The World at My Feet

by Catherine Isaac

  ‘Ellie, stop that immediately,’ she’d snapped. ‘There is not a word of truth to that. Not one.’

  I rolled my eyes. Shook my head. Snorted.

  ‘Why are you saying this?’ she said, almost growling with exasperation. She put her hands in the sockets of her eyes and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Ellie, I am proud of you. I’m proud of everything you’ve ever done. The same is just as true now that you are a grown woman as it was when you were a little girl.’

  My thoughts were snapped back to the treatment room by another question from Colette. ‘What about any friends?’ she asked.

  ‘Jo was kind of aware of it. My best friend from school.’

  ‘Was she supportive?’

  ‘Yes, at first. She did all she could. Jo was a lovely person, but ultimately it all proved too hard to explain – or too big to explain. She found my behaviour frustrating. I have no doubt it was – I had tried to be a good friend but turned out to be a crappy one. I couldn’t ever really convey to her that the way I acted was not something I had control over.’

  ‘Are you still in touch with Jo?’

  ‘No.’

  She wrote something down on her notepad. ‘You said earlier that this doesn’t happen when you’re at home. That’s why you haven’t been out much lately.’

  ‘Well, it happens in my room at uni, but never at my family home. I’m always fine there. I’m always better. I feel like myself.’

  ‘You must have found it difficult to come here today then?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘But you still got here. No panic attacks.’

  ‘True, but I was afraid the whole time. I won’t relax until I get back. No offence, but that really is the only place where I feel normal.’

  She held my gaze momentarily. ‘The problem is, that by retreating to your home and staying there, you’re only relieving the anxiety, not confronting it. By staying inside, you’re reinforcing the association between going out and panic attacks. That only makes it worse.’

  I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes.

  ‘But, Ellie, and this is important,’ she said, leaning onto her elbows, ‘this is something that you can overcome.’

  The expression on her face was one of utter conviction. It said, I’ve seen this before a hundred times and you are going to be just fine.

  ‘I think we should begin with a course of CBT. It will initially involve a little homework,’ she continued, taking a document from her folder and handing it to me. ‘Perhaps you could fill this in before our next session.’

  There was another list of questions on a single A4 sheet. The first one was: ‘What do you think caused your agoraphobia?’

  Chapter 18

  I reach out and grip the gate, but when I shut my eyes to try and compose myself, my mind closes in on itself. A fuzzy sound rises in my ears and I register the slam of a car door.

  ‘Hi there!’

  It’s Jamie, cheerful and oblivious to my distress as he marches to the back of the van. I press the ball of my hand against my cheek and brush away a sticky mess of tears as he approaches. It does not go unnoticed. His steps slow, his expression shifts and he lowers a tray of bedding plants to the ground, at a speed that is proportionally slower the wider his eyes become.

  ‘Sorry,’ he half-coughs, though he clearly doesn’t know what his apology is for.

  ‘’S fine.’

  He turns away, mutters something about another part of the delivery and returns to the van. All I want to do is run, but the better option is to just see this through, hold myself together long enough for him to complete the delivery and go.

  ‘Shall I… just put these on the patio?’ he asks awkwardly, returning with another box. I gesture for him to go straight through as I hang back, my arms crossed. But the more I think about not crying, the more pressure begins to build in my face. He returns, looks at me and hovers.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I inhale deeply. ‘Yes, thanks.’ It comes out not as fully formed words, but a sob. I turn and hurry to the annexe, my feet almost tripping over themselves until I’m inside. I close the door behind me, submitting to the relief of tears.

  A few moments later, the rattle of an engine starts up outside as I kick off my shoes and sink into the sofa, pressing a cushion into my face. I stay there for a minute or two, perhaps longer; I decide that I need a cigarette. I get up and go to rummage for one in the kitchen, intending to lean out of my bedroom window and savour every toxic drag.

  I have my hand on top of the cupboard, when there’s a knock on the front door.

