She zoomed into their faces, not sure what she was hoping to see. Then she noticed the necklace Gemma was wearing. It was a silver lightning bolt. She’d seen that somewhere before… recently…
Jade had been wearing it the other day.
Maddie sat back against the couch cushions, her mind reeling.
She must’ve taken it from the house. She’d stolen it.
THEN
The parking lot at the swimming pool is surprisingly quiet today. Usually, at this time of the morning, I have to park in a side street and walk over the road because my session coincides with the old biddies doing aqua aerobics in a section of the large pool. I like watching them bounce and jiggle to eighties hits blasting in distorted melody as the instructor cajoles the bobbing swimming caps in front of her to mimic her high-energy moves. The ladies – and occasional man – are always smiling, pleased to see each other and having fun. They look out for each other too. If Joan hasn’t been to a session for a while, they rally round and someone volunteers to check on her; when Sandra had her hip op, they clubbed together to send her flowers. They chat loudly in the changing rooms as they strip down to nothing, not afraid to bear their wrinkly bottoms and sagging boobs while discussing the Chelsea Flower Show and what the frost has done to their allotments.
This kind of community spirit is something I don’t get to revel in much. I still feel hopelessly alone most days and can’t remember the last time someone checked on my wellbeing. Greg says the right things – ‘Are you ok? Can I do anything? How are you feeling today?’ – but there’s an absentmindedness about the questions, as though he’s asking because he knows he should, but he’s too busy with his own grief to hear the answers anymore.
In fact, it feels like that’s all he says to me now.
Are you ok?
There’s no point in answering truthfully, so I just nod.
When I get to the pool entrance, I realise why it is so quiet today. A sign posted to the door says a school has booked the entire pool for a swimming gala, so no adult sessions today, no aqua aerobics. Sandra, Joan and the rest will be disappointed.
I debate going up to the café and having a coffee and a bacon sandwich. The glorious smell of frying bacon wafting down from the mezzanine café must be torturous for the gym-goers after their hard work on the treadmill. My attempts at healthy, plant-based and gluten-free diets ended after Archie and I am fully committed to eating meat again – when I have an appetite.
Life is too short to deny yourself bacon.
Today, though, I’m not really in the mood for it. A swim usually helps me to reach a state of mind where I can get through the day. I don’t often achieve much, but without it I achieve nothing. Today’s disappointment is a setback and I have the overwhelming urge to go straight back home to bed. A voice in my head says I can do that if it’s what I need, while another argues with it, tells me not to give in to the coaxing because that would be a step backwards and I need to think about going forwards.
I spend the whole drive home letting the two voices argue it out.
When I pull up in the driveway, Gemma’s car is parked up next to Greg’s Porsche. I don’t really want to see her – I was hoping Greg would’ve left for the office by now, but he was hanging around longer than usual this morning, faffing over nothing. Overwhelming exhaustion hits me as I contemplate having to pass niceties with her.
While she was friendly to me when she first joined the company, that has worn off and it’s now written all over her face that she considers me to be a drain on the business. Someone who still gets paid, but contributes nothing. An unnecessary expense. That’s a fair assertion, but Greg insists that I remain on the payroll, that the job will still be there for me when I decide I am ready to return to it. More than anything else though, it’s the way she looks at me – like I am germ-riddled and she needs a facemask to be around me in case whatever I have is contagious. I sometimes catch her wrinkling her nose in disgust when she comes over and I’m sitting at the dining room table in sweatpants doing a jigsaw at 11 a.m. But I find the jigsaws as therapeutic as swimming, so she can do one, frankly.
Actually, I’ve started thinking that it would do me good to start getting involved at work again. I mentioned that to Greg over dinner last night. His reaction was muted and I think he is of the opinion that until he sees me sitting at my desk in the office, then he won’t believe it.
That’s ok though. I don’t blame him.
I sit in my car in the driveway, the two voices in my head still debating, but now the sterner voice is saying that instead of swimming, maybe showing my face at work would distract me enough so that I don’t crawl back into hibernation. Just an hour to see how it goes. I can always leave if it gets too much.
It is the sight of Gemma’s car that convinces me in the end. The look on her face if I were to walk in. I bet she’s taken over my lovely office with its big windows looking out over the local junior school. I used to like to throw open the windows and listen to the chaos and frivolity of breaktime. I bet she’s been keeping them closed to the noise. She doesn’t strike me as being child-tolerant. If I
