What is she talking about?
“I saw how you two acted around each other. He definitely had a thing for you. And I can’t help thinking you might have felt the same way?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I say, quickening my pace. Images of Jeremy’s green eyes and his soft lips drawing ever closer in the kitchen that day fill my mind, and I can feel heat spreading through my cheeks.
Kirsty shrugs. “Just sayin'. But think about this: do you want to hear from him so badly just because you feel guilty, or is it something more?”
The crunch of the gravel fills my ears as we continue down the path, and I turn Kirsty’s words over in my head. I do feel guilty, obviously. I’m desperate for the chance to explain everything.
But I miss Jeremy, too. I miss the easy way we could talk about anything, how I didn’t feel I had to act a certain way or watch that I didn’t say anything stupid. A surge of emotion sweeps over me. I sag onto a nearby bench and look up into Kirsty’s sympathetic face.
“It doesn’t matter how I feel now, does it? After what I’ve done, it’s clear Jeremy doesn’t want to talk to me. Not that I blame him.” I press my hands against my temples, trying to block out memories of Jeremy lying on the bed, so pale, his eyelid sagging and mouth twisting.
Kirsty sits down beside me. “Maybe it’s time to stop beating yourself up over it. I’m not saying forget about him, but I think you’ve tortured yourself enough.”
I stare out at the boating lake, watching a few brave souls manoeuvre across the water. It’s almost noon, but the shadows are long and the sun is low in the frosty sky. The trees are dotted with a few brown leaves clinging to naked branches.
Kirsty’s right: I’ll never be able to forget Jeremy. I’ve made huge errors of judgment, hurting those closest to me, and that’s not something I can shake off easily. But despite the guilt pressing down on me, I need to accept that as sorry as I am for the mistakes of the past, I may never be able to get absolution – let alone anything more. My heart throbs painfully as I picture Jeremy and I laughing together, the warmth of his hand on mine in the busy street . . .
“So what are you going to do now?” Kirsty asks. “You know you can stay with us as long as you need to,” she adds.
“Thanks.” I touch her arm, grateful for such a wonderful friend. “That’s the million dollar question. I just don’t know. All I ever thought about was tabloids. Now that it’s crashed and burned, I have no idea. I mean, I only have an English Lit degree. It’s not like I’ve got experience actually doing anything.”
“Of course you do. You’ve got experience writing for one of Britain’s biggest tabloids,” Kirsty says. “That’s something.”
“There’s no way Leza would give me a reference,” I respond glumly.
Kirsty rolls her eyes. “You’re going to let that bitch stop you? If you explain what happened, it would probably work in your favour.”
“Maybe,” I say. “All I know is I’ve got to figure out what I want to do, and get myself on track – for real this time.” However that’s going to happen.
“Come on.” Kirsty stands, dragging me up with her. “Let’s go back home, have some hot chocolate, and watch Sex and the City reruns.”
I nod and take a deep breath, the cold air burning my lungs.
“Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
November morphs into December, and the days fall into a sort of routine, time marching on toward God knows what end. Kirsty and Tim leave for work before I get up, so the house is empty and silent when I finally do roll out of bed. I’m desperate to move forward – to put time and space between me and the mistakes of the past – but I haven’t the slightest idea what to do with my future.
Nights of battling to shut off my brain, waking up in a cold sweat after operating-room nightmares, and the constant questions hammering inside my head are beginning to take their toll. I look like a woman in need of Botox, fillers, and facelifts all rolled into one.
Every day, I sit like a zombie in front of the computer, scanning job site after job site as listings parade in front of me. Assistant manager, advertising executive, copy editor . . . I’ve read so many advertisements, I can practically quote them in my sleep. Sadly, none of this job immersion therapy is making my future any clearer. Maybe I should try wine therapy, I snort. I probably would, but given the sad state of my finances, I’d only be able to afford a thimble-full. I’m down to the last twenty of my final paycheque Peter mailed through – without a note, or any mention of that five thousand pound pay-off. It’s like I’m a stranger he’s simply dismissed from his life.
I’m just about to raid Kirsty and Tim’s alcohol cabinet when the buzzer sounds. Who the heck is that? It’s twelve on a weekday, and everyone I know is gainfully employed.
Peering through the peep hole, I catch sight of the mailman.
