Losing It

by Jane Asher

  ‘Charlie, don’t be ridiculous. Are you annoyed because I took it out of the bag before I was meant to see it? Look – here’s the envelope: it’s a gorgeous subtle pink that goes beautifully with this wonderfully tasteful card. Now, for God’s sake, put it in the envelope, stick it up and give it to me later or whatever you were going to do. Let’s start again. I won’t interfere and I won’t criticise your choice, OK?’

  Dad shut his eyes for a second and swayed a bit – I almost thought he was going to fall over. But he opened them again, sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said. ‘I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. It’s nothing to do with you, and I apologise.’

  Judy

  And then Charlie walked out of the kitchen and shut himself in the little box room we call his study. He really is behaving most oddly – I wonder if he’s going through some sort of male menopause, or whatever they call it. I took the get well card up to the bedroom, because I was embarrassed to let Ben see that I was about to cry, and put it on my dressing table.

  Once it was there, standing open on the glass surface, it suddenly looked unbearably pretty and touching. I sat on the stool and gazed at it. It wasn’t odd of Charlie at all to behave the way he did, I thought – why had I been so dismissive and cynical about such a thoughtful gesture? Sometimes I feel sick of myself, I really do. It’s all very well putting on my smart little business suits and collecting my papers together and going round all these schools with my teams and so on, but I’m never sure what gives me the right to judge anyone, let alone write reports on them. It’s all an act, the way I look as if I know what I’m doing. I’m sure that’s partly the cause of my – what shall I call it? – my headaches. Why not? I’ve called it that for so long now I’m almost beginning to believe it.

  I remember my mother saying something many years ago about never feeling grown-up. It shocked me deeply and left me feeling very insecure. ‘You think I know what I’m doing,’ she said, after I’d been particularly cheeky to her and she was letting me out of my room after half an hour’s banishment. ‘I don’t, you see, Judy. I feel exactly the same as I did when I was your age – it’s just that I’ve learnt to pretend I have a kind of authority. If you push me too far you’ll find there’s really nothing there for you to lean on, and you won’t like that, will you?’ I couldn’t understand it at the time: she’d always been my rock, and, together with my father, had surrounded me with a cushion of certainty about the world. I definitely didn’t like the idea that my cushion might just collapse if I put too much pressure on it. Very unnerving, and really quite hard to take in.

  Now I know exactly what she was trying to say. If I look into myself too deeply I find a frightened little girl, and it’s only by keeping firmly on the surface and relying on the practicalities of life to float me along, so to speak, that I can appear to all around me to bear any real responsibility. Sometimes I think Sally can see this perfectly well: she is a very canny child – always has been – and, whereas Ben has always been my baby, Sally often seems more like an equal.

  At that moment, though, as I looked at the pink roses on the card, I felt about six. He’s such a dear, my Charlie, I thought. Just a little boy himself, really, for all his high-powered job and greying hair. I must take more care of him. It’s all very well looking after all the practical things – and thank God I do, at least as far as finances go, because otherwise he’d – but I shook my head hard and managed to snap my mind away from that – quite enough on my plate without delving into all that just now, I thought – but I must be more careful with the other side: emotions and all that. I know how bossy I get some of the time, and how briskly sharp. I’ve got to stop it.

  I looked into the dressing-table mirror and reached for a stick of blusher and a lipstick. I laughed to myself as I realised I was doing exactly what I tend to sneer at nowadays: prettying myself up to keep my man happy. Never mind, I thought, it’s not just that, is it? It’s more about your own self-esteem and confidence, isn’t it? Well – sort of, anyway. With a bit of the other as well. ‘You’ve come a long way, baby,’ I whispered to my reflection as I leant forward and inspected the lip colour, ‘but not quite far enough to give up worrying about looking reasonable for your husband. Well – too bad.’ I felt almost skittish as I turned my head this way and that and practised a couple of smiles. I reached for one of the perfume bottles and sprayed a bit under my chin and onto my wrists – I hadn’t bothered to wear it for a while and it smelt surprisingly strong, so I tried to wipe some of it off with a tissue, then stood up and took a quick look at myself in the full-length mirror on the door of the wardrobe. Boring, I thought. The brown skirt and sensible blouse and jumper were extremely dull. Right.

