‘So, shall we order?’ Mum says and gives me another look and I realise immediately: she knows. She knows I’m not eating what I should be. She probably clocked it straight away.
But because this is the only dance we know how to do, I make myself smile and say, ‘Sure!’
I scan the menu, pulse racing, making calculations in my head, but I can’t look for too long because that would be a giveaway – and so would ordering a salad and Diet Coke. A waitress comes over and Mum orders the soup of the day and a roll, and then it’s my turn. I can’t help it – I keep my eyes on the menu a fraction too long, while Nia screeches at me, wanting to know how the soup is made, is it with cream, what’s the calorie content?
I speak through her, ‘Same for me please,’ in a voice that is so close to normal that no one but Mum would sense anything is up.
The waitress goes.
Mum shows no sign of handing Rose back.
I figure deflection is as good a strategy as any, so I say, ‘How are Tammy and Dad?’
‘They’re both fine.’
I wait for the inevitable follow-up, what new marvels Tammy has produced, but Mum doesn’t say anything else. I frown.
She’s had her highlights done, I realise, but the colour is a shade off and, instead of flattering her, it makes her skin look sallow and old. And she’s wearing a hell of a lot of make-up and perfume, more than normal, like body armour. Is it for me, or is something else going on?
I try and think of what to say, and settle on: ‘I probably should’ve told Dad about the busted lift the other day.’
Mum looks blank.
‘When he brought up the cot?’
‘Oh! Yes, of course.’ Mum shifts Rose on her lap. ‘He’s working away a lot at the moment.’ There’s a tightness to the way she says it, but there’s no time to ask what’s going on as the soup’s arrived.
‘Here, why don’t I hold Rose so you can eat?’ I say.
‘No, that’s fine. You have yours before it goes cold,’ Mum says and gives me a hard look.
Bollocks.
I crumble the roll into tiny pieces, add salt to the soup. Take a sip of water. All the while, Mum watches.
There’s nothing for it. I could just take Rose and go, but I’m afraid of what that means, of what Mum could say to Joanna. So I force it all down, make myself tell Mum it’s lovely, and when she passes Rose over so she can eat hers, I pull Rose to me, against my stomach which is bulging out by a mile. I could lean down now and be sick, watch all that greasy soup slosh over the floor in one huge release.
I start to tap my foot on the floor, and maybe Rose senses how uncomfortable I am because she wriggles and begins to cry.
I pull her up and give a big sniff of her bum and say, ‘Uh-oh, I think someone needs a change!’ in one of those horrid sing-song voice people do when they’re talking to babies.
Mum puts her spoon down.
‘No, no, you eat your soup. I’ll be back in a second,’ I say and shoot across the cafe and into the disabled toilets.
There’s nowhere to put Rose, and I feel another hard spike of guilt as I take off my jumper and lay her on it on the toilet floor. Then I lean over and let it all go, rinse my mouth and flush. I have to wait for my head to stop pulsing and my heart to go back to what passes for normal for me, before I feel safe enough to pick Rose back up.
Back at the table, Mum narrows her eyes. ‘You forgot your change bag,’ she says.
‘Oh, it must have just been wind – she was only a tiny bit wet. But it took an age to get her poppers done up; she wriggles so much,’ I say, and hope my breath doesn’t smell like sick.
Mum gets this look, an old one I know well, her eyebrows going up in the middle.
But before she can say anything, inspiration hits and I say, ‘It’s such a shame they don’t have a proper changing table in here. It’s discrimination really. Someone should have a word.’
And Mum chooses to believe me, chooses to get indignant at the lack of facilities, asks to speak to the manager.
‘We need to get off soon,’ I say when the waitress has retreated to find her boss. ‘Thanks for lunch.’
I strap Rose into her buggy.
‘It’s been nice to see you. Both of you,’ Mum says. I have to strain to catch the last bit over the noise of the coffee machine in the corner. ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ she says.
We hold each other’s eyes for a second. I nod.
