Sam was right. My ankle is not broken. Jeff drove me to A&E for a precautionary X-ray following my fall, where I was told it was a soft-tissue injury and nothing the RICE protocol wouldn’t fix. That’s rest, ice, compression and elevation – which essentially involves being confined to the sofa with my foot propped up, doing nothing in the way of exercise except the odd foot twirl and trip to the freezer to replenish my bag of frozen peas.
I have dispensation to work from home for the first few days, during which my main observation is that I am a terrible patient, despite my attempts to reframe my thinking and look at this as a spa break, an opportunity to rest and recharge. While the lack of movement might do wonders for my messed-up ligaments, it doesn’t help my mental health one bit. I spend most of the time trying to make myself look indispensable in any video calls attended by the new team from Barisian and stewing in my own juices about Frankie, every other text from whom begins with the words, ‘Don’t freak out but . . .’ and is followed by a report of some mishap or other. Missed trains. Lost bags. A multitude of issues that arise as a result of her woeful time management and the difficulty she has organising herself.
It’s no wonder I nearly had a meltdown of my own when she said she was going travelling. I hadn’t given it too much thought at the time, because even as a little girl she’d talk of all the wild adventures she was going to havewhen she grew up. At six, she was adamant that as soon as she was a grown-up, she would be going in search of the Great Pink Sea Snail like Dr Dolittle. At eleven, soon after she started a martial arts class, she informed us of her intention to move to Bangkok to further her career as a Thai boxer. The point is, she always knew there was a big wide world out there and she fully intended to see as much of it as possible.
But when she told me that she’d persuaded Milly to join her, they’d planned out a route and started saving, I realised the time was finally about to come. And I don’t mind admitting it kept me awake at night for weeks.
I can’t decide whether her decision to stop taking her medication after her A levels was a good or bad thing. On the one hand, I was not convinced she’d remember to take it anyway, without me reminding her every day. On the other, given that it unquestionably worked, I have been struggling to imagine how she’s coping without it.
This train of thought sends anxiety blistering through me. At times like these, I can’t help thinking the Victorians had it right. They’d have sent me off to the seaside to ‘take the waters’. Now, I’m sent off to my living room where the only thing I’m taking in these days is a series of Zoom meetings on sustainability reports and new product pitches.
The irony is, I suspect it would only take one of Nora’s sessions to make me feel better. I am not just irritated by having to miss Rusty Racquets the following Sunday, I am positively simmering with resentment. When the clock turns to 2.30pm, all I can think about is Jeff, Lisa and Rose prancing about on those courts in the sunshine. It’s like everyone else is at a birthday party, playing Pass the Parcel in their posh dresses, while I am a captive in my own home.
I text Jeff later that evening.
‘How was tennis today?’
‘Well, I didn’t want to rub it in, but I was Player of the Week!’
‘I’m very happy for you.’
‘Don’t be bitter. Do you need me to bring anything over?’
But he’s already been here with chocolates, while Nora popped in with some tulips and stayed for a coffee yesterday. There’s nothing he or anyone else can bring me that is going to help. I just want to get better. Like, yesterday.
Not least because, each night after I’ve put my laptop away, the most unsettling thing keeps happening. Every so often and with absolutely zero warning, I keep finding myself having what I can only describe as . . . feelings of a carnal nature.I have no clue how or why being laid up with a bag of Birds Eye garden peas strapped to my limb can be such a turn-on, but thoughts have started entering my head that I assumed I’d seen the back of long ago.
I hadn’t even thought about sex since the day Ed died. With him, it had been about more than just pleasure. It was tender, magical, the deepest, most authentic connection between ourselves. Once you’ve had that, what would be the point with anyone else? Just the thought of even touching a man who wasn’t him was repulsive – let alone having actual sex. All that squelching and awkwardness. All the potential for chafing. I wasn’t going to do that with some stranger. After he’d gone, my body completely shut down in this regard. I had assumed that the haywire oestrogen levels I’ve clearly been experiencing lately were the final nail in the coffin.
I never even pleasure myself – or at least rarely. My only attempt was after reading an Instagram post by Gwyneth Paltrow about sexual wellness, in which she claimed it boosted the immune system, reduced stress and encouraged better sleep. Given my insomnia and the fact that I’d run out of Horlicks, I thought I might as well give it a go.
But it was like trying to start an engine from cold after a long, hard winter. What I really needed were some jump leads. So I bought a vibrator from Goop at an extortionate price, deciding that if I was going to have my first orgasm in years I might as well push the boat out. It induced a faint flutter, but I was hardly swinging from the chandeliers.
Slightly concerned that some physiological change had occurred in that region that meant I was now effectively numb, I made a last-ditch attempt at arousal by reading one of the ‘spicy’ romance books I’d seen all over Instagram last summer. It was undeniably compelling from the first page and I was hopeful until I got to one particular scene that was mentioned repeatedly in reviews. It began when the hero and heroine were on a romantic drive through the countryside and he challenged her to seduce him. She began by teasingly unbuttoning her dress, so that each time he glanced over to the passenger seat, he was treated to a glimpse of more and more flesh. Things escalated dramatically when she reached over and unbuttoned his pants, making him ‘spring out like a bolting horse’.
At that point, she bent down as he groaned with pleasure and she apparently got him off in a moving car. By now, I think I was supposed to be in a state of vicarious ecstasy. But it had little effect, largely because I couldn’t get past counting how many breaches of the Highway Code they’d already committed.
Now though, after five years of being convinced that I had dried up, frozen up or possibly even rusted up, something very weird has happened as I lie here rattling through emails in between episodes ofAlly McBeal. A softening around my belly. A sensation of fullness in my breasts. Heat spreading through my chest. Sometimes, entirely out of nowhere, I realise my skin is tingling and something deep inside my core has begun to ache.
This could possibly be attributed to the fact that I’m on Season 3 ofAlly– and have just watched an episode in which she has sex in a car wash. But it’s not that which keeps pushing to the front of my mind. It’s the precise ratio of warmth and pressure from Sam’s hand as it slid down my ankle and he looked me directly in the eyes. I feel a sudden surge of queasiness, a sickly feeling that rises up my throat and makes me instinctively touch my wedding finger, only then remembering that it’s bare.
Chapter 22
I couldn’t be happier to be finally released from solitary confinement, to return to the office and then, on Friday night, go for a drink with Gavin. But he texts a couple of hours beforehand to break the news that he’s had an adverse reaction to some unfermented cabbage kimchi and will have to stay at home until it passes. I don’t ask for more detail. Instead, I wish him a speedy recovery and make alternative plans to go to the wine bar in Roebury village, where Rose had invited me to join the others anyway.
It turns out she’d been reading about a resort in Spain and wanted to put an idea to us.
‘It’s called La Manga,’ she says. ‘You can play golf or football there, but the tennis is also a huge part of it. They cater for everyone from beginners to pros.’
‘I’ve heard good things about it,’ Nora says, taking a sip of her drink.
‘Look, I know some of you have kids so this is not easy,’ Rose continues, ‘but why don’t we try and organise a little trip there? I’m very into Barbara Bainbridge’s life ethos these days. And it would be so much fun.’
‘Well, it sounds like bliss – but how long are we talking?’ Lisa asks.
‘I think we’d need at least three days,’ Rose says.
‘Leo would probably want to stay on his own, but I’ll have to speak to Brendan about having Jacob. It’s doable in theorynow he lives closer to Roebury. I’d just have to write him a massive manual in advance . . .’
