‘I work for an estate agency,’ I say, starting with the easy question. I swallow, not knowing what to say next. Hannah looks at me, her eyebrows raised slightly.
‘And my husband . . . well, he’s . . . he’s away a lot too.’
‘What did you tell her that for?’ Hannah says.
‘You honestly want me to explain everything to a stranger?’ I dig my fork into a piece of squid, shooting it on to the tablecloth. I pick it up with my fingers. ‘I can’t go over the story with everyone I meet. It feels as if there’s a knife in my side.’
‘Sorry, Mum,’ Hannah replies. ‘It’s just that lying doesn’t feel . . .’
‘Feel what?’
‘Nothing.’ She looks away. ‘How’s your starter?’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Yours?’
She nods. Hannah and I rarely argue or differ too vastly in our opinions, but when we do, it cuts deep. Some teens choose to drip-feed an ongoing stream of mild to medium hassle and obnoxiousness to their parents, but with Hannah, it’s tended to come in short, hard bursts perhaps several times a year.
Some episodes are understandable, of course, such as the fallout from losing her brother. Piercings, alcohol, inappropriate boyfriends and staying out until all hours of the night followed in the months after the immediate grief, but once she’d got it out of her system, the Hannah we knew, loved and had carefully brought up returned pretty much the same – the same but for the hole in her heart. We all had one of those.
After our main course comes, after I’ve pushed my food around the plate and forced down a couple of mouthfuls, we decide to have coffee in the lounge. There are two leather wing-backed chairs beside a fire – necessary this evening as a chill has swept in with nightfall – and I take the remaining half of my bottle of wine with me. I’m feeling mellow now, finally in control of my thoughts. Paula would be proud of me, I think, sitting down a bit too unsteadily.
‘Who’s Paula?’ Hannah asks, ordering a peppermint tea as the waitress passes. ‘And why would she be proud of you?’
That’s how caught up in myself I’ve become – not knowing when thoughts actually turn into words.
‘Just someone new at work,’ I say. I pour another glass of wine. ‘I was thinking out loud.’
Hannah doesn’t know I’m seeing Paula. I decided to keep it private, not wanting her to think I’m weak, needing someone to stitch up my seams as fast as they’re coming apart.
I dislike the deception, though. If Rick were here, I know I wouldn’t be feeling like this – my brain syrupy from the wine, my nerves raw and firing all the wrong messages. We’d have shared the bottle between us, made it last until well after midnight, and I’d never have had those drinks earlier. I don’t like who I’m becoming; don’t like the steps I’m taking to survive.
‘Tell me something good,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood. ‘What’s the gossip at uni?’
It’s what I often used to say when she was younger, bursting in through the front door after school, filled with a day’s worth of news and a stomachful of hunger. Once she’d grabbed a drink and some toast or biscuits, she’d proceed to fill me in on the latest goings-on. Who was seeing who, who’d fallen out or broken up, who’d just failed what test, who’d got into trouble. Once there was a scandal about a teacher having an affair with a pupil, and another time a fifteen-year-old girl got pregnant and left school.
They were other people’s stories, other people’s lives. How I long for their simple misfortune now, when in reality I know they’re all discussing mine.
Hannah shrugs in reply.
‘Are you seeing anyone special?’ I’m pushing it, I realise, but they’re just words to fill a gap – a gap that could so easily be plugged with my misery.
‘Mu-um . . .’
‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’ I have a sip of wine, watching the fire. ‘How’s the actual course going? Are you keeping up with the work OK?’
Hannah nods. She shifts uncomfortably in her chair, tucking one leg beneath her. I suddenly realise how tired she looks. If I wasn’t so wrapped up in myself, I’d have noticed sooner.
‘It’s going fine,’ she says. ‘It’s interesting and the tutors are good.’
My awkward questioning, as if she’s just someone I’ve met in a waiting room, is interrupted by her tea arriving – delivered by Susan. And this time instead of hovering beside us, she sits on a little wooden stool next to Hannah.
