“Please let me join.” To my horror, I feel a tear trickling down my cheek. “My life’s all gone a bit pear-shaped. I’ll knit vests. I’ll sing hymns. Sweep the floor.” I swallow hard and rub my face. “Whatever it takes. Please.”
For a minute Sister Agnes is silent. Then she sighs again, this time a bit more kindly.
“Perhaps you’d like to sit quietly in the chapel,” she suggests. “And then perhaps you could ask a friend to come and take you home? You seem a little … overwrought.”
“My friends are all at work,” I explain. “I don’t want to bother them. But maybe I will sit in the chapel, just for a little while. Thank you.”
I follow Sister Agnes tamely to the chapel, which is small and dark and silent, with a big silver cross. I sit on one of the benches, looking up at the stained-glass windows, feeling a bit surreal. If I don’t become a nun, what will I do with myself?
Apply for another job, obviously, says a lackluster voice in my head. Sort my life out.
But I’m so tired. I’m just so tired. I feel like I’m skating over life because I can’t get traction. If only I weren’t so tired all the time—
“… quite bizarre!” A strident voice makes me stiffen, and I swivel round on my bench, my skin prickling. No. I’m imagining things. That can’t be—
“I do appreciate you contacting us, Sister Agnes.”
It is. It’s Joanne. Her voice is getting nearer, and I can hear the sound of footsteps coming this way.
“At Zoose, I must assure you, we do prioritize well-being, so I am rather surprised that any of our employees should be distressed.…”
That nun is a traitor. This place was supposed to be a sanctuary! I’m already on my feet, looking desperately for an escape, but there’s no way out. In panic, I duck behind a wooden statue of Mary, just as Sister Agnes and Joanne appear at the door to the chapel, like a pair of prison wardens.
The chapel is quite dim. Maybe I’ll get away with it. I suck my stomach in, holding my breath.
“Sasha,” says Joanne after a pause. “We can see you quite clearly. Now, I know you’re in a bit of a state. But why don’t you come back to the office and we’ll have a little talk?”
“Don’t think so,” I say curtly, stepping out from behind the statue. “Thanks a lot,” I add sarcastically to Sister Agnes. And I’m striding past them both, out of the chapel, when Joanne grabs my arm.
“Sasha, you really must prioritize your own well-being,” she says sweetly, her fingers clamped round my flesh so tightly I know I’ll bruise. “You know we all care about you very much, but you need to look after yourself! I suggest you come back with me now and we’ll look at your aspirations mood board—”
“Get off!” I wrench my arm out of hers and walk briskly away down the wood-paneled corridor, then break into a run, suddenly desperate to get out of this place.
“Catch her! She’s unstable!” exclaims Joanne to a nearby nun, who looks startled, then makes a swipe for my sleeve but misses.
Seriously? OK, I am never taking refuge in a convent again. With a spurt of adrenaline, I hurtle to the front door, wrench it open, and make it out onto the street. I glance back as I run—and to my horror, Sister Agnes is hurrying after me in her cords and trainers, her blue veil fluttering behind her like some sort of miniature superhero cape.
“Stop!” she calls. “Dear, we only want to help you!”
“No, you don’t!” I yell back.
I’ve reached a group of people clogging up the pavement at the bus stop, and frantically I try to push past. “Sorry,” I say breathlessly, almost tripping on feet and bags. “Excuse me …”
“Stop!” calls Sister Agnes again, her voice like a clarion. “Come back!”
I look back again and feel a jolt of horror. She’s only a few feet behind me now, and gaining.
“Please!” I say desperately, trying to dodge through the bus queue. “Let me by! I need to get away from that nun!”
A burly guy in jeans glances at me, then at Sister Agnes—then he sticks out his arm to block her path.
“Leave her alone!” he bellows at Sister Agnes. “Maybe she doesn’t want to be a nun, thought of that? Bloody religious nutters!” Then he turns to me. “You get away, girl. You run!”
“Run!” chimes in a nearby girl, laughing. “Run for your life!”
Run for my life. That’s what it feels like. My heart pumping, I pick up speed and get through the crowd. Now I’m sprinting along the pavement with only one aim: to escape. Get away from … everything. I have no idea where I’m heading, apart from away … away …
And then, with no warning, everything goes black.
Three
The humiliation. The humiliation of your mum being called away from a viewing of a four-bedroom semi in Bracknell because you had a flip-out at work and ran straight into a brick wall.
I’ll swear that wall came out of nowhere. I’ll swear that corner didn’t used to be there. One minute I was running as though wildebeest were after me, then next minute I was on the ground with people staring down at me and blood trickling into my eye.
Now it’s five hours later. I’ve been released from A&E and my forehead is still sore. I’ve also had a “chat” with my GP over the phone. I explained the whole story and she listened quietly and asked me a load of questions about my mood and thoughts and sleep patterns. Then she said, “I think you would do well to have a break,” and signed me off work for three weeks. It turns out I get a week’s sick leave at full pay, so that’s a silver lining.
“But then what?” I look despairingly at Mum, who came to the hospital and escorted me back home in an Uber. “I’m in a lose–lose. If I go back to the office: nightmare. But if I just walk out like Lina, I’ll be unemployed. Nightmare.”
“You’re burned out, darling.” Mum puts a cool hand on mine. “You need to think about getting better. For now, don’t make any big decisions about your job. Just rest and relax. Then worry about everything else.”
She sits down, hitching up her tailored work trousers and glancing at her Apple watch as she does so. Mum became an estate agent after Dad died, and it suits her down to the ground, because it’s basically one big authorized gossip. “The vendors spent a thousand pounds on the kitchen splashbacks alone.” Or “The couple require a master bedroom with soundproofing capability.” She gets paid to relay nuggets like that. I mean, she’d do it for free.
“I had a little word with that hospital doctor,” Mum continues. “Very sensible woman. She said she thought you needed a proper, complete rest. It’s social media I blame,” she adds darkly.
“Social media?” I peer at her. “I hardly ever go on social media. I don’t have time.”
“Modern pressures,” reiterates Mum firmly. “Instagram. TikTok.”
“I will just say one word,” says my aunt Pam, coming in with three cups of tea. She pauses meaningfully. “Menopause.”
Oh my God. Save me now. Pam recently became a menopause coach, and she’s obsessed. “I don’t think it’s the menopause,” I say politely. “I’m only thirty-three.”