so I wanted to make you this. Glad to be
one of your neighbours. Hope you don’t
have any allergies! Just in case, PTO.
Hope to see you soon, K x
Delicious lemon drizzle, large and perfectly round with tiny curls of lemon-rind sprinkled on smooth white icing. Mouth is watering. Will take at least week to eat. Turn note over. Listed ingredients and baking method with another message.
This recipe is a closely guarded secret,
so please don’t share it. Sometimes we
need to occupy our hands so our minds
can process, and our hearts can heal.
Baking has always helped me.
I hope in time, it helps you x
Don’t understand how farting around in kitchen with flour and eggs will make me feel better. But there’s a warm spot in middle of chest and am grateful. Kirsten thoughtful and kind. Makes me think of Albie’s comment at meeting about choosing kindness, every day, and his missive towish others well. Maybe not everyone in world is kind, but maybe not everyone unkind either.
Cut off slab of cake and take back to pillows on floor with mug of tea, switching on mindless TV. For a moment, long for mum’s homemade Italian cannoli, filled with creamy ricotta and sprinkled with crushed pistachios. But now live too far apart for me to request some.
Didn’t notice call because phone on silent. Picked up voicemail, listening to Sabina’s lilting tones.Hey Hun, just checkingin. Missing you. How’s your new pad? Can’t wait to visit. We’ll have so much fun exploring the countryside! Bet there’s beautiful scenery. I’ll pack my wellies. How are the new neighbours? All soft southerners, ha-ha? Just wanted to see if there’s anything I can do, as you wouldn’t let me help you move. [Pause] I know you’re being careful about giving your address out, but you know you can trust me, right? I mean, we’ve been friends since I wet myself at primary school [Laughs] Remember that twat Mo Armstrong pointing and laughing, and how you shouted to stop being so mean, before hugging me? I’ll never forget that kindness. [Another pause] You’ve always been so good at helping others, and championing people. Please don’t lose that part of yourself. [Deep breath] Anyway… work is ace, and Matty says, ‘Hi.’ He misses you, especially the way you rip it out of him. Someone’s gotta keep him humble. Call me, okay? I need to hear your voice. Love you… Bye.
Sabina’s voice brings years of friendship and nostalgia flooding back. Nerve-wracking plays and boring assemblies, first day of secondary school, rolling skirts up at waist to shorten, cheap cider down local park, writing articles for school newspaper (usually about local cause or injustice) playing on hockey and netball teams, gigs, cinema, hanging out with boys, concerts, shopping at infamous Bullring shopping centre. Later, clubbing and hangovers.
Sabina knows me well. I used to help others. Need to remember who I am. Can’t lethimtake everything. Am glad she sounds happy. Hope all friends and family are. Want the best for them. Perhaps Albie is right? If can find it in my heart to wish others well, and help them, maybe will be okay. After so manymonths of clawing depression, and with a fresh start, worth trying?
Can’t carry on like this. Need to try and leave darkness behind. Otherwise, what was the point of moving, other than to escape?
Scribbling a quick note, darted out of front door and slipped under Albie’s, holding breath. Harmless old man. Need to start trusting judgement again. Take a chance, let someone in, even if anxiety causes waves of nausea. Although could be too much lemon cake… Anyway, didn’t wait for answer, came back into flat and re-settled on pillows. Surprising sense of achievement. Smiled as thought of note.
11 a.m. tomorrow? Library? Tori
Somehow know he will be there. Leant back on self-made nest and stared at ceiling. Frowned. Am sure there was a hairline crack before, but now ceiling is smooth. Mind playing tricks.
CHAPTER 7
Harley
Show Kindness to Children
Harley’s finished unpacking his meagre belongings. He’s still technically in recovery and supposed to balance activity with rest, but feels restless and caged in. TV and books hold no appeal, and he’s not found anything worth occupying his time.
Growling under his breath, he paces his masculine, sparse apartment. The little voice dared to call his home drab, even though it has elegant period fittings.
Maybe she is referring to its occupant, who matches the pale grey of the wallpaper. He groans. No one can possibly understand how he feels. Tennis has been his life, and daily passion, since the age of seven. During Year 2 of primary school, a month after his dad abandoned them, his mum took him to a practise session. Held at a nearby youth club, it was a cheap activity subsidised by the council, and a way to distract him and channel some of his relentless energy, which she found wearing.
From the first moment his fingers gripped that racket, he’d fallen into a deep obsession with the game. As a child, he loved the challenge, rules and physical activity. As he grew into an adult, it was the precision, strength, speed and athleticism required. Playing made him feel powerful, and invincible. Concentrating on achieving the best serve or thwacking the ball at an opponent, he was fully absorbed. Forgetting any fears, worries, or doubts. Just him on the court against the other player, racket in hand and focused on the yellow ball, timing the backhand to gain the advantage and running around to lob it back across the net.
Now that’s all gone, and he feels… bereaved.
He’s drinking too much, and the hangovers make him irritable. Alcohol was never a problem before he lost everything. He’d been fit and healthy, with a tightly controlled diet. His water intake had been high, especially during intense play, and alcoholic drinks were only for special occasions and never the night before a match. The risk wasn’t worth it. Being the best on court was the only acceptable outcome. Towards the end, he’d become addicted to winning.
Because of his dedication, discipline and drive, he’d risen fast in the ATP’s singles rankings and thanks to his good looks had picked up numerous sponsors. Accumulating everything he’d ever dreamt of after growing up in a damp council flat with his half-Scottish mother. Wealth, fame, fancy cars, a luxury home, exotic holidays, designer clothes and watches, a younger wife. It made him proud, how far he’d come, but on the day she dropped dead of a heart attack in her mid-forties, just shy of his twenty-fifth birthday, his mother accused him of being showy and arrogant, and forgetting where he came from. Shrugging them off as the words of a bitter woman, he wonders if she was right.
