I felt my head shaking as I struggled to lift it. My neck seized up almost. It was the first time she’d talked to me in ten years but I managed to look into her eyes and saw she was upset, almost.
I had a decision to make…
Swallowing my hurt, I simply told her, “I’ll be writing whatever they tell me to. It’ll be about celebrities and their weird goings on, no doubt. A bit of a change from the Telegraph.”
“I’ll say,” Mum added, aiding the diplomatic effort.
“It’s kind of cool,” she said, looking back down at her lap. She rubbed her hands together and fidgeted, keeping her legs tucked under her body.
My stomach was in tattered knots.
Amanda didn’t look good. She had bags beneath her eyes. Her skin was grey. She’d once been curvy like Anabel and me, but now she wasn’t. That’s what trying to get off heroin got you.
“Just going to get some water,” I tried to convince them as I stood. I had to walk away otherwise I was going to lose my cool.
I went through to the kitchen and looked out of the patio doors which stood before an enormous stretch of back garden bordering a corn field at the bottom. I ran through those corn fields when I was young, playing tag with other girls and boys of the borough. It was fun because the landscape was so extreme, so hilly, sometimes we’d end up rolling down an incline uncontrollably if we weren’t careful. Our back garden itself was downhill and had provided much scope for sledding, water sliding and other childish games. I had a great childhood but when it came to adulthood, there was no advice given. Nobody steering me. I was adrift in a sea of blue-collar workers.
Mum crept up on me and shut the door behind us. “Chloe?”
“How is she, Mum? She doesn’t look well.” I only glanced back at my mother, so neat in her Debenhams dress and her Dune shoes. Always turned out. Always a front.
“No, she’s not well. She’s on methadone… but last week, someone found her in a gutter and… she had to have her stomach pumped up at General.”
I turned quickly, my head dizzy because of how fast I moved. Bitter tears scraped the back of my eyes and throat. Nothing had changed.
“That makes me sad, Mum.” Anguish gripped and squeezed my heart.
She just looked at the floor, her hands twisting in front of her. “I know. Some boy dumped her… she went off the deep end. We didn’t want to tell you, didn’t want to spoil things for you. You need to go to London, it’ll be really good for you.”
“Is she going to get clean?”
“It’s hard to say, Chloe. We’ve been through this, so many times. I don’t begrudge you your life, you know… but we live with this.”
I felt my lip trembling and hated Mum’s matter-of-factness. Why did she have to be like that? Picking up the pieces? Accepting that was her job? Why?
I shook my head and wanted to hit something. “We shouldn’t be drinking. Not in front of an addict. It’s wrong.”
Our defences flaring, I noted the way both of us had our hands on our hips and hated how similar me and my mum were. She even did that thing I did where she spoke out of the corner of her mouth.
“I gave her juice, Chloe.”
“He’s sat in there like… like. I don’t know. Like he’s got no time for us. He never had time for us. You can stand up to him, if only you—” I cut myself off. It was far too late for all that.
“You walk a mile in my shoes, Chloe,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.
I sniffed and shot her a look, you know, one of those knowing stares between a mother and daughter. “I wouldn’t ever want to, Mum… and I say that out of love.”
“I know,” she looked down at her feet, her shoulders hunched, her arms folded so tightly her knuckles were white.
“I don’t understand, Mum. You could’ve had a better life than this.”
The fact I was moving further away—to London, which was so far removed from Barnsley—made me fear for them. I was leaving, again. What if something bad happened while I was down in London and I couldn’t get back in time? This was undoubtedly why they hadn’t mentioned Amanda having her stomach pumped.
“You’re clever, you’re better than this,” I tried to argue, agitating her.
She shook her head. “You don’t know what it is that drives him.”
“I don’t care what… it’s not worth wrecking Amanda’s life over. Nor anyone else’s for that matter. He should’ve changed his tune long ago.”
