It seems, all at once, an impossible feat to get to the flat from where I am. There are too many things required of me – navigating a crowd, remembering the way. I feel, strongly, as if I need to hold on to someone, or something. My clothes feel horribly tight, appearing to have shrunk around my body since only this morning. I stand and tug at my collar, to try to free up some air.
A stranger pushes past me, knocking my shoulder. He tuts, and I startle, my breath picking up pace. I am reminded, suddenly, of that sticker they put on hire car wing mirrors.Objects are closer than they appear.
The air is hot, seeming fast and thunderously loud, as if I have found myself standing next to a runway.
I plant my feet, trying to steady myself and think. Do I turn left or right to get to Emma’s flat? The information is there – I canfeelit, like an object rolled beneath a piece of furniture, but I cannot make my mind stretch quite far enough to reach it.
I have a map on my phone, but it seems incredible that I should need to use it. And anyway, the prospect of doing so only adds to the jumble in my mind.
The world appears to shrink, pavements and concrete and clouds closing in.
My phone rings, and I answer it with a jolt.
‘Mum, how are you getting on?’ Emma has booked dinner at seven o’clock in town, and I am already late because the train was delayed.
‘Is it left, or right?’ My voice seems to be doing its own thing, the words emerging awkwardly in lumps.
There is a short pause. ‘Is what left or right?’
‘From the station,’ I say impatiently. ‘Do I turn left, or right?’
‘Right,’ she says slowly. ‘Then first left. Like always.’
I turn to look at the sign behind me. I can feel my confidence – hard-won, over the years – beginning to fade. It is frustrating as a phone signal that has weakened without warning. Is this how it feels to turn sixty?
‘And it is Kilburn, isn’t it?’
A pause. ‘Sorry?’
‘Is Kilburn the right station?’
‘You know what, Mum? Stay there. Don’t move. I’m coming to get you.’
Over dinner at the sushi place Emma loves in St Paul’s, she tells me Oliver has a new girlfriend.
Though our parting wasn’t easy, he and I still speak from time to time, on birthdays and at Christmas. And I am relieved and happy that he has remained very close to Emma.
After she’s filled me in, Emma says, ‘Mum... what was all that about earlier? At the station.’
By the time she reached me I’d become quite distressed. So much so that, when I saw her, I burst into sobs so forceful they shocked us both.
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just an ageing thing, I think.’ Because, I have had to conclude on a few occasions over the past couple of years, that’s what it must be.
‘You’re sixty. Not to mention the least flappable person I’ve ever met.’
‘Still. It happens, from time to time.’
‘Does it?’ She picks up her wine glass. ‘Like, what kind of thing?’
I prepare to dither while I think of a good example, but am surprised to find one comes easily. ‘Well, the other day, I was waiting at a junction and I couldn’t remember what side of the road to drive on. I just... couldn’t remember.’
‘Mum.’ Emma leans forward, eyes abruptly wide. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Oh, it only lasted a few seconds. Until I saw some other cars, then I was fine.’
‘Until you saw some other cars then you were fine?’ she repeats, leaning on the words in a way that’s oddly reminiscent of her father being obtuse.
‘I’m making it sound worse than it was. Just a momentary lapse.’ I put my hand over hers. ‘You worry too much. I had it when I was pregnant with you as well. Baby brain, they used to call it.’
