It didn’t take long to pack up my empty life into a couple of suitcases and the boot of my car. Friday evening, Linda dropped off the bulk of Karina’s things, and the following morning we switched the room over.
I’m sure that leaving home, saying goodbye to the woman who raised you is always an emotional occasion.
When I finally said goodbye through a bedroom door that had remained locked the whole time I’d been ferrying boxes down the stairs, the emotions included anger, guilt and more than a little relief, in amongst the stress and sadness.
‘Are you absolutely sure about this?’ I asked Karina, as she handed me a tissue to wipe my tears. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind.’
‘She’ll have to come out eventually.’ Karina patted my arm. ‘I’ll let you know.’
‘Give us a ring once you’re settled.’ My aunty pulled me into the giant hug that my mother should have given. ‘Now, go and make those dreams of yours come true. And no looking back!’
I did look back. As I left the house. When I reached my car door. Once I’d backed out, I paused and pretended to be fiddling with my satnav for an achingly long minute.
When I finally knew she wasn’t coming, I switched my gaze to the road ahead, turned up my Dream Life playlist and did my very best to keep on going.
5
It was Thursday before I had my big breakthrough. The week had been a hodgepodge of anxiety, guilt and unbridled joy that seemed to flip at the slightest thing. Sleeping alone was taking some getting used to – my new bed wasn’t arriving until the weekend, so for now I was camping out on the sofa, and it was disconcertingly quiet away from the constant rumbling of the city. I wasn’t afraid but I was alert. Being the sole person responsible for locking the doors, popping to get more milk or deciding what to do in the evening was a strange, new world. It reminded me of the bridesmaid dress I’d worn for Steph’s wedding – I absolutely loved it, but at the same time it felt uncomfortable and far too sophisticated for me.
I’d sat on the kitchen doorstep to sip a black tea before leaving for work each morning, and ventured into the forest for a short walk every evening. My head buzzed with plans and ideas for the garden, the bedroom, my empty weekends, while at the same time the endless possibilities frequently threatened to overwhelm me. How did anyone make these kinds of decisions on their own?
On Monday morning, I had made the gut-twisting decision to block Mum’s number. She’d started calling and messaging just before midnight on Saturday, and it had been a relentless barrage since. Mostly disguised as motherly chat:
Just wondered if you know where the potato peeler is?
Or:
Good luck with your 1st day in the new job! Thinking of you xxx
A few were more blatant:
It’s so empty here without you
I’m really struggling, Ollie, can you call me?
My chest is really bad today. I don’t want you to worry, but just in case the will is in the bottom drawer of the dresser.
Karina had texted once each day, as agreed, and would continue to do so until things had settled. She said that Mum was weepy and withdrawn, but physically fit and well. She’d reluctantly agreed to teach another embroidery course, and Linda had taken her out for Sunday dinner.
Before I left, I had patiently explained to Mum that if she bombarded me with messages, I would block her number. She had demanded to know what ‘bombarded’ meant, so I had told her that more than a couple of text conversations and one call a day was excessive, at least while we were getting used to things. She’d mocked me for being a control freak, but I’d anticipated what was coming and didn’t want to block her without warning.
Silencing the constant beeps was like ditching a forty-pound rucksack. With the security of knowing Karina would tell me if an emergency arose, for the first time in twenty years I could stop mothering my smothering mother, and pay some attention to me.
But like I said, the crunch point came on Thursday.
I’d been interviewing potential reading coaches for most of the day, using a hired room in the Nottingham Central Library. The regional manager, Alec, had been interviewing with me, and he’d waffled on so much that every interview had overrun. Once the final candidate had left, he’d then wanted to go over each one in detail, despite the fact that it was obvious which three would be best for my team. Before I could make up some excuse to leave, it was after five thirty.
‘I’m so sorry, I really appreciate you taking the time to talk this all through with me, but I have to get on.’ I was going to be massively late for dinner, and anxiety about needing to get home was crackling in my veins.
‘Oh?’ Alec sat back in his chair, as though settling himself in for a thorough discussion about why I needed to leave. ‘Have you got plans?’
But before I could try to fudge some sort of explanation about how we always ate at six, it hit me.
I’d eaten dinner at six o’clock on the dot every night that week. I’d even paused the middle of a TV thriller, at the moment the main character was literally hanging off a cliff, because it was dinner time.
I was feeling stressed about being late to cook and eat a meal by myself, despite having nothing to do the rest of the evening, except yet more paperwork that could quite happily wait until the morning.
What was to stop me having dinner at seven? Or eight?
Or how about this wild suggestion – I could order a takeaway!
I could stay in town, and go to a restaurant alone. Without telling anybody.
I could do whatever I liked.
‘Hello, Ollie? Are you all right?’ Alec asked, waving a hand in front of my face.
‘Yes, thank you.’ I grabbed my bag and cardigan. ‘And no, I’ve got no plans whatsoever, so to be honest, I’m absolutely fantastic!’
I had dinner at six forty-five, because I was getting hungry. I ate a giant slice of coconut cake while the pasta boiled, because I felt like it, and I left my dirty plate in the living room all night, because I could, and no one was there to moan about it.
I was free.
I was free.
The following day, still simmering with possibilities, I met my first new reader for an hour-long introductory session in the Bigley Bottom library. ReadUp coaching was always held in public places, for safeguarding reasons, so I’d reserved us a table in the computer area.