But then I notice something – the scar beside my left eyebrow is missing, something I acquired the year after I married, thanks to a trip down a flight of stairs in an Underground station. I lean in closer to the mirror and stretch the skin with my fingers, examining it closely. No. Absolutely nothing. It’s as if it never happened.
But I don’t have time to ponder that now. I have to get out of here before anyone gets up and discovers me. While Luke and I have both booked a day off for after our party, the residents of this house probably have jobs to go to this morning, and it’s just after six already.
I creep back to my room and, once inside, lean against theclosed door, holding my breath for a few seconds as I listen for evidence of anyone else stirring, then letting out a relieved sigh when all I can hear is a rushing in my ears that thumps in time with my heartbeat. I need to find something else to wear, and I need to do it quickly.
The weird thing is that the more time I spend in this room, the more I realize it looksexactlythe way it did when I lived here last, during that brief interlude when I was in between rental houses and had to come home for two months. There’s a terracotta rug, bright floral cushions, all with a hint of earthy orange, and as much charity shop quirkiness as I could pack into it. Hasn’t Mum wanted to update at all? And where do these supposed stepsons sleep? Surely they’re not sharing this room. Or are they both squeezed into the box room? That hardly seems fair when there’s a much larger room going spare.
I rummage in the chest of drawers, hoping there might be something I can slink home in. It’s worse than I thought. There’s a selection of old clothes still in here, which I must have left behind when I moved out, but folded just the way I like them folded. It’s almost as if she’s kept it as a shrine.
But I don’t want to think about how much I might have broken my mother’s heart by cutting off contact, so I pull out a pair of nondescript black trousers and a top. I also can’t find my heels from last night, so I pull a pair of loafers from the bottom of the wardrobe, then help myself to some of the possibly ancient deodorant standing on the dressing table. I even find an old purse with some seriously out-of-date bank cards and some cash in it. I take it. It’s mine, after all, so I’m not stealing, and since I can’t find my clutch, I’m going to need those banknotes for the train or bus fare home.
I feel anxiety rising inside of my chest like a physical thing, pulling my ribs tight and making my breathing shallow. Before it develops into a full-blown, and probably noisy, panic attack, I swipe my phone, which is lying on the bedside table, and make my exit.
Home. Where I may have to face Luke.
Or maybe I won’t.
I’m not sure which option is worse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JESS
I tip-toe down the hallway of my mother’s house and pull the front door shut as quietly as I can, before creeping down the garden path. Once I’m out of the gate, I start sprinting, and I don’t stop until I’m well around the corner of the next road. My heart is thudding, and not just from the unexpected exercise.
What on earth is happening to me? Yesterday, I was thinking my life was a little mundane, that I wanted ‘more’, but the last twenty-four hours have been more than I can possibly handle. What do I do now? Where do I go?
Before I can make a plan, my phone dings in my back pocket. I pull it out, and it’s only then that I take a good look at it, and that’s when I realize it’s not my phone at all, although I used to have one just like this years ago. I turn and look in the direction I’ve just come from. Did I pick up someone else’s and, if so, where’s mine, and why was this one charging in my old bedroom?
But then I spot the slight crack in the screen in the right bottom corner. My old phone was damaged in exactly the same place. In fact, it had an identical clear case too, although I seethese everywhere, so that doesn’t mean anything. On instinct, I press my thumb to the button at the bottom and my fingerprint wakes it up.
Itismy phone. Just not my current one.
Why would Mum be charging up one of my old phones? I suppose it’s possible she’s lost or smashed hers – again – and desperately needed a replacement, even if only as a stopgap.
I really ought to go back to her house and post it through the front door or something, but it’s making me feel itchy just thinking about walking in that direction. And, technically, it is my phone … but if Mum needs it she can have it. I’ll just put it in a padded envelope and send it back to her via Royal Mail.
The notification at the top of the phone screen says I’ve got a message from Priya, one of my work friends from when I used to do a boring admin job before I retrained as a physiotherapist. I haven’t heard from her in ages. However, it now occurs to me that maybe it’s because she’s messaging me on my old number and I forgot to give her the new one when I switched.
I open the message, intending to apologize and send her my current contact details, but what I read makes no sense:Where are you? Janineis on the warpath this morning but hasn’t noticed you’renot here yet. If you’re sick, you’d better call inquick!
I frown. What is she talking about? I left Dobson’s over a decade ago. Why does boss-from-hell Janine care where I am?
I text back:Great to hear from you. We must meetup for coffee sometime. It’s been too long.
A few seconds later, I get a reply – a crying with laughter emoji followed by:Very funny.Just get your butt in here asap. I’ll try to cover for you.
I have no idea how to respond to that, so I decide I’ll wait until I’m sitting on the train to save her number and put it into my actual phone …
Only, I can’t, can I? A thorough search of the bedroom at Mum’s didn’t even throw up my clothes from last night, let alone my clutch with my phone and keys in it.
My stomach sinks. Well, I suppose that makes my mind up about what I do next. I don’t want to go home, but I don’t think I’ve got much choice. There’s only about £40 in this old purse of mine, and the debit cards expired over a decade ago. I’m hoping my bag is still in the house and that I somehow got to Mum’s without it. I’ve got to find my phone. I need it for work, if for nothing else.
And Luke might have left you a message…
I want to shut the lid on that thought, push it to the back of my brain and not think about it. Even just picturing his face brings back the crushing, soul-devouring feeling of loss when I heard the words ‘I’m out’ last night and watched him walk out the door without looking back.
No, I think, as I mentally map out the route to Orpington station in my head.I can’t fall apart now. I just need to get home…I just need to…
