During the last month and a half, I’d never had so many invitations. In between redoing my steps, I’d helped Murdo paint his new flat, spent an auntie-and-niece afternoon with Holly （manicure, volunteering）， got sunburnt on a chilli cook-out with Brianna and her neighbours, had a glorious weekend of Atlantic squalls and dazzling sunshine with Brigit and tried a woodcarving class with Margaret. （It wasn’t for either of us.）
Despite my many activities, I was lonely. But it was my doing. No one had made me sleep with Luke.
And I wasn’t broken the way I’d been when Luke had left me, six years ago.
‘Rachel,’ Claire said as she strode up the side of a hill, ‘no matter what you think, your life isn’t over. You probably won’t be alone forever.’
‘I’m not alone. I love lots of people and they love me.’
‘Yeah, but …’ She hesitated. ‘Nieces? Sisters? People you work with?’ She shook her head. ‘Nah.’
‘For a so-called feminist, you’ve some worrying ideas.’
‘Just being honest, saying what everyone else thinks but is afraid to. Equal pay? Thanks very much. Ridey men? Thanks, I’ll have them as well. What about Murdo? He’s single now. That’s why he moved into the new apartment.’
‘Leave poor Murdo out of this. Anyway, my life has no room for men.’ Tongue-in-cheek, I said, ‘I’m doing work on myself.’
‘I know you’re being funny, but, Rachel, what exactly does that mean? I hear people say it and, honestly, I haven’t a clue.’
‘It means I must feel my uncomfortable feelings and not numb them.’
‘But what’s the actual “work”？’
‘Feeling the feelings is the work.’
‘It’s that passive? They always make it sound like they’re, I dunno, rummaging around inside themselves, moving their spleen two millimetres to the left, having a good look at their pancreas. Not numb my feelings? That’s easy!’
Not for everyone. She was gas.
‘What age is Murdo?’ she asked.
‘Too young.’
‘Does that mean you fancy him?’
‘I don’t.’ Murdo could have been sexy, I didn’t know – because he had those giant pierced earlobes, so big you could pass a carrot through. They were immediate dealbreakers.
Thoughtfully, Claire said, ‘My Spidey senses tell me that if you went to Quin and grovelled, he’d probably take you back.’
‘And he could just as easily have got married to Golden. Or met someone else. He probably hates me.’
‘Do you hate him?’
‘No.’ At her quizzical look I said, ‘I feel almost … sorry for him.’
‘For Quin?’
‘Claire. I know he seems confident and, I guess, privileged? In some ways he is. But in others, he’s insecure, he’s easily wounded. I don’t hate him at all.’
‘Even though he slept with your one with the red face?’
‘That was … hard. But hurt people hurt people.’
She shook her head. ‘Christ, Rachel … I’d want to fucking kill him.’
Speaking of which … ‘How are things with you and Adam?’
Claire paused, one hefty hiking boot planted on a rock for stability, and smiled. ‘Me and Adam … yeaaaah. He’s …’ Another dreamy smile. ‘Great.’
‘So you don’t hate him any more?’
Sharply, she said, ‘I love him.’
God’s sake! It was impossible to keep up.
‘It wasn’t for us, the swinging,’ she said. ‘Things were quite dicey there for a while. But we’re back on track – sex three times a year – and at least we tried.’
84
The next morning, it wasn’t even 7 a.m. when I woke. A Sunday, I’d a busy day planned: first a sunrise yoga class, then an NA meeting, then Margaret’s birthday brunch, even though we shouldn’t call it ‘brunch’， Claire said, because what were we, a Shower of Basics?
While I pulled on my yoga leggings （which were the same as all my other leggings）， I went to the bedroom window and once again looked down at Yara’s tree. ‘Bloom,’ I begged her. ‘Please. What is taking you so long?’
Suddenly it hit me that I’d made peace with not having had other children.
It was the gardening, I realized. Over the past few years, those long hours where I’d been fixed in one place, with no distractions from my own thoughts, paying witness to life, death and a form of resurrection, had forced me to grieve, then eventually – slowly, gradually – to heal.