‘I don’t want to say the wrong thing or start talking when I’m not supposed to.’
We stop outside a door that’s ajar and Ariel shines me a smile of such sweetness and kindness.
‘There’s no wrong way to do it,’ she says.
If only that were true.
The room itself has three couches, all utterly threadbare, along withuncomfortable-looking school chairs and one very ornate armchair that might have come from another century. There are all sorts of community notices and posters on the wall and it’s clear that this room is used as a meeting place for lots of different groups. There are eleven people in the room, all ages, men and women, and I walk inself-?consciously, keeping my bescarfed head down and trying to appear invisible, which is very difficult when you’re my height.
‘This is Freda,’ says Ariel in her soft breathy voice.
Everyone says hello cautiously.
I’m on edge. I immediately don’t like it. Strangers sitting here to talk about stuff. No, this isn’t for me.
‘Give it half an hour,’ says Ariel beside me, as if she knows what’s going through my head. She drags me to a couch, takes off her boots and sits crosslegged beside me, utterly at ease. ‘I felt the same at first. Just listen.’
So I do.
One elderly man was mugged too but even though I can feel empathy for his pain, I have nothing in common with him.Nothing.
I can’t engage with his story because he’s so frail and it hurts to imagine him being beaten, so I do my best to stop listening and look around the room, surreptitiously, in case everyone thinks I’m judging them. The room is horrible, I decide. The others are all listening keenly, drinking their tea or coffee, relaxing into what’s obviously a safe space for them. I don’t belong here.
A woman talks about her home being burgled. I feel my heart race. I don’t want to listen. What ifourhome gets burgled? I couldn’t cope.
The Fear roars up in me. I can’t take any more.
Suddenly, I’m on my feet, swinging my bag onto my shoulder.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper at Ariel and I’m out the door, rushing down the stairs and out into the street. I half walk, half run away, expecting Ariel to come after me, to beg me to stay. But she doesn’t: nobody does.
*
Melody Garot’s honeyed voice and moving music has accompanied me all the way from my house to Kilkenny. Normally, driving and listening to music relaxes me. Today, the hatchback – a vehicle with too many miles on it and too many hopes and dreams pinned to it – has suddenly developed squealing brakes, which sound as if some enormous,long-necked bird is putting up a fierce fight while being strangled right beside a loudspeaker. People stand and look at the car as I pass whenever braking is required. That is to say, at every small town and traffic lights.
With my vast mechanical experience (almost zero), I know that this shrieking means my brake pads need to be replaced. But I have to be in Kilkenny for lunchtime, I have no clue how long actualbrake-pad changing takes (an hour, a day?) and I know, from a previous experience of this, that I can drive with shrieking pads as long as I crawl along and get them fixed as soon as possible.
Possible is tomorrow.
Lorraine has driven her own car for once because she has family in Kilkenny and is going to stay over. I am not. Brake pads or not, I may just propel myelf home with the force of my rage/anxiety – who knew they were so similar – because Dan phones me when I arrive in Kilkenny for the corporate event to inform me that Elisabetta – we are, clearly, now calling her that – rang asking if she and Lexi could meet up that evening for coffee.
‘Coffee?’ I yell into the phone. ‘Lexi is fourteen:fourteen-year-olds don’t go out in the evening for coffee! They do their homework, have showers, and get into cuddly pyjamas before reading Harry Potter books with a few precious teddies lined up on the bed!’
‘I told her that but it’s a quick thing – half an hour in Giorgio and Patrick’s at seven. Maura’s coming over to take care of Liam and Teddy, although if Teddy gets wind of it, she’ll want to go. She’s passionately attracted to their cake cabinet.’
‘I won’t be home by seven,’ I say, stricken. It will be closer to nine and I start to run through scenarios in my head where I drive atdeath-defying speeds so I can arrive in the café to make sure Elisa doesn’t say anything cretinous and hurt my precious Lexi.
‘I’ll be there,’ says Dan, really trying to calm me. ‘It’s going to be fine, Freya, love. Elisabetta won’t hang around: you know that. But Lexi has to be allowed to get to know her.’
‘Yes,’ I squeak, knowing this is the moral thing to do but still, the ache inside me makes me want to beg Dan to keep Elisa away from our daughter.
What if Lexi prefers her as a mother? What then?
Lorraine, who could take her pick of any spy job should the opportunity arise, figures that I am in a towering rage from the way I am slicing carrots when she enters our catering area.
‘There’s something frightening about the way you’re doing that,’ she remarks, standing well back as she puts down the rest of the stuff.
‘I had to do something!’ I hiss, slicing with a fierce intensity.
