by Ella Harper
Without stopping to think, Jonas reached out an arm and put some of his energy into swiping everything off the table. Letting out a roar, he watched Connie’s laptop flip over onto the floor. A coffee cup overturn and spill its contents onto the table until it rushed to the edge and ran down the sides. A bowl of fruit go flying, a riot of colour with yellows, greens and oranges spiralling out in different directions, bouncing onto the floor.
It felt good. It was a release. But Jonas wasn’t done. He turned to Connie, who had her hand over her mouth.
‘And what the hell did you organise that damn dinner party for?’ Jonas barked at her. ‘What was the point of it?’
‘T-to get everyone together,’ Connie stammered. She backed away from him. ‘To help you relax.’
‘To help me relax?’ Jonas shouted. ‘How the hell was a dinner party supposed to help me relax?’
Connie started to shake. ‘It was just a bit of fun. A night with friends.’
‘Fun.’ Jonas dropped his head for a second. What was fun about his life? It was all about work and exhaustion and money and targets and pressure. Jonas rubbed his temples. So much pressure.
‘Jonas, please.’ Connie’s voice sounded tremulous. ‘I’m trying to help you. Can’t you see that?’
Help him? How on earth was Connie going to help him? Jonas lifted his head and stared at her. Hated her, just in that moment. Took one step forward and with one swift movement, gave her a sharp backhander. Connie gasped and fell to the floor.
Jonas clenched his fists and felt his chest tighten. God. His hand hurt. What had just happened? He closed his eyes for a second. The tension was leaving his body. Jonas let go. Unfurled his fists. Felt the pressure leave his body like a rush of steam. He re-focused his gaze. Connie was on the floor. There was blood streaming from her nose and smeared across her cheeks and she looked utterly terrified.
‘Connie…’ Jonas reached a hand out, seeing blood on his fingers. ‘What… what…’
‘Stay away from me.’ Connie wiped her face and managed to get herself into a seated position, leaning against the kitchen counter. There was a bruise forming on her cheek and blood smeared across her face.
‘I’m… I’m so…’ Jonas was horrified. He loved Connie. Why on earth had he done that to her? He had been so angry, but he couldn’t even say why. Something about the dinner party? ‘I’m so…’ He couldn’t seem to get the words out.
‘Sorry?’ Connie struggled to her feet, pulling her cardigan around herself.
Protectively? Jonas wondered. God.
As if suddenly remembering the cardigan was Jonas’s, Connie tore it off and threw it on the table. ‘You were sorry last time, Jonas. And the time before that. It didn’t stop you though. Did it?’
Letting out a sob, she ran out of the room. Jonas could hear her feet running up the stairs and then crying in the bedroom above. Oh God. Connie. How could he have done that to her? Again. It was despicable.
And now it was Jonas’s turn to wrap his arms around himself and slide down onto the floor. He couldn’t hate himself more if he tried. He was a monster. He never used to be, but he was now. Jonas let out a desperate sound and put his head in his hands.
Layla
Layla lay back in her office chair, exhausted. She had left Connie’s dinner party at 1am that morning, which was very unlike her. She hardly ever stayed out that late these days as she was too worried about her mum and what might have happened in her absence.
Layla scraped her hair out of her face. She remembered feeling anxious about Jonas when she had left. He had seemed stressed up to the eyeballs, on edge, even. It had worried Layla; she had seen similar signs many times before with patients of hers. That sort of pent up, panic-driven anger usually resulted in extreme behaviour. Violence, in some cases. Layla wasn’t sure Jonas was capable of violence as he was usually pretty amiable, but you never could tell. And surely Connie would have said something if Jonas had ever done anything like that?
One thing Layla had learnt during her time as a therapist was that you could never really tell what was going on behind closed doors. She often had a gut instinct about people or their situations, but equally, she was just as often shocked. Layla made a mental note to gently probe Connie about Jonas. Just in case.