  I was quite enjoying this. Maybe the card fiasco had been a good thing: a little jolt at the way I took my family life for granted. I opened the wardrobe door and quickly shunted the hangers to and fro in search of inspiration. The navy skirt – that was more like it. A better fit and slightly shorter. Plus my white polo neck, if it was clean. I looked at my watch and thought about putting the baked potatoes in – plenty of time to change first.

  I felt really quite pretty by the time I came downstairs. Ben was still sitting at the kitchen table, and the crumbed plate next to his books reminded me that I never did finish the sandwich I was making him. He glanced up as I came in. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, ‘you look nice.’

  ‘Thanks, darling,’ I said, ‘just thought I’d freshen up a bit. Sorry about the card stuff before, I –’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Mum. Forget it. Dad’s out, by the way.’

  ‘Out? Where?’

  ‘Dunno. He didn’t say. He came out of his study and went straight out, soon after you went upstairs.’

  I tried not to show that this had, quite unexpectedly, taken me aback. I suppose I’d imagined a loving reconciliation after the little tiff over the card, with Charlie teasing me about my change of outfit and giving me one of his dry kisses. I felt suddenly rather foolish in my smart clothes and lipsticked face. The perfume, too, still smelt far too strong, and I was aware that Ben must be smelling it too.

  ‘Oh, right. He didn’t say when he’d be back, then? I mean, I assume he’s in for supper?’

  Ben didn’t answer, and I stood there not quite sure what to do. I knew I ought to put the potatoes in and then go and work on my reports, but I just hadn’t got the heart. I was worried about Charlie and wanted to know where he was.

  ‘Ben, I’m just popping out for a few secs, won’t be long.’

  ‘OK, Ma.’

  He didn’t look up, bless him, or comment on the fact that I never normally ‘popped out’ for no good reason in the late afternoon. I gave him a little squeeze on the shoulder, collected my coat from the hall and left.

  I didn’t have a clue what I was doing or where I was going to go: I just knew that I couldn’t stay in the house for the next hour or so. Ridiculous – I was behaving like a teenager let down by a boyfriend. I had that panicky ache in the pit of the stomach that propels you to chase after someone who’d probably far rather be left alone.

  I turned into Victoria Street and the wind hit me in the face. It had a deep chill to it and I shivered and tilted my head up to check for any sign of rain. It was dry, but the sky was already dark and my breath was steaming. Might even be a white Christmas, I thought. Only three weeks to go. I really must finish off my shopping.

  It was then I saw him. Standing still just a few yards along the street from me, his hands in his pockets and his coat collar turned up, looking into a shop window and frowning slightly, apparently deep in thought. So – you were almost home again anyway, I thought. Good. I’m obviously overreacting to our little row and you came out to stretch your legs and now you’re on your way back. I decided not to say anything, but to go home and wait for him, with luck not having to let on how childish I’d been. I watched him fondly – it’s not often you get the chance to really look at your own husband
without his knowing, except when he’s asleep, of course, and that doesn’t count. I’ve never thought he looks like himself when he’s asleep, anyway – far from the peacefully angelic faces of the children when they were young, Charlie, at least once he was over thirty or so, always seemed to me to move out of his face and leave an unfamiliar shell behind once he was snoozing. He sleeps with his mouth and eyes both slightly open and his hair strewn wildly on the pillow, looking like an uninhabited, dilapidated house. His essence doesn’t seem to live there any more until he wakes in the morning and, as he stretches and squirms, it seeps back in and his face looks like Charlie again.

