‘Point taken,’ Erica said. ‘You’re right.’
‘Sorry, that was a bit harsh. I didn’t mean to –’
‘I know. But you are right.’
She got out of the car and made her way up the path to the house, noting as she went the weeds she needed to pull, and thought that only Steph could get away with being so blunt. And probably only because they were cousins in addition to being best friends. And because Erica wouldn’t disagree with her latest criticism. Just like the proverbial one rotten apple ruining the entire bag, mood infiltrated a group and had an effect. Erica suspected she’d brought the mood down on plenty of occasions and vowed to buck up. Because, really, she was still way ahead of plenty of people. She was healthy and had a decent roof over her head. Her breath caught. Losing the house was her greatest fear, well, close to it. If she had to sell, she’d have let Stuart down, the girls. But most importantly, herself. How humiliating. She knew she shouldn’t feel like this, and that her friends would be horrified if they knew she’d worry they’d think less of her for living in something less opulent and in a suburb lower on the socio-economic ladder. And it wasn’t that she really had an issue with living somewhere else, somewhere less posh; it was the fact that having to sell would be such a neon sign of failure, and of course also risked revealing Stuart’s crashing failure as a provider. Though no one would have any issue if she just said she wanted to downsize …
Well, not today, Erica thought as she put the key in the door and went inside after waiting and waving Steph off from the verandah.
After cleaning her face of makeup, she went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she glanced at the clock and frowned at the time being wrong. After checking it against her watch twice, she confirmed it wasn’t just running slow; it had actually stopped. Again. Damn it Stuart; you and your drawer full of stuff. It’s one thing to toss in a flat battery but into the actual packet with the new ones? Seriously? Were they all dead? Maybe. Perhaps he’d been keeping them together in their packet until he had enough worth taking somewhere for recycling. The fact he wasn’t there to ask suddenly almost felled her. But instead of throwing herself on the couch, she remained standing where she was, letting the tears pour down her face.
Erica cursed these tiny, seemingly inconsequential things that could so quickly take her right back to the initial impact of realising he’d gone and would never be coming back. Thankfully, all these months of swirling back and around and moving ever so slowly forwards meant at least she recovered from the bout more quickly. Now it took her seconds, minutes tops to regain her breath and fill her lungs and push back the gigantic pain inside and function again. And the tears didn’t gush quite as much as they had – was she finally running out, or just getting better at checking her emotions?
Work had always helped. She’d spent a lot of time cleaning her brushes and other applicators and going through her kit. Now she didn’t want to look at it sitting there on the floor at the end of the bench where she didn’t remember leaving it. She frowned at the shiny metal box with its split lid of shelves. Just a posh toolbox, Stuart had teased her once. And she’d looked at him and said, ‘Exactly.’ And he’d thought she was joking or there was some part of the joke, a joke, he was missing. She hadn’t bothered to explain that these were her tools – tools of her trade – and this was their box. He thought he’d been being funny.
Now the tools of her trade would be her laptop and wifi while she searched for another job.
Her friends had been well-meaning in wanting her to take a break. She felt bad for keeping them half in the dark, telling them she wanted to work to fill her time. Because of course they thought Stuart had left her well off. The gorgeous house she lived in also hid the truth – the enormous debt behind the shine on the lacquered oak front door.
Erica glanced back at the clock and couldn’t find the energy to get out the steps – probably for the best anyway after three glasses of wine over lunch. She’d do it later, though she hated leaving things out of place. Her head began to swim as if suddenly reminded of her state. She rarely drank when out because she was usually driving and thought the blood alcohol limit should be zero, not point oh five. She knew her reaction time was diminished after just one glass. But god how she’d enjoyed the light empty feeling, the slight carefreeness. She’d drunk more than if she’d been paying – wouldn’t have wasted money on alcohol at all if she had been. She felt a little guilty about that and also ashamed at the slightly uncouth way she’d gulped down her wine. She’d tried hard to be restrained with the girls at home; who wanted to become one of those people who cracked a bottle of wine more out of habit than true enjoyment as soon as they kicked their shoes off after work? But she did tend to do exactly that. She hadn’t had a drink in ages, which was a good thing, though that was because she’d run out and couldn’t justify buying more. But now she longed to keep herself topped up and her brain foggy so she didn’t have to think about her situation and could tell herself she wasn’t in the right state for looking for a job, let alone putting any applications in.
