‘Get them yourself.’
Cynthia and Sarah sat in stunned silence as they heard the front door slam, followed by the revving of a car engine.
‘Mum? What’s going on?’
‘How should I know? He says he’s stressed at work as if that’s any excuse.’
‘Have you tried talking to him about it?’
‘About work? Christ no. Why would I want to hear about his boring job? I told him to retire years ago, it’s him who insists on still working. He’ll be fine, don’t worry. Give it an hour and he’ll be back with his tail between his legs, begging for forgiveness.’
*
Sarah felt her heart rate increase, her palms grow sweaty.Not now, please, not now.
‘I’ve got a migraine coming on, Mum. I need to lie down.’
Cynthia put up no resistance. Sarah wasn’t sure she even heard, so glued was she to the television screen. Sarah put one foot in front of the other, keeping her steps regular, and her panic contained. As she climbed the stairs, she felt the pressure in her chest building, her breaths quick and light, never quite filling her lungs with air.
Sarah flung open her bedroom door, closed it behind her and slumped down against it. She put her head between her knees, trying to count away the panic.In two, three, four, hold two, three, four, out two, three, four, hold two, three, four. Her head was spinning, her legs like jelly, the tightness in her chest so painful she wondered if it was a heart attack this time.
It’s all in your mind. Keep calm, keep calm.
As the feeling returned to her limbs, Sarah leaned her head back against the door and risked opening her eyes. There was something so comforting about the garish pink walls Colin had painted for her when she was eleven. There’d been no suggestion it could do with updating, and Sarah was glad. The pink-walled room and bed covered in cuddly toys was her haven. A place where nothing changed. A place where she could escape adulthood for a time.
Taking a gulp of water, Sarah congratulated herself on how well she kept her secret. Only her simpering, ineffectual boss Mel knew the truth, and she had promised secrecy. The first time had been the worst. She hadn’t known what she was dealing with. The tight chest, lack of breath, all hit her on the most ordinary of days. She’d been on the phone behind the reception desk, dealing with an irate customer when the pain arrived. Mel was walking past at the moment Sarah clutched her chest and screamed. A more capable person would have called an ambulance, but Mel claimed she recognised the signs and bundled Sarah into her car.
At the hospital, they’d run every test under the sun before diagnosing a panic attack. Sarah could still picture Mel’s smug face when proved right. It should have been a relief, but a heart attack or stroke could be treated with medication or an operation. A panic attack was a slippery beast, and one Sarah didn’t have the first idea how to deal with.
The only saving grace that day had been that Cynthia and Colin were on holiday in Spain. Mel dropped Sarah back to an empty house, promising the story given at work would be an asthma attack. A week later, when Mel asked Sarah if she’d been to the doctor, Sarah lied and said yes. It wasn’t a total lie, if you counted online medical sites as health-care.
Sarah had lost count of the number of panic attacks she’d had since that first one. But she had become adept at hiding them, controlling the symptoms until she could escape to her bedroom, or the disabled loo at work. Cynthia didn’t believe in mental health. Every time the words ‘mental’ and ‘health’ came on the telly, she’d launch into an angry tirade that Sarah dared not contradict.
No, Cynthia could never find out about the panic attacks. They would remain Sarah’s secret and she would deal with them alone. All she needed to do was keep life simple, avoid any stress. Everything would be fine. Sarah grabbed her oldest teddy bear from her bed and pulled it towards her. Arms wrapped around the squidgy bear, Sarah buried her face into its soft fur and cried.
Chapter 2
Apatchofsunlightlit up the smiling faces on Sarah’s wall. She closed her eyes and counted to sixty. When she opened them again, the sun had gone behind a cloud and the photo was in shadow once more. Sarah reached across and plucked the picture from the wall. She positioned her pillows behind her back and sat staring at the photo, daring her mind to go to places it shouldn’t.
With the photo held tightly between her fingers, Sarah went through her daily routine: note all of Mark’s worst features, run through the list of everything annoying he ever did, imagine how awful life would be if she was still with him.
Sarah pushed down the thought that if they’d stayed together, she’d be a married woman by now. She could be living in a three-bed semi of her own, thinking about starting a family. Mark would bring her a Sunday afternoon drink before getting started on the roast. They’d meet Mum and Dad at the local for a pub quiz…
No, the photo was her daily reminder not to settle for second best again. It would be better to go through life alone than with a weak man, and Mark was weak. Except for that last day. He wasn’t weak then, just mean.
A memory flooded Sarah’s mind of finding Mark’s discarded bike on the cycle trail, his text message saying he was leaving her. After that point, the memories grew hazy thanks to all the beer she’d drunk. It hadn’t been quite enough alcohol to remove the memory of crying on the shoulder of her Airbnb host, or throwing up on the train home.
Sarah stuck the photo back on the wall and heaved herself out of bed. She pulled on her old dressing gown and headed downstairs for her morning cup of tea and biscuit. In the kitchen, Cynthia was already up, curlers in her hair, nails slick with fresh varnish.
‘You’re up early, Mum.’
‘Well, I couldn’t wait for your dad to bring me up a cuppa. Too much to do today. You haven’t forgotten you're picking up the flowers at nine?’
‘No, I’ve set a reminder on my phone.’
‘Don’t you think you should get ready?’
‘Mum, it’s only just gone seven. We’ve got ages yet.’