  ‘Shit!’ I freeze, juddering like I’ve been caught shoplifting in my own home. The thought racing through my head is that Mum has returned home from London early, where she was meeting a producer from Newsnight for lunch. I sniff myself straight but realise it’s more likely that Jamie hasn’t left yet after all.

  I drift to the door and open it, to find him on the step, filling most of the frame. His forehead is pink from the sun and a smattering of freckles has appeared over the bridge of his nose, making him look more like the kid I remember from school than ever before. The homely, chemical scent of fabric conditioner rises from his T-shirt and his hair carries a glisten of fresh sweat.

  ‘Forgot to get your signature I’m afraid,’ he says.

  I take the machine from him, and as I’m signing my name feel an unstoppable urge to try to explain the unexplainable. ‘Look, about before,’ I begin. ‘I just have some stuff going on at the moment, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says stiffly.

  I hand it back to him and nod. ‘Bye then,’ I say.

  ‘Yep. See you next time.’

  He goes to walk away, but stops and turns around. ‘This is none of my business but… why don’t you call a friend? Get someone to come over. It always helps.’

  I swallow, feeling mortified. ‘My sister is at a conference in Frankfurt,’ I reply, as it occurs to me that he assumes I have a support network beyond immediate family. My eyes drift to the floor. ‘But, yeah. I’ll call someone.’

  I wonder briefly if I’d ever be able to reach out to the people I know from Instagram. I call them friends without ever really delving into the meaning of the word. Until this moment I’d always told myself that a relationship is no poorer simply because it began online. But suddenly the idea of having a heart to heart with anyone I’ve met through my page feels ridiculous.

  ‘Take care then.’ He steps back and I click the door shut, hearing his footsteps fade down the path. I scramble with the lock to open up again.

  ‘Jamie?’

  He turns and a crease appears above his nose.

  ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

  * * *

  I lean on the door frame and replace my nicotine patch with a fresh one, as Jamie sits at the patio table, drinking from a mug.

  ‘I gave up smoking recently,’ I explain. ‘I nearly caved in just then and had one.’

  ‘Ah. Another thing I interrupted. Sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m glad. I’d have regretted it.’ I look up and sigh. ‘I feel a bit embarrassed about the state I was in at the gate before.’

  ‘Ah, don’t worry about it. Girls are always bursting into tears around me.’

  I snort. ‘I’m sure.’

  He lowers his cup, serious now. ‘You know, if you can’t talk about it with a friend, it goes without saying that you could talk now, if you want. I know we hardly know each other but, sometimes that’s better. You know, the way people in movies always share their troubles with a barman.’

  ‘But you’re not a barman…’

  ‘I was once.’

  ‘Really? Did lots of people confide in you?’

  He thinks for a moment. ‘Not one, now you mention it.’

  I smile. ‘Thanks for the offer but I really couldn’t.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ he says. ‘I have to remind myself sometimes that not everyone was brought up in a household like ours.’
r />   ‘What was that like?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, having a stiff upper lip was not allowed. If you had a problem, you had to get it out right there, on the table, so everyone could discuss it in detail and come up with a solution.’

  ‘God, that sounds awful. Weren’t you allowed the odd secret?’

  He laughs. ‘Are you kidding? I was outnumbered. There was my mum, my sister and me – the only male. MI5 couldn’t have kept anything from them.’

  ‘Do you get on well with your sister?’

  ‘We do now, but not when we were younger. She was two years older so thought of me with the kind of affection you might reserve for a boil on the bum. Still, living in an otherwise female household was insightful in some ways.’

  It occurs to me that talking to a virtual stranger about this stuff would certainly, paradoxically, be easier than talking to my family, with all their expectations and knowledge of everything that’s happened to me.

  ‘Okay then. You asked for it. Where do I begin?’

  When I pause, unable to speak, he raises his eyebrows expectantly.