She looked around the room for inspiration for something to do that didn’t involve the step stool or pulling apart the kitchen for anything alcoholic. Her attention was caught by the urn of Stuart’s ashes beaming down at her from the mantel above the faux fireplace. Usually he was on the other end – closest to the lounge area. When had she moved him? She couldn’t remember. The other day during her manic bout of cleaning? Yes, she did remember moving him – she’d picked him up to dust underneath.
A wave of heat hit her. Bloody menopause. Isn’t life fucking awful enough without you? She pushed herself away from the counter. She’d forget tea and keep moving. Go for a walk. Sober up. Get my shit together. Damn it, she wished she could find her MP3 player. She needed the music to distract her from thinking too much, and worrying. If she could find the earbuds that had come with her phone, she’d use them, but she couldn’t remember where they were, either. But unlike the mysteriously missing MP3 player, her phone earbuds had probably never been used in the first place.
In her bedroom she again found herself wondering whether maybe she should get in a boarder or two – extra people to cook for and fuss over would be good, not to mention the dollars, she thought, pausing with her hand on the handle of the drawer containing fresh sets of walking gear. Though Erica thought she probably wasn’t in the right state to be motherly to strangers just yet. She might come across as dangerously unhinged, given how forgetful, jumpy and teary she was. Yes, I’m struggling enough with looking after myself, she thought, opening the drawer, and then had to blink twice to really believe that there sitting right on top was her MP3 player. What the hell? She stared, tried to remember or picture herself putting it there, and came up empty. The only place she ever put it was on the hook out in the hallway.
Stop frowning, she told herself, feeling her crinkling forehead and her face all the way around her eyes and then past her lips puckering up. She was doing a lot of that lately.
‘Maybe if you stopped sending me all this bullshit, I wouldn’t be frowning all the time,’ she muttered into the air, to no one in particular. Well, if she were being honest, she was talking to Stuart – not that it helped. She took the clothes out, tipped the MP3 player onto the bed, shoved the drawer closed and got dressed.
Fucking ridiculous, she cursed, staring at the MP3 player. She tried to laugh. But there was nothing funny about her losing her mind. She was unsettled, couldn’t sit still, regularly went into rooms and came back out after forgetting why she’d gone in in the first place. And now she was putting things in odd places and being vague generally. These were the first symptoms she’d noticed in her parents. She’d initially dismissed them as being cute and quaint features of doddery aging people. When had it become serious? And what were the exact signs? She stood there staring at the MP3 player as if it were too hot to handle, as if putting it on might add to her confusion.
She l
ooked around. Could someone have been in the house? She tensed. How, though? Everything was always locked, the deadbolts meaning doors and windows needed a key to unlock and open them. The only way in was to break a window. Oh. The cold breezes she’d felt a couple of times. Maybe that hadn’t been hormones or her imagination. With her hand over her hammering heart, she did a quick check of the house. But no windows were broken and nothing seemed out of place. And, anyway, if she’d forgotten to lock any doors when she’d gone out – which wouldn’t surprise her – what would be the point of someone breaking in and not taking anything like the TV or computer or ransacking the place for jewellery or cash?
Just too much on my mind and too much long-term stress, she told herself. You’re not losing it: you’re just a distracted menopausal woman under too much pressure, she said, bringing Michelle’s words from lunch to mind. And it wasn’t like she’d put the MP3 player in the fridge – here it was right where it logically should be, with her active wear. So there. Not so silly. Not so mad. She hung it over her head and looped the long strand of wired earbuds around her neck. She patted it against her chest, glad to have Stuart so close and hugely relieved she hadn’t permanently misplaced it.
She went back to the kitchen to collect her keys and phone from the bench – Thank goodness I haven’t lost either of you yet! – and left the house.