‘That’s a lovely top,’ she says, after asking how our dinner was. She reaches out to touch it. ‘Such gorgeous fabric.’
Hannah’s recoils, but then she checks herself and smiles, sitting up straight and pulling her baggy cardigan around herself. ‘It’s from a market near where I stay in term time,’ she says. ‘It was cheap.’
‘I love ethnic prints. And it looks so comfy to wear.’
Baggy, I think, immediately feeling bad. Hannah’s always been sensitive and if she feels she’s put on a few pounds, she usually counters this by hiding away under loose clothing. There’s absolutely no need, though; as I’ve always told her, she’s not much more than a stick.
‘It helps hide all the rubbish Mum thinks I eat at university,’ Hannah replies, giving me a playful look. It’s as though Susan’s presence has reanimated her.
‘Where are you studying?’ Susan asks.
‘University of Warwick,’ Hannah replies.
Susan leans forward and her face breaks into a broad smile. ‘You’re kidding!’ She pauses, bringing her hands together. ‘That’s where my son studies. What course are you doing?’
‘History of art,’ Hannah says quietly, picking at her nails.
‘Very nice,’ Susan replies, before shooting me a look. ‘What a small, small world it is.’
No it’s not, I think, praying the words haven’t actually come out this time.
If it was, I’d have found Rick.
Hannah
The robe is thick and fluffy and I fully intend to sleep in it, to wrap myself up in it until I feel soothed, shrouded, invisible. Mum does a double take when I come out of the bathroom looking pupa-like and furtive. My mouth tingles with toothpaste and my skin feels raw and spotty from the breakout I’ve had these last few weeks, plus my tummy is queasy from dinner.
‘Didn’t you bring that pretty nightdress I washed for you?’ she asks.
‘I have it on underneath, but I’m freezing. I like to be warm at night.’ It’s a lie and I fake a shiver. I just don’t want her to see me in that silly nightie. I climb into bed and pull the duvet up to my neck.
Mum shrugs before climbing into bed herself. She turns off the main light and flicks on her bedside lamp. My head falls back into the cloud-soft pillows, but I won’t sleep. Most nights I lie awake going over and over all my problems until they fade into an hour or two’s fitful, sweaty dozing at dawn. During the day, I pray for patches of respite – perhaps an interesting lecture distracting me, or lunch in the park with a friend helping me forget for an hour or so.
Tonight, when Mum asked about my university work, I came close to telling her that I’ve failed to hand in the last three assignments, and that I haven’t been to a single lecture for nearly two months. But I couldn’t find it in me to disappoint her. Not with all the other stuff she’s got going on. If she knew that I’ve been summoned for a meeting with the department head when I go back after Easter, she’d be devastated. We both know what it means, that if I don’t pass the end-of-year exams, I’ll be kicked out and looking for a job. But no one will want to employ me anyway, not after everything.
I wake suddenly, sucking in breath as if someone is smothering me. My palms slam down on the duvet, and my head whips up. I look over at Mum. She’s lying on her side, facing away from me. I check my phone – 3.17 a.m. The screen has a crack across the middle. I swipe my finger over the fine line in the glass, the irony of it cutting right through me even in my drowsy state.
If I hadn’t seen that other phone, if I hadn’t bent down to pick
it up, then mine wouldn’t have fallen out of my shirt pocket – a slow-motion tumble before it hit the concrete.
Fracturing my life into two clear parts.
I didn’t realise at the time, but things would never be the same again. It was a clear divide. The fine line between then and now. And I wouldn’t be lying awake at night drenched in sweat and fear, Dad would still be here, and Mum would be the carefree, happy, confident woman she once was.
I know I shan’t get back to sleep now. Instead, I gaze at the picture on the wall opposite, trying to make out what it is in the dim moonlight, hoping it will send me back to sleep. But all I see is a figure being hurt, tormented and in pain, and someone crying, lost for ever. I’m not sure if it’s Jacob or Dad. Or me.
If it wasn’t for finding that other phone, I’d never have met him.
