Her Greatest Mistake

by Sarah Simpson

  Finally, you broke the silence. ‘Why are you dining here? How many times have I told you where to eat in town? The food’s abysmal; why waste your money? My money?’

  I was stunned by your rude outburst. Hardly a polite way to start a conversation and with no introductions. I couldn’t help but feel a lot embarrassed. Remarkably the woman didn’t bat an eyelid. She continued to chew on a piece of meat, eyeballing you. My eyes rolled from her to you. The hoary-haired woman slowly supped from her glass, still observing you, then picked at something lodged in her tooth.

  Eventually she retaliated. ‘Oh, shut up! What is it to you? Your father likes it here.’

  Jesus, the penny dropped. Your parents? Surely not. I’d never have spoken to my parents in this manner, or anyone else. Why did, or how could, you? An unfamiliar expression of vulnerability flashed through your eyes as you twitched. I lurked on the sideline trying to decipher how best to act in such cringeworthy circumstances. Your parents; surely, I needed to make a good impression. Surely, they were intrigued as to who I was?

  I squeezed your hand. Ignoring her remark, you shoved my hand rather gauchely in the direction of their table, in the manner of a sacrificial offering. ‘This is Eve.’ Your father smiled sheepishly in my direction, swiftly turning away before I could return his gesture. Your mother continued to glare, then made a deliberate point of noticing my red shoes. Sniffed, before returning her attention to her plate without so much as a nod. Another wasted smile on my part. I couldn’t give up; they were your parents.

  I offered my hand towards your mother. ‘Hi, lovely to meet you both.’ Another sniff followed. I withdrew my awkwardly dangling hand. ‘Sorry, we’re interrupting your meal. It’s lovely in here, isn’t it, the ambience?’

  She cleared her throat before turning dark eyes to you. A shiver danced down my spine; those eyes, almost black in the subtle lighting. Perfect, that went well. The warmth in my cheeks crept upwards; I was aware that I was beginning to glow. Even better, cheeks to match my shoes. Like a gawky ten-year-old I hovered, fascinated by the obscurity in her eyes. Imploring you to make sense of the situation.

  ‘When did you return home?’ you asked, oblivious to my attempted conversation.

  ‘Last night. Nice of you to ask!’ she snapped.

  ‘Did you do as I asked?’ Ignoring her last gripe.

  ‘Don’t we always do as we’re told?’ she goaded you.

  What were they talking about? Did what?

  Your father didn’t utter a word, continuing to munch at his dish indifferently. It was so odd. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed such a cold parental, maternal occurrence.

  ‘What about the paperwork?’ you persisted.

  ‘At home. Thought maybe you’d come and see us one day. If you have time, that is. Or if you need something, more like,’ she barked.

  Paperwork for what? What had you asked them to do? You’d not mentioned anything. But then you’d not mentioned not getting on with your parents; or your mother, to be more precise.

  ‘Fine. I’ll have someone collect it in the morning. You did actually open it, didn’t you?’

  ‘The paperwork?’

  ‘No. The bank account!’

  What bank account? Where had they been?

  ‘Yes. I just said we did, didn’t I?’

  ‘Good. Remember not to mention this to anyone.’

  ‘Like who? We hardly see anyone any more, do we?’

  You turned to me, smiling warmly. It threw me completely, the smile being so incongruent with the mood of our small gathering. I attempted another pathetic smile at your mother; she turned away, took a swig from her glass, opening conversation with your father. Our cue to leave. You turned away, ushering me out as brusquely as we’d come in. Back on the pavement I allowed the cold air to extinguish the flames encroaching my cheeks as we continued in silence, turning left up Bridge Street. What was that all about? I waited for you to enlighten me, your hand tense in mine. Instead you began to hum, without uttering a word for at least a further five minutes. Were you upset? I wondered. Finally, you found your voice.

  You squeezed my hand. ‘So, where to eat? I’m ravenous, are you?’

  What the hell? Nothing? Nothing to say on the matter?

  ‘Eve?’ You playfully nudged my shoulder with yours. ‘You hungry?’

  ‘What the heck was that all about, Gregg?’