  ‘I’m… screwed up,’ I say.

  He takes a long, contemplative breath. ‘Well, that does sound like a pretty terminal case.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘You need to stop joking around here. I’m absolutely serious.’

  His features soften. ‘I’m not dismissing whatever it is you’re going through, just to make that clear. But “screwed up”? Are you sure you’re not just finding life a bit hard at the moment? Lots of people do at times.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, what’s the quote: “You’re mad. Bonkers. Off your head. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are.”’

  ‘I wouldn’t have had you down as an Alice in Wonderland fan,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, you know it? My niece’s favourite book. I bought her an illustrated edition when she was about five and I’ve read it to her more times than I could tell you.’

  ‘How old is she now?’ I ask.

  ‘Nearly thirteen, so she’s grown out of picture books altogether, which is a bit sad. It was nice having someone who thought I was a superstar when she saw my name on a front cover.’

  I move towards the patio table and sit down opposite him. ‘What do you mean?’

  It turns out that delivering garden supplies to Green Fingers customers in the Buckinghamshire area is not Jamie’s only job. His career – his passion – is illustrating children’s books.

  ‘I’m freelance now and the work can be intermittent, hence the fact that I’ve had to take on the delivery job. I worked in the art department of a big publishing house for the best part of ten years, until… for one reason or another, I had to leave.’

  ‘Very mysterious,’ I say, noting his careful phrasing. ‘Had to leave? You were sacked, weren’t you?’

  ‘No.’ He laughs. ‘My mum was unwell.’

  I straighten up. ‘Gosh. Sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ he insists quickly. ‘Gemma – that’s my sister – was going through a divorce at the time. Very messy. Her ex was a dickhead. It felt as though the whole family was imploding. Anyway, there was a redundancy package on offer and the idea was that I’d take it and become self-employed so I could also look after Mum.’

  ‘And has it been successful, the work you have had published?’

  ‘Now you mention it, I’ve had a number one bestseller…’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘In Sweden,’ he adds.

  ‘Sweden? Well, that’s brilliant. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s nice,’ he shrugs. ‘Though Sweden is a pretty small market, to be fair. Hence the fact that I’m still delivering compost for a living.’

  ‘Well, if I were to choose a place to be a number one bestseller, it would definitely be Sweden. This is the country that produced ABBA, after all. And Ingrid Bergman – and the Nobel prize.’

  ‘Don’t forget the IKEA Billy bookshelf,’ he adds.

  ‘Exactly. Culturally, Sweden is where it’s at.’

  He takes a sip of his tea and we fall silent. ‘It’s nice to see you smiling.’

  I nod. ‘It’s nice to smile.’

  ‘Though we have digressed…’

  I look up self-consciously. It’s been such a long time since I’ve talked to anyone about this who wasn’t family or a therapist that for a moment I think I’m not going to be able to do it. Yet, when I start talking, it feels surprisingly easy. ‘You’ve heard of agoraphobia, right?’

  ‘Fear of open spaces?’

  ‘It can be, and also crowds or travelling. But for me it’s simply fear that comes on when I leave home.’

  ‘Is that why you looked so unhappy when you went to look for Gertie?’

  ‘I hadn’t left here in quite a long time before that day.’

  ‘How long?’ he asks.

  I swallow. ‘Two years.’

  His shock is instantly visible. ‘Shit.’

  ‘I told you,’ I say, tapping my temple with my forefinger. ‘Screwed up.’

  ‘No. Not at all,’ he says emphatically, then he falls silent for a moment. ‘So how does that work? I mean, don’t you have to go out sometimes? What about to buy stuff, or if you’re sick or… I don’t know, there must be other things.’

  ‘Not really. You can do anything online these days. Order food, clothes, plants, see a doctor, run a business. There’s never been a better time to be a nutcase.’ I grin. ‘You know what, I’d become reconciled to my life here. I’ve been happy, generally. Then I met someone through Instagram. We’ve been seeing each other… and I really like him. I mean, a lot.’

