‘Oh, I just wondered one thing …’ I call out to him as he gets to the door. ‘How does Irene fit into everything here?’
‘Irene?’ James says, surprised.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Where is she from? I mean. Sorry, that sounds weird.’
‘It’s okay, sheispretty weird.’
‘Isn’t she?’ I say, my eyes widening. ‘I mean she’s totally cool, but what’s she doinghere? She looks like she should be running an art gallery or a homeware shop, or the classy lingerie section of Harvey Nicks.’
‘She’s my mum,’ he says, as though he’s tired of the question.
‘Wait! What?’ I shout, and I can hear him laugh as he makes his way down the hall.
10.
I awake with a start and sit bolt upright in bed, confused.
Where am I? My eyes adjust to my little cottage room, and the still-packed suitcase in the corner, the whisky bottle on the side-table. The foot raised on a soft pillow.
My head throbs and a wave of memories from the last two days cascades over me like a frosty shower. I realize how tired I am. I’m completely wiped out. Not just from the medicinal whisky, but from everything – the train trip, the constant pressure to be somewhere or do something since I arrived. But, mostly, from anxiety.
I look at my phone. The time is 3.30 p.m. Shit! My power-nap has turned into a four-hour sleep. Sunday lunch service must be over, but dinner service is only a couple of hours away. I promised I’d be back for it and so, once again, there is bugger-all time to study.
I lie back in bed, looking up at the freshly painted ceiling and the plaster rose around the light fitting. It reminds me of my granny’s house on Wolsdon Street in Plymouth. The one with the black fireplace with the little ornate rose-tiles around it, and the tiny little garden with the strawberry patch out the back. Granny was a hoarder, but a really organized one. You could still make your way around her house through the neatly stacked magazines and collections of glass bottles, but the lounge room eventually became uninhabitable. When she died we found newspapers dating back to 1945, eleven dinner sets, twenty-eight sterling-silver serving spoons, sixty-three silver-foil platters and seventeen garbage bags of clothes, including all of Grandpa’s.
I’m the opposite of her, with my couple of suitcases of stuff, and my ability to shed whatever I’m surrounded with on a whim – including, apparently, my own identity.
My phone vibrates and it’s Tim.Tim. I almost forgot about my other life.
‘Hey,’ I say, feeling an extra-strong throb in my right temple.
‘Oh! Hey, babe,’ he says in a loud whisper, his thick North London accent a punch of familiarity. ‘I didn’t think you’d answer.’
‘Oh,’ I reply, wondering why he’s called. ‘Well, it’s good you called, because I need help. I need to come up with a good story.’
‘What do you mean? Has it gone tits-up already?’
‘I’m serious,’ I say, rubbing my temple with my free hand. ‘I need an out. Brain cancer might work – I have all the symptoms.’
‘Uh-oh,’ he says, laughing.
‘Don’t laugh,’ I reply wearily.
‘I knew you’d fuck it up,’ he chortles. ‘I’ve been telling Damo about it, and he thinks you’re mad. He wants to know how you’ll get paid? Like, which National Insurance number will you use?’
‘I haven’t thought about that yet …’ I say, wishing now I hadn’t answered the call that he didn’t think I’d answer.
‘Hey, I’m about to head to a meeting. We’re starting legal action against a pensioner who might have set fire to her house accidentally. I really want to win this one, as I’ll reach my target.’
‘Inspiring stuff,’ I say.
There’s a moment’s silence and then he chuckles. ‘Come on. You’ll be all right, Birdy.’
‘I’m a bit scared,’ I say.
‘I bet.’
‘I bet?’ I say sharply, feeling really pissed off. ‘Anything else to add?Youthought it was a great idea, that night.’