Looking round her office, Layla relaxed for a second. It was such a calm, tranquil space. Walls painted in a pale, comforting shade Farrow & Ball liked to call ‘Lulworth Blue’ (her one indulgence in her business space, but well worth it), the room contained a collection of eclectic furniture procured from friends and second-hand shops. A couple of non-matching, over-stuffed chairs in faded patterns; a sofa with fluffy cushions scattered across it and a glass-topped coffee table she had filled with beach memorabilia; pieces of driftwood from Dorset, where she used to holiday as a child. Cups full of pebbles and shells. And some stylised pieces she had bought online to compliment them. A long-tailed fish fashioned out of silver resin. A miniature wooden fishing boat wheel. A photograph of a beautiful beach that always made her feel uplifted. The desk and office chair were props; Layla only really used them in between clients when she was booking appointments.
‘Layla!’
Layla sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘Yes, Mum?’ she called upstairs.
‘Help me!’
Layla checked her watch. She had a client in twenty minutes. Was that enough time to sort this latest drama? She had no idea. Heading upstairs, she dashed into the kitchen. Her mum, Evelyn, was hunched over the microwave, furiously mixing something in a cup.
‘What’s wrong, Mum?’
Evelyn didn’t turn around. ‘I’m trying to make a cup of tea. Can’t you see that?’
Layla gestured helplessly towards the kettle, which was at the opposite end of the kitchen. Moving closer, she could see that her mum was inexplicably trying to make a cup of tea using the microwave, vast quantities of milk – most of which was slopped all over the counter – and some gravy granules. Her blond hair was dishevelled and she wore a grubby, pink dressing gown with faded roses printed all over it, which somehow lent her a sad air, as though the roses reflected the fact that there seemed to be hardly anything of the person she was left inside.
However much Layla washed the dressing gown, it remained soiled-looking. She had even bought a new, fluffy one with as similar a design as she could find, but it had been summarily rejected. Layla bathed her mother daily and did her hair for her but to no avail; the freshen-up only seemed to work for a few hours.
‘The tea won’t seem to mix properly,’ Evelyn said in a small voice. ‘It’s not doing as it’s told.’
‘That’s OK, Mum. I’m sure we can fix this.’
Layla swallowed. These kinds of incidents had become increasingly common. And they were difficult to handle as any form of correction either seemed to be met with anger or with tears. Resisting the urge to mop up the mess or advise that gravy doesn’t ever make particularly good tea, Layla instead set about making a pot of tea, whilst chatting away about nothing in particular.
‘So Connie and Jonas had a dinner party last night.’
‘Connie and Jonas.’ Evelyn paused for a moment and thought.
‘My university friends,’ Layla explained patiently.
Evelyn let out an impatient sound. ‘I know that. I remember them perfectly well.’
Layla frowned as she poured hot water into a teapot shaped like a hedgehog. Her mum used to collect teapots but most of them had ended up broken as a result of accidents in the kitchen over the past few years.
Layla took two mugs out of the cupboard and sighed. She wasn’t sure her mum remembered Connie and Jonas at all, but she said nothing, because if she challenged her, it would often end in a row. And it wasn’t just the rows. There were some odd personality changes that had become more apparent recently. Over-eating. Like, full on gluttony, which was most unusual for her. Seeming selfish and pre-occupied – again, not the way her mum had ever been. Problems with speech and memory. Neglect
ing her personal hygiene.
It was that last one that was the most surprising, Layla mused as she stopped making tea for a moment. She glanced at her mum. She had always been such a glamorous lady. Her hair was always coiffed (often rigid with hairspray, but still stylish, if overly-set), make-up in place, a full set of costume jewellery on. Her clothes had always been surprisingly bright, outrageous even. Evelyn hadn’t been a woman who shied away from a leopard print on Christmas Day if she was in the mood.
And Layla had loved that about her. And now… now, it was as though all of her mum’s personality had disappeared. As if all those nuances that made her special had evaporated and been replaced with bizarre, unpleasant characteristics which had tuned an independent, vibrant woman into a heavily reliant, child-like person missing most of her previous character and style.
‘What’s wrong with you, Mum?’ Layla blurted out suddenly.
‘Wrong with me?’ Evelyn looked up, but her eyes were vacant.