  ‘He’s a good guy then?’

  ‘He’s wonderful,’ I say emphatically. ‘Only, I haven’t told him about this issue yet.’

  ‘Ah. And I guess he wants to take you dancing?’

  The phrase makes me smile. ‘I’m not sure he’s the take me dancing kind of guy. But he definitely wants to go out.’

  ‘What’s the possibility of you giving that a go?’

  ‘It makes me want to regurgitate my lunch,’ I say. ‘Which I think you’ll agree would not be a good start to any date.’

  He runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Wow. Yes, I can see why you’re concerned about this. Relationships are complicated enough.’

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

  ‘Not at the moment. I was living with someone who I’d been seeing for a few years. We were hoping to buy a place together but then events took over. We split up when I moved back here.’

  There’s something about his expression that suggests it was her choice, rather than his. ‘That sucks.’

  ‘Yeah. It happens. But, moving home for a while was the right thing to do.’

  ‘And how is your mum these days?’

  He looks at his hands briefly then says: ‘She died at the start of March. So, I was glad I left London. I made the right decision, because it meant I got to spend a bit of time with her beforehand.’

  I press my fingers of both hands to my mouth. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. We’re all doing okay most of the time. Grief is a weird thing though, isn’t it? Sometimes you think you’ve pulled yourself together then the smallest thing can set you off. The other day, it was walking past the toiletries aisle in Marks and Spencer and a woman her age was buying the same peach hand lotion she loved. It just undid me.’

  ‘Oh, Jamie. You did a really good thing,’ I tell him, but he pulls a face as if it was unworthy of this description, then looks at his watch.

  ‘I think I’d better get going. Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘Thanks for the chat,’ I say.

  He picks up the keys to his van. ‘Sorry I didn’t really come up with a solution to your problem.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry – nobody has. I enjoyed the cuppa though.’

  He smiles. ‘Yeah, me too.’

  Chapter 19

  I haven’t always been the way I am.
There were long periods when the more intense panic attacks of my early teens almost disappeared, hidden out of sight. Attributing them to my hormones seemed reasonable, because by sixth form I was doing pretty well for myself.

  It was around that time that I got my first boyfriend, Jo and I went on an exchange visit to Madrid, my cross-country running fizzled out while I concentrated on my A levels, but I still volunteered at an old people’s home on Saturday mornings – which had begun as something to put on my CV, but that I thoroughly enjoyed in the event. I found it rewarding and I liked the residents there, who were an endless source of good humour and anecdotes.

  By the time it came to leave school, Jo and I said goodbye to the two other members of our group – Helen went to Southampton and Isabel to LSE – while we both won places at Bristol University, me to study History, her Law. Until that point, I’d felt so completely on her wavelength that I could never have imagined what was to come.

  When we arrived at Bristol, Jo wanted to suck up everything that was to be had from a university experience. Her brother Chris depicted his own time there as a long round of parties, friends and getting hammered. She wanted the same, ideally emerging with more than a third like him. In theory I shared her desire to embrace life as an undergraduate, to meet new people and make memories, but when I got there, I slowly began to feel myself retreating from it.

  There was also something about the ferocity of Jo’s approach to the first term – the way she’d manically sign up to obscure political societies and sports clubs and every gate-crashed party in Freshers’ week – that left my nerves jangling. I tagged along with her at first, but when it didn’t slow down, I’d make excuses, tell her I had to finish an assignment as she went off on another night out, meaning that I was left alone in digs that I despised, praying that my roommate Carolina would be out.

  My issue at university was absolutely not with Jo though. Not at all. With hindsight, I don’t think I was fully prepared to embrace the realities of communal living, not by that stage in my life. If this makes me sound like a snob, then you’ll have to take my word that this is far from the case. All I can say about the hall of residence I ended up in was this: I could not stand it.