Then a woman comes up to Mum, her face flushed. ‘Can I help at all?’
‘Yes,’ Mum says in a firm voice, and I know the manager is going to be there for a while.
I use the opportunity to make my escape.
The following day, I’m getting ready for another session with Felicity when the post arrives. It’s A Brown Envelope. This means nothing good. I put it on the side carefully, like it may shoot out papery tongues and cover me in tiny cuts, but my problem is, I always want to know, even if it’s bad.
‘Let’s get it over with, shall we?’ I say to Rose, whose face splits into a grin that lights her whole being. Sunlight streams through the window, bathing her face. My throat catches. Times like these almost make up for the nights when she cries and I think I can’t do it any more.
Reluctantly, I turn to the envelope and rip the end away in one go, like yanking off a plaster hard and fast. I scan the letter and swear under my breath. I’ve missed an appointment for my benefits. When did they send it? I spool back over the past few weeks, trying to remember any other letters, but can’t. There’s a helpline number to call but it eats credit and I hardly have any on my phone as it is. I’m going to have to go down the Job Centre and try to sort it out.
An hour later, I steer Rose’s buggy into the benefits office. I hate this place. I’ve only been here once before, when I first got discharged from the unit and they had to assess me, which was a bundle of laughs. I had an appointment that time, but today I’ve just shown up. I look around and realise you’ve got to take a ticket. I get one, then sit as far away from everyone else as I can, so I can convince myself I don’t really belong here.
The wait takes forever. People come and go over the stained carpet, the air thick and heavy with desperation and a side of anger. One wall is made of plate glass and it should make the place cheery but it only highlights the dinginess. I fret over Rose, sitting her up and sliding my hand down her vest to check how hot she is. According to my phone it’s time to feed her, so I get out a bottle, which is the exact moment my number is called. Typical. I struggle to the front, ignoring Rose, who is not happy her meal just got interrupted and goes red as she works up to full scream mode.
When I see the woman behind the desk, I know it’s going to be bad. She has deep frown lines scored between her eyebrows and a mouth that turns down as she takes the crumpled letter I hand her.
‘I really don’t think I got any letter about an appointment,’ I say.
She taps at her keyboard. ‘Can you confirm your address?’
I do.
‘We sent you a letter about your assessment on the twentieth,’ she says.
‘But I didn’t get it. Look, I just had a baby and it’s all been a bit crazy. Couldn’t you just … ?’
But it’s no use. I can already tell from the way she frowns down her nose at me and taps at her keyboard with hard clicks of her gel nails – which, by the way, are ridiculously ugly – that she isn’t going to bend any rules for me.
‘I’m afraid because you missed your appointment your Disability Benefit has been suspended,’ she says, and there’s this gleam in her eyes, like she’s enjoying this.
‘For how long?’ My voice goes up in alarm.
She takes her time flicking through computer screens and checking boxes. ‘It says here you should be claiming Income Support anyway, if you’ve had a baby. You can fill in this form.’ She hands it to me.
‘What? No one told me that. How long will it take?’
She all but shrugs. ‘We can usually proces
s a new claim within a month.’
‘A month? What am I supposed to live on until then?’
Her face says it’s not her problem.
I take the form and start to fill it in, but they need loads of info I don’t have with me. I’ll have to take it home. I consider asking for help, but Rose is making noises that suggest I’ve got three minutes, maybe four tops, before she lets loose and I can feel sweat running down my back. I steer her buggy out into the hot sun and find a bench to feed her on, then check my phone and swear again when I realise it’s going to be really tight getting to my appointment with Felicity.
In the end, I’m ten minutes late, but Felicity is running behind. I didn’t bring any water with me and a headache has my temples in a pincer grip. All I want to do is lie on the floor and go to sleep. I shut my eyes for a moment and don’t open them until I hear Felicity next to me.
‘Hello, Hedda. You feeling OK? You look rather pale.’
It’s a struggle to force my eyes open.