‘Sorry.’ Layla finished making the tea. ‘Ignore me, Mum.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’ Evelyn’s voice cracked slightly. ‘Why would you say that?’
Layla swallowed. ‘I didn’t mean to. You’re fine. Here, drink your tea.’
Evelyn looked at the microwave. ‘I made some tea. Where is it?’
‘It’s here,’ Layla said gently, putting the mug down on the table. ‘Let’s sit together.’
‘OK.’ Evelyn sat obediently, but ignored her tea. She looked around her suddenly. ‘Where are we? Where are we, Layla?’
Layla wrapped her hands around her mug and felt tears pricking at her eyelids. ‘We’re at home, Mum. I mean, at my home. My house in Wimbledon.’
‘Wimbledon,’ Evelyn repeated, as if she was saying the word for the first time. ‘Wimbledon.’ She laughed. ‘Wombles.’
Layla let out a laugh. ‘Wombles, yes.’ The Wombles of Wimbledon. That annoying song from years ago. How on earth could she remember that and not be able to make a cup of tea, Layla thought despairingly? Surely that was an easier thing to remember? Something she’d been doing for years and years. Putting the kettle on, putting teabags in cups or a teapot. But no. The Wombles.
It was dementia; it had to be. Layla had been reading up on it, but her mum had a few unusual symptoms that didn’t quite fit the profile. Her phone buzzed and she checked it wearily. It was a guy she’d been chatting to on a dating site. He’d sent what everybody now seemed to call a dick pic. A photo of his penis laid out on a glass coffee table. Because presumably, he’d thought that was an extremely sexy image – a penis on a coffee table. Layla shook her head in wonder. And glanced down at her phone as a request for a nude photo in return popped up. Naturally.
God. This whole dating game was utterly soul-destroying.
‘What’s that?’ Evelyn frowned and leant forward.
‘Er, nothing.’ Layla tucked her phone away. But it immediately made a noise again, this time, with an alarm she’d set to signal that her next client was due. ‘Mum, I need to go back to work,’ she said.
Evelyn nodded, then went to pick her cup of tea up. And promptly knocked it all over the table.
‘Jesus!’
Layla jumped up as hot tea ran across the table. Grabbing a tea towel, she threw it onto the puddle of tea and watched as the liquid soaked into it and darkened the fabric. Furious, but expecting a tirade of tears, Layla rushed to soften her facial expression. This wasn’t her mum – not who she really was, at any rate. There was something wrong with her and it wasn’t her fault that she had become super-clumsy. It was out of character and she was bound to be upset.
‘What are you making such a fuss about?’ Evelyn said, standing up. She shrugged and pointed to the mess. ‘It’s only coffee.’
Layla stared at her mother. What on earth was wrong with her? It was as though she wasn’t even capable of sympathy or empathy these days.
Evelyn gave her a bright smile and walked off.
Layla could feel pressure mounting inside her. She had a client about to walk through the door at any second, wanting to spend the next hour off-loading about all their inner struggles, and they were paying her for the privilege. The kitchen was a mess and she wouldn’t be able to clean it up until later. Her mum had God-alone-knew what was wrong with her and Layla had no idea how to tackle the issue.
And she felt incredibly alone. Surely this would all be easier if she had a partner to lean on? But how was she supposed to find a boyfriend when all she ever received were dick pics from ugly strangers because she didn’t have time to go to bars and meet a normal guy?
Layla clutched her hair, impotent rage bubbling to the surface. She could hear her mum running herself a bath across the landing. Which she would presumably forget about and which would need to be let out, otherwise it would overflow and water would come gushing through the ceiling into her office.
Looking at the floor, Layla realised that the bottoms of her trousers were soaking wet as the tea towel hadn’t proved adequate and tea had dribbled down the side of the table.
‘And it’s not coffee; it’s fucking TEA!’ she suddenly yelled. She gripped the edge of the wet table and wondered what the hell to do about her life.
JJ
‘And give me another eight, seven, six…’
JJ watched his client, David, attempt another set of squats. David was a wealthy, middle-aged estate agent who worked hard at his job, but not so hard at his work outs. JJ would go as far as to describe David as lazy, because every exercise move, with or without equipment, was an effort. It took JJ twice as long to instruct David as it did his other clients because he had to repeat instructions and really push him.