  But the man I quietly observed in Victoria Street was undoubtedly and completely my husband. I knew he’d be considering his work as he stood there unmoving: when he was halfway through a case, as he was then, he regularly got that look of abstraction in his eyes, and the family knew not to attempt any communication until the moment had passed. Another reason, I realised, for me to have been more patient over his odd reaction to the card – his case was obviously not going too well and he was touchy.

  He moved and shrugged his shoulders a little (I’m sure he was giving a sigh, but I couldn’t hear above the traffic) and began to turn away, not towards me but in the opposite direction. I forgot my resolution to go back home undiscovered and called his name out loud. He didn’t seem to hear and I walked quickly towards him and called again: ‘Charlie!’ I saw now that he was carrying something, and I felt a slight unease. If he’d just gone out to stroll around a bit and collect his thoughts, why had he brought something with him? And why was he continuing to walk away from home? He must have been gone at least three quarters of an hour, while I was fussing and preening myself in the bedroom, and he couldn’t possibly have got only this far in that time. So where had he been before, if he was still walking in the opposite direction to the house?

  As I caught up with him I put a hand on his arm and he turned towards me wearing the most extraordinary expression. I can only say it seemed full of – what? – hope, I suppose. But hope in such an exaggerated form that he looked more like a drowning man spotting a life belt than someone being greeted by his wife.

  But the look didn’t last long, and was quickly replaced by one of resignation, almost anger. ‘Judy,’ he said, ‘what in Christ’s name are you doing here?’ The tone was so unfamiliar it quite shocked me. He was about to say something else, but obviously changed his mind and looked away from me.

  ‘Charlie, what’s the matter? What are you doing?’ I asked, feeling anxious again. ‘I only came out because I felt miserable after our stupid little row and when Ben said you’d gone out I just wanted to see if I could find you and say sorry. I know it was stupid, and I never really dreamt I had a chance of finding you, but it’s not like you to be so huffy about something like a card and it worried me. What were you doing, anyway – and where were you going when I stopped you?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Judy. I simply felt like – no, I’ll tell you exactly what I was doing. If you must know, I was taking the wretched scones back.’

  ‘What – the scones?’ I laughed. ‘You’re not serious?’

  But I could see in a flash that he was. Very serious. He lifted up the plastic bag he was carrying and held it open under my nose. ‘See?’ he said. ‘Scones.’

  And there they were, and as I glanced at the shops alongside me I saw that we were standing just a few doors away from SavaMart.

  ‘But how did it take you so long to get here?’ I asked. ‘You must have been gone nearly an hour and home’s only five minutes away.’ I glanced quickly down at the carrier bag. ‘And why didn’t you go in to SavaMart? That was where you got them, wasn’t it? And where were you going to just now when I called to you? You were walking away. What is going on, Charlie? Is the case going really badly? You can tell me, you know. It always helps you when you talk about it, darling. It’s just so difficult when you’re touchy like this.’

  ‘I am not touchy, Judy,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve told you – I was simply going back to the shop to change the scones. It really isn’t worth discussing any further.’

  There was something very odd about his tone of voice: it was almost as if it wasn’t Charlie speaking at all, but a sinister stranger who had inhabited his body without my noticing. It changed the way I saw everything around me, and at the same time it was as if a tiny shifting movement under my feet made me want to reach out to steady myself. The ground on which I stood, whose support I had always taken for granted, was suddenly made of quicksand.

  Crystal

  Hiya, Stacey!!!

  How’re ya doin’? How d’ya like the cute angel picture I’ve put in this letter? I’m doing just great – it’s two weeks after surgery now and I’ve lost 20 pounds and gone down 2 pant sizes!! Yeah!

  Thanks for your last letter – I just loved it. You’re so funny, your letters make me laugh out loud, with those British expressions you use and all. Let me know as soon as you’ve talked to your physician about weight-loss surgery, honey – there’s gotta be someone in that crazy island of yours that can do it. Ask your angels for help – and I don’t mean the buddies that support you through the surgery, I mean your real angels. They’re all around you, Stacey – even tho’ I know you don’t always believe in them, they’re there for you, honey, just watching over you like Jesus is.

