‘Joe,’ I said. Already my breathing, which I hadn’t realised was laboured, started to feel lighter.
‘How are you? How’s the college course going? You did start it, didn’t you?’
‘I did, yes and it’s going well, thank you.’
‘Good, good, then I know you’re not just ringing to catch up, so what can I do for you?’
‘I wondered if you could fit me in for a couple of sessions. I’ve been feeling… different recently, and I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. ’
‘When you say different, how do you mean?’
‘I mean, different as in, I’ve started to feel things. Whereas before I felt, well, sort of numb, now I feel actual feelings, like anger, frustration, and, on one or two occasions, actual happiness.’ I felt a laugh bubbling in my throat.
‘Well, this all sounds really positive, so why do you feel you need to see me? I mean, I’m happy to see you, I’ll never turn down the work.’ He gave a soft laugh.
‘I know it sounds weird, I just don’t want to mess it all up, you know? I just want to know that this isn’t a trick.’
Joe paused and I heard the click of his pen. ‘I’d be happy to chat it through with you, when can you come in?’
I made an appointment for the following Tuesday morning and then on my way home from uni I decided to stop at Waitrose and pick up the dinner which I had failed to cook the other day after the jogger incident. I allowed a small smile to creep across my lips as I realised that although it wasn’t Tuesday, it was Whatever Wednesday, and because we hadn’t eaten tacos yesterday, I thought I would make them today.
As I meandered the aisles of the supermarket for cod, avocados, limes, mangoes, red onions and green chillis for the pico de gallo, a small spark of joy ignited within me. There was a song playing softly through the supermarket speakers that I recognised and I heard myself humming along. In the next aisles I grabbed some crunchy taco shells and a couple of bottles of Pinot Grigio.
I stood in line at the till, mentally preparing the meal, how I would serve it and what dishes I would use, when I felt a chill and I knew someone’s eyes were on me. I looked up and saw the face of my neighbour, the flash of her short, bleached-blonde hair. She was right in front of me, having just completed her shop. Now she was staring at me with venom in her eyes. She moved towards me and I tried to take a step backwards, but it was almost 4.30 p.m. and the supermarket had got pretty busy. There was no room for me to go anywhere with three other shoppers and their trolleys behind me.
‘I know it was you,’ she spat in her European accent. ‘You called social services, you think I cannot look after my own son.’
I looked around. Eyes were boring into me. I could feel my public guise being stripped away, that spark of joy extinguished.
‘I see you – you think I don’t see you? I see everything. Just because I forgot my purse, you think I can’t buy my son medicine. I have plenty, you know nothing.’ She pointed a chipped red nail towards my chest, turned back to her trolley, which was full with packed bags, and stormed towards the exit.
I cleared my throat, looked behind me at the queue of shoppers and to either side of me; it seemed everyone had paused what they were doing or saying to stop and listen. I took a few steps forward with my basket and began placing my items on the conveyor belt. I looked awkwardly at the young lad behind the till and gave him a lopsided smile.
He gave a quick sniff. ‘Would you like a bag for that?’
I walked home at a hurried pace, the bag digging awkwardly into my fingers. I wished I had taken up the offer of a second bag to distribute the weight of the wine. But at the till I had felt the inner me slowly being exposed to the other shoppers, so I had quickly stuffed all the items into one.
As I walked, my fingers burning from the tightness of the plastic, the idea of cooking for my house mates was quickly evaporating. At least this time I got as far as buying the food.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what she had said and the way she had said it. She was right, of course she was right. What the hell did I know? But why would the child be so unhappy all the time? It broke my heart that I had no control over the situation.
The urge to just go home and crawl into bed was fast becoming the favoured option. But I did not want the girls to know that there was something wrong. I was trying my best to be a good house mate and I had drawn far too much attention to myself recently and not in a good way. It was time to rectify that. I would get on and cook the damn tacos and act as though everything was fine and that for once I was just a normal woman getting on with my