At her gate she took a deep breath to steady herself against the fear that had gripped her yesterday at thinking she was being followed. But it wasn’t there today. Yay for that, she thought as she turned on her headset and set off. Her step was lighter thanks to the wine she’d consumed, but she was also a little unsteady on her feet. And then she almost tripped on the edge of a paver. Oops. She’d better take extra care.
As she walked, she thought about what Renee had said. She really liked the idea of doing makeup for clients with different needs and for more altruistic reasons than the usual vanity. There must be all sorts of people living in care who would benefit emotionally and mentally from having their makeup done – not just the elderly, but the disabled and those undergoing brain and physical rehabilitation. But while she didn’t want to be negative, she knew it was unlikely such positions would be paid. She liked the idea of volunteering on weekends to fill her time when she got herself back together and her head clearer. Meanwhile, looking into the transferrable skills she had and considering less obvious applications and job opportunities made sense. She’d never really thought about the fact that most of her job had been about selling – albeit in a much lower-key way than for most of the other counter staff.
So, sales, customer service? Really, Michelle was right; if you loved the product or even if you believed enough in it to be convincing, you could pretty much sell anything to anybody.
Chapter Fifteen
When she heard the doorbell, Erica double-checked the kitchen clock, which she’d swapped the battery in and set going again earlier that morning, and headed out to greet Steph and Boris. She was quite nervous about the responsibility of looking after the furry surrogate child. After a quick hug and standing aside to let Steph in with the carry box, they both brought in the other bags of stuff, which made Erica chuckle to herself; it was worse than all the gear kids had brought or taken for sleepovers.
‘Hello, Boris,’ Erica said, squatting down and peering through the grille at the front of the carry box to the curled-up mound of orange fur within.
‘He’s giving us the cold shoulder – unimpressed at being uprooted,’ Steph said.
‘Okay?’ Erica wondered what this meant. Would he come out hissing at her with claws extended? Ignore her and go and hide somewhere and not come out for the duration? God, what if he starved or died from dehydration? Oh god.
‘He’s fine: just got his nose out of joint.’
‘He’s not going to unleash his anger on me or anything, is he?’
‘Erica, come on, he’s a domestic cat, not a lion from Africa. He’ll sleep and eat and occasionally poo and wee. And when he’s not doing that, he’ll be looking for the next spot to curl up in or trying to con you into feeding him again.’
Erica was sure she’d heard all this before, but couldn’t remember. That was poor of her; to shut off when Steph talked about her pride and joy, but she did. It was a cat, for goodness’ sake. And through how many talks of sleeping, slumbering cuteness and photos was one expected to sit? She cringed. How many photos had she taken of the girls? They all did. And Boris was cute. She had to give him that.
‘I’ll just set up his things here out of the way,’ Steph said, when they’d brought Boris – still confined – and the bags through to the kitchen. She put an empty bowl down near the wall opposite the bench and then filled another with water at the sink and put it down beside the first while Erica watched on. ‘You just use this little scoop and take the bits out of the litter, okay? They clump – it’s the type of litter it is.’
Erica nodded and watched on. There was a lot to remember.
‘Okay if I put his litter tray just here?’ Steph said, going over to near the glass doors. ‘He won’t want it near his food, for obvious reasons.’
‘Yep that’s fine with me. Wherever suits you – and, er, him.’
‘Right. That’s all, I think,’ she said standing up after placing his plush round bed over at the end of the couch. ‘There are some toys in the bag to throw for him if you want and he’s roaming around looking bored. And a brush if you’re feeling brave.’
‘So, is he expecting me to cuddle him?’ Erica asked a few moments later when Steph had placed the carry box with Boris still in it by his food and water. Suddenly she really wasn’t sure she was up to this task.
‘Here, I’ve written everything down – feeding schedule, dos and don’ts. Other than that, you’ll know.’
I doubt that, Erica thought. ‘How?’
‘He’ll tell you.’
‘Tell me?’
‘Stop worrying. It’s going to be fine.’ But Erica sensed Steph was cooling on her choice of cat-sitter. She had a slightly concerned expression. ‘If he hops up on you, he wants a cuddle. If he doesn’t then he doesn’t. It’s instinctive, Erica,’ she added, sounding a little exasperated.