  There have been many times when I believe that my life has been touched by angels. One time I was watching TV and a psychic talked about children and the fact that “imaginary friends” were actually angels that only children could see (I had three when I was a child). I had a load of problems when I was a kid and I was very miserable at that time about my weight and all kinds of other stuff, and wishing that I had an angel. Suddenly, while I was watching the show, I felt a warm puff of air on my cheek and neck and a warm, strong hand on my shoulder, and a male voice in my ear telling me: “See, we were here all along, you just forgot about us.” I turned around, and there was no one. I know now that they are with me always.

  Angels have never experienced physical life. They retain their Divine Memory and work with anyone who opens themselves to that high, pure vibration. My friend says they’re made of silk, but I don’t agree about that. I think they’re made of pure spirit, and that’s kinda more see-through than silk, I guess.

  Look after yourself, honey, and God bless you

  Crystal

  Stacey

  I went to the doctor’s this morning. I waited nearly an hour in that bleeding awful waiting room. I thought if I watched them fish swim about much longer I’d go mental. The girls on reception have that look on them – they peer from the back through that little open frame at me so I know they know I’m there, but they make me stand at the desk until I’m taking root before they can be bothered to move their arses and get out the front. Then they start filling in forms and that before they look up at me. They want me to blow a fuse and start yelling at them like I done that time all those years ago when my mum was sick and they wouldn’t pay no attention. Then they’d be able to make a complaint about me and get me out of their faces. But I ain’t gonna do that. I ain’t gonna give them the satisfaction. So I just stand there, shifting my weight one way and the other to try to stop my knees hurting while they fill in their stupid forms and ignore me. When they finally have to give in and look at me they make like they’ve only just seen I’m there, like they’ve only just happened to notice this giant 300 pounds of flesh standing about three centimetres from their noses. Yeah, right.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to wait a bit, Stacey,’ they say, once I’ve finally got them to write my name on their stupid lists and stuff. Or ‘Is it urgent, Stacey, because there are a few waiting and it may be some time?’ or something.

  ‘Yeah, it’s urgent,’ I feel like saying, ‘so isn’t it lucky that you asked me that straighta-fucking-way or I’d probably be dead by now.’ But I don’t, of course. I just look back at them and say, ‘Don’t worry, I’l
l wait,’ and then go and find a chair that looks as if it might not break when I sit on it.

  Now, wouldn’t you think they’d have a decent chair at the doctor’s that’s not gonna collapse when someone of my size sits on it? No, that would be too easy.

  Instead them girls watch me – suddenly their forms don’t seem to be so urgent, funny that – as I go over to the bleeding fish tank and look at the chairs out of the corner of my eye till I spot the strongest. We all remember the time that I sat on one that began to give way and the girls rushed over as if that chair was the most expensive and precious chair in the universe and said, ‘Oh no, dear, you mustn’t sit on that one – it’s not designed for obese patients.’ I’ll never forget that. How humiliated I was, I mean. ‘Obese patients’. Thanks for nothing. Anyway, now they watch me with their beady little eyes and we all know what they’re remembering. I hate going up the surgery. I hate it.

  Still, the wait wasn’t so long as sometimes. Bet the girls were disappointed – I’ve had to sit there nearly two hours some visits. This time the doctor seemed to get through his list quite quick and suddenly it was my turn. I really didn’t feel like a lecture – I just wanted him to make my side stop hurting and give me my mum’s prescription for her pills but he can’t ever leave it at that. So I sat through all the stuff again, although he never said about me being dead in a year and that – although he made me go on the scales again and I’m bigger than when he told me that, so I know he’s still thinking it. But he had a good go on the dieting and stuff, before I asked him. About the surgery.