I didn’t realize I was yelling or that I’m now on my feet.
“I’m sorry,” the woman on the phone says. “I understand this is a difficult time for—”
“Oh, my condolences,” I tell her. “Is your dad dead, too?”
“Well, no.”
“So where the fuck is your understanding coming from?” I ask. “You don’t get to say you understand in a poor attempt to shut me up. What’s taking so long on your side to fucking do this? Is it technical difficulties? Do you want to call us back when you have your shit together?”
“Maddie! That’s enough!”
I turn back to Mum and blink. I wipe my eyes but they won’t dry. “I can’t do this,” I tell them both. “Get James to help you finish. It’ll be the first thing either of you’ve done for Dad in months. Posthumous—just your style.”
Mum’s face falls.
I flee the house. As I speed-walk, ignoring the sweat dampening my shirt, I look up the train departure times; mine is due in four minutes and it usually takes me seven to get there. So I start to run. The one after is in half an hour, and I can’t wait around for that long. I need the train to get me away from here now.
I run until my lungs sting and my legs cramp, but I make it, jumping into the nearest carriage only a second before the doors slide shut. I let out a breath of relief that happens to be a suppressed sob.
Thankfully no one’s in the flat when I get back. I run up the stairs and scream into my pillow. After, I go into the bathroom and place a damp towel onto my face; I press it down until it’s heavy and smothering. It’s not easy to breathe and I wonder if the reduced air will eventually suffocate me. Death by hot-pink facecloth. Some latent survival instinct is what has me remove my hand and lift the cloth.
Mum LONDON
I’m here for you Maame
I know you are sad and angry. But don’t be angry with me please. We have to stick together during this terrible time
Chapter Twenty-six
It’s quickly agreed that of the six-thousand-pound funeral bill, I’ll put in three, leaving my savings account completely empty. Mum and James say they can only pull together one thousand each and Uncle Freddie and Auntie Mabel one thousand combined.
It’s hard to see the money go, to no longer have a financial safety net, and I cry about it. Then I wipe my face and get on with folding my laundry because he’s my dad and I have the money, so there’s nothing else to be done. James called to apologize, to say he was sorry he couldn’t give more and that it was up to me again. He said he thought he’d have more time to help with Dad. I cut the conversation off there because the way I see it, apologies only benefit the beggar. They get a clear conscience, and I get a sequence of hollow words incapable of changing anything.
Someone knocks on the door and I discover I’m home alone when it goes unanswered. I ask who it is and a man says, “Oh, it’s Sam?”
“You don’t sound sure.”
He laughs. “It’s Sam. I promise.”
I open the door and there stands a tall Black man with an incredible smile.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “You must be Maddie.”
“You’re Sam? Jo’s Sam?”
He lifts his mouth to the side.
“Sorry,” I rush. “Jo’s ex-Sam. Ex-boyfriend. Casually.”
Shit.
“Yes, that’s me. She didn’t tell you I was coming?”
We’re not really on speaking terms. “She must have forgotten.”
He holds up his phone. “She says she’s on her way. Mind if I come in?”
That’s when I remember he’s been here before. I heard him with Jo in her bedroom only weeks ago. They used to be just friends, but then became friends who have sex. I wonder how you get there—what’s the uncertain in between?
No, you can’t ask him.
“Of course.” I move out of the way and nod. “Want to wait in her room—no, that’s probably a bad idea. All the memories. Of conversations you shared, I mean!”
He presses his lips together before saying, “Living room’s fine.”
He takes a seat on the sofa and when he leans forward to tighten the laces on his trainers his knees are almost the height of his chest.
“Okay, well, I’ll leave—”
“You work for OTP, right?” he suddenly says. “Jo mentioned.”
“Oh, yes, I do.” I play with my neck because I haven’t got a bra on.
“How are you finding the place?”
“It’s … good. Sorry, how do you know about OTP? People outside of publishing tend to blank when I mention it. Wait, Jo did say you’re an artist?”
He smiles. “I prefer the term ‘illustrator.’”
I don’t know what that preference says about him, but he continues to look at me, so I sit on the other side of the sofa. “Have you submitted samples to OTP?”
“Not yet, but my agent alerted me to the fact that someone there has been asking after my schedule. Thea?”
“I know her!” I then think of the milk jug. “Kind of, but I know she only approaches people she’s really interested in.”
“That’s good to know.”
We sit in silence and I wonder if I should excuse myself and how. He’s still looking at me and there’s a slight dip between his eyebrows. I don’t get the impression he’s frowning.
“Jo also mentioned you lost your dad recently.” He says this quietly and his eyes have changed. He looks genuinely sorry for me, which I find odd because he doesn’t even know me. “I’m so sorry.”
I mentally pull out my short list of acceptable Google-provided responses, but before I can pick one, his phone vibrates.
“Probably Jo.” He reads the message, but then rolls his eyes, laughing to himself.
“She’s running late?” I ask.
“What? No, that was a text from my mum.”
“Your mum texts you, too?” I realize quickly how weird a thing that is to say. All mums text their children.
“Yeah, my mum’s…” He frowns and shakes his head. “You don’t want to hear about my mum texting me.”
“No, I do!” I say before I can help myself. “My mum…”
Is this a weird conversation to have with someone I’ve never met before today? But he’s listening with his head tilted and his eyebrows raised.
“My mum sends me texts that make me roll my eyes. Lovingly. Sometimes. Not often.” I wave a hand dismissively. “All mums do, I guess.”
Sam considers me. “My mum isn’t like other mums,” he says slowly. “I told her I was coming here today, and she asked if I’d prayed for guidance. She’s not Jo’s biggest fan. I know!” he says, clocking my expression. “I’m almost thirty.” He puts his phone away. “My mum’s … my mum.”
Then there’s a key in the door. “Sam?” Jo is back. Her cheeks are flushed pink and she’s fixing her hair. “Oh, Maddie.” It’s both a question and a statement.
I excuse myself and the living room door closes when I’m halfway up the stairs.