“Hi,” I say, opening the door. I run a hand through my hair, hoping it isn’t sticking up too much – in its overgrown state these days, it seems to have acquired a mind of its own. Serenity v1 has returned full force.
“Package for Serenity Holland,” the mailman says in a bored voice, not even bothering to look at me.
I scrawl my signature on his electronic keypad and take the bulging envelope, smiling as I recognise Mom’s familiar scrawl in her favourite glitter pen. I should have guessed; I gave her this address when I first came to London and, since I never told her about Peter, it’s where she still sends all my mail.
Gripping onto the package, a strange feeling comes over me. I stare down at the return address, and for the first time since settling in London, I actually feel homesick. I’m in no hurry to move back to Maine, but part of me longs for space; for the smell of damp earth and ripe fruit in the greenhouse; and yes, even the ever-present distant mooing of cows. I was in such a hurry to leave, I never stopped to consider I might miss some of it.
Ripping open the envelope, I slide out a sheaf of papers, along with a handwritten note.
Dear Serenity,
I was cleaning out an old storage closet and came across these. I hope you know your father and I will always be behind you, no matter what path you choose. Remember, follow your bliss and the universe will open doors where there were only walls.
Love and miss you,
Mom
I roll my eyes at Mom’s habit of inserting hippie quotes wherever she can. Instead of sloughing it off without a second thought like usual, though, I stare at the words in front of me. Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors where there were only walls. I’m trying! I want to scream. Goddamn it, I’m trying. But I don’t even know what my ‘bliss’ is. Maybe my future lies in Jaffa Cakes? Which reminds me, I haven’t had any for ages . . .
Lifting the incense-scented note, I stare at the stack of yellowed sheets beneath it. The lined paper is dog-eared, and the smell of mildew rises in waves. Squinting, I can barely make out the pencilled letters on the page.
Oh, God. It’s the monthly newspaper I used to put together for the commune alumni, back before I’d ever heard of tabloids. I shake my head, smiling at my eleven-year-old self, as memories of my enthusiasm run through me.
It had been one of those wet, windy afternoons in spring and I’d been bored out of my mind, listening to Mom and her ex-commune buddies drone on and on about the good old days. Without a TV to plonk me down in front of, Mom had pushed a paper and pencil into my hands and suggested I take notes, to keep a record of their memories.
Although it’d sounded suspiciously like an assignment Mrs Tranter had given us the year before, there’d been nothing better to do. I’d grabbed the pencil and started listening, even throwing in some questions of my own. Before I knew it, I’d been interviewing Mom’s friends – and they’d been eager to talk to me. I’d loved the heady sense of power and the feeling that I was a conduit to share their experiences.
I kept up my commune magazine for almost a year befo
re the evil Clarissa mocked me for not knowing about Oprah, sending me straight into the heady sphere of pop culture, celebrity mags, and tabloids.
I lean back on the sofa now, leafing through the pages. How had I forgotten the simple joy of just talking to people? Of learning new things, then putting it all together and sharing? Sure, there’d been an element of that with Beauty Bits, but it had got all distorted and tied up in the quest to make everything as dramatic as possible.
If it bleeds, it leads, I think, my mouth twisting in disgust. My desire to be part of what I thought was a glamorous world overshadowed any joy I used to feel in writing.
Now, I know I don’t need to be part of that world. Even more, I don’t want to be. But it’s not tabloids or broke: there must be thousands of community newspapers and magazines all across London where I could work.
A small current of excitement stirs within me at the thought of reporting again, this time without all the guilt and exploitation. Just being able to write the facts!
Maybe I do know my bliss, after all. I just hope the universe is listening.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Two weeks later, I’m sitting in front of Simon Thetford, executive editor of The British Journal of Continuing Medical Education (try saying that in one breath), as he scans my résumé and portfolio. The office is all done up in various shades of beige, a few wilted potted plants and tattered Christmas decorations providing the only splashes of colour. It’s exactly what I didn’t want, back when my tabloid dreams were alive and kicking. Now, I find the lack of glitz strangely comforting.
It’s been a desperate couple of weeks. I’ve applied for job after job – everything from editorial assistant to writing obituaries – just waiting for the universe to knock down those walls for me. But whoever’s in charge obviously had a build-up of wax, because until now, my appeals have fallen on deaf ears. When Simon Thetford called a few days ago, I practically drooled my gratitude all over the phone.