  ‘What?’ You looked genuinely surprised.

  ‘What?’ I asked. ‘That, then, back in there with your parents. Why did you introduce me like that? Why did they behave as they did – or your mum, anyway? And what the hell were you both talking about? I mean, what did you get them to do?’

  ‘Oh, I see. Listen, please don’t take any notice. She’s always the same. Rude. No etiquette whatsoever.’ You shrugged off my horror.

  ‘But you were pretty horrible to her too.’ You ignored me. ‘What have you asked them to do for you? What were you both talking about?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s not important. Forget about it.’ The sound of our out-of-tune footsteps filled the chilly air some moments before you decided to embellish. ‘She visited some properties for me over in Spain, on behalf of a client. He invests in overseas properties. That’s all. I asked her to hand in some documents to his bank. Nothing more. I assumed it would be a pleasant trip for them, with it being an all-expenses-paid jaunt to Spain. But no, nothing makes her happy. Don’t worry about it – she doesn’t understand social conduct. That was normal behaviour for her.’

  Your voice muted in my mind. Did you think the interchange was acceptable, normal or, despite explaining it away, were you perhaps as perturbed as me?

  ‘But—’

  ‘Please, Eve, not tonight. I’ve had some fantastic news today; this is tainting it for me. Please, trust me. Leave it be. She’s not a pleasant person. It’s unfortunate she’s my mother, but so be it. So, for me, can we move on? Please.’

  ‘Perhaps…’

  ‘Believe me. There is no perhaps. Not with her.’

  But why take me to meet them, if you knew how she would react? Knowing she would disregard me? How rude of her. It was more like some weird point-scoring ritual, than a mother-and-son get together.

  You turned me slowly to face you. ‘I am sorry you had to meet my parents at all, if I’m honest. There never would have been a good time. My mother is discourteous, unappreciative and embarrassing. My father is too faint-hearted to do or say anything about it. We rarely speak, ever.’

  I couldn’t even imagine how it had become so bad. My disappointment in you bowed to sorrow, such a sad situation. It didn’t bode well for the future either. I didn’t realise it then, but it would be the last I saw of them. I didn’t realise it then, but they too were tools in your box.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cornwall 2016

  Over time, despite my ever-watchful fight-or-flight response, my memory system very effectively boxed, then filed away, specific experiences. These boxes altered my perspective on both a conscious and subconscious level. They remain intact, undisturbed, until something you do, hear, smell, taste, touch or see triggers the opening.

  I couldn’t sleep last night for tossing and turning, listening for alien sound either outside or in. My eyes were heavy but my mind held me on alert. Then, at the rise of the sun, my mobile alerted me to two missed calls, incoming withheld calls at 03.08 and 03.12. What were you doing up at such an ungodly hour? Were you outside, watching? Did you really think I would pick up, or were you anxious for me to know you were thinking of me, even during sleep? I forgave Jack for his frustrating morning behaviours; I missed him not being with me. I couldn’t run from the house quick enough. Whichever room I was in, whatever I was doing, I could feel you breathing down my neck.

  Now, I draw up outside Lemon Street Clinic and peer down the street. No sign as yet of our overzealous traffic warden. I can’t even use the old one of being on call. He knows who I am; I can’t be on call at my own clinic. I’ve already tried.
I’ve probably about ten minutes of safe time. He’s on the larger size – it will take him a while to climb the street from the market area.

  I burst through the clinic door.

  ‘Hey. What’s the rush? Could have made me jump, if I wasn’t so knackered.’

  ‘Traffic warden, I’m on borrowed time.’

  ‘Running late this morning, by any chance, are we?’ I squeeze past Ruan hovering in Reception and head straight for the filing cabinets.

  ‘Slightly. Been stuck in the roadworks for the last twenty minutes. I wouldn’t mind but as usual the workmen are invisible. I now have…’ I glance at the clinic clock ‘… yep, twenty minutes before my next appointment in Mevagissey. I forgot to take the blasted files home with me last night, didn’t I? All because I switched my briefcase yesterday for a lighter bag, then forgot my usual routine when I left last night, didn’t replenish my stock of files.’