She took the high ground. “Everyone has to face the consequences of their own actions. She was always different, wasn’t she? Always so much more hypersensitive to the world. You were all brought up the same but you and Bel never went off the rails like her.”
I shrugged. Amanda was different and we’d always known it. She needed more than our meagre existence provided. She was artistic and extrovert whereas the rest of us kept our noses clean.
“This life… it’s such bullshit, Mum,” I said wearily.
She raised her brow. “Of course it is… and I’m okay with that. I realised what my role was a long time ago, so don’t think of us a second longer, get yourself to London.” She looked momentarily emotional. “Look at you! You’re cleverer than the Telegraph ever realised. You dress like a princess… now go and be one, for me! Please, Chloe. Amanda has to do it for herself… and you can’t start fresh thinking about what’s going on here. We’ll pull together, like we always do.”
“Love you, Mum.”
We embraced and I had to impose a mental bulldozer on my eye sockets to drive the tears away.
“Bring her in here to me, will you? I just want to, you know—”
“It’ll really help,” Mum gushed, squeezing my arm before bustling off.
I gave myself a little pep talk. I was the bigger sister, the responsible one. Maybe not the best sister, that was Anabel. Yet I was the eldest, it was my job. It didn’t matter about the shit that had gone down between us, we were blood. I was the strong one, I could be there for her.
When Amanda shuffled in, Mum quickly shut the door to lock us in together. Our eyes met briefly. Her lip trembled and I had to bite my tongue to stop mine from doing the same.
“Come here.” I held out my arms.
She hurried to me and I held her tight, stroking her brown hair away from her forehead. Anabel and I were both strawberry-blonde, like Mum. Amanda took after Dad. She began crying so hard, she could hardly stand up. I dropped to the floor so she could sit across my lap, crying into my hair. She felt skeletal, frail, empty.
“I can’t stand to watch it… you’re only hurting yourself.”
“You don’t hate me?” she whined, still crying.
“No! Come on.”
What words might inspire her, energise her to finally quit? I didn’t know. This was one of those dramas I’d thought would never be mine.
“I don’t know how to make people happy. I don’t know how to do that anymore,” she spluttered, wiping her nose.
“Hey, hey. What?” I pulled back to look at her face. “You need to stop right there, young lady. Make people happy? Maybe start making yourself happy, yeah? That’s all that matters. Fuck everything else. Concentrate on you.”
“Is that what you do,” she asked, her eyes narrowing, “cos I mean, look at you… you still belong on a magazine cover. Me, I belong on one of those ten years younger programmes.”
I shook my head, desperate to stop myself smirking. She still liked to get a rise out of me, I’d give her that. I’d done a bit of modelling to pay my way through university, until I was left physically scarred and couldn’t do it anymore. Or rather, wouldn’t.
“I deserve my scar, Amanda. I regret what I did, you know? It still haunts me.”
She held my face and told me straight, “I would’ve still done the drugs. I’m an addict, Chloe.”
It hurt to look into her red eyes. “You’re my sister, I was trying to save you.”
“I know,” she smiled a smidgen. “At least you lo
ok happy… got a man, ’av ya?”
I shook my head. “No way, I’ve got several. It’s all about me… and it’s staying that way.”
She popped some gum in her mouth and chewed voraciously. “We’ll see… you might get to London and things might change… some dickhead in a supercar probably!”
We laughed and I scrubbed a punishing hand over her hair like I used to when we were kids. She allowed me my thing but the eyes we shared said so much more.
She took a deep breath and stood. “I’ll take your advice and focus on me a bit. It seems to be working for you, whatever you’re doing.”
Little did she know what went on beneath the surface. She walked around the room, inhaling shakily, as though cleared of so many demons.
“Don’t let it bury you. I know that’s easy for me to say… but please, get better for you. It’s the only way it’ll work.”
She nodded, her lips pursed. “I want to do it, this time. Get myself sorted.”
“You can do it.”