‘Wait up!’ I’d called out to Karen. She was one of my new flatmates, and I could tell she was one of those lucky few who fitted in straight away – an effortless stride into her new life at university.
She moved around campus with a sassy swing and a clutch of textbooks. She’d got everything fresher-perfect, right down to the vintage leather satchel she wore across her body, as well as figuring out the tangle of signing up for modules within hours of arriving.
Me, on the other hand, I’d started uni life tentatively, unpacking my things into my tiny bedroom in the shared flat, and picking my way cautiously through the minefield of events, activities and new people I was faced with. I was apologetic and cautious, feeling as if I’d been dumped inside a tumble dryer. Even so, I reckoned I was going to love it.
‘Hold on, Karen!’ I called out a second time, but she didn’t wait or even turn round.
I watched her go – the campus map I’d lent her because she’d lost hers still in her hand. I had no idea how to find the building we were heading to. She disappeared into the throng in her floral tea dress and bright green Mary Janes, leaving me alone in my grey sweats and trainers, mid-hangover from my first night away from home. It was then I realised I’d said her name wrong.
‘It’s Kar-en. As in car,’ she’d told us when the six of us introduced ourselves in the halls of residence flat after our parents had finally gone. The nameplate on her door looked like plain old Karen to me. ‘I won’t answer to anything else.’ The others seemed to hang on her every word, but I wasn’t so sure, especially when she strode off to the Freshers’ Fair without me.
It was shortly afterwards, when I’d despaired of spotting my flatmate, that I noticed the phone on the ground, the screen glinting in the afternoon sun. I glanced down at it quickly, before looking around for her again, standing on tiptoe. But someone had lost their phone and I wanted to help. Though without Karen and the map, I was a bit lost too.
I bent down, pushing my fingers down behind the waste bin and bench, plucking the phone from amongst the weeds and litter. It was then that my phone fell from my pocket, smashing on the ground. I picked them both up, cursing, noticing that the battery of the other phone was dead. Whoever it belonged to had probably sat on the bench and it had fallen out of their pocket. Fortunately, it had been sheltered from the recent rain by the smokers’ canopy above.
I was near the entrance to one of the other residential halls, not too far from mine, but that meant I couldn’t get inside and I didn’t know anyone in the building to ask. I would just have to take the phone to the lost property office, wherever that was.
I looked at the time. It was getting late to register for the events I wanted to go to. All the best tickets would be gone soon, and missing the ball next week was unthinkable. Everyone was going. It occurred to me that Karen might think to register on my behalf as she did the rounds, but then I decided she wouldn’t. Karen had one thing on her mind, and that was Karen.
I slipped the lost phone into my backpack and hurried on. If I’d known the true weight of the mystery the little device held, if I’d known the impact my good intentions had set in motion, I’d have thrown it into the nearest river and never looked back.
When I wake I panic, wondering where I am, not knowing what day it is, let alone whose bedroom I’m in. To my left I see an empty bed – the white sheets rumpled around the indentation of sleep.
Mum, I remember, sitting up. The hotel.
My head throbs, though I don’t know why. I feel groggy and queasy, making me wonder if I’m going down with a bug as well as everything else.
‘Mum?’ I call out, wondering if she’s in the bathroom. But she doesn’t reply.
The bedroom door suddenly opens, and I whip the duvet up under my chin.
‘Ah, the sleepyhead awakes!’ Mum says brightly. She’s wearing her tracksuit and her hair is wet. I smell chlorine on her as she bends down, giving me a kiss on the head.
‘I went for an early swim,’ she says, lifting the kettle from the tray on the side table. She goes into the bathroom and fills it. What her early swim tells me is that she couldn’t sleep either, that although I finally drifted off around 5 a.m., Mum no doubt lay awake most of the night, watching it get light. At one point I heard her whimper, perhaps a stifled sob.
‘The pool was empty,’ she says, faking a smile. ‘And the water was nice. You should go in.’
The thought of putting on a swimsuit fills me with dread. ‘Maybe,’ I reply, knowing I won’t.