  ‘That’s not like you.’ He smiles. ‘Talk about cutting it fine.’ He rubs tanned hands through his fair waves. ‘Here, let me help. You’re dropping stuff out the middle. I only sorted them for you yesterday. And it took me most of the afternoon.’ He hurries to me as I juggle all the silly open-ended A4 files in search of the only one I need. ‘You’re so going to be late.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I pile his open arms with files. ‘It’s fine. I’ll make it, kind of, so long as I can just find this – oh, where is it? Why is it always the only one missing? I had it out before I left last night.’ I continue to empty the entire contents of the filing cabinet.

  ‘Wait. You mean the one for Milly Sanders?’ Ruan quizzes me.

  ‘Yes. Have you seen it, then?’

  ‘You should’ve said. I’ve got it, haven’t I?’ He graces me with another childlike smile before casually wandering towards my room.

  ‘Jesus, Ruan, are you trying to test me or what?’ I follow him, half relieved, half exasperated. Ruan doesn’t seem to have the words ‘in a hurry’ in his vocabulary. Is this a male thing? Between him and Jack, I’ll end up with tachycardia.

  ‘Hmm, no,’ he utters slowly. ‘You asked me to do some background work on it, remember? You know, the social media stuff.’ His eyebrows rise.

  A horrible sinking feeling – how did I forget this? It was only yesterday. Should I even be allowed out? ‘Oh, God. I did, didn’t I? How did you get on with it? Did you find anything interesting?’

  ‘I’ve printed the relevant stuff off. You were right. Can you believe self-harming has its own clubs and signed-up members, the full monty? When did this become such a big thing? I mean, why would you?’

  ‘It’s complicated. A form of control, punishment, perceived relief, peer pressure. Also, one downside of public awareness: as much as we need to bring issues to people’s attention, sometimes it can promote the condition, desensitise it in another twisted way.’

  ‘There’s literally so many websites, YouTube videos about it.’

  ‘Hmm, somewhere along, it unbelievably became a with-it act, for some. Almost allowing them to feel part of a family. A cult-like membership. Not everyone obviously, but some. Those posting pictures online especially.’

  ‘No shit. How come this stuff doesn’t get taken down from the social media sites? Surely, it’s policed?’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But you’ve seen for yourself. The “how to do it” guides are there for all to see. Exclusive memberships, the lot. Disgusting.’ I flick through the papers. ‘Thanks for looking into it for me. You know, I’m intending on contacting local schools with this. But the problem is, will they want to be involved? I mean, why open up new problems, to stretch the resources even further? Pop it back on my desk, will you? I’ll take a look at it properly tomorrow.’

  ‘Kids are selling and buying drugs and smokes on these sites too, you know?’

  I nod. ‘Yep, prescription drugs, so-called brain-damaging recreational drugs, weed. At the hit of an emoji or a hashtag, I read about it.’

  ‘Yeah. My niece was telling me, someone in her class has been suspended for handling drugs, weed.’ Ruan says. ‘She’s thirteen.’

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t tell you how often I hear these stories. It’s a dangerous world for our teenagers. Suspension is hardly going to help, though, is it?’

  ‘Not really. Only in pushing them further to the dark-side?’

  ‘Exactly. These emojis; there’s a fair amount of research out there about them. Teenagers are using them to communicate emotions, rather than use words. When we look at emojis, the same area of the brain is activated as if we’re looking at a human face.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Nope. So-called social intimacy.’ I say. ‘Helpful sometimes, for those who are struggling alone. But while there are emojis and hashtags – which are just as bad for self-harming, suicide and cyberbullying – we have a problem.’

  ‘A proper problem.’ Ruan adds.

  I nod. ‘Hidden coded languages, hidden dangers away from the eyes of the parents.’

  My next client is Milly; eleven years old, referred for self-harming. I asked Ruan to check out any obvious links between her profile and online networks. I’m receiving frequent requests for help as self-harming and other similar problems become more common at such incredibly young ages. Some of these Internet sites have cult-like followings. Milly is one of the many I’ve seen; she isn’t the youngest. Our previous case opened up an entire chamber of shocking shenanigans being channelled through various social media sites. Girls and boys in their teens and younger, actively scouting for followers as they demonstrated acts of self-harming.

