‘Why don’t you want to be old? I thought everyone would want to be old. Doesn’t that mean you’ve had a long life?’
Josie, who’s pretending to adjust the windscreen wipers, looks at me out of the corner of her eye.
My phone pings. It’s Simon.
Not impressed, Erica.
Oh great. Someone else who’s not happy with me. Honestly, you try to do something to make a positive change in your life, and what do you get? Grief from all sides. What’s the point?
‘I got you this.’ Héloïse is persisting. She passes a small paper bag through the seats to me. Inside is a fridge magnet with a literary quote on it. I look at it but it doesn’t really make sense.
‘It’s from a book,’ she says. ‘Mum said you would like it.’
‘I do, Héloïse. Thank you.’
‘The bag smells of parsnips.’
I sniff the bag, which doesn’t at all. ‘It does a bit,’ I say.
Josie turns the car engine back on and slowly drives the three streets to ours. I get out, thank her and hurry inside.
I dump the Ikea bag and kick off my shoes. What a waste of time. This was supposed to be fun. ‘Make the most of it,’ Merlyn said. But what is there to make the most of, exactly? Being young was better when I was…young.This is just stressful. I might have a jowl-free face and a neck like Billie Eilish but what’s the point when everyone’s annoyed about it?
Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out my phone and tap numbly, then put it to my bright red ear.
‘Merlyn? It’s Erica. Have you got a minute?’
A week to the day later, and I’m standing on Devon’s balcony, looking out over London. Below the orangey-pink glow of the sunrise, I can see the Shard, at least I think it is… and further along, is that Canary Wharf? I can’t really make it out, and also have a terrible sense of direction. Who cares though – it looks bloody amazing.
It’s chilly but I’m wrapped in one of Devon’s expensive blankets. I sit down on a stripy deckchair with my coffee – next to me on a small table is a wine glass with the remains of some red in it. The yeasty smell reminds me of when I was a child and my parents had dinner parties with their aerospace colleagues.In the morning, I’d examine the wreckage: cigars in ashtrays, glasses with the melted remains of Scotch on the Rocks, empty Babycham bottles… How debauched it all seemed.
My wreckage is just a single wine glass and a saucer with some bits of Stilton and cracker crumbs on it. Lying next to them, a little worse for having been left outside all night, isLusciousmagazine. On the cover, behind the big (not punny enough) headline, is me, smiling and sparkling against the blue background. I reach over, careful not to spill my coffee, and touch the image of my face. Then I turn to my phone and open Instagram. The WULT® Woman account has 12K followers already.
My phone pings.
Hope you’re feeling better. Love Mum. x
I feel a brief pang of guilt for lying about being ill. Very brief though, because well, I’m away from all that crap now. I could probably pass for twenty-five, I’m living in an amazing duplex flat in one of the coolest areas of London. I’ve escaped, and I’m ready to start my new life. Maybe this is how Carol’s rabbit felt…