Um, not for me. ‘Got it. All good,’ she said, trying to stem Steph’s rising tension. She knew Steph so well. This anxiety was as much about leaving Boris as who she was leaving him with. And travelling. Steph hated going away from home. Always had. Erica remembered the numerous times her parents had had to drive her home in the middle of the night during a sleepover, the darkness and homesickness always drowning out her desire to be popular and have fun with others.
It’ll be fine, she told herself. When Steph’s gone, we’ll figure it out. But her insides were tangled with anxiety. God, what if she stuffed this up?
‘Okay, Boris. It’s only for a few days. Mummy will be back soon,’ Steph said, squatting down to open the door of the small cage. ‘Right, well … I’d better get home and pack,’ she added, bobbing back up. But she made no move to leave.
‘Do you want to have a cuppa before you go?’
‘No. Thanks, but I’d better … Fuck, is that the time?’ Erica followed Steph’s gaze around and up to the clock, which the immobile second told her had stopped. Again? Damn it. She hoped it wasn’t on its way out. That might break any repairs to her heart all over again. Erica checked her watch at the same time Steph pulled her phone out and released a deep sigh of relief.
‘Phew, scared the shit out of me.’
‘That’s annoying. I just changed the battery.’
‘Okay. I really have to go. God, I hate leaving him. Thanks for taking care of my boy.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’ I hope. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. Have fun.’
‘It’s a conference on tin-bloody-cans or something equally dull, Erica,’ Steph said sardonically, complete with eye-roll, and made her way from the kitchen into the hall towards the front door. Erica followed.
‘Just make su
re you don’t let Boris outside,’ Steph said when they were at the open front door, and reached past Erica to pull the screen door closed behind them both.
Oh crap. ‘Of course. Got it.’
‘Hey, any joy on the job hunt yet?’
‘Nope.’
‘Something will turn up. Okay. Gotta run. Good luck,’ Steph said, giving Erica a quick hug before bounding down the steps and onto the path. ‘Thanks. Bye. Oh, and just don’t make too much noise or sudden movement for a few hours if you can while he gets settled.’
Back inside, Erica made her way through to the kitchen to double-check the instructions for Boris, frowning up at the stopped clock.
‘Here kitty, kitty,’ she called. She thought about going and checking on him but hesitated. A part of her wanted to conquer him, and she felt bad about him potentially being scared and wanted to reassure him, but reluctantly she accepted he might rather be left to his own devices for a bit.
Erica itched to get the step stool out and change the battery in the clock, but thought she’d better not: the clunk and creak the steps made when being opened, set up and closed again might frighten Boris if he chose to come out. Instead, Erica took a cup of tea and her laptop to the lounge and searched the job sites, more to pass the time than out of any hope. There’d been zero jobs that completely fitted her experience and skill set or grabbed her interest earlier.
Erica noticed Boris was still in his carry box and squatted down and peered inside. ‘Are you going to come out and be sociable?’ she asked the big orange cat. She couldn’t tell if his expression – other than smug, because cats generally were smug, weren’t they? – was annoyed or sad or what. He stared back and then blinked. She wanted to reach in and give him a pat, let him know he was welcome and she was friendly. She’d met him plenty of times, but never in these circumstances. But as she did, she noticed his tail, which was wrapped around him, flick. She quickly withdrew her hand. Erica knew diddly squat about cats, but she did know a flicking tail signalled danger. She vaguely remembered Steph saying something about Boris having an expressive tail. Had she said he waved it around like a dog – when he was friendly, not just annoyed? She felt bad about the cat being in his box when he could stretch his legs and explore the whole house – well, part of it; she’d closed off the girls’ rooms and the study so nothing could get broken and Boris couldn’t get stuck or lost. A part of her didn’t quite trust that the cat wouldn’t show his displeasure by leaving a big wet yellow patch or several smelly brown logs somewhere outside of his litter tray to signal his disapproval. That was the other reason she’d kept him mainly to tiled areas. Not that it mattered if he wasn’t going to leave his carry box.
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