“Something like that,” I say. “Only I won’t be back.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
“Good on you,” she says quietly, a sad smile on her lips. “Stay in touch.”
This time she hugs me, and once she releases me again, I take no time in grabbing my bag. Mel is talking to Michael over by the water cooler. They watch me, whispering to each other.
I take the steps towards the exit slowly. I don’t expect anyone to chase me out of here. Partly because nobody except Michael, Gemma and maybe Mel knows I’ve quit. The rest probably think I’ve got a dentist appointment or am going to a meeting.
I think about all the times I’ve climbed these steps. All the times I’ve arrived early and finished late. I think about the days when I felt on top of the world, like the work I’d done had made everything possible. There’s a beauty in working in events. You get to see all your hard work unfold before your eyes. People having the time of their lives because of you.
Then I remember the days when I left the office on the verge of tears, slowly descending these very steps, a quiver in my breath. Nearly every time, it had something to do with James. Somehow knowing that both softens and hardens the memory.
And now the good days, the ones where Michael made a big song and dance about how important I was to the company, cloud over. I know now they were never real, that he’s completely disingenuous. I’m grateful James helped me to see the truth. How long would I have carried on if he hadn’t?
There’s something incredibly toxic about this industry. It’s addictive. It’s exhausting. But worst of all it exploits your passion. I’m sure there are many others like it.
I close my eyes for a minute, holding the banister, my fingers gripping onto the cool metal. It’s time to let go. It’s time to adapt and change. My heart beats a little quicker.
Then I let go. And I’m free.
Once I’m out the main doors, I take a deep breath. London smells like cigarette smoke, exhaust fumes and dirty drains. It’s not quite the same as it was in Scotland. I miss fresh air.
And luckily, I know exactly where I need to go to find it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As I step off the train, I breathe in the current of sea air that washes over me. It’s salty, sharp and damp – just the way I like it. It’s been raining here too. Although the sky is clear above me, there are dark patches of cloud far off in the distance, the wind is thick with humidity. It coats my face, my hair, my forearms.
The walk to Mum’s is only a short distance up a gradual hill. Seaford is mostly comprised of apartment blocks overlooking the sea, or else Edwardian semi-detached houses. Mum lives in a red-brick, three bed with a charming bay window downstairs. There’s a willow tree on her driveway, the roots fighting an unrelenting battle with the concrete. Her front door is bright blue, and although it isn’t the house I grew up in, they sold that shortly after their divorce, it’s still the place I’ve been coming back to every birthday, Christmas and long weekend. It certainly feels more like home than my horrible room in London.
I exhale slowly as it comes into view. Some of the stress dissipates, as my shoulders instinctively relax.
I don’t have to knock on the door, I have a key. I let myself in and call for Mum. She knew I was coming. It’s Doris who finds me first, Mum’s rescue collie, bursting down the wooden stairs, her claws clacking loudly as her wriggly body wiggles around me. I bend down to pat her as she licks my legs and hands.
“Oh, Flissity,” Mum says fondly, following closely behind, pulling me in for a hug. She’s so like me in physicality. Now that she’s gone back to dyeing her hair the same colour as mine it’s merely a few more wrinkles she has to contend with. I’m only about an inch taller than her, despite my dad being somewhat of a giant.
“So, you did it,” she says, walking through the house to the kitchen at the back and putting the kettle on.
“I did. It was the right thing to do,” I say, as I follow her, feeling a little defensive.
She has her back to me, her long grey cardigan falling to her knees. Using her spoon to squeeze the teabag against the side of the mug, she makes a sniffy sound before turning to face me with a frown.
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“What makes you say it like that?”
“Well, it’s hard to know with you sometimes. You always manage to avoid talking about yourself. I don’t want to intrude. It’s just that I thought you liked the job.”
I almost laugh. She can’t be serious. The reason I rarely talk about me is because she’s so busy talking about herself and her own problems. She can complain for hours on end about the men in the town, or lack thereof. I’ve heard her ramble on about slugs eating her tomato plants for a whole hour before. I don’t get a chance.
“I think you have enough of your own problems without mine to worry about on top.”
Mum sighs. “You think I don’t know you have stuff going on?”
“I’m honestly not sure.”
