When I look at Erica’s List this time, the warmth of my better mood radiating in my chest, I’m inspired to take the whole thing in. I need to stop fishing for the easiest box to check off and get back to the list’s original purpose: a holistic guide for reinventing myself. I’m going to do all the things. Check all the boxes. Fan this spark into a flame and relaunch my erstwhile phoenix ambitions. Abby 2.0, here we go. Or maybe 3.0. Fuck it, whatever reinvention I’m on at this point. I’m Grabby Abby now: taking life by the balls.
The first item I see is “Take an improv class,” and the whole reinvention nearly meets its end right there and then. Maybe I’ll check off all the boxes except one…Then I see something far more enjoyable: “Host a dinner party.” When I first read that one, way back in June, I had a vision for one of those fabulous evenings you see in movies: beautiful platters overloaded with perfect food, people topping up each other’s wineglasses, candles slowly dripping onto a scrubbed wooden table as conversation stretches deep into the night. That’s obviously not going to happen right now, not least because I’m certain hot wax would destroy the weird plastic-y material of the Ikea table in my tiny kitchen. But a cornerstone of this reinvention is going to be accepting that not everything has to be perfect, not everything will be as it is in my dreams. And I know one person who would appreciate my cooking right now, even if it comes to her not on beautiful platters but in a bunch of Tupperware.
I shoot Amina a quick text: “Are you free on Saturday?”
She texts right back: “No, Hamza’s taking me on an impromptu trip to Tokyo.” Then she sends the rolling eyes emoji, and I laugh.
“I’m coming over at three. Do absolutely NOTHING to prepare or there will be consequences.”
“Don’t put on trousers, got it.”
For the next few days, I come home from the training center and then the real work begins. Mom grew up in the Midwest, so luckily I was schooled in the fine art of casserole prep. I clean the local kitchen supply store out of its stock of 9x13 pans and fill them with lasagna, mac and cheese, and any type of potato dish I can think of (then I remember the size of the average freezer in the U.K. and scale back my plans considerably). I bake dozens of cookies and buy every tea bag that promises to be “calming” or “soothing.” I splatter the ceiling of my kitchen with tomato soup after an unfortunate blender mishap, but such is the state of my frenzy that I don’t clean it up. Then on Saturday afternoon, I load everything into a bunch of shopping bags and splurge on an Uber out to Amina’s.
When she opens the door, she’s a complete and total mess with unwashed hair, a stained T-shirt, and an exhaustion that seems to be wrapped around her like a second skin. The house is chaos personified—she has done absolutely nothing to prepare for my arrival, and I am genuinely touched by this. After all, if love means never having to say you’re sorry, friendship means never having to say you’re sorry for the state of your bathroom. I hold up my bags: “Coming in hot.”
She stands aside to let me through. “You’re about three months late with the Christmas prezzies,” she says, but I can see the intrigue in her eyes as she follows me to the kitchen. “But what has tardy Father Christmas brought us, then?”
“Three or four weeks of frozen food for you and Faizan and roughly twenty minutes’ worth of cookies, if past experience is any indicator of future consumption rates. But more importantly, I bring you the gift of time: I’m going to be here until ten, so for the next seven hours, you can use me however you please.”
It’s a mark of Amina’s frazzled state that she doesn’t even try to make a sex joke.
I continue. “Cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry, or watching Hamza so you can go out and, you know, get a haircut maybe. Just a suggestion.”
She pats the top of her head. “I was going for Bird’s Nest Chic.”
“And trust me, you’ve nailed it. But seriously, whatever you want. I can also just sit here and watch bad TV with you in silence, if that’s what’s required.”
Amina takes it all in, the food, the treats, everything. It’s the closest I’ve ever seen her come to crying, though of course she doesn’t actually shed a tear. “You’re sure you’re okay to watch him?”
“Yeah, of course. Just show me where you keep the whisky and remind me how much to give him if he cries.”
She just blinks at me.
“I’m kidding! Come on, you’re better than that. I have six nieces and nephews; I know my way around a baby. I promise not to drop, shake, or harm him in any way, though I cannot guarantee that he won’t come out of this with a terrible American accent.”
“A fate worse than death,” she mutters.
“So what’s it going to be to start with?”
Her decision is immediate. “A bath. A long, hot bath. Give me three of those biscuits and if I’m not back in an hour, don’t bother coming for me as I have transcended to another plane of existence.”
I riffle through one of the bags and grab a lavender-scented bath bomb and several issues ofLOOK!magazine. “Knock yourself out.”
She bounds up the stairs but stops halfway and comes back topop her head into the kitchen. “Oh, and the baby is over there, sleeping in that thing.” She gestures in a vague direction.
I laugh. “Important, thanks.”
And for the next seven hours, I don’t think about the state of my own life. I don’t think about Lachlan or heartbreak or my job or everyone at home and how much I miss them. As I sweep and mop and change diapers and fold the laundry and rock the baby to sleep, I focus only on making life better for the little Akhtar family. It’s a step, a small one. Just like going to Oban was a step. Reconnecting with Josh was a step. Inch by inch, I’ll crawl my way out of this mess.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The problem with clichés isthat they’re often uncomfortably based in truth, which is why it’s so disappointing that after taking some small steps forward, I am of course forced into a couple of giant steps back. After checking off a few more boxes, I’m feeling almost normal again, until one evening when I leave the training center to head for the bus stop and see someone who knocks me entirely off course: Claire Ramsay.
She’s in front of the Hare & Hounds pub, looking at her phone, and I know I have a very small window to ignore her and slip past, but damn it, I can’t let all this progress go to waste, and slinking onto a bus is something the old Abby would have done. I don’t know what I need to say to her or what she needs to hear from me, but I can’t just run away because those things may be difficult. Instead, I steel my core (a challenge, as it is 90 percent Wotsit) and take a step toward her. “Excuse me?”
She looks up and it takes a second, but recognition dawns and she smiles. “Hey, you’re the one who booked Lachlan’s birthday dinner. Allie, right?”
“Abby.”