We went back through and had a piece of cake, a few nibbles, then I said I had to be going. I had a train to catch later that day, amongst numerous other tasks that still needed completing. Anabel and Mum hugged and kissed me goodbye, Dad just grunted and said, “Good luck.”
Amanda was already back up in her bedroom, hopefully feeling better than she had done before.
I was glad to escape. Being in that house, I remembered another version of myself. One less troubled, more certain of who she was. I once believed in things, believed in myself, but I had taken a knock. Before then, I had hoped for so much—but had changed from a self-respecting individual to one who went on nights out on her own. The person I became was one the old me wouldn’t recognise—someone who often sat at a bar, waiting, until someone came over. I often blamed my solitariness on a tardy friend or some other excuse, depending on how good-looking the guy asking for my number was. Could I ever get her back, the true essence of me? I didn’t honestly know but I knew being in the house I grew up in was only reminding me of that which I’d lost.
AFTER dispensing with my car at a local garage, I caught a bus back the rest of the way and was greeted once more by the sight of that barren shell I’d called home. I had a few minutes spare before the charity people came knocking to take all my gear away. As I stared at all the furniture the landlord had installed, I realised it was all tacky rubbish that now looked ugly without my things giving the place personality.
When they knocked, I almost lost it. What was I doing? Letting strangers take all my belongings? My books? My CDs? My DVDs? I thought about not opening the door, or telling them they had the wrong address. Then I thought about how little room there would be at Kay’s and I decided there was no option. It all had to go. My intent was to start afresh, after all. It was a new era for me. I’d recently turned 30 and it was all going to be brand-spanking-new.
I took a deep breath and opened the door, welcoming a man and woman in with matching red t-shirts and a charity logo brandished across their chests. “Where are we heading, then?” one of them asked.
I pointed at the box mountains propped in two corners and the woman glanced back at me. “All this? Really? You sure?”
“Yes. You’d be doing me a favour. Please, take it all. Some other people will get far more use out of it than me.”
I held back the tears while they carted my life away in those brown, cardboard boxes. At the end of the day, though, it was only stuff I had accumulated while I underwent the fug of my solitariness.
It wasn’t coming with me.
At two p.m., my flat was entirely empty. Two large suitcases stood in the hall while I hung at the open door taking one, last look around.
Nine years.
I shook my head. Quite a few liaisons had taken place within those walls. Some of my best and worst moments had, also. I smiled fondly, but it was bittersweet. I’d tried to make a go of it here, but it hadn’t worked. I had to hope London held the answers.
Chapter 2
MONDAY MORNING, I stood outside my new place of work just staring. None of it seemed real, not yet. I hadn’t really asked for this opportunity, it had simply fallen into my lap.
Vauxhall Bridge Road wasn’t glamorous. The building I was going to be working in was fashioned from huge grey blocks and ugly, thick glass. I wondered if this was to hide whatever operations took place within. Yet this bland block housed potential and possibility—and for me, the girl who defied the odds—I couldn’t tell you how much it meant to finally be where I wanted to be.
My friend, Klaus—we’ll get to him—had told me, “Hack it at Media Solutions, hack it anywhere.” The company was the most respected, independent provider of news, entertainment and sports data in the UK—and I was prepared for the challenge.
London air was warmer and smelt less… pure. A sharp intake of South Yorkshire winter air could clean your lungs. In London, a thousand scents invaded my nostrils on every corner, all of them indistinguishable.
A restless throb of noise existed, but from where? I’d been aware of it since I woke at six that morning. Even the main road I lived on in Sheffield had a timetable for noise—whereas this city didn’t. I actually kind of liked it to think I might be the dot amongst the crush. It knew it would work for me.
I stood across the road for half an hour or more—scoping it, making it real. My back against the shutters of another office not yet open, I watched who went in and out of my new premises. I didn’t see many enter or leave and guessed most started at nine a.m. or later. I got there in plenty of time to make sure I found the place, liked it enough to go inside, and as I said to make it real. Anyway, I had just enough time before work to get something to eat and drink. Luckily, London Victoria Station and all its amenities were minutes away. A coffee and a Danish were definitely in order.