‘Great,’ Mum says. She swipes a towel from the bathroom, rubbing vigorously at her hair. ‘We’ll go after our massages later, and have a sauna afterwards.’ She pulls back the curtains, making me screw up my eyes. I flop back down on to the pillow.
‘Massages?’ There are flashing lights behind my eyes. Within seconds they’ve turned into angry red dots.
‘A full-body massage,’ she says. ‘One whole hour of bliss and relaxation.’
Then comes the predictable sigh as Mum remembers how Dad booked this break for them; how, if everything were different, they’d be lying on the couches side by side, feeling their stresses melt away, reaching out, fingertips touching. Then they’d maybe take a walk or just enjoy each other’s company, doing what couples do. But instead, Mum has got me. All because of that phone.
‘I don’t want the massage.’ I fling back the covers. Cooper heaves himself from his bed when he sees me rise. ‘I’ll take him outside,’ I say, going into the bathroom and pulling on my tracksuit. When I come out, I hide my face from Mum. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the weekend without her finding out.
Hannah
Mum doesn’t know that I went to see the university counsellor. What a freak. What a failure. What a fucked-up waste of space I am. We walk through the lobby and I pull Cooper back as he strains at his lead. He’s keen to get out.
But after everything that had happened – was happening – I didn’t know where else to turn. Of course, I couldn’t and didn’t tell the counsellor everything anyway – that would be suicide. Which, by the way, was my only other option.
There were posters up everywhere around campus for the free sessions at the Well-Being Centre. In fact, there were posters covering every eventuality in life dotted around the place, making me wonder if all these things were going to happen to me during the next three years. Everything from drugs counselling to coming out as gay, fighting sexual harassment and dealing with STDs. By this time, actual studying couldn’t have been further from my mind, and I’d already fallen way behind.
After thinking about it for days, I finally approached the counselling service, nervous and tentative, unsure which bit of the knot of my life I wanted to untangle first. Just that I needed to do something. My first appointment fell on a Saturday morning, towards the start of the Easter term a few weeks ago.
His name was Gary and he seemed very young, making me uncertain if he could help. I wondered if it was tactical, employing someone who the students could relate to. He was good-looking, in a reserved kind of way. Nothing about him particularly stood out, yet the impression he gave was calming and safe, making me feel not quite so
daunted about sitting down opposite him.
‘Hannah,’ he said, smiling briefly. ‘How may I help you today?’ He uncrossed his legs and leaned back. He was trying to be all casual and hip. I felt uptight and ashamed.
My mouth opened. I tried to speak, but my voice wouldn’t work.
I tried again. Despite his kind manner, the safe environment, nothing came out.
I cleared my throat. Still nothing.
‘Would you like some water?’ Gary said.
Over the next fifteen minutes I drank about a pint, but still I couldn’t form any words. In the end he handed me a pad and pen. My cheeks were on fire. Was this it? I’d never be able to speak again?
I tried to imagine myself talking to my flatmates when I got back, chatting with Karen about the tutor she has a major crush on, discussing vegan food with Ant in the kitchen as he dissected his vegetables, or even just calling Mum for a quick catch-up. I didn’t think I’d have a problem with any of that; reckoned my voice would start working again as soon as I walked out of this building.
Sorry, I wrote, and turned the pad round to face Gary.
‘Not a problem,’ he said kindly. ‘It happens.’
I smiled awkwardly and took back the paper. For the next half-hour, I jotted down the essence of why I’d come to see him. A couple of times I had to scribble bits out, and I mean really cross them out so they were completely illegible. Meanwhile, Gary busied himself at his computer, leaving the room a couple of times while I spewed out my words – my confession. Because that’s what it felt like.
I focused on my fingers while Gary read through my notes. It didn’t take him long.
Afterwards, he looked up at me, removing his glasses. There was a greasy red line across the bridge of his nose.
Then, in a panic, I reached out and took the pad back. Quickly, I wrote, Is this confidential? I passed it back, waiting for his response.
In Too Deep Page 8