Do you want to talk about something? I texted Hannah.
I need help, she replied.
What kind of trouble was she in? My heart raced. The icon on the screen told me she was still typing. I waited for the next message.
I think I’ve started my period and I don’t know what to do.
I felt the familiar prick of tears and bit back a sob. This was not the time to feel grief. This was the time for sympathy, cuddles and a crash-course in sanitary products.
I walked quickly to the chemist and bought a selection of towels, tampons and liners. On a whim, I also got her a scented candle and a lip gloss. As I paid, I realised part of me was flattered – of all the adults in her life, Hannah had chosen me to confide in.
In my head, I started rehearsing the discussion we would have about what was happening to her body, although they’d probably done that at school. I remembered a cringe-worthy video they’d made us watch about how to insert a tampon, and shuddered at the memory. Maybe I should offer to take Hannah bra-shopping, too. I was going to nail this. This, I could handle. After all – I was the cool aunt.
I ran back over to Mum’s: Auntie Izzy to the rescue. Hannah answered the door and pulled it half-closed, to give us some privacy. I handed her the bag.
‘Do you want me to come upstairs with you, and show you what’s in there?’
Hannah’s face flushed red as she took the bag from me. ‘It’s OK, I know what to do. Thank you.’
To my horror, the speech I had composed completely escaped me – I could not remember one single piece of the motherly advice I’d rehearsed in my mind moments ago. Just to make matters worse, I could feel the blush rising in my cheeks too, and wondered who was finding this more awkward. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK?’
Hannah nodded weakly and went back inside, and my heart broke again.
It wasn’t raining, and I decided to take the long way home to maximise my fresh air intake. I wandered aimlessly, telling myself that I had no clear destination or route in mind, until I found myself on the same street as Phil’s garage. It was the fourth time that week I’d ended up there.
There was something pulling me here – a morbid curiosity? What was I hoping to find? Perhaps some answers to the growing list of questions I had about my sister, or a jolt of understanding. But when I caught a glimpse of Phil, I felt nothing but the empty expanse of the void that had grown between me and Amy.
Back at Puffin Cottage, I opened my laptop. My heart sank when I saw an email from my boss, Toby, with Annabelle Taylor copied in. The bank had approved my three-month unpaid leave of absence, and Toby was now suggesting that the two junior client managers who worked for me could continue to handle my clients under Annabelle’s temporary supervision. I chewed a nail as I read the rest of his note. It all depended how long I planned to be away for, he said.
It was a good question – how long was I going to be away? Did I trust Toby to keep my job waiting for me until I got back? What would I be going back to?
The strange thing was that the longer I was away from work, the less I missed it. Even the thought of Annabelle worming her way into my accounts didn’t bother me so much these days. What did I actually enjoy about it? I had worked hard to get the high-value clients and the big corner office, but was it really bringing me any satisfaction? My career was like a hunger, a strange hunger where no matter how much I ate, I never felt full. And I had a voracious appetite. There was always another goal to chase, another target to hit and another bonus to push for, and never enough time to enjoy the achievement. But did it ever make me happy? Truly happy? Had I been missing something all along?
It was as if I’d been wearing a pair of Louboutin stilettoes for a long time, and only now that I had taken them off could I feel how much they squeezed and pinched my feet. Maybe an extended break would help me get some perspective.
Adam had emailed me – he’d found a friend of a friend who wanted to sublet my apartment. At first, the thought of someone else sleeping in my bed and using my stuff sat uneasily with me, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised it was just that: stuff. Meaningless objects. Puffin Cottage was starting to feel like home. Maybe I could stick around longer.
I’d promised myself I would wait until after Richard arrived before opening the wine, but it was Friday night of what had been a long week, and Toby’s email had tipped me over the edge. What harm could one glass do? With a bit of luck, it would mellow me out enough to take Richard seriously. Child psychologist? There hadn’t been anything like that when we’d lost Dad. Or adult psychologists, for that matter. Who knew how differently things might have worked out if there had been.
I went to freshen up, and couldn’t resist assessing myself in the bathroom mirror. My expensive dye job was growing out at the roots, betraying my natural hair colour to the world. I could even see a few greys that I could swear hadn’t been there before. And I desperately needed a facial. My once glowing complexion – the result of years of effort and investment in lasers, peels and injections – now looked dry and pale. Fine lines were becoming fully fledged wrinkles.
I rummaged through