Arriving at the austere, yet impressive reception of my new place of work at 8.58a.m. precisely, I found myself filing in with many others dressed in coats, bags over their shoulders, faces trained on the floor. None of them in a rush to get to their desks, neither wanting to be late either.
I was told by a neat receptionist that I’d be met by someone called Ash and taken upstairs. While she arranged a temporary swipe card for me to get through the turnstiles, there was no small talk or even a painted-on smile, just a hand gesture to the seating area nearby.
I took a seat in a blue, squishy, low chair and picked up a company magazine to read. I flicked through and all I saw were the words targets, training opportunities, teamwork, communication workshops, classes, seminars…
I wondered when people forgot how to communicate. I mean, come on? It used to be that we only had conversation to keep us entertained. When did the art of conversation die? Backwards going forwards, much?
After 15 minutes of waiting and thinking the HR woman really had got it all wrong in telling me the job was mine, a red-faced guy pelted down the stairs, across the hall and toward me.
“Chloe? Is it? I’m Ash, your editor,” he greeted me, his eyes flitting over my appearance.
I’m Ash. I will cut your words to pieces, shrivel your ego, and send you home numb every day of the week. If that was the worst he might dish up, at least I had pre-warned myself.
I stood awkwardly. Speak woman, speak. Or he will think you are a whack-job.
I wore a full skirt suit but he wore smart jeans and an open-necked pink shirt. No tie, not especially smart shoes. His bald head was complemented by three-day-old stubble (at least), though he might just have been one of those guys whose hair reached a certain length and never grew more. Anyway, I realised casual was the order of the day (possibly century) and told myself to remember that for next time.
“Chloe Harmon, pleased to meet you,” I replied like I’d rehearsed, and shook his hand when it was offered to me. “Can’t believe I’m here!”
“Well, I hope you get the fuck out one day and turn Chloe Harmon into a big name. It won’t happen here. This could be your
springboard though, love.”
I was used to this journalist banter but hadn’t expected it here. I was meant to be starting anew. I guess he wasn’t concerned about making a newbie feel welcome on her first day—that much was evident. For him the novelty of working in international news had clearly worn off many moons ago. I straightened up and my inner universe told him to go fuck himself. I’d get out of there if it was shit and go back to the comfy yet slightly lesser paid drivel I was quite accustomed to.
We climbed the stairs and I almost wished he’d suggested the lifts. My black Mary Janes were going to be tossed by the end of the day and replaced by the ballet pumps I kept folded at the very bottom of my handbag.
We got upstairs and I felt my face flush when we made it into the packed newsroom. Loud voices carried across the large space—yet when I started walking fast to keep up with Ash’s strides, hush descended and all of them decided to train their eyes on me.
After a confusingly long walk through a labyrinth of desks, Ash finally showed me to an empty station and I was able to sit down and take the strain off my feet. He sat at a vacant seat next to mine and I wondered what to do. Take my coat off? Unpack my bag?
He sat looking around for some words, his expression revealing confusion.
“You’re sure you’re here for the writer job?” His frown was impossibly stern.
“Umm, yeah. Is there a problem?” I said slowly, and started to shit myself. Was it all a mistake after all?
“Just that…” he squeezed his eyes and looked discomforted, “…I’m not sure you’ll find it all you expected.”
My coat felt uncomfortably tight across my back and I wanted to take it off, but didn’t know where to put it if I did. On the back of my chair? On a hook? Was anybody going to tell me? Who was this dickhead questioning why I wanted a fucking job?
I reeled in my disbelief and morbid sense of humour and looked around nonchalantly like his words hadn’t affected me when they had. I had this growing lump that was hard to swallow—why was he looking at me like I didn’t belong?
Unbind (Sub Rosa Series Book 1) Page 2