JJ shrugged. All part of the job. Some clients were easier than others. JJ wasn’t sure why David paid him so much to train him four times a week when he clearly didn’t enjoy it, but that wasn’t for him to worry about. The bonus aspect about training David was that he preferred the one-to-ones to be conducted at his house rather than at a gym, and David had a stunning home. It was ostentatious, a mish-mash of styles and looks, but it had something. JJ enjoyed working out in the light, airy gym David had had installed or in the heavily landscaped gardens when the weather was good. It was raining heavily today so they were ensconced in a gym the size of most people’s sitting rooms, with most of the usual machines and an array of equipment JJ knew only got used when he turned up.
‘So. How was your weekend?’
David was also a prolific talker. Partly because he was an estate agent and therefore automatically seemed to have the gift of the gab, but also because David attempted to distract JJ whenever he got the chance in the hope that he would forget about lunges and squats.
JJ smiled. ‘It was good. I went to a dinner party.’
‘A dinner party indeed.’ David straightened up, tugging at his too-tight t-shirt. ‘Sounds posh.’
‘Not really. I turned up late and missed most of the food. Which was superb, so I’m the idiot there.’
David’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah! Well, knowing you, that was because you had better things to do.’ He tapped the side of his nose knowingly.
JJ sighed. He never talked about his personal life; he was discretion itself, but he supposed his reputation must precede him. For many guys, that would probably mean huge kudos, but JJ couldn’t help feeling embarrassed about his lifestyle of late. Actually, not just of late.
‘I do envy you,’ David said, eyeing JJ ruefully. ‘I mean, I’m happily married and all that, but those were the days, right?’
‘Let’s get back to the squats. Like you’re sitting down in a chair. Eight, seven…’
JJ went into auto pilot. It was weird. Admittedly, back in the day, he would have seen his frequent conquests as something to boast about. Not to women, of course, but at the pub with the boys, maybe. And only because it was the done thing, not because JJ particularly thought of it that way. But he couldn’t help feeling increasingly jaded recently. Over it, even. Not remot
ely excited by the thought of meeting a new girl every other night – not the variety, not the freedom, not any of it. When David had mentioned being happily married, JJ had actually felt a pang of envy.
‘OK, I need a rest,’ David said, bending over as he panted heavily.
JJ took pity on him and handed him his water.
‘So go on.’ David took a slurp of water. ‘Tell me about the dinner party, if nothing else.’
JJ leant against the wall for a moment and shrugged. ‘It was a dinner party hosted by old uni friends. A married couple. And our friend Layla came as well.’
‘Layla.’ David’s mind was clearly working overtime. ‘Is she… just a friend?’
‘Absolutely,’ JJ said firmly. ‘Lovely girl. But not for me. More like my sister or something.’ He was worried about Layla actually. She seemed so uptight lately. JJ wasn’t sure if it was her mother’s health playing on her mind or perhaps the fact that she was still single after all these years, but something wasn’t sitting right.
David looked disappointed. ‘Ah, one of those. So, the couple. Happily married?’
JJ considered this. Were Connie and Jonas happily married? He wasn’t sure. He had always thought so, but there had been something… almost wistful about her manner the other night. She had looked beautiful, but maybe a little strained? Of course, JJ might have imagined that. Jonas had got exceptionally drunk, as well, but Connie had said he was stressed at work, so the heavy drinking was easily explained away with that.
‘I think so,’ he answered eventually. ‘It’s difficult to tell, though.’
David nodded sagely. ‘God yes. One of the happiest couples I knew were falling apart for around ten years before they both had affairs and split up. I was honestly shocked as I thought they were going to out-last everyone.’ He glanced at JJ as he downed more water. ‘Do you think you’ll ever get married? Or are you one of those eternal bachelors?’
JJ winced. He hated that expression. And he was hardly a bachelor. Or if he was, he wasn’t a bachelor by choice. He would give anything not to be in this situation, but that was just the way it had panned out. No point getting all depressed about it so many years down the line.