  Ruan moves away from my desk, hovering with something on the tip of his tongue. Looking at me in a fashion I keep noticing just lately. I brace myself.

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I reckon you need a break.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more. Just not possible, I’m afraid.’

  A mock concerned frown creases his face. ‘You should, you know. What is it they say? All work and no play makes Eve a dull girl.’

  ‘Who are they, anyway? I often wonder who these voices of wisdom are, don’t you? So-called experts on our well-being and life, clueless to context. How often do people use these unknown oracles to back up personal arguments? They say…’

  He turns and walks away, wagging his finger at me. ‘Just saying. I’ll make you a coffee to run with,’ he calls over his shoulder.

  I finish putting together all I could possibly need. I could do with a break from my life in general. Perhaps even start again all over. I hear Ruan singing away; what would I do to spend a few weeks in his head? He dallies back with a flask of much-appreciated coffee.

  ‘It’s strong, I hope?’ I ask.

  ‘Yep, three heaped and a bit. I’ll leave it on the window sill next to the front door. By the way…’ he wanders off again ‘… you’ve had a referral come through from the PTSD charity.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ I’m half listening, half concentrating. I really need to get going. Let me think, do I have everything? ‘Can you just check out the window for me, Ruan, make sure our trigger-happy parking man isn’t looming? What kind of a person is a traffic warden? Have you ever wondered? Where did it all go wrong?’

  ‘Nope, you’re okay.’

  ‘One point to me, then, he’s such a miserable guy. But I’d probably be too if everyone hated me for doing my job. Or does he enjoy the power, do you think?’ Definitely the power. Ruan doesn’t oblige me, he’s still muttering about the new referral whilst stretching his neck to see further down the road.

  ‘Where did I put those worksheets? Filing cabinet?’

  ‘Yeah, so this referral, an ex-soldier or something similar. Sounds like he’s in a bad way from what they told me – said they’ll email you the details. He’s been stationed out of the country for the last few years, I think they said, Pakistan, maybe? Retired now, though. I think so anyway. You can’t fathom it, can you?’ he continues.


  ‘What?’ I indulge. I really need to be more organised; this chaos drives me insane. My working memory is so stretched at the moment, stress, the ultimate memory enemy.

  ‘That he’s been out there, protecting us, fighting for his country, gets back and, well… nothing. Absolutely zilch! Dumped to get on with it. And—’ Ruan continues. ‘—I know, it’s outrageous. They’re not offered any support really, our servicemen, expected to simply slip back into normal life. Too many of them are abandoned to deal with PTSD alone. Very sad.’ It is so very wrong.

  ‘Yeah, they mentioned PTSD. He’s not from round here, apparently. He’s from somewhere up-country. Warwickshire, I think it was, and he—’

  ‘Aha, here they are. Right, love you and leave you, sorry, Ruan, got to fly.’ I grab my magnificent hot coffee, push the front door open with my pointy impractical shoes, as always forgetting how heavy and solid it is. I run out onto the street, smiling to myself as I hear Ruan’s voice fade after me.

  ‘Oh, cheerio, Eve, have a great day! You too, Ruan. Oh, thank you, Eve. I much appreciate your interest. Let me—’ he shouts before the door closes, rudely cutting him off mid-flow.

  I precariously pile everything onto the passenger seat. Turn on the Bluetooth, so as to listen to voicemails from this morning as I drive. My car is becoming another version of my office. With each stretched to the maximum minute. But then, it’s best this way, prevents my mind from wandering into dangerous territories. By the time I climbed out of bed this morning, my stomach was already gyrating around the room ahead of me. Vile familiar fluttering. Urging me to remember. You. I jumped out of bed as if it were on fire, busying and distracting myself as quickly as I could. But it never works, trying to push things from the mind; the imagination will not hear of it, insists we keep revisiting. A stretched elastic band, smacking you in the face, the further you attempt to push it away. I appreciate more than most, the only way is to grab it by the neck and deal with it. Reconcile, negotiate, or destroy.

  Before I could stop myself, I texted Jack at his friend’s too.