I push Rose’s buggy down the corridor after her.
Felicity has given up complaining about me bringing her. In any case, I’ve pointed out I’ve got no one to look after her, so if Felicity wants me to show up, Rose comes too.
‘Can I have some water please?’ I say and it comes out croaky.
Felicity has the flip charts out from last time.
I try not to groan. ‘I’m not really in the mood for all this,’ I say.
Felicity raises her eyebrows in a ‘go on’ expression.
I feel like it’s not really me sitting here, with Rose now asleep in her buggy, like the past few months can’t possibly have happened.
‘Maybe it’s a dream … or nightmare. Whatever,’ I mutter. If I concentrate hard enough on one spot, my eyes blur and it seems like the room isn’t real. Like I could disappear.
‘Perhaps by making yourself physically smaller, you felt like you could somehow disappear,’ Felicity says.
‘Did I say that out loud? I’m losing track … Sleep deprivation. They do say it’s a killer!’ I’m aiming for a breezy tone, but I sound more like a zombie. The heat’s not helping. ‘Can I open a window?’
Felicity switches on a fan on her desk and I angle my chair so the breeze blasts me in the face and guzzle down the cup of water she passes to me.
‘I thought you said I was after attention.’ I nod at the flip chart, which is back up in the corner, remembering Felicity adding the word to the list.
Felicity raises her eyebrows.
‘I don’t know … Maybe I was, when I was younger. But now … well, there’s other reasons to disappear,’ I say. I think about running from the room, leaving Rose and everything behind and finding some cottage up in the hills where I could be a shepherd or something, away from civilisation.
‘We’ve talked about disappearing before – about what it means to you,’ Felicity says.
The room is so hot, my brain is struggling to process.
Felicity goes on. ‘There are all sorts of pressures: exams, family, career, social media …’ She doesn’t say ‘looking after Rose’.
‘… Growing up, friends, people’s expectations. Yeah, yeah, I know. Anorexia as an escape from all that. I’ve read the books.’ I mean it to be sarcastic, but I’m really tired.
Felicity is giving me an odd look.
‘What?’ I say.
‘That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you refer to your eating disorder without personifying it.’
I didn’t notice. ‘So?’
‘Don’t you think that’s important?’
Silence.
Felicity gets up and, very deliberately, scores through the NIA at the top of the flip chart.
I don’t move to stop her.
‘I’d like you to do some more work on this before your next session. Perhaps you could write down what your eating disorder means to you, the reasons why you feel you developed it in the first place.’
I want to roll my eyes, or argue that this is ground she’s tried to cover with me before and why bother yet again? But I’m too tired to do anything except give a nod.
‘I’ll try. That’s all I’m promising,’ I say.
Felicity smiles and it reminds me of seeing Rose’s smile, like maybe this is something of Felicity I’m seeing for the first time.
‘That’s a start,’ she says.
Back at the flat, I struggle to make sense of the benefit forms, which need their own twenty-page booklet to explain them. I get through half, then give up for the day. My headache is still drilling. I check my account online and realise the payment I was supposed to get today from the benefits – sorry, welfare – lot is missing, which means I have about a tenner to my name. That Job Centre woman worked fast, I’ll give her that.
Looks like there’s only one choice.
I pick up the phone to dial Dad, but it takes forever to pull his number up in my contacts, like my thumbs don’t want to obey me. He doesn’t answer and I listen as it goes through to voicemail. I don’t leave a message.
Instead I get on the net and start looking at payday loans, the ones where you can borrow a few hundred, no questions asked, and pay it back the next week. I looked at them ages ago, before I found out about Rose, but never actually went through with getting one once I realised the interest rate was gigantic. I just sat in the dark for two days instead when the electricity ran out. Not really an option now, with Rose. It’s stupidly easy – there’s even a little dancing pound sign egging you on – but still my hand hovers over the final button for a long time, before I hit it and the payday loan wings its way to my account.
Chapter 23
9 WEEKS
‘Is this oven on?’
It’s Robin’s birthday today and I’m baking him a ‘surprise’ cake that turns out not to be a surprise at all, because Rose is in super-whiny mode and won’t be put down. I tried my hardest, but after half an hour of attempting to stir one-handed and then realising I’d forgotten to buy eggs, I gave up and knocked on Robin’s door.
He answered in just his joggers, which was a bit of a shock. Not in a totally horrible way, I have to admit.
‘Been napping, have we?’ I said, and it was really cute, the way he went red.
‘Sorry … Hang on, I’ll just …’ He disappeared off and came back, pulling a T-shirt over his head.
‘What’s up?’ he said.
‘Well, I just wanted to say happy birthday,’ I said, and handed over a pot plant I’d picked up for a couple of quid and a card.
He pulled the plant to him, opened his mouth, but I said, ‘I don’t do thanks and all that. Anyway, you need to come and bake your birthday cake. Also, bring eggs.’
Robin’s laugh echoed behind me.
Twenty minutes later, he showed up with eggs and a dubious expression.
‘Yes, the oven’s on … Hang on … No, it’s not. Bugger,’ I say.
‘And what’s happened here?’
I have to admit, the ‘cake’ does look a bit sketchy, half-mixed in the bowl. I’ve never made one before and it doesn’t look like I’ll be going in for The Great British Bake Off any time soon.
Robin gives it a sniff, then coughs. ‘Perhaps we ought to start again?’
He scrapes out the bowl into the bin before I can stop him, which means he gets an eyeful of the half-congealed noodles from last night.
‘Getting sick of noodles?’ he says. ‘I’ll bring over some of that spicy chicken to put on them when I next make it.’
I nearly say ‘no need’, but it feels too rude, so I just smile instead.
I pop Rose on her play mat in the doorway so she can still see us and this time she doesn’t fuss. I swear it’s Robin’s voice that does it. I guess we both like listening to him talk.
I’m checking the amount of flour on the scales, when Robin says, from close behind me, ‘Hedda …’
‘Yeah?’
‘I wanted to … I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I say, and shake a bit more flour in.
There’s a pause.
I stop and turn towards him. ‘What?’
‘It’s just …’ He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks out of the window, like he’s hoping the right words will float through or something.
I feel my body go stiff.
‘What?’ I say again, and my voice is all wrong, rough and suspicious. There’s a sudden avalanche of flour which hits the scales in a big whumph, sending a powdery cloud up into the air and all over the floor.
We both start coughing, then Robin leans over. ‘You’ve put too much in,’ he says, with a funny sort of smile.
Before I can reply, he’s spooned some out and then starts sifting the flour, holding the sieve up really high.
‘What are you doing that for?’ I say, coming up next to him.
‘I read that it gets all the air into it, makes the cake lighter,’ he says.
‘Oh. OK, Delia Smith.’
Robin flicks his wrist and a light dusting of flour scatters over my head.
‘Hey!’
I go to grab the sieve off him, but he’s too strong and we wrestle for a second, then I poke him under the armpit and he curls up to one side.
‘Ha! I knew you were ticklish.’ I snatch at the sieve and manage to knock it up out of his hand and into his face. I freeze.
Robin gives me a startled look, then starts to laugh. He dips his hand in the bowl and flicks more flour at me, and the next thing, we’re having a full-scale flour fight in the kitchen. It’s everywhere, in our hair, coating our shoulders, even a bit on Rose, who kicks her arms and legs out like an excited starfish. Neither of us can stop laughing. Then Robin picks up what’s left of the bag and holds it over my head.
‘Don’t even think about –’ I break off because he’s started tipping.
I reach up and feel the softness of it, like warm snowflakes, tickling my fingers. I go still and so does Robin. He lowers the bag, then reaches out with a white-coated hand and brushes my hair back.
He takes a step forward, and suddenly I want to press into him, to feel his big heart, and his arms holding me tight. I want to kiss him properly.
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