‘Yes, I’m fine. Don’t miss your bus. I’ll catch up with you later.’
Hearing their voices was enough.
Faye visits often. She brings home-made herbal teas and my favourite Rich Tea biscuits. Mostly, we sit on my bed and watch Poirot together.
‘You must have watched all these so many times, there can’t be any mystery left,’ Faye says. I remind her that for me, that’s the point.
Sam is giving me space, sleeping in the spare room, occasionally coming in to get clothes, to let daylight in and to ask if I want clean sheets. This might be a tactful, grown-up way of telling me I stink and that I should get up and have a shower. I ignore it.
Roisin video calls me from LA. Faye must have filled her in on what’s happened.
‘Are you faking this to get out of something?’ she asks, a familiar teasing tone in her voice. ‘I remember you always faked period cramps to get out of swimming at school.’
‘Yes. I’m faking amnesia to get out of work,’ I deadpan. ‘And childcare.’ She laughs, and I want to reach down the phone and hold her. Her laugh is just the same.
‘I’ll come and see you as soon as I’m back,’ she says, her voice softer now. ‘I’m sorry this is happening to you, babe.’ I wish she’d stuck to teasing because when Roisin starts taking something seriously, you know it really must be serious.
During the day, when everyone is out and I have the house to myself, I spend hours inspecting my face in the mirror, looking for signs that this might be temporary, that the real me might still be in there somewhere. These hours in front of the mirror don’t help my state of mind, especially when I find several chin hairs. Chin hairs! We’re not talking downy cheek fuzz here, we’re talking centimetre-long, wiry hair, like I’m a wizened old crone. Where did these come from? My neck is also upsetting me. The fine lines and wrinkles I can cope with, but my neck resembles a tent without enough tent poles, the tautness is gone. I experiment with pulling the skin up and back, searching for the familiar contours.
A youthful body, where everything looks fine without trying, is something I realise I took for granted. I’ve never done regular workouts, or eaten particularly healthily, but in my twenty-six-year-old body, I could always jump out of bed, even with a hangover. My face looked fresh enough without make-up and all my muscles worked exactly how I needed them to. Now, when I wake up, it’s not pain exactly, but there’s a feeling of needing to ‘get myself going’。 There’s a stiffness in my back, my brain takes a minute to fully engage with the day. Being constantly in bed is probably not helping, but the thought that I might never feel young and sprightly again makes me want to cry. I do cry, a lot. For Zoya, for the years I’ve lost, for the contours of my jaw.
And I know, if this was a film, I’d be complaining, ‘I did not like the main character, she was self-absorbed and defeatist and spent far too much time crying in bed. I was looking for more of a “get-up-and-go” heroine.’ And even though no one, not even Sam or Faye, is privy to the level of self-pity I have sunk to, I judge myself and my lack of resilience. Yet, I can’t stop. All I want is to be left alone to eat Twix bars in my pity cave.
Twix bars are now smaller, which is also upsetting me.
I think it’s the fifth day of my bed-bound pity party when Faye comes into my room and opens the curtains.
‘I think you should get up, Lucy. This isn’t helping, you need daylight.’ I respond by putting a pillow over my head and groaning. ‘Alex and Barney are downstairs. Why don’t you come and say hello? They want to see you.’
Meeting Faye’s husband is the last thing I feel capable of.
‘I don’t think I’d make a good impression,’ I mumble, head still beneath the pillow.
‘Hey, Lucy,’ says a voice at the door, and I look up to see a woman with long black braids and large dark eyes, standing in the doorway with a baby in her arms.
‘Who’s this?’ I ask Faye in confusion.
‘Alex, my wife,’ Faye says, dipping her head.
‘Your wife? You’re a lesbian? Since when?’ I throw away the pillow and sit bolt upright in bed.
‘Oh right, you don’t remember that part,’ Faye says.
‘I’ll give you both a minute,’ Alex says, shooting me a sympathetic look before heading back down the corridor with her gurgling son.
Faye sits on the end of my bed, her eyes downcast, her hands clasped in her lap.
‘Since when did you like women?’ I ask, and she looks to the ceiling.
‘Part of me always thought I might, but I never met a woman I wanted to be with,’ Faye says, her eyes crinkling into a smile. ‘And then I met Alex on this upholstery course, and it was like everything that had been missing in my life just clicked into place.’
‘Why didn’t you ever tell me that you were into upholstery?’
Faye gives me an amused look. ‘I don’t know. Everyone discovers themselves at different times.’ She frowns. ‘She’s going to be upset that you don’t remember her. I should go see if she’s okay.’
‘Should I come and apologise?’ I ask, but Faye shakes her head. ‘I’m happy for you, Faye. I’m sorry I didn’t say the right thing. Just when I think I understand how everything is different, something else changes.’ I wave an arm in her direction.
‘I haven’t changed, Lucy. I just met someone and fell in love.’ Faye reaches out to stroke my hair. ‘Why don’t you have a shower, get dressed. We could all go for a walk together. The crocuses are out, it’s a glorious day.’
‘Maybe tomorrow.’
‘You can’t hide up here forever. You’re going to have to face life eventually.’ She turns at the door, then says more firmly, ‘People need you, Lucy.’
Once Faye has gone, I try to quell a nagging sense of guilt by picking up my phone. There’s a new message from Michael.
Lucy, I know you’re not well, but we really need to talk. The pitch off is only three weeks away, and I haven’t even heard your idea. Is there anything you can send over? Anything the team can be working on in your absence? M.
Pitch off? A new hum of anxiety sets in. I shut my phone in the bedside drawer and pull the duvet back over my head.
Someone nudges me awake, and I open my eyes to see Sam sitting on the bed beside me, picking up my book, which has fallen on the floor. ‘Lucy, come on. The doctor said you needed rest, but this isn’t healthy. At least come downstairs for a meal with the kids.’ He pauses, his eyes full of concern. ‘Do you even know what day it is?’
‘Wednesday?’
‘It’s Friday, Lucy.’
‘I’m just so tired. I’ve got this terrible headache.’ Both these things are true. Though mainly because I stayed up all night reading Breaking Dawn, and googling ‘When did Twix bars get so small?’ so I’m out of sync with the world.
Sam’s jaw clenches, as he reaches out to feel my forehead.
‘Please just let me sleep,’ I say, already exhausted by this conversation.
It might be the following morning when I wake to a small